This is it, Sparklers: the last finalist in the Funny Fiction Contest. Remember, the story with the most FB likes wins the undying admiration of the entire SparkLife community. You have until noon on Thursday, July 28, to pick your favorite story. Previous entries can be found here.
And now, on to Smokey778's tale! —Miss Marm
“We need you Sam Solvable,” Hogweed Island’s only hotel manager declared, “for the last couple days all the food being shipped into the hotel has gotten destroyed. If anyone leaves the food unattended then something very heavy flattens it, breaking the crate, destroying the food and leaving a huge crater. The strange part is no one can figure out what’s destroying it-there’s never any evidence left. As if that’s not enough, hotel guests are disappearing one by one like magic. People are saying that it’s the work of a ghost. Can you help us?”
Pervs, farts, and volleyball: yup, that's high school. Thanks for the story, Sarah Bruley!—Miss Marm
I woke up at 7 a.m. and unfortunately, did not feel like P. Diddy. Unfortunately for me, homeroom at Morass High starts at 6:45, which meant I would have to sweet-talk my way out of detention again. And when I say sweet-talk, I mean bring a tray of cupcakes to Mr. Rasp, the man in charge at the attendance office. Judging by his pale skin, baggy eyes, and several chins it’s easy to tell that Mr. Rasp is not well acquainted with the great outdoors, or sunshine for that matter. Most latecomers arrive in his office and are greeted with his glazed expression and reeking odor of his flatulence and leave with a detention slip and loss of appetite. However, the more experienced upperclassmen, such as myself, have learned to take advantage of Mr. Rasp’s soft spot for baked goods and manage to leave his office with only the slight odor of his office lingering in our jackets.
I finally reached homeroom at 7:15 and immediately found Mr. Trevrep yet again attempting to flirt with my best friend, Maggie. Today, Mr. Trevrep had slicked down his comb-over with so much gel it looked like he shoved his head in a bowling ball shiner.
zara9's protagonist disapproves of your monosyllabic word choices. But in a funny way! —Miss Marm
My friend Shelly was guilty of murder. Not of any person, but worse; she was guilty of murdering the English language. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, you could practically hear the language screech in terror as she ground it into dust under her heel. She had the vocabulary of a bumbling toddler, the accent of an extraterrestrial, and the grammatical abilities of someone who doesn’t know English. To make matters worse, she gushed along at the speed of an express train, eating every second letter. Let’s just say it wasn’t easy talking to her.
It was hard, but I've finally managed to pick FIVE FINALISTS in the Funny Fiction Contest! First up: an untitled story by appleyface. Intrigued? Read on! —Miss Marm
This is my love story. When I was five years, old, I wrote a detailed description of what my first girlfriend would look and act like on a neon yellow post-it. She had to have hair that was not any shade of black, brown, blonde, or red. Blue eyes. She had to be an expert at playing the banjo. She had to be allergic to ketchup and mustard, just like I