Blog Archives

Holidays, by Russell Conover

30/11/2014

“Ooh, ooh--you ready to go Christmas shopping?!”

“Wha? I thought we were still gearing up for the big Thanksgiving meal.”

“No, silly. Thanksgiving was earlier this week. Now we’re almost into December, and people are thinking about their holiday lists, and everyone is so excited, and--“

“Whoa, there. How in the world did I miss the Thanksgiving holiday? Kind of a big deal.”

“Well, since you ate that much on the big day, somehow I’m guessing you were there.”

“Whoops. Must be the post-food coma striking again. Happens to the best of us, right?”

“Maybe you. Me? Never!”

Success, by Bobby Warner

29/11/2014

Hazmann became a writer so he could have a room filled with books and writing machines; and to attend cocktail parties and sip expensive whiskey and have profound conversations with the High and Mighty who came to admire him for his novels.

Although he achieved none of this, he did buy a second-hand typewriter from Moe Zicker's Pawn Shop; and his pals down at Grogan's Bar got a kick out of his short stories which he was never able to sell.

All in all, Hazmann felt he was quite successful.

Footsteps, by Bobby Warner

29/11/2014

Grenwald worked late that night. Instead of calling his wife to pick him up, he decided to walk home. He often did this, since it was only a ten-minute trip.

The night was moonless and dark, with but a few street lamps to guide his way. He had not gone five paces before he heard strangely soft footsteps. Whirling about, Grenwald vowed to confront the footsteps' owner--be it friend or foe.

No one was there; yet the footfalls continued, getting closer.

Then Grenwald glanced up and saw the monstrous shadow striding down out of the night sky toward him.

Portrait Of A Boy And His Pig, by Bobby Warner

29/11/2014

The photographer wanted to come indoors to take my photograph with my prize pig Flopso. Floppie messed up Ma's new living room rug something awful and she shooed us all out with a broom.

She was so mad she refused to pay the photographer--and made him carry my pig away in his car, along with the photograph he took.

I cried for old Flopso for the longest time, and never wanted another pet of any kind.

Sofas for Sale, by Emma Baird

28/11/2014

Delia’s job was to create enticing copy – copy which compelled people to spend.

Twenty-four hours only, she began typing, 50% discounts on all stock. Get it before it goes, a brand new sofa for Christmas…

She added in an emotionally-charged statement about the importance of seating your family all together at this time of year.

50% off? Sure, buy a sofa when you have bills to pay, your boiler’s broken and your old sofa is fine. You’re too smart to fall for this surely…?

Delia was preparing her own Black Friday for the 5,000+ email list in front of her.

The Price Of Love, by Gordon Lawrie

28/11/2014

They'd met on the internet. Their first date really couldn't have gone any better; glorious food in a wonderful restaurant. He paid, and they made to leave.

"Your place or mine?" he asked at the door.

"Not tonight, not yet," she breathed softly. "Next time, I promise. Let's part here tonight."

He sighed, then smiled. "Spoilsport," and hailed a cab for her.

"Kiss me," she said. "Kiss me like we're making love. Now." The taxi driver waited.

Later, alone in the taxi, she reflected on her evening: a wallet, credit cards, a Rolex watch and four pounds twenty-six in change.

The Griping Man, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

I passed Fred Grindsaw on the street today.

"Hi, Fred. Glorious morning, isn't it?"

"Glorious be damned, Hawkins," he replied. "It's gonna storm; I got a cold; I ain't got my monthly check yet; and those two kids of mine haven't called me in six months."

He stomped off down the street mumbling and grumbling. His words drifted back to me on the morning breeze: "Better for me if I just ceased to exist!"

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I thought: Better for you, Fred--and for all the rest of us, too!

His Next Invention, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

The Genius stepped from his fifty-million-dollar hovercraft limousine, walked swiftly over to the ice cream stand, purchased a double-dip chocolate chip cone, and began licking it as he hurried back to his gleaming vehicle.

An ambitious reporter who happened to be at the right place at the right moment rushed forward and asked:

"What are you working on now, Mr. Martin? What's going to be your next great invention?"

The Genius thought for a moment, then replied:

"A longer-lasting, tastier ice cream cone."

The Return Of Roger Roach, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

Roger Roach was disliked by everyone. Humans cursed and attacked him with murderous intent; Puss-Puss the cat tore off two of his legs; the other roaches sneered and called him a raggedy, tattered outcast.

One day Mrs. Handle the human lady of the house, accidently dropped a frying pay, which landed squarely on Roger, and he knew he was a goner. His dying thought was: "I'll come back and haunt them all!"

Which he did, but to no avail. Who or what would ever believe in, much less be frightened by, the ghost of a roach?

