noir comedy

Writer’s Prompt: Flash Fiction Noir: The High-Stakes Blunder of Joey Bloom

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Most private eyes worry about the shadows; Joey Bloom has to worry about accidentally turning on the lights.

Writer’s Prompt

The rain in this city doesn’t wash things away; it just adds a greasy sheen to the bad decisions. I was hunkered down in the sedan, smelling of stale coffee and Pat’s cheap cigars. Pat “Sledge Hammer” O’Rourke sat next to me, a man whose knuckles had more scar tissue than skin.

“Look, kid,” Pat grunted, “the camera is your weapon. You don’t need a heater. You’d probably try to use it as a bottle opener anyway.”

“I’m ready, Pat. I’ve been practicing my quick-draw with a stapler,” I said, adjusting my trench coat. It was three sizes too big. I looked less like Bogart and more like a toddler in a beige pup tent.

Our target was Barnaby “The Goose” Gander—a lowlife cheating on a wife who had enough mob ties to knit a sweater out of hitmen. He stepped out of the Neon Nook with a blonde who had ‘trouble’ written in glitter on her clutch.

“Get the shot, Joey. Keep it steady,” Pat hissed.

I hoisted the Nikon like a bazooka. This was my moment. But as I leaned out the window, my oversized sleeve caught the door handle. In a panic, I didn’t just click the shutter; I tripped the high-intensity external flash I’d “upgraded” earlier.

K-ZAP.

The alley lit up like a supernova. It didn’t just take a photo; it probably gave The Goose a permanent tan.

“Who’s there?!” Gander yelled, reaching into his jacket for something much heavier than a camera.

Pat groaned, “Joey, you idiot, you just signaled the mothership.”

Gander was charging. Pat was fumbling for the ignition. I had a heavy camera, a stapler, and a very confused look on my face.

Finish the Story!

Does Joey find a hidden talent for combat, or does Pat finally decide that “family” isn’t worth a bullet to the chest? How do they escape the “Goose” after blinding him with the power of a thousand suns?

Writer’s Prompt: Dust, Drinks, and Disagreements: A Noir Short

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Two men, one bar, and a boxing debate that’s about to turn lethal.

Writer’s Prompt

The neon sign above the bar hummed with the same persistent migraine Max had been carrying since the demolition site. He stared into his amber glass, the cheap whiskey tasting like rust and regret.

“Ali had the feet, Tony. He danced. You can’t hit what you can’t catch,” Max muttered, his voice thick with drywall dust.

Tony snorted, slamming a meaty hand onto the scarred mahogany. “Louis didn’t need to dance. He was a machine. He’d find your ribs, Maxy. He’d find ’em and turn ’em into sawdust. Efficient. Like a paycheck on a Friday.”

The bar was empty except for a bartender who looked like he’d been dead since the 70s and didn’t know how to break the news to his reflection.

“Ali stood for something,” Max countered, leaning in. “He had style. Louis was just… heavy.”

“Heavy wins,” Tony growled. He stood up, his stool screeching against the linoleum like a dying bird. He reached into his heavy canvas jacket, his fingers wrapping around a shape that definitely wasn’t a wallet. “You always did value flash over grit, Max. That’s why you’re still swinging a sledge for pennies while I’m moving into… management.”

Max didn’t flinch. He reached into his own pocket, his eyes tracking the twitch in Tony’s jaw. “Management? Is that what they call ‘disposal’ these days?”

The hum of the neon sign cut out. In the sudden, heavy silence, both men braced. The air tasted like ozone and impending violence. Tony’s hand started to emerge from his coat, the metal glinting under the dim emergency light.

“Let’s settle it then,” Max whispered, his own hand tightening. “The Brown Bomber or the Greatest?”

The ending is currently hanging by a thread! Does Tony pull a pistol, or is Max holding the real “knockout” blow? I’d love to see how you close the curtain on these two.

Writer’s Prompt: Conflict of Interest: The Funniest Noir Betrayal You’ll Read Today

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Larry Jones just got paid $500 to stalk himself.

Writer’s Prompt

The neon sign outside my office buzzed like a caffeinated hornet, casting a sickly pink glow over my scotch

—which was mostly lukewarm tap water. Being a private eye in this town means you’re either starving or lying. Today, I was doing both.

Arthur Pringle sat across from me, sweating through a silk suit that cost more than my car. “I think my wife is cheating, Jones,” he wheezed. “Find out who the guy is. I want names. I want photos.”

