The Prank Backfired
Lively and cheerful Emily couldn’t go a day without cracking a joke. In school, she was always the class clown, earning respect from the boys for her wit. At university, she joined the comedy society, and naturally, she only dated men who shared her sense of humour.
“Em, you cycle through blokes faster than I change my socks,” her uni mate Sarah remarked one day. “One week you’re chatting up one, next week you’re out with another—now there’s a third!”
“Sarah, you know my rule—if a bloke can’t take a joke, he’s not for me. I can’t stand a day without laughter. Last one, Daniel, never cracked a smile. Then there was Tom—point at him, and he’d collapse giggling like a toddler. Too much!” Emily shrugged.
“You’ll be searching a while for someone who ticks all your boxes,” Sarah smirked.
“I just want someone who gets me. Life’s too short to be serious all the time,” Emily insisted.
“But life isn’t all fun and games, Em. I’d rather have a steady bloke—all this clowning around? No, thanks,” Sarah said firmly.
“Well, we’re different. I like lads who laugh at themselves, who see the bright side. Positivity’s everything—just keep it harmless, yeah?”
April Fools’ Day was Emily’s favourite—the one day no one could whinge about a prank. At work, she was notorious for winding up her colleagues, yet she always sniffed out any tricks played on her. That’s just who she was.
Sure, she’d dated a few blokes. Daniel, as dull as dishwater, took offence at every jest—so she dumped him fast. Tom started well, chuckling along to her gags, but soon she noticed he missed the punchline half the time. Eventually, that fizzled out too.
Then came James. For once, she thought she’d found someone who matched her energy—someone to laugh with. So, one April morning, she hid behind the door and leapt out with a screech, pulling a grotesque face. He didn’t flinch, but she waited, grinning, for his retaliation.
Oddly, James never pranked her back that day. Instead, two days later, as she carried two steaming mugs of coffee and a chocolate bar on a tray, he hurled a rubber snake at her feet—so lifelike it twitched. Startled, she yelped, spilling coffee everywhere.
“James! What the hell? That could’ve scalded me!” she shouted.
He merely shrugged. “Just returning the favour. Didn’t think you’d lose it like that.”
They squabbled but made up. Then, a month later, he “joked” again—this time with a real snake, borrowed from a mate. Harmless, but brightly coloured. As she sipped tea, ready for work, he tossed it in her path. The creature slithered toward her. She screamed, flung her tea, and vaulted onto a chair, trembling.
James laughed, scooping it up. “Bloody hell, Em, it’s harmless! You love jokes—can’t take your own medicine?”
“Is this a joke to you? Get out. Now. And take your creepy pet with you.”
They split that night. Emily adored pranks—just harmless ones. No one could catch her off-guard; her colleagues knew better. She’d deadpan absurdities with such a straight face that even the sharpest fell for it. Max, her desk neighbour, was a regular target.
“Oi, Max,” she’d say flatly, “boss wants you to redo the quarterly report. By lunch.” He’d bolt off, only to return scowling as she cackled. Yet he never held a grudge—just plotted his revenge. April Fools’ was their battlefield.
That year, Emily brought in homemade apple pies—except Max’s, crammed with salt and pepper.
“Fancy a cuppa, Max? Even baked treats,” she chirped, sliding his “special” slice onto his desk.
“Coffee’s grand, but I’ll make mine—never trust you,” he laughed, oblivious as he bit in. One chew. Two. Then he gagged, sprinting for the sink.
“Em, you witch! Did you poison us all?” a colleague yelped.
“Relax, only Max got the festive seasoning,” she grinned.
He returned, fuming. “How did I drop my guard today of all days?”
The office roared. Emily beamed—but she knew payback was coming.
“Starved me while the others feasted,” Max teased all morning. “Oh, you’ll get yours.”
Late afternoon, Emily headed to the kitchen for tea. Max strolled in, grabbed an apple, and began slicing it—then shrieked, clutching his hand.
“Christ, Em, I’ve cut myself! Fetch a towel!”
Panic seized her—she despised blood. Frantic, she ripped paper towels, lunging to wrap his “wound”—then his hand dropped clean off, sleeve empty.
The ceiling spun. Darkness swallowed her.
She woke to pale faces. Max, ashen, cradled her head. “Em, love, you alright? Christ, I’m sorry—it was a bloody plastic prop!”
Dizzy, she noticed his real hand. A weak smile tugged her lips. “Well… prank succeeded? Or backfired?”
The room erupted in relieved laughter. Max, guilt-ridden, fussed over her like a mother hen—brewing tea, scrounging up chocolate, apologising nonstop.
“Honestly, Max, enough. I prank you all the time,” she sighed, though secretly touched.
Later, studying him—his kindness, his humour—a thought struck her: Why had she never seen him like this before? Handsome, caring, quick-witted…
Months on, they wed in fits of giggles, even cracking up the registrar. Their home brimmed with laughter. As they say: “Find someone who gets your silence and your silliness, and you’ve struck gold.”
For Emily and Max? Life was one long, joyous punchline.
