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Gordon Lawrie

Just Another Saturday Night

31/10/2015

 
More on the Halloween theme.

Jean, Ethel and Florence, as usual on Saturday nights, were counting their winnings: it was the 743rd successive Saturday that they’d won the National Lottery and their combined wealth outstripped nine entire countries.


The Fraud Squad suspected, of course, but the witches’ constant switching of magic potions and spells had them bamboozled. But Ethel was worried that they were being dangerously greedy.

“Don’t be silly,” chimed the others.

Suddenly, seventeen armed policemen burst through their front door into their living room.


“OK, you two,” Ethel sighed, “I get your point.” She waved her hand, turning the policemen into slimy toads.

The Unringing

31/10/2015

 
Picture
As Halloween’s end approached, the tiny village of St Egbert’s collectively shivered. Nobody knew who rang the church bell – everyone was past caring anyway, trusting in prayer instead.

Each year at midnight, the bell struck twelve then continued, fifteen, perhaps sixteen strikes, each extra stroke representing a soul taken. Those hearing the bells ring were safe for another year, otherwise...

This year was a bad one. Neither Mrs Clancy nor Jim Pearce heard bells. Bess Merryweather’s cancer finally claimed her, too. But losing the two Dempsey boys, speeding on the back road in their parents’ car, that was too much.

Bad News At The Doctor's

30/10/2015

 
The doctor sat down facing the patient directly; he wore a serious expression and the patient knew something was wrong.

“Let me have it straight, doc. What’s the problem?”

The doctor shook his head. “You seem to have caught diabetes 2. Your blood tests show that your chromosomes have altered irrevocably, I’m afraid.”

“Diabetes 2? But how?”

“It can come from a virus, or an insect bite. Or too much internet shopping.”

The patient sighed. “The perils of modern life, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” said the doctor.

“Is there any hope?”

“No, your chromosomes indicate that you’ve already become a zombie.”

The High Roller

28/10/2015

 
In Monte Carlo’s Grand Casino, Candy sat at the roulette table. As disguise, she’d cut her hair, worn black tie, and styled herself ‘Le High Roller’. But she was on a mission.
 
Croupier Jacques LeNoir was spinning the roulette wheel. For Candy, it was love at first sight as he gazed across the table towards her. Had he guessed?
 
With heavy heart, she acted. As the ball dropped into black 31, poison darts flew silently from her toe-caps into each of Jacques LeNoir’s shins; he was dead in seconds.
 
“Rien ne va plus, my love,” she whispered, brushing away a tear.

What We Did On Our Holidays

23/10/2015

 
“Hi there, nice to see you. Just back from holiday in the south of France, aren’t you?”

“Yes – Nice, actually.”

“How was it? Nice?”

“Nice, actually.”

“Isn’t that what I said? Never mind. Were you there on your own?”

“No, I took my sister’s daughter.”

“Your niece?”

“Yes.”

“That must have been nice.”

“Nice? Yes, it’s always Nice there. The only downside was that we had to do a lot of walking and I ended up with sore knees.”

“That’s not so nice.”

“You mean Nice.”

“Perhaps we should have a drink. What can I get you? Anise?”

“Perfect, thanks.”

Evening In The Sârtre Household

14/10/2015

 

Very erudite – from a quote I'd heard that day for the first time.

“Do we have to watch this Great Bake-Off rubbish?” he asked.

“Come on,” she said, clutching the remote tightly, “it’s my one pleasure in the week!”

“The Rugby World Cup’s on the other channel. That’s only every four years!”

He stared at the screen, willing it to switch over. Some sort of brown cake mix swirled dizzyingly before his eyes.

“If I make you a cup of coffee will you let me watch the rugby?”

“Hmm?”

“Suppose I throw in a chocolate biscuit?”

Defeated, she flipped the channel and smiled. “You’re so persuasive, Jean-Paul.”

“Words are loaded pistols, my dear.”

Journey Into The Unknown

2/10/2015

 
This isn't technically fiction – it's 100% true, but it tells well in Flash Fiction style...

I remember it as though yesterday: a miserably wet Wednesday night in March 1974. Hearts, my football team, against Ayr United, played in teeming rain. No covered spectator enclosures in those days.

Afterwards we were in no mood to hang around, so our driver decided to take a ‘short cut home’. Then the mist descended, fog actually. We drove along tiny Ayrshire country lanes for almost twenty miles, unable to see more than five yards around us with no evidence of life, habitation, or even another vehicle.

Then we saw a sign.
WELCOME TO MOSCOW
We decided we were lost.

    Flash Fiction

    Flash fiction is very, very short fiction indeed - short stories of any sort of length from a Haiku to ten minutes' reading. Good for when you're in a hurry. This series is a selection of contributions to Friday Flash Fiction, where there's a limit of 100 words. I try to make all mine exactly 100 words.


    Collections
    (FREE!)
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    If you enjoy these stories, why not download Gordon's first two collections of these, called '100 Not Out' and '200 Not Out'? Available for all types of e-readers including Kindle and iPad, for free. Completely free, no strings.

    Click on one of the images below...

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