It’s not uncommon in America for parents to attempt to fulfill their own busted dreams of Superstardom by living variously through their children’s activities. Most of the time it involves sports, but could just as easily be music, art, or even more thrilling activities such as mathematics, literature, or in my case—study hall.
I guess it wasn’t fair of me to put such high expectations on our kids. While they both did very well in others area of their academic life, neither of them excelled in study hall. Despite my constant coaching, they were never able to produce a halfway decent spitball. Even now, years later, I haven’t fully recovered. The good news is I have four grandkids. Hopefully, at least one of them will become a Study Hall legend in his/her time.
In this week’s story, Mercury is hoping to excel on the football field and earn the adulation of his friends and family—especially his father, Herman. This is an excerpt from a short story in my upcoming book “The Perils of Heavy Thinking” which will be released sometime next year.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the head coach of the Fictioneers is the legendary Marion “Mad Dog” Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
The schedule said we were to play the Giants, but I had no idea they meant that literally. My confidence began to wilt. The adrenaline crawled out of my veins and went scampering down a yellow streak that had once been my spine.
On the first offensive series, I tried my best to “get in the way” of the 340 pound behemoth that loomed across from me. None of my tactics worked. My opponent looked like he had just escaped from a maximum security prison and had the attitude of an angry moose.
He didn’t go around obstacles—he went through them. After the first three plays, I was more trampled than the grapes of wrath
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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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