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.
“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.”
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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