My mother loved to watch soap operas. As a small boy, I can remember being told frequently to “Sshhs-it” during The Edge of Night. Mom scheduled all of her daily activities around these never-ending dramas, referring to them as “Her Shows.” My favorite character was the incredibly beautiful, lying, scheming, cheating, two-timing, home-wrecker whom my mother nicknamed, “That Little Hussy.”
What amazed me about these programs was how slowly the action unfolded. You could miss every episode for six weeks, and when you tuned in again, “BAM!” Rachel was still in a coma, Harvey was still on trial for flushing a goldfish, and Louise was still in the arms of her husband’s proctologist (Let’s hope he washed his hands first).
Welcome to the Thursday edition of Friday Flash Fiction. The executive producer and director of this program is Mary Tyler More-or-Less Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a booth in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Jacqueline was waiting in the vestibule of the assisted care complex when he arrived. She was born deaf, dumb, and blind, but endowed with a rack like Dolly Parton.
Perry had promised to take her to an off-Broadway production of the rock opera, Tommy, and then to a video arcade for pinball before swinging by the “love shack” for a nightcap.
Anticipating an evening of romance, he took a pill. The directions read, “for best results, take thirty minutes to an hour before bed.”
Nuzzling her neck, Perry showered her with tender kisses. Minutes later he was sound asleep.
I promised Perry I’d let him get the girl in 2017, but he still managed to bungle it. Perhaps he shouldn’t store his Viagra in the same medicine cabinet as his Unisom.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Flash Fiction, and Poetry
Stories From Within
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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An author's perspective of mystery and more.
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