Let’s have a show of hands. How many of you know what chiggers are?
For those who don’t, the internet defines chiggers as the juvenile form of a certain type of mite of the family Trombiculidae. Personally, I could care less about their lineage and pray that none ever reach adulthood. In plain English, they are tiny red insects that leap from weeds and grass to burrow into your skin and feed on human flesh. The result is raised bumps that itch like hell.
I became personally acquainted with a few of these juvenile hitchhikers the other day while picking up trash along our road. This seems a high price to pay for performing community service, especially when I hadn’t been convicted of committing a crime. After all, I’m not that big of a celebrity.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the exterminator who captures and relocates rogue pronouns and adverbs is Olive Orkin 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.
Spectators peek through windows and dangle from second-story balconies, cheering on the daring competitors.
Piercing screams echo from the brick facades of ancient buildings while terror runs rampant down the narrow corridor. In its wake, the street and sidewalks are speckled with blood. Feathers float like snowflakes on the warm summer breeze.
A combatant reveals the beak-marks on the back of his neck and the streaks of blood racing down the calves of both legs.
“What was it like, running from chickens?” asks a reporter.
“Terrifying. I’ve never been more scared in my life.”
“Would you do it again?”
The above is an excerpt from a 4,200 word short story, Running of the Chickens, which will be included in my next book, projected for release some time in 2017.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
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.
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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And the worst things. And all that weird stuff in between.