By John L. Malone

When are you getting a doorman?


A doorman, When are you getting one?

You’ve got me and Bev.

You two are bloody hopeless. You’re never around when I want to come in or go out.

You always want to come in or go out. You can’t make up your mind. We can’t just stand at the door all day long attending to your whims.

So can I have a doorman then?

They don’t come cheap. We’ll have to cut back on expenses. No more cans of flashy cat food.

Damn! Can I have a cut price doorman then?

John had great fun writing this, teasing readers.

The Deckchair Poem

By John L. Malone

This poem was meant to be a glorious thing,
To really take off, even sprout wings
But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn,
The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn
So I switched phrases furiously, here and there
Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair
But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic,
It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

“The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer

First Contact

By David Berger

The silvery disc-shaped ship landed exactly where a rational space-going race would land their ship: on the mall in Washington, DC. A slim, silvery robot emerged from the ship. Every satellite, probe, listening device, etc., available was immediately focused on this humanoid.

Within minutes, a huge, metallic-grey Warbot had plodded from the Pentagon to the Mall, where the robot was standing next to its ship. When the Warbot came within ten meters of the obviously alien creature, the silvery skin of the newcomer began to flash with a dazzling rainbow of colors.

“Nice colors,” the Warbot rumbled.

“Oh, this old system!”

“I write to express myself as a social being and as an individual.” – the writer


By Sally Sadasivam

His parents kept telling him to let it go.
How could he?
His favorite chair. His very own bed. He felt violated.

It had been easy to find her in the end. The platinum blond’s breaking and entering reputation was as large as her appetite for porridge.

With the family pinned to the wall in fear, baby bear ate his way through her bowl of porridge.
Next, the pretty pink chair in the corner splintered in half with the axe he was carrying.
Finally, he lifted the duvet and climbed into her comfortable bed.
He ignored the screams.

“Just right.”

“I have quite a serious job and writing is pure escapism. If I can make someone else smile, even better!” – the writer

The Cat

By Kevin E. Dunn

If I puked
in front of you

in the past
two weeks

I would
probably feel
way worse about it

than he does
right now

“I write because if I have to think about this nonsense, everyone else should have to, too.” – the writer

The Review

By P.C. Darkcliff

I would give the place five stars, despite its poor reputation. My chair was comfortable, everything sparkled with cleanliness, and the personnel was formal and attentive as if they expected the governor himself. Unfortunately, the governor didn’t even bother to call.

When a man in black came over to me, I sniffed as if I could already smell frying meat.

“Are you ready?” the man asked. I shook my head and tugged at the belts that strapped my hands. Cold sweat gushed into my eyes.

“No!” I screamed when another man reached for the large switch. He pulled it anyway.

When P.C. was in kindergarten, he convinced his classmates that his grandma was a tribal shamaness. Then he learned his letters, and kidding his friends no longer seemed adequate—so he started to write.

If My Poem Had Long Hair

By John L. Malone

If my poem had long hair
dyed black
& a voice
gorge deep
& musky honeyed
as Chris Hemsworth
you’d listen
If it had abs
a chiselled face
like The Rock
you’d pay attention
if my poem was lean
& loose
exuded menace
you’d come onto it
so, baby, couldn’t you
close yr eyes
& imagine?

John’s been thinking about how he could make his poems more sexy.

Am I the Only One Who Does This?

By John L. Malone

I’ve been clearing up the house
sweeping up the crumbs.
It’s a monthly ritual.
Am I mad? Or just dumb?
I clear away the cobwebs
sweep up the dust
collect and bin the rubbish.
Somebody must.
They won’t wash themselves,
mum used to say.
The sink’s full of them
so I put them away.
Make the place spotless
so it shines & it hums.
& I better get a move on
before the cleaner comes.

John L. Malone wrote this piece “… because you don’t come across many funny flash fiction poems :)”

The Life and Death of a Dad Joke

By An Anonymous Dad

Walking into a KFC in Bardwell, Kentucky, I thought of a hilarious joke. I figured I’d test it out on the cashier, since she looked like she could use a laugh.

CASHIER: Welcome to KFC, how may I help you?

ME: I was thinking … Since we’re already in Kentucky, shouldn’t this place just be called FC?

CASHIER: (blank stare)

ME: … because the K would be redundant … Get it?

CASHIER: Yeah, I get it.

ME: (nodding eagerly)

CASHIER: It’s dumb. Can I take your order?

ME: (in my head) Only if you promise to give it back.

The Things You See at Traffic Lights


By John L. Malone

The blue Yaris pulled up at the traffic lights alongside his HiLux; the driver began picking his nose. Christ! did people still do that? Soon it would accrue a fine. You weren’t supposed to even touch your face. What would he do next? dig a finger into his ear, clear out some wax, have a good itch? scratch his balls? He was amazed at this guy’s brazenness, his folly. The things you see at traffic lights, he thought. Then he realized he was looking at his own reflection in the Yaris’s side window.

John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story