Hear tell she fancies the lettuce (News Flash Fiction) March 30, 2010
Posted by Princess Wordplay in Humor.Tags: England, fiction, flash, funny, Humor, lesbian, news, short story, situation comedy, Telegraph, toilet, UK
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Rated M for coarse language and sexually suggestive themes
The Fiction:
Government Office for the West Midlands – Birmingham, UK
03.30.2010 09.37 GMT
Penelope Welles was a secretary, and a damn good one. When she was on duty, no phone messages went undelivered, no files remained unfiled, and no visitor sat unannounced. Her boss, Mr. Rupert Kingsley, often boasted to his colleagues that he had the best assistant in the West Midlands, and few would choose to bicker.
Despite being extraordinary, Penelope was still human; and like all humans, she occasionally felt the need to tinkle. Now was one of those times. She peaked her head into her boss’s office and asked:
“Mr. Kingsley?”
“Yes Miss Welles?”
“I’ve got to use the lav in the worst way. Do you mind?”
“Why, certainly not, Miss Welles. Go on with it, I’ll mind till you get back. Don’t forget now, they’ve installed those bloody timers, so keep it under ten clicks or it’ll have you in the dark.”
“Does it really save the electrics like they say?”
“Don’t know, but they sure are a bugger when you’re in a cubicle doing the business.”
Penelope hurried down the hall and into the lady’s loo where she stepped into an empty cubicle. She lifted her skirt, lowered her knickers, and sat to do her bit. Presently she heard a voice.
“Wot’s that now, who’s there?”
Penelope recognized the voice.
“Rose? Rose from accounts? Is that you?”
Rose confirmed.
“Yes, it’s me. You’re that fetcher from the tax office, right? Penelope, was it? Kingsley’s your pitch, I think.”
“Right you are.”
“Come tell, how you been?”
“Right fine, but a bit of the aches.”
“On your monthly then?”
“Oh no, that was last week. Just wrenched me ankle a bit.”
“How you do a thing like that?”
“Now there’s a funny line. I was…”
The two women sat on their toilets long after they were finished, conversing and gossiping through the cubicle wall, unaware of the amount of time that was passing. Eventually there was a muffled click and the whole loo went completely dark.
“Bloody hell,” said Rose, “The fucking timer’s gone.”
“I’m closest, I’ll get it” Penelope said. “Just need to wipe me labs.”
There was some noise as she fumbled for the toilet tissue and wiped herself dry.
She stood up, reached down, and encountered a problem.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
“Wot’s it?” asked Rose.
“The elastic from me knickers is caught around the heel of me pump.”
Rose laughed.
“It’s not funny!” said Penelope, “I can’t see a thing it’s so fucking dark in here.”
She stooped to undo the snag, lost her balance, and fell headfirst into the cubicle door. The flimsy lock buckled, the door flew open, and Penelope spilled out onto the floor of the loo.
“Quite the racket!” Rose called, “You alright then?”
Penelope winced in pain, and then answered.
“No, I don’t rightly think. I’ve a huge lamp to the head and me ankle’s gone buggered again. I don’t think I can walk.”
“Keep yourself, I’m coming.”
Rose righted her knickers and felt for the cubicle door lock. She opened the door and stumbled blindly until she touched the edge of the washbasins. She began to creep slowly along the edge toward the light switch, until…
“Oh bloody hell; I think I’ve caught me blouse on the soap dispenser.”
“Come off it Rose, how’d you go and do a thing like that?”
“I don’t fucking know! It’s so bloody fucking dark in here!”
Rose pulled gently, but not quite gently enough. With a series of popping sounds, the blouse’s buttons let loose. The snag let go and Rose stumbled back, tripped, spun, and fell face down on Penelope.
“Ow, you bloody lummox! That fucking hurt!” Penelope cried.
In the struggle to right themselves, Rose’s brassier was pulled down and Penelope’s skirt was flipped up. The two women were still wrestling in the dark when the door opened and the light came on.
Lola the cleaning lady looked down at the lump of female on the floor. The skinny blonde one on the bottom lay with her skirt up and her knickers around her ankles; and the dark haired, full figured top one sat with her hand between the other’s legs and her exposed breasts hanging in the other’s face.
“Wot’s this?” asked the astonished Lola, “Bunch of lezzers?”
Penelope gazed wide-eyed at her.
“No… oh goodness no… it was the lights… an accident! We’re not lettuce lickers, are we Rose? Erm, Rose?”
Lola ignored her answer, turned away pale-faced, and pushed her cleaning cart swiftly down the hall.
Rose stared down at Penelope silently for a moment. Finally, she spoke.
“It was an accident, yes. But I… well, I am. Didn’t you know? Seem the whole bloody office knows.”
Penelope took her turn at an awkward silence, and then answered.
“I didn’t, but it’s… it’s alright… I’m not against it or anything. You… you do have lovely bosoms”
“Thank you” Rose said as she pulled her bra back up.
“I’ve always been a bit curious, you know” said Penelope.
“Fancy a drink sometime?”
“I’d love that, but right now I think I need a doctor. This ankle is fucking killing me.”
“Of course,” she told her, “I’ll call for one straight away.”
To herself, she whispered “Maybe those bloody timers aren’t so bad after all…”
The Interview (narrative fiction) March 17, 2010
Posted by Princess Wordplay in Humor.Tags: Day, fiction, funny, Humor, Ireland, Irish, Paddy, Paddy's, Patrick, Patrick's, Saint, short story, St
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“Callaghan’s the name, James Callaghan. How can I help ye?”
