Funny In Five Hundred

Funny stories in under 500 words.

Vampire Blues

June 29, 2018
It’s not easy, mentally, being a vampire. We may not be frightened of dying; after all, when you’re a two-thousand year old supernatural creature who has been through the cycle a couple of times, you learn that death is not something to be scared of. Now, the howling mob may seem frightening, and the flaming torches rather hurt your eyes after a decade or two of dark, but people never seemed to do the stake bit right. If they did the stories would be a hell of a lot shorter.

In a way the whole wooden-stake-through-the heart business is unfair; werewolves, for instance, need silver, which is a lot harder for your average sullen peasant to get hold of. After all, ‘wooden stake’ is just a fancy word for ‘pointy stick.’ And the less said about being vulnerable to garlic the better. There’s a reason that there are no French vampires.

But still, us vampires don’t actually want to die just because they aren’t scared of death. I’m not scared of fleas, but that didn’t stop me from banning the bloody werewolves from my castle. Even if they howled about it. And so, fed up of the way undeath was going at the moment, I ended up sitting opposite the Mayor of the village, trying to convince him that I didn’t want his, or anyone else’s, blood, and therefore a violent mob was quite unnecessary. My arguments might have been convincing, for he seemed sympathetic, but still replied in a mournful tone;

‘Look, that might be true, or it mayn’t, but I can’t just leave a vampire in the village. That’ll breach all sort of health and safety legislation, and that’s more than my jobs worth.’

I saw the opportunity and pounced. Metaphorically, of course.

‘But waving lit torches and pitchforks around can’t be too safe either,’ I said. ‘You’ll get a fine for it, at the very least.’

He looked at me seriously.

‘Oh, we’re not planning to do any of that old stuff. We’re going to get professionals in. People who know their way around a pointy stick. It will be safe as houses.’

‘Not for me.’

He paused.

‘No,’ he conceded; ‘but that can’t really be helped.’

And now it seemed that there was nothing for me to say. They would kill me, and damn the consequences. I suppose there was too much at stake. The very thought of it made my fight-or-flight response start to kick in, and I felt as if my head was suddenly too small for my brain, and my chest seemed too tight. The Mayor must have noticed the onset, because he leaned forwards, mouthing a question that my ears no longer could fully decipher.

‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked. I shook my head, but the curious sensation only increased, leaving me gasping for breath as the need to escape overtook me. And a sudden desire to use echo-location.

There was no longer any doubt: I was definitely going batty.

The author publishes short humor under the pen-name Severely Odd. His work is available on Amazon and via Smashwords.

Weirdest things

June 24, 2018
This lady takes her car to my business, because it is making a weird noise. She says it is a screeching sound every time she starts the car. I go, “No problem, ma’am, we’ll have set up in a blink” So I get in the car, and before I start the engine, I look around the inside of the car, and what do I see? Tons of porn magazines, lying on the floor of the car, on the back seat, . They’re just everywhere. So, I turn to this very nice old woman who is looking at me through the windshield, she is smiling like the proverbial grandmother. And I’m thinking: “Man, she’s really comfortable with that” Well, I’m not the one to judge. But then, the smell hit me. The atmosphere. Something thick was in the air. Like when you enter a fish store, you just can’t get it off. I look again at the magazines lying around, and I think: “It smell of human love juices in there. It’s gotta be that… oh, shit I’m sitting on them.”

The little old lady is still staring at me through the windshield. Big smile without a care in the world. Nothing in her appearance could speak otherwise; hair tucked up in a bun, old fashioned black dress, black shoes. She was all but missing little querubs flyin’ ‘round her to be one of those images in church. And still the magazines were there, I mean it was an unmistakable fact; there was no way she could have taken those magazines for something else.

“Is something wrong with the car, dear?”

“Oh, no ma’am, not at all… just… eh… adjusting the seat”

“Ok, I’ll just move aside and let you do your work”

I start the car, and yes, there was a distinctly screeching sound coming from the hood. I park the car in the garage. I get out, smelling like a pimp. Now, I’m thinking it must be her son, surely, it’s her sleazy no-good son who just went out on a wild party with some company and busted the car. I’m thinking all this while I lift the hood, and there it was: the source of the screeching sound. A condom was stuck in the alternator belt. This was just just insane. What kind of a sick person did this to his own mother.

