This weekend, the Fayetteville High Class of 1974 will hold a reunion that in no shape or form will remotely resemble the parties we attended 40 years ago to celebrate graduation from that renowned institute of lower learning. The smart kids went on to college , determined to make something of themselves, while the rest of us wandered aimlessly like a herd of goats who couldn’t decide whether to shit or go blind.
Our graduating class featured the usual caste system. Social standing was determined by which group (i.e. clique) had accepted you as a member. There were Jocks, Suzies, Nerds, Goat Ropers, and of course, Hippies. My group, the Ne’er-Do-Wells, was a subset of the Hippie caste and ranked barely ahead of whale dung on the social ladder of life. We had adopted the Alfred E. Newman motto, “What? Me worry?” It has served me well.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who worries and frets over which photo to post each week is Professor Blanche DuBois 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.
“Wendell, I’m not happy.” Elsie shifted her cud from one side to the other and stared across the highway.
“What? Elsie, you’re knee deep in clover, have a spring-fed pool to drink from, and plenty of huge oak trees to provide shade all summer. You should be the most contented heifer on Peckerwood Road.”
“I know, but I can’t help but wonder what’s beyond this fence. What it must be like to wade through tall grass in other pastures.”
“Well, you know what Old MacDonald says,” Wendell swished a fly with his tail. “The grass may look greener, but it’ll still give you diarrhea.”
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.
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.