“The Family Business” by Marina Finlayson (Short Story)

Genre: Humorous Fantasy

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  Renardo and his brothers are up to their eyeballs in debt, with one last chance to save their merchant business (and their gonads) from the moneylender. The great city of Tebos is holding its Festival of Song in three days’ time, and they have a wagonload of songbirds to sell.

There’s just one large, man-eating problem: the bored sphinx who guards the city’s gates, and her deadly riddle game. Renardo doesn’t even want to be a merchant, but somehow it falls to him to outwit the sphinx. No pressure. All he has to do is come up with an unanswerable riddle.


Excerpt:

“I’m not asking riddles any more,” said the sphinx.

“Really?” The merchant raised his face from the dirt hopefully.

“Really.” The sphinx shifted her wings, which jiggled her bare breasts in a most interesting fashion. She saw the merchant’s gaze drift and frowned. “You shall ask them instead.”

The merchant’s eyes shot back to her face, alarmed. “Me?”

“All of you.” The sphinx’s nod took in the waiting caravans and the line of delegates behind her current victim, all toting their heavy riddle books under their arms. “Union regs only say I shall test each traveller and admit the worthy to the city. There’s no rule that says I have to ask the riddles. A person could get tired of creating riddles after a few centuries, you know.” She sniffed. “No one appreciates the work that goes into a good riddle.”

The merchant had too much on his mind to sympathise. Like just how big the sphinx was close up—bigger than a horse. Bigger than two horses, maybe. Not to mention the size of her teeth.

“Well?” said the sphinx, her snake-like tail twitching impatiently.

“Well what, your graciousness?”

“Are you going to ask me a riddle or shall I just eat you straight off?”

The merchant scrambled back in alarm. “Just a minute, your ladyship.”

He reached for his riddle book and she growled. “And that’s another thing. No more riddle books.”

“No more—?” The merchant cast an anguished glance at his well-thumbed copy of Riddle Me This. His father had presented it to him before his first journey to Tebos, and it had served him well ever since, though there had been that tense patch when the sphinx had decided that riddles were passé, and knock-knock jokes would introduce a little levity into the proceedings.

“Tick tick tick,” said the sphinx. “Time is money, you know.” She yawned, luscious, bee-stung lips pulling back to reveal wicked canines. Sweat sprang out on the merchant’s brow.

“Um …”

The sphinx flowed to her feet as the merchant hesitated. He scrambled backwards as she paced towards him, his eyes riveted on her face. “No, please. Just a minute, your magnificence. Mercy. Just—just—give me a second.”

His foot slipped and for a moment he windmilled on the edge of the precipice that looked down over Tebos. She waited, crouched down so they were nose to nose, till he stopped gasping.

“Lovely view,” he said with a sickly smile.

“The riddle, merchant.”

“What’s … what, um …” His brain had seized with terror. He rummaged desperately through the echoing spaces inside his skull for a riddle. Any riddle.


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"This Is What He Should Have Said" by Brian Olsen (Short Story)

Genre:  Fiction, Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  Bradford worries constantly that any new people he meets will find him boring. By and large, his fears are justified. When his co-workers invite him to a casual night out at a bar, Bradford finds making conversation to be as painful as ever. Will he realize how much his life of solitude is costing him before it’s too late?

Excerpt:

Bradford Smith worried constantly that any new people he met would find him boring. By and large, his worries were justified. His life had been full of rich, interesting events he could have drawn upon, but entering into conversation with someone for the first time instantly filled him with anxiety. He was sure that nothing he had to say could possibly be of interest to anyone and so he shied away from talking about himself, his life, anything that had ever happened to him or anything that might ever happen to him and instead steered all conversation towards the mundane. As a consequence, anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck speaking with him would soon find themselves bored silly and attempt to bring the conversation to a close as quickly as possible.

One Friday evening in September, he was in a trendy, expensive bar with some co-workers. Soft lights, recessed into the dark wood paneled walls, gave the room a warm, comfortable glow. Bradford and his companions had taken over four neighboring tables in the center of the bar. It was still early, and there were few other customers, but the sounds of his co-workers’ laughter and friendly conversation made the bar seem full.

Bradford usually declined invitations to socialize with his fellow employees, but he was tired of eating lunch by himself every day. He hadn’t made any close friends since graduating from college several years earlier and so had quickly accepted the offer to socialize before he could talk himself out of it.

He was seated next to a very nice young woman wearing a pretty yellow dress. She was a friend of one of his co-workers, and she had just introduced herself to Bradford. Her name was Amanda.

Bradford wanted to have a friendly conversation with someone.

This is what he should have said:

“I used to have a dress like that.”
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"All the Other Boys" by Laura Rae Amos (Short Story)

Genre:  Chick Lit, New Adult, Literary Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  A kooky and hopeless young woman recounts the spectacularly awful rise and fall of her first real relationship. Spanning five years of earnest loyalty to this young man, she discovers the truth about sex, religion, life, and herself, interspersed with memories of all the other boys who stole her heart for a short time. For fans of contemporary stories of first love, first disappointment, and growing up, “All the Other Boys” is darkly comical and ultimately triumphant.

Excerpt:

When I was seventeen, I met a guy named Cody at marching band camp. Cody was a senior, I was a junior. Cody played the quad toms, I played clarinet. My boyfriend wasn’t in the band—band was gay, he’d said. But Cody was definitely not gay, and when our band formed the letter M on the field, the clarinets—who almost never got to stand next to the drums—stood face-to-face with him. Cody wore his hair long over his eyes, silkier and smoother than my boyfriend’s hair, probably silkier and smoother than mine. He was quiet, but he smiled a lot, always laughing, something uncontrollably funny hidden behind that long, silky hair. He was a tall clown with a beautiful hidden face. Sometimes I'd be watching him across the football field, and when he erupted in laughter, even though I had no idea what he'd said, I would laugh too, like catching hiccups. The other clarinet players would turn to look at me, alarmed and curious. “What's so funny?”

“Oh nothing,” I would say. “It's nothing.”

I thought it was sweet that he kissed his girlfriend on the forehead, and that he was so tall he had to bend over to do it. I liked the way he bopped the tip of her tiny nose with his finger.

I'm sure she was a very nice girl, but I didn’t like her. Or the fact that he had a girlfriend at all, which didn’t even make sense since I had a boyfriend of my own.

As we stood in formation, I could pretend to read the sheet music clipped to my clarinet, but instead look over the top of it and watch Cody, the way he swiped his hair. One swipe and for a second, there was that beautiful hidden face, stormy gray eyes, the color of rain clouds. I think he caught me staring a few times, which might have been okay, because it meant he actually looked at me and knew I was alive.

I wasn't sure why it mattered that he knew I was alive, but it did.

Once we got back to school that fall, he broke up with the girl he’d been dating since forever. They would not be getting married after all, like everyone had prophesied. And even though I had a boyfriend, one I had finally decided to have real, actual sex with, which filled my head with curiosity and excitement and adventure, a small part of me said, “Damn the timing!”

My sister told me, “Fuck the timing! You’ve only been with this guy three months! It’s not like you’ve got a ring on your finger!”

But my boyfriend was a nice guy, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. My boyfriend was my first, and sex was fun, and if having premarital sex was bad enough, then having it with two different guys must have been worse! I pictured myself in front of the pearly gates with my name etched in the Book of Death, a tally of my indiscretions next to it, boy after boy after boy, their names written in red ink.

I don’t think Cody and I ever spoke one actual word to each other, but once, after our last away game, we were standing in a circle on the damp dewy football field, with our instruments put away, waiting for a bus to come take us home. My friends had made nice with his friends, and there we were, standing across from each other while everyone else made jokes and conversation, while everyone else flirted with each other, winks and touches, promises of more to come later, and for once Cody wasn't making jokes. He reached across the circle to pick a piece of popcorn off my uniform jacket, and I tried to say ‘thank you,’ but my mouth couldn’t move as he retreated, a swipe of his hair, and those hidden stormy eyes twinkling in the football flood lights.

