Can a story be told in one hundred words? A collection of short, short stories.
“One more button to sew on, then you can try on your party dress,” Fatima told her daughter Pearl.
“Where is that button?”
Pearl squirmed. She blushed. She rubbed her nose.
“Oh Pearl, not again!”
Pearl nodded. “It won’t come out,” she whimpered, delving her fore-finger into her nostril.
Pearls predilection for inserting objects into orifices had compelled Fatima to resort to tweezer therapy on many occasions.
Last Christmas a tingling silver bell from a cracker was painfully extracted from Pearl’s ear. The bell tingled no more.
Pearl sneezed. A glunky, globulous glob spectacularly exited the nostril, splattering the dress.
A Gift From the Dead.
Clyde’s tragic, sudden death shocked Julia deeply.
The day following Clyde’s funeral, his bereaved wife sat sobbing at the kitchen table, clutching a courier package.
‘What’s this, Cora?’ Julia quizzed her sister, picking up the package.
‘Arrived this morning, must be a mistake.’
‘It’s addressed to you, open it.’
Julia, opening the package, retrieved a shiny red box. She opened the box. A delicate silver bracelet, nestled on a silky, satin cushion. She read aloud the engraved inscription. ‘My darling Cora, twenty-five years of bliss. Adoringly, Clyde.’
Clasping the bracelet to her wrist, Cora’s eyes sparkled.
New Years Eve, 2016.
Denis, intoxicated on the prospect of becoming a father, stepped onto the country road. Brakes shrieked. Wham! His body, like a rag-doll, catapulted into the air, descended, smashed the car windscreen and bounced onto the road.
Cradling his head, I whispered his name. Sirens pierced the still night. He twitched, convulsed, his life extinguished, my world shattered.
Alone, I stumbled through the pregnancy, my belly growing with my sorrow.
Clutching this fretful baby to my breast, I scan the jumbled words on the letter from Fair-play Insurance.
‘Reparation sought: one broken windscreen caused by one Dennis Holmes, December 31st, 2015.
Sizzling Hot Date.
Magnificently manicured nails.
Perfectly pedicured toes.
Smokey, alluring eye-shadow.
Blushed, accentuated cheekbones.
Sensual perfume, liberally sprayed.
Black, lacy push-up bra, hooked.
No panties, not tonight!
Slinky, silky gown zipped-up.
Elegant drop-pearl necklace, clasped.
You give me fever, fever all through the night.
The woman gyrates her hips to Peggy Lee’s melodious tones.
Champaign bubbles tickle her nose.
Reclining on the chaise lounge, she flicks to the first page of E L James’ latest red-hot novel, ‘Fifty Shades Darker’ and…
…her sizzling date begins.
A Not-so-boring Crossing of the Ionian Sea.
The rowdy, raucous young Italian’s preceded me on the slippery gang-plank boarding the ferry bound for Corfu. One tripped, his suitcase plunging into the water below. A quick-witted crewman hooked the bobbing case with a pole and hauled it on board.
On the open upper deck, the gaiety continued as the sodden clothes were hung over the railings.
The ship’s engines rumbled, the clothes flapped listlessly. The boat picked up speed, the clothes fluttered with greater urgency. As each article was snatched from the railing and swept out to sea, the merriment increased.
Hilarious hi-jinks, crossing the Ionian Sea.
Boarding the school bus, the boy resolved to end his daily nightmare.
End the taunts, the shoving, the foot-tripping, the not-so-quiet whispering.
End the fear.
After much deliberation, he chose a window seat, with occupied seats in front and behind. Terry his tormentor, boarded at the next stop. He dawdled along the isle, eyeing his prey and nodded at the occupant of the seat behind. The seat vacated, Terry triumphantly sat down.
“Anyone else smell that stench?” Chortled laughter.
Now or never.
The boy spun around, landing a forceful punch.
‘Ou-ch!’ Blood spurted, tears welled.