“Ma’am, I found the source of your troubles.” I tell her “There was a condom trapped in the alternator band, but don’t worry I have taken care of it. Absolutely, no charge for you. Now, if you don’t mind my sayin’, it would be best that you don’t go around lending your car to nobody. A respectable woman of your age doesn’t need to be exposed to the sort of perversities of younger folks, even if they’re your own children.”

“But, I don’t have any children of my own. And no-one but me drives my car.”

“I-I am sorry, ma’am, I – “

“I’m very sorry about the condom. I’ll try to be more careful next time. Kids, these day, you know. I realize those are a lot of magazines for just one person, but my head hurts horribly when I watch TV; magazines are the best. Don’t you agree?”

“Then she took off. I tell you. That was the weirdest thing,”

Roman R. Orozco (London, 1978) is a writer from Mexico. Has a degree in Communication Studies and a masters degree in Humanities, which enables him to talk about nonsense for hours and get paid for it. He enjoys films and music from all over the world (except reggaeton, he hates the stuff). A year ago he quit his job as a literature teacher and founded with his wife a small company where they do writing, proofreading and translation services. Click here to visit his half-abandoned blog...Hay más cosas >>

He Loved Books

October 25, 2017
How much do you love books? Not as much as Jeffrey Hornsmith. Check out this new story from Dave Woolston about a guy who can't get enough reading.

Jeffery Hornsmith is a well educated man. First a high school diploma, then college degree in botany, and finally a PhD in clinical psychology. Today he fells ill. Okay, he feels fine. It’s only that he needs a sick day to do what he loves best.

He sits on the toilet, deep in thought about the dark brown object in his hands. His nose is buried deep within yet another book. As usual, he has removed the colorful cover and left it lying on the ceramic floor. His wife passes by the open door.

"Seriously?" she says. "Just because we've been married for fifteen years doesn't mean I need to see that!" She pushes the door closed.

He glances up. "What, my reading?"

He ponders weak and weary, recalling the many hours he’s spent reading. Absorbing all that knowledge...one painstaking word at a time. If only there was a better way! His fingers move along the edge of the thick tome, until he pinches the corner of one page. In one downward and swift motion, he rips it from the book and pops it into his mouth. At first dry, bitter tasting, it soon liquefies as he chews and finally swallows.

Something begins to happen. Below yes, but also in his brain. New thoughts appear. Ideas. From where? Yes! They've just been derived from the page he has literally consumed. Actual meaning is now being injected directly into his bloodstream. How could this be? Excited by the possibility, he ingests many more pages. Each one more intellectually fulfilling than the last.

“Honey...are you getting out of there anytime soon?”

Somehow, in the thralls of a massive bowel movement, this trailblazing genius has discovered a new way for mankind to acquire knowledge. “Eureka!” He shouts. Only days afterward, Jeffery Hornsmith dies from an impacted bowel.





Piffle

October 19, 2017
Why do people say men are pigs? Pigs are smart. Check out this new funny story from Nancy Brown about a pig named Piffle who is trying to understand human behavior. Nancy is a writer in her 60's hoping to set the world on fire.


My name is Piffle. I’m a pig. I know it’s a stupid name but I forgive Mandy for naming me that dumb name because she is only five and she didn’t know what it means. If you look it up in the dictionary, Piffle means foolish. She probably doesn’t even know she gave me a name with a real meaning.

I was born here on the farm and grew up with Cal and Sue and Mandy, and I learned real fast that everything around here has a name. They even call their tractor John. The back field is called Corn. Though, I’ve heard them say that they were having corn on the cob for dinner, so I am not sure if its name is Corn or Cob.

It's ridiculous if you ask me but I’m not one to complain about petty stuff like that. After all, they feed me so well that I shouldn’t complain about anything.

