I want apologize in advance for this week’s offering. I don’t usually resort to crude, juvenile humor two weeks in a row . . . make that four weeks in row . . . Oh, never mind. When I saw the photo prompt, courtesy of Erin Leary, I thought “how can I write something funny based upon such a gray, bleak scene?” After whining and wallowing in self-pity for all of thirty seconds, I decided to suck it up and act like a writer. Friday Flash Fiction was created to challenge us, make us write stories we wouldn’t ordinarily write, force us to grow as we learn from each other.
There’s your motivational speech for the week. Now, let’s move along.
In a few days, I will be asking you to Judge a Book by Its Cover. I will post two cover designs for my upcoming book. Please vote for the one you’d be the most inclined to pick up if it was crying out your name from a crowded shelf in a poorly lit bookstore. I will also include brief excerpts from four or five stories to give you a feel for the content. You don’t have to be a registered voter to participate. This offer is good on all seven continents and the District of Columbia.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the physician in charge of correcting gastrointestinal disorders caused by this blog is the esteemed Dr. Feelgood 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.
RHONDA: Bill hasn’t been himself lately, Marge. It’s like there’s a black cloud hanging over him and by six o’clock he’s totally sapped. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he won’t open up. It’s putting a real strain on our marriage.
MARGE: Does he feel bloated and have stomach cramps?
RHONDA: Yes, how did you know?
MARGE: From what you’ve told me, I’d say it’s a case of Classic Constipation.
RHONDA: Classic Constipation? No sh*t?
MARGE: I’m afraid so, Rhonda. Spike his cocktails with prune juice and feed him some roughage. In a few days, he’ll be as frisky as a young stallion.
RHONDA: Oh, Marge. You saved our marriage!