His flapping jaws still locked in high gear, frowning men yearned for sonic blasts from a jet squadron to maybe momentarily mute him. They wondered loud, clear, and audibly if even a city nicknamed “The Big Decibel” for its constant and deafening clamor could outdo that son of an amplifier.
Tom McDade lives in Monroe, CT, with his wife, no kids, no pets. He works as a computer programmer in the home plumbing supplies industry.
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.
When he pulls into the garage, he sees the bucket and sand toys on the backseat. He hides them in the trunk, next to the spare tire.
Then he runs his hands over his suit to remove any final grains of sand. He wouldn’t want the kids to be jealous.
Brittany Michelson loves traveling, hiking new mountains, playing with words, snowboarding, and daydreaming.
She literally stood on her head trying to impress Dad enough for one sincere compliment.
But he just smiled and said she was “gym-nasty,” so she jumped off the balance beam and tackled him and they both laughed, and he still didn’t seem to understand why she practiced so hard.
My brother called me a prison probability. I told the pansy, “Shut up,” shoved four candy bars down his pants.
The fat lady lurched from behind the counter, grabbed his collar, half the stash, shrieking, “Snot-nosed delinquent!”
After mom whooped him, I snuck into his room: “Hand them over, punk!”
Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared in numerous journals. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel “Domestic Apparition” (2011) is available through San Francisco Bay Press. She has a monthly column “Exquisite Quartet” for Used Furniture Review. You can read her blog at http://megtuite.wordpress.com.
“Where are we?” grumbled Trim, rolling out of bed.
“Planet X!” enthused Portly.
“What!? Why?!”
“I dunno,” said Portly. “It’s a ‘forbidden fruit’ thing, I guess.”
“But don’t you know about the Curse?”
“What curse?” said Portly.
Trim groaned haggardly. “Now we’ll never be able to recite the alphabet again!”
This story is based on a title suggested by @keab42.
Arius had been lucky tonight. A car had grazed his leg while he was walking along a moonlit country road.
The driver likely never saw him.
His grandfather told him a full moon represented protection to those who believed in its power.
Arius stopped, raised his wolfish head, and howled.
Greg Didaleusky has written two novels. Rogue Phoenix Press published Frozen Death, a mystery-suspense novel, in 2009, and Concealed Warnings, a suspense novel published by All Things That Matter Press, is coming fall 2011.
Constable X was an enigma to Constables Murphy and McDonough.
The Captain said Constable X worked solo because he’d lost partners before.
Something didn’t feel right about that, so they did a bit of prying.
Turned out he slept in his office all day.
And donned a mask at night.
This story is based on a title suggested by @MisterFiendZero.
Uncle Carl was really irritating sometimes. He was born with two thumbs on his right hand, and he liked to pinch me with them. Man was that painful!
Then he lost one of the thumbs in an accident. I liked him better after that.
I miss him since he died.
Don (D.L.) Chance has been a lifelong voracious reader and writes fiction of all kinds.
Mister Murder Mouth cackled villainously. “If you want to live, answer this mathematical skill-testing question! Multiply my social security number by the cost of replacing my birth certificate!”
“Evil, dirty, filthy, rotten cheater!” I cried. “You’re an illegal immigrant! You have no SSN!”
“Blast,” he said, and I walked free.
This story is based on a title suggested by @metcarfre.