Third Prize Story Winner
2025 Short Story Competition 

ONE JOKE TOO MANY
By Anne Wilkins

John always enjoyed playing tricks on me. “Gotcha!” he liked to say, bursting out laughing. When we were first dating he bought little pranks from the two dollar shop—a pen that delivered an electric shock, fake dog poo, fake blood, a farting machine, whoopee cushions. One time he even bought a device that squirted water when you sat down on the toilet seat. I could always hear him cracking up nearby, the laughter too much to keep restrained. 

Sometimes I knew I was being pranked, but I’d play along as if I didn’t know, just to see the look of delight on his face. “Oh I got you good that time, Ang, didn’t I?” And I’d nod, and say, “Yes, you did, John. I didn’t see that one coming.” And we’d smile and laugh and go on as normal. 

Even on our wedding day the first ring he produced wasn’t a ring at all, but a baby pacifier. The congregation laughed, and so did I, but my parents looked confused. 

“There’s a time and place, Ang, and that wasn’t it. A wedding’s not a joke,” my mother told me afterwards. 

“It’s just John. He likes a bit of a laugh, that’s all,” I said. “It’s important to have a sense of humour in a marriage.”

And it seemed for a while we were always laughing. Seeing the lighter side of things. And ignoring the heavier things.   

Over the years John toned it down, but he always managed to pull something together for April Fool’s Day. It was the day of the year he liked most. He could be weeks planning something. One time he gave me a box of chocolates where each chocolate had been replaced with a chocolate coloured soap. “Ha. You should’ve seen your face, Ang!” he said when I bit into one. I vomited afterwards, but I still managed a weak smile. 

Another time I was given a fake lottery ticket that made him look like a professional counterfeiter. He’d swapped one that I’d bought the previous week and replaced it with the winning numbers. “Have you checked your ticket, Ang?” he’d asked and when I did I was blown away thinking that I, we, had hit the jackpot. But then I heard the snickering from the kitchen, remembered it was April Fools, and came crashing down to earth again. “Very funny,” I said to John, but I hadn’t found it funny at all, and I’d quietly left the room so I could cry.

“That’s cruel,” my Mother said when I told her. 

“It’s just John, that’s all,” I replied, defending him, but I was hurt. The smiles grew thinner, the laughs more strained.

And now this April Fools it seemed he’d gone even further—an envelope in our mailbox, addressed to me, in writing that I didn’t recognise. 

I sat down on our dining table and opened it up. Inside was a letter in neat blue print. I started to read.

Dear Angela, 

This letter is hard to write. You don’t know me, and up until a month ago I didn’t know about you. I do however know, your husband, John, very well.

There’s no easy way to write this, so I’m just going to come out straight with it. John and I were together in an on-off relationship for the last year. 

He told me he was divorced when I first met him. And then a month ago I found out that wasn’t true. I ended it right away.  

Honestly I’ve thought long and hard whether I should contact you, but in the end I thought if it was me, I’d want to know.

If you’d like to reach out, my mobile is below.

I’m sorry.

Kath

 

I gave a thin smile. Perhaps my thinnest yet. If it hadn’t been April Fool’s Day I might’ve even thought it was true. I wondered who John had asked to write the letter for him, it clearly wasn’t his handwriting, and then to put a mobile number on the bottom was next level. I sat there with the letter in my hands, and waited to hear the familiar snickering, followed by the “Gotcha!” 

But this time there was nothing.

John was still in the lounge on his iPad checking on the latest football results. 

“John,” I called. 

He looked up. “What?”

“Is this your… April Fools?” And I held up the letter.

His eyes scrunched together like he was trying to read it. “Let’s have a look.”

He stood up and came over. I passed the letter over to him, watching his face, waiting for a reaction. He started reading, and then he shook his head solemnly, “No. I… I don’t know anything about this.”

I felt my heart drop, the room spin a little. “You mean—”

“Oh, Ang! Look at your face! Got you good this time, right?” And then the familiar laughter followed.

My eyes welled up with tears. “John, you can’t… you shouldn’t…”

“Oh love. It’s just a bit of harmless fun. You gotta have fun in your life right?” He put his arm around me, but it felt so heavy. 

“It’s not funny! I… I… thought this was real!” I shouted. Angry tears escaped. 

“As if I’d ever cheat. Come on, you know me. I’m in this for the long haul. I thought you might find it funny.” 

I ripped the letter in half and threw it in the kitchen bin. “I do not find it funny.” 

“Ang, come on,” he said. 

But I was gone, slamming the door as I left. 

#

“That’s awful,” said my Mother when I called her later. “Are you sure… it was a joke?” 

Was I sure? I chose not to answer with a yes or no.

“It was April Fool’s Day.” 

“You’ve got to talk to him, Angela. There’s certain things you can’t joke about, and cheating, that’s one of them.”

John was in bed when I hung up the phone. I went to retrieve the letter from the bin, but it was gone. He’d already put the rubbish out even though it was a day early. 

It was a prank, no need to worry—but I found myself searching through the drawer for a torch. 

John would never cheat—I rummaged through the rubbish sack outside in the dark. 

The phone number won’t be real—I pulled out the two ripped pieces of the letter, half covered in cat food. 

If John could see you now—I looked up self-consciously to our bedroom window, but the curtains were drawn, the lights off. There was no John tonight. 

When I went back inside the house I straightened and cleaned the letter as best I could. And then I sat down and read it again, and again. But I kept coming back to that phone number at the bottom. 

Was that part of the joke? If I phoned the number would it connect to the zoo, or a removal van service, or firewood delivery? Something funny? But if it was part of the joke, then why didn’t John suggest I call the number? Or was this whole paranoia part of the joke? Having me sitting here, past midnight with knots in my stomach and my head, trying to puzzle out what was real and what was not. 

In the end, I did nothing.  

I turned out the light and headed for bed. But not before I’d carefully hidden the letter. 

#

The next day I sat John down. 

“Oooh, is this a serious talk?” he asked, laughing.  

I kept my lips in a straight line. 

“It’s too much, John.” I simply said. “It’s not funny anymore. It’s… hurtful.” 

“Is this about yesterday? Geez. I told you it was a joke.” 

“Who did you get to write the letter?” I asked. “It’s not your handwriting.”

“Someone from work.”

“Who?”

“Jesus, what is this? An inquisition? A temp we had. Rachel something or other. She was more than willing to help out. Could see the funny side, unlike some people.” 

“And what happens when I call the mobile number?” 

“It just rings. That’s all. I didn’t have time to do anything fancy other than that. Is that it? Are you happy now? Can I go?” 

“Sure, you can go.” 

“You know you used to be funny, Angela,” he said as he walked out. 

“So did you,” I whispered. 

After he left, I took out the letter. I’d memorised the number already.

I picked up my phone, and with trembling hands I started to dial. 

One ring… you’re silly, see, John was right. It’s nothing. Let it go.

Two rings… it’s just going to keep on ringing, just like John said.

Three rings… you should hang up now.

Four rings… it was just a joke

Five rings… someone would’ve answered by now.

Six rings… a harmless joke

Seven rings…

“Hello?” answered a woman’s voice.