100 Word Story
The First Friday of Each Month

The Day Worse Came to Worse

One day worse came to worse. He figured they had a lot in common, and after a period of getting to know each other, they’d live happily ever after. And for a while they did.

But an unintended consequence arose Each brought out the best in each other, and whatever they once saw in each other was gone They fought regularly; they gave each other no peace.

“You are!”

Over time, they returned to their old worse, and worser, selves But that’s not what encouraged them to give it another try.

It seems a “little worse” was on the way.

The Death of Doctors Humpty and Dumpty

One thing you could count on, same as death, taxes, win some, lose some, was Frankie Diperino was one mean dude. Shoot you for looking at him wrong. When he turned nice, there had to be an explanation. “Diperino,” said the doctors, ” You’re dying. Got a month at most.”

Humpty and Dumpty lied; did so, hoping the news would calm him.

When Diperino caught on it was ready, aim and fire. Bullet met target, bodies fell, things looked grim.

You can guess the rest.
None of their doctors, and none of their friends could put Humpty or Dumpty together again.

Summer Earnings

I spent the summer working on a Mr. Bean’s ice cream truck and when I was through, he paid me with a rain check.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Potter of First National City, “we cash only papers checks here.”

I had a similar problem at each bank, and check casher, I called on.

“Too wet to cash,” they told me. Dispirited, I sat on the curb, had a takeout cheeseburger, fries and a diet cola.

I was famished; the food was delicious.

Didn’t notice it until it was too late.

While I ate, my summer earnings evaporated in the August sun.

Postcard Fiction

I want to be a famous writer without having to read books or write them. I want a tasteful, sizable brass sign saying “Palm Island Written Here.” It should be attached to a modest home. People will assume I lived there, no, but every story needs a setting.

Inside will be original, leather-bound editions of books I wrote, of which there are none, so props will be required. I leave it to the curator to write the titles.

What can visitors expect beyond overpriced souvenirs?

A postcard, with my latest short story on it. FREE!

It begins: address goes here.

Michael Drezin’s short stories and micro-fiction have been published internationally on the net and in print. He can be reached at NYCTSstories@gmail.com

The Nature of Love

When the phone rang at 4:49 P.M., I planned to let it go. Any client calling at that time is likely to be a pain in the ass, and I’d rather have no business than that kind. The phone stopped, then rang again.

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