“Nicht vergessen!”
The key was placed underneath the worded paperweight. She placed anything of importance here. Bills rarely paid, jobs rarely done, and the key remained beneath.
I couldn’t remember the translation, so I forgot…
how to eat…
what to think…
where is she?
I forget.
I always forget.
What?
Martin Shone cleans for a living and is not long away from being fifty, although he is forever twenty-eight.
Evolution happens.
I found that out for certain the day I met a Tyrannosaurus X.
He had weak eyes, massive jaws, and stubby little arms.
He was cold-blooded. Scaly-skinned. Exclusively carnivorous.
I was intrigued. I asked for a blood sample. He roared.
He was the missing link, the old fossil.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Tally_LRR.
As the guitar crunched like gravel over the speakers, she lifted her head, squared her shoulders and crossed the room. “It’s over… This is the end of the line,” she said in sync with the lyrics.
He was struck dumb, staring after her in a stupor.
She’d always loved good timing.
Amanda Zutz based this story off of a song by The Trews called “End of the Line”.
Most mornings, George joined the queue at the butcher’s and waited patiently. He always left with two fresh sausages, and the butcher wished more of his customers were as polite and gentlemanly.
The stray mutt, however, wished the butcher would throw him a nice bone every now and then, instead.
Bryce Main is an author and a writer of ad copy. He discovered 50-word stories recently and finds reading them immensely enjoyable. This is the first he’s written.
Mr. X lived seven lives, one for each day of the week.
Monday, he was a fisherman.
Tuesday, he was a chef.
Wednesday, he was a restaurant critic.
Thursday, he worked in sewage treatment.
Friday, he studied marine ecology.
Saturday, he went scuba diving.
Sunday, he was a Pacific Cod.
This story was based on a title suggested by @vxicepickxv.
Milos wanted to stand out, to be remembered.
As he wheeled the life-sized, entirely edible cake replica of himself into the room, he knew he had succeeded.
Every member of the cannibal collective oohed and aahed.
“The volunteer provides dessert, right?” Milos beamed. “Now you get to eat me twice!”
“Papa Panda! Papa Panda!”
There it went again.
“Papa Panda!”
It was incessant, unceasing, never-ending. (Synonyms were one of Papa Panda’s few pleasures.)
Papa Panda rolled over, half-opened one eye, and gestured impatiently at the annoying, agitating throng.
The tourists roared with glee.
Papa Panda found zoo life emotionally taxing.
One day an evil wizard turned a lizard into a goat. “I am the evilest of wizards!” he said. Then the goat kicked him. He turned it back into a lizard so it couldn’t kick him again. Then the real evilest wizard sued him for misusing the Evilest Wizard trademark.
It seemed like they were made for each other, the boy and his elephant.
They ate, played, and slept together. They worked, lazed about, and made friends together.
They rode on each other’s backs and washed one another with their trunks.
They were almost indistinguishable, the elephant and his boy.
This story is based on a title suggested by @salmir.
“Will she be faithful? I must find out.”
“I can divine the future from anything you own – pass me that jug from your breakfast table.”
“Whoops! Sorry! Thought it was empty…”
“Idiot! Your fate cannot now be foreseen.”
“Why?”
“All men know: there’s no use scrying over spilled milk.”
Nick Johns lives in Sandhurst, UK. A retired cat wrestler, he now breeds mongrel flash fictions for release into the wild.