This Saturday, I’ve been asked to give the eulogy for my high school printing instructor. I enrolled in Graphic Arts, thinking it might lead to a future where I could utilize my skill with crayons and colored markers. I soon discovered Graphic Arts was just a fancy name for printing.
It was there, in printing class, where I met the most beautiful young woman. She had long, flowing hair and a smile that could light up the entire western hemisphere. We became inseparable, and were married shortly after my nineteenth birthday. That was forty-one years ago this month.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Sentimental Journalist who writes diary entries for fictional characters is Mad Housewife (or, MH if you dare) 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 fashionable hairstyles of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” Harry studied the smeared ink blots scrawled on a cocktail napkin.
“Of course it is. Honest John said it had a metal gate.” Lloyd pressed his face against the lattice and peered inside.
“It doesn’t look anything like the pictures in the magazine or on TV. You don’t think Honest John would rip us off, do you?”
“Nah. Once you walk through that front door in your smoking jacket and silk pajamas, girls will be all over you, Harry.”
“That’ll be cool. Who would’ve thought we could afford our own Playboy Mansion?”
After conferring with Perry, we decided these to rename the characters Harry & Lloyd, as this is supposed to be fiction.
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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.
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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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And the worst things. And all that weird stuff in between.