Tag Archives: Humour

It Can’t Be

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

“She’s in the third room along on the front sir.

“Good work Jones. We know this Goldilocks character is responsible for the Dumpty murder and the massacre of the Bear family and I’d bet my pension she knows what happened to the Gingerbread Man. All we need now is to find out who her boss is. Anybody with her?”

“Yes sir. The owner of the black car parked out front went up to her room five minutes ago. The car’s registered to a Miss Muffet.“

“Miss Muffet! It can’t be. What the hell is the head of MI6 doing here?”


A 100 word story for this week’s prompt over at Friday Fictioneers.


Photo Source

If only I could remember the actual words I’d used. Maybe saying them backwards would get those things down from the ceiling. He always made magic look so easy. A few words here and a nonchalant wave of his wand, was all it seemed to take. How come it hadn’t worked for me? He’ll be furious when he gets back. Some wizards would see the funny side of all this, but he won’t. Humour has never been one of his strong points. What I need is a spell to make myself disappear. On second thoughts, I think I’ll just run.


A 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.

More Tea,Vicar?


“Oh Vicar, I’m so glad you’ve come. Come in. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m at my wits end I am. Didn’t know what to do for the best. It was old Mrs Tinkle at number 43 who said I should phone you. I’m not much of a believer Vicar and it’s years since I last went to Church and that was for my poor Charlie’s funeral. Does that matter? I’m quite happy to put some money in the collection, if that’ll help.”

“That won’t be necessary Mrs Watts. Now, you said something about an evil presence?”

“That’s right Vicar. His moaning and wailing is driving me round the bend it is. Some nights he never stops.”

“Sounds awful Mrs Watts. I’ve brought my stuff with me. Soon as I’ve had this cup of tea I’ll say a few prayers, sprinkle some holy water around, and that should do the trick.”

“If you would Vicar, that would be wonderful. I’ve been trying to get rid of the bugger for years.”

“So you’ve actually seen him have you, Mrs. Watts? This ghost of yours?”

“See him all the time Vicar. In fact he’s here with us right now, sitting next to you on that sofa, that mournful look on his face. Horrid looking man he is, Vicar. One eye, dripping blood from a gash in his head and him forever dragging that left leg of his along the ground.”

The Reverend Michael Jones looked beside him but saw nothing. He finished his tea, opened his bag and took out a small bottle of holy water. As he stood, ready to perform his duties, the ghost next to him smiled. His chance to get away from this batty old girl and her decrepit little house was finally here.

As he tucked himself into the Vicar’s pocket he wondered how big the Vicarage would be.


My Missing Muse

In recent weeks my muse seems to have left me. Consequently I have written less and put little up on my blog. In desperation I write this letter:

Dear Muse,

I hope you are well. After much soul-searching I have decided to write to you in the hope that you may find it in your heart to forgive me and return home.

Life without you has been a nightmare. I’ve not managed to put pen to paper in weeks. All those wonderful ideas we shared have dried up and my head is in tatters. It is only now that I have come to appreciate just how much you mean to me. Life without your daily presence hardly seems worth living.

I look back to that argument that drove you away and feel ashamed of myself. My arrogance and conceit got the better of me. I just pray that, over time, you might forget some of the dreadful things I said to you.

Please, I beg you, come home. Let us get back to the way we were.

Your friend and companion.


A week later I received this reply:

Dear Michael

Thank you for your letter, though I have to say I was disappointed that it took you such a long time to contact me.

Unlike you I have not found our separation to have had any detrimental effects on my health, quite the contrary. I now sleep well (not having you wake me in the middle of the night with another stupid idea may have a lot to do with this). My days are my own and I can go for long walks, or to the local coffee shop, without feeling obliged to return with the outline of yet another novel.

You will probably not be surprised to hear that I have had no end of offers. There is a plentiful supply of potentially gifted writers out there desperate to team up with a muse of my creative abilities. But, to date, I have turned all offers. I am too sentimental for my own good and, despite your many failures, there are aspects of your erratic behaviour that I quite miss.

I am therefore quite happy to return as long as certain conditions can be guaranteed;
a) No more late nights. If you get ideas in the middle of the
night you must note them down and we will discuss them
the next day.
b) Any ideas I come up with must be acted upon until I feel
they have been successfully completed.
c) There must be no more talk of us writing romantic
erotica in order for you to make a fortune. This is not
going to happen.

If you are prepared to comply with my demands then I will return at once.

I look forward to hearing from you.


What shall I do?


Going Away

Going Away

“I hope this is not one of your daft stories Jimmy because I’m just not in the mood. I can feel one of my migraines coming on.”

“Honest love, you’ve got to believe me. This really happened. I was standing just where you are and the front doorbell rang. When I opened it there it was.”

“What do you mean, ‘there it was’, what exactly was ‘it’?”

“That’s the bit you’re not going to believe my darling. You see it was….., well it was a …….., no, I mean it was a kind of ………. Let’s just say it wasn’t human.”

“What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t human’? Honestly Jimmy you do talk some rubbish. Why I married you in the first place is beyond me. I should’ve listened to mother. You haven’t been drinking have you? You’ve not been at my cooking sherry again?”

“No love, honest. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, that’s why I wasn’t going to bother telling you, but he said I had to.”

“Jimmy just start again, from the beginning.”

“Well, as I said, when I answered the door there it was just standing there. It was huge. A bright green scaly body with a large oval-shaped head, no nose and one large purple eye smack bang in the middle of it’s forehead. It gave me quite a start I can tell you. Worst of all though was the smell.”

“Smell! What smell?”

“The creature thing. It smelt awful. It was a mixture of one of your burnt Sunday dinners and horse manure. Definitely not nice.”

“This story of yours is getting sillier by the minute Jimmy. If I find you’re pulling my leg you’ll have more to worry about than my burnt dinners. I don’t suppose you could draw a picture of this mysterious alien creature could you?”

“You know I can’t draw love, but I’ll know it when I see it again.”

“What do you mean, ‘when you see it again’?

“Didn’t I tell you love? Sorry. It said it was coming back.”

“So this huge, green, one-eyed monster could talk as well could it?”

“Oh yes love. Very charming it was, knew my name but it was you he was after.”


“Yes love. Most definite he was. He asked for you personally. Apparently your name has come up on one of their computers. He said he couldn’t tell me much because it was all very hush-hush but he did say it had something to do with some tests they were carrying out and that you would be going away for a while, possibly a few years. Apparently you don’t need to pack and you won’t need your passport.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him you’d be back about four. There’s the front door bell now. It must be him. Shall I answer it love or will you?”


‘My Cake Or Yours’ – A Five Sentence Fiction Story

I saw this photo for this week’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt and could hear the dog talking to me.


My Cake Or Yours?

“That last cake’s mine kid. Touch it and I’ll have your fingers off!”

“Mum, mum, this dog just said he’s gong to bite me.”

“Don’t be silly dear, dogs can’t talk, now play nicely, there’s a darling.”

“Well kid, what’s it going to be, cake or fingers?”