Timing. Rules. Indiscretions. I sighed a little, and I put my hands in my pockets and turned back to laugh with the rest of them, pretending not to notice that Cody laughed too, or that I had memorized the sound of it.

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"Space Case" by Dan Fiorella (Novella)

Genre:  Fantasy, Humor, Detective

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Nick Flebber, a PI with a knack for landing unusual cases, gets hired to follow a husband suspected of cheating. Instead of finding a mistress, he winds up dealing with corporate espionage, street crazies and very illegal aliens.

Excerpt:

4:37 PM, Offices of Flebber Investigations

Frankly, business had suffered an uptick as of late; I had just finished up the DesRoches affair. Man claimed someone had stolen his wife’s identity. Wanted me to find that person and stop her. Found her and brought her in. Mr. Desroches decides she makes a better Mrs. DesRoches than his wife, so they ran off together. He actually skipped out on me but I still had his Social Security number and bank information, so I just wired myself my fee.

Then there was the Cariello business. A movie studio called me in to track down some internet troll called “The Spoiler.” Kept posting reports on their latest movies to the web and giving away the endings. Was really cutting into their receipts. Had to do a lot of leg work and check a lot of mothers’ basements before I found him and presented him with a “Cease & Desist” knuckle sandwich. Heard he’s now pushing language courses online, offering studies in Nigerian to better communicate with spammers. This is the kind of work I do. My name’s Nick Flebber and I’m a private eye.

Things were getting busy and I lost a lot of my “me time.” Since your more upscale (read “successful” and/or “reputable”) private investigator firms have a “staff” of “employees” who keep an eye on “things” while the detectives went out and detected stuff, it was decided I had to go and hire myself a secretary what doubled as a receptionist and visa-versa.

Yeah, yeah, it’s not what you think. Now that I was in a mainly monogamous match-up, I wasn’t about to hire some professional party girl. Not with my dear Sandra Claus and her uncanny ability to know when I’m sleeping and know when I’m awake. Not to mention that whole naughty/nice paradigm. She gets that from her dad, a Christmas icon whom I met on a case not so long ago. Yeah, I managed to rescue him from a crazed retailer. Got me in good with the lassie. Sandra’s a wonderful gal but she still lives with her folks up north. But she’s a wonderful gal. So there would be no femme fatales lurking about on her watch. Anyway, that’s what Sandra told me on her last visit down.

“How many people applied for the job, Nick?” Sandra asked.

“A lot more than I thought would.” I knew times were tough, but I didn’t think they were so tough that people were looking to hook up with a one-horse detective agency.

Sandra worked her way through a pile of resumes and cover letters. “Why do some of these include head shots?”

“I think I posted the job on the wrong Craig’s List. Some of them might think it’s an audition for an acting job.”

“That might explain why this resume says she’s willing to work au naturale.”

“It might be.”

Sandra began gathering her stuff together. “I have to get going, Nick, or I’m going to miss the 5:20 sleigh.”

“You brought the sleigh??”

She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. “For a hard-boiled P.I. you are so gullible. No, I didn’t take the sleigh. But I have to get back. Now then, you have that list of names?”

I nodded. Again.

“Good. Vader needs them checked.”

“Vader?”

“Vader Kersfees.”

“Who calls him that? Luke Skywalker?”

“South Africans. As I was saying regarding the list; apparently there are a couple of border line cases and he’s trying to cut back on the coal. You know, improve his carbon footprint.”

“I’ll check ‘em. Twice.”

“As per usual,” she smiled back.

We both had our jobs to do: Her back home, me down in the states. Talk about your long distance relationships. I did miss her (and frankly, I still couldn’t fully comprehend our relationship: she’s a Scandinavian sweetie, and I’m a rough-hewn mug who resembles an extra in an old Warner Bros. gangster movie), but there were a lot of people that needed my help here. Not to mention that the Big Guy liked having a pair of boots on the ground points south. We shared one last kiss and she headed out.

A nanosecond later I heard voices in the small reception area I was preparing. Peeking out, I saw that a woman had entered. The term that leapt to mind was “hausfrau” as I was in a rather continental mood. Not exactly the type you normally found in this part of town. She had timidly approached Sandra, clutching her cloth coat to her neck and keeping her pocketbook tight in her armpit. She looked out of place and out of sorts.

“May I help you?” Sandra asked her.

“I need to hire a private investigator. Are you a private investigator?”

Even I could make out the lines of worry etch-a-sketched across her brow. “Not I, but we have one. A very good one. He’s in his office,” Sandra responded. “Is everything all right?”

That’s when the woman started weeping. “I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to a private investigator.”

Sandra turned and called, “Nick!”

I was out before she could finish the syllable.

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"For Fás Sake" by Keith O'Brian (Short Story)

Genre:  Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Story:

There was four people waiting, I was fifth in the queue the little snowman shaped woman in the small, extremely untidy office told me. It looked like a cross between Hiroshima and a paper recycling centre. ‘Organised chaos’, she said with a cheeky wink. I smiled back. This was my first ever experience being in a social welfare office. It was as majestic as I had been led to believe it would be. Talk about a dreary gut wrenchingly depressing place. A strange smell of disinfectant which came from a filthy mop and bucket that looked as if it had done as much work in the last few months as I had filled my nostrils. After a few moments it began to annoy me just ever so slightly. I took my form from the counter along with a complimentary pen (how kind) and I slowly shuffled back towards an empty hard plastic chair. It had a small crack in the back that pinched my t-shirt whenever I sat back into it. Feckin’yoke. I moved to another seat to continue filling out my forms. The wobbly leg on it was marginally less irritating than the last. Suppose it was the lesser of the two evils.

The filling out of this form, mind numbingly boring as it was, was made ever more challenging by a strangely loud flickering of the light above me coupled with the chattering of two Polish (well I’m guessing Polish) men. They were the size of fried freezers so im guessing they’re some sort of Russian expats. Why did they have to speak so loud? I stood up to have a look at the notice board across from me. From the complete mess that was posted on this I’m guessing that the woman in the office had had a hand in its design. Endless lists of courses were posted all over a graffiti covered corkboard. It’s a bad state of affairs when the graffiti was the most interesting part of it! I chuckled to myself as I noticed the irony of a childish cartoon drawing of a cock scribbled in between a poster warning against STI’s (why this was here I’ve no idea but I came to the conclusion that it was no work and all play) and a local funeral directors. I wonder did they draw the cock first and then the posters followed?

‘Hope yer not laughin at my cock?’, a voice said behind me. I turned around to see Dan, a lad I knew from my school days, standing there.

‘Jayzis Dan, hows tricks?’, I asked him.

‘Can’t complain mate’, he said in a voice that didn’t quite fit his appearance. You see he was a small fat Arabian looking lad who spoke with a thick cultchie accent. His parents must have bought him or something as they were as pale as a couple of emo teenagers. Persian Dan we called him at school. Well we called him a lot of things but Persian Dan was the name that stuck. I don’t know if anyone ever called him that to his face? He probably couldn’t care less anyways. The style of the gear he had on him today was a treasure to behold. It honestly had to be seen to be believed. He always had a strange sense of style that made him looked like Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder had being playing “pin the tail” with him. Sandals, socks (of course), football shorts and a Status Quo vest was the irresistable ensemble he had chosen today. This crazy looking getup was topped off with a sort of comb-over mullet. It really was a sight that had o be seen to be believed. There have been escaped loonies with better style sense than this lad.

He took his form and we sat down.

‘Fuckin’ chairs pinching me back fat’, he said loudly. An old man at the seat next to us spat out his tea and chuckled to himself.

‘What course ye doin?’, I asked Dan.

‘Dont really care mate, I just do them to get the few bob. I’ve been on more courses than Tiger Woods’, he said in that dry humour I had forgotten he used to perfection. ‘Don’t know why I have to fill these out’, he said in an irritated fashion. ‘I’ve been coming here that long I get invited to the staff parties’. A smile crept across his face. ‘Irony at its finest’, he said laughing, ‘to get invited to the staff party ye’d have to work and’, he said nudging me with his elbow,’ the only job I’ve ever managed to get is a blowjob!’ We both laughed loudly. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad, I thought to myself.

