Noodles

How many of you baby-talk to your pet? Let’s see a show of hands. No one can see you except for your spouse, who’s probably wondering why you’re holding your hand up in front of a computer screen.

There are several articles on the web that rationalize, or even justify this behavior—though none of them are written by pets. Why do we baby-talk at all? I realize its done with an attitude of affection, but the vocal tone sounds rather condescending when the last thing we want to do is hurt poor little snookum’s feelings.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, famous artist who baby-talks to paintings of empty wine glasses is Brooke Foster Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

 

copyright – Fatima Fakier Deria

 

Gee, it’s great to be out of Gotham City, Batman, but what are we doing in Venice, Italy?

The Riddler has kidnapped the maker of Commissioner Gordon’s favorite canned pasta.

Holy Ravioli, Batman, surely you don’t mean Chef Boy-ar-dee?

Exactly, Robin. The man who revolutionized spaghetti rings, Ettore Boiardi, aka, Hector Boyardee is being held for ransom somewhere in this city.

How will we find him?

The Riddler left a clue; What do you call a run-down neighborhood in Italy?

That’s easy. A Spa-ghetto.

Precisely. To the Bat-Gondola, Robin.


* today’s offering is a take-off from the American TV series “Batman” which aired from 1966-68.

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Espionage

Have you ever predicted something ridiculous and had it come true? A couple of weeks ago, I hinted at possible collusion between our fearless leader and her Canadian cohort (neither of whom are Trump fans).

Apparently, my comment started a war of words between our two countries. A Trump advisor said, “There’s a special place in Hell for Justin Trudeau.” The implication here is that the current U.S. administration has an intimate connection with the Netherworld, and can reserve “special accommodations” for young, dashingly handsome leaders who have nice hair. This calls for a wall—as soon as the Canadians can empty enough Molson bottles to erect one.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our double-naught spy who encrypts secret messages in 100 word posts is Rosa Klebb Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright – Jean L. Hays

Justin, have you noticed that strange bird outside our window?

Do you mean the one with the audio receptor attached to its head, Sophie?

Oh, I thought that was a plume.

No, the bird’s a drone. And those beady little eyes are cameras.

Who would be spying on us?

I suspect it’s our neighbor, Snidely Badhair.

What do you think he’s after? Classified information? Intelligence gathering?

No, although he could use some intelligence. We have our own bird spy—a loon.

What have you learned?

Nothing. When we ask him to repeat what he heard he just starts laughing.

The Birthday Crasher

Is there someone in your house who doesn’t understand how a light switch works? These people have no trouble sliding the lever to the “On” position, but can’t seem to grasp the concept of flipping it to “Off” when they leave the room.

My Dad used to remark that our house was lit up like the Massey Hotel. To keep our electric meter from spinning like a pinwheel on methamphetamines, I threatened to doc our children’ allowances twenty-five cents each time I had to turn off a light behind them. By the end of the week, they always owed me money.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our frugal hostess who docs those exceeding the 100 word limit is Thomasina Edison Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright – Roger Bultot

Since retirement, Henry had worked hard to break into to the public speaking circuit. So far, the only gigs he’d landed were hawking free food samples at a neighborhood grocery.

Then fate intervened. One of the customers, impressed by his oratory skills, invited him to speak at a ribbon-cutting ceremony—at the museum, no less.

For three weeks, Henry honed his twenty-minute presentation and imagined the crowd hanging on every word.

“I’m the keynote for the ribbon-cutting,” he told the curator.

“Right this way.”

Inside, a five-year-old girl posed next to a pink, battery-operated toy car, scissors in hand.

Floaters

How many of you have at least one friend who is a real cheapskate? (Or maybe it’s your friend who knows someone like that 🙂 ) I have a buddy who’s so tight he squeaks when he walks. When we go to lunch, it’s takes half-a-can of rust remover just to get his wallet open.

This guy loves to go to garage sales—and he’s a real negotiator. If the price is a dollar, he’ll offer twenty-five cents. If the item is fifty cents, he tells the owner, “Pay me a dollar, I’ll gladly to take that thing off your hands.”

