Stephanie Booth's online ramblings
Creative writing. Fiction and stuff. Oh, and 50-word stories.
A story needs an ending. Endings can be good or bad, the writer thinks. The best are both or neither.
One day, it comes to her: the perfect ending.
She spends the next ten years writing the story that leads to it.
It’s a huge success. But she’s already dead.
As a teenager, she wonders when she’ll get to kiss a boy. She spends her twenties and thirties watching years and lovers go by, but still no children. Her forties taste of sadness and regrets, opportunities lost and growing solitude. She heads for the mountains to forget about the world.
We found a lab under the cathedral. Pretty old — 70 or 80 years maybe. Old, but way too modern for its time. My investigation led me to discover 200 years of secret research carried out by Lausanne University faculty members, generation after generation. Far too dangerous. They were shut down.
A fanatic group calling themselves the Fashion Police are killing young men in baggy pants: Juliet has her first serial killer to track down. The long investigation finally reveals that these murders are a cover-up orchestrated by the CIA to hide a series of gruesome and worrying executions.
The right half of her head is dyed blonde. She stands out. Deep inside, she’s not so confident. Soon, she’ll learn what it is to really stand out, when her parents are arrested for killing old ladies. Her life will fall apart, but she’ll sew it back together in time.
The man seems pleasant, until I notice the earwax. I follow him off the train and clean his ear with my knife before I cut his throat. I can’t stand earwax. I go home and change; I’m late for work. Bob tells me off again. Pity his ears are clean.
Rhonda is a psionic half-elf, born to be a misfit. Why she chose to run for president is beyond me. But people like her — there’s always some suspicion, though, with those psionics. I’m in charge of her security, and this time, the anonymous dragon threat we received seems serious.
The five shared a coworking space in the city centre. Many others came and went, dropped in and stopped by, but there was always the five of them. They dated, got married, had children, won the lottery, divorced, hooked up with a millionaire. Lived lives. Then the building was destroyed.
Twibbles fled out of the flat, waddled hastily down the stairs (no rolling down, phew) and waited patiently by the door.
The humans sure were noisy today.
Pee on bushes. Catch some exercise (that belly) and eat rubbish (the best).
Kidnapped. Bite. Escape. 150 miles to home. Much fitter.
John cannot stop writing. He’s only a few days ahead.
The enchanted notebook freed his ideas and gave him a story. But to his horror, he has ended up writing the world.
He dreads reaching the last pages — if time doesn’t catch up with his writing before then.