Tag Archives: fiction

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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Friday Fictioneers: Revenge Runs Deep…

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It wasn’t enough that, after decades of cruelties and recriminations, he’d finally triumphed over his bitter enemy. The fertilised fruits of loss and shame required that his hatred rage on into victory.

And so, in the winter years of his life, he conceived of an idea that would keep the fires burning beyond any mortal tenure – A whispered rumour in the ear of his one remaining heir…

“…Carve an effigy of my nemesis, brought low in chains, and have it placed in a deep recess. Have children run to it on a dare, striking it with harmless cane so that, slowly and imperceptibly, through loss of both form and name, it no longer resembles a man…”

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Friday Fictioneers: Co-habitation

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Every Wednesday, regular as clockwise, she received a bouquet – always from a different vendor, always paid for in cash. The accompanying notes were invariably clipped and enigmatic: ‘Soon,’ ‘Barely contained,’ and ‘Bursting with love.’

The radiant glow of a secret admirer quickly ascended through alarm and then angst as the messages morphed into possessive missives: ‘Claim you,’ ‘No one else but me,’ and ‘Destiny will not be denied.’

Nothing tied her to the shabby apartment. She made the decision to move out of harm’s way.

A few days later her possessions were stacked neatly in labelled boxes.

She froze.

Next to the boxes – a bouquet and a note: ‘I took the liberty…’

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Henry’s Smoking Hot Octogenarian Wife #Writephoto

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Everyone knew she was naked inside that coffin – the mourners, the pall-bearers, the altar boys – everyone. She’d not exactly been backwards in coming forwards, and her final wishes had spread through the community like wildfire.

Henry’s eulogy was a masterclass in widower’s grief, but as he took to the pulpit he could tell that the congregation paid his words no mind. Either through lust or envy, they were all thinking about those big ole boobs.

‘Though we didn’t meet till later life…’

…He stole a glance at a man in the second row – Ron –  a Vietnam veteran whose thousand yard stare drifted towards a tree-line filled with an orgy of insurgents. He and Henry’s wife had been lovers during the 70’s and tales of their debauchery were the stuff of legend.

‘…We crammed an eternity into those few short months…’

Manny and Tony in the fourth row – the instigators of an epic menage-a-trois if stories were to be believed.

‘And though she had…a number of partners…before I was blessed to…’

At the back of the church an overly made up wreck in a leopard-print dress guffawed and warmed herself with the memories of a long distant kinky phase.

‘…I consider myself her soul mate.’

A conveyor belt whirred, the wooden tube penetrated a velvet curtain and the congregation stiffened somewhat.

Afterwards the priest solemnly presented Henry with an urn, turned to leave and, presumably thinking he was out of earshot, murmured: ‘What a piece of ash!’

 

Written for: #WritePhoto

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You most of all…

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The reading of the will gave Julian the final confirmation that his mother had hated him. His sister got the house and his brother inherited the business ‘…and to you, my first-born, I bequeath the shoes I was wearing when I met your father, my favourite tan satchel and two volumes on Mesopotamian art.’

He was incensed.

‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, she knew how much I hated that satchel, and what am I supposed to do with high heels?’

His siblings presented an alternative view. ‘Have you any idea how important these items were to her? She cherished them above all other possessions.’

Many embittered years later Julian rediscovered the items in his vast attic whilst searching for something of greater worth. A slip of paper slid from the between the two volumes.

‘My darling. Not everything can be expressed in monetary terms. I poured my love into these trinkets, just like I poured my love into you… ‘

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Wood I Lie To You?

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Lawrence described teaching as misinforming children for benevolent ends

The truth of the matter was that the cart had been left behind by Amish folk after their crops failed for a third consecutive year, but that seemed overly sad, and certainly not the kind of thing you explained to seven year olds. Alternative elucidations were called for..

‘At the end of an intergalactic war that stretched for aeons across the galaxy the robot warrioress was finally victorious, but her amorous husband wouldn’t let her rest, so she transformed herself into that rusty old thing where she hides to this day, waiting for his libido to subside.’

‘What’s a libido sir?’

‘It’s like an unreliable stick.’

‘What’s an aeon?’

‘It’s like the time it takes for Christmas to arrive.’

On another occasion he described the cart as a De-truancyfier.

‘You feed the naughty kids in at this end, and they come out the other side good.’

‘No way!’

‘Yes way. Just ask Stephen.’

‘Stephen moved to the coast when his folks split up.’

‘No,’ Lawrence shook his head and pointed into the haggard remains, ‘De-truancified.’

After many years of delighting children with his falsehoods one of the parents complained about Lawrence’s tall tales and he was encouraged to seek alternative employment. The cart was bought by a hipster who turned it into a boutique coffee stand.

Lawrence sold everything he owned and smuggled himself onto a slow-boat bound for Hong Kong. There he taught deliberately bad English and married a woman of high social standing…

At least that’s what everyone heard…

He may have made it all up…

 

Written for: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

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