dark humor

Writer’s Prompt: The Silent Scream: A Mime, a Fish, and a Fatal Flaw

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In a city where even the mimes are silenced permanently, only a goldfish knows the truth—and he’s not talking.

The Big Sleep-ish

The ceiling fan rotated with the lethargic grace of a dying dragonfly, chopping the humid air into stale chunks. I sat behind my desk, nursing a glass of lukewarm scotch and a grudge against the city of Oakhaven.

Then she walked in. She was wearing a trench coat twice her size and carrying a goldfish bowl like it was a ticking bomb.

“He’s dead, Mr. Marlowe,” she gasped. “My husband. Murdered in the bathtub.”

I leaned back, the springs of my chair screaming in protest. “Usually, people call the cops for that, sweetheart. Unless the husband was a toaster.”

“He was a mime,” she sobbed, setting the goldfish on my desk. “The police say it was an accident. They claim he tripped on a silent banana peel. But look at Barnaby.”

I looked at the fish. Barnaby looked back with the vacant intensity of a hitman. In the bottom of the bowl, nestled in the neon blue gravel, was a miniature, waterproof revolver.

“The fish did it?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “That’s a new one, even for Tuesday.”

“No!” she hissed. “The fish is the witness. He’s been blowing bubbles in Morse code all morning. He says the killer is still in the house. He says the killer is…”

Suddenly, the office lights flickered and died. A shadow loomed against the frosted glass of my door—a silhouette wearing a tall, striped hat and holding a very real, very silenced pistol. The goldfish started thrashing, splashing water over my case files.

I reached for my desk drawer, but my hand met a cold, slimy pair of handcuffs instead.

The Final Chapter is Yours…

The shadow is turning the knob. The mime’s widow is screaming in silence. Does the fish hold the key, or are you just bait? How does this absurdity end?

Writer’s Prompt: The Sourdough Secret: A Dark Comedy Detective Story

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Two detectives, one terrified baker, and a mystery hidden inside a mountain of stolen dough.

The Glazed Grilling

The scent of powdered sugar in Interrogation Room 4 was cloying, almost suffocating. Detective Miller leaned back, her chair creaking like a coffin lid. She took a slow, deliberate bite of a raspberry-filled long john, letting the crimson jam smear against her lip.

“It’s good, isn’t it, Arthur?” she whispered. “The way the yeast hits the back of your throat? Too bad this is the last one you’ll ever see without iron bars in the way.”

Arthur, trembling and dusted in a suspicious fine white powder, shook his head. “I—I just like the smell.”

The door slammed open. Detective Vane strode in, dropping a heavy evidence bag onto the metal table. Inside sat a single, mangled cannoli. “Cut the crap, Arthur! We found the crumbs in your floor mats. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You didn’t just rob ‘The Rolling Pin.’ You took the seasonal éclairs. All of them.“

“I was hungry!” Arthur wailed.

Vane leaned in, her eyes cold as a freezer unit. “Hungry? You broke into six patisseries in three days. You left the cash registers untouched but took every sourdough starter in the city. That’s not hunger, Arthur. That’s a pastry-based vendetta.”

Miller sighed, sliding the remaining half of her donut toward him. “Look, Arthur. Vane is… cranky. She hasn’t had her carbs today. Just tell us where you hid the Golden Croissant—the one encrusted with edible 24k gold—and maybe I can convince her not to ‘accidentally’ lose your blood sugar medication.”

Arthur looked at the donut, then at Vane’s twitching hand near her handcuffs. He leaned in, his voice a shaky rasp. “You don’t understand. It’s not about the sugar. It’s about what’s inside the dough…”

How would you finish this story?

Flash Fiction Monday: My Grooved Swing and Civic Improvement

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One man’s baseball swing turns from sport to statement in a story where anger meets irony under the glow of streetlights.

The tattooed arm in the red pickup leveled a gun at me as he pulled beside my car. He leaned out, glass down, and yelled—little more than static and bile. Horns filled the air like warning shots. I’d cut him off getting onto the expressway; I didn’t expect to be practiced in retribution.

For a moment, I thought I was dead. I hit the brakes and pulled to the shoulder. He barreled past, shaking his fist and the firearm the way some men shake a fist at God. I watched his rear lights until they disappeared and I memorized everything I could: the plate, the stickers—every ugly creed and petty slur arranged like trophies across his bumper. My pulse was a drum. He thought he was  finished with me. What he didn’t know, it wasn’t over. 

No one pulls that stunt on Tony  Nichols without answering for it. I had his plate number and I had a buddy at the DMV who would trace it for me.

I had to be careful how I made him pay since a judge gave me two years probation, ordered me to pay restitution, court costs, and see a psychologist for my anger issues because of a simple parking space disagreement.

I signaled to pull into a parking space close to the supermarket entrance. The car in the space backed out leaving the space open. Before I moved my foot from the brake to the accelerator, a sporty BMW came from the opposite direction and cut in front of me and pulled into the vacant space. 

The BMW driver, sporting Ray Bans and dressing like he belonged on the cover of GQ  flipped me a dismissive wave and went into the supermarket. 

I took a baseball and smashed every window on his BMW and laid waste to his sideview mirrors. I was proud of my art work and grooved baseball swing.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think about security cameras.  The judge didn’t admire my art work or my grooved swing. I took a plea deal to avoid to avoid jail time.  

The work I did on the BMW was nothing compared to what I was going to do this truck and its driver.

I told my psychologist what happened and my plans. My psychologist told me I wasn’t angry with the guy who pointed a gun at me, I was angry with my mother. 

I asked my psychologist how he’d feel is someone pointed a gun at his head. He said it wouldn’t happen to him because he wouldn’t cut anyone off.”

I told him about the bumper stickers on this idiot’s truck.

“I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

The psychologist said, “Show him you’re the better person.”

My psychologist was the one who needed counseling, not me. 

“I was only ranting. Thanks for listening,” I lied.

I took a couple of personal days to follow this guy. His name was Randy Twilk. He worked at a hardware store.

The next morning I walked in the hardware store. I found him restocking a shelf. I had an urge to kick the stool he was standing on and watch him crash to the floor. I had something better in mind. 

All the pieces came together for me. What made it even better was that I bought what I needed from the shelf he was restocking. Pure irony gold. 

It was two a.m. when I pulled into Twilk’s apartment parking lot. I didn’t care about cameras. I was going full commando, I put black makeup over my face. I bought a ski mask with only openings for my eyes and mouth. I slipped on latex gloves. 

I worked my way in between cars, The only signs of life were me and two rats working the overflowing dumpsters. 

I went to work on Twilk’s truck with three cans of spray paint and painted a masterpiece Rembrandt would envy. At six a.m. I made a phone call to EyeWitness New 6. 

At 7 a.m. I turned on the TV, there was Stephanie Gibbons, Eyewitness News reporter standing next to Twilk’s truck with a microphone stuck in Twilk’s face.

“Mr. Twilk you’ve made a strong political statement with all the pro minority groups art work on your monster truck. it must take a heaps of courage for someone with your background to support gays, blacks,  open borders, and a ban on guns.”

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