Create a 100-word micro story.
This is how it works: We give you the first fifteen words. You fill in the remaining eighty-five words to create a hundred-word micro story.
Rules:
1. You may not change the provided title, the first 15 words, or the punctuation. Your story must, semantically and grammatically match what is given.
2. You may not add more than 85 words. The entire story must be exactly 100 words.
3. It must be free of spelling and grammatical errors.
4. Content deemed offensive by the ReadLit Team will not be accepted.
5. Multiple submissions are welcome.
This is how it works: We give you the first fifteen words. You fill in the remaining eighty-five words to create a hundred-word micro story.
Rules:
1. You may not change the provided title, the first 15 words, or the punctuation. Your story must, semantically and grammatically match what is given.
2. You may not add more than 85 words. The entire story must be exactly 100 words.
3. It must be free of spelling and grammatical errors.
4. Content deemed offensive by the ReadLit Team will not be accepted.
5. Multiple submissions are welcome.
Plump Simmons
For forty years, we thought Plump was a nickname his classmates had given him. As…
For forty years, we thought Plump was a nickname his classmates had given him. As we discovered that day Randolph’s ocelot slipped its leash and eviscerated Mrs. Clugsworth’s pot bellied pig, it was much more than that. “Plump, my Plumpie!” cried Simmons, caressing the still-heaving tiny corpse. As a five-year old on his father’s farm, he loved a piglet he called “Plump” — which, like all its brothers and sisters, was soon sent off to the slaughterhouse. But Hamish Simmons vowed that it would live forever, as part of his personality, and demanded that everyone call him “Plump”.
For forty years, we thought Plump was a nickname his classmates had given him. As for his real name, only the hierarchy of the whelk sexing section in the fish factory knew and they weren’t telling. We, his workmates, thought it odd because he was as thin as an emaciated periwinkle. It was his breadth that facilitated his death falling, as he did, through the grid of the male and female whelk segregator into a giant smoothie maker.
It was when he was buried together with five hundred whelks we discovered his real name Pongo Lancelot Uriah Mutterbucket Pratt.