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
From the outset it was made abundantly clear that I was considered a poor choice of husband – never more so than at our engagement party: the remotest corner of their extensive grounds, the cheapest furniture, the second best china. I bore their sophisticated scorn with good grace, safe in the knowledge that, whilst not particularly dashing, I was pulling off a daring rescue mission, right under their very noses.
Despite malice, subterfuge and excommunication the inheritance nevertheless found its way into our hands. That we never wanted it would no doubt have doubly offended.
They are empty chairs now, inward facing, silent.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
Filed under Flash fiction
Twelve months after absconding with the grotto fund Roger’s luck finally ran out. Across continents and through complex transactions his pursuers had doggedly followed the money to a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of a one-horse town.
Armed with plastic Christmas tree branches, poised like pitchforks at a witch burning, the angry parents advanced.
Woefully out of shape, with an unkempt beard and a booze-fueled glow, Roger resembled a dishevelled version of the jolly fellow he’d pretended to be. Confused and disoriented by the feral cries for blood he fell back on muscle-memory and pottered outside to separate the naughty from the nice.
‘Ho ho ho,’ he bleated.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
Filed under Flash fiction
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
Filed under Flash fiction, short story
Martin Cororan 