Browse our black comedy ebooks….

Our black comedy genre includes short stories which make light of subject matter usually considered taboo. They take topics and situations commonly held as serious, morbid, grotesque or calamitous, and explore them in a comical way. In some cases they satirically express the absurdity, insensitivity and cruelty of the modern world, or the futility of life. Black comedy short stories, sometimes known as dark comedy, may cause you to laugh and feel uncomfortable at the same time.

How To Become Unseen
Helen Pizzey
£0.99 Added
A handy beginners' guide to invisibility. "First, remove all colour from your wardrobe – especially white; white is eye-catching and stands out in a crowd..."
Saturday Night
Derek Thompson
£0.99 Added
Saturday night is date night, and after a long week what's the harm if we lie to ourselves a little? A short piece about the reality of dating and attraction when we've already been around the block a few times. "'Am I fat?' Martha swayed in front of the TV, trying to gauge her reflection. I bobbed my head side to side, to work around her. I didn’t say nothing because I had nothing to say about it."
The Dollar
Tim Kelly
£0.99 Added
One dollar! It is an insult. I won’t pay, I tell you, I won’t...
Countdown and Other Horror Stories
Steve Wilson
£1.59 Added
A date from hell; a camping trip with freshly-caught meat on the menu; a Spanish lesson concerning the futility of life; an alcohol-fuelled dream or was it reality?; a secret assignation at a graveyard; the nosy neighbour who found more than he expected; the hair of the dog that wasn't a cure; the effects of the moon on a near-empty beach; exploring an alien landscape - a new collection of nine stories with a theme of horror running through them.
Waste
Tracey Emerson
£0.99 Added
At eight a.m., on the morning of the last day of her life, Alice Calder stood shivering in the outdoor pool of the Madeira Heights Hotel.
Eggbound
Gillian Best
£0.99 Added
Charlie Carbunckle, an obsessive pigeon fancier, suffers the loss of one of his birds and the blame falls at the feet of his son Seamus.
Happy Valentine's Day, Darling!
R. G. Tooth
£0.99 Added
Poor Keith, nothing was too good for his special valentine.
A Feast of Flash Fictions
Brindley Hallam Dennis
£0.99 Added
Ten Flash Fictions, from 449, to 96 words short...illicit affairs and railroad crashes, murderous spouses and vengeful neighbours.
Wrong Again, Karen
Albert Woods
£0.99 Added
"But I've not done Indian," I told Karen. And besides, the boys are not from India." "It's all the same to them," she said, her cheeky blue eyes sparkling with self-confidence. "Just whip up something hot. They'll love it."
A Rat's Tale
G Mills
£1.29 Added
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Doctor Dominic du Mortier and I am a hundred and sixty one years old. No no, stay where you are please. It’s not that I’m unwilling to shake your hand, please don’t think that. It’s really more a case of my being unable. Permit me to explain. I am beyond reach. And behind glass. And a rodent. Nothing special you understand – just a Rattus norvegicus, or a common brown rat to you. Oh yes, and dead. Did I mention that?
The Waiting Room
Helen Stockton
£0.99 Added
If you've ever sat in a doctor's waiting room, wondering how long you are going to have to wait and what you're going to catch whilst you're waiting, then this is the story for you...
Goffin's Coffin
Albert Woods
£1.29 Added
Ha ha... tee hee... we chortled with glee As we buried the pinchfist Goffin None of us ever liked him much Which was why we bought him a coffin Spot of black comedy here
Thaw
Helen Pizzey
£0.99 Added
The manically-depressed iceberg has few friends among the polar bears at the North Atlantic Bar.
Crisis Meeting in Hell
Jonathan Macho
£0.99 Added
Seven days into the end of the world, there was a crisis meeting in Hell. This was a rare occurrence. A crisis meeting implies of course that a crisis had taken place, and needs to be resolved in some way. The usual reaction to a crisis in the seven circles was a street party.
Dirty Work
When a bank forecloses on a company it's a case of numbers of a spreadsheet, but for those giving and receiving the news... things are more immediate. Bad news travels fast, so we had to travel faster. This, in essence, was the notion that guided us. You get it, you give it, you move on. Do it right and you’re away before things get messy, before the condemned have had time to let the reality of their new circumstances sink in, before that hollow look they get in their eyes has had a chance to take root in your memory. Do it that way and it’s smooth and efficient. Do it that way and it’s as close as something like this gets to being a job well done. And that’s generally how it went. Most of the time. This particular call came in late morning one Christmas Eve and swiftly killed off any hopes I’d had of any early finish. That disappointment was then exacerbated by the fact my car wouldn’t start, having been left parked up with the lights on for a few days. I’d been drinking most nights, medicating a malaise that often reared its head around that time of year. Happily, my thirst meshed well with the festive season. Our office’s underlying culture of functional alcoholism always received a shot in the arm that time of year. Yet, that morning as I sat in the car park turning the key in hope and then without, I wasn’t feeling all that functional. Jump leads and attempted push starts proved useless. The battery didn’t need so much a mechanic as a coroner. I was calling a taxi to take me to the train station when Russell Boyd sauntered over, all three-piece suit and Italian loafers. He sparked up ceremoniously and took a long pull before acknowledging me. It never did to be too cosy with the underlings. “Shouldn’t you be out bringing comfort and joy to the masses?” he asked. I explained the situation. Russell’s smoke curled in my direction. “Where to?” “Grantham, Lincolnshire.” “Sounds a shithole.” He paused a moment, as if sounding out a thought and finding that it pleased him, “I’ll drive you.” I laughed and waited for the punchline. It came in the form of the central locking system of his gleaming, bottle-green Jaguar yipping eagerly to attention..."
Dirty Work
Paul Lahert
£1.59 Added
When a bank forecloses on a company it's a case of numbers of a spreadsheet, but for those giving and receiving the news... things are more immediate. Bad news travels fast, so we had to travel faster. This, in essence, was the notion that guided us. You get it, you give it, you move on. Do it right and you’re away before things get messy, before the condemned have had time to let the reality of their new circumstances sink in, before that hollow look they get in their eyes has had a chance to take root in your memory. Do it that way and it’s smooth and efficient. Do it that way and it’s as close as something like this gets to being a job well done. And that’s generally how it went. Most of the time. This particular call came in late morning one Christmas Eve and swiftly killed off any hopes I’d had of any early finish. That disappointment was then exacerbated by the fact my car wouldn’t start, having been left parked up with the lights on for a few days. I’d been drinking most nights, medicating a malaise that often reared its head around that time of year. Happily, my thirst meshed well with the festive season. Our office’s underlying culture of functional alcoholism always received a shot in the arm that time of year. Yet, that morning as I sat in the car park turning the key in hope and then without, I wasn’t feeling all that functional. Jump leads and attempted push starts proved useless. The battery didn’t need so much a mechanic as a coroner. I was calling a taxi to take me to the train station when Russell Boyd sauntered over, all three-piece suit and Italian loafers. He sparked up ceremoniously and took a long pull before acknowledging me. It never did to be too cosy with the underlings. “Shouldn’t you be out bringing comfort and joy to the masses?” he asked. I explained the situation. Russell’s smoke curled in my direction. “Where to?” “Grantham, Lincolnshire.” “Sounds a shithole.” He paused a moment, as if sounding out a thought and finding that it pleased him, “I’ll drive you.” I laughed and waited for the punchline. It came in the form of the central locking system of his gleaming, bottle-green Jaguar yipping eagerly to attention..."
The Fate of Dogs
Tess Hudson
£1.59 Added
A French toilet, a jealous husband and two dogs
 
 

 

 

 

 

   

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