When the sky would blacken with storm clouds and the sound of thunder shook the very ground we stood on, my father was fond of saying, “Looks like it’s fixin’ to come a turd-floater. You boys better get inside before you wash away.”
This only gave credence to the ugly rumor that my ancestors floated to the Ozark Hills from Indiana in one such rainstorm a hundred and seventy years ago. Good thing we’re a buoyant people.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the little mermaid who choreographs our synchronized writing program is Esther Williams 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.
“I thought you said you had a ski boat?”
“But that’s a canoe. You can’t pull a skier with that.”
“Sure you can. The rower just needs the right motivation.”
“And how do you accomplish that?”
“If my wife is paddling, I attach a couple of Cottonmouths to the stern on four-foot leashes. She’s been clocked at forty miles per hour.”
“What if she won’t go?”
“Then I fill Junior up on sweet potatoes, boiled eggs, and beans and have him push the boat. Ski to the left or right. You’ll want to stay clear of the exhaust.”
It’s been a while since I’ve given you a dose of good, juvenile humor. Read twice and comment in the morning.
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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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