“Grumble mumble.”
“Pardon me?” said Ms. Jane.
“Mumble grumble.”
“Do speak up, dear,” said Ms. Jane.
“Grr rumble mumbly.”
“Really, it’s very rude to mumble like that,” said Ms. Jane. “You’ve been raised to know better!”
But Ms. Jane’s stomach, it turned out, was a very poor student of etiquette.
“What are you up to?” muttered Wendel, eyes narrowed.
None of the fifty-seven fuzzy orange caterpillars inching across his driveway offered an explanation.
“I don’t trust you,” said Wendel. Then he stomped one, for emphasis.
Deep underground, the Caterpillar Council murmured grimly. Casualties had always been inevitable in this war.
Gavin loved Bernie. He’d watched him from birth to death. He was a piece of his mind, an original creation.
He wept when the fifty words ended because he knew none could ever know Bernie properly. Or his Sinophobia. Not in fifty or fifty thousand words.
“What now?” Bernie asked.
Editor: Gavin was late including a bio, but he has an awesome name, in my opinion. And I doubt he’s sinophobic.
Added later: Gavin is a full time student who writes fiction in his free time. One day he hopes to write full time as he fears real work.
I know this guy who saves puppies. He hears the world’s gonna end. He doesn’t believe it, he’s not religious, but he wants it to be true. When it doesn’t happen, he’s depressed.
So was I. I was depressed because the guy who saves puppies wants the world to end.
Walter Campbell lives and works in Philadelphia, went to school in New England, and grew up in LA, but he’ll write pretty much anywhere. Recently, his work has been published in Jersey Devil, Six Sentences, Dogzplot, MicroHorror, Toasted Cheese, and Glossolalia.
He didn’t know it worked: one night he’d simply pointed at the sky, and a star had appeared, bright and new.
It was a great party trick, of course, and it stimulated his inner artist, but he didn’t fully harness the potential of his god-like ability until he went commercial.
Ramone had a very diverse selection of friends. He enjoyed spending time with Havarti, Provolone, Mozzarella, and Brie.
He didn’t get along that well with Cheddar or Feta, but Gouda was fun.
Ramone’s mom told him, “Cheeses can’t be real friends,” but he knew better.
Oh yes, he knew better.
A monster slouched past my apartment window last night, its shoulder on the thirty-fifth floor. I tried to get its attention, but it just skulked onward towards the west.
This morning I woke up early to check the news. There was no mention of my monster. I was sadly disappointed.
Andrew Black is a writer of weird fiction and has had stories featured in anthologies by May December Publications and SNM Horror Magazine. Andrew has a blog with news of the weird and tips for writing at maskofreason.wordpress.com.
I asked Mom once why I had an uncle but no aunt. I figured they were a bundle deal.
Mom said, “Your uncle has three defining characteristics: veiny biceps, chest hair, and a fanny pack full of beef jerky.”
I still don’t know which of those is the bad thing.
“Pick a pig,” said the farmer. “Oh, Pig 3’s half price.”
Suzanna surveyed the oinking, grunting shapes wallowing in the sty. “Are you sure they’re all actually pigs?”
“‘Course I’m sure. I ain’t no swindler!”
“I only ask,” said Suzanna, “because Pig 3 looks like a stump with a tape recorder.”
This story is based on a title suggested by Michelle Sevenhuysen via Facebook.
Like many other runty rodents, Gus had an entirely undeserved nickname.
“Goofy Gopher,” his mom had affectionately called him. But the weasels found out.
Gus’s father said, “Reappropriate it. Go into stand-up. Make a name for yourself. Show them up.”
But it turned out Gus’s jokes just weren’t very funny.