I fell to my knees, drained, ravenous, and blistered. I kissed the car door’s flat surface and nuzzled the chrome handles.
A mere two hours driving time took more than two weeks to hike. The Appalachian Trail had not made a man out of me; it whipped my metrosexual hiney.
Their emotions raged like wildfires. Their passions rumbled like earthquakes. Their fears echoed like windblown whispers through the valleys.
They whirled in their orbits, teasing each other, admiring one another’s moons, coming close and then dancing away, all the while singing to themselves, “She loves me; she loves me not.”
He called me at work. “The house is flooding!” he said, then laughed.
I rushed home, panicking. He was wading knee-deep through black sludge in the living room. “It’s crude oil!” he said. “It’s coming in through the bathtub! We’re rich!”
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have lit that celebratory cigarette.
This story was based on the prompt “it’s crude” at TypeTrigger.
Josh Bonner, junior agent, answered his phone. “Yes, Director?”
“Where are the Apple and the Banana?”
“I’m at the grocery store right now, picking them up, sir. Is Golden Delicious okay?”
“You’re where!? They’re waiting at the Safe House, agent!”
Oh dear. Josh had forgotten about the code words again.
She invited me in after our third date.
What I found in her refrigerator was shocking. The shelves were packed with yogurt, cheese, sour cream, and, maybe worst of all, two cartons of chocolate milk!
“Betsy, what is this?” I cried. “Explain!”
She hung her head, sighed, and said, “Moo…”
When I visited my blind brother, he was sharpening his shooting skills. He was so embarrassed; he couldn’t hit a thing.
I pulled my pen out and placed it in his sweaty palm. I said, “Take this pen, brother, so that you may draw targets around the holes you make.”
George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada. He enjoys writing science-fiction (in an non-professional level, so far) in the subgenres of hard science fiction, bizzarro and apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic settings.
“Please, Clarissa,” pleaded Sergio, “don’t leave me! I’ll make you better spaghetti, better pizza, better wine!”
“Always food with you,” said Clarissa wearily. “Always wine… Don’t you understand me? What I really want are children… and pets!”
Sergio bought her a mouse. She kept it, and got rid of him.
“You have an ability that nobody else has. Don’t you think that’s at least a little bit awesome?”
“No, not really.”
“But your ability is so cool!”
“Really? Do you actually wish you could do what I can do?”
“…No. I guess not. But I’m glad you can do it!”
This is how I think most people would react to the special abilities people have in my web serial, Special People. It’s kind of like having a friend with an “awesome” moustache: it’s cool that they have it, but I’d never grow one like that myself.
This story was based on the prompt “nobody has” at TypeTrigger.
There are some days when I don’t really want to tell the story. Some days I wish it would just step up to the plate, be a man, and tell itself.
But of course it isn’t a man; it’s a story. So I’m stuck here doing its telling for it.
This story was based on the prompt “tell the story” at TypeTrigger.
She arrived atop of hill wheezing like a cracked bellows. Her ragged breathing stoked her brother’s competitive fires, and like a shot he was off again, skidding across the snow aboard the rusty old toboggan.
THWUMP! He hit the jump. The sled broke cleanly in two.
He hooted: “I win!”
This story was based on the prompt “wheezing” at TypeTrigger.