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the word-count tightwad who runs this show is Jacqueline Benny Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

 

photo courtesy of Connie Gayer

 

I was leaning on the handle of my hillbilly backhoe when the Purple Pygmy and the Watusi Canuck came waltzing across the pasture.

I hopped in the hole and pretended to dig.

“Nice pond,” said the Canuck. “Mind if we take a dip, eh?”

“No freebies. It’s gonna cost ya.”

“How about a rare work of art?” The pygmy flashed a crayon drawing of baby venison on the hoof.

“What else ya got?”

“I could do your portrait?”

“Okay, you got thirty minutes—but no diving!”

Little did they know I was just cleaning the pit under the outhouse.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Do you ever promise yourself that you’re NOT going to do something, then wind up doing it anyway? How a “NO” can get twisted into “YES” is one of the great mysteries of the universe.

After pondering on this conundrum for ten to fifteen seconds, I came up with the following equation, which has been field-tested for accuracy and holds true 99.8% of the time when dealing with grandkids and wives. I call it the Russellean Theorem. No + No + No + No = Yes.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the medieval barber, known for her penchant for purple, is Theodora of Belton Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

photo copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Remember those haircuts Mom used to give us in the sixties, Perry?”

“Yeah, we were supposed to look like the Beatles. She’d call you Paul and me Ringo.”

“That’s because you had a schnoz big enough to hold the family station wagon.”

“And poor Sis, she got the same haircut, only parted on the side to look like Twiggy.”

“It didn’t help that Mom had poor eyesight and used pinking shears.”

“The kids at school used to laugh and call us Fred and Barney.”

“Maybe that’s why we entered the stoned-age in the seventies.”

“I wonder what became of that bowl?”

 

 

Booties

Remember when people used to send their child’s baby shoes off to have them bronzed? Several of my mother’s friends memorialized their baby’s infancy in this manner. These were usually displayed in a prominent location, so that guests couldn’t help but see them.

I remember wondering why my mother never had a pair of mine bronzed. Did it cost too much? Was she embarrassed by my footwear? There are still several companies that can provide this service. They will even bronze your brassiere, if you’re so inclined. Check it out.   

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the emcee of our program, known for her purple footwear fetish, is Sneaker LeBeau Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

 

“Sir, you have a long-distance call from the U.K. Will you accept the charges?” The international operator’s voice was monotone and robotic.

“Sure.” Probably J.K. Rowling asking for writing advice—again.

“Hi, Russell. This is Harry. I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”

The only Harry I knew of in England was Harry Nilsson, and he was dead.

“Meghan’s father is unable to attend,” said Harry, “and we were hoping you’d fill in for him at the wedding.”

“I guess so. What shall I wear?”

“Whatever’s comfortable. The men are wearing boots.”

“Well, I do have one pair.”


What my baby shoes would have looked like

Street Vermin

Have you ever noticed that when a bug hits your windshield they always splatter directly in the center of your field of vision? This “accuracy of aim” occurs far too often to be purely coincidental. I suspect they are graduates from Kamikaze Insect Institute who are intent on delivering their payload where it makes the most impact.

A close friend of mine would always make keen observations like, “It took guts to do that,” or, “I bet he doesn’t have the guts to do it twice.” Another favorite is, “What’s the last thing that passes through a bug’s mind when he hits your windshield?” I’m sure you can guess the answer. If not, bug me about it in the comment section.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the renowned author and artist, The Belle of Belton, Shelley Kohlen Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright – Jill Wisoff

Today marked the first time Shelley had encountered other people while carrying stolen property. Three boys in their early teens stopped her on a side street.

“Whatcha got there?” they teased. “Is it heavy?”

“Want me to carry if for you?” The tallest one made a goofy face and reached for the invisible box.

She had to spin hard to avoid his grasp and twisted her ankle on the curb.

An elderly man saw the boys harassing her and ran them off.

“You boys should be ashamed of yourselves.” He shook his cane at them. “Picking on a damned mime.”


*the above is an excerpt from my current work in progress, “Criminal Mimes.”

This Means WAR!

We’ve coined a new slogan here at the Gayer Plantation; “What doesn’t kill you will make you so sore you can’t move without pain.” Connie’s been putting in long days in the flower farm while I work two-hour stints in the vegetable garden.

