I received the nicest card in the mail yesterday. It had a picture of a sock monkey on the front and a hand-written note inside. The postage stamp was round and featured a textured kickball—truly unique.
It was from a fellow fictioneer who had ordered a copy of One Idiot Short of a Village. When shipping the book, I asked the post office for the least expensive option. They recommended sending it by stagecoach to St. Joe, MO, and Pony Express from there to a remote location in Montana, where a one-legged prospector would carry it through grizzly bear country to it’s final destination. They assured me it would arrive by mid-summer.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our online recorder who will help you stake a claim to your 100-word story is Howette Sprague Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
In much the same manner as a blind man finds his way down the sidewalk, sweeping a cane in serpentine fashion, owners of the Selfie Stick wander through life with their arm and telescoping rod fully extended.
The primary difference being the blind man is seeking to safely navigate from point A to point B, while the stick-bearer, captivated by the magnetism of his own image, tends to stumble into light posts and parked cars.
After watching a dozen stick-bearers tumble off into the ravine, I petitioned the Mayor of Jellystone to rename this area The Tar Pit of Idiots.
*the above is an excerpt from “Saving Hollywood” one of the short stories in One Idiot Short of a Village.
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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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