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Bad news…



The kids were playing loudly in the next room. 

He wondered if anybody on the planet dreamt about being Winny the Pooh. Probably, at least one weird person, maybe more. These obviously didn’t know how damn hot it was, in these mascot costumes. And the smell… The sweat stench that made him regret having taken the contract, even if he did need the money.

There was no rush putting the Pooh’s head on, he still had a couple of minutes before becoming the party’s main amusement.

His cell phone vibrated, and he was surprised the provider hadn’t suspended his line just yet. Not that he didn’t want to pay the bills, but when it came to choosing between a meal and a call, the choice wasn’t hard to make.

One, two, three, four buzzes.

Leave a message after the bip… Biiiiiiiiiip!

The parents were warming the young crowd, and the kids’ shrieks were a proof that the overload of sugar had kicked in.

He checked the screen of his phone, and a message was waiting.


The number was more than familiar. Suddenly, he felt like being Winny wasn’t such a bad thing.

He dialed in, to hear the message, and held the phone to his ear.

Mr. Brown, this is Dr Bronson… We had you tests results. I think we should discuss this ”live”. Please call me back at…

He hung up.

Putting Winny’s head on, he headed to the main room. It was time to celebrate Tom’s birthday.



This short fiction is a ”practice” for November’s NYC Midnight 250 word Microfiction Challenge, using one of the NYC Midnight Challenges previous prompts: Drama / Putting on a costume / Celebrate.  


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