Creamy, too – 100 word fiction

(Part One Creamy.)

“Hey man, did you see that ‘creamy’ chick again today?”

“Yep. She sat behind me again. This time she whispered, ‘You’re really, really creamy,’ and then she licked my ear.”

“Geez! What did you do?”

“I talked to her after the lecture. We went home to her place.”


“And she’s got a fridge full of whipped cream.”

“So you…”

“So I got creamy.”

“Wow. Are you gonna see her again?”

“I think so. She said something about me being extra horny.”

“She didn’t have, like, deers and rhinos mounted on the walls, did she?”

“Yeah! How did you know?”

Tart – 50-word fiction

“You’re such a tart,” she says in jest.
But little does she know I’ve been screwing her husband for three weeks now. The question is, do I tell her right away, or do I wait until the bitch beats me at tennis again? Because holy shit, do I hate losing.

The Feud

The feud between Johnny Johnson and Mr. Pendergast over who owned the tree that fell and broke the fence between their properties should have ended when the old man died. Mrs. Pendergast understood how far her husband could take a grudge – she lived with him for sixty-three years. So when he passed on, she had his name engraved on a plaque, bought a bench, and donated it to the local park. Kind of a placeholder for the old man’s soul, to keep him calm in his favorite spot.

Then one day, as a joke, (or maybe because he didn’t feel like he’d won the last argument) Johnny Johnson pinched the plaque from the bench and stuck it to the inner lid of his toilet. Then he did the obvious; he missed the john on purpose, and pissed all over Mr. Pendergast’s plaque.

Next day, Johnny Johnson was found planted head-first up to his knees in the duck pond at the local park. Most folks blame Mr. Pendergast’s ghost. Me, I’m keeping my eye on his Missus.

No Second Thoughts

He stood his ground across the room from the woman with the long red dress. Sinews stood out from the backs of both of her hands; her knuckles were white as she grasped the blades tightly in both fists.

“Tell me now,” he growled. “Will you do it?”

“I have no choice. I promised my husband I would.”

“Gah! You can let him down, you know.”

“I will never!” she screeched.

“Very well. Follow me.”

He led her down a corridor and into a room filled with mirrors. “Choose your position,” he ordered.

She did as she was told.

“Now give me the blades.”

Her eyes met his in an icy stare.

“If you’re positive. There will be no second thoughts.”

She nodded mutely.

“So be it,” he grumbled.

He lifted the blades to the level of her throat.

“To here?” he asked. “Or a little shorter?”

“I think a bob would be nice.”

“You think?”

She shrugged. “It’ll grow back.”


Dear Brian (I think that was your name.)

I want to convey my sincere apologies for my husband’s behaviour at the restaurant tonight. I thought you were an excellent waiter. But please understand that my husband is very jealous, so when I complained that my fork was dirty and you licked it clean for me, he thought you were coming on to me.

I’m so sorry he gave you a black eye. I’d like to make it up to you. Please find enclosed with this note a $100 bill and a box of condoms. I’ll be at the motel out on Route 67 by the gas station at 10pm tonight.

Yours truly,

The Lady at Table 6

P.S. I hope regular-sized condoms are okay. I took you at your word when you referred to my husband as the bigger dick.

One-Liner Wednesday – What if?

What if you were reading a sentence, minding your own business, and suddenly English words stopped making sence adn sentinse strictires vwfam rp hry skk qwurd?

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One-Liner Wednesday is here: Click the link, check out the rules, and join in!

Transformation – Part 1?

Today we take off the bandages. Patient L63’s transformation should be complete.

“How long has it been since the patient came to us?” I ask my assistant.

“Forty-three days, Master.”

“Would you please stop calling me ‘Master,’ Ogor?”

“Yes, Mas… I mean Doctor.”

“Thank you. So, forty-three days should be enough, right?”

“By your calculations, yes, Doctor.”

“Okay, let’s get at it.”

We peel back the bandages slowly. Meticulously. About half-way through I notice Ogor has begun to tap his foot.

“Whatever is it, Ogor?”

“What’s what?”

“You seem nervous.”

“Not at all, Doctor.”

We continue to work until there is just one bandage left across the patient’s face. As lift it with my tweezers, the patient opens his blue eyes.

“Wait!” I exclaim. I go to the patient’s chart. “Patient L63 has brown eyes. What is the meaning of this? Ogor, double-check the patient’s toe tag!”

“It’s um… It’s um, Patient M63, Mast… I mean Doctor.”

“But this patient isn’t ready! And Patient L63 must be chomping at the bit to get out!”

Just then, a groan came from inside the freezer.


