Connie and I just returned from visiting a friend in Kentucky. While there, we took one of their famous Bourbon Tours (hiccup). The scent of mash in the tanks brought back memories of my dad making moonshine. The primary difference being that they let theirs age in charred oak barrels—Dad didn’t have the patience for that.
We also toured a Shaker village and Connie bought some brooms to give as gifts. They’re too nice (and expensive) to use for sweeping, so I suppose the lucky recipients will reserve them for midnight rides.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Superheroine of 100-word stories who posts our photo prompt each week is Hazel Brunhild Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
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.
Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional.
I may make you feel, but I can't make you think.
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AS I TOLD THE GIRL THAT I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO, THANKS FOR LAUGHING AT ME HERE TODAY.
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