“Sir,” the judge said somberly, “the court hereby grants your wife’s petition for divorce. Do you understand, sir, that I have also awarded her one thousand dollars per month as support?”
“That’s right kindly of you, Judge. Perhaps I can kick in a few bucks myself, from time to time.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, lied to and about, and frequently misunderstood. He has short fiction pieces published with over a hundred venues, has published a novel in national paperback, and blogs at bareknucklethoughts.org.
A small airplane roared in, clipping treetops before smashing between two trees on the ninth hole, tearing off both wings. Terrified golfers dialed 9-1-1.
In minutes a fire engine lumbered across the fairway. “What happened?” a firefighter asked the pilot.
“Don’t ask me,” the pilot replied. “I just got here.”
Ronald Linson lives in New York City. He has a number of stories and poems at bewilderingstories.com, and is currently working on a young adult fantasy novel.
One afternoon, a priest, a lawyer, and a dentist walked into a bar.
The priest ordered himself a martini, promptly choked on the olive, and died. The lawyer jumped up, crying, “This isn’t funny!” and bolted from the joke.
The dentist, never one for punchlines, quietly called for another round.
Three men walk into a bar.
“Ow!” cries the first man. He clutches his head and falls to the floor.
“Ugh!” cries the second man, slumping lifelessly to the ground.
“It is done,” says the third man. He passes the bloodied rod to the barman, takes his money, and leaves.
Guy worked in a bar once. This is his sixteenth 50-word story.
Doctor Lorne Calder returned home to meet with Bert Ryan, a carpenter he’d hired to complete renovations at his home. Upon entry, he noticed a flaw in the foyer.
“You’re a master carpenter? Just look at that!” Calder complained.
“It’s easier for you,” replied Ryan. “You bury all your mistakes.”
Paul Finnigan is an Ottawa-based writer who has a collection of short fiction that has appeared in both Canada and the United States. Some previous publishers of his work include Boston Literary Magazine, Feathertale, Polar Expression Publishing, and Every Writer the Magazine.
Four guys walk into a bar.
One orders a glass of Christianity, another takes a shot of Judaism, one requests an Islam cocktail, and another asks for an Atheism on the rocks.
Remembering the brawl that occurred last time, the men decide to pace themselves, and enjoy a wonderful evening.
David Gregory is a marketing pro from Washington D.C. who enjoys humor fiction. He’s currently editing his first novel, and hopes you check out his humor flash fiction website FunnyInFiveHundred.com
Mum came tumbling down the stairs. “THERE’S A GHOST!” she cried.
Dad got up and went upstairs to investigate.
Dad came running down the stairs. “IT’S TRUE!” he cried.
I ran upstairs.
I came back down to comfort Mum and Dad.
“APRIL FOOLS!” they yelled.
“Guys, it’s December,” I said.
Yves is 16, and wrote this because he took a day off school and his dad wouldn’t get off his back until he did something creative.
“Eat up!” said Mom.
Victor stared at his plate. Yuck. What was this slimy, moldy, mushy gunk?
“Don’t you like it?”
“Gross!” said Victor. “Is this rotten food?”
“It’s your winnings,” said Mom. “The ones you gloated about after Monopoly. Like you said, to the victor go the spoils!”
I’m happy to announce the birth of my second son, Victor! This story is for him.
“Doctor, how to such certainty can you be so sure the man was dead?”
“His brain was in a jar on a shelf at the morgue.”
“Nonetheless, could he have been alive in any way?”
“It’s possible, counselor, if he is in fact living, he’s practicing law in this courtroom.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has short fiction pieces published or pending with over 60 online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.
“Any questions, sir?” says the clerk.
“What are this medication’s side effects?” asks the customer.
“There are none.”
“None? Impressive. Three bottles, please.”
The customer pays and leaves.
Another clerk says, “You didn’t tell him it turns people into pathological liars?”
“I couldn’t,” says the clerk. “I’m taking it myself.”
This story was based on the prompts “side effects” and “pathological liar” at TypeTrigger.