Be forewarned, this is a real groaner. Thoughts poured through my pea brain like boulder sized kidney stones passing through a narrow urethra. It took two rolls of paper towels to clean up the perspiration generated by umpteen hours of hard labor giving birth to this ugly baby.
For maximum effect, hold a coffee mug to your lips while reading the story. Photo by Ted Strutz.
To read more stories, visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and find links to other authors under the comments section.
P.S. ~ If you’re not a regular Friday Flash Fiction reader, save yourself some confusion and stop before the last line.
“Son, I say son,” a booming voice sliced through the night like a Daboll Trumpet off the coast of Cape Cod.
“Where’s the flying pigs? The widow’s boy loves them scientific gadgets.”
“We’ve got airplanes, helicopters, and space ships, but no pigs,” said the vendor.
“Then how about a pair of them X-rated glasses?”
“You must mean X-ray glasses, sir. I’m sorry, we only have sunglasses.”
“What am I going to do with you, boy? The sun ain’t even shining. (whispers) Poor kid, a big barn but an empty loft.”
“Check out our clearance rack, sir. Ted Strutz coffee cups.”
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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.
Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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