50 Word Stories: Viewpoints

Every elephant carried a suitcase tucked neatly under its tusks. Marching down the high street in one long line, the elephants bowed to each passer by in turn, then wandered out of town.

“Where are they going?” said the adults as one.

“Who packed their trunks?” laughed all the children.


In White


They came as an armada of white bobbing atop the windswept waters. Even without a sun to cast bright rays upon them, they gleamed with a magnificence our best could not match. Prows raised, proud before our feeble defenders, they cut the waves in two without even trying. There was no doubt who’d won this day, and with it the battle, for it was over before ever having begun. Galleons of white-sided brilliance, the swans took the duck pond. It was a short war fought not in crimson, but in white.

#VignetteSeries – This Dancer / This Monster

Author’s Note: I was playing around with twisting paragraphs. Just when you were to think ‘ooh, that’s lovely’ it wouldn’t be. This is one of them.

She pirouetted like a dandelion seed caught in a breeze exuding freedom from her every fibre. She danced across meadows and twirled over sidewalks, skipped through puddles and sashayed between bluebells, a gentle summer sprite without a care in the world. Unbothered by those who saw her, those who desired her, her dance would never end. A goddess, she drifted through life as I mired in it.

I was less receptive to those idling imbeciles than she. I watched them, the anger building, rage expanding. Every wide eye, every drooling mouth, frustrated me beyond all reasoning. A volcano ready to burst, my blood boiled and fingers grasped for throats. She’d made me. Because of her I was a monster. And she didn’t even know my name!

In the Eyes of The Beholder.

In the Eyes of The Beholder.

Her beauty, indisputable to any onlooker, meant little to me. She cavorted around like a mink on steroids, stilettos tapping, indigo eyeliner a blur in the low light. She burned, of that there was no doubt, had fire in her belly, even, but for and on behalf of what, who could say? She was a woman who lacked virtues, a moral compass, yet had enthralled a small community of men. What that said about they maddened me further.

My son, a boy of six, and daughter aged nine, held my hands tighter as the crowd grew more raucous. They anticipated, and had reason to be. I did not, for I knew her true self.

The buzzing she emitted gave her away if her exaggerated display of energy did not. The cobalt light that flickered behind her rather too opaque eyes only sealed my opinion: she was an automaton, a remade, and not a man amongst them knew it.

Like the Pied Piper, she led her tribe of oversized rats down a back alley; I covered Kara’s and Jame’s ears then. In a flash of blue and thirty seconds of screaming, she had her way. All was silent in the alley until she tottered back out.

“Your lipstick’s smudged!” I bellowed across the divide for everyone knew an automaton’s auditory capabilities were poor.

“Sir,” she nodded in thanks. She wiped her lips with the back of her handbag, the crimson blood spilling across porcelain cheeks. If she noticed, she did not show it.

I watched her realign her wig, tug her knickers back into position, no one liked to see an exposed metal arse, and trotted away into the coming night replenished.

How did I feel?

Relieved, in truth. Better them than us, I thought, as my daughter tugged at my cuff and said, “Wasn’t she pretty.”