“So…”
“I messed up.”
“I know you did.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“What do you mean, ‘probably’?”
“I just haven’t decided yet, I guess.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“Here’s an idea: fix things first, then ask again afterwards.”
Tough
Love
Christmas
Can you see the word picture?
This story was based on the prompt “messed up” on TypeTrigger.
Some kids always had to be told to “stay inside the lines.” Not Nancy: she had never liked colouring in the corners.
Her parents and her teachers said, “Don’t just paint the middles. You’re missing all the parts near the edges!”
“But really,” Nancy protested, “what’s so great about edges?”
This story was based on the prompt “in the corners” at TypeTrigger.
“Time for bed, princess!” trilled Mom.
Little Mia said, “Why?”
“So you can sleep, and have lots of energy tomorrow.”
“I don’t need sleep.”
“Of course you do, dear.”
Mia laid awake in her big-girl bed all night, wondering what sleep was and why everyone else did it so much.
This story was based on the prompt “what for” at TypeTrigger.
Mia will appear in Special People, my superhero-with-a-twist serial web fiction, in a future story.
The bear came through the door of his shack tent with a squeal of abused latchwork and snapping lumber.
He started up in his open sleeping bag. In the next frozen second, his eyes darted between his knife, hanging sheathed above his bed and the intruding bear.
Time ran out.
A longtime LRR fan, Alex works for a gold exploration and development company in Saskatchewan. This was written while in a shack tent, after having watched a bear safety video too late a night.
Editor: I worked with LRR for more than two years until I left in 2010 to finish school.
The cowboy drank until he’d had enough, then topped off his flask for later.
When he turned to go, a couple mean-looking gents had gathered.
“Had enough?” said one.
“Got my fill.”
“Well at this lemonade stand most folks pay before they drink. Now give the little girl her quarter.”
This story was based on the prompt “had my fill” at TypeTrigger.
Petunia and all the other ponies were excited for the royal parade.
In the morning, they were each given a pork chop and a pea. They devoured their delicious pork chops, all except Petunia. “Pork makes me bloaty,” said Petunia, and ate her pea.
The Princess chose to ride Petunia.
This story is dedicated to Mr. Denoncour’s 7th Grade class, which also provided the title as inspiration.
Still haven’t picked yourself up a 50-word stories book or t-shirt? Well now’s the time!
Starting today, until the month of December, all FiftyWordStories.com products and bundles are 25% off when purchased online! That means you can save $3 off a book, $5 off a t-shirt, or up to $10 off a package deal, like the Big Bundle!
This sale is in support of the Diaper Fund.
Since I’m running kind of a cobbled-together PayPal store setup, I’ll be applying the discount as a refund after your purchase. Just make your order normally and, to help me out a little, put the phrase “Christmas Deal” into the “Any special instructions or requests?” box. I’ll refund 25% of the order price (excluding shipping) to you.
Note: Story shirts are sold out in sizes above Large. There is one XL shirt with a logo but no story; email tim@fiftywordstories.com if you’re interested.
I used my best line. I’d been saving it for a week, waiting for the right girl in the right bar.
“Are you wearing bird pants?”
She corked me one right in the nose.
It hurt like reading Dickens, but my friends laughed a lot, so it was worth it.
This story was based on the prompt “corked” at TypeTrigger.
Living amongst death and decay was simply part of being a necromancer, but Khin-Topekh hadn’t expected so much loneliness.
Employing his best problem-solving skills, the necromancer went to the pet store and picked out a puppy.
Little Fidus made him very happy, until she started stealing bones from his corpses.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Invariel.
Fifteen thousand and twelve things could happen between our car and his classroom.
I tell myself they won’t; I tell myself he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need me to walk him anymore. And I don’t.
But he’s my little boy, and it’s so very, very hard to let him go.
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina fiction writer and poet. Her work can be found in print in The Island Breeze, and Outer Banks publication, and online at Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Four and Twenty, The Camel Saloon, Apollo’s Lyre, Pond Ripples, Three Line Poetry, and the Journal of Microliterature.