The Frozen Fence
By Jamie F. Bell
A snowy, overgrown strip of land between two suburban fences, serving as a treacherous obstacle course for two determined children.
Explore Our Comedy Short Stories
8 Stories
A Dire Script
By Eva Suluk
The air in the dusty rehearsal room hung thick with the ghosts of forgotten lines and stale coffee. Outside, autumn rain lashed against the theatre's grimy windows, a fitting percussive accompaniment to the internal storm brewing between Connie and Terry as they stared at the offending script. A singular, inexplicable ink blot marred page thirty-two, right over the most ludicrous monologue, a tiny, dark omen, like a splotch of dried blood on a map to nowhere. It was a detail only they, the doomed navigators of this theatrical shipwreck, would ever notice or assign such dire significance.
Salvaging the Absurd
By Tony Eetak
The air in the rehearsal room hung thick and cold, smelling of stale coffee and damp plaster. Outside, a relentless winter wind rattled the single-paned windows, a bleak counterpoint to the increasingly frantic whispers inside. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the worn floorboards and the two figures huddled over a script, their expressions a grim testament to the artistic torture they endured.
A Fine Frost on the Sheet
By Tony Eetak
The smell of stale coffee and damp wood hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort that couldn't quite mask the chill seeping from the ice. Outside, the last stubborn leaves of the aspens clung to branches, a final defiant splash of yellow against the encroaching grey of an Ontario autumn. Inside, the rink's single working fluorescent tube hummed a tired tune, casting a sickly glow over the worn, uneven sheet of ice where my broom met its match.
The Viscount's Vengeance, Take Twelve
By Eva Suluk
The oppressive heat of the late afternoon summer clung to the old Oakhaven Playhouse like a damp shroud, permeating the velvet seats and the dusty stage. Every breath felt thick with the smell of old wood, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of forgotten stage lights. On the stage, under a single, unforgiving work light, two figures moved with the weary grace of those accustomed to carrying the weight of absurdity.
The Unlit Harbinger
By Eva Suluk
The wind, a malevolent, unseen entity, whipped through the parade square, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant, churning diesel. Every gust threatened to pluck the earflaps from under Captain Napson’s service cap, his face already a deepening crimson against the grey, unforgiving sky. Below the flagpole, an evergreen, monstrous in its height and girth, stood as a monument to unfulfilled festive ambition. Its branches, stiff with latent ice, seemed to mock the two figures who stood before it, contemplating their impossible task. The air bit at exposed skin, promising chilblains and frostnip, a bleak pre-Christmas forecast.
The Sterile Bloom
By Jamie F. Bell
The pavement in front of the Exchange District’s oldest bank building still bled melting snow, grey rivulets snaking towards overwhelmed drains. It was a Saturday morning, but the usual early buzz of delivery trucks and coffee-scented activity was replaced by a rigid cordon of police tape and the brittle crackle of walkie-talkies. Something impossible had happened here, something that Anette, seventy-two and having seen too much, found herself staring at with a familiar, weary disbelief that went beyond mere crime scenes.
The Puck's Lament
By Jamie F. Bell
The oppressive summer heat hung heavy in the stale air of the old university theatre. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced a grimy window high above, illuminating the peeling paint on the walls and the worn crimson velvet of the empty seats. On the bare stage, two young actors, Jeff and Laura, were locked in a silent struggle against the sheer, unadulterated badness of a script called 'Slap Shot Dreams'. Their director, Coach Reese, a man whose passion for 'the craft' bordered on manic, watched from the front row, his knee bouncing a steady, unsettling rhythm against the armrest.
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