Donde es Wally?

Down broken back-roads and over hostile territory the journalist journeyed, till finally he arrived at a one-horse town and a nameless bar. There he encountered a sunken-eyed, bearded vagabond.

‘I knew someone would find me eventually,’ the vagabond growled.

‘I’ve come a long way to hear your story.’

‘Mine is a tale of hardship and woe. Have you any idea what it’s like to endure the indignity of being constantly pointed out in a crowd, no anonymity, the butt of every joke and sarcastic aside – forcing you at last into exile?’

‘Why didn’t you just take off the stripy top and stop wearing that bobble hat?’

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

The Great Question Of Our Age…

The other moths treated Gary like a pariah.

‘Why don’t you fly towards the light ‘Gary’? Illumination not good enough?’

He often wondered whether they’d ascended to the Promised Land, or ended their days concussed and in flames.

When asked what he believed in Gary replied:

Martin’s favourite jumper…

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

Serendipidouche…(Friday Fictioneers)

Percival was a steel magnate struggling to hide his family’s bankruptcy.

Because he was bankrupt he had failed to pay his gas bill.

As such the ornate lamps that lit his vast estate stood dormant.

Because it was dark a daring vision of loveliness lost her bearings and crashed her light aircraft in a nearby field.

Percival rushed to her aid and the two were instantly smitten.

News of their unusual and joyous union spread throughout the land, and lucrative public appearances abounded.

The vision of loveliness later lost interest…

But Perceval paid her little mind…

After all…

HE WAS RICH!!!

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Stiff Upper Lip…(Twittering Tales)

…Terribly sorry to impose upon you old chap, but might I beg a brief audience to articulate the pickle in which I find myself. Time is short (as is paper) so allow me to harness the power of brevity and proceed forthwith to the kernel of my concern. I am stranded on a des…

 

[END OF MESSAGE]

277 Characters

Written for: Twittering Tales

 

Saint Knick…

Twelve months after absconding with the grotto fund Roger’s luck finally ran out. Across continents and through complex transactions his pursuers had doggedly followed the money to a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of a one-horse town.

Armed with plastic Christmas tree branches, poised like pitchforks at a witch burning, the angry parents advanced.

Woefully out of shape, with an unkempt beard and a booze-fueled glow, Roger resembled a dishevelled version of the jolly fellow he’d pretended to be. Confused and disoriented by the feral cries for blood he fell back on muscle-memory and pottered outside to separate the naughty from the nice.

‘Ho ho ho,’ he bleated.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers