Tag Archives: pun

TODD MERCER: Dystopic Bootstrapping Strategies, #3: The Freelance Organist

Hard up,
I rented a stairway landing.
Eight by six, the price was right.
Roped off a pedestrians’ passway.

Sold my etchings, then clothes,
next blood, one or two kidneys.

I shouldn’t have harvested
that poor man,
but once you buy the
chloroform
and surgical tools…

Pricing studio apartments
today.


Todd Mercer won the Woodstock Writers Festival’s Flash Fiction contest and took 2nd and 3rd place of the Kent County Dyer-Ives Prizes.  His chapbook Box of Echoes won the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press contest. Mercer’s poetry and fiction appears in The Lake, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Thema, Blue Collar Review, Right Hand Pointing, Apocrypha & Abstractions, Cease, Cows, Dunes Review and Eunoia Review.

DEBORAH WALKER: Love in Academia

“I wasn’t really expecting it to work.”
The door hangs off its broken hinges.

“I thought that she’d be so grateful.”
Elixir soaks into the discarded bandages.

“Why do women always leave me?”
The gilded sarcophagus is empty.

Tears are streaming down his face.
The professor really misses his mummy.


Deborah thinks: least said, soonest mended. Find her on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography.

TIM SEVENHUYSEN: Victor

Plop.

“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.

SUMMER STORIES – CRAIG HOLZSCHUH: My Deerest

Runner-Up 2: “Amusing” Category

“I know we are bad for each other, but you add something special to my life I’ve never felt before. Our closeness makes me feel faint. It wounds me that they say we would be better apart.”

“To separate us would kill me.”

“And me as well, my deerest Tick.”


Craig Holzschuh (1973-present) is an American writer. He is best known for amusing stories and an overreliance on spell-check. His pseudonyms pout in jealousy.

JOHN H. DROMEY: True to Form

“I’m bored, Watson. I need something to investigate. Did anything of more than casual interest arrive in the post?”

“There’s a letter from Inland Revenue. They’re going to audit your tax return.”

“Why would they?”

“I’m a doctor, Holmes, not an accountant. My guess is you made too many deductions.”


John H. Dromey has had a short story published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, a mini-mystery in Woman’s World, plus fiction online at Liquid Imagination, Mysterical-E, and elsewhere.

JOE MALONE: Kids Aren’t Mean

Children aren’t mean. Sometimes they just lack common sense.

For example, at the party I was in charge of the pinata. Finding one, hanging it up, getting some big sticks.

We were having a lot of fun until Mrs. Pinata from down the block showed up, looking for her kid.


Joe Malone is living in a mud hut in South Sudan. Read more from him at http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.

JOHN H DROMEY: Après-Ski

“What’s wrong with you, Shawn? You’ve spilled a drink on not just one, but four bobsledders.”

“Everything would have been fine if they’d just stood still.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because this lodge is furnished with valuable antiques, the barkeep made me promise to set my glass on a coaster.”


John H. Dromey has had a short story published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, a mini-mystery in Woman’s World, plus fiction online at Liquid ImaginationMysterical-E, and elsewhere.

GARY CLIFTON: Vital Information

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Screams coming from the house next door. Need police out here quick.”

“Do you know who lives there?”

“No, they just moved in.”

“Do you have an address?”

“No, I’m wearing shorts and a halter top. Is there a dress code for calling the cops?”


Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has nearly 60 short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.

WENDY WHITE LEES: Once Upon a Flowerbed

I ran away with my prince to the forest.

“Stay the night with me,” he said, and laid me down on the forest floor. When we were done, I fell asleep shrouded in wildflowers.

When I woke up, he was gone. Now I no longer believe in happily heather rafters.


Wendy White Lees is a freelance writer and editor who still believes in fairy tale endings, even if she has to write them herself.

ADAM MICHAUD: The Message

He left the run-down building, a smile on his face and full knowledge of what he had to do next.

As a bonus, his back and shoulders felt great. Who knew that Morse code could be so therapeutic?

For Markov Luhanovich, the great Russian spy, the medium was the massage.


Adam Michaud lives in Toronto, making bad puns and being kind to
strangers. Occasionally, he writes things.