The door in the entrance opened slowly with a loud squeak that sounded like a cat in a blender. Does nothing in this place look or sound the way it was intended to? In walked four men, a small little fat man, a slightly taller slimmer man, a tall bulky fella and then a man the size of a decent sized wardrobe. Standing in the queue they looked like a depiction of the evolution of man.

We were then all herded into another room and told to sit down at a table and fill out yet another form. This room was another plain box room with cheap laminated tables covered in scratched on little memories from past visitors. On the walls hung the most hilarious pieces of inspirational sayings printed out by the snowman in the office no doubt. I’m sure all these quick little information gathering forms would be so much more relevant to our job search had we all not filled them in together so the lads who couldn’t read or who didn’t speak English had theirs done too. A tall slender man with big round Oasis in the 90’s style glasses stood in a non tailored suit that hung from him as if he had lost weight recently and kept wearing it. He looked as enthusiastic as the rest of us. He droned on in a dull, lethargic manner and sighed heavily after every short sequence of sentences. I wondered if he’d of been better off filling out one of these magic forms that were going to help us find “a job we deserve”. I didn’t want to suggest it to him. Well it was my first day.

He handed us yet another personalised form. Please answer all questions to the best of your abilities the form read.

‘And lads, don’t spend forever on it, we haven’t got all day!” he said in an angry and disgruntled manner.

‘Sure what else are we gonna be doing Alan, the bookies and pub doesn’t open til after lunch!” Dan shouted out from our table. We laughed. Alan didn’t.

‘Less of your chat today Osama’ he quipped back as quick as a flash.

‘Osama? ” I questioned to Dan. ’Surely that’s a bit racist? No? I asked but didn’t really think it was racist. It was hilarious and so unexpected from a man who looked as humorous as a bipolar suffering undertaker.

‘That’s what he calls me. Osama Bone Idle’ he said laughing as he told me. A loud laugh escaped my mouth quicker than I could control it, it filled the room. It deserved a laugh. Meeting Dan could be the break I needed to catch.

The form was as intellectually challenging as a kids join the dots game. Seriously, what could this achieve? The only question I found to be remotely interesting was; describe yourself in five words. I struggled to think of something to write down for a few moments and decided to glance over at Dan’s form. He was scribbling away without even pausing. Must be all the practice he has gotten over the past few years. I glanced at his “five words” question. A wave of laughter started in my stomach sending a shudder through my chest that began rattling my shoulders. I didn’t even attempt to hide it this time. I couldn’t. The tears cascaded down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and glanced at Dan’s form again to double check what I’d read. His answer read; Overweight, underachiever. Say no more!

‘Honesty, thats what they wanted’ he said throwing out a wink and a smile. I went for a slightly more subdued and generic answer. Honest, reliable, determined, punctual and hardworking.

‘Its supposed to be honest’ Dan said nodding his head towards my answer.

‘Fuck off. It is’ I snapped back arguably but to no avail. I wondered if everyone had been as honest?

‘Right lads, sure we’ll call that elevenses’ said Alan.

‘Lovely’ Dan said as he began rolling a smoke. He looked around shiftily and produced a small bag of weed. ‘Its for my glaucoma’ he said blinking his eyes continuously as if trying to convince me.

‘Yeah’ I said back sounding unconvinced at his explanation. ‘Think I might be getting a touch of that too’ I said and also began blinking. He laughed as he threw in some more medicinal smoke.

We went out to a small area at the back of the centre that looked like a beer garden in a pretty rough pub. The wooden picnic tables shook and wobbled as we sat down. The group split into smaller groups and struck up conversations between themselves.

‘Thats the Warsaw Pact’ Dan said nodding towards a group of men that were so big even sitting down they looked like a mountain range. ‘Over there is the redundancy brigade, he pointed towards a group of elderly men (well mid fifties) sitting together with their glasses on doing their crosswords and Sudoku puzzles. ‘They’re grand and always good for a tip for the horses too. ‘Any info for me today Tony?’ Dan shouted across at one of them.

‘Just studying the form I’ll let you know in a few alright’ he shouted back.

Lovely’ Dan said rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm them on a cold morning. ‘Hopefully thatl pay off and we’ll have enough for a few cheeky after “work” scoops!’ he said with an excited tone in his voice.

After the smoke break we headed back in slightly buzzed and drained after the smoke. The pace in which we all sauntered back in slightly annoyed Alan who grunted at us to hurry up.

‘Right lads, yez are going to have to watch this DVD while I have a look over these forms. Try give it a bit of your attention, if it’s not too much trouble he said again sounding so underwhelmed with life. I couldn’t blame him really. His job is to help find a job for those who don’t want a job. What a thankless task!

An ex Fair City actor was now on screen taking us through the main points of finding a new job. I sat and wondered how bad an actor he must of been to be now considered an “ex” fair city (ahem) “star”. It was slightly annoying me. My mind had now wandered off. I looked at Dan, he looked like his mind was still sitting outside at the table! So this was how he got through these manic depressive days.

‘Watch this, I love this bit, it gets me every time’ he said pointing to his chest. The actor on screen looked deep into the camera, at us, and said ‘remember, always believe in yourself’. Dan was chuckling. ‘Fuckin’ clown!’ he should be here with us . ‘Has he even got a job?’ Dan shouted up at Alan.

‘Dya have to ask every time Dan’ he said through a mixture of gritted teeth and a loud bemused sigh.

‘Guarantee he’s a Rockinroller like the rest of us here! Believe in yourself. Gobshite’ Dan ranted along. Those of us that understood English and his cultchie accent laughed. These inspirational videos and testimonials continued for the rest of the afternoon. It worked though. We felt inspired (tongue in cheek) and were ready to decide what course we were going to enrol on. Dan and I opted for the warehouse course. How testing could this be?

As lunchtime approached, Alan began talking again and after putting down his stack of completed forms called Dan aside for a quick chat

‘I need to talk to you in the office for a quick sec Dan’ he said in a calm yet unnerving undertone. He cleared his throat and dismissed the rest of us for the day. Apparently we had done enough. Dan rose gingerly from his seat, still carrying that air of confidence in him but yet this time looking slightly more vulnerable. A sense of fear crept slowly across his face as the colour drained from it like water slowly escaping down a plughole.

I walked back out to the main entrance of the building and sat down on a small little wooden bench just outside the front door. I waited there for Dan as we had arranged to celebrate our first days work with a couple of sociable drinks. As the minutes rolled by I began to wonder what had happened to Dan. I laughed to myself as I thought to myself, how bad would it be if he had managed to get fired from a Fás course?

About twenty minutes had passed until Dan emerged from the building looking sunken and shocked. His voice crackled just a little bit as he said ‘Its over man, its finally over!’

‘Over’ I questioned.

’Yeah, the sneaky whores have managed to find me a feckin’ job and I have to take it or they’ll stop my dole! Disaster!’ He expelled a huge gasp of hair and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I need a drink, and quickly’ he said and we got going to the nearest watering hole.

Pint after pint were slung down the hatch and as the room began to move and sway like elderly couples in a ballroom we began to instigate a mixture of singing and what can only be described as growling from Dan. Other patrons were horrified as we murdered song after song (well we tried our best). As the drink took its toll and the singing became faint and inaudible Dan sang a little tune that perfectly summed up his situation. To the tune of ‘On the road again’ by Wille Nelson, Dan sang his version, ‘On the Dole again, I can’t wait to be on the Dole again, I can’t wait to be signing on with my friends, I can’t wait to be on the Dole again’. We fell around laughing as we wandered through the pub car park and as we said our goodbyes it finally dawned on me that I was losing the friend that had gotten me through the day. A heavy sadness came across me as we hugged and as we walked away in different directions he shouted ‘Dont worry I’ll be back!

"Where for art thou Risotto?" by Keith O'Brian (Short Story)

Genre:  Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Story:

Internet dating, what a load of old bollox, I thought to myself. I’d spent the last 18 months, following a breakup, online trawling round for my ‘soulmate’. Updating photos and writing my own biography to try and entice the opposite sex.

