As the hot sun descended, frightened by the rising of the cold blue moon, I stumbled on a root and fell headlong into nightmare.
Within myself, I chased and fled, pursuing sanity and evading madness.
I grasped sanity’s skirt. She pulled away, saying, “Your daughter is dead.”
Madness ensnared me.
This story was based on a title suggested by @KittyCatalyst.
Anna was once again berating the office printer. Her list of irritations was well into double figures by 11 AM. The printer finally kicked out the presentation and Anna went back to her claustrophobic cubical.
The printer sighed. “No ‘thank you’ again. Maybe tomorrow I just won’t turn on at all!”
Amy who lives in a black hole training to be an apple, but it’s all coming out pear shaped. Luckily she has her helper dog, Ellie, to munch on the worms. Read her blog at www.Blind-Style.com.
Hailey looked concernedly into Kimmy’s watery eyes and said, “You look as sad as a koala bear with strep throat.”
Kimmy coughed and winced.
Hailey reached up into the eucalyptus tree and took Kimmy in her arms. The ailing marsupial snuggled up.
This was why Hailey had become a veterinarian.
I was staring blankly at a dirty old apartment building, wondering whether more people go down fire escapes or up them.
You said, “It happened so suddenly; I found out yesterday,” and I wasn’t sure whether to slip out the back door, or embrace the opportunity to sneak back in.
Bethany stormed into the panda run.
Sammy and Florence, the local inmates, sauntered over and began looking for treats.
“He won’t listen!” said Bethany, stifling a sob.
The pandas’ faces drooped.
“Can’t he see how lonely you are? All we want is a couple of play dates with the orangutans.”
He’d been flirting with me for months. He always tried to make eye contact, and smiled extra big, and laughed at all my jokes.
When my friends asked, I said he “wasn’t my type,” and changed the subject.
Then one day he forgot to shave, and I fell in love.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “stubble.”
People were lined up, waiting for a table, standing too close to her chair. She was almost touching the butt of a heavy-set, bleached blond, overweight woman who was describing her “last” trip to Paris in excruciating detail.
She quickly downed her glass of red wine, stood up, and left.
Bobbi Lurie is the author of three poetry collections: The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn and Grief Suite.
Jurgen shook free of the dog’s steel-trap grip and tossed it over the cliff. For a moment, he felt guilty; then he cleansed the useless emotions from his mind.
They were coming, with guns and flashlights.
If the animal shelter would not give him a pet, he would take one.
Cynthia had made a habit of sneaking cookies out of the jar when Mom left the room.
One day, Mom caught her, and Cynthia received a crisp slap on the wrist.
The next afternoon, Cynthia emerged from her bedroom with foam padding taped to her wrists, and took a cookie.
This story was based on the prompt “slap on the wrist” at TypeTrigger.
They stood by the charred crater that had been their home and listened to the wind.
It told them, You’ve been hard done by.
It said, They had no right.
It whispered, Independence is our destiny.
It commanded, Hoist the New Antland flag, stand tall, and let the humans come.