He’d done it. He’d finally defeated the bully that had been tormenting him the school year. Yet, he felt empty. As if he no longer had a purpose. He was a yin without a yang. His father would be proud, but he wasn’t proud of his own self.
47 words. I’m proud of myself, yes the story sucks, but that doesn’t matter.
She flung the knife at the table, and it stuck in the wood, quivering slightly. He flinched but managed not to blink. Her eyes drilled holes in his head.
"From now on,” she spat, “do your own dirty work.”
Blood dripped down the knife’s blade and dried on the tabletop.
50 words exactly. How’s that?
.:Nichol:.
I’m bringing in a ringer; this is supposedly by Hemingway, in response to a bar bet.
For sale.
Baby shoes.
Never used.
Thanks to Willow, Faith found herself in the cartoon world of X-Men : Evolution.
Faith smiled at Avalanche (Lance Alvers). He was bad, just the way she liked her boys.
“Let me rock your world,” she purred as she straddled him.
Lance closed his eyes and pictured another.
“Kitty!” he thought.
He stood triumphantly at the door.
“My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father! Prepare to–”
Then… a disbelieving gasp. Inigo gaped at the expertly thrown knife penetrating his sternum. He fell to the floor like a gutted bull.
His killer muttered, “Just like his father. Talks too much.”
“Put it on my tab,” he slurred, almost incoherently.
“We don’t allow tabs here, sir” the waitress said for the sixth time.
“What? Where am I?” He lifted his head from the table, peering around with bloodshot eyes.
“This is Denny’s, sir.”
“…then what’ve I been drinking?”
“Milk.”
“Milk!?”
“Milk.”
Haunched over the human, the two werewolves ate in silence.
Flexing clutched claws, Second slashed at the kill’s swollen belly. She smiled, as wolves do, at the tiny sweetmeat inside, perfectly pickled in amniotic fluid. She looked at her mate with puppy eyes.
First licked her, then nuzzled. “Take the veal.”
The Last Man On Earth woke up, scratched his morning erection, glanced at the woman in bed… and remembered.
She was a nun.
She was his sister.
Shit! He’d just fucked his sister the Sister!
The Last Man On Earth’s Last Erection died with a baneful, one-eyed stare.
“I can’t believe I’m losing my virginity!” thought the Trekkie as Nichelle moved her hands over his doughy body. He could feel his love shuttle pressing his TNG uniform crotch like a horta boring through silicon.
“JAMES DOOHAN IS NOW SIGNING” said the announcer.
“Wait Scottie! I’M COMING!” he cried.
“Name?”
“James T. Quirk.”
“…seriously?”
“Yes, dammit.”
“T-that’s just so funny.”
“Not to me. I’m 65, I don’t need this. Fictional characters screwing with my life. Fucking Trekkies following me everywhere.”
“Still it must be nice. Gets you noticed.”
“Tell that to my friend, Harry Pooter.”
The fiftieth spot in a thread about fifty word stories. A synchronocity like this deserves a special story. One that stands at the top of a new page and is both entertaining and enlightening. One that rises above the limits of the form into art.
Unfortunately you’re getting this instead.