Posts Tagged ‘Jokes’
May
Loss Of Self
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I shouldn’t have fallen for the marketing (“You’re never alone with a clone!”), but I did. I saved up, sent my DNA sample to PeopleMakers, and a week later there was a knock on the door. He was perfect: sympathetic, interested in all my hobbies, and with all my tastes in clothes and women and jokes.
When I couldn’t afford to renew the subscription, though, he walked out of my life just as easily and quietly as he’d arrived, leaving me alone and even more achingly aware of what I didn’t have. Where am I now when I need me?
From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar
Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found here and he lurks on Twitter @skriptorium.
Oct
Fantasy
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Have you ever had a day where you just want to fantasize? I have. After long hours at a desk, on the way home after finding a seat on the railroad, I close my eyes and envision flying the Millennium Falcon. Chewbacca sits beside me, while Han Solo is working on something in the back room, cracking jokes. I make the jump to lightspeed and Chewbacca roars. I slowly cruise through the darkness of space and admire the surrounding planets.
Life is good and I’m excited about our mission.
The conductor announces my stop.
I exit the train to reality.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Aug
Waitress And The Ventriloquist
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
She had sun-streaked hair. I told her we could have a quickie after the show but she just looked blankly at Murphy, the doll. That night I jerked off with Murphy and cussed him for missing my chance with her. He looked on with the wooden smile, his wooden fingers clenched tight by his side. Murphy said cute things that day. People laughed at the stale jokes about slavery. I saw her reach out for the tip. And then she walked past me, with sad the ruffle of notes in her bodice. A little girl came up and hugged Murphy.
From Guest Contributor Sreemanti Sengupta
Sreemanti writes fiction and poetry (Losing Friends – Alien Buddha Press 2.0) while occasionally dabbling in collage art. Some of her haikus have been translated to French and a poem read out at City Lights Bookstore, NY. She runs The Odd Magazine and Odd Books.
Mar
This Message Cannot Be Delivered
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Old friends’ emails become inactive, enveloped by electronic monsters. My message cannot be delivered, electronic gatekeepers proclaim.
I can’t tell them of being alone. I can’t hear their off-color jokes about paraplegics and suicide, youth at its most delightfully stupid. Tell them of empty, sterile walls. I can’t confess I absorbed their stories of family, an electronic voyeur.
I keep trying. Messages come back.
I drive to distant homes. But staring through lit windows, I feel like a magazine, an obnoxious knickknack among order and precision. I imagine them discarding jokes, smiles replaced by starched replicas.
This message isn’t delivered.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story, “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.
Jan
21
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
My sister’s 21 years older. She’s 37. Often jokes I’m the milkman’s son.
Nancy calls me Saint Nick, says I’m too giving. Nicknames me dummkopf when I trip.
I love her energy, when she jokes about my clothing or love of Debussy. She’s an Elvis-loving newspaperwoman.
Yet, the banter lacks that natural rhythm, that give-and-take. We didn’t grow up playing or fighting together. But Nancy says age is arbitrary.
I wonder if she feels self-consciousness. Especially when she calls me little brother, accentuating the words.
I just banter. Call her sis. Joke that she’s my secret mother.
It’s almost believable.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.
Nov
Of Weak Spots
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.
On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.
Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!
However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.
Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.
From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy
Dec
Santa Ritual
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I’m ten, too old to sit on Santa’s lap. Tell my parents. Please, someone?
Last year I was a brat, on purpose. Cracked inappropriate jokes, tugged his beard, farted on his pants. Hoping my message would come across.
Yet, here we go again. When asked what I want for Christmas, I belted out my thoughts.
Santa was speechless. Mom and Dad stared. Parents with kids waiting to meet Santa looked like icicles.
Then, I remembered Scrooge. “Sorry Santa,” I said, not letting him see my tears.
“You’re forgiven, son,” he replied. “The greatest gift is love. You already have that.”
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.
Apr
The Life And Death Of A Stand-Up
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
He believed he had the crowd in the palm of his hand, teasing them, provoking them, then hitting them with the punchline when they least expected. He heard their laughter. They were his.
But then she interrupted. She told him to stop. She told him she was offended.
Suddenly, they were lost. They hated her, but it didn’t matter. She may have committed the sin in their eyes, but he was unable to respond and so he’d lost his grip on authority.
She was the awful one but he was the one they took outside and shot in the head.