‘I even write like a gobshite, no wonder they never write back to me, like my photos or even throw me a sneaky poke on facebook’, I said to Tim, my mate, who led me onto this ‘opportunity of a lifetime’ as he called it, like he was selling me a timeshare or cheap crap at a market stall. Fucking gimp!

‘I’m tellin ye man, it’s like shootin fish in a barrel’, he said. You would swear he was Brad Pitt or one of them handsome fellas, whereas in real life his face was that pot marked it looked like he had been used as a pub dartboard.

‘G’way ye pleb. The only ride you have had in the last few months is with Rachel the Raleigh and she’s had more rides than a jockey’.

He tried to be annoyed but laughed.

‘Fuck off’, he said through a grinning chuckle. ‘It’s true, but it’s still more than you’ve had’, he said with an air of victory to it. ‘Suppose yer too busy spending yer nights on chat roulette with yer lad in yer hand, he said nodding towards the computer. ‘I’d say its riddled’.

He wasn’t right but not far wrong at the same time everything was right except for the ‘self exploration’. That sort of thing wasn’t for me.

‘Nothing like the intimacy of clicking a mouse with one hand and churning man butter with the other’, Tim said.

Webcams always annoyed me. Such and such has invited you to view webcam it said. If I wasn’t a stressed out horndog then I’d tell them what for. But alas there I am ready to click join, pretending I don’t have a camera so I can just watch. Like a voyeur or something. I might as well be up the tree outside her house perving on her with my binoculars.

I wasn’t like this before the breakup. ‘Live a little man will ye’, Tim said. I didn’t think clicking on endless photos of middle-aged women was much of an adventure to be honest. Her advert read: divorced, happy go lucky, loves walks in the parks and animals, looking for friendship and maybe more. It was the maybe more I was looking for. I’d had enough of that other stuff for the past twenty odd years. I always used to wonder why they had got divorced in the first place. Did she shag around on him? That would be grand to meet her so, least I’d get a bit.

‘Jesus not her anyway’, I said aloud. Rough. I have a fair idea why she got divorced anyways. Would she be better than chat roulette? Probably not. NEXT. Jesus H Christ. The tide wouldn’t take her out. Click. Click, click. Never ending. It’s like browsing on the RSPCA orphaned dogs site.

Aha now were talking. She looks alright. Doesn’t really look 50. Widowed, fun loving, looking for fun. Check, check and check. Do you want to contact? Yes please! She will do quite nicely. Send my details. Done and done. Now it’s time to play the waiting game. I sat back in my chair like some sort of Bond villain or something. Embarrassing really. ‘If I could see myself now I’d slap myself. Deucebag’

....Nothing for a couple of days. Time to update my profile I think. I’ll give Tom a call and see if he can give me a hand. He’s a veteran at this kind of stuff, or so I’m led to believe.

‘I’ll be up in an hour or so man, I’m just stroking a wild one’, he said in a hurry and hung up abruptly. I didn’t want to know that. Some things can be kept to themselves. I’m all for some privacy. He better wash his paws after.

‘Ah for fuck sake, no wonder yer not getting any biters on yer rod, he said throwing out a cheeky wink simultaneously. ‘What’s this shite?’ He questioned. ‘Dont be tellin them any of this man. Delete that anyways. Seriously?’ He questioned. He laughed to himself. ‘Ye goon’, he snorted. He typed away for a few minutes and then stood up, dusted off his hands and told me to read.

... Successful business man, own house, holiday home in the sun, no kids. Looking for that special someone to grow old with. Genuine guy with lots of love to give.

‘What the hell is this muck, Tim? I asked.

‘Don’t worry it’s what they all want to hear mate. Trust me.

‘Ah I don’t know, Tim. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Businessman? I work nights in a petrol station alongside a semi gay Polish fella, two lads the colour of varnished pine and man from Zaire who’s as black as the desert sky at night. I rent a room in the back of a doss house, have two kids and haven’t a shillin’ to my name. Someone to grow old with? Now why did ye say that shit? Lots of love to give? Ye made me sound like a right poof.

‘Ye’l be grand. Watch the Notebook and just pretend it’s what you want too. It’s what I do.

‘That’s working well for ye anyways is it? I questioned mockingly.

‘My dry streak has been moistened my man’, he said cheekily and began to boast of his conquests from the past month. Pure filth came out of that mans mouth. As a man who has dabbled in some strange shenanigans even I was shocked by his tales.

Ye’v more fables than Aesop’, I said.

‘It’s all true. No lies. Honestly man. Scouts honour’, he brashly replied.

‘I’ve heard you be called some things in my day Tim but honest definitely isn’t one of them.

‘What can I say? I’m a catch. ‘A stud’, he half shouted as he stood up with the cheeky grin of a teenage lothario.

... The profile worked. I had a date, with Cindy. A widow no less. Get in there! Well that was the plan anyways. I had checked her out on Facebook a couple of times. Not stalkingly but rather just inquisitively. I promise. She looked pretty tasty in her photos. The three kids were a bit of a worry. She’s seen plenty of traffic down there I’d say. Be like throwing a sausage down Grafton St. Ah sure we’ll give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?

In summary, the date was a disaster. She looked pretty different in real life. She cut a more rounded figure to be honest. Like a pear in a dress, more like a poached pear actually with the strange shade of red on her face from the nervous sweat beading across her brow. She was actually pretty nice and interesting. Loads of stories about her kids, well that was to be expected. I kept up the lie about not having any of my own. The lying actually came pretty natural to me, slightly frightening at the beginning but I found myself rambling on and on with them as the date progressed. Maybe Tim hadn’t been lying. Well if he managed to get dates then it must work. There was no notable faux pas during the date other than the fact I managed to drop my tie into a bowl of soup.

‘Will we go Dutch?’ She asked.

I hadn’t a clue what this meant. I thought it was a sex thing. ‘On a first date?’ I stammered. She looked puzzled and reached for her purse. What the hell was she going to pull out now? My heart pumped as I watched intently. A purse? Maybe something’s inside I wondered.

‘So 50/50 then yeah?’ she asked.

‘No I’ll get this, my treat.’ I said. What was this Dutch thingy? I pondered for few moments. Maybe she said it as a mistake. Yeah, she probably didn’t mean to say it out loud in case I thought she was easy. That was probably it. Ah well I’ll Google it after and see what it was.

We kissed goodbye outside the restaurant. She had the fish risotto so as you can imagine that kiss was a meal in itself. Never again I thought to myself. ‘So will we do this again? She asked.

‘Of course, sure give me yer number there and we’ll set something up in the next few weeks alri? I said, knowing full there were two chances of that happening. Slim and fuck all!

‘How’d the date go?’ Tim asked when I seen him the following day.

‘Ah was alri, I suppose’, I told him.

‘Dya get yer end away?’ He asked, looking as excited as a kid at Christmas. Why he was this excited I have no idea.

‘No I didn’t. Not even the faintest chance of it. Kinda ragin I was. After I got home and was as horny as a sailor on shore leave that was’, I said laughing. ‘I even bought the dinner and pretended I didn’t hear her offering me some Dutch thingy.’

‘Tight bitch’, he joked. Dutch thing? He questioned.

‘Yeah. Dya wanna go Dutch? She asked me’.

‘Ye clown. That means did ye wanna split the bill. Von Dutch.’ He answered like a big fat headed know it all.

I broke out in laughter. ‘I thought it was a dirty sex thing. Yeno what the Dutch are like. We both stood there laughing. He was shaking his head at me as the tears rolled down his face.

As he collected himself after a few moments he asked ‘Ye meetin her again or anten?

‘She is mad for another date with the kid’ I said fixing my collar like I was a young James Dean. ‘Suppose if I get no more offers I’ll give her a shout or something.

‘I’d say she is alri. Suppose she must be pretty hard up for a jont if she’s into you man’, he said in jest.

‘Well I’m hardly beating them away with a shitty stick at the moment so she might be getting a phone call’, I said slightly down heartened at the thought of having to meet her again.

