I have to confess, I’ve have not read “Fifty Shades of Grey,” but I did win flash fiction contest based on the title “Fifty Sheds of Grey.” The story was set in a one-hole outhouse and the poor tenant was bemoaning the fact that he’d eaten too many jalapenos the night before. It wasn’t the kind of story that would garner a Pulitzer Prize, but it did earn $25 and twelve months of braggin’ rights.
Most of us know from personal experience that not everything in life is Black or White, Good or Evil, and last but certainly not least, Sweet or Sour. Somethings fall into that sinkhole beneath the middle of the bell-shaped curve under the category of bland, boring, and downright forgettable. Such is the case with today’s delicacy.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the tour guide for our weekly excursion into the mystic is the famous trapeze artist who ran away from the circus to become a writer, Florenda Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF “Hollywood Squares” author seating chart click here.
“This is where it all began.” The tour guide’s voice flat and cold as the stone walls surrounding them.
Alice squeezed Marvin’s hand and ducked cobwebs as they navigated the dimly lit passageway leading deep into the bowels of the castle.
“I can’t believe you wanted to come here.”
“Relax, the brochure said they’ve only lost three guests in twenty years.”
Filing into a large room filled with boiling cauldrons, the group covered their noses to ward off the rising effluvia.
A man wearing a chef’s hat held up a small hamburger.
Somehow the Grey Castle ‘Spyder’ sandwich never caught on.
Feel free to offer constructive criticism.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Flash Fiction, and Poetry
Stories From Within
Finding ways to make words sparkle
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.
Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional.
Confessions of a Delusional Maniac
I may make you feel, but I can't make you think.
All the Blogging That's Fit To Print
AS I TOLD THE GIRL THAT I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO, THANKS FOR LAUGHING AT ME HERE TODAY.
I don't write, I touch without touching.
A Humor Blog
Stylistically Abusing Language for the Betterment of Mankind
Straight up with a twist– Because life is too short to be subtle!
An author's perspective of mystery and more.
And the worst things. And all that weird stuff in between.