Humorous Fiction

Mira’s fingers trembled as she reached for the sleek silver stapler on her new desk. Her first day at Pinnacle Solutions had barely begun, but already the familiar urge was creeping in. Just one small memento to commemorate the occasion, she told herself. Before she could second-guess the impulse, the stapler vanished into her purse with practiced ease. “Hey there, new girl!” A cheerful voice made Mira jump. She whirled around to see a lanky guy with messy brown hair grinning at her. “I’m Devin. Welcome to the madhouse!” ...

Greta Hoffmann stood at the edge of her balcony, hands cupped around her mouth, and let out a warbling cry that echoed across the Alpine valley. “Yodel-ay-hee-hoo!” Her voice cracked on the final note, dissolving into a fit of coughing. “Verdammt!” Klaus grumbled from his armchair inside. “Must you do that every morning? The neighbors will think we’re raising a herd of dying goats up here.” Greta turned and beamed at her husband, undeterred. “Now, now, Klausy. You know what they say - practice makes perfect! And just think how impressed everyone will be when I master it.” ...

Milo Finch peered out his grimy apartment window, surveying his feathered kingdom. Dozens of pigeons strutted and cooed on the fire escape, jockeying for position near the overflowing birdseed tray. He smiled, pride swelling in his chest. “Who’s a good boy, Frankie?” Milo crooned, tapping the glass. A plump grey pigeon with an iridescent neck ruff cocked its head, regarding him with an unnervingly intelligent gaze. Milo swore the bird winked. ...

Marcus stared at the whiteboard, his mind a blank slate. The final question of the state mathematics championship glared back at him, a jumble of symbols and numbers that usually made perfect sense. But not today. Not with his father’s piercing gaze boring into the back of his head from the audience. He gripped the dry-erase marker tighter, willing his brain to kick into gear. The clock ticked mercilessly, each second feeling like a hammer blow to his rapidly eroding confidence. His teammates – Zoe, Lena, and Jamal – watched with bated breath, their hopes pinned on his usually razor-sharp mathematical prowess. ...

Marvin Penson stood at attention on his meticulously manicured front lawn, clipboard in hand, surveying the neighborhood with the stern gaze of a military commander. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a moving truck rumbling down Maple Lane, kicking up dust and scattering leaves across freshly mowed grass. “Unacceptable,” he muttered, making a note to send a strongly worded email to the moving company about proper road etiquette in residential areas. ...

Mabel Hawkins squinted at the horizon, her leathery hands shading her eyes from the harsh morning sun. Another scorcher, she thought, clicking her tongue in disapproval. The old farmer’s gaze swept across her modest plot of land—five acres of scrubby grass, dotted with gnarled oak trees and weathered outbuildings. Her pride and joy stood in the nearest paddock: a small herd of goats, their coats gleaming in the early light. ...

Lena fumbled with her waterproof microphone, nearly dropping it into the choppy waves sloshing against the side of the boat. She cursed under her breath, pushing her salt-crusted glasses back up her nose. “You alright there, missy?” Captain Gus called from the helm, his weathered face creased with amusement. “Them fancy gadgets giving you trouble?” “I’m fine,” Lena muttered, her cheeks flushing. She’d been working with the crusty old fisherman for weeks now, but still felt like a clumsy landlubber every time she set foot on his rickety vessel. “Just making sure everything’s set up properly for today’s podcast.” ...

Milo Finch slouched on a park bench, his rumpled suit a reminder of better days. He absently swirled the dregs of a cheap coffee while scanning job listings on his phone. Nothing. Six months since he’d been unceremoniously axed from his cushy analyst gig, and the closest he’d come to employment was a soul-crushing interview at a big box store. A fluttering commotion drew his gaze. An older woman in a flowing floral dress was scattering birdseed, surrounded by a swarm of cooing pigeons. Milo snorted. Feeding vermin - that’s about all he was qualified for these days. ...

Mabel Hawkins peered through her lace curtains, squinting at the unfamiliar pickup truck parked across the street. It was a rusted-out behemoth, all sharp angles and chipped paint, looking like it had rolled straight out of 1957. The driver’s door creaked open, and out stepped a lanky man with grease-stained hands and a five o’clock shadow. “Well, I never,” Mabel muttered, reaching for her rotary phone. Her arthritic fingers spun the dial with practiced efficiency. “Gladys? You’ll never guess who just moved into the old Peterson place. Some sort of… mechanic, by the looks of it. And you should see his truck! I haven’t laid eyes on such a rattletrap since Herbert Coolidge’s jalopy back in ‘62…” ...

Milo Thornberry pressed his ear against the squat barrel cactus, his wiry gray beard scraping the spines. His eyes were closed in concentration, brow furrowed beneath the brim of a sweat-stained cowboy hat. “What’s that you say, friend?” he murmured. “Danger coming, you reckon?” A warm breeze rustled through the Sonoran Desert, carrying the scent of creosote and sun-baked earth. Milo nodded sagely, as if the wind itself had confirmed the cactus’s dire prediction. ...