She was convinced he was having an affair. The investigator found no evidence, but his photos were masterful. Together they engaged in more intimate forms of photography. Her husband found the photos, used them to secure a sizeable divorce settlement and lived happily ever after with a succession of trophy wives.
Written for: Twittering Tales
Filed under Flash fiction
“Always check into a hotel with a light fitting strong enough to swing off. Ensure that the windows are sufficiently thin that, in the unlikely event of running at full sprint from an angry husband, you can penetrate said pane whilst remaining conscious. Never higher than the first floor, and always with bushes below to deaden the fall where your car keys await wrapped in a towel to protect your modesty as you make good your escape.”
“And presumably: Not being tricked into meeting the aforementioned husband in a secluded setting would be near the top of the list?”
100 Words
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
Filed under Flash fiction
Say what you like about political correctness, but watching a fat security guard chasing a thin shoplifter is hilarious! Jump ahead to the guy’s appraisal with his boss stepping through the moral minefield of how to handle a zero success rate.
‘So…addressing the elephant in the room.’
After an initial spurt of adrenaline the shoplifter realised that he was over-egging it somewhat and slowed to a vague jog (whilst still comfortably pulling away). The security guard issued a four-letter tirade (presumably aimed at himself and his inability to to run 100 yards) and was rightly chastised by a young mother.
The incident topped off a surreal day that began with a dream in which I was lying in bed pissed off at having woken up twenty minutes before the alarm was due to go off .
‘You’re dreaming,’ I thought and woke up a full hour before the alarm.
Son of a…FINE…BEVERAGE!
As I waited for the kettle to boil I checked my email and encountered a spurious block of incoherent prose free of introduction or full stops.
Some context: My previous interaction with the sender was 18-months previous and consisted of the following…
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Sure. What’s up?’
‘God told me you’re my future husband.’
‘OK. Told you how?’
‘A loud voice in my head.’
A BRIEF PAUSE DURING WHICH I CONSIDERED POSSIBLE RESPONSES:
‘How do you feel about me?’
‘Oh, no offence, but I don’t find you attractive in the slightest.’
‘…Then what’s all the fuss about?’
‘Why would God promise me to a man I don’t fancy? That’s why I’ve been speaking with all my friends about it for the last year.’
‘Did God put a time-scale on this union?’
‘No.’
I breathed a sigh of relief.
You (& God)’ll have to find me first.
Omnipresent you say? I shall put that to the test…
…Anyway, that was then. This is now. Amidst the text I saw the phrase ‘…seeing a bereavement councillor even though no one has died…’
My tolerance is not what it once was. Keeping the curtains drawn for fear of being seen through a sniper scope I did the old sociopath shimmy (Delete / Block / Book plastic surgeon / Liquidate assets).
Off to work and to a client interview, during which the interviewer said:
‘I like you. Not sure that you like me.’
‘Yes. I like you. You seem nice.’
‘Nice?’
Uncertain as to what superlative she was expecting (magnificent? Unparalleled? Bendy?) I opted for very nice. This was a mistake.
later, during a heated discussion a colleague threatened to insert an empty wine bottle into my bottom (a practice known as making corporate in-roads).
‘You’re having a shocker!’ I said to the aforementioned security guard.
Filed under Uncategorized
Martin Cororan 