I fall from the stars, I enter the desert, and I climb the mountain. My reality is gone, but I exist still. I find a way to end the pain. Goodbye mountain, goodbye desert, and goodbye stars.
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I fall from the stars, I enter the desert, and I climb the mountain. My reality is gone, but I exist still. I find a way to end the pain. Goodbye mountain, goodbye desert, and goodbye stars.
Short Story with Fried Eggs
Poo-puck had a flippity-dope. The flippity-dope plinged in a complete boo-bad. Boo-bad had fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing with schlack. And pong pong pong! Now cap!
Sip-dung, who had bamp with dik dik dik dik szacked with all the hemp ziiiiiiips, and now the hop hop can't hop!
Copyright 2013 by Wolf Larsen
What are you on, Wolfie? I want some. It must be some strong shi t.
James wrote, "Nonexistence is sweet." That would piss off mommy. She said his stories sucked.
"Mommy's stupid."
He took the semi-automatic rifle to the nursery, killing the women in charge and then the children before the police put one through his head.
Investigators read, "Truth is shallow. I am deep."
George cried in the temple, "Why? Oh, why?"
Nothing happened.
He cried in the church, "Why? Oh, why?"
Nothing happened.
He cried on the mountaintop in gorgeous weather, "Why? Oh, why?"
Nothing happened except lightning struck him from out of nowhere. He ran into his fifty-word story limit.
The condom broke. Nine months after that Julie was born.
Fifty-nine years after that, he died and Julie wept.
Two years after him, she also died and Julie wept.
Some knew them as sinners and others called them trash, but every God worth loving loved them, without exception.
Ping-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
a very short story by Wolf Larsen
Ping-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep had a favorite ha-ha-jalikoptuck, which he kept in a black hole half way across the universe.
The black hole was made out of peanut butter.
Peanut butter has all the answers your genital herpes are craving for.
Is the ceiling talking to you?
Copyright 2013 by Wolf Larsen
A blond walks into the bar at closing time. "Where's Michael?"
"He's upstairs."
"Oh. I see." She quietly climbs the stairs.
"I wouldn't go up there, Brenda."
She comes down carrying Michael's pants and Gloria's dress. "They were asleep."
On her way out, she triggers the fire alarm sprinkler system.
Something's Wrong with the Solar System
a very short story by Wolf Larsen
He woke up inside the toilet. Then he grabbed the sun in his arms and kissed it. That's when the sun's vagina spat 1,000,000 clones of Wolf Larsen all over the planets & moons of the solar system. All of the 1,000,000 of Wolf Larsen's clones were ****ing your mother, and you were born a screaming mess 9 months later.
Copyright 2013 by Wolf Larsen
"Michael, why did the fire alarm go off and where are your pants?"
"I don't know, George."
"Brenda's had her fill of your hookers."
"Captain, you better come up here."
"Don't...."
"Relax."
George stands in the bedroom. "Gloria? What are you doing here?"
"I can explain, baby."
dawning rain
The river ran through a passage of leafy stones. The sun grabbed the water and flinged a shiny streak of yellow and red upon its waves. The air filled with condensation and it was about to rain. An Indian summer like you have never seen before was about to dawn upon nature. And thus within a matter of minutes splendor began to rise. If art could speak it would take a piece of nature and dance a jive with it.
Funeral XLVII
Alone and dead drunk again on Superbowl Sunday, surrounded by blowup dolls, each sporting his favorite player jerseys. Ravens on the right. Niners on stools, with celebrity glasses. Thanks for coming, he slurred, then bowed for their cheers. Beyonce (Destiny’s Child) was lip-synching as he lit his house afire.
Tony,Quote:
Originally Posted by tonywalt
Liked your short story. If we voted on this Thread, you'd have mine. Reminded me of Hemingway's one sentence novel ... only better.
"Well, Gloria? I'm waiting. What happened?"
"Whaa-aa-aaaaaa"
"What are you doing here without your clothes on?"
"Waaaaaa"
"Did you have sex with that sleezebag, Michael?"
"Whaaaaa-aaa-whaa"
"How long has this been going on?
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"Gloria! Brenda's your friend. She's got enough trouble with Michael's whores."
"Waaahaaa-aaa"
"I've heard enough."
To open the fridge for the last can of Muckenmeier’s, Sal had to back into the bathroom. “Gee, your place is small--”
“ ‘Small’? The mice are so hunch-backed they hired a personal injury lawyer. Even their wives are suing me for loss of consortium! Now get the hell out.”
(Forty-nine words, not counting the title. By the bye, it's "50 words or fewer.")