Treacherous little Philip – slipped across the great divide and crowned me ‘Last man standing’. The funeral brought matters into sharp focus. When my time came there’d be no one left to see me off. Jeffrey would’ve marvelled at how fat I’d become, but alas drink took him in the 80s, and Shamus would’ve positively pulsated at the possibility of swearing in church, but a black ball of mutated cells multiplied him out of existence a few seasons back.
My family were in attendance. They’re waiting for funds to be released.
I thought back through my greatest achievements: A bunch of semi-estranged kids, fourteen pairs of bosoms successfully manhandled (if memory serves), a brief stint as a deep-sea diver. Everything else paled…
As they carried out the coffin a leather-clad grandson spoke at me as though I was deaf, dumb and incontinent (Am I the one who failed his driving test four times? Stupid little shit!)
They’re all itching to have me declared insane (which indeed I am for putting up with their sponging ass-clownery for so long).
At the graveside I made a pledge:
I’m getting out of here Philip. I’ve cleaned out the bank accounts – Seventy grand! Should keep me in viagra and hookers for the better part of three years. As for the rest – one call to Montegues (I declare that I am of sound body and mind) and it all gets liquidated.
It’s a Catch-22 that my pursuit of a better life will be seen as dementia. I’ll just have to be a ninja at covering my tracks. I’ve given enough to these terrible people. Time to hit the road Jack. Good luck and God speed. The cash machine is no longer is service.
My eldest, Jacob, owns (or should I say owned) a convertible.
I’ll raise a glass to you Philip when I get where I’m going, but between then and now there’s a pressing need to open up the throttle and blast some air through the ole comb-over…
2. Henry emerged from teleporter half hoover
3. Jesus’ fingerprints found on bunny’s corpse
4. Hell fails Ofsted inspection. Heads roll
5. Santa incarcerated after elf sweatshop raid
7. Brian May enters Nazareth riding badger
8. Miniturised man bites sleeping bed-bug
9. Jewish bank denies holocaust-denyer’s loan
10. Dustin Hoffman obsesses over Rainman sequel
12. Average white band received lacklustre review
13. Velociraptor sues over ‘chicken-splicing’ debacle
14. Terrible first date inside troll’s stomach
15. Dyslexic divorcees win custody of diks
See previous: Six Word Stories #3
‘You’re nobody in life unless you own a vessel sumptuous enough to accommodate a fully laden helicopter from which a bevy of scantily-clad uber-babes / Adonis’s (delete as appropriate) endlessly spill…
…Or at least, that’s the word on the street; a word spread by yours truly.
Boat building is all about leveraging insecurities.
You’re worthless without stuff!
My current arm’s race involves a pot-bellied platinum magnate, a wig-wearing premiership footballer and an Internet starlet who takes copious photos of her bottom.
As for me – I don’t own a boat.
But you should see the size of my house!
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
“We can confirm that the suspect was neutralized in a drone strike. The drone sent compromising photos to his wife and she emasculated him.” (140 characters)
Written for: Twittering Tales
Rita’s dinner-parties were the stuff of legend – a heady mix of rich conversation and frugal ingenuity. With crepe-paper chandeliers and coat-hanger candelabra she carried off an air of flamboyant spectacle.
Rita herself was grace-personified – a slight, elegant frame of dignity and decorum that desperate poverty had failed to mollify. She sported plastic earrings as though they were diamonds and wore rags as though they were modelling her.
At any given gathering attention inevitably turned to the oil painting that dominated the far wall of her pokey basement flat.
‘Ah yes, my ancestor – the countess,’ she began, as though the words were not well-rehearsed, ‘regaling the revolutionaries who’d arrived to cart her away to the gulag. If the stories are to be believed she made them wait while the portrait was painted and disarmed them with etiquette.’
Guests never failed to take the bait. ‘So, you descend from aristocracy?’
‘Yes,’ Rita always replied wistfully, ‘but alas nothing now remains of that decadent time…well…’
With subtle self-intimation her body language concluded the tale…
…Perhaps one thing.
Written for: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
2. Radioactive flan. Freak accident. FLAN MAN!
3. Selfie-stick laments enabling preaning douche…
4. Cockney bible offends ‘Crusty Buns’ (nuns)
5. Millipede copyrights trainers and becomes gazillionaire
7. Deaf Lepers form terrible tribute band
8. Edward trouser-press hands? No…Edward…
9. R Kelly’s final words: I believe (OR: Turns out R Kelly can’t fly)
10. Time-travelling pickpocket steals own wallet
12. With third helping Jagger finally satisfied
13. Wonderful news Bertie. Satan’s popping over!
14. Red-headed step child. The Prophecy!
15. Suicidal McDonald turns bun on himself…
Previous entries include:
6 Word Stories #1
6 Word Stories #2
‘I don’t understand it,’ said the Russian doll, ‘These shopping bags are getting bigger and home is getting further away!’ (123 characters)
Written for: Twittering Tales