Tag Archives: Humour

My Darling Morag

My Darling Morag – Only 100 Words

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photo by Jacco Rienks via Unsplash

My Darling Morag

In a fit of magical rage, an act of indignant revenge, I cursed my darling Morag for her infidelity. I transformed my wife, whom I still love, into this docile bovine creature. She was once a beautiful red head, wild and feisty in her youth, see how she has matured to a tough and horny beast.
Each morning I stroke her head and I cringe at my rash decision – I kiss her sloppy nose and I promise, I will return to Hogwarts and complete my wizardly training.
First, I must deal with Angus. I’m thinking, perhaps a slimy fire-bellied toad.

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Ommetaphobia

Friday Fictioneers

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Photo by Victor and Sarah Potter

Ommetaphobia

The Professor was irritated since his metamorphosis was taking longer than expected. Although, this was no consolation to the Parkers who were transfixed in fear by his hypnotic stare. Their home was a breeding ground for his venomous arthropods.
Not long now, the Professor reassured himself and spun another silky yarn from the light shade.
The consumption of human flesh excited him, and such terrified eyes. He would suck them first, then wrap the bodies in cocoons, as he had already done with the boy. He would have to act before the trance wore off. Oh, to be human again.

Green Fingers

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Happy Birthday Sally

Green Fingers.  100 Word Wednesday.

I ordered a vegetarian pizza with personality and was impressed with its photo-fit likeness of Sally. I fell over laughing. She stormed off taking the jeep. I begged her to return, but she cleared out my account and left to live up north with Hashish Bob. I counted myself lucky, it was a stolen jeep, and scammed account, but still I miss her, those pearly white dentures, large doe like eyes and her envious warm nature. Occasionally, I would find curly green fibres in my bed and I’d cry. Without her magical green fingers my life has gone to waste.

Short Story – New Appliance

New Appliance

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ArtsyBee from pixabay.com

Mary finished cleaning the kitchen sink and she gazed out of the window at the dull dark clouds. Rain was on the way and everything seemed miserable as if her whole world had a screw loose, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The fridge motor switched on and interrupted her day dreaming, its humming sound took on a rhythmic beat of da daa . . .  dum dum and she imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a tall Austrian Hussar and so she twirled and turned across the floor.

The hoover in the corner perked up. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ said Mr Dyson.

‘Delighted,’ said Mary and curtsied. She took the hoover by the handle, and they swept around the kitchen dancing to the music.

The sound of the fridge rumbled on as rain washed against the windows sounding like soft violins, the slow-cooker gurgled in delight and the kettle whistled as a flute. The washing machine shuddered out the bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto joined in with a whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.

Mary skipped and spun, swinging on the arm of her handsome Mr Dyson as she moved around her tiny ballroom. From the clock, a cuckoo sprang out and trumpeted like a hunting horn as the timer on the oven played an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen orchestra.

The house front door slammed. The music stopped. Mary dropped the hoover into the cupboard under the stairs, it groaned. She walked into the hall.

“I am shattered,” her husband said, “I’m completely worn out.” He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and slouched into the living room where he slumped onto the sofa.

‘Did I hear our white goods singing?”

“No,” said Mary shaking her head, “besides that’s racist.”

“What!” he said.

“They are not white goods.” Mary undid his jacket.

“I’m too run down to argue.” He kicked off his shoes and laid back.

“We refer to them as appliances these days,” she said. She reached into his trousers’ pocket and pulled out a long flexi-cord that she then plugged into a battery recharging pack and switched it on.

“Ah . . . that’s better,” he said and closed his eyes.

Mary returned to the kitchen and made a call on her mobile.

A loud voice answered. “Mr Wong’s Magical Electrical Emporium, what can I do for you?”

“Mr Wong, it’s Mary.”

All the appliances in the kitchen gave a short gasp, the Dolce Gusto hissed, the hoover peeked out from the cupboard.

“Yes Mary, you need a replacement.”

“Sort of Mr Wong, do you have any Hussars?”

All the appliances gave out an expressive sigh, they were safe, she wasn’t disposing of them.

“You need a new man . . . why not repair the one you have?”

“Mr Wong, my husband is clapped out, worn out and completely flat.”

“We can fit a new battery.”

“It’s no use, he has lost all his energy. I need one with spark, style and stamina.”

“Okay, Mrs Mary I will bring a new one tomorrow, anything else.”

“Yes, there is a screw in my head that rattles and seems to be very loose.”

