Those of you who read this blog on a regular basis know I’m prone to steal inspiration from unlikely sources. A couple of weeks ago, I butchered a passage of Shakespeare. This week, I’m plagiarizing one of the great comedic minds of the 21st century—the 2nd funniest man east of the Mississippi—Perry Block.
Perry rates second only because Dave Barry wrote, “To Russell, my Idol,” inside my copy of his book. Normally, I don’t condone idol worship, but I’ve decided to make an exception in Dave’s case.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Chuckwagon Driver on the Fictioneer Trail is Abilene Annie Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Frank, this place is creepy. Let’s turn around and go home.”
“Relax, Gladys, we’re almost there. You can’t expect to find the real Fountain of Youth at a rest stop on the freeway.”
“No, but this looks like a scene from Deliverance. I can’t believe that guy in Pennsylvania suckered you into buying this map. If he knew where the fountain was, why’d he look so damn old?”
“There it is, Gladys. That guy with a towel must be an attendant. Hey Mister, is this the Fountain of Youth?”
“Nah, it’s the Cesspool of Middle Age. I’m your host, Abe Vigoda.”
This story idea stolen from, The Fabulous Fabled Fountain of Middle Age
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
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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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