Just the same, it’s hard being a pig. I mean these humans have a habit of calling other humans pigs when they don’t look or act nothing like me. I heard Sue call Cal a pig when she was leaning over the railing feeding us and he snuck up behind her, so I’m not sure about this name game.

It was fine when I was a piglet. Mandy would hold me in her hands and I would wiggle and she would giggle and say I was so cute. However, that was a long time ago, and I couldn’t wiggle even if I wanted to because I’ve gotten so disgustingly gross and fat that I can hardly move.

The county fair is coming up and I know I am not going to fit in that tutu they made me last year. I am not even sure I can prance around like I did in front of all those people who were oohing and awing. I’d be just too embarrassed, with all this weight I’ve gained.

I’m feeling frustrated, over-stuffed, extremely miserable, and I’m not sure what’s going on but a guy came over the other day and took one look at me and told Cal I was in my prime and ready to go. I oinked at him. She’ll dress well he said so I guess I am getting a new tutu after all. He also said something about a big house so maybe after the fair I’ll be moving in with Mandy. I hate living here in this stall with Hammy and Feeble and Munch. It’s so crowded.

Besides, Hammy pays no attention to me now that he’s had his way with me. I think he fathered my eight piglets but I am not sure. It might have been Munch but it doesn’t matter either way because he doesn’t pay me no mind either.

Cal come and sticks a pitchfork in my hind-end and tells me to get moving. Guess it’s time to get dressed.




Photo by Fabian Blank on Unsplash, edited by David Gregory.

Sex with Rocks

August 19, 2017
Take a romantic stroll into the woods in this new funny flash fiction story from Daniel Craig Roche. Several of Daniel's short stories have appeared in print through Tough Lit Magazine and Idea Gems Magazine. Many more of his stories, poems, articles and memoirs have been published in several online magazines, including Ariel Chart (a signatory of Poets and Writers.)


There’s a large stone that overlooks that trail I take for my daily jog. It’s like any other stone, all rock-like and unnoticeable, but today there was some graphite written across the stone’s smooth surface.

It read, “I fucked your mom,” in large white lettering.

This remark left a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, so I stopped jogging long enough to call the large stone out on its lies.

“You’re full of shit,” I said to the rock.

It took the cowardly way out by ignoring me.

“How dare you talk about my mom,” I screamed. “You don’t know me! “I’ll fucking kill you!”

The stone sat there not saying a word. I swear I saw it trembling.

“That’s what I thought,” I said while turning away.

Having the last word, I continued with my jog.

As I continued down the path, my thoughts drifted, and I began wondering if there were any truth to the stone’s claims. Did my mother really wander out here into the woods to make sweet love to the stone?

Maybe the rock went to her?

The answer to my second question seemed obvious. As far as I know, stones are immobile. There’s no way it could make it all the way to my mother’s house in the middle of the night, especially unnoticed. Surely someone would stop it, perhaps an officer of the law - maybe even give it a field sobriety test.

So that left my first question: Did my mother come out here into the woods to make sweet love to the stone?

I jogged around a bend and came upon a young boy who was busy spray painting swear words on a tree. He appeared to be one of the locals, so maybe he spent a fair amount of time out here in the woods.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Have you noticed any sweet little old ladies wandering along this path lately?”

“Fuck you,” he said. “I haven’t seen shit.”

This kid was useless, so I jogged back to the rock to check for any abnormal protrusions, maybe something a woman could use to pleasure herself with, but I saw nothing. Just smooth, un-fuckable surface.

I hated to get my mother involved, but there wasn’t much choice. I pulled out my cell phone and called her. When she answered, I told her where I was and I explained the situation.

“Oh, honey,” she said, “don’t be silly. You know I only fuck trees.”

The relief that came over me nearly knock me over. I told her I loved her and hung up, but before jogging away, I flipped the stone off and told it to eat shit. I jogged around the bend again and came upon the area where I had seen the boy spray painting the tree.

On the tree, I saw the words ‘I fucked your mom.’

“I know,” I said, and gave the tree a high five as I jogged past.




Photo by kazuend on Unsplash. Edited by David Gregory.