I swallowed hard. I knew the guy. I saw him every morning in the mirror, usually trying to figure out how to get lipstick out of a collar.

“Domestic cases are messy, Artie,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a gravelly noir baritone. “You sure you want to open this closet? Might be skeletons.”

“I want the truth,” he slammed a stack of hundreds on the desk.

That night, I ‘tailed’ his wife, Sheila, to our usual spot—The Velvet Moat. She looked like a million bucks and acted like she didn’t have a dime of it. I sat in the shadows, wearing a fedora low enough to blind myself.

“Larry, you’re wearing two different shoes,” Sheila whispered, sliding into the booth.

“It’s a disguise,” I hissed. “Your husband hired me to find your lover. Which is me. I’m literally paying for this steak with his ‘adultery down payment.'”

She laughed, a sound like silver coins hitting pavement. “So, what are you going to tell him?”

I looked at the camera in my lap. I could take a blurry photo of a fire hydrant and tell him it’s a guy named ‘Fingers’ McGee. Or I could tell him the truth and hope his aim was as bad as his taste in ties. Suddenly, the door kicked open. Arthur stood there, flanked by a guy who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.

I didn’t just sweat; I leaked. The flashbulb on my camera went off by accident, illuminating the rage on Arthur’s face and Sheila’s impeccable, slightly bored eyeliner.

“Jones?” Arthur bellowed, his voice echoing over the smooth jazz. “What are you doing with my wife? And why are you wearing a bowling shoe and a wingtip?”

I stood up, my knees knocking a rhythm that could’ve backed the drummer on stage. I cleared my throat, summoning every ounce of cinematic grit I didn’t actually possess.

“Artie! Glad you’re here,” I barked, pointing the camera at him like a weapon. “I’ve been… undercover. Deep undercover. So deep I almost forgot who I was. I tracked the suspect here, but he’s a master of disguise. He looked exactly like me from the back. A real ‘doppelganger’ situation.”

Arthur blinked, his fists still clenched. “You’re sitting in a booth. Sharing a Chateaubriand. With my wife.”

“Standard P.I. procedure, Artie,” I said, sweating through my cheap polyester tie. “I had to intercept the target. I’m actually—believe it or not—protecting Sheila from the real scoundrel. He’s… he’s right behind you!”

As Arthur turned his head, I grabbed Sheila’s hand. I had two choices: I could make a break for the kitchen and live the rest of my life as a short-order cook in New Jersey, or I could double down on the lie and try to convince Arthur that he actually owed me a bonus for “emotional distress.”

Arthur turned back, realizing there was no one behind him. His face turned a shade of purple that matched the neon sign outside. He took a step forward, and the brick-eating henchman cracked his knuckles.

Does Larry make a dash for the alleyway, or does he manage to convince Arthur that the “real lover” is actually the henchman? How would you write Larry’s final, desperate plea to save his skin?

Writer’s Prompt: The Bandit and the Badge: A Noir Comedy of Bad Romance

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She spent years trying to put him behind bars, but now that she has the

handcuffs, she can’t remember if she wants to lock him up or lock him down.

Writer’s Prompt

The office smelled like stale coffee and the kind of cheap perfume that lingers after a bad decision. Lori Withers leaned back, her heels on a desk that had seen more heartbreak than a country song. Across from her sat the file. The file.

She’d spent three years tracking the “Bayview Bandit,” only to find out the masked menace was none other than Arthur “Artie” Penhaligon—her ex-boyfriend and the man who still held the record for “Most Forgotten Anniversaries.”

“Gotcha, you beautiful idiot,” Lori whispered.

The evidence was airtight. Artie hadn’t just stolen the Duchess’s diamonds; he’d left a trail of artisanal sourdough crumbs leading straight to his hideout. It was a slam dunk. Twenty years in the Big House. Hard time for a soft man.

Then the door creaked open. There he was, handcuffed and looking like a kicked puppy in a bespoke suit.

“Lori,” he croaked. “I only did it to buy you that island you wanted. The one with the goats?”

Lori felt a familiar, annoying flutter in her chest. She remembered the way he used to make grilled cheese with the crusts cut off, and how he’d hold her hand during scary movies—even though he was the one screaming.

She looked at the arrest warrant. Then she looked at Artie’s pouty lower lip. If she shredded the primary affidavit, he’d walk. They could flee to the tropics, live off goat milk, and dodge Interpol forever. If she signed it, he’d be wearing orange for the next two decades.

