Welcome to another installment of Friday Flash Fiction. This week’s thrilling episode is the work of guest blogger, Rachel Crofton, the internationally published author and creator of The Food Triangle, the critically acclaimed and scientifically balanced approach to weight loss.
Thank you. ~ When Russell came crawling on his elbows and knees, begging me to fill in for him, I knew something was up. He’d seen the Award Winning photo from Beth Carter (one of my favorite authors) and was having a brain fart. The old cuss started opening closet doors and drug out the skeleton of Delbert Leroy Watson (known as Junior), the first boy I went on a “real” date with. Sure, I’d held hands and claimed to be “going with” a boy or two, but had never been alone with one in his own car. Daddy wouldn’t let me date until I was fifteen. By then, the best of the crop had been picked over. Junior was beanpole with greasy hair and a buck-tooth grin. But he had a car and ten bucks. That was all I needed to know.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our chaperone and person in charge of monitoring hanky-panky in these stories, is the incomparable Alexandra Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
After a thirty-point inspection by my father, Junior escorted me to his car.
“It’s a convertible.” He grinned. “I made it myself.”
“Yes, it’s very . . . unique.”
We rumbled up College Avenue to the 71 Drive-In. The old lady in the ticket booth peered over her glasses and smacked her gum. “Five dollars,” she barked.
Junior bought popcorn, cokes, and some Dentyne. Half way through the movie Mr. Cinnamon Breath leaned over and kissed my cheek. I squirmed in the boat seat.
“These seats recline. We could lay down.”
I smiled. “Oops.” My icy coke flooded his lap.
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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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