His voice was as thick as the room temperature stout that he was drinking, and it flowed just as quickly.
“I’m on vacation, sir, from America. When I told my boss at the Press Gazette I would be in visiting Ireland on my European tour, he begged me to do an interview with a real Irishman. I was wondering if perhaps you could participate?”
“Why, I’m right flattered missy, though I’m not so sure what’d be so special about an ordinary man like me. I work the day, take to the drink at night, just like a lot o’ good men do.”
“It’s because of the holiday today and…”
“Ah! Say no more! Tis a fine day for celebratin’, indeed it is. I’d be honored to tell ye everthin’ ye wish to know.”
I smiled warmly and placed the voice recorder between us.
“Well, can you tell me something about him most people don’t know?”
“I can. A great many folk think he was Irish ‘imself, but he wasn’t. Born In Scotland, he was.”
“Scotland? I always thought he was born in Britain?”
“Britain! From who’s dirty blasphemous lips did ye hear that? The man weren’t perfect, but he sure as hell weren’t British.”
“You said he wasn’t perfect – so why did they make him a saint?”
“Well, that I can understand. Flawed in blood he may have been, but he was pure in spirit. He brought the good spirit to many a man for many a year. The Lord has to smile on a man like that, even if he is a Scot.”
“So you’re saying he saved Ireland?”
“O’course he did. He wasn’t the only one, though. There were at least five others involved
in the work, though he’d be the most famous.”
Feeling that I had plenty of material for a short feature article, I turned off the recorder and thanked Mr Callaghan. I offered to buy him another pint of stout, which he cheerfully accepted.
Before bidding him ado, I cleared my throat and recited the line I had spent hours practicing.
“Beannachtai na Feile Padraig!”
James Callaghan cocked his head and gave me a peculiar look.
“St Patrick? Did ye say… Sweet mother o’ jaysus, todays the 17th!”
He quickly drained the entire pint of stout, faster than I’ve ever seen anyone drink anything. He slammed the empty glass down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“St Patricks day! And here I thought it was John Jameson’s birthday!”
“Hey you shitefaced bunch ‘o drunkards, it’s St Paddy’s day!” He called to everyone in the pub.
A murmur echoed though the room, and everyone began bolting for the exits.
“I’m sorry to run out on ye missy,” he said, “But I’m late for Mass!”
***
A word of advice to my fellow journalists out there: Never look for interviewees in an Irish pub. Ever.
***
A note from the author
Don’t forget to raise a glass to your favorite patron saint today.
Catholic, or otherwise.
The Sacrifice (Narrative Fiction) February 24, 2010
Posted by Princess Wordplay in Humor.Tags: couples, flash fiction, funny, Humor, love, marriage, relationships, short story
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He was furious now, his voice cutting through the air like the sonic boom of a fighter jet.
“You’ll never get away with this. No living person has the right to make such a choice. You can’t do this to me. They’ll burn you. I swear to God you’ll burn for this!”
Let him talk, I’d made up my mind. When you know what you want, there’s no turning back. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I better try to keep him calm. Let him accept his fate on his own terms. There’d be far less pain that way. I tried to calm him down, just a little.
“I cannot help what must be done. It’s time you accepted this is what I must do. I’m so sorry that it has come to this. You might think I’m lying, but I do mean that. I didn’t want it to be this way, but things change. People change. Over the last six months, you have seen me change. Can you deny that?”
He stood there in silence, pondering his situation. I could see the fight draining from him, slowly, like spent bath water in an old claw foot tub. He knew that I was right. Life would never be the same. For a moment, I felt pity for him. It was to this man I had proclaimed my love. He was the one I had sworn myself to for life. I couldn’t deny that. I spoke those words before God, family, and friends. I made a vow. Was what I was about to do to him beyond my right? What authority did I have to proclaim myself a dark angel, a soldier of God, to bear the sword of righteousness that would cut the very soul from him, leaving but an empty shell?
No, no, no! Now was not the time to lose my nerve. I was doing this for the greater good. Not even the Lord could deny that. It was then that my beloved spoke to me again. Humbled, but still hoping, he pleaded with me.
“Don’t do this to me. There has to be another way. I’ll do anything. Anything at all. We love each other, don’t we? There must be a better way, a compromise. Please don’t hurt me like this. Morgan, please…. don’t.”
Then suddenly, it was over. He had finally bowed his head in shame, broken. The air grew quiet, like the calm before a great storm. Victory was mine. I felt a kick from within, and rested my hands on my swollen belly. I softly whispered my closing words to the man I had taken as my Husband.
“I love you, Jason. I always will. You know that this is for her, our baby. You know that no matter what, she must be my priority. I need to do right by her. I know that in time, you’ll forgive me.”
The man came back then, wanting to know if we had made our decision. I took a step back. This was Jason’s time. As a man, it was critical that he was the one to say the words that sealed his fate. Anything less would destroy him. He gave the order, and it was done.
“We’ve decided. Let’s do this. ”
The man was pleased, grinning like a Cheshire as he led us to the room where it would all conclude. You could tell he was going out of his way to be kind. He could smell the fear, sense the pain. He offered us something to drink, and we accepted. The air in that room was so hot and sticky, not from the weather, but from the raw emotion that clouded over us at that moment. The man said his words, and in a few minutes it was over.
“I have everything I need. Just sign on these lines, and here, and here. Oh, and of course I’ll need those keys to your Corvette. Trust me, folks, you won’t be disappointed. This is the finest minivan on the market today.”
