“He’s more independent than a hog on ice.” This was one of my mother’s favorite sayings. In my sixty-plus years, I have yet to see a hog on ice so I don’t have a good visual image of what she was trying to communicate. What do you make of the metaphor?
Is the swine in question practicing a figure skating event for the upcoming 2018 Winter Olympics and unwilling to take instruction from his coach? Or, does he possess financial competency while sitting on a pile of diamonds? Or, is it a mixed drink made from bacon-flavored Liquor? I’d like your thoughts on this.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Jewish expert on 100-word pork stories is Petunia Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to submit your tale to the weekly collection, zip over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“We’ve been pumping for three days,” shouted Captain Ed Hocken above the roar of the diesel engine. “So far, all we’ve found is two revolvers, a shotgun, and a stolen car. What are you expecting to find, Lowry?”
“Evidence. You’ll know it when you don’t see it,” said the detective.
“Don’t tell me you’re still looking for that damn invisible box.”
Lowry glared at the gray Missouri bog. “It’s in there somewhere. Remember during questioning, when she kept tugging at her little feet like they were stuck in quicksand?”
“Yeah, she had a smirk too. You can’t trust mimes.”
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
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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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