When last I saw them, they were down by the river. They were holding hands. No surprise there; she’d always been possessive.
On this occasion, she seemed especially reluctant to let go. She professed to love his mind and body, while her rival’s interest was strictly physical…
The crocodile prevailed.
John H. Dromey has a 10-word story, “Paranormal Household Survey,” on the Potato Soup Journal website.
“How’d you find your runaway goat?”
“We simply followed his spoor.”
“How’d you know it was his?”
“Before he left, Billy ate a magazine with one of your stories in it.”
“How’d that help?”
“Billy found some of your prose was indigestible. You could say he left a toilet-paper trail.”
John H. Dromey has some hundred-word stories (four new, one reprint) in WORLDS: A Science Fiction Microfiction Anthology (Dark Drabbles Book 1) (Black Hare Press, 2019).
“Am I a monster, Mum?”
“Of course not, Franklin. Don’t be silly. Now comb your fur and brush your fangs. Remember to keep sniffing to a minimum and always retract your claws before shaking hands. You don’t want to make a bad impression on your first day at Obedience School.”
John H. Dromey has noticed some fifty-word stories are short and sweet while some are not.
“Pop psychologists promote ganging up on friends to help them straighten out their lives. Are you in?”
“I’m busy, but good luck.”
A few days later.
“How’d the intervention go?”
“So-so. We managed to address the elephant in the room, but we didn’t have enough postage to send it anywhere.”
John H. Dromey has a short-short story online in The Magazine of History & Fiction (Volume 1, Issue 2).
“Honey, shouldn’t you clear the driveway?”
“Not today. Doc recommended no more shoveling the white stuff for a while.”
“He was referring to forks and spoons and your carbohydrates intake! Potatoes, pasta, refined sugar…”
“Maybe so, but I’m taking no chances… There’s a shovel just your size in the attic.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has appeared in publications ranging from Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine to Z-composition (June 2012 issue, online).
All Hallows Eve. The most popular haunted house in town was as dark as the inside of an uncarved pumpkin. Not one of its clockwork creatures was stirring.
The property was under new management. The penny-pinching promoter took one look at his scary electric bill and pulled the plug.
John H. Dromey has a story “Cross Genre Traffic Does Not Stop” reprinted online in Unfit Magazine.
Editor: I should have re-titled this story “Who Turned Out the Frights?”
“Congratulations! Is it true your bride learned to cook, years ago, at her mama’s knee?”
“Yeah,” Jim said without enthusiasm.
“Polly’s perfect with shortbread and shortcakes but for everything else she only makes a half recipe. In hindsight, I reckon she ought to have stood on a chair.”
John H. Dromey has a rather short (but complete) story reprinted in the anthology Timeshift: Tales of Time (Shacklebound Books, 2018).
“Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Lucinda calls herself a witch but I have my doubts. When she tried some closeup magic, she wasn’t very good at it.”
“Did she cause you to break out in a rash?”
“No. These red marks are where she accidentally jabbed me with her wand.”
John H. Dromey stands tall but often writes short.
The on-location taping of a reality TV program was interrupted when a nearby mountain peak exploded, spewing smoke, ash, and molten lava high in the air.
The program’s producer also blew his top—figuratively. An assistant asked the distraught man what was wrong.
“That bleeping volcano isn’t following the script!”
John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri, a long way from any active volcanoes, but growing up on a farm, he used to use Lava soap.
“How’d you get that shiner, Angus?”
“I visited a haunted hieland castle at the witching hour to ken what haints wear under their sheets.”
“A ghostie hit you?”
“No-o-o. In the near darkness, I lifted the wrong hem… I discovered the laird of the manor wears nothing under his kilt.”
John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. Although he has some Celtic roots (in Ireland and Scotland) he does not wear a kilt.