Spring may be in the air, but there’s not much of it left in my step. When I have my hearing aids in, I can actually hear my joints creak. In the evening, I lubricate them with a magical elixir known as Rum & Coke, which tends to prove quite effective in providing temporary relief.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our rheumatoid specialist, who offers a weekly prescription for 100-word arthritic writing, is Verna Write Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright – Karen Rawson

 

“Something has to be done about these armadillos.” The anger in Connie’s voice whistled like a teakettle at full boil.

“Are they putting possums out of work again?”

“No! They’re destroying my flowerbeds. Half of my plants have been dug up and there’s a maze of trenches throughout the mulch.”

Her once beautiful garden now resembled an artillery-ravaged battlefield. Prize plants lay wounded and dying, their tender roots left naked and exposed beneath a merciless summer sun.

Earlier attacks had been random potshots. But now, the flowerbeds looked so bad even the Narcissus was having a tough time loving himself.


*the above is an excerpt from the award-winning story “The Battle of Gardenville.”  This story and more can be found in my latest book, One Idiot Short of a Village.

Partners in Lobotomy

I’ve discovered the secret to being late. Leave early. It’s that simple. When there’s plenty of time to spare, your brain immediately tries to fill that void with a distraction or task that should only take a few minutes, but in reality takes five times as long as you imagined.

Therefore, if it’s critical that you arrive on time, I recommend leaving late. This will elevate your stress level and keep you so focused you won’t have time for stoplights, tollbooths, flat tires, and other annoying distractions. Drive like hell—You’ll get there.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our librarian in lavender, who keeps a close rein on the 100-word limit, is Fanny B. Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

Partners in Lobotomy

genre – Parody

 

Dear Dr. Strangeglove,

I never dreamt I would become a writer. Now I are one.

Thanks to your amazing medical procedure, I’m now one soul with half a brain.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss wasn’t kidding. Ever since the icepick surgery I’ve been as happy as a five-year-old.

To celebrate, I propose we put on our Sunday clothes and dance in a mud puddle. Afterwards, we can cut out some cardboard wings and hang-glide off Mt. Nebo.

I plan to write a book on how wonderful it is to be thought-free–as soon as I find my crayons.

Forever lamebrain,

Corky


* I don’t usually read other’s posts before writing mine, but the title of our Fearless Leader’s story was just begging for a little satire and parody.

Dirty Laundry

Not a day goes by that I don’t get a phone call from a total stranger wanting to help me. Yesterday, a young lady named Lisa told me that because I stayed at one of their properties in the past, she wanted to give me a week in Orlando. One of us must have amnesia. I don’t remember staying at their resort.

An hour later, I received an offer to consolidate my credit card debt, thus saving me thousands of dollars. Another caller wanted to provide an extended warranty on our 2001 Toyota. What a blessing to have all these thoughtful people interested in my well-being. Is this a great country, or what?

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our purple-clad garden gnome, who would love to sell you 100-word overdraft protection, is Mammy Warbucks Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright – Douglas MacIlroy

 

In days of olde

When knights were bold

And Fruit of the Looms not yet invented

King Arthur’s men

Would often send

Their underwear out to the cleaners

 

There’s nothing worse

Said the laundry serf

Than a knight who’s gone too long

Tis a life of pain

To remove such stains

From chainmail that is reeking

 

Twice dipped in lye

Then hung to dry

A jingling banner in the breeze

The maiden sighs

With lovelorn eyes

And the knight cries, “No starch, please!”

 

Mandie Hines Author

Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Flash Fiction, and Poetry

The Phantom Rem

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The Incoherent Ramblings Of A Moose

This is the blog of a woman who is seriously on the edge and I mean right ON the edge…no, not there… just a little bit further… further than that…no, further still…just a tiny bit more… just move slightly to the right a little…no, that’s too much…just move a tad to the left…that’s right, just there…now you’ve moved too far to the left… Damn, what part of the ‘on the edge’ do you not understand? Oh, and her matricidal boy genius, come devil spawn.

Sharing sarcasm, snark, and satire with the world...

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AS I TOLD THE GIRL THAT I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO, THANKS FOR LAUGHING AT ME HERE TODAY.

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