Contrary to popular belief, we DO have more than one book in our library. I know this to be true because my good friend Nancy Hartney, who works at the Fayetteville Public Library, donated her copy of “The Perils of Heavy Thinking” to that fine institution. This probably explains why, after 90 days on Amazon, I have yet to sell a single copy. Remember dear readers, books make excellent Christmas gifts.
While I’m at it, I’d like to debunk another theory. NO, we are NOT having baked hen for Thanksgiving. Don’t even think about it. Connie’s hens will all die of old age and natural causes. I don’t know what kind of meat we’ll be serving—whatever the Good Lord provides on the highway I suppose. Hopefully, it will be raccoon or groundhog as I’m getting rather tired of possum.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Pilgrim who sets the table with a photo prompt for us each week is Charity Hope 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.
“Wake up, son.” Officer Ridgley nudged the young man’s ribs with the toe of his boot.
“Uh . . . okay.” Abram rolled into a sitting position, head hung low.
“Look at me. Your eyes are glassy and red. How much have you had to read?”
“Only a book and a half—and they were short stories.”
“Uh huh, I see. What’s in that backpack?”
Abram dumped the contents on the ground.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Ridgley fanned three textbooks across the grass. “Science, literature, calculus. Pretty heady stuff, kid. Sorry, but I’m going have to book you.”
“On what charges, Officer?”
“DOK—drunk on knowledge.”
I’m apt to get arrested this week for exceeding the word limit. This story was clocked on radar at the obnoxiously high rate of 108. The good news is I’ll never be accused on being drunk on knowledge, and as far as I know, being dense as a block of granite is still not a crime.
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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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