“Where’s your darling husband?” asked my neighbour, peeking above our shared hedge.
“Travelling,” I replied, juggling the parcels I held while struggling to open the boot of my car.
“Oh? Where to?”
I wiped one of the parcels that was slightly blood-stained and pushed it further into the boot. “Everywhere.”
AJ Joseph occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe and tweets very short stories as @sonobeus.
Frying the onions had been easy.
Without any bother, she watched as the meat in the pain turned from red to a shade of brown. So eating the liver wasn’t going to pose her any problems.
It was cutting it out of his abdomen that had been the hard part.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK. One day he might buy a train set.
“Don’t you open that door!” she’d say to anyone visiting her house.
Stench of cat urine almost overpowered the smoke that clung in cancerous clouds to the curtains, carpet, newspapers.
They found little left of her but glasses hanging amiss, unopened cat food in hand.
She must’ve opened the door.
Alexandra always remembers to feed her cat, who sleeps outside for good reason.
At night their scaly tails became legs, so he hung bells around their necks to help find them in the morning. The bells hung heavy and pendulous, like a third breast. When his wife was away, he opened the shutters and waited for the scrabble of claws upon the windowsill.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
Most people de-vein their shrimp, say they don’t wanna eat the feces.
I peel back the brown track with my teeth and suck it out first.
Most people also don’t know shrimp will strip a corpse in three months.
Two more, and the wife is out of my system forever.
Alexandra Keister is an executive assistant and writer hungry for success, and on most days a good maple bar. She always de-veins her shrimp.
The day they met, he knew she was the one. She had such beautiful eyes. Now he would be able to gaze at their beauty every day for the rest of his life.
He admired them in the pickling jar, knowing her other body parts would keep in the freezer.
Carol Browne first appeared on the planet in 1954. Now living in the Cambridgeshire countryside with her cockatiel, Sparky, she is a contracted author at Burning Willow Press.
“I read she passed away. Your plump little neighbor with all the cats.”
“So sad. She tripped on the stairs and broke her neck, poor woman. She lay there, dead, for two weeks before they found her.”
“Poor lady. Poor cats. Alone. Trapped. Starving.”
“Oh, no. Her cats didn’t starve.”
Allen Lang, a recently resurrected member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, was born the year the first Yo Yo factory opened.
Inflation hit everybody hard, Santa included.
Carrot prices had skyrocketed, and hungry reindeer could hardly pull a sleigh.
Santa emptied his sack into the reindeer pen, ignoring the crunch of tooth on bone. Rudolph emerged, snout matted with fresh, red blood.
Freddy’s bad behaviour would never be a problem again.
Guy is twenty-four years old, and still afraid of being on Santa’s naughty list. This is his sixth 50-word story.
Then there’s the parallel universe entirely identical to our own, with two exceptions.
Firstly, racism doesn’t exist. Race and heritage are not commented on at all; the world is one big melting pot.
The second exception: cannibalism is a normal way of life.
We all look the same when cooked.
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes like heck they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
“I’ve been up all night. I couldn’t sleep.”
“We know what’s wrong,” they winked. “You’re in love!”
“No, I’m not…”
“You’re a sly one. Tell us who she is.”
“If you’d let me finish, I’d tell you it was diarrhea.”
“Oh, that’s a pretty name. Is she foreign?”
Connell believes that words can get in the way of meaningful communication. See more of his “Communication Breakdowns” at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.