Tag Archives: humour

Gallows Humour…

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In the final moments there was doubt. He steeled himself. Life had been a chore and Rachel wasn’t coming back. This wasn’t even a unique place to jump.

On the way down a tiny light came on: Exit.

Who would ever see such a thing unless in freefall?

‘Huh, that’s pretty fun…’

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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The Long Game…

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Under scrutiny Greg’s discovery of a brand new dinosaur turned out to be an ostrich (a rookie mistake in retrospect). Retreating to the bar amidst howls of laughter he witnessed Lovely Rachel snogging Smarmy Terry the top-soil expert. And then, to cap it all off, the nearby volcano they’d been excavating chose that exact moment to erupt.

All in all the palaeontology conference left a lot to be desired.

Watching the lava roar towards him Greg realised there was no chance of escape. He arranged the ostrich bones on the ground and lay down amongst them. The last laugh would be his.

A million years later a landslide unearthed a strange two-headed creature that was proudly proclaimed to be a brand new dinosaur….

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Bloke Depot…

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‘Bloke Depot. How may we assist?’

‘Hello, this is Henry…my wife dropped me off with you a few hours ago whilst she did the weekly shop and hasn’t come back…yes again…because it’s getting dark, I’m scared and I don’t know where I live.’

 

(234 Characters)

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Pipe-Dream My Ass…

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Tragedy struck today at The Science Expo. This photo captured the terrifying moment when Dr. Karen Roe, inventor of an invisibility serum, sat down on Hal Froom, founder of Shrinkray.com. A publicist for the famously roguish womaniser stated ‘It’s the way he would’ve wanted to go.’

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Alfresco Dining…

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High up on a hilltop he watched from his porcelain throne as she approached the front door of their marital home. The divorce settlement stipulated that she be gifted all four walls, and all four walls she would have – nothing more – nothing less.

With vindictive relish he’d stripped the property – first of its photos, then its furniture – the copper pipes, the electrics and finally the masonry, pairing back and back until the whole structure balanced precariously on a delicate outer eggshell.

A key turning in the lock was all it took – a seismic surge through gossamer that reduced the prize to worthless ash…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Filed under Flash fiction, short story

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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