Bad news. I fear our new puppy, Liza Jane, is becoming a mime. Every morning she shows up at breakfast wearing white-face and black lipstick. She won’t talk when spoken to. She responds only with sarcastic body motions and exaggerated facial expressions.
To make matters worse, three times this week I caught her trying to rip the Do-Not-Remove tags from her toys. Heaven help us when she grows to seventy pounds and can lift furniture and mattresses.
I’m just praying Santa doesn’t bring Liza a striped shirt and beret for Christmas.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, you can trust your 100 words to the gal who wears the star, The Big Bright FFF Star, “Oil Can Boyd” 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.
“All this skateboarding will catch up with you someday,” Mom said.
Fifteen-year-old Jesse smiled. What does she know? Sure, he’d taken a few falls and wrenched an ankle or two, but no broken bones—as yet.
Thirty years later just getting out of bed became a chore. It always took a couple of doses of lubrication to loosen the stiffness in his joints.
Bending to change a tire, lightning bolts of pain flashed through both knees and up his back. Finishing the job, he rose to his feet, staggered, and grimaced.
Maybe Mom was right after all.
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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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