... I hadn’t heard a peep from anyone over the next few days. Surely she couldn’t have been the only woman who found me even the slightest bit attractive. Guess I’m not the catch I thought I was. I was starting to get second thoughts about this internet dating malarkey. How does Tom do it? I questioned to myself. Probably because he spins more yarns than Rumpelstiltskin on speed. Yeah I’d say that was it. Hopefully that was it anyways.

I’ll have a little bit of a window shop on the site again tonight and see if there is anyone who takes my fancy. That was my plan. Click, click, and click. Maybe she wasn’t that bad after all. I could get used to fish risotto. To hell with this for now. I’m having a game of free cell and a Satzenbrau. ‘Who needs this shite?’ I gasped out loud.

"The Tryst" by Jan Hurst-Nicholson (Short Story)

Genre:  Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Story:

Liverpool, England 1960s

He tried nibbling her ear. He wasn’t sure whether he should be licking, nibbling, or kissing it. Even after re-watching a movie he still hadn’t been able to make out the exact technique.


“Are you sure we can’t be seen from the path?” Pam whispered, snagging her gymslip on a bush as she peered into the gloomy clearing.

“’Course not. I’ve staked it out. It’s quite private.” Colin assured her, settling on a grassy patch.

Pam, unsure of the next move, inspected the damage to her clothing,

“Sit down,” invited Colin. “We can use our satchels as pillows.”

Pam sat mutely beside him, knees tucked under her chin and encircled with her arms. In the expectant silence the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. It was eerily quiet until Pam sighed and turned resignedly to Colin. “Well, what happens now? It’s up to you to start.” She flicked her long dark hair in an effort to look sexy.

He gripped her shoulders and pulled her lustily towards him.

“Hang on,” she said, pushing him away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Aren’t you going to get rid of that chewing-gum first?”

“Sorry.” He spat out the offending gum and tried again. “Come on, lie down. It’s more comfy.”

Pam lay back and clasped her hands behind her head, a move she’d practised to better reveal the outline of her budding breasts. Colin gently brushed her lips with his. She sprang upright as if stung.

“What’s wrong now?”

“This grass is damp. I can feel it right through my knickers.”

“Here, lie on my blazer.” He hastily placed it under her bottom.

He tried nibbling her ear. He wasn’t sure whether he should be licking, nibbling, or kissing it. Even after re-watching a movie he still hadn’t been able to make out the exact technique.

Pam lay unresponsive, her eyes closed. He was about to attempt a love bite when she unexpectedly turned her head and gave him a rather painful bang on the nose.

“What homework have you got?” she demanded.

Colin rubbed his nose in a violent effort to stop his eyes watering. “Just maths. Why?”

She giggled. “Funny they never give us homework when it’s sex education.”

“Perhaps they’ll give us a ‘do-it-yourself’ manual when we leave school,” Colin said, grinning. Furtively unbuttoning her blouse he gradually slid his hand inside, hardly daring to breathe lest Pam should object. His mouth was drying up, partly from excitement, but mostly because he was afraid to breathe through his nose in case it made him sniff.

“Colin, do you love me?”

“Course I do.”

“How much?”

“Lots.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Do my geography homework.”

“Geography? You know I hate geography!”


“There. I knew you didn’t love me,” she said, removing his hand and sitting up.

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” panted Colin, whose hand had almost reached her bra. Satisfied, she lay back and allowed Colin to slip his hand inside her blouse again. She began to wriggle and heave her buttocks. Colin couldn’t believe his luck. “Are you enjoying it?” he whispered, pressing eagerly against her.

“Enjoying what?” she asked scornfully. “Something’s biting me bum.”

Colin, somewhat deflated, hunted fruitlessly for the offending insect. “Must have been a piece of grass. Lie down again,” he pleaded.


She glanced at him quizzically. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you? If our David finds out, he’ll kill you. He might even tell me Dad.”

“Don’t you trust me? I love you. This is something beautiful between just the two of us.” He’d read that in a book. He kissed her, wondering whether he dare try a French kiss, thinking it might distract her while his hands sought their target.

Her bra was unfastened and he eased it up to expose ripe, young breasts. Breathlessly, he stared down at them half-expecting Pam to object. Encouraged by her silence, he tentatively touched one. Pam shrieked in alarm.


“What’s wrong?” He hurriedly withdrew his hand.

“Your hands aren’t half cold.”

“Sorry.” He rubbed them together before cautiously trying again. “Warm enough now?”

“It’s all right.”

He moved his hand experimentally. “Hey, look, your nipples are standing up.”

“So what.”

“So that means you’re aroused.”

“What do you mean – aroused?” There was a hint of disdain in her voice.

“Y’know, when a man’s thing becomes erect it means he’s aroused. Same with a girl. When her nipples are erect it means she’s worked up.”

“Doesn’t make me feel any different,” said Pam. “They go like that when I wash them anyway.”

He was about to argue when she pressed her fingers against his lips. “Sshh,” she cautioned.

“What’s up?”

“I heard a rustle in the bushes. I think someone’s coming.”

“Well it’s not me,” said Colin, giggling.

“Shut up, stupid. It could be our David.”

“There’s no one there,” Colin reassured her.

But Pam found something else to worry about. “Colin, how do you know I won’t get pregnant?”

“You can’t get pregnant the first time.”

“Rubbish! Miss Marsh says that’s a story all boys tell. It’s a lie. You can get pregnant the first time.”

“What does she know? What I meant was – girls can get pregnant if it’s their first time, but if it’s the boy’s first time he won’t make her pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“Peter Wilder made love to a girl last month and she didn’t get pregnant.”

Pam digested this new piece of wisdom. “D’you think Miss Marsh has ever, y’know, done it?”

“Doubt it,” said Colin. “She’s old. Must be at least thirty.”

“Don’t you think people over thirty bother anymore?”

Colin considered his reply as he undid his belt. “My Mum was thirty-four when she had me, so they must have done it at least once after thirty.”

Colin had unzipped his trousers. Taking Pam’s hand, he was about to place it inside when she pulled away. “Come on, what’s wrong now?” he implored.

“Aren’t you going to take your shoes and socks off first?”

“Why should I?”

“My Mum says she can’t stand men who make love with their socks on.”

“But I’ve still got my shirt and trousers on. Why should I take my socks off?”

“Don’t you want to take them off? Do your feet smell or something?”

“No, of course they don’t,” he said, resigned to exposing his bare feet. She watched while he wrestled with his shoelaces.

She made him feel stupid and he could feel the anger welling up. He grabbed her shoulders and forced her back on to the blazer, pinning her underneath him like he’d seen Clint Eastwood do.

“Ooh,” she said, wriggling with delight.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. You’ve got a huge spot on your neck with a big white head. Please let me squeeze it.”

“No,” he said, exasperated.

“Why not?”

“If it was Roger Moore you wouldn’t be asking to squeeze his spots.”

“Course not. Roger Moore doesn’t have spots.”

He glared at her. She glowered back defiantly. “Get on with it then.”

He kissed her angrily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while he fumbled under her skirt. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.

“Colin, do you think I’m sexy?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

She nuzzled his neck, avoiding the spot. “Are you sure you haven’t done this with anyone else?”

“Course I’m sure.”

“Perhaps that’s what’s wrong,” she declared. “The man is supposed to be experienced so he can show the woman what to do.”

“I know what to do,” said Colin, unaware that anything had been wrong. “It’s your fault. You’re not reacting like you’re supposed to.” He circled her breast with his hand, stroking and squeezing. She stared at him with a bored expression. “See what I mean,” he complained. “You’re supposed to moan and groan and look as if you’re enjoying it.”

Pam contorted her face into feigned expressions of ecstasy. “Is that what you want? Heavy breathing and lecherous looks?”

“You’re not supposed to sound like a steam train and look as though you’re having an epileptic fit,” Colin protested.

“How am I supposed to look then?”

“Like this,” he said, producing a crumpled and well-thumbed photograph from his pocket.

Pam gasped in shocked fascination. “Where d’you get this? It’s a porno picture.”

“Gary Hewitt. When he showed it to Sylvia Wainwright it really turned her on.” He waited for Pam’s reaction. “She charges y’know,” he added.

“Who does?”

“Sylvia Wainwright.”

