Comedy of errors

Murphy’s Law says, “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.” Write about a time everything did – fiction encouraged here, too!

Bonus assignment: do you keep a notebook next to your bed? Good. Tomorrow morning, jot down the first thought you have upon waking, whether or not it’s coherent.


“I think I’ll have a little sit down,” Cathy said, drawing out the final three words as if they, too, needed a rest.

“Wrong.”

Cathy looked around, brow furrowed. She was quite accustomed to talking to herself; less so to hearing a response. She shook her head slightly and sank into her armchair. And continued to sink, into a cushioned heap of broken wood and stretched upholstery.

“Oh dear,” Cathy said, in much the same tone as she had taken with the notion of sitting down. “I’ve not had that chair very long.”

“Wrong.”

Cathy pulled herself up and reached for the telephone. “Roger will fix it,” she said, at normal speed.

“Wrong.”

The voice was louder this time. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard it. If ignorance was no longer possible, perhaps she would have more success with confrontation.

“Who are you? What do you want? This isn’t funny, you know!”

“Wrong.”

The voice was more menacing this time; colder, crisper, firmer. Confrontation had been a short-lived strategy, but Cathy was now firmly of the opinion that the wiser course of action would be to run. Despite both her hips having been replaced in the past few years, she was not up to swift movement. She would have to settle for the next best course of action: backing hesitantly towards the front door with her eyes fixed intently on the chair in the room she had just sat on. “I used to be so much quicker than this!” she continued, despite exerting herself physically in a effort to bring this strange dialogue to an end.

“Wrong.”

“I know what you’re up to. I’m not afraid, you know!”

“Wrong.”

“When Roger gets here he’ll sort you out, mark my words!”

“Wrong.”

Cathy was at the top of the stairs now, still backing away from the living room with a little too much concentration on what she was fleeing and not quite enough on the the path to her exit. Her foot slipped. Her hip locked. He weight shifted. Her balance tipped. Her body fell. Her neck broke.


A key turned in the lock, and the door opened with a bang and a rattle.

“Good evening!” Roger shouted up to his wife.

“Wrong.”

London, N7
Posted on 27/02/2014  •  422 words

Listening to: Somewhere Only We Know by Keane