Last Saturday, Jan Wayne Fields and I, along with his wife, Lil’ Whats-Her-Name, attended the February OWL meeting in Branson. In the afternoon session, a pair of esteemed editors critiqued submissions of opening paragraphs. The subject of grammar came up and both mentioned their aversion to writing with colons.
Those who follow this blog know that I sometimes write from the lower intestinal tract. The Master of colon writing is Dave Barry. He even published a study the subject entitled “A Journey Into My Colon—And Yours.” In one version, he asks the doctor ‘Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?
If this is your first visit to Friday Flash Fiction, the nurse who will prep you for your deep cleansing of 100 words is Cloris “Nurse Diesel” Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block, click here.
copyright – Sarah Potter
At six am on Groundhog Day, the Nasal Falls Volunteer Fire Department pushed their lone engine out into the wintry blast to make room for the voting booths.
Father Kowalski and the firemen huddled for a quick prayer, petitioning God to postpone any unnecessary fires or cat-in-the-tree rescues until the polls were closed.
By seven-fifteen a line had formed on the downwind side of the building. The threesome stood with their arms crossed, gloved hands tucked under their armpits, shuffling their feet like little penguins, and hoping a polar bear looking for breakfast didn’t round the corner.
The above is a snippet from One Idiot Short of a Village
Poetry, Horror, Psychological Thrillers
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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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