Tibley Bobley sent us so many fantastic stories for the 42-Word Story competition, we decided she should be allowed her own collection. For your pleasure, then, these are the rest of her 42-Word Stories.

He suddenly cut across in front of me, from behind the truck. A kid on a moped. Didn't see him until too late. I was barely moving, but he zipped out so fast, the impact was terrible. God! Look how he's twisted.

A tremor woke me. Beside me, a glass of water trembled in the feeble, pre-dawn light. Low rumbling, shook the bed - persisting - increasing my alarm. Falling plaster gave fair warning. I fled before the ceiling fell. Outside the city crumbled.

That smell! What? Ammonia. Up here? At 13,000 feet? Across the aisle, a man looks round furtively, pouring powder into a bottle. His face illuminated by mad rapture. How curious that, as chaos erupts, and we plummet, the smell of ammonia persists.

Life hurts. Death is worse. Vacancy for a working kidney. Tissue type match essential. Will pay anything. Do anything, to live. Beg, buy or steal. Any donor: volunteer preferred but victim seriously considered. Please, just hurry. Time is short. I'm sinking fast.

Another one for you Doctor. Found him in a back alley. Looks a poor specimen. They must've been desperate. One kidney, rudely removed. He'll be too weak to work. It would've been kinder to take every organ. It's just short of murder.

The gang chased him. Alfie fell, breaking his leg. They mocked, kicked, spat. Now blind, deaf, bleeding, terrified, he cowers, awaiting the next blow. Knowing it must come. But the gang has left. Cruel, pleased with themselves, laughing. Unseen, unheard by Alfie.

How dare they fight back. Don't they know that we're more important, feel more, know more than them? They are nothing. They should give in, move aside, grovel, die. The future belongs to us. We will take it. They cannot stop us.

At the next stall was an English woman, doubled over, vomiting. The locals looked disgusted. How rude. What a waste. It's The Entomophagy Festival. There's a cockroach eating contest about to start. She might have guessed what was in the little cakes.

A VDU plummets from a high window, hitting the shoulder of one atom of the passing mass of human traffic surging through the canyon of tall buildings. The flow stops, backing up in both directions. From above, an angry voice. Everyone understands.

She's soft-hearted. Adopted several. Her own children weren't consulted. Love can't be forced. The lads fell out. Now three are dead, home wrecked - mother broken-hearted, hating her own, guilty about what happened to those she took in. Why did it happen?

Nobody is beyond redemption. In the age of equal opportunities, everyone gets their chance. BBC News readers no longer have to look attractive. Today the reader is an elderly male with pointed teeth and ears. He reports a shortage of donor blood.

Medics picked up the pieces. Police looked for clues. Only the bomber knew the reasons - and he was nearly dead. 'Chaos...' he groaned. 'What about it?' they asked. 'No order - no life. No life - no suffering.' Is he mad?

His obsession with 'fixing' virgins, bordered on personality disorder, until, one night, his shenanigans came to the attention of a pantomime ugly sister. Seeing him work on sweet Cinderella, Mr Sister invited him outside. Fixed him! Now he just looks, and drools.

The subject begged for mercy. The answer came telepathically. 'You are a keen advocate of vivisection, in the pursuit of knowledge and cures. We know this. We need to vivisect you. Surely you cannot object to helping a higher life-form.' He did!

No! I will not obey. Breeder. Parent. Creator. How dared you inflict this loathsome existence upon me? You will punish me? YOU should be punished! The author of all this suffering. It's an outrage. You made this hell. You lie in it!

Time for an emergency pull-out, my fellow ticks. True banking is dead. The dog we feed on is too weak from loss of blood to continue digging its hole. We are bloated fit to burst. Quickly now - before it's too late.

Weather turned. Driving rain. Sudden dark. Attempting to climb down the wet slope, Harry slipped - twisted his knee. Lost the tent - taken by the rising flood. Hours later, rescuers plucked him from a partly submerged tree, cold, hungry, in pain.

Beguiled by a slippery spiv, she offered her bloke an apple. He accepted. It was forbidden. Receiving stolen goods. Ignorance of the law is no excuse. The landlord slung them out. After that, life wasn't so easy, but it was more interesting.

My concentration shattered by a sudden hullabaloo from my partner's office, I abandoned work to investigate. As I opened the door, a man flew out backwards, cursing. Why? A violent disagreement over the best potato for chipping: Maris Piper or King Edwards.

Mid-summer; early afternoon, ebb tide Bathers swim, jostle lilos, throwing beach-balls. Annie hides behind a crowd of bigger kids from the eyes of her frantic mother. An under current drags her feet. Small child hiding. The sea obliges. Nobody notices. She's gone.

Fiction by Tibley Bobley

Tibley Bobley

06.11.08 Front Page

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