Incident In A Meadow, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

I came upon the lovers as I was hunting in Colbert's Wood. They were making love out in an open meadow.

Embarrassed, I turned away to leave--then saw that the woman was my wife. I stepped behind a bush and waited. When they sat up, I saw that the man was my best friend.

I shot them both, cleaned the rifle, and returned it. The weapon belonged to my best friend, and no one knew that I had borrowed it that morning.

Except maybe my wife. But that didn't matter, now.

The Bouncing Man, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

He walks with a gigantic spring to his step. Bobbing along: Up, down; up, down. His head rises so high he could easily peer into someone's windows. Is that what he is? A window peeper? He doesn't look the type; he looks so innocent.

But you never can tell, can you?

Suddenly he turns and bounces out of sight around the corner of a building. There is nothing there but a dismal, filthy alleyway. Where do you suppose he is going?

And who do you suppose he is?

And what do you suppose he is up to?

Compensation Claim Letter, by Jane Tulloch

26/11/2014

Chancehaven
Lirkcaldy

Office for Health and Safety
London
England

Dear Sir,

I write to enquire as to the possibility of claiming some form of compensation for an injury incurred in the course of my everyday employment with the Scottish Branch of the Health and Safety Executive. I am currently temporarily incapacitated and unable to pursue my work in your administration department.

The circumstances and nature of this injury are as follows: I sustained a serious paper cut while completing a risk assessment form.

I look forward to a rapid response with regard to this matter.

Your Faithfully

Charles Shenanigan

Maypole, by E. C. Hall

26/11/2014

Mr John Arundel has a problem.

Ansty villagers are up in arms.

Yet he has been dragged in to sort it out. Their wretched Maypole.

Please. No warrior me.

One only craves a quiet life.

Let them fight amongst themselves. Engineer their own renaissance.

Dark that night it was.

Ash trees bending in the wind.

Night owl cries lost in the storm.

Crash! After a flash of lightning.

Inside the pub Mr Thomas pulls back the curtain.

No maypole.

Gone.

Lost And Found, by Gordon Lawrie

23/11/2014

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The newspaper editor fretted. Friday's story deadline had passed; only three journalists had submitted copy. "Where are they?" he wondered aloud.

"Sack them all," said Fred, a gnarled veteran who'd submitted punctually.

"I'll consider it," said the editor.

But on Saturday and Sunday, stories arrived; late perhaps, but excellent. The editor was thrilled. "Crack open the cava! Send out for pizza! Spliffs for everyone!"

"But they were late!" raged Fred.

"Yes, but we should rejoice that stories that were lost are now found," said the editor, who happened to have a divinity degree. "They are prodigal stories!"

"Hrrmph," Fred grumbled.

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Track Changes, by Ruth Fehertag

23/11/2014

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"You're an editor for *Life*?"

"Not quite: I'm an editor *of* life. Most editors fix errors and omissions in texts; I do the same with lives."

"How --?"

"People write their lives and I edit them. Their lives change to reflect my edits. Clients can accept or reject changes just as in a textual edit."

"Incredible. What's that cost?"

"Depends. 'Proofreading' work like getting rid of blemishes are inexpensive; developmental revisions such as rewriting a spouse or adding a career can get pricey."

"YOUR own life must be perfect!"

"HA! Editors, like all authors, rarely find their own mistakes."

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Old Story, by Ruth Fehertag

23/11/2014

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“I don’t understand why you’re leaving.”

She straightened from her packing, socks in her hand. Her eyes gazed out the window; her mind stared at him, mouth a-gape. She thought about the erosion of yelling, of failed therapy, of constant, sour disagreements over the now-grown kids; of the nightly rehearsals of co-workers’ inadequacies, his own essential cleverness, of his genuine accomplishments; of the sacrifices she’d made that he should never have accepted without reciprocation. She remembered how this evening, again, he asked her merely, “Anything here I need to know?”

She dropped the socks and responded, “I know you don’t.”

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To Infinity And Beyond! by Russell Conover

23/11/2014

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“Whoa--looks like the time travel process has started!” Fred cried.

“No joke,” Cindy answered. “Good thing å wearing helmets and safety equipment.”

THUD!

“Oof!” the two travelers gasped. They looked through the windows of the machine, trying to place where, or when, they were.

Suddenly, a pedestrian pointed at them and exclaimed, “Intruders!” Fred and Cindy looked at each other, frightened, as a crowd formed around them.

“What time are you from?” the woman demanded.

Cindy gulped. “The year 2014,” she said carefully.

“So, before disco took over and people kept boogey-ing everywhere they went. Take me with you!”

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South Of The Border, by Ann-Louise Truschel

22/11/2014

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Dale and Sandra looked at the line of cars ahead.

