Bruce Willis is credited with saying something to the effect of, “No matter how old we get, we still feel twenty-three on the inside.” Most of the time I agree with that statement, but while battling gout a couple of weeks ago, I could’ve sworn I was eighty-eight.
When looking in the mirror, I always ask myself, “Who’s that old fart? Do we know him? When did he take the place of the young stud who used to appear there?” To boost my ego, I like to repeat the adage, “I may not be good as I once was, but I am as good once as I ever was.”
In this week’s story, a couple of octogenarian teenagers have a hormonal flashback. Gladys has been widowed several years and Richard lost his wife a few months ago after a four year ordeal with Alzheimer’s.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the registered nurse in charge of dispensing medication (and tightening my straight-jacket) is Florence Nightingale Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. After which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs
“That’s disgusting,” hissed a teenager.
“Yeah you two, get a room!” The boys made gagging sounds and laughed before shuffling down the sidewalk.
“What do you think, Gladys?” Richard wiggled his eyebrows.
She smiled. “I’ve always wondered what the rooms were like in that fancy hotel.”
“One night?” asked the desk clerk.
“Nah, only a couple of hours,” said Richard with a wink.
The clerk rolled his eyes.
“Do you think we’ll be home before our kids report us as missing?” asked Gladys.
He pulled her close and lost himself in her deep sea-green eyes. “I certainly hope not.”
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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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