Mount St. Molehill

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but in Northwest Arkansas it falls on the hills and races down to flood the creeks (pronounced with a long E), wash out the roads, and confound the simple minded.

One thing that’s always baffled me is why they call these weather patterns El Nino and such. Why don’t they name them after evil step-mothers or school bullies? Here are a couple of suggestions, “The Scourge of Evelyn Jackson,” or “Billy Joe Bob Goes Postal.”

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the meteorologist whose weekly predictions are always on target is Alice Roker Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

copyright - Sandra Crook
copyright – Sandra Crook

“I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe going to the opera isn’t such a bad idea after all.” Bob slid his arm around Celeste and gave her a hug.

“Trust me, you’ll have a great time. A little culture will do you good.”

“By the way, what’s that spot on your face?”

“Spot?” Celeste ran to the mirror. “Oh my God. It’s a huge zit.”

“Forget I mentioned it. It’s barely noticeable.”

“What do you mean? It looks like Mt. Everest. I can’t go out looking like this.”

(The next day at work)

“Hey, Bob, how was the opera last night?”

“I got out of it. Something came up.”

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63 thoughts on “Mount St. Molehill

  1. Dear Stay-at-home-Bob,

    In high school I had a hypochondriac Spanish teacher. All anyone had to do was say, “Mr. Scott, you’re kind of pale…” He’d be absent the next day. If a student was absent due to illness, he’d spray his or her chair with Lysol…pure fact no fiction.

    Cagey move on Bob’s part. But poor Celeste. Bob should be throttled for his insensitive comment. Oh wait…he’s a guy. She should be horsewhipped within and inch of his worthless life. Great title.

    Sitting here trying to stay warm in the frigid Midwest.

    Shalom,

    Alice R. Wisoff-Fields

    1. Dear Alice R.,

      Poor Celeste is quite impressionable, isn’t she. I doubt she had far to run for a mirror as she seems consumed with her vanity. Bob pulled her strings, playing her like a marionette puppet. I’m sure he’d rather be horsewhipped than go to the opera.

      Enjoy your ice and snow.

      Stay-at-Home Bob

    1. I have no personal knowledge of those tactics. If so, I would write a book on the subject which would immediately become a best seller on the black market (under a fictitious name, of course).

  2. Well told tale of a nasty piece of work seriously lacking in kultyir n that.
    What I don’t understand (about the topic under discussion only, life is too short to detail all my areas of incomprehension) is the apparent dislike of opera.
    Okay, a lot of it is people singing in foreign, but nowadays you get supertitles for those too dim to read the program, Russell.
    It is great fun.
    And you get ice cream during the interval.
    But only if you are good.

  3. Actually though those supertitles mentioned above are a complete waste of time – not one single member of the audience joined in the one time I went to the opera in San Francisco.
    Naughty tale you’ve got there Russell.

  4. What a clever guy Bob is, but poor Celeste! I remember, the night before I was getting married, I showed up at my soon to be husband’s family home. His little sister opened the door, and said: “Oh my God! You have a huge zit on your chin!” I was a mess right up to I do… and well, what an omen. I digress… Bob’s got some tact to work on. So does my SIL. 😉

    1. You have to admit, Bob was very subtle in his approach (unlike your SIL). However, he played her vanity like a finely tuned violin. Thanks for the personal history. Sounds like this story resonated with you. 🙂

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