The county fair started yesterday. If you’ve ever wondered why they call it a “fair” it’s because they don’t want to set the bar too high. You can imagine how disgruntled attendees would be if the called it The County Super Fantastic, Mind-blowing Extravaganza and it failed to meet those expectations.
By the same token, they don’t want call it the County So-So, or County Ho-Hum either. The word “fair” tends to imply that the festivities are at least one notch above mediocre and that you might actually find it entertaining and fun—if you bring enough cash.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the ringleader of our troupe of above-average story fabricators is Theodora Rustbelt 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.
Dashing into the churning foam, our kids were quickly neck-deep in the pea-soup mixture.
“Come on in,” they called. “It feels great.”
Evidently, their opinion of “feels great” and mine are entirely different. Splintered sticks, coarse gravel, and broken glass lined the bottom of Lake Hades. I clung to Connie’s hand while tiptoeing through the underwater minefield.
At least we didn’t have to worry about frigid water. I’ve sat in hot tubs that were cooler. The only thing missing was the massaging jets.
To fill the void, Mother Nature substituted small fish with an insatiable appetite for male leg hair.
*the above is an excerpt from the short story, Adventures in Camping
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Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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