Few Hairs and The Torteless

So that’s his game!

The old man sat there with a brick for a phone pressed to his hairy ear. He squinted, strained to hear whoever he talked with, mouthed spittle-infused words.

Oh, he was good. Really good. But it was an obvious ruse.

He turned and gave me that glassy-eyed look only the elderly could, his comb-over blowing in the speeding traffic’s wake.

He knew I was on to him.

Across the road, the last chocolate torte glistened in the bakery window like an Olympic medal.

He wanted it, but I wanted more.

Red: A wiggle and a shake.

Red and amber: I checked my trainers laced. Come to poppa.

Green: He was off.

Goddamn! He was already halfway across the road!

I swerved through the milling pedestrians like a serpent through grass. I’d show the old buzzard!

Bursting onto the pavement, I dodged an old woman with a mop for a dog and leapt through the open bakery door, chest thrust forward. Winner!

With no time to gloat, I got straight down to business. “Onechocolatetorteplease.”

“Pardon?”

“One chocolate torte, please.” This time slower.

“Sorry,” said the girl behind the counter, “we’ve just sold the last one.”

“The one in the window?”

“That’s the one.” She beamed an inoffensive smile.

I panicked, after all, she was pretty. “But I was here first,” I whimpered.

The girl shook her head and pointed over my shoulder, her bangs smacking a drum ‘n’ bass rhythm against her rosy cheeks.

I turned so slowly, my hips ground.

He sat there in his buggy smug as you like, his eyes watering and his few stray hairs a mess. His dentures were missing as though he’d rushed to beat me and hadn’t had time to put them in, his hitched-up slacks revealing the argyle socks beneath — beige, of course. But worst of all, worse than anything, he had something to say; his lips frothed with the effort.

“You’re fast,” he said. “Really fast, son.”

I glowered.

“Whilst I’m old and slow.”

I gave him one of my best sneers.

“But I have this.”

He held his black brick aloft, or as aloft as his ancient limbs could manage. This, he waggled.

“Same tomorrow?” asked the girl behind the counter.

The old man cupped his ear.

“Same tomorrow?” she bellowed.

He waggled his archaic phone one last time; it might as well have been a cup and string.

“I’ll ring ahead,” he replied, then reversed over my foot and sped off.

You’ve won this round, old man, but I’m off to buy a new charger.

Truth was, I’d rather have had the torte.

The Babe Magnet (In Dialogue)

“Call me old-fashioned but I like my pants clean, pressed and swishing.”

“You’re old-fashioned.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, gramps.”

“There’s nothing wrong with looking and feeling smart.”

“And there wasn’t in the seventies, either, eh?”

“Cheeky sod.”

“Look, I’m telling you this as your friend, purple velour pants and an orange crinoline shirt’s only gonna get you one thing.”

“A date?”

“A beating.”

“So you’re saying I should compromise.”

“I’m saying you should change, it’s different.”

“But this is me.”

“I refer you to my previous statement.”

“You said you liked them.”

“On a muppet.”

“Goddamn it!”

“No need for that. We can soon sort you out. I’ll lend you something fabulous. Something of mine. Top draw stuff.”

“But I don’t want to look like you. And stop winking.”

“Kid, you’ll never look like me.”

“I’m a year older than you.”

“Potato potahto. You leave it to me.”

Fifteen minutes later

“I love it.”

“Black leather never fails. The bright red Nikes set them off, the gold chain finishing the ensemble. You’re a babe magnet.”

“You think so?”

“Sure do. Where’re you going, anyway?”

“Seventies disco.”

Christmas Visitors and Fear Unbounded

Through mists and madness, they came. Preceded by a blazing streak of crimson, they curled through the night like blood under dark, transparent skin, their master’s booming battle cry filling the void.
I feared then. I’m not proud of my shame, but a truth is a truth and quivering lips go undisguised. Sheer terror took me, and I feinted beneath that star-sprinkled night. To darkness I fell. To darkness I ventured.
I awoke to a diminishing Ho… Ho… Ho… and a new pair of burgundy socks. What an awful night. What a demon he was.

The End

The Elefrump

The elefrump flicked its long, bulbous nose, swiped at a monkling that teased it with a bullrush, missed, and stamped its massive, hairy feet. If ever a creature regretted wearing a one-piece bathing suit decorated with daffodils, it was the elefrump. Nothing else had fit! The poor creature went red with embarrassment.
Sick of being teased, and determining never to be so again, the elefrump launched itself into the lake hoping to drift away.
When the chaos settled, and all that remained was the elefrump sat in a large, muddy hole, its frown turned upside down. No more monklings. No more teasing creatures. And no more water. Mud was better, anyway.

50 Word Stories – Outfoxed

50 Word Stories – Outfoxed

“Did you see that fox watching the chickens?”
“No, mum.”
“He was licking his lips.”
“Sorry.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say? He could ruin us, you know!”
“He won’t.”
“Oh, do explain.”
“He’s full.”
“What do you mean, he’s full?”
“I fed him dad’s dinner an hour ago.”

50 Word Stories – The Dilemma

The Dilemma

We found there to be an unlimited amount of time and consideration put into their dilemma. The tribespeople talked amongst themselves in whatever language it was, shook their spears and shared some strange, green smoke emitting pipe. After two or three hours, they came to a decision: They ate us.