Tag Archives: dark humour

50 Word Stories – The Dilemma

The Dilemma

We found there to be an unlimited amount of time and consideration put into their dilemma. The tribespeople talked amongst themselves in whatever language it was, shook their spears and shared some strange, green smoke emitting pipe. After two or three hours, they came to a decision: They ate us.

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50 Word Stories – Pay Attention


“Pay attention, small fry,” he said, which got our backs up straightaway. “I’m giving one unbreakable command. Understand?”

We nodded.

“Don’t follow.”

With that, he stepped off the cliff and into the void.

“He ain’t tellin’ me what to do!” I bellowed.

So I suppose it was my fault really.

50 Word Stories: The Strain

The emotional price put an unbearable strain on her heart. It wore at her like a diet of sandpaper and shale. She tried her best to hide it, brush it off even. But I knew better. One day she'd get that handbag. It was something she just had to do.

A Purgatory For Modern Times

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I stepped in a puddle and sank through to somewhere else. There was no sun, no moon, no darkness or light just an incessant glare like a pearlescent lightbulb on a dimmer switch. Panicking, I felt about with the intention of clutching the first tangible object and not letting go; I found nothing. This could be Limbo? I mused. Or perhaps, San Bernadino on a good day? But, with no discernible up or down, no left, right or sideways, I did the only thing I could; I got out my phone and sent a selfie to Facebook. It was just a case of waiting for replies.

50 Word Stories: The Catch

We always said we'd be there to catch each other. You do when you're young and in love. We were so convinced, so sure of our commitment that when we fell, it came as a genuine shock. Well, maybe less so for me. I had my hands behind my back.

The Problem with Willard

There wasn’t one particular issue with Willard. That would have been much too easy to sort. Neither was there lots of individual issues. That too would have oversimplified the situation. No, much as it pains me to admit it, him being my brother and all, but Willard himself was the problem. Where most spoke, Willard chirped. Where you and I had houses, Willard had a tree. He refused to leave it squawking as much in his birdlike way, pooping on the cars below and eating berries off its branches. He was a strange one was Willard.

The problems came to a head when Willard’s tree got hit by lightning; it blew his fluffy feathers off. Naked from the waist up, his beak twisted round to face the wrong direction and his fake wings in tatters, Willard asked if he could move in with me. What could I say, he was my brother?

The rest of the town thought me mad, crackers, off my trolley. I was, and I wasn’t. Mostly not.

Willard, of course, refused to take a room and instead perched on my chimney pot. He made a nest out of twigs and an old deckchair and settled there quite content in his own weird way. Now and then, I’d throw him some seed, the odd worm, and a cracker or two and he was very grateful always eating the lot.

So why did I do it? Why? Let’s just say Christmas turkey was a whopper that year. There’s nothing like keeping it in the family.