Squirt gun full of poison

Category: Humor

The Visitor at the Door

Adam sat at the kitchen table. His elbow firmly planted on its surface, hand of the same arm holding up his head. A sigh escaped his mouth as he slowly blinked.

“I’m so bored.” He drew out the so.

“Nothing ever happens around here,” the twelve year old said to the empty room.

Minutes ticked away.

Three loud knocks came from the door.

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The Great Possum Fire Of Aught Three

Let me just start off by sayin’ that havin’ told this story a time or two already, I expect you havin’ a question or three and maybe doubtin’ the whole scenario. Well, let me alleviate those concerns and assure you this is not a tale of fiction. And if by the end you still want to challenge the veracity of my tellin’ we can have that conversation afterword. And depending on your tone that may or may not involve the rearranging of your nose and or teeth.

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Savotano Elobas

Elbert Osprey stood in front of the large oak door, not wanting to go in. He put his left hand on the grey stone wall next to the door and leaned. How much regret would he feel later when just standing here filled his body with pain? Just a boy, he thought, how can such a burden be placed on just a boy? But the consequences of not opening the door were far heavier. Why had it come to this?

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The Deviled Eggs

I was inspired early in the morning to write two different stories based on this title. The other can be found here.


The Deviled Eggs


William DeGeest

Title by Ashely Schaaf Botha


Jacob Ledbetter was a simple man who lived a simple life on his simple little farm place. He did, however, have a not so simple problem. Deviled eggs.

Not the popular appetizer made with hard-boiled eggs, but what could only be described as possessed chicken eggs. Little ovoid shapes with two obscene feet sticking out through the bottom, wreaking havoc on Jacob’s meager few acres. They chased the cats, head-butted the dog and mocked the milk cow. Little chittering noises came from inside the shells, often sounding like demonic giggles. The chickens who laid these abominations were in a constant state of confusion.

Many theories were bandied about by the locals.

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Deviled Eggs

I was inspired early in the morning to write two different stories based on this title. The other can be found here.



Deviled Eggs


William DeGeest

Title by Ashely Schaaf Botha


The potluck at the VFW was already filling up by the time Ann arrived. Kids were chasing each other outside and a few adults were clustered in small groups, chatting away. Ann grabbed a big covered plastic tub out of the back seat of her car as Mac came over to help.

“These your deviled eggs, Annie?” he said.

“You bet, Mac. Go ahead and grab some of that Tupperware and take it inside.” Ann hadn’t owned an actual piece of Tupperware in years, but every plastic container was called that by most people in these parts.

Mac helped carry in the eggs and as a reward was given an advance egg that he could not resist.

“Best deviled eggs around, as usual.” Mac smiled as he finished chewing up his treat.

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Fictional Accounts of Actual Conversations Number One

“Hey, Jim! Are there any good strip clubs around here?”

The question had come from one of the many gathered at Dan’s house for pre-bar hopping cocktails. Dan and Jim were best friends, sharing, among other things, a bit of an odd sense of humor.

“Okay, why do you assume that is a question I would know the answer to?” Jim replied.

Someone else piped up, “You just seem like the type!” A few laughs came from the room.

Jim smiled.  “Actually, I really don’t like strip clubs much.”

A few more laughs and maybe a “bullshit” or two.

“No, it’s true. Oh yeah, naked women I can’t touch. I have enough frustrations in life, alright?”

“If you pay them enough you can touch,” came the response. More laughter.

“Oh, sure,” Jim began, “but if I touch I want to lick, if I lick I want to bite and if I bite the next thing you know it is three AM and I’m out in the middle of nowhere digging a shallow grave.” He calmly took a sip a beer.

The crowd stared at Jim and was silent. All except for Dan, who was laughing so hard he almost passed out.

And the Dough Shall Rise

My maternal grandmother was a woman of vast skills.  She was an excellent cook and baker, could refinish, repair and restore just about any piece of furniture, put down several types of flooring, play the violin and garden like nobody’s business.

Not a perfect woman by any means, but when it came to her and said skills, her biggest flaw was hating when she wasn’t good at something right out of the gate. There in is a quick true story.

When she was a newlywed she tried to make homemade bread for the first time.  She did everything right, or so she thought, but the dough refused to rise.  Just lay there like a lump of, well, dough that wouldn’t rise, I guess.  She was so embarrassed by her failure she decided to get rid of the evidence of her shame.  She buried the dough in the back yard.

The rest of the day went on, seemingly uneventful.  Until the afternoon sun moved to hit the mound of dirt that hid her secret.  The rays hit the spot and caused the ground to warm up just enough to activate the yeast in the dough.  As day slid into evening, the cooling air spread a low hanging mist in the yard and the concoction began to rise, pushing its way out of the ground.

It was Night of the Living Bread.

Did You Hear the One About…

Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

A well off, upper middle class guy was unsatisfied with his life. This lead to poor performance at his job and his marriage and almost everything else. Soon enough he had lost his job and his wife left him and took the kids and even the dog. Now destitute and alone, he was even more convinced there had to be more to all of this. He decided to find the meaning of life.

For years he traveled as a vagabond, chasing every lead he could find. He talked to clergy, philosophers, voodoo priest, gurus, wise men and anyone who would listen and try to answer his simple question. What is the meaning of life? No one had the answer.

But he kept hearing rumors, mere whispers at times, that there was a man who knew. Tucked away is some lost corner of the world was someone with the answer he needed. He would find this man.

For even more years he followed every dead end trail, surviving only by the kindness of strangers. His clothes became tatters, his body broken, but his will stayed tempered steel. He needed to know.

Finally, while following a vapor of a wisp of a spider’s silk of a chance, he found himself climbing a mountain in Nepal. He had no gear, his shoes and clothes falling apart. He lost several fingers and most of his toes to frost bite on the accent by the time he reached the summit. There, in the lotus position, but floating four feet off of the rocky surface of the peak, was the man he had sought. Almost dead from hypothermia and starvation, he stumbled to the man.

“Please, please, tell me the meaning of life!” he said with as much force as his weakened body could muster.

“Life,” the floating old man said, eyes remaining closed, his white beard, hair and robes blowing in the wind, “Life is a fountain.”

“What?” Rage began to boil in the seeker’s body. “Life is a fountain? I have lost everything in my life! Family, friends, wealth, health, self-respect! God damn it! I have lost fingers and toes to get here and you tell me, life is a fountain?” His shaking with rage was greater that his shivers from the cold.

The levitating old man opened his eyes, blinked his eyes and then looked at the shambles of a human before him, and once again spoke.

“Life’s not a fountain?”

Shortest Story

Stanley made his way through the wilderness into a clearing.  There he came face to face with the only other white man within hundreds of miles

“Doctor Livingston, I presume?” Stanley said.



Stanley lowered his head, turned, and walked back into the bush.

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