Her pen hovered over the paper. The ink was dry, but her resolve was wetter than a sidewalk in a rainstorm.

“Artie,” she sighed, “is the island beachfront?”

Story Completion Challenge

Lori is caught between justice and a very charming criminal. Does she sign the warrant and watch him haul rocks, or does she grab her passport and run? How does Lori Withers close this case?

Writer’s Prompt: The Peppermint Heist: A Noir Comedy of Errors

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Mick thought the pantyhose would disguise him; instead, they just blinded him right as he stared down the barrel of a 12-gauge.

Writer’s Prompt

The neon sign above “Lou’s Liquid Courage” flickered with the rhythmic buzz of a dying insect. Inside, Mick adjusted his mask—a pair of pantyhose that made him look less like a mastermind and more like a squashed pug.

“I can’t breathe, Tony. My eyelashes are inverted,” Mick wheezed, fumbling with a chrome-plated revolver that was mostly rust and prayer.

Tony, sporting a neon-pink ski mask because it was “on clearance,” checked his watch. “Relax. We’re in, we’re out, we’re retired. By midnight, we’re eating lobster. Or at least the fancy crackers with the seeds.”

They kicked the door open. The bell jingled with a cheery irony that stung.

“Nobody move!” Tony barked, tripping over a display of discounted peppermint schnapps. He went down hard, a cascade of glass shards and minty syrup pooling around his knees.

Old Man Lou didn’t even look up from his crossword. “Twelve across. A six-letter word for ‘clumsy idiot.'”

“Is it ‘Tony’?” Mick asked, momentarily forgetting the heist.

“Focus!” Tony hissed, scrambling up, smelling like a candy cane factory explosion. He pointed a finger—just a finger, because he’d forgotten his prop gun in the car—at Lou. “The register. Empty it. Now.”

Lou sighed, reached under the counter, and pulled out a heavy sawed-off shotgun. The barrel looked like a dark tunnel leading straight to a very short afterlife.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Lou rasped. “I’ve been looking for two fall guys for an insurance job. You boys want the fifty bucks in the till, or do you want to hear about the ‘accidental’ fire starting in five minutes?”

Mick looked at the shotgun. Tony looked at his sticky pants. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.

The Ending is in Your Hands…

Do Mick and Tony take the fall for a seasoned pro, or do they try to outrun the law with fifty bucks and the scent of peppermint? How does this disaster end?

Writer’s Prompt: Crumbs of Betrayal: When a Bad Breakup Turns Deadly

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In this city, heartbreak doesn’t just leave a scar—it leaves a ransom note for your kitchen appliances.

Writer’s Prompt

The rain didn’t wash away the sins of the city; it just turned them into a grey sludge that ruined my suede shoes. I sat in my office, staring at a glass of lukewarm bourbon and a framed photo of Sheila. She’d left me three days ago, taking the cat and the good toaster, leaving behind only a scent of cheap perfume and a lingering sense of impending doom.

Then the door opened. It wasn’t Sheila. It was a dame with legs that went on for days and a face that could launch a thousand lawsuits.

“I hear you specialize in bad breakups, Mr. Marlowe,” she purred, leaning over my desk.

“The worst,” I grunted. “What’s the job? Stalking the ex? Keying the Lexus?”

“Nothing so pedestrian,” she said, sliding a manila envelope across the desk. Inside was a photo of a man holding a toaster. My toaster. “He didn’t just break my heart, Marlowe. He broke the sacred bond of breakfast appliances. I want him to pay. In crumbs.”

I looked at the photo, then at her. The guy was a local heavy named ‘Butter-Knife’ Bernie. Taking him on was suicide, but I needed the retainer to pay for my shoe habit.

We tracked him to a warehouse on 5th. The air smelled of burnt sourdough. I burst through the door, my snub-nosed .38 drawn, ready for a showdown. Bernie stood there, buttering a slice of rye with terrifying precision.

“You’re late, Marlowe,” Bernie rasped. “The toast is already cold.”

He reached under the counter. I felt the dame press something cold and metallic against the back of my neck. It wasn’t a gun. It felt like… a whisk?

Finish the Story

Is the dame in league with Bernie, or is she about to whip up a distraction? Does Marlowe lose his life, or just his dignity in a culinary crossfire? The final page is yours to write.

