Remember when people used to send their child’s baby shoes off to have them bronzed? Several of my mother’s friends memorialized their baby’s infancy in this manner. These were usually displayed in a prominent location, so that guests couldn’t help but see them.
I remember wondering why my mother never had a pair of mine bronzed. Did it cost too much? Was she embarrassed by my footwear? There are still several companies that can provide this service. They will even bronze your brassiere, if you’re so inclined. Check it out.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the emcee of our program, known for her purple footwear fetish, is Sneaker LeBeau 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.
“Sir, you have a long-distance call from the U.K. Will you accept the charges?” The international operator’s voice was monotone and robotic.
“Sure.” Probably J.K. Rowling asking for writing advice—again.
“Hi, Russell. This is Harry. I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”
The only Harry I knew of in England was Harry Nilsson, and he was dead.
“Meghan’s father is unable to attend,” said Harry, “and we were hoping you’d fill in for him at the wedding.”
“I guess so. What shall I wear?”
“Whatever’s comfortable. The men are wearing boots.”
“Well, I do have one pair.”
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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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