Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #smallstories, aggregated by home.social.
The standing stones are sleeping. They have stood guard forever, they will wake if needed.
They haven't needed to in living memory.
The standing stones are sleeping, but as we got up this morning, they stood sleeping in a different field, the other side of the village.
Still, they are sleeping.
He tiled the beds, the flower pots, the carriage clock, the radio, his wife's sewing machine. Over 24 years he used fifteen tonnes of broken crockery. When Raymond Isidore finally stopped in 1962, there was nothing left in his house to cover.
This memory popped into my head after reading about the long-overdue end of the Tesla DumpsterCar era:
Years ago, I tried to throw away a trash can.
I turned it upside down, and it was righted by our helpful trash handlers.
I stacked it on top of another can, and it was carefully placed next to it after emptying.
I finally put a sign on it which read "This is garbage".
The next day the sign was replaced by another one which read, "Yes, we know."
She asked Carnegie's housekeeper for twenty-eight minutes about a maid who did not exist, then dropped a $2M note signed in his name. Twenty-seven pianos and a gold pipe organ later: Cassie Chadwick, doting daughter of the richest man alive.
The queen summoned the princess for a talk.
"I read this article by a book reviewer," the queen said.
"Yes?"
"It concerned, among other things, the nature of the relationships some characters in books have with dragons."
"Ah." The princess blushed.
"So tell me, does your dragon have friends?"