‘Excuse me. Would you mind taking part in a survey?’
‘Really? Great! OK, question 1. Are you currently A: In a medically induced coma, or B: In a fiction surrounded by paid actors?’
‘How about C: Doing the weekly shop with my wife?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not an option Michael.’
‘How do you know my name’s Michael?’
‘I didn’t say Michael. You said Michael.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Then walk away Michael.’
‘I can’t move!’
‘Why do you think that is? Is it A: You are in a medically induced coma, or B: Aliens have inser…’
Written for: Friday Fictioneer
‘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.’
Written for: Twittering Tales
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.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
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!
Written for: Twittering Tales
His wife (whom he hated) had promised to carry out his final wishes to the letter, but Geoffrey knew better than to trust a woman schooled in the subtle arts of emasculation. In secret he had a second will drawn up and passed to a trusted confidant.
As he laboured in the final stages of his illness he was warmed by constant rumination on how, in death, he might best offend his god-awful family. Various conceits were considered: having his cadaver loaded onto a trebuchet and fired indiscriminately into the air, being liquidised and surreptitiously added to the reception punch (where he could quite literally become a pain in everyone’s arse), and orchestrating a remote controlled resurrection; his eyes flashing red.
What he settled upon was simpler and more grotesque.
Come the big day mock mourners were met with absence – no coffin, no flowers – Nothing save for a cream stove upon which sat a solitary oversized mug. As empty platitudes were flogged into apoplexy Geoffrey’s filleted remains responded by farting and bubbling their way over the rim in a last glorious gasp of defiance…
Written for: Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers
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