Greetings from sunny Southern California. Connie and I flew out on Monday. She’s having a procedure at UCLA Med Center and I’m observing people in an unnatural habitat. The culture shock goes both ways. Most residents of Westwood have never experienced a genuine Arkansas hillbilly either.
The last two times we’ve been here, we’ve experienced fire in some form or fashion. In December, we attended a Christmas service at the church next door where the communion coverings caught on fire. Last night, at 1:30 am, the fire alarm at Tiverton House went off and we all stood in the street for 30 minutes until the Fire Marshall gave the “all clear” to return to our rooms. You learn some interesting things from people in their pajamas at 2 am.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the scoutmaster in charge of leading the Kumbaya singing is Dinah Short 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.
Welcome to Mean Fartin’s Non-Celebrity Roast. Break out the marshmallows and wienie stick for this week’s roastee, Russell Gayer.
LV: – I was misquoted. Russell’s writing is not tighter than Kim Novak’s face. It’s more like a boring weather forecast; widely scattered words with a slight chance of humor.
VA: – I used to think my adventures were lame—until I met Russell. He’s the only I guy I know who can write in (yawn) monotone.
MF: – Last weekend, Scarlett Johansson accidently downloaded a nude photo of Russell. She called Goodyear the next day to ask when they started making beige blimps with navels.
Russell’s response: – Geez, and to think I asked these people to post a review for me on Amazon.
P.S. – this post is a tribute to Joan Rivers and all the comedians who made the Dean Martin roasts so much fun.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Flash Fiction, and Poetry
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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