Six Word Stories: He Tried

She wept. I wept. Dog barked.


Whether her wink denoted a sexual come hither, or she merely had a fly in her eye, I was unsure? Either way, I ignored her. She repeated the gesture as if to test my tenacity. I checked behind to see if I was the only one there, (she might have been crazy) which I was, and then turned up my nose in disdain. She beckoned me then with a cruel, curled finger. I shook my head. She whistled. I responded the only way I knew how, with a low growl of anger. That threw her out. But when she rattled the biscuits in her pocket, I relented and slunk on over. She always got me with that one. I hated wearing that lead! 

The Mystery Wake-up

The Mystery Wake-up

I arrived at my friend’s house far later than expected, the sun already long set. I parked my car in the ample yard, John, my friend, having made full use of the acreage his house was set in, got out, and stretched my legs. That felt much better. There was no bell and no door knocker, so I bashed three times on the oak and took a step back.

There came a skittering, as though gigantic mice danced on a parquet floor, before the door was thrown open and a beast of gigantic, brown fur launched itself upon me.

When eventually John dragged his dog off me, my face thoroughly licked, which was a relief after thinking myself about to be eaten, he invited me in for a pre-bedtime drink.

As old friends do, we discussed everything and nothing, but mostly his dog.

“It’s a bitsa,” he said. “Bitsa this and bitsa that.”

“Didn’t you ever see his parents?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, but neglected to say more.

He led me away to my room, me still admiring his dog and especially his turquoise collar and kite-shaped name tag.

“Are you sure you don’t know what kind he is?” I asked again.

“You’ll see,” he said and wished me goodnight.


I awoke to the most tremendous howling I’d ever heard. It actually hurt my ears. I buried my head in the pillows; it didn’t do a thing, so threw on a dressing gown and wandered downstairs. There he was holding a sandwich. Not my friend, the dog?

In between bites, the enormous, brown bitsa barked his head off at the rising sun.

“Ah, sorry,” said John opening the kitchen door so the dog might run outside. He did, but only after John threw some kind of snack outside first.

“He does that every morning, although I’m always praying he won’t.”


“It’s the comedian him.”

“The what!”

“The actor. I told you, he’s a cross-breed. He can’t help it.”

“Crossed with what?”

“He’s part spaniel, part poodle, part cartoon character, but only seems to realise it first thing every morning.”

“And that makes him?” I almost begged.

“Why, a cocker-poodle-doo.”

50 Word Stories: So Many Questions

"Who woke me up?"
"Not me."
"Why’s the living room door open?"
"I don’t know."
"What’s all that rustling?"
"I can’t say."
"Why’re the Christmas presents all shredded and ripped?"
"Who knows."
"Why’s the dog got chocolate all over his face?"
"Father Christmas put him up to it."