A few days ago, Connie brought one of her chickens to the house for a rehab assignment. The old girl (the chicken, not Connie) was definitely not feeling well and in need of specialized care. The hen was placed in ICU (Individual Coop Unit) for a few days and returned to the flock.
Unfortunatey, the success rate at Dr. Connie’s Clinic for Ailing and Geriatric Chickens is extremely low. In fact, the clinic is yet to record its first full and complete recovery. We had high hopes this particular hen would beat the odds and write a stirring testimonial on behalf of the clinic and the good doctor.
Alas, t’was not the case. As her health continued to decline, all she was able to provide was a few illegible chicken scratchings.
If this is your first visit to the Friday Flash Fiction Coop, our matriarch, and chief story-whisperer is Henny Penny Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a roost in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Doc, you look exhausted. Here, have a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks.” Tracey pulled the cup close to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled the aroma rising from the scorched java.
“Yeah. A passenger train hit a bus. We’ve been swamped for hours.”
“That’s too bad. Win any money?”
“Nah, look at the dry erase board. I only hit one out of twenty.”
“Yeah, it looks like Dr. Case-Uvem really cleaned up.”
“How he can accurately predict before they even get to triage beats me.”
“Face it, Tracey. No one puts on clean underwear before leaving home anymore.”
My mother would be appalled at the results, but relieved to know that the medical community is indeed monitoring the underwear of those arriving at the ER.
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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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