The chicken “spa” is now fully operational. Last weekend, we dug a trench and ran electricity 175 feet from the old shop building to the upscale apartment complex formerly known as the chicken house. The ladies can now bask in the soothing glow of infrared heat, wallow in a dust-bath, or enjoy other amenities at the low cost of only a few eggs per week.
“Miss Connie gives the best deep-tissue massages,” says Hilary, a young Rhode Island Red. “She really knows how to work her fingers up under your feathers and release all that tension and stress. Plus, there a great fruit bar here with watermelon rind and fresh persimmons. Next week, she’ll begin decorating for Christmas. I can’t wait to see what’s in my stocking.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the concierge who can direct you to some of the best writers in the blogosphere is Henny Penny 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.
“Can you describe the assailant, Ma’am?” Detective Lowry tapped the touchscreen of his iPad.
“Well, he attacked me from behind, so I didn’t get a real good look at him. But his arms are white—white as snow.”
“Anything about his voice or mannerisms that might help us identify him?”
“He had this cute little giggle, like he was really enjoying himself—the pervert.”
“We’ll put some posters up based on your description. Do you think you could pick him out in a line-up?”
“Absolutely. He puffs a little white cloud every time he breaks wind. I’ll never forget that smell.”
Here’s the police line-up.
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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.
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