“Oh dear,” said Mr Wong, “sounds very bad, an emergency.”

“It is, an emergency. Oh, it really is, Mr Wong.”

“I will come very immediately,” Mr Wong laughed. “I bring new parts . . .  again.”

Mary put her mobile down, she grinned. There was always something special about the way Mr Wong fiddled with her parts. He was gentle and made her feel so invigorated that her whole world no longer felt so miserable.

On the Road to Paradise

Three Line Tales, Week 80

I dream of freedom and traveling on the road.
In the morning I’d be ecstatic to see our new van waiting.
Please don’t wake me, I am living in paradise.

The Doctor

The Doctor

100 Word Wednesday – Week 28

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Image by Bikurgurl

Holmes was immortal, and distraught as he felt like an inanimate antique hoarded by an impulsive collector. He was in a delirious mood and was not making sense in his drug induce daze, mumbling about eternal regeneration and the beginning with no end to an infinitive universe.
“Quick, bring some hot chicken broth,” I called to Mrs Hudson.
Holmes leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room.
’Too late,’ I shouted. Running after him, I caught up and found him in a curiosity shop.
“Watson, we are but dusty relics,” said Holmes, and he blew dark smoke from his obnoxious weed across my face.
“I wish you’d refrain.” I coughed. “Why are we here? Pottery?”
“Why does the Doctor need this stoneware from Old Kent Road?”
“A gift or perhaps an inheritance?”
“Yes, his nostalgia for all things London.”
These days, I was at my wits end with Holmes as he had become obsessed, and I often recoiled from his constant rages, madness and frustrations. He was determined to uncover the identity of the Time Lord, the imposter.
“What does this collection tell you Watson?’
“He is having guests for tea.”
“No Watson, can’t you see his next location is surely eighteen hundreds mid-west.”
“Oh, I like the flowers, a nice feminine touch.”
“Damn Watson! It is a woman!”
“About time.” I chuckled, and couldn’t imagine Holmes with a wife.
“No, no, no.” Holmes fell to his knees. “I’m now searching for an elusive woman.”
I put my hand on his shoulder to console the poor chap. I smiled.

Black Coffee

Back Coffee –100 Word Wednesday; Week 23

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Image Credit Jesse Williams

Black Coffee

Of all the off beat diners in town Alma picked my haunt, Pearl’s.
‘Discrete,’ she said, ’it’s not in our neighbourhood.’
Yea, she’s a dame all right, black coffee, eggs over easy with chilli wings.
Seated with her long stockinged legs swinging, I know her type, a derringer inside her garter.
She nodded at the papers and photo on the bar, then offered to buy me a coffee. How sweet.
‘Just sign,’ she said, ‘or . . .  she’s dead meat.’
The picture said it all; Pearl’s eyes petrified and pleading, mascara running over the taped mouth, body trussed like a turkey.
I agreed, it wasn’t a great holiday snap.
I signed, and I let my lousy wife, Alma, walk away with a million dollar settlement.
Five minutes later, Pearl came screaming in, and she levelled a .45 Magnum at my forehead.
I’ll admit, she had a point.

Tempting Guacamole

Tempting Guacamole – 100 Word Wednesday.

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Dear Pips,

Please come back, I miss you, my darling Pips.
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely hips.
I love you and miss your gregarious smiles
I love you and forgive you for kissing Miles
Look, I’ve bought your favourite chilli tortilla chips
Because I know you love my guacamole dips.

Please come and trust me, my darling Pips
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely lips
I miss you, so let’s forget about you loving Jay
I miss you, see now, how my anger’s gone away
Look! I’ve spiced up your favourite tortilla chips
Because! I know you love my guacamole dips.

The Procrastinators

If and Only … Your friends in waiting.

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Glasgow Street Art

The Procrastinators

If and only are companions
They go hand in hand with fate
Like the dreams of millions
In retrospect, they arrive too late.

If and only trapped in meditation
Held back by dithering doubt
full of indecisive hesitation
In retrospect, just throw them out.

If and only may rule your life
with choices, hard to bare
what could have been was strife
In retrospect, do you really care?

Now if was your only thought
when you couldn’t make up your mind
of things not done or should or ought
In retrospect, if only you had more time.

A Rat in every Port

A Rat in every Port – Three Line Tales

 

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Photo – Timothy Meinberg  via Unsplash.

‘The Jellicle’ sails on the morning high tide,
Hurry Captain Growtiger, get on board,
and quick before Miss Kitty wakes.