Flash Fiction Monday: Kung Pao with a Side of Homicide

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“Date night at Tony Wang’s was supposed to be about egg rolls… until Sheila ordered kung pao chicken and a homicide. 🍜🔪😂

👉 Read Date Night Special: Kung Pao with a Side of Homicide now — a flash fiction bite you won’t forget.”

Kung Pao with a Side of Homicide

We were Ken and Barbie. Romeo and Juliet. Bogey and Bacall. Jack and Jackie.

We were—until the night I took Sheila to Tony Wang’s Beijing Palace.

You know how it works in a Chinese place: order three or four dishes, share the plates. Sheila wasn’t having it. I saw her in this kind of mood once before. That’s when she took a hammer to my car and made the hood look like it had a bad case of acne. She looked angrier tonight. The mood she was in made PMS look like a hot fudge sundae.

On the way over, I attempted to break through the iceberg she wrapped herself in, “Why don’t you want to share?”

“Because you eat too fast. Too much. When you moved in, thirty-two-inch waist. Now? Thirty-six. And your belly hangs over your belt. You got no stop signs for your mouth.”

“I do not eat too fast or too much. I’m still growing.” I said.

“I can hardly breathe when you’re on top of me. You ever hear of Weight Watchers?” 

The next three miles were silence wrapped in tortilla filled with habanero peppers. I thought about turning around. I knew a wrong move would get me pepper sprayed. Instead, I turned into Tony Wang’s parking lot and grabbed a spot near the door. Wrong move. Sheila snarled that I lacked imagination—even in parking spaces.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go out. I can turn around and go home. You can make us a tofu wrap with Romaine lettuce,” I thought I was being cute.

“Tonight’s our date night and I don’t do tofu and I’m through cooking for you. When we get to Beijing Palace I’ll order. No fried food. Nothing with tons of garlic. I need a gas mask when you try to kiss me after one of your garlic frenzies. End of discussion,” Sheila said crossing her arms and staring out the passenger side window.

My mind raced trying to figure this out. Things were great last night. Things were great this morning. Whatever crawled into her brain crawled in after she went to work.

I probed, “How was your day?”

“Sheila mumbled something.”

“Something happen?” I asked.

“The genius here thinks something happened that made me snap,” Sheila said jerking a thumb my way.

I glanced at her to see who she was talking to. I thought we were alone in the car.

I found a parking spot further away from the door. I stopped the car halfway into the parking place. It’s rear end blocking any traffic that might want to scoot by. “I’m not moving the car until you tell me what is going on.”

She stared at me.

I threw my Hail Mary. My only other option was to ask her if this was her way of telling me we were breaking up.

Sheila unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car. She looked over her shoulder at me, “I’ll meet you inside.”

A car behind me honked. I waved. The driver gave me a long angry honk. Maybe low blood sugar is going around. 

When I caught up with Sheila, she was staring at the four page menu. I sat down and scooted my menu closer. I reached for her arm, “Are you going to tell me what set you off?”

Sheila took a deep breath. Then spoke slowly, “Let’s order and I’ll tell you the whole story. When I finish I’m going to ask you for a small favor and you have to promise me you’ll do it.”

“A small favor? It doesn’t sound small?” I said.

“I need you do some heavy lifting, “Sheila said squeezing my right bicep. 

“Can we get three meals and share?” I asked.

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Yah, we can share.”

“Egg rolls too?” I hoped I wasn’t pushing my luck.

“Monday, you start the Mediterranean diet,” Sheila growled.

“I’m not Italian or Greek. That diet won’t work with my DNA,” I was proud of my logic.

The waiter came. I ordered for the two of us, “Egg rolls, sweet and sour sauce, spicy mustard, and numbers 18, 27, and 36.”

The waiter nodded. Five minutes later he was back with our egg rolls, a dish with four fortune cookies, and the bill. I didn’t say anything. Tony Wang encourages diners to eat fast so he can turn the tables.

I ate my two egg rolls. Sheila was delicately eating her first egg roll. I said, “You going to want the other egg roll?”

She pulled the egg roll closer to her. She looked at me, “You want my egg roll?”

I nodded.

“Then I want you to kill Jenny Swenson.”

Sheila took a bite of her first egg roll in a sexy sort of way. I didn’t know Jenny Swenson. “Who’s she?”

“It doesn’t matter I hate her. I want her dead.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

This was a side of Sheila I hadn’t previously seen. 

“Well?”

“Sure, if I can have the rest of your kung pao chicken.”

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