Humor

By Top Writers Block

Laugh with some humorous short stories and poems from the talented writers of Top Writers Block. Barnaby Wilde, Alan Naylor, Melissa A. Szydlek, Phil Gerstner, Elizabeth Rowan Keith, Bill Rayburn, and Suzy Stewart Doubt will give you something to laugh about.

Your purchase of this ebook not only helps promote the work of talented independent authors, it supports charity as well. Top Writers Block is an international group of writers who continue to donate all of their author proceeds to Sea Shepherd in France, an organization that devotes itself to preserving our seas and oceans and the life within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Top Writers Block
• Release date: Dec 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370044443

Top Writers Block

Top Writers Block is a diverse and eclectic group of talented writers who decided to write stories together - just for the fun of it! Our collections are usually written with one theme or genre in mind. Each author contributes when they have the time, so some of the collections have as many as twelve authors participating. Every collection has something new, with stories and poems ranging from romance, drama, and adventure to mystery, fantasy, and horror.

Book preview

A Collection of Short Stories

by

TOP WRITERS BLOCK

Written in the genre of:

HUMOR

Copyright ©November 2017 by each individual author as noted

Published on Smashwords

Cover Photography by Melissa A. Szydlek

ISBN: __________

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

IS THERE ANYBODY THERE? by Barnaby Wilde

ESMERELDA by Alan Naylor

SNAKES, SPIDERS, AND CHICKENS by Melissa A. Szydlek

HUMOR? by Phil Gerstner

BIRTHDAY SONG by Elizabeth Rowan Keith

ROXXY AND LADDY GO TO HOLLYWOOD by Bill Rayburn

TANGLING WITH TANIA by Suzy Stewart Dubot

HILDEGARD by Alan Naylor

IS THERE ANYBODY THERE?

by

Barnaby Wilde

Copyright ©August 2012 Barnaby Wilde

An English writer of quirky verse, short stories, detective fiction and novels with a sense of the ridiculous, now retired from a career in manufacturing and living in the South West of England.

Sarge. The young constable hovered uncertainly in the doorway while the sergeant continued with the makings of his mug of tea.

The sergeant sighed resignedly. What is it this time, son? he asked. He watched the teabag disappear under the surface for the third time and began fishing for it with a none too clean looking tea spoon.

It's a woman, Sarge, the young PC said. She says she's being stalked.

The sergeant finally trapped the recalcitrant tea bag against the edge of his mug and levered it over the side onto the draining board. Colour looks about right, he thought to himself before adding three spoonfuls of sugar. So? he said. Take her details. Log it in the desk book. Get a description of the stalker. Come on, son, you should know the drill by now. He poured a small portion of full cream milk into the mug and stirred. Yes, he thought to himself. Looks just about perfect.

The young PC continued to hover in the doorway.

What's the problem, son? Can't I even have a cup of tea without you bothering me?

She can't tell me, Sarge. I tried to do what you said, name and details, like, but she can't give me a description.

Let me get this right, son. She says she's being stalked, but she can't give you a description, is that what you're saying?

Yes, Sarge. She says she's never seen him.

If she's never seen him, sunshine, then how the hell does she know she's being stalked?

I don't know, Sarge. Sarge, can you come and talk to her. She's a bit distressed.

The sergeant looked longingly at his mug of tea. So near and yet so far, he thought, putting the mug back down on the draining board.

Don't go away, my lovely. I'll be back, he said silently to the steaming tea as he followed the young man back out to the counter at the front of the Police Station.

Good morning, madam, he said to the not unattractive young woman standing by the enquiry window. How exactly may we help you?

Good morning, she replied. I was telling your young man here. I'm being stalked.

Stalked, madam? Are you sure? That's quite a serious allegation to make, you understand?

Of course, Sergeant. I wouldn't be here if it weren't serious.

Correct use of the subjunctive, thought the Sergeant. My constable tells me that you can't describe the stalker, is that correct?

I can't describe him, Sergeant, because I've never seen him.

Forgive me, madam, but if you've never seen him what makes you think you're being stalked?

I can feel him watching me. He follows me. He's been in my home. He's here now, she whispered.

The Sergeant sighed inwardly and thought longingly of his cooling mug of tea in the back room. Are you sure you aren't imagining it, madam? Perhaps you're getting over anxious about something quite innocent.

Are you suggesting that I'm making this up, Sergeant?

No, madam, of course not. I'm sure you have a genuine concern, or you wouldn't be here. It is a little unusual for someone not to be able to describe their stalker, though. You did say that he follows you? How do you know that it's even a 'he' if you haven't actually seen him?

I haven't seen him, as you put it Sergeant, because he's invisible, that's why.

The sergeant felt his heart sink. His mug of tea seemed further away than ever. Being interrupted every five minutes by this naïve young constable was bad enough. Being confronted by some delusional female who thought she was being stalked by an invisible man was just too much. He paused momentarily and contemplated the fresh faced young constable who was looking to him for guidance and then glanced back towards the thirty something blonde standing the other side of the counter.

I think we need to hand this one over to CID, he said suddenly.

Who's on duty this weekend, he asked the constable.

DC Flower, Sarge. She's in her office, he added. I happened to notice when I walked past earlier.

Flower by name and flower by nature, thought the sergeant to himself as he pictured the pretty young DC Flower in his mind. I'll bet you just happened to notice her when you walked past, or was it that you just happened to walk past when you noticed her, he thought to himself. He gave yet another inward sigh and consigned the image of DC Flower to the unattainable bin.

Could you take this young lady through to CID, please, Constable and introduce her to DC Flower, he said smiling at the delusional young woman in front of him. The image that flashed across his mind now was of that mug of tea. Probably cold by now, he muttered.

What was that Sarge? asked the PC.

Nothing, son. Nothing important. He lifted the flap in the front desk and invited the young woman through to the rear. PC Wells will take you through to CID, madam. I'm sure they'll be able to help you.

****

In the CID interview room DC Flower sat across the table from Sally Mann, whom she judged was older than her by, maybe, ten years. The younger woman was anxious to do everything by the book on one of her first solo assignments. It hadn't helped when Constable Wells had done that screwball thing with his finger against his temple when he was standing behind the young woman he'd brought through from the front desk.

When did you first become aware that you were being followed? asked the detective, careful to avoid the use of the word 'stalked'.

About two weeks ago. I was walking back home on the Tuesday evening. I know it was a Tuesday because that's the evening I got to Tango classes. I heard footsteps following me down the street.

DC Flower wrote into her notebook, Tuesday, footsteps and Tango. She put a ring around the word Tango. She quite fancied learning Tango herself and made a mental note to find out more about the classes.

Were the footsteps running? Did you think the person was perhaps chasing you?

No, they were just keeping pace with me.

And?

Well, I looked round. Just glanced over my shoulder, to check, like. But there was no one there.

You mean that whoever it was had turned off somewhere, or gone into a gateway or something like that?

No. There was just no one there.

I see. No one there, she wrote. "And