“How do you know?”

“Gary told me.”

“You mean he paid her money?”

“No, she makes the guys do her homework.”

“That’s disgusting! It’s cheap, like being a prostitute,” said Pam.

She looked at him quizzically. “Are you sure you haven’t been with her?”

“I told you I haven’t.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you. My mother told me all men are liars, and never to trust them.”

“But I love you. “ He took her hand and cautiously moved it inside his trousers. Pam looked round nervously. “I don’t like it here. It’s spooky. I’m sure someone is watching us.”

“Stop chattering,” he demanded. “It’s putting me off.”

“Aren’t we meant to talk?”

“It’s supposed to be romantic – or just moans and sighs.”

They were silent until Colin said, “Move your hand up and down.”

“I can’t. You’re lying on my arm and it’s gone dead.”

Colin shifted his weight.

“What’s the time?” she said, twisting his wrist to see his watch. “It’s twenty to six,” she gasped. “I’ll have to be going or me Dad’ll come looking for me.”

“Just a few more minutes,” implored Colin, whose body was throbbing painfully.

“No, me Dad’ll kill me.”

“But I thought we were going to be lovers,” he wailed. “You promised.”

“Perhaps next week, but not here, it makes me nervous.”

“What about under the gym, next Thursday?”

“I’ll think about it. You promise you won’t tell anyone about this?”

“Of course I won’t,” he said, reluctantly dressing. “You’d better leave first in case there is someone around.”

Pam sneaked away through the shrubbery. Colin watched her go and then waited as six schoolboys emerged from the bushes. He took a book from his satchel and checked the names against those of the boys. “Right, pay up,” he said.

“Hey, look here, Colin,” said a pimply-faced red-head, “I’m not paying the full amount. I hardly saw anything.”

“That’s your fault,” replied Colin. “You chose where you wanted to watch from. Pay up or else.”

“I agree,” said another. “I’m not paying five shillings for a look at your bum!”

“Yes,” said another, “I only saw one tit and not even a nipple.”

“If you don’t pay up you won’t be invited to the gym next Thursday,” threatened Colin. “And by the way, it’s an extra two and sixpence for Clive because of the binoculars.”

“What!” demanded Clive. “But they’re my binoculars.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s extra for close-ups.”

The boys reluctantly handed over their money, muttering their disappointment, "Didn’t even get her knickers off.”



Pam ran home and was out of breath when she greeted the girls who were sitting waiting on her garden wall. “Well?” they chorused.

“Get the paper and pencil,” she panted. These were produced and Pam spanned her hand across the paper indicating where the line should be drawn. “Who's got the chart?”

“I have,” replied an untidy-looking girl, extracting it from the rat’s nest of her bag. Giggling, they compared paper and chart. With a theatrical flourish Pam announced: “That’s Roger Worth still last, followed by James Smith and Colin. Steven Farrow and Gary Hughes tie for the biggest.” She turned to the girls. “Who shall we do next?”

ENDS

Buy the collection containing this story on Amazon.

"Under Contract" by Craig Hansen (Short Story)

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"Lancashire Hot Pot Loves Welsh Rarebit" by Ryan Thomas (Short Story)

Genre:  Adult Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  Jake Tempest, an unknown and slightly unhinged indie author with an unhealthy passion for military weapons and a tenuous grip on reality falls for up-and-coming Welsh writer Morwenna Midnight when they meet via an online writers' forum.

Fantasy turns to obsession when he sees the garden gnome on the cover of her soon-to-be-published novel as his only rival for her affections. Throw in a cruise missile, a handful of clay sheep, long-distance-lust, and things can only go one way - completely tits-up.

Excerpt:

Telephone conversation #2:

"Hi Doll."

"Err, Jake?"

"I just thought I'd call you for a chat."

Beep.

"I'm busy working on 'Ruminants and Rubber Gear', is this important?"

"No, not really."

Beep.

"Is that your phone making that beeping noise?"

No, it's my virtual pet."

Your virtual what?

Beep.

"My virtual pet, it needs feeding, hence the beeps."

"Where is it?"

"It's on a key ring thingy that hangs from a belt loop on my jeans."

Beep.

"And when did you last feed it?"

"About seventeen hours ago."

"Seventeen hours? That seems like a long time."

"Yeah, in twelve minutes it will croak."

Beep.

"What type of pet is it?"

"Hard to say really."

"Try."

"It's kind of a cross between an aardvark and a praying mantis."

Beep, beep.

"So it's a praying vark?"

"Not really, more of an aardantis."

"I should have known. What does it eat?"

"Hard to say really."

"Try."

Beep, beep.

"Well the display is only about forty millimetres across and the image is kinda pixelated but with my reading glasses on its food looks like a cross between a human testicle and a wing nut."

"That doesn't sound very nutritious."

"I think I've seen them in my local deli."

Beep, beep, beep.

Jake, how long before it croaks?"

"I'd say less than five minutes."

"And are you going to feed it?"

"I can feel my paternal instincts kicking in, so I probably will."

Beep, beep, beep.

"Does it normally take seventeen hours for your paternal instincts to kick in?"

"It varies, I'm not really a natural father."

"Quite. How long now?"

"About three minutes - ish."

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

"Jake, I'm hanging up, feed that bloody thing now."

Morwenna puts the receiver down. She rests her face in the palms of her hands and considers that if Jake was her virtual pet she would do the humane thing - and let him starve to death.

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"The Wheel of Justice" by Stephen Livingston (Short Story)

Genre:  Humor/Satire

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  Hilariously funny dark humor and biting satire combine in this short story set on an American TV game-show of the near future.

Excerpt:

Wheel of Justice

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this week's show. Tonight our executionee is one Rainbow Smith, a twenty-three year old gang member from the Bronx. Rainbow has been tried and convicted of the homicide of a state law enforcement officer. Rainbow come on down, your time is now."

A thick set, muscular, black man with close cropped afro emerges from a doorway at the back of the studio. Handcuffed and flanked by two armed guards, he makes his way down the stairs through the jeering and cheering audience. Rainbow, passing a cameraman, flashes a feral smile. His white teeth glint in the lens and he winks into the camera as he approaches the stage.

The stage is decorated in a gaudy collision of all the colours of the spectrum, specially for its young victim. The power wheel, looming stage right, is separated from the chair, bedecked as a colourful and comfortable resting place for an unwitting Hansel, by the huge liquid crystal display of the scoreboard.

Rainbow climbs the steps onto the stage and is led to the chair by Luscious Linda, the assistant to the show's presenter Bob Vicarage. Dressed in a low cut, long split, black velvet dress, Linda straps Rainbow down. Down into his final resting place, amid roars of excitement from the testosterone fuelled males in the studio audience, Rainbow sinks.

Bob motions the crowd to silence and announces the contestants.

"This week's prospective prize winning executioners are Granny Emmott from Springfield, New Jersey . . ."

Cheers from her supporters and impartial members of the audience interrupt the suave host as banners reading "Go Granny Go!" and "Shock it to 'em Emmott" are waved.

" . . . and last week's champion, Davor Poborsky, a refugee from Sarajevo now living in Queens."

More howls of encouragement, and a lone female voice screams out "Fugees go home" before being hastily ejected by the studio security guards.

The contestants take their places on the podium in front of the scoreboard and a priest, dressed in the puritanical garb of the early European settlers, enters from the left for his evangelistic interlude.

"In God's country we are privileged with the technology and the divine moral right to bring sinners to their eternal judgement before the eyes of the Lord. Jesus loves America. Hallelujah."

Turning to Rainbow, the cathode Christian offers him the chance to confess and repent his crimes and thus be reconciled with his creator. Rainbow, by way of reply, spits on the floor at the old man's feet and angrily growls, "The dirty fascist pig-dog deserved it."

The priest's face contorts in distaste and he leaves the stage with a parting shot of "And now we have participatory justice for all. There is no escape from the ever watchful eye of our Lord. God bless America." The older viewers in the front rows of the congregation cheer and wave white wooden crosses above their heads while those further back in the audience chat amongst themselves and ignore this part of the proceedings.

