Three very, very short stories.

These Things Happen

The fart put the boxer in a lower weight class.

Hemingway Didn’t Write This One, Either

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

What’s that?
Oh, no, the baby’s fine.
Just fine.
She just has ginormous feet.
Like size twelve or some crap.
These things ain’t gonna fit.

Anyway. Five bucks.


The detective’s pacing made everyone uneasy, which was his plan. Maybe by keeping them on their toes, he could trick one of them into a confession. But who was the murderer? Someone in this room, obviously. But who?

Was it Baron McAllistair, the wealthy industrial magnate due to inherit his wife’s vast fortune? Did he kill for money?

Was it Theresa Vanderhorn, the victim’s sister? For oh, how they hated each other so. Did their feud finally boil over?

Or was it Doyle “Stabby” Jenkins, the escaped lunatic who was currently murdering the detective?

I guess we’ll never know.

copyright 2014 David Cornelius all rights reserved


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