I’ve always wanted to use the name Madge in a story. Thanks to our lovely host and her intriguing photo, I finally get my chance. Some of you may remember Madge as the beautician who soaked client’s fingers in Palmolive dishwashing detergent to make them soft as a baby’s ear (or was it a lower region?).
No palms or olives were injured in the fabrication of this installment from November 2012.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the dream weaver who can teach you how to transform passing fancies into 100 word stories is Madge N. Nation Wisoff-Fields. If you’re up for the challenge, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Good morning, Irma, it’s Flossie. Do you know what’s going on with Madge?”
“No. Is she all right?”
“I think she’s having an affair. She wouldn’t talk on the phone, so I went over there. She kept looking at her watch and practically shoved me out the door at 3 o’clock. Minutes later, a gray-haired man arrived and stayed for four hours.”
“That must be Paul. What else did you see?”
“Not much, her windows fogged over. He looks twice her age.”
“Well, Madge told me, ‘Just because there’s frost on the roof doesn’t mean the fire’s gone out.’”
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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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