As Rainbow contemplates the course his life has taken, leading him into the dire straits he is now ensnared by, the game ensues. Bob fires out trivia questions concerning the law, crime and punishment. The contestants are quick on their buzzers, sending electrical pulses from their fingertips and answering on command. At the end of the first round, the liquid crystals on the scoreboard indicate that Granny Emmott leads Davor by just two volts.

"Granny, am I right in saying that it has been your ambition to take part in the legal course of criminal extermination since you were widowed three years ago?"

"Yes Bob, my late husband was shot dead by one of these scum" she motions toward Rainbow, "during a botched bank robbery near our old home in Albany. He was going to withdraw our savings. My daughter had . . ."

"And your family is here with us tonight" Bob interrupts and the family members cheer from their complimentary seats in the middle of the theatre.

"We must pause now for a word from our sponsors," says Bob, "but don't go away, we will be back to see which of these contestants makes it through to run the power wheel after this break."

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"Supervillain: The Concise Guide" by Ras Ashcroft (Novella)

Genre:  Humor/Parody

Type of Short Story:  Written like a guide, novella length

Summary:  Are you tired of living a humdrum life? Is there little to look forward to except a dead-end job and more news headlines that remind you of your insignificance in the world? Do you think the future of humanity depends on your potent leadership skills? Well forget about the nonsense of running for political office and become a supervillain instead.

Fancy degrees and qualifications are not required. With this concise guide, you will learn all the basic tricks of the trade. Ease into your first seedy business, create a large organisation with interests in finance, media and politics, and build a powerful military force. Eventually you will launch your crusade to rule the entire planet.

Take your shot at world domination – and hit the bull’s-eye.

Excerpt:

A popular brand of dictionary defines the term ‘Supervillain’ as follows:

su•per•vil•lain [soo-per-vil-uh n]: A malicious person usually involved in complex schemes to achieve an ambitious evil end goal such as world domination.

This is a white lie since dictionaries do not even bother to define the term. Perhaps it is because they think that ‘Supervillain’ is a title which bears no real significance outside fiction. Another more probable theory hints at a massive conspiracy involving the heads of the powerful dictionary-industrial complex. Whatever the reason, many average people still aspire to achieve this title. They wish to experience the simple (and clichéd) pleasures of relaxing in a diamond palace on a throne crafted from the skulls of their enemies.

By reading this book, you have taken the first step towards achieving these nefarious goals! Along the way, your loved ones will tell you that this is a ridiculous path to follow. They will tout the merits of following a more traditional career path, such as a Marketing Executive for a major brand or a Cat Groomer for upper class spinsters. Pay little attention to these naysayers. The only Marketing Executives you should worry about are the ones you will eventually hire to manage your propaganda. Similarly, the only cats worth grooming will be the genetically modified lions under your command.

Others may try to reason with you, by claiming that some normal career paths these days can easily satisfy your thirst for evil. At this point, they will direct you to the careers section of your friendly neighbourhood investment bank’s website and say “Look, why not become an investment banker? You’ll be rich, respected at posh dinner parties and you can fulfil your need to commit evil by becoming an integral part of a corrupt finance machine!”

While this is true to a minor extent, it is a long way from the recognition you will gain as a supervillain. You will simply exist as a disposable cog in a faceless organisation. Your real aim is to become the face of your OWN organisation, dedicated to more than just the chore of amassing wealth. After all, the novelty of currency will wear thin once you have an entire micro-nation converted to a secure vault, holding trillions in crisp banknotes with your grinning face on them. Money must simply be viewed as a crude but necessary tool.

Popular publications often attribute the origins of a supervillain to a tragic set of events in that person’s past. Traumatic childhoods, lab explosions and a slow descent into insanity usually figure in the pages of their biographies. They also tend to believe that their actions genuinely benefit society. Such factors can help shape their personality, but they are not necessary preconditions.

By harnessing the power of positive villainous thinking, you too can cultivate wealth, image, respect and connections. You will master these areas and find yourself in a dominant position, where you can hold entire nations hostage on demand. At this point, you can forgive your former critics and invite them for a dip in one of your private champagne lakes. Alternatively, you could opt for a more traditional lake of fire party by throwing them in the super-volcano you activated when those pesky North Americans refused to bow down to your will.

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"Love on the Rocks: A Prescott Carmichael Jaunt" by Howard McEwen (Novelette)

Genre:  Humor

Type of Short Story:  Novelette

Summary:  What's this business with the feather? Whatever it is, it's busted up Daisey and Gus's engagement days before their wedding. Their parents call in Prescott Carmichael to help get the kids back together. Mr. Carmichael sends Jake Gibb to gather intelligence. And all Jake wants is a drink. Do the kids get back together? Does Jake get his drink?

Excerpt:

Who are you, he asked.

Me?

You.

I’m Jake Gibb. I’m staying with the Nottles down the street.

No you’re not.

I am too Jake Gibb.

You’re not staying with the Nottles down the street.

I am too staying with the Nottles down the street.

Mr. Carmichael is staying with them.

I work for Mr. Carmichael. He’s on his way. I flew in last night. Who are you?

I’m Augustus Nottle.

The bridgegroom, I thought.

What were you talking to Daisey about, he asked.

I wish I could tell you. I thought we were talking about the wedding. She wanted none of it, though.

Gus Nottle stepped out from the bushes glancing down the road to make sure Daisey was out of sight.

You want to go get some donuts, he asked.

He looked to have had his fair share of donuts. While not a bad looking guy he was doing a good job of chasing down his father and Mr. Nottle in the Great American Girth race.

Donuts? Sure, I said. I didn’t want a donut. My girlfriend senior year of high school worked in a donut shop. It was an erotically sweet smell at first but after six months of her playing pretty good defense donuts had become the smell of sexual frustration.

We hiked it across a couple of yards and got into a nice little Pontiac two-seater.

This is one of our wedding presents from mom and dad, he said. Daisey wanted babies right away. Mom and dad and Uncle Jack and Aunt Diane think that’s a bad idea. This is one of their little games. You can’t fit a baby seat in this thing.

I grabbed shotgun and thought, by the looks of it, he wasn’t going to be able to fit soon enough.

We took a seat at Flamingo’s House of Donuts and he ordered two banana cream pie donuts. I ordered a single plain. He let me pay for all three. I didn’t expect a good donut on Hilton Head but this was the best I ever had. It still conjured up the ennui of teenage passion denied but tasted nice just the same. Young Mr. Fink began to inhale his two in about four breathes.

So what did Daisey say to you, he finally asked when he needed some air.

Not much. She’s the one that called the whole thing off, right? Did she tell you why?

He dodged the question with some half sentences. I did some nodding.

She didn’t tell you why she was calling it off, I finally said.

She’s just so.... she can’t.....I don’t know why she’s....

If I’m to help you’ll have to use predicates, I chided him. He must really hate predicates because that threw him into a tizzy. He gobbled the last quarter of his last donut, licked his fingers clean of cream and stormed off. I saw the tail lights of that little two seater and began to wonder if he’d forgotten he was my ride. Ten minutes later, I decided he had.

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"Alien Coffee" by John H. Carroll (Novella)

Genre:  Science Fiction, Humor


Type of Short Story:  Novella


Summary:  Jillian keeps trying to drink her coffee, only to find the cup empty. However, she is NOT the one drinking it. To make matters worse, Jillian has a tendency to forget it downstairs even after filling the cup. It frustrates her more and more with each passing day until she finally discovers exactly what has been happening.

Everyone knows there are aliens living secretly on Earth. What isn’t known is how much they like coffee or what sort of affect it has on them. A Columbian drug lord has an alien problem of his own, but what can teenagers really tell him, extraterrestrial or not?

Somehow Jillian gets involved in all of it and discovers the most exciting adventure of her life. But what in the world do emo bunnies and snails have to do with anything?

Aliens, coffee, emo bunnies, snails, teenagers and a Columbian drug lord all take part in this humorous sci-fi romp. It’s hard to tell which one is worst.


