One Sentence Stories?! (Writing Prompts)

I’ve done two sentence stories in the past, but what about one sentence stories? Sheesh! Are they even stories? Are they just sentences? Are they the start of a “real” story? Are they writing prompts? Who knows? They get me thinking and writing.


Hit and Run

The thick fog rolled over the windshield of the car and only parted when I rolled over the girl.

Barefoot Beyond the Grave

She sold her husband’s favorite black dress shoes in the yard sale after she forgot to give them to the undertaker.

Broken

The beach was empty aside from the wanderer attempting to find meaning in the heartless ex-fiance’s ring he had in his hand.

Serial

He wondered occasionally while he made his breakfast about if she thought of him and the times they spent together until he remembered he buried her in a shallow hole.


A. M. Yeager

Freak Out

Freak Out
A. M. Yeager

Talk to me.

A bit of yellowed paint floated from the ceiling and onto the floor next to where he lay in bed next to her. She was silent, not moving. He drew a breath from the cigarette between his two fingers and watched as the smoke rose to the cracked wall above. He forced in a deep breath of air into his lungs to try and relax. His muscles only tightened.

Talk to me.

He was unsure why those three words aggravated him so much. She was trying to help. He knew that she cared about him enough to want to know what was up, but he was stubborn. He wasn’t going to tell her.

Just talk to me, babe.

That was a week ago when she said those words. A week ago he was on the verge of what she called a “freak-out”. He stood in the kitchen, near the fridge, a bottle of dark beer in his hand, a cigarette in the other. Shaking, biting his bottom lip, he avoided her attentive eyes. She was sitting at the table, calm as could be. He hated her at that moment, her and her tranquility.

Babe, it’s alright. Talk to me.

She was so calm. How could she be so calm all the time? They were almost out of money. He got laid off from the job he had for ten years, and her job didn’t pay for even a week’s worth of rent. They were screwed.

He couldn’t remember what he said in reply, only that it was something intentionally hurtful. It didn’t bother her. It never bothered her. Nothing ever bothered her.

Something will come up, babe. Keep talking. Let it out.

She didn’t understand. Nothing would come up. Why was she so calm? What was inside her brain that kept her from flipping out, so emotionless, so robotic? He wanted to know.

The beer in his hand was empty. He smashed the top of it on the kitchen sink and created a jagged edge. She didn’t move. She wasn’t fazed by his sudden violent outburst. He popped her over her blonde head until she cared. Until she had a freak-out. Until she was dead.

Talk to me.

Never again.


Short Note:

Hey guys! It’s me…again. I haven’t written a short story for a while, and thought I should give it a short while my toddler is napping. I’m not proud of this one at all and only had about ten minutes of good writing time, but I thought I’d take a crack at it again. Hopefully, the more I write these, the better I’ll get.

I hope you guys are having an amazing day!

Blessings and love,

-Al ❤

Skin and Muscles

Skin and muscles
hang from graying bones.
I sit alone–
sitting with you.

You speak of death
and of its humor–
something to laugh
with or at–

you ask for a pipe
though your taste
has but long since failed
and you blow smoke rings
through your rib cage
and muse at coffins
and temporary homes
saying the heart is a silly home.

You look for your heart
and hat–
blow another smoke ring
out of the hole in your chest.