New Year’s Day In The Bedsit, by Ian Fletcher

(F.F.F. Website Story)


Bloody cat.

What! 3 p.m.?



Toilet. Seeing the vomit on the rim, he remembers all.

Lunchtime pint with Max and Harry. He’d do the shopping later. But they’d continued boozing, ending up at a party to welcome in the New Year.

That sexy blonde! Mandy? Sandy? He’d chatted her up, but she’d gone home with Harry.


Oh well, he’ll make a cup of tea.

Damn, no milk.

Ow! The hangover. No aspirin.

Why hadn’t he gone shopping?

“Meow!” No cat food, naturally.

He goes back to bed, but can’t sleep with Felix scratching the mattress, meowing accusingly.

Judy, Judy, Judy, by Johann Lux

(F.F.F. Website Story)

General Wall escorted Dr. Judith Nowell down a long underground corridor at Area 51.

“He popped out of thin air and used a payphone to contact the Pentagon,” the general explained.

“It’s a male, humanoid,” Dr. Nowell balked.

“Yes, and a sharp dresser,” the general grinned and opened the door to the room containing the extraterrestrial.

“Is this a joke?” Dr. Nowell snapped.

“He gave us the math that unifies the fields,” the general winked.

“Why does he look like Cary Grant wearing a tuxedo?” Dr. Nowell asked sarcastically.

The alien responded telepathically, “Doesn’t everyone want to be Cary Grant?”

Breakfast Greetings, by Russell Conover

This one, a bonus for me this week, was inspired by a story on the F.F.F. website that I also posted to the blog, at (

Breakfast Greetings, by Russell Conover

Yawning, Sean ambled into the kitchen. Then, his eyes shot up. His wife, Mary, was in front of the stove, wearing absolutely nothing.

“Hey, big boy,” she drawled. “I’m so ready for you to scramble my eggs, if you know what I mean.”

Eagerly, Sean started lifting his shirt over his head. However, Mary looked puzzled, even alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“But, you said … and I thought … ” Sean stuttered.

Mary handed him a frying pan. “Just helping you wake up,” she said firmly. “Now, about those eggs?”

Sean sighed. “I’ll never understand women,” he thought, turning on the stove.

The Leaving, by Ann-Louise Truschel

“Mother looked so tired,” she said with tears in her eyes. “She insisted on taking a cab back to the retirement village so she wouldn’t ruin our Christmas celebration. She doesn’t ever stay long; she gets so fatigued. I’m very worried about her.”

The cab pulled up in front of the retirement village, and the old lady inside yells, “Get in, Bertha. I thought I’d never get away from those bratty grandchildren of mine.”

“Step on it, Buster,” she tells the cabbie. “Get us to the Golden Oldies Bar before ‘two martinis for the price of one’ Happy Hour ends.”

Unto The Morrow, by Amy Friedman

(F.F.F. Website Story)

‘Twas the night before New Year’s.
She cast a gimlet eye upon her table.
China and cutlery gleamed. Her ruby cloth shimmered. Water and wine glasses sparkled.
Delicate tapers burned with a steady flame.
Steam curled gently from fat tureens.
Platters overflowed with carved meats and fruits.
All was set.
“Ain’t the grub ready yet?” he said, crashing into the dining room.
“Ready, dear,” she smiled.
“Great,” he said, grabbing a turkey leg with a meaty hand. “I’m off to the pub. Don’t wait up.”
She had no intention of waiting. The portal had opened, and she was stepping through.

Bacon Is Hard To Beat, by Johann Lux

(F.F.F. Website Story)

Cindy was naked in the kitchen, singing at 5 A.M., while cooking up a pancake breakfast. The aroma of fresh coffee got me out of bed.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” Cindy said and we lovingly embraced.

While sorting yesterday’s mail, I opened a letter addressed to Cindy from Conrad, a man that lived at the end of our street.

Conrad wanted Cindy to know with his divorce finally finalized they could now run away to Canada as planned.

“I got better than bacon for you,” Cindy winked.

I smiled and handed her Conrad’s letter.

Less Than Meets The Eye, by Marc Levy

(F.F.F. Website Story)

In the lingering interim between cola commercials, the dying man leaped from his chair and came down hard on two used but reconditioned feet. His position was clear and immutable. Then, he muted the volume. Next, in a single superb motion he pirouetted across the room and extended nimble fingers to nab a hunk of aged roast beef out of the chafing dish. Straight, no chaser. Gobble, gobble.

In a popular zero sum game, with the sum of all answers equaling zero, dying men come cheap, easy, and plentiful, no less than turkeys and cows. Baa, baa.

Bravo, sport.