Humor
Observed
Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody… He was thinking of the same damn song every weekend now. The quarantine and the curfew were things he could get used to; there was a bit of luck in having a condo in the downtown core. At least it was in a part of town without his company's handiwork. It was a perfect example of cinema right in front of him (Hitchcock be damned), all silent and distant. So, he thought, I just needed to add a song.
By Kendall Defoe about 23 hours ago in Fiction
The Spot
No one blinked. As they gathered by the image processor, taking time to adjust all of their eye sockets and each dial and module on the machine, they simply stared and stared at what they were looking at. No one thought to make a mental note of this; no one thought that their psychic connection could handle this. But there it was and they had to process it.
By Kendall Defoe 3 days ago in Fiction
History Voucher
Bonzai Dinewell zoomed into the living room with a bag full of goodies. He kicked off his electric boots and collapsed onto the sofa beside his android dog, Fletch, who had been upcycled from old watering cans. His partner of many years, Comet, glanced up from his tablet and eyed the records sticking out of the bag.
By Chloe Gilholy8 days ago in Fiction
There's A Hole in My Bucket. Top Story - February 2026.
It’s a well-known fact that Liza Dufresne was always the brains in the family. She was the one who always came up with the brilliant schemes the Dufresne kids carried out when they were younger. Like when they tricked Mrs. Claybourn into paying for a trip to Disney World. Liza convinced her that their parents had been kidnapped and were being held for ransom for the total price of three tickets. In reality, they were away on a weekend getaway for their anniversary. When they returned, Liza told the Claybourns that they did not like to talk about the ordeal. Their parents never found out how they got the money. Mrs. Claybourn never found out that the Dufresne parents were never really in any danger.
By David E. Perry9 days ago in Fiction
A normal day in small town England
A normal day in small town England Nothing worth mentioning. It was a dark and stormy night, well actually, a chilly wet November day but the concept is the same. I parked the car in the high street, main street for any Americans who read this, and wandered over to the door of a well decorated coffee shop. The door opened as I got near and two very well-dressed middle-aged ladies emerged. They ignored me and hurriedly crossed the road to a waiting car. I entered and found a vacant table, ordered a double shot of unsweetened plain Expresso, which turned up surprisingly fast. I sat back in the chrome and black vinyl chair and took a look round at my fellow customers. All appeared to be well off financially, well dressed, well fed and professionally groomed, it wasn’t much of a guess that ladies hair salons did well in this town. No leather jacketed unshaven bikers or guys in working clothes were in this café. Even the obviously younger members of the clientele were well behaved and were smartly dressed, as if in a 1950’s TV commercial. There was no background music, conversations were subdued and what laughter I heard was polite rather than raucous. I finished my coffee paid the waitress and left. I crossed the road and walked into a clothing store, the serving staff greeted me and politely asked if I wanted anything specific, when I said I was just browsing they retreated behind their serving desks and left me to my stroll around the shop. I saw nothing that appealed and so found my way out and wandered the street window shopping, until I saw a jewellers with an eye-catching window display of dazzling diamonds. My opening the door operated a musical alert to the staff, but they did not appear to notice. I looked at a display of necklaces some very expensive and all very well designed. Even to my untutored eye they looked elegant and well made. Even the lowest ticket price was too high for my bank balance, but they were nice enough to look at. I wandered further down the street and found a book shop. Again, the staff were all politeness and careful deference, I found the historical fiction section and spent a very pleasant half hour sample reading some of the newest offerings. The staff were very attentive providing an apparently endless supply of coffee and friendly advice on the latest popular authors. On leaving the book shop I crossed the street to the municipal museum and art gallery. There was no charge for entry, and the place was warm and comfortable, a small group of children, escorted by their teacher, were studying a display of water colours all painted by the same local artist. The artist’s name was unknown to me, but they were technically well done but lacking that hard to define “something” that separates a technician with a pencil and brush, from a truly compelling artist. The children were all so very well behaved, studiously taking notes as the teacher spoke. Not one gave me more than a glance, their attention focused on the teacher and the paintings. I wandered up the wide staircase and entered the rooms housing the towns official archives. There were 3 rooms all spotlessly clean, interconnected and painted in soothing pastel colours. They depicted the towns growth from a tiny hamlet, created by housing for farm workers, to the busy market town and then onto the present residential dormitory town where most people worked in the city 20 miles away. All through my study of the town’s history, the unobtrusive security staff kept a discreet watch to ensure nothing was removed from the displays. Since I was naked, I had to wonder where they thought I could hide any document if I stole one.
By Peter Rose10 days ago in Fiction
The Empty Chair
I sit in my living room and look upon the empty chair. Once, a human being sat there, with life and love within him. A person with dreams, goals, and the ambition to achieve them all. Now there is only air. Empty air, dusty air, illuminated by the scant sunlight that drifts in through the dirty window.
By Ophelia Keane Braeden10 days ago in Fiction