Excerpt:
In the middle of the dimly lit area was a spaceship that looked oddly like a snail. It had a long front fuselage with antenna in the same place as a snail, and a curved shell in back. Jillian stopped and frowned at it while Nyxulla moved to a screen on the wall and touched some symbols. Lights in the ceiling and along the wall turned on. “Why does your ship look like a snail?” Jillian asked.

“Actually; snails look like our ship, not the other way around,” Nyxulla corrected her.

“What do you mean?”

“This is a fairly standard ship design throughout the Amalgamation, which is what our galactic civilization is called. They come in all different sizes and models, but the drive technology is the same.” She walked over to the craft that was five times as high as they were tall on the main body and ten times as high at the shell. The entire thing was about a hundred twenty feet long. “They don’t cost much to make, but they do break every once in a while. It’s a pain in the butt to be stranded, so spare ships have been scattered on planets throughout the galaxy.”

“That makes sense I suppose,” Jillian agreed. She tentatively reached out to touch the ship. When Nyxulla didn’t stop her, she ran fingers along the smooth cool metal.

“Are there extra ships on Earth?”

“Yes. They are the snails you speak of.” Nyxulla grinned at Jillian’s look of incredulity. “A special device is needed, but they contain the basic building blocks and codes to transform into a perfectly functional ship just like this one.”

“Are you serious?” Jillian asked flatly. “Snails are really spaceships?”

“Snails aren’t spaceships exactly; they’re the biological coding for spaceships. A device is needed to transform them. The good news is that they reproduce quite well, which helps keep costs almost non-existent.” Nyxulla turned the main lights back off, leaving only the few that were on before they entered. “Every planet and moon in the galaxy has snails.”

“You mean the ones that can support life,” Jillian clarified, going back through the doorway into the hall with Nyxulla right behind.

“No. There are other snails that can survive in the vacuum of space.” The alien took the lead again. “Each one adapts to its environment. The important thing is that there’s always one available anywhere in case anyone gets stranded.” They passed through the sitting area into the other hallway.

“That’s extraordinary. How slow are the spaceships?” Jillian asked. Everything was so intriguing and odd. It was an adventure more fascinating than many of the stories she edited.

The question puzzled Nyxulla. “Slow? Why would you think they’re slow?”

“Well . . . they’re snails . . . snails are slow, so it stands to reason that the ships are slow.” It made complete sense to Jillian. They entered a large control area with a bank of windows overlooking the cliff out onto the lakes. It was right where her favorite spot had been. Buffy was sitting at a desk protruding from the left wall in a u-shape with multiple screens and was tapping on them more rapidly than Jillian had ever seen anyone move.

Nyxulla walked over to the windows and leaned on a metal bar running along the length. “Space travel has nothing to do with speed and everything to do with the manipulation of space and energy while avoiding mass and time. I’m not going to tell you much more about it. It’s basic education in the Amalgamation, but would take quite a while to explain and you’re not technically supposed to know any of it.” She stretched, which emphasized each perfect curve in her body.

Buffy chimed in. “As far as snails being slow; if you crashed on a strange planetand had to find a new ship, would you want to have to chase it down?”

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"God Don't Take Crap From Nobody" by Terry Gelormino Silver (Short Stories)

Genre:  Humor


Type of Short Story:  Short Story Collection


Summary:  This is a day in the life of homeless and practically toothless old Army veteran Jimmy O'Malley. Jimmy still sees himself as the handsome lady killler of his youth and is always on the prowl for feminine companionship. Jimmy's constant companion is his dead buddy Archie. Jimmy believes that when you think of someone who died, that person can enter your body, look out of your eyes, and do the same thing the living person is doing. When Jimmy has sex, he can have it for his dead friend or for himself. When Jimmy and his dead pal decide to rest up at a church, the parishioners move away from their pungent smell and when Jimmy and his pal decide to join the congregation in singing, the awful noise silences the congregation. Jimmy's speech to the congregation, before his bag of discarded cans go flying down the church aisles, is to affirm that he doesn't blame God for his situation.


Excerpt:
Walking across the street to the Church of Religious Science, he checked the doorknob and then pushed the door open. There was a service going on and he decided to go in and watch. Rest his feet for a bit. Let Archie calm down after all that excitement.

“Oh when the saints go marchin’ in,” he hummed softly, ignoring looks of disapproval and giving a toothy grin to a woman holding a cautionary finger to her lips. His entrance had disturbed the air and carried his abundant odor to nearby church members. As he took an end seat in the last pew, they suddenly found better seating arrangements and left a wide berth around the blissful old man.

“Ah, this is great, ain’t it, Archie?” Old Jimmy let out a long sigh of contentment and took off his grease-rimmed derby. Shaking his long, gingery-gray hair, he amused himself watching his dandruff dance around in the sunlight coming in through the stained-glass window. It sure was a hot day.

Throwing his blackened scarf over the back of the pew in front of him, he untied the strings holding his shoes together and slipped out of them, increasing the pungency of the surrounding air. He wiggled his bare, grimy toes against the cool wooden floor and gave them a good stretch. “Ooh, that’s nice,” he whispered to Archie.

The murmuring of the minister was making Jimmy sleepy and he lay back and closed his eyes, until the unexpected singing of the congregation startled him to full consciousness.

“He’s got the whole world in his hands . . . “ they sang loudly and with enthusiasm as he sat back and listened. Finally, he too was filled with the spirit and jumped to his feet. Archie joined him.

“He’s got the little bitty baby in his hands; he’s got the little bitty baby in his hands . . .” Jimmy’s whiskey-cracked voice bellowed out, drowning out Archie whose lung power’d been shot from chain smoking.

The horrible sound rose up to the vaulted ceiling and burst loudly over the church members, throwing everyone off key. Although making a feeble attempt to finish the song, they finally gave up when the organist threw in the towel.
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"End Behavior: Episode 1" by Alain Gomez and Aubrey Bennet (Short Story)

Genre:  Action Adventure, Humor

Short Story Type:  Short Story

Summary:  Manlier than Chuck Norris, suaver than James Bond... Agent Dustin Brass wakes up to find a mysterious package delivered to his expensive bachelor pad. The contents hinting at secrets that could change the face of history.

After having his breakfast spoiled by a volley of bullets and a high-speed car chase, Agent Brass decides that this is one mystery that may very well be worth looking into.

Join him on this first episode of the action packed serial, End Behavior!

Excerpt:

Dustin pulled the body towards him. A quick but thorough inspection of his pockets and clothing revealed no identification of any kind. He glanced around at his surroundings. Schnablel’s unorthodox demise had sent the rest of the bistro’s customers fleeing outside in a state of panic. The cops would probably arrive any minute now and having to deal with the authorities was not something that Dustin had the time for at the moment. Hearing a car screech off, Dustin rushed to his Maserati and took off in hot pursuit.

The assassin’s car was not hard to miss. The beastly roar of the Ferrari F430’s V8 could have been noticed from miles away. Not what Dustin would describe as the best getaway vehicle. However, despite the obvious, the villain was exceptionally fast and was soon establishing a sizable distance between himself and Dustin.

“If I don’t do something quick, I’m going to lose him and my only lead to the Professor’s murder,” he muttered.

Reaching down to his armrest, Dustin activated the heat seeking rocket launchers and fired. Just as the twin missiles were about to incinerate the Ferrari, they abruptly reversed their direction and headed straight back toward Dustin.

“SWEET JESUS!” cried Dustin. “He has an anti-polar heat-sensitive chip destabilizer!” Bailing out of his beloved Maserati, Dustin barely had time to reach cover before the shockwave from the enormous blast knocked him unconscious.

He was going to need a little help.

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"Inspection" by Alain Gomez (Flash Fiction)

Genre: Humor

Short Story Type:  Flash Fiction

Story:

"It could use some fixing up, of course."

"They usually do," she observed cynically.

"It's a great location, though.  The water and power is all intact."

"The power lines are ancient.  I could never run my equipment from them!"

"But that's nothing if you consider all the potential.  Such a low price too!"

"I'll pass.  Where's the next place on your list?"

"It's right next door.  Cute little place called Mars.  You'll love this one, I'm sure."



Read Alain Gomez's short stories on the Kindle or Nook.