Unknown really hated it. Of all the places she could imagine being imagined into, inside the mind of a writer who only specialised in 50-word stories was probably the most restricting existence possible.
“Quick,” she thought to herself, “I must do something memorable!”
But there were only ten words left.
Oliver is 24, and lives in England. He dislikes the cold, that is, unless he is too warm.
Through the hole in the baseboard Mac Mouse could see the cheese rind lying tantalizingly near, a mere scamper away.
“No!” cried Ma, grasping his tail. “It ain’t worth it!”
Mac fumed. “You can’t hold me forever, Ma.”
Caractacus Cat grinned silently. Mac’s patience was what he was counting on.
When I scored the first goal, my confidence went shooting through the roof.
When I coughed the ball up, resulting in a goal against, my confidence went plummeting into the earth.
When I was handed my big fat paycheck after the game, my confidence wasn’t really affected in either direction.
This story was based on the prompt “went shooting” at TypeTrigger.
Charging into battle astride a fat, stubborn elephant had never been high on General Coriando’s list of Things To Accomplish In Life. As arrows whizzed past his ears, he lamented, “I could’ve been a baker, or a tailor! I could’ve joined the circus!”
The elephant was thinking the same thing.
“I have never before encountered such impudence!” blustered the King. “It is an affront! It is an outrage! Insulting! Degrading! Disrespectful! I should have you put in the stocks, clapped in irons, hanged, beheaded! You’re just so very, very… Well, impudent!”
“My most humble and sincere apologies,” said the imp.
This story was based on the prompt “never before” at TypeTrigger.
The butterfly hit the windscreen, but rather than splatter on the glass it seemed to filter through into the car in a burst of colour, then just vanished and everything for a second was still.
He looked across at her, took her hand and smiled.
They were no longer afraid.
N.F. Barlow is an English writer living in Friuli, Italy.
“Let those feelings go!” the counselor suggests. “Pour them out across the floor! It’ll help.”
I start with a single teardrop dripped onto the carpet. Then suddenly I’m on my knees flailing my fists, bang bang bang.
I’m cured. I forgive my father.
But man do I hate floors now.
This story was based on the prompt “pour it out” at TypeTrigger.
They decide to spent some time apart so they can get their priorities straight, sort out their emotions, and gain a new perspective on their situation.
It changes nothing. Within a month they’re back where they started, lying on that operating table, begging the surgeon to stitch them back together.
This story was based on the prompt “time apart” at TypeTrigger.
My neighbours are quiet, peaceful and private. It’s great, because it would suck to be interrupted by nosy, whining neighbours during my thrice-weekly parties.
When I shoot off fireworks at 2 AM they come out and yell until they’re blue in the face. That’s how I know they’re really enjoying it.
This story was based on the prompt “loud neighbor” at TypeTrigger.
Chick flicks, tragedies, heartbreaking anti-romances… She couldn’t get enough. Those faces on the screen, looming large, eyes, noses, mouths puckered in anguish, terrified: “Love me! Love me! I don’t want to be alone!”
Her hard drives were filled to the brim with her obsession. She was downloading torrents of tears.
This story was based on the prompt “torrents” at TypeTrigger.