Everyone was avoiding Martina like the plague. (Well, to be fair, they only avoided her “like the plague” because she had the Plague and was quarantined, but they did it very rudely!)
Martina stewed in resentment until she became an evil villain. Then she died. Of the Plague, of course.
She ate toast obsessively. Her friends called “Toasty McToaststerstonst,” even though she told them it was completely ridiculous to have that many esses and tees in one word.
For Halloween she dressed up as a piece of bread and some drunk guys stuffed her in a toaster. She got burned.
Tara told Tammy to try to stop telling tall tales. But Tammy bragged about her bossy big brother Ben: he had the hugest, heaviest head. Fortunately, Fred’s freakish feet were far funnier. Larry and Laurie laughed and laughed and laughed, long and loud.
Alice ardently, angrily ate all the alliterators.
“You know what’s so great about lunch?”
“Yeah! It’s spelled like ‘launch’ but without the A!”
“That is great, but what’s even greater is that it’s like the contents of the sandwich, and breakfast and supper are the bread! That’s why lunch tastes the best!”
“I hate sandwiches!”
“Me too!”
The ancient bard settled more comfortably into his furs and breathed in deeply. The air held the scent of pine needles, campfire smoke, and eager anticipation.
His audience held their breaths with rapt attention, awaiting the bard’s words of adventure, beauty, and wisdom.
The bard opened his mouth to begin…
@gameking218: “I forgot the Smores,” he said. Everyone up and left.
@VikkieTheMimm: …but alas, he’d lost his voice. Darn that Mage Flu.
What happens next? Write your own conclusion to this story and either write in a comment or send it to me via Twitter at @50wordstories. Your conclusion must be ten words or less!
I’ll add in responses as I receive them, though I may make some edits of my own before including them.
Jorge was a racist. He hated purple people. He wanted to do mean things to them all.
Jorge was also a mulish ignoramus. He wouldn’t listen to anyone who tried to tell him purple people didn’t exist.
“Fools!” he muttered to himself every night, as he repainted his skin brown.
“Crumpets!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Muffins!”
“Dude, what are you talking about?”
“Biscuits!”
“I, uh… Are you ok?”
“Scones!”
“I usually pronounce it ‘scawns’, myself.”
“Croissants!”
“Hold on, are you just yelling out the names of various baked goods?”
“Cookies!”
“Ok, ok, I think I’m getting the picture.”
“Cupcakes!”
“Danishes!”
“Charcoal!”
“…Huh?”
“Did you know,” droned the lecturer, “that until a few short centuries ago, the human body was made of sixty percent water rather than sixty percent weaponry?”
“Weird,” commented a student, holding up one shotgun arm and flexing his finger-pistols. “Makes you wonder how they survived long enough to evolve.”
Thousands of ducks overwhelmed the streets of North Crundria. The city was in an uproar.
“Ducks!?” cried the frightened, confused masses. “But… Aren’t they extinct?!”
A zoologist stood on his porch. “I warned you all,” he said. “The balance has shifted. And I, for one, welcome our new Duck Overlords.”
This story was inspired by suggestions from @gameking128 (“duck”), @Graham_LRR (“North Crundria”), and @HootieD (“to shift”) via Twitter.
He had the biggest, bushiest, amazingest beard.
People would approach him in restaurants or on the street and ask to take his picture. He was half celebrity, half tourist attraction.
The mayor accused him of using a fake beard, but testing determined that it was real.
The mayor was impeached.