I only knew Tiny from the Internet, so I couldn’t tell for sure if he was really tiny in size, or if his name was one of those ironical-type names. If so, he might have been huge.

Tiny and me were friends in the kind of way you just sling comments back and forth on Facebook and such. Once in a while, we’d say something like, “We should get together for a beer one day,” but it never happened. At least I don’t think it happened.

You see, Tiny disappeared ’round about a year ago. He’d taken a break from the whole online crap for a couple months before, so I wasn’t too worried, until one day when a stranger showed up on his Facebook account. At first they tried to pretend to be Tiny, but I knew. There were little things, like the way words were spelled right that Tiny always spelled wrong. Stuff like that. When I called the character out, they finally said no, they weren’t Tiny and that Tiny had died.

Then three weeks ago, I found the note in my mailbox. It was from Tiny. Said he’d been in town for a month already. It’s a small town; chances are I’ve seen him around and not known it.

Strange thing is, I never told him where I live.

Author’s note: Until October the 31st, I’m going to try to use this space to create possible beginnings for my 2016 NaNoWriMo project. Feedback is welcome.

#SoCS – Going in blind

This is so dangerous. This interview is my last hurdle. After this, if I succeed, I get the job and I’m off and fulfilling my dream.

I go in. The room is painted white; there are no pictures on the walls, no windows – no colour except the laminated faux wood table and a green chair. One chair. Will my interviewer stand?

On the table is a sheet of paper. I think at first it’s blank, but I turn it over and there are questions.

#1. (Your first test.) Do you have a pen?

I pull a pen out of my purse and for a second I panic – it doesn’t work!!! I scribble for a while on the back of the paper and a faint blue line appears. It gets darker. Good.

I write “yes” for the first question.

#2. If you were a bug, and you wanted to get into a house but there were screens at the windows, would you:
a) try to squeeze through the screen
b) wait for someone to open a door
c) find another house

What kind of question is that???!!! I ask myself. Flustered, I go on to the next question without answering.

#3. Did you answer question #2? If not, go back now.

I look around the room. Is there a camera? Am I being watched? This is weird. I answer question #2, b. I’m a fairly patient person… I mean bug. Whatever. I write “yes” for question #3.

#4. What is your dream job?

Is this a trick question? It’s the one I’m applying for. I write that.

#5. What colour is white?

White. That’s got to be the correct answer. Or is it? Is white a colour? If not, how do I answer the question? Holy shit, this test is hard.

#6. If your owner holds you by the back of the neck, do you:
a) bite him or her
b) calm down and remain subdued
c) explain that you’re not a dog, and would he or she please let go

What the fuck? I’m just about to cap my pen and be on my way when the door opens and a handsome man in a white suit with a white shirt and tie walks in and stands on the other side of the table.

“Hello,” I say.

The man says nothing. Expressionless. He puts his hands on his hips and blows air out from between his pursed lips. I wait.

“What do you do?” he asks finally.

“What… do you mean?”

“Question #6. You were about to leave. What would you do in that situation?”

I look down at the paper and read the question and the possible answers again. “Umm… c?”

“Is that your final answer?”

I look down again. I’m definitely not a dog. “Yes. That’s my final answer.”

Suddenly the room lights up with yellow and red flashing, turning lights. I feel as though I’m in a game show.

“Congratulations!” the man says. “You’ve got the job!”

I slump down in my seat, and put my forehead on the table. I got it. I got it. I GOT IT!

I’m going to make people millionaires!


This slightly insane post (is this how Regis Philbin got the job?) is brought to you by Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Click the following link to read the rules and join in:


“There are no original stories under the sun,” said the alien, as she sat upon a sea-sprayed rock.

“That’s a rather narrow view,” said the sea serpent.

The alien shrugged. “It’s true.”

“Well then,” said the sea serpent, “why don’t you go talk to the accountant in my belly?” And the sea serpent ate the alien.

“Hello,” said the alien, once adequately digested. “You must be the accountant.”

“What was your first clue?” asked the man, looking up from his adding machine.

“I assumed you were the only one in here.”

“I probably am,” said the accountant as he went back to his work.

“The sea serpent and I were discussing stories, and how there is nothing new. Do you agree?”

“No. I think there is everything new, just as there are always new calculations to be made.”

“Would you two shut up already?” came the booming voice of the sea serpent.

“But you told me to discuss it with my new friend here, Mr…”

“Mr. Blankenship,” replied the accountant.

“How unoriginal,” said the alien.

The accountant only smiled.

This post is prompted by the Daily Post, and Tuesday Use It In A Sentence, where this week the word is “narrow.” Click on the word above to check it out!