50 Word Stories

The Spectre of OCD

Chronicles — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 21:33:32 +0000

There were ghosts, yes. But no cobwebs. The spiders were all sent packing. Skeletons lurking in cupboards were disinfected to death (although admittedly they had been dead already). The polished chandeliers gleamed; the doors were far too clean to creak.
Ghosts Mrs. Trevelyan didn’t mind, but dirt she couldn’t stand.

Literacy

Chronicles — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 17:37:16 +0000

The King of the Mallard Race surveyed his new kingdom with a proud eye. His people would be happy here; grow fat, and prosper. Here ended their nomadic existence. But wait – what were these strange symbols printed on the sand? Four words the King couldn’t read: Argos. Floating Duck Island.

The Exam Hall

Chronicles — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 17:30:47 +0000

Alone at your folding island, you have never felt so isolated. Your scribbling classmates’ proximity only adds to your loneliness. You have run out of things to write – stare at the questions, the lines in the answer booklet gawping blankly at your stupidity. Suddenly, inspiration strikes. Still five minutes left…

Blue Murder

Chronicles — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 18:48:59 +0000

“We are sorry,” said the usually bubbly presenter, “we have let you down.”
The camera panned to her colleague.
“There will be an investigation into how the footage was broadcast. We no longer have the death penalty in England, but Thomas will be in prison for a very long time.”

Cellar

Chronicles — Thu, 13 May 2010 18:12:10 +0000

The cellar in our house has names carved into its walls. My mother says they are the names of pets buried there by previous families. But the patched-up holes look distinctly human-shaped to me. And sometimes in the middle of the night, I can hear fingernails, scratching, scratching at brick.

Scepticism and Chamber Music

Chronicles — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 14:13:29 +0000

As I always say, I don’t seriously believe in the Ghost of Hillborough House, lurking – in defiance of logic – around the attic and Room 17. Nevertheless, I can’t help but shiver when, halfway through the second run of a Mozart quintet, I hear someone I can’t see, humming sadly along.

The Harp or the…

creator_z — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 21:24:04 +0000

Hitting the car didn’t hurt much but I was quite upset when, instead of the stairway to heaven coming down, I fell into Hell. Many ask, “If the angel plays the harp, what does the devil play?” Satan’s first sentence to me answered that: “Welcome to Hell; here’s your accordion.”

Action Comics #last

creator_z — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 18:59:47 +0000

Superman. Stronger than a thousand men. Lasers coming from his eyes. Faster than the speed of light. Bullets can’t penetrate his skin. He beats up identical looking henchmen in their millions. Flying through the skies, coming in low to impress – straight into a lamppost. The funeral was a quick affair.

Hell’s Angel

creator_z — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 17:51:47 +0000

Phil Drayston. His name strikes fear into all. Hell’s Angel. Roaring down streets, tearing up the concrete. If there’s burnt rubber, there’s Phil. Over 120 miles per hour, leather jacket, no helmet. The bike slows down. Phillip looks at the lit square by the coin slot. ‘Ride Over. Insert 50p.’

A Little Flushed

Chronicles — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 18:48:42 +0000

I was late. Having surmounted the empty wardrobe challenge, all I needed was perfume. I’m not usually a splasher, but tonight, when impressing meant so much, I’m afraid I splashed – grabbing the first thing in the cabinet. Kind-of lemony.

“That’s funny,” they said, “can anyone else smell toilet cleaner?”

Between “mean” and “it”

Another argument left the Raymond household with an arctic atmosphere. But the bad feeling soon passed, as efforts were made to unsay things.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Mrs. Raymond.

It was months later, when filing for divorce, both parties realised there were two words missing from that sentence; “to say”.