Stories tagged microfiction

Knees of the Dragon

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I never could run properly. It’s kinda hard when you’ve got scales all over your body and a big fat tail that gets in the way.

Pinhole

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Because his mother is Catholic and he may be, too, subliminally.

There's Going to be a Test at the End

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Crystal's neck is covered in hickeys...

Did You Get Two

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“106 more miles,” she said.

Mail

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he strides with noble purposefulness along the crazy paving

Penny and the Potato People

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Suddenly they were in Trafalgar Square. Penny looked out of the turret. One of the Landseer lions winked at her. 'The Potato People are here.'

The Twisted Remains of Mrs Mackenzie: A Twitter Tale

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One of the boys, Jasper, whose bravery was matched only by his stupidity, egged on by his friends, climbed nimbly up the spindly tower.

Turnip Surgery: A Twitter Tale

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She fluttered her Boots No.7 eyelashes at him, for she too felt an attraction to this young man. So they chatted about ornithology and the price of Lego until Kaptain Kozmik started to get high on the space scone.

Tumorhead at the End of the World

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I’ve always wondered why my sister got all the luck in our family. She was shinier than the rest of us, somehow. Had the sweet smell of “good luck” on her.

in response to Jerry Ratch's "twitter quitter"

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breaking down the doors to get in

Why Mr. Doss Had To Die

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He held my little hand in his and guided it through the dirt.

Commitment

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I have committed to nothing. Therefore I have committed to something. The first sentence is now moot, and this story will eat itself.

Public Transport

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Suicide was on his bucket list. Redeeming a lost soul was on hers. If not for the train drivers' strike they might have met.

Family

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For instance, my sister's husband. If I say brown socks, yellow boxer shorts, fishnet undershirt. If I say plastic bag and two tepid beers. And a voice that glides to falsetto when he: you're a tad too obscene for my taste, Julia, while he tries to light the filter end of…

Size Times New Roman

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“I’m making a dress,” she said, feeding the pages through the sewing machine. He didn’t know how to answer. “Are those my books?”