Here in the South, the temperature is rising faster than the boiling blood of an angry bovine who’s just been teased with a red handkerchief. Since we don’t live on a paved road, Connie had to cook our bacon and eggs this morning on the hood of our car.
It’s gotten so dry that the Baptists are sprinkling, and the Methodists are using a damp washcloth for baptismal services. The good news is I’ll soon have a picking of sun-dried tomatoes straight from the vine.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cat-wrangler who runs this outfit is Bombalurina Hairball 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.
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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.
I don't write, I touch without touching.
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