55 Words is the Minimum and Limit for Pen Pricks Submissions

“55 words? 55 words?!!” John punched the keyboard. “That’s not even a round number! Not 50? Not 100? Not a range?”

He paced around his room.

“Intensely arbitrary! Ridiculous! It insults the author!”

John huffed. He went to the mailbox.

On the way back he had 49 words about a rabbit making her magician disappear.

Bathroom Monologue: Practical Werewolf Defense

The werewolves promised blood. Most townsfolk panicked and made silver bullets.

Dixie scoffed. “Melt down Nana’s silverware? For furries?”

Even skeptics rigged their yards with barbed wire.

“Not on my Kentucky blue,” she said, driving home from Target. “I can handle pups.”

When they howled at her door, Dixie switched on her new vacuum cleaner.

Bathroom Monologue: It was his turn

“Magician vanished in front of a full house. Been missing ever since,” Gordon explained, opening the interrogation room door.

“Only have one suspect. Got motive, but won’t say how she did it.”

On the stable was a white rabbit, sitting on a black top hat. When the detectives looked in she chewed her carrot sardonically.

Bathroom Monologue: To each his own triceratops

What do you do when you wake up and your street is overrun with dinosaurs?

Pedestrians crashed when the hadrasaurs herded. The cops tried shooting to scare off an allosaurus. It went so poorly it got on TV. Mom had a nervous breakdown, the most popular response.

To each his own. I got a saddle.