Tiny Tales - Humour

Quirky and odd and funny

All stories, photos and other content (c) Ajesh Sharma, unless otherwise specified. No portion of the stories below may be used for any reason without the express, prior approval of the author. You may use the Social Media Share buttons to share links to with due credit to the author.

14-Jun-2022: The Writer

“Goodbye”, he wrote.

He stared at the word for a bit, admiring the brevity, the simplicity and efficacy of the word.

“None shall pass”, he wrote next.

This was even better. It had impact, import and carried a sense of authority and finality that touched a chord deep inside.

He quelled the welling flippancy that threatened to break out again. He fought it down. He shook his head, cracked his fingers and started again.

“The old man was not yet frail. He had lessons that lay deep within him. He watched the world around him. His adult children were making the mistakes he had made. He was powerless to stop them. He knew it was not the time for them to learn. Not yet. He would have to die first. And before he died, he would have to write down the lesson for them; the lesson they would read and weep over his cooling ashes.”

The writer stopped writing and checked the bottom left corner of his screen.

169.

He debated whether the extra 31 were worth putting down.

He lost the debate with himself and his OCD. He went on and on and on until he was done.

Well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

5-Apr-2022: The Professional

It was not a dark and stormy night.

It was, bright clear and, in fact, it was not night at all, with the sun shining, the birds chirping from every lamp-post. This was due to the latest convenience installed by the city. Tiny speakers embedded at the top of the lamp-posts emitted a regular supply of noises that the city felt would have come from the woods that had once graced the north-east corner of the city.

It was late spring, with just a hint of a nip in the air.

Jim walked leisurely along, his maroon and gold muffler thrown casually around his neck, his coffee cup in his right hand. He wore the traditional downtown-young-professional uniform, bright blue suit, two sizes small, the trouser legs ending well above the ankles, so his bright yellow socks with red balloons showed above the orange-tan pointed-toe shoes. A brown leather satchel across his shoulders completed the ensemble.

His day’s work would occupy him till 6pm. A fruitful day, by his standards, two revisions of the presentation and and 216 emails sent. The executives hadn’t made any decisions yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

22-Feb-2022: Pomes

Oft in vacant or pensive mood he read poetry. He remembered trying his hand at writing his own.

This, his friends found trying, very trying. They begged him to stop trying.

His keyboard volleyed and thundered and as he stormed through the piece his mind crack’d from side to side and out flew the thoughts and opened wide.” His thoughts wandered lonely as a cloud, as they often did. He murmured to himself, if I tell them I came and no one answered, I could always say that I kept my word.

The curfew tolled the knell of parting day and it was time to go and rest before the first grey of morning fill'd the east.

His year was almost at the spring, the lark’s on the wing and snails oozed over the thorns somewhere.

He slept knowing that when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, a poet shoots an albatross.

Tomorrow, on the list of loonies, lo! Ajesh’s name led all the rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

31-May-2022: Driving to Drink

Write a tiny tale they cried
In less than 200 words
Filled with anxiety inside
He ate his okra and onions (fried)

He thought and he thought
and then he thought some more
The poetry bug he caught
and it reached his very core.

Here then we have some verse
Not just words, it also rhymes
The meter, he said, could be worse
Read this with vodka and limes.

Some of you are well known
to him as readers of pomes
You, ergo, will likely moan
and ache deeply in your domes.

In to each life must fall some rain,
So take it well and on the chin
Thank your stars that you are sane
and drain your glass of Rangpur gin

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

22-Dec-2021: The Loon

Oft in vacant or pensive mood he read poetry. He remembered trying his hand at writing his own. This, his friends found trying, very trying. They begged him to stop trying.

His keyboard volleyed and thundered and as he stormed through the piece his mind crack’d from side to side and out flew the thoughts and opened wide.”

His thoughts wandered lonely as a cloud, as they often did. He murmured to himself, if I tell them I came and no one answered, I could always say that I kept my word. The curfew tolled the knell of parting day and it was time to go and rest before the first grey of morning fill'd the east.

He looked at the word count and cursed inwardly and wrote his final thoughts.

His year was almost at the spring, the lark’s on the wing and snails oozed over the thorns somewhere. Tomorrow would be all ice everywhere as today’s rain froze over, making for an interesting drive.

He slept knowing that when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, a poet shoots an albatross.

Tomorrow, on the list of loonies, lo! Ajesh’s name led all the rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~