For someone who doesn’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen, I pride myself on being able to whip up a good mess. Since I don’t have any formal training, this must be a God-given talent. All I have to do is enter the room and the counters go from pristine to a disaster area in 4.9 seconds.
Some of those who’ve witnessed my creations suggested I launch my own cooking show, “Wrecking with Russell,” on cable TV. While I’m flattered by their faith in my ability to trash an entire room in an attempt to boil water, I’m told the show would cost far too much to produce due to the excessive staff required for clean up.
If this is your first visit to Friday Flash Fiction, the retired cake decorator who never let a dollop of icing hit the counter is Betty Crocker 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.
PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma
“Perry, you and JB attended the Pre-Paint-Drying Banquet last night. Is there one player who might come from out of nowhere to pull an upset?”
“Any of these four could win it. But keep an eye on ‘Plain Jane’ Jones. If she performs with the same level of energy and passion she displayed in my hotel room, she’ll blow this thing wide open. That is, if she’s not too exhausted from last night.”
“Perry, surely you don’t mean—”
“That’s right, Willard. She painted all four walls AND the ceiling. We spent the next six hours just watching it dry.”
*an excerpt from “The Joys of Watching Paint Dry.”
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
Stories From Within
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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