Funny stories in under 500 words.

I Lost My Love to a Guatemalan Cowboy



I sob on the Central American beach to the tune of the French national anthem which is coming from somebody's transistor radio. The tide rolls in, filling my square-toed boots with sand and misery. I look up to see the bloated corpses float by -- they were raccoons once; raccoons of distinction, rulers of the underbrush. I guess they are still raccoons, but with the distinction of being dead, shining in the light of the distant moon. This distinction is important -- at least to the other raccoons.

Suddenly a portly man with dark skin and huge jowls appears at my side, his pants riding low. How homesick his labored breathing makes me! In his hand is a gigantic plate of fruit; plants that I do not recognize, prepared with care by a culture which cannot exist.

"Is it . . . the Deadly Nightshade?" I inquire. He does not reply, for in Guatemala, there is no word for "fool" -- only guttural noises made with the armpits.

Oh how I long for the cold liquid death -- to be held face down in a giant bowl of low fat maple nut ice cream while rattletrap preachers from The Church of the Clenched Panties dip their hands wildly into wooden bowls atop copper lecterns, splashing hot brand name grape drink onto their hairy thighs with the rhythm of a Morse Code SOS.

Alas it all seems hopeless. There is nothing left for me in Guatemala. I slowly walk into the waiting ocean as the patriotic music fades from my ears. The dead raccoons beckon. I shall tie the bodies together and make a raft which may carry me to other shores; hopefully one with some cute girls. Arriving on a raft made from the stinking corpses of rotting raccoons may make immediate dating a bit dicey. But at least it will take my mind off . . . what was her name? Excellent! It is already working.

This story was written by Steve Sibra. Steve was born and raised on a farm in eastern Montana near a town of about 800 people. His best friend from 1st grade through 12th is now a United States Senator, so he's had a disproportionate political influence on the state of our nation. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Crab Fat Literary Journal, Jawline Review, Down in the Dirt, Thirteen Myna Birds, and other places. He now lives in Seattle where he's bought and sold comic books for a living for the past 30 years.




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