Monday morning found my inbox filled with emails from the insurance department informing me that it will soon be time for our Biometric testing. This is the annual event where they determine I’m too short for my weight. According to their scale, someone with my body mass should be eleven foot, two and three-quarters inches tall.
Connie has been surfing the web in search of a medieval rack to stretch me, but it’s highly unlikely I’ll reach the height goal by mid-October. It’s too bad. I was hoping to become as svelte as my good buddy, Mr. MacIlroy, who I’m told trains for disc-golf tournaments by chasing island girls at luaus.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the writing fitness instructor who works overweight stories down to a slender 100 words is Jillian “Edit till you Drop” 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.
Captain’s log; Star-blimp, Baby Goodyear, has spent twenty minutes circling the Foodcourt Galaxy in search of the Silverware Nebula. So far, the only utensil we’ve encountered is a pair of primitive sticks.
“Mr. Spook, what do you make of this?”
“Highly illogical, Captain. Perhaps it explains why the natives have no problems passing their biometric exams.
“Bones, help me out here. How do I eat soup with these sticks?”
“Dammit Russell, I’m a doctor not a culinary wizard. Call engineering.”
“Mr. Snot, do you have a solution?”
“Aye, Captain. Try this.”
“Strange. It appears to be a hybrid of some form. What do you call this hideous invention?”
“It’s a spork, Captain.”
This week’s offering came in at a gluttonous one hundred and twelve words. My sentences are seriously overweight due to their sedentary lifestyle, an overabundance of proper nouns, and lack of action verbs. The word-doctor says they’ll be lucky to make it past the weekend.