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
“I know we’re delicious, but if we SheepWolves keep eating ourselves we’ll go the way of the dodo, the teriyaki turtle and the chocolosolot”
Written for: Twittering Tales
It wasn’t enough that, after decades of cruelties and recriminations, he’d finally triumphed over his bitter enemy. The fertilised fruits of loss and shame required that his hatred rage on into victory.
And so, in the winter years of his life, he conceived of an idea that would keep the fires burning beyond any mortal tenure – A whispered rumour in the ear of his one remaining heir…
“…Carve an effigy of my nemesis, brought low in chains, and have it placed in a deep recess. Have children run to it on a dare, striking it with harmless cane so that, slowly and imperceptibly, through loss of both form and name, it no longer resembles a man…”
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
With Faithful Jenny deliberately scuttled there was no going back. The rip-tides in the bay were well renowned, and the lack of a body would be easily explainable.
He outstretched his arms and let go of everything – his materialistic trophy wife, the kids who hated him, the stock portfolio, the endless competing with other alphas – all expelled in a single glorious belch of freedom.
Hidden behind a rocky outcrop he encountered two other men – one standing in the mangled wreckage of a hang glider, the other kneeling by a bloated cadaver. He greeted them with nervous exhilaration and gave a false name as he’d been instructed. They reciprocated.
‘The likeness is uncanny,’ he commented, gesturing towards the cadaver.
”I paid extra. It’s a little macabre stealing from a morgue, but it’s not like anyone was murdered!’
A speedboat was moored at the tip of the archipelago. With a fair wind they’d be in Gibraltar by morning where a vagabond utopia awaited…
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
From a lonely library, hanging by a thread, I took a book – last loaned fifty years past. From between its waxy pages a solitary slip of paper slid:
‘He suspects. It’s tonight or never. You – My all.’
A rendezvous unfulfilled; a burr that kept catching.
Necessity employed me as sleuth. The previous lender’s faded name led me to buildings long vacated and to a rain-soaked grave, the date of departure fifty years past.
Standing over the headstone – a man, unfeasibly old.
‘You were her husband?’
‘No, her… her other.’
‘I believe this was for you.’
Written for: Thin Spiral Notebook (100 Word Challenge)
Richard was fond of saying: ‘There’s something cathartic about knowing where you’ll end up,’ but in truth the photograph was the death of him.
He was just a minor when they lowered his father’s body into the earth.
‘Seven generations of Langhams languish in this graveyard,’ an ancient aunt alliterated, ‘and one day you too will reside here with the tree roots nestling against your belly.’
The words burrowed their way into his impressionable little mind and set him on a path of narcissistic self-reflection. Richard kept the photo about his person at all times and haunted himself long before he became a ghost.
Written for: Saturday Mix