“Border agents are always crazy busy Friday evenings,” Sandra observed.

“I’m anxious to get home,” said Dale, a popular mathematics professor at the local college. As usual, he and Sandra were entertaining students in their home on Friday night.

As they finally reached the border, Sandra pointed ahead. “Shit! A dog!”

Neighbors were shocked to read that Sandra and Dale had been arrested when a drug-sniffing dog found 15 pounds of methamphetamine in the couple’s sedan.

“No wonder Dale and Sandra were so popular with young people,” a neighbor observed.

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By Jane Tulloch

22/11/2014

With one final push and an unearthly cry from the mother, the baby slithered free and into the waiting arms of the midwife.

An appreciative murmur ran through the room. The midwife grasped the infant and rushed it over to be weighed. There followed an anxious silence until the newborn uttered a shrill cry. The midwife relaxed then stared at the child in her arms. The baby regarded her calmly through its one large central eye. She glanced around the room gradually becoming aware of the baby's father looking steadily at her. Slowly he winked his one large central eye.

Pink, Pink to Make the Boys Wink, by Emma Baird

21/11/2014

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Daisy’s daughter had insisted on ballet lessons from a young age.

Evie’s interest was always sparked by the colour pink. She regarded haircuts with horror, living in fear of a trigger-happy hairdresser intent on cropping her locks.

Dolls, Disney and dazzling sequins were her daughter’s passions. Daisy attempted to stimulate interest in gender-neutral activities – reading, for instance – to no avail.

Life could surprise you, though. The teenage Evie revealed that she had been born in the wrong body. Several years and a lot of surgery later, Eddie stood in front of Daisy.

Dressed in pink trousers, of course.

Pic, thanks to Freddycat1 on Flickr.

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Hit Squad, by Gordon Lawrie

20/11/2014

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Apparently Canada's responsible for this...

OK everyone, gather round one last time.

We break down the door and waste all four of them plus the dinosaur, it's not a guard dog, OK?

The little boy barely speaks. He won't be much of a witness but can be noisy when he panics. The parents are just slow. Take them out later.

The real brains of the operation is the little girl. She's a know-all pig who remembers everything. Take her out first, don't miss. OK?

(Heads nod)
Ready?... GO!

(Machine-gun fire)

Success! Got them all!

"Good story, Grandpa," says the little boy, "Again? Pleeease?"

Grandpa sighs.

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Mating Season, by Norma Freeman

18/11/2014

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She was white, fluffy, and only 11 inches at the shoulder, but Carmel took guard duty seriously. She surveilled the streets through every available window and conscientiously patrolled the back yard. Some high-pitched barking warned people, dogs, deer, and lesser animals to beware.

Carmel was proud: in 8 years with her people, nothing dangerous had crossed the line. Imagine her surprise when a large buck leaped out of the shrubbery and came straight for her. She ran for her life; her speed and quick cornering took her to safety.

Too bad safety was between her owner’s legs.

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The LinkedIn Killer, by Gordon Lawrie

16/11/2014

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“Why ever did I sign up for LinkedIn?” Damien wondered.

Since joining, the discussion group he took part in had experienced seven unexplained deaths – around all parts of the globe. It was one of the group, but who? And how?

Rumour was that someone had worked out how to create death-screen messages to online individuals; seeing them, the reader would instantly die of a stroke. But Damien had to know: was it Emma, Eric, Russell perhaps, or possibly the sinister Gordon? The police had no idea at all.

Damien logged in; there was a bright light, all went black, and

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A Close Call, by Russell Conover

16/11/2014

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The brother and sister were shocked by what they had witnessed. “I’ve never seen anything that scary,” he gasped.

“I know,” she replied. “We were just walking along, minding our own business, when suddenly we were being attacked by the creature.”

“Thank goodness we’re both safe,” he agreed.

She was clenching and unclenching her fists. “I could feel the energy running through my veins the whole time.”

They both envisioned the scene from moments before. They knew they were both lucky to be alive, considering the circumstances.

The two were relieved that all was quiet, until all of a sudden

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Cat Attack, by Marlene Goldberg

15/11/2014

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The fly calmly lands on the plate. Big mistake! Only give-away that it’s being observed is my tail wagging. Pretending to be asleep, with one eye open, I zero in on my prey. In seconds I have my target - dead bugger on the kitchen table, although the plate smashes to the floor – uh oh…

“Snowball, bad kitty, get off that table now!” screams the human. “Yuk, what’s this dead fly?!”

“There’s no pleasing the humans,” I think, dozing off before spying a roach under the cabinet.

I wait patiently. I know it’ll eventually exit. I‘m ready for it.

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