Stephanie Booth's online ramblings
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.
Five people on the last train to Lausanne. They don’t know each other… yet.
By dawn, I will have brought four of them to kill each other, and dealt with the fifth.
I’ll plead insanity — but trust me, there was nothing insane about this. I just saved the world.
Involuntary laptop exchange at the office. Saved passwords and unhealthy curiosity. Suzy was after some gossip, but ended up with way more than she could handle. She paid it with her life, but not before doing her country a great service and finally finding a meaning to her life.
He was preoccupied. Twenty miles later, he realized that the car he was driving wasn’t his. There was an unconscious girl on the back seat.
They fled through the country, narrowly escaping death more than once. They never found her daughter, but many years later, had one of their own.
[fr] Ce soir, j'ai eu pas moins de 13 idées d'histoires courtes (50 mots). J'en ai écrites 5 dans le train en rentrant, et 8 attendent d'être développées. Du coup, j'ai décidé de les reposter ici, au lieu de squatter les commentaires de Vince systématiquement. Va aussi falloir que je m'y mette en français, pardi!
Tonight was almost magical. On the train home, I wrote no less than five 50 word short stories. Then on the way home from the station (bus and walking), thought up starting-points for eight more.
I started out feeling a little shy about posting them here, so have been parasiting Vince’s comments in the post above. I feel like I want to have these stories here, too, so I’m going to be back-posting them to CTTS. I’ll use the tag “50words” to keep track of them, so you can see them all on one page by clicking on that link.
One thing I understood tonight is that I don’t have to feel capable of writing a novel based on the idea I develop in 50 words. I can make up a 50 word story about a serial killer, even if I know I wouldn’t have the beginning of a clue how to portray one.
It’s liberating.
“I’m going away for the week-end. When I come back, I want you and your stuff out of here!”
Sobbing and frantic, she started packing up her nearly four years of life with him.
Lived 3 months on Sarah’s couch. Fell madly in love with Josh. Forgot all about Mike.
I took my shoes off and put them carefully beside the bed. My ruby red slippers.
I crawled under the bed and curled up next to the cat. I couldn’t remember when I’d abandoned the top of the bed. It just seemed safer with something above my head.
She grabs her gun, hops on her horse, and makes for the village where her lover is living. She charges into the house, killing everybody in the way. Reaches the room where he is sleeping, picks up the cat curled up on the bed, and blows his brains out.
Love.
She pulled the curtains and slipped between the sheets. The neighbours’ bed upstairs was creaking rhythmically.
“Not again!” she thought.
Sally remembered that time in the restaurant with Harry. She still had it in her.
Tomorrow morning, they would be the ones looking at her enviously in the entrance hallway.
The little old lady had spent her evening looking through faded photographs. Her children, their children — and theirs.
She remembered one photograph that appeared to be missing.
She made for the loft and reached for the big staggering box of her husband’s memorabilia.
It knocked her down dead.