For ages scientists have been trying to quantify how much of our talents, behaviors, and booger-pickin’ tendencies come from our DNA and how much is a reflection of the environment in which we’re raised. This makes me wonder what would happen to that new English prince, Baby George, if Kate and Will were willing to let him spend the first five years of his life on a chicken farm in south Alabama. I bet we can safely predict he’d learn to speak without that stuffy British accent and not be scared to get a little manure between his toes.
But at some point, he would probably discover that he was not the same as some of his neighbors. Things that come easy for him might be difficult for his playmates, and things they can do without thinking; such as belching the entire lyrics of Sweet Home Alabama, would be dang near impossible for his princely esophagus to utter.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Dean of Genealogy and the Queen of Historical Fiction is Gertrude “Bloodhound” 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.
Step right up ladies and gentlemen and behold the world’s greatest dog-treeing human. For the unbelievable price of only one dollar you can witness the incredible talent of this gifted toddler with your own two eyes.
Guaranteed to track, trail, and tree anything from the tiniest Chihuahua to a gigantic Irish Wolfhound. Once she picks up the scent, it’s only a matter of moments till the dog is scurrying up a tree whimpering like a politician in a sex scandal.
This child is a direct descendant of the world renowned Gertrude “Cold-nose” Blanchard, a three-time Grand Champion at the Greater Missouri National Dog-Treeing Finals.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
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.
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Stylistically Abusing Language for the Betterment of Mankind
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And the worst things. And all that weird stuff in between.