I’ve often wondered how often palace guards have to do anything other stand perfectly still in their freshly pressed uniforms and superbly polished boots. What happens if their crotch itches? Do they allow them to wear iPods these days?
Once Connie wins the lottery, I’ll see if she’ll let me hire two or three of these guards to post on the front porch to keep the riffraff out. Hopefully, they’ll still let me in, especially if I promise to let them scratch when the urge hits ’em.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Queen Mother of the band of vagabonds is the illustrious Elizabeth “Maiden of Missouri” Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view FFF author leader board click here.
Phillip was nervous about the new job. It was a highly visible position, though most passers-by saw only the uniform, not the person.
His benefactors promised safety and security, but that was BS (before surgery). When Phyllis Stanton testified before the Grand Jury, death threats arrived daily. They promised to track her to the ends of the earth.
A female tourist came by three days in a row, each time stopping to study Phillip and take photos from different angles. Sweat poured from under his helmet. What if the witness protection program failed?
She leaned forward and whispered in a deep, bass voice, “You’re kinda cute. I think we had the same doctor.”
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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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