Harriet’s husband came home early, prompting a mad dash across the bedroom, into a walk-in-wardrobe. There, the adulterer discovered a similarly naked man cowering amidst fur coats and party frocks.
His first heightened thought: Is nothing sacred?
They listened as a (potentially) murderous and drunken Goliath showered his wife with clumsy kisses before collapsing into an uneasy stupor.
A sliver of light illuminated their escape route – a bathroom and a flat roof beyond.
Creeping and held breath led them to freedom. Under the moon’s gaze, one crammed into a little black dress; the other resplendent in a ball-gown, they exchanged unfathomable expressions before parting company, their adrenaline sufficiently expunged for the time being…
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
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
2. Horse found guilty. Hung like donkey
3. Hypnotist accidentally becomes ballerina whilst shaving
4. Cat-astrophy foiled. Lack of opposable thumbs
5. ‘Greety Gobshites,’ shouted inept alien ambassador
6. Deceased adulterer dreads wife’s heavenly arrival
7. Sexist’s amnesty at your mom’s house
9. Gardening blood-bath. Game of Gnomes
10. Chewbacca shaves and walks amongst us
11. Narcissist dies. Becomes ghost. Haunts himself
12. Motivational speaker believes himself into shark
13. Met God. Nice crib. Very roomy
14. Once upon a monster’s ass-crack
15…And JayZ lived rappily ever after
Previous efforts at: Six Word Stories #4
So, I’m in an underground bierkeller watching an oom-pah band wearing lederhosen playing Michael Jackson covers….
…and the woman next to me says ‘I bet the trombonist gets way more sex than the others.’ (She actually said something far ruder, but fill in the blanks).
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Watch and learn my friend.’
Sure enough, at least once per song he’d wander out amongst the punters to flagellate his proboscis in someone’s face (always female). Once I realised what he was doing and how blatant it was it slightly cheapened the experience if I’m going to be honest.
…There then followed a segue onto discussing other band members via an argument over whether one of the songs was the theme tune from Fame or Danger mouse…
…It was agreed that we should get on to the guys at Freakonomics and ask them to investigate why there’s always a direct correlation between playing the tuba and being fat. Nothing against fat people (or tuba players), but I defy you to find a thin one. It’s as if they hear the dulcet boh-boh-boh-bom and immediately hang back for that extra piece of cake.
Convinced we were onto something we initiated ‘drunkwise’ – a practice whereby the structure of one’s sentences sounds clever, but under closer inspection is revealed to be utter drivel:
‘Maybe if we banned tuba playing we could solve the obesity crisis?’
‘Perhaps not a silver bullet, but certainly one ingredient in a smorgasbord of measures.’
‘Good god, you wouldn’t want to let a tuba player near a smorgasbord.’
‘Quite right – I chose poorly metaphorically speaking – a raft of measures.’
‘It’d probably sink…’