Funny stories in under 500 words.


I never thought I’d spend the happiest day of my life stuck in the toilet. But that’s exactly what’s happened. And I don’t mean being sick, or having the nervy diarrhoea like you get before you board a flight. I’m literally stuck. Arse and all. Trust me to pick the one bog with no seat. I dread to think what state my trail’s in, if I even still have one; I think it got half-flushed.

I’ve been shouting for twenty-odd minutes but nobody’s come to find me. I’m not sure they’re bothered. Everyone knows that wedding-guests only really turn up for the free bar. You’ll never see them from one year to the next, but it’s amazing how they all crawl out for something for nothing.

I wonder how my brothers are doing. They haven’t spoken since Kev broke Terry’s ankle but they were both meant to be coming. I need to be there, to keep the peace. To get married. Another party have booked the hall ten minutes after us and I’m worried we’re eating into their time - that’d be extra.

A noise attacks the air-freshened silence of the toilets. It’s the door outside opening; I can hear chatter from the registry office.

“Cath?” It’s that snobby-squeak from Samara. “You in here?”

I think that perhaps I won’t be found with my dusty knickers around my ankles by archaeologists - just one of the scenarios I’d imagined. As I wriggle, there’s an undignified splash like someone’s taking a dump and I feel even more sorry for myself and my wet, stuck arse. For some reason, I can’t answer. All I can do is stare at the sign on the back of the door telling me to please wash my hands. My perfectly-shod feet are obscuring my view of any illustrations on it.

“She not in here?” Trish must have followed her in.

“No.” Samara says it before I can even open my mouth. I can hear her perfect bloody Ted Baker shoes tottering in time to the swish of her perfect bloody Ted Baker dress. “She’s done a runner.”


The words ‘cheeky’ and ‘bitch’ are dancing around in my mouth. Samara’s always liked Bill, and I want to scratch her polyfilla’d face to pieces. I can’t let them know I’m here now. I need to rescue myself, and watch their faces drop when they realise I’ve heard it all.

I weld my fingers to the sides of the pan, trying a thrusting motion in an attempt to jimmy myself out. Then I remember I’m not a break-dancer or having sex. Hopefully tonight, married or not. I thrash my legs about like I’m warming a bed. They slap against the sides; even the porcelain’s telling me I eat too much. The girls have heard it too - they’re silent.


I whip off my veil; it pulls my hair about, but I get it off and shove it under the door.

“Woss happened, girl?”

“I’m stuck.”

This story was written by Charlotte Byrne, a published author currently working towards an MA in Creative Writing. She writes with dogs at her feet and tea to hand, or sometimes the other way around.


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