Tag: Humor

The Prisoners

“This can’t be happening?!” Froggy John cried.

“I can’t believe she hung us out to dry like this! Where’s God? Where’s my agent?” Baby Ducky moaned.

“I feel an existential threat like I’ve never felt before,” Buffy Kitty mewed

Momma Ducky remained quiet.

Fearing the worst, Baby Ducky quacked, “You okay back there, Momma D.?”

“Sure! Once we’re nice and dry, why we’ll be back with little Abe in his playpen again!”

After a long silence, Froggy John croaked, “Nice not having my eyeballs chewed.”

“Peaceful,” Baby D. said.

Buffy Kitty whispered, “I have a plan . . . .”

PHOTO PROMPT © Lisa Fox
For Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers at 100 words or less. 
Join us by clicking on the frog.

Dante Bill and Mark Twain Take A Walk

Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt © LIsa Fox
and limit our words to 100 or less. 
Click on the frog to read more stories.

Note on the players: Dante Bill is an allusion to his namesake from the Inferno; Mark Twain acts as Virgil, his writer-guide through hell. Neither has been consigned there.

Genre: Partial Epic
Word Count: 99

Dante Bill (colorful rapper): Dude, where’s the fire and brimstone? It’s freezing cold here.

Mark Twain (dead white male): Hell’s different from place to place.

What’s with the shrines there?

Shrines? Oh, toilets. That’s for . . . .

Yeah, why the big deal?

They’re the only ones in this area.

That stinks, man! Crowds of woke politicians and their virtue-signaling kool-aid drinkers jumping up and down like yo-yo’s. They could just go in the woods.

Problem is, it’s against the rules. Their punishment is that they have to follow the sign.

Where does it point?

To Satan’s toilet.

Cereal Derilium

Here’s a post
For your funny bone:
A vestige of Boo the Ghost
His cereal to atone
This ghost with the most
Has you cornered alone.

Too late, you’re toast
You utter a groan:
Boo’s guitar can boast
A most torturous tone.
Should you humor your host
Or speed away like a drone?

Else:
As Boo-Berry brings you to tears
Stuff the cereal in your ears!

Ragtag Daily Prompt: "vestige"

Dead Rights

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

The sun had taken flight with midnight near
The killer stops uncertainly, afraid,
Behind a sound he hears, sinister, clear,
A hollow breathing, ice-cold hand now laid
Upon his shoulder, grips; he springs away,
As if the fiends of hell were at his heels,
But still pursued, his face with terror, gray.
At last he turns, with courage bold, then squeals
As dead Lucille peals, “Now see how it feels!”

Well, Halloween’s just around the corner isn’t it? 🎃👻 Update: And right on cue, I’m number 13 on Mr. Linky! Haha. 

Laura at dVerse's MTB: "Since today is the 9th of the 9th month it is fitting for that numeral to inform today’s poetry form –  so let’s meet The Novelinee!. . . Yes, it’s a nine line stanza poem overlaid with this rhyme sequence:
a,b,a,b,c,d,c,d,d" also written in iambic pentameter.

It’s Nothing (Trimeric)

wallpapersafari

the teapot boiled
the cat began to whistle
the man bolted out
the world began to tremble

the cat began to whistle
the pot was just a thought
it was never really there

the man bolted out
he was missing his body
he left his coat and hat

the world began to tremble
we turned the music up
nothing was hard to hear

I thought I’d try my hand at some absurdist poetry of the type popularized in the middle of the twentieth century as Grace at dVerse challenges us with a new poetry form: “Today’s poetry form is Trimeric (Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik), which was invented by Charles A. Stone.

1. Trimeric has 4 stanzas
2. The first stanza has 4 lines
3. The other three stanzas have 3 lines each
4. The first line of each stanza is a refrain of the corresponding line in the first stanza (so 2nd stanza starts with the second line, third stanza starts with the third line, etc.).
5. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
Note: No other rules on line length, meter, or rhyme.
Click on Mr. Linky & join in!

Buggy Annals

image source – lovethispic.com

Nothing in you, nothing in me,
Nothing as far as eye can see
Nothing to say who made me,
Nothing makes itself plain to me
Nothing will be my guide and creed
No absolutes but what my thoughts decree
Ruler of my own destiny
Master of sky, land and sea
No limit to whatever desires mingle, set free
It’s all about me, from A to Z
I’m free to decide what’s best for me
What’s wrong for you may be right for me
Ask Mother Nature, what’s cruelty?
Evolution’s progress, look at me!
[SPLAT!]
– Last sounds of Nobigbug Butméé

PHOTO PROMPT © Miles Rost

Genre: Poetry
Word Count: 100

I’ve been rather under the weather lately but roused myself to participate in Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. I’ve read many of the entries already and am inspired. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the top photo or the word prompt (“mingle”). Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above) and limit our words to 100 or less. Check them out!

Hot Pursuit

Somewhere on this busy street the culprit Janus was hiding. The time of the assignation was near. If he didn’t show up with Janus in tow, he knew he was finished.

Suddenly a flash of orange streaked past the fish vendor. Diving through torsos and between legs, arms outstretched, crawling painfully on his knees, he caught the miscreant. The job was done.

****

He knocked on her door. When it opened, Janus leapt into her arms.

“Oh you darling!” She buried her face in the tabby’s fur. “He wasn’t any trouble, was he?”

“Oh no!” he said, handing her the roses.

genre: fiction; word count: 100; Rochelle Wisoff-Fields kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less. Photo prompt © Roger Bultot. Click on the frog and join in!

Jeeves Clairovoyant

Even before these events transpired, my barrista, the summum bonum of my life, divined them in the grinds.

She summoned me (“Bertie”), supplied my ususal combustible concoction, and intoned, “Enjoy.”

It wasn’t what she said but the way she said it.

“Rad, Jeeves, what ho!” said I.

As I blew out the door, winds exceeding 90 mph blew through the Savannah café. I landed down the road on Aunt Agatha’s bulldog, Horatio, who was as pleased to see me as a vulture on resurrection day.

My espresso, as predicted, survived. Extricating myself from Horatio, I took a sip. I enjoyed.

genre: fan fiction; word count: 100; Rochelle Wisoff-Fields kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less. Photo prompt © Dale Rogerson Click on the frog and join in!