The Prosecution Rests"You? Doing jury service?" grinned John, reading his flatmate's letter.
Dancing MenSherlock strode into the living room, wearing a kilt. It revealed rather a lot of thigh—the effect being more Mary Quant than Rob Roy.
Leave A MessageSherlock was galloping through his deductions when Lestrade’s phone rang.
Trailing BehindJohn hadn’t been able to drop off at all in the caravan. Sherlock, conversely, was sleeping like a baby. Up every two hours and making a hell of a racket.
Pre-inventing the WheelLon was an I.T support worker. He was also a caveman, so perhaps it would be more accurate to call it lowercase ‘t’ support.
FFM July 2 2014The Baby-Napper
Mr. Sinungalingsi∙nu∙nga∙ling (Filipino)
BabydollPropping my daughter against the towel on my shoulder, I rhythmically pat her back. Nevaeh's just had her second bottle of the day, and try as I might, I still can't get her to burp. Today is no different, and in the end I give up, wipe her small round mouth, and pop her in the bouncer for a while. It's the electric kind, with a soft lullaby and swinging motion, so I know she'll be entertained while I get on with the mountain of washing that needs to be folded.
Before the Black Throne There was a rattle of chains as the rusty iron cage dropped from the ceiling. It was accompanied by the rattling laugh of the Dungeon Lord himself. The same mechanism that had dropped the cage over the great stone altar had also revealed his terrible black throne.
FFM 2014, July 5 - BoxesThe answering machine was blinking red. Elaine stared at it. Aside from the streetlight through the blinds, it was the only thing with a light on in the apartment. There was nothing to turn on. Everything was in boxes. Her sofa, her bed, all covered in boxes. She’d tried to unpack, after her brother had left with the rental van, but somehow every thing she pulled out of the damned boxes reminded her of him. Of them. The worst was the box with all the framed pictures – why had she even packed them? Elaine felt the tears well up again. For the last week all she’d done was cry, until her migraines became pre-emptive.
FFM#5 [Challenge] -- Newsreader“Bloody hell, where’s Richard.”
FFM 2014: PulaOnce upon a time in in a small village in Botswana, there was a little girl named Lesedi who was very naughty.
The Language of DanceGerald had been a bit anxious about going abroad on holiday to a country so far away. But he’d always wanted to see the place and he was determined to make the most of it. He’d practised the language for months until his legs ached and now, if perhaps not exactly fluent, he did have quite a vocabulary.
WordsThe meeting of the support group was taking place in the Dusty Dictionary—a refuge from the world for the archaic and lesser-used words in the English Language.
Dressed to KillAgatha had her victim trapped now in the corner of the room.
I've Really Lost My MindThe young man smiled, with just a touch of embarrassment. “I seem to have lost my mind.”
At the Neal McDannel Art Opening, October 5thStanding among portraits
and friends, he says
my mother's death
was a mistake; she
had just been hiding
all these years.
And I woke
with a smile on
my face, even though
I knew it wasn't true."
Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem GhazalMy dear Baltimore child,
dear tale-told heart, gin-joint king,
Winter is colorless without you,
all white and dead.
I miss the boldness of your black,
I miss the color red.
I wear your favorite color, grieve,
though we were never wed.
My dark, distant poet,
dreaming evermore in red.
Annabel Lee should have been written
for me, instead;
She was white winter-stale,
and I am bright summer-red.
I watched winter take your soul,
watched the frost in your lungs spread.
You can be no lover now,
drained of all your blood, your red.
You are colored, still,
blue and beautiful and dead.
But I cannot warm your body with mine,
cannot give to you my red.
I have tried to wake you with kisses,
tried to make us a wedding bed
In your tomb in the city by the sea,
It's Always Blackest Before the ThroneCurriculum Vitae
Snake Cult Leader
General in the Legions of Shagamemnon
Reason Left Last Job:
Green, three-boobed alien women wanting to be taught the Earth-concept of love.
Has own armour (black leather with spikes).
Interviewer’s notes: This guy seems perfect!
I realise there is no way for me to get this letter to you but I feel in need of a sympathetic ear at the moment.
Things haven’t been going too well. I thought the dungeon was the way to go in order to gain power and riches but people somehow completely misinterpreted the whips and chains. Thought it was a place offering… erotic satisfaction. It all made me terribly uncomfortable.
So I gave up and swapped genres from Fantasy to Sci-Fi. But things didn’t improve and now I appear to have ended up in Gritty Realism. I’ve managed to get a minimum w
Very Good, SirThe incomparable valet Reginald Jeeves
Always has an ace up his sleeves.
He cleverly finds the hole in the loop,
And gets the young master out of the soup.
You Tell Me Things in Drips and DrabsThe game is a itchy foot,
watching blokes stumble around
playing Agatha Christie
—it’s Dutch, isn’t it?
Day-trippers and riff-raff,
adventures and boys on bicycles,
attractive slender woman:
pretty much what I expected.
The house is going through a tunnel
(I’ll try my best to be less entertaining)
and they have facemasks like little furry burglars.
She’s either counting oxygen molecules or analysing
this whole chunk of time,
running around buying Reggae CDs.
Go back to peddling soymilk and nailing waitresses,
bloody well toasted and ghosted,
that’s what I’m talking about.
The whole Rastafarian culture,
about as long as I can stand,
didn’t go to any trouble on my part.
Do I have to go with the whole cookie analogy?
Sometimes I shouldn’t say words:
that was my point.
Yep, you’re exactly like Jesus,
fighting for truth, justice and soccer mums.
He just looked so stupefied,
extremely taciturn, so secretive.
(You can’t prowl i
The Lord gathered all the writers and divided them into four groups.
To the first group He said, “You will be novelists and you will make a living from your work.”
To the second group He said, “You will be poets and people will admire and be moved by your work.”
To the third group He said, “You will write short stories and people will enjoy your work.”
And to the final group He said, “You will write flash fiction and… Yes, well, sorry about that.”
My name is Frankles. I write flash fiction, specialising in the humorous six word story.
(When I get called home, there are going to be words.)
An article I wrote for SixWordStories:
"Why should you be interested in the work of SCFrankles? In three words: six word stories. These are often thrown out there as something more like a joke than a work of art, but here you can tell there's been some real thought put into them--though that's not to say that there aren't some hilarious ones in there. I'd quote a few, but you've got no excuse not having a read through her gallery yourself! You may also be pleasantly surprised by her longer fiction: in my experience, it's rare to find someone who can write both forms so well." DamonWakes
I am a mod for Sherlock60 on LJ: a community for writing 60 word ficlets based on the 60 stories in the Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes canon.
Unless a man is in part a humorist, he is only in part a man.