Category Archives: Flash fiction

100 Word Wednesday: The Rodent To Redemption…

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A picture tells a thousand words Jerry…

…Because I hired a private detective – that’s how!

…You promised…a million times…’I quit baby, this time I’m going cold turkey.’

…And now I found you back on the Frappuccinos! Do you want our offspring to die of diabetes?

Why can’t you ferret around in the bins like a real man, maybe bring home some leftover pizza or a delicious slice of mouldy bread?

Don’t you bring my mother into this!

No more chances Jerry. Fall off the wagon one more time and I’m taking the kids, the cheese and the whole shebang…

 

Written for: 100 Word Wednesday

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Ivory Poaching…

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Into the fiery pit fell the fornicators; murderers, rogues and blasphemers, and as they frothed and flayed at the devils delight, Chris De Burgh began his song anew.

“The lady in red…”

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Love For Sale

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The remaining tenant proved the hardest nut to crack. They went at him day and night – an assault of white noise and legal taunts.

Old before his time, he shuffled to the courthouse and made his last stand:

‘I proposed to my wife in this home, toiled for forty years to keep it, and found a widower’s solace here. Please…’

A quadrupled offer finally dislodged him.

He withdrew from the courthouse and disappeared into the crowd, re-emerging many thousands of miles away – a skip in his step.

His wife came to the chalet door. He showed her a cheque for an insane amount of money.

‘Suckers!”

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Twittering Tales: Pear-Shaped

Newton’s ex-wife never grew tired of cooking apple pies and dropping them on him from a great height, yelling Don’t blame me, blame gravity!

(140 Characters)

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Written for: Twittering Tales

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My Expletive-&-Knife-Themed Mini-Break…

Is there anything more likely to bring nations together and bestow a collective sense of hatred than alfresco dining being interrupted by a mime artist? If there is I have yet to encounter it.

We all saw him approach – chalky white faced in a leotard and top hat – the destroyer of dreams (the previous morning it had been a euphonium player murdering the hits of Taylor Swift, but this would be way worse…)

But wait, that morning there was a hero in our midst. A fellow diner – German, bearded and flamboyant, jumped from his seat into the path of the cash extrapolator and:

  • Mimed eating his breakfast and rubbed his belly to indicate that he was content.
  • Mimed being trapped in a box.
  • Mimed stabbing the mime artist to death.
  • Held out his hand as if demanding payment.

To add insult to injury one of his friends mimed laughing and clapping (without his hands making contact).

The mime artist mumbled some obscenities under his breath as he walked away, prompting the German to say something that was clearly along the lines of: ‘He can speak – It’s a miracle!’

I would dearly love to take this busker-repelling tactic back with me to Blighty, but alas I am English. Such a direct, grumble-free approach simply isn’t cricket.

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Back at the colonial guesthouse in which I was staying my host asked me if I had yet seen Pablo Picasso’s ghost.

‘He lived in that building right there,’ she said, pointing to an adjacent window, ‘and his apparition can often be seen walking about, trapped in time.’

I smiled, but she seemed deadly serious.

Later that evening her husband called me to the veranda.

‘Martine, come quickly, regard, Pablo Picasso’s ghost, trapped in time…’

I stared down into an empty window.

‘…He was there a moment ago, but left when I called you over.’

Once again my mirth was met with utter sincerity.

‘Wait…he will return…Pablo Picasso…trapped in time.’

An old bald man with white side-burns and a stripy top came to the window, and for a second I thought I was seeing the aforementioned apparition.

‘What’s that in his hand?’ the landlord asked playfully, ‘Is it a pencil? Is it a brush? Hey Pablo…PABLO!’

Pablo flipped us the bird and slammed the shutters.

In the morning I was packing to leave when I noticed a large glob of chewing gum stuck to the sheets. A brief attempt at removing the offending item proved fruitless. I would need a sharp implement of some description. A perusal of the kitchen yielded a large knife. This did the job nicely. On the way back to return the item of cutlery, shirtless and armed, I encountered the landlady. Her warm features grew cold.

Justifications scrolled through my retarded mind:

…I thought I saw Pablo.

…I’m sleep-cooking.

…That’s the U-bend unblocked!

‘Buenos Dias,’ I beamed like a sociopath before making good my escape…

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Twittering Tales: When Women Rule The Earth…

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I call this one: ‘Men argue over who has the best camera whilst woman takes epic photo.’ And this one’s: ‘Men miss Bigfoot flying UFO…and…’

 

140 Characters

Written for: Twittering Tales

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We Should Unionise…

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Harriet’s husband came home early, prompting a mad dash across the bedroom, into a walk-in-wardrobe. There, the adulterer discovered a similarly naked man cowering amidst fur coats and party frocks.

His first heightened thought: Is nothing sacred?

They listened as a (potentially) murderous and drunken Goliath showered his wife with clumsy kisses before collapsing into an uneasy stupor.

A sliver of light illuminated their escape route – a bathroom and a flat roof beyond.

Creeping and held breath led them to freedom. Under the moon’s gaze, one crammed into a little black dress; the other resplendent in a ball-gown, they exchanged unfathomable expressions before parting company, their adrenaline sufficiently expunged for the time being…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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