Footwork

Good news! Prunes are making a comeback. This shriveled fruit has long been maligned because her name is similar to that snob, Prude. But last night, I saw a new TV ad where a group of active, young people were fighting over a bag of prunes like it was the second coming of Doritos.

My mother served our family stewed prunes when I was a kid. After reconstituting the dried fruit in boiling water, she would refrigerate the gooey conglomeration for at least 24 hours before sneaking it onto the table. I remember fishing lumps out of the purplish-brown sludge and thinking, “This doesn’t taste like stew.”

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the 100-word chef, who can constitute a story from even the most ancient, dried-up photograph, is Matilda Brady 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.

copyright – J. Hardy Carroll

“Hi, Blanche. Long time no see. What’ve you been up to?”

“Working. I got a part-time job at the boxing place.”

“Isn’t that owned by Amazon? What do you do there, package items in cardboard containers?”

“Oh no, Marge. It isn’t that kind of boxing. It’s a place where young men with firm, muscular bodies workout in silk underwear.”

“Really? That sounds interesting. What’s your job?”

“I’m a dance instructor.”

“These men dance? Like Chippendales?”

“I wish, but no. I just help with their footwork.”

“What happens if they try to get fresh with you?”

“Pow! Right in the kisser.”

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Wardrobe Malfunction

Last night, Connie and I were talking about commercials targeting seniors (i.e. old people). In those thrillling days of yesteryear, each product had its own catch phrase or clever jingle that etched its way into your brain cells never to be forgotten. How many of you remember such clasics as, “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz” and “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”

My mother was a soap opera addict. Their progression of ads went something like this; Denture adhesive (we all have to eat), followed by constipation or diarrhea (take your pick), and finishing up with toliet paper (the job is never over until the paperwork is done). What were some of your favorites from the 60s and 70s?

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our advocate for fresh-wiped 100-word stories is Doris Whipple 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.

copyright- Marie Gail Stratford

“Did you hear about Rosa’s faux pas on New Year’s Day?”

“No. She was going to be in the parade in Pasadena, wasn’t she? What happened?”

“Oh she was in the parade all right—on display in all her glory—if you want to call it that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her float barely made it onto the street when she started shedding her petals—right there on national TV.

“That must have been embarrassing.”

“She claimed it was a wardrobe malfunction, but never blushed, just sat up tall and proud. Now, they’ve named a rose after her—Lady Godiva.”

Lady Godiva rose

 

Snow Job

Recently, I’ve started humming a lot. Connie says I didn’t do that before my hearing loss accident. She did some research on the intranet and evidently there’s a name for my condition; Musical Ear Syndrome.

Some people hear Symphonies, Rock & Roll, Country, or Gospel. So far, there are no reports of people hearing Rap (that would be a living hell). While my condition may be a little annoying to others, they can always change the channel just by giving my ear a twist.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the little keyboard tap dancer who hosts our 100-word ditties is Curly Templestein 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.

copyright – Dale Rogerson

One advantage of bellybutton lint farming is the entire crop can be grown and harvested without the aid of expensive farm implements. You don’t have to worry about drought, floods, or swarms of locusts. Occasionally, a dog tick might take up residence in your money-maker, but it’s nothing rubbing alcohol and tweezers can’t take care of.

According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, the seasonal peak in North America occurs on Valentine’s Day. The additional belly-to-belly contact brought on by holiday celebrations has proven to stimulate lint production—providing participants keep their shirts on before, during, and after vigorous physical contact.


*the above is an excerpt from “The Ins & Outs of Bellybutton Lint Farming.” The complete story in available in my new book, One Idiot Short of a Village available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle.

Feel the Burn

I fear that our fearless leader is working too hard. Yesterday, I had to scold her, and remind her that loafing is important too. When she fails to do her share of the loafing, then I have to pick up the slack. I’m sure you can imagine how stressful is it to double-up on slacking and frittering away the hours just because someone else won’t do their part.

To prevent this from becoming a trend, I’m recommending that those of you who are feeling energetic, creative, and desire to feel a sense of accomplishment, visit my favorite website, Despair.com. There you will find dozens of Demotivational posters to put a damper on that enthusiam and help you pull your head out of the clouds. (You can thank me later.)

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the overworked artist who rides herd on our 100-word stories is Georgia O’Keeffe Burns Wisoff-Fields (boy, that’s a mouthful). 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.

copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I plodded down the hall with the speed and enthusiasm of a death-row inmate approaching the gallows. On the way, I contemplated my last words before the executioner’s paddle would bruise my tender buttocks.

The door was open and the principal, Mr. Kerr, sat behind his desk filling out some type of paperwork. It could’ve been a report on the number of spankings in the last thirty days, or a requisition for new paddles.

Rumor had it that Hillerich & Bradsby, the famous baseball bat manufacturer, had expanded their “educator series” by releasing a new product known as the Louisville Swatter.


*an excerpt from “The Backside of Knowledge,” which can be read in its entirety by ordering One Idiot Short of a Village.

The Gap

Have you ever done something right when you had no clue what you were doing? It makes it real hard to repeat the accomplishment. One of the ironies in life is that success teaches us very little, while failure is a sage professor who burns every lesson into our memory.

 Recently, I started working on a presentation on How to Write Humor. In the course of my research I discovered there were several things I was doing right despite my ignorance, and uncovered some new tools. One of keys to writing humor is “thinking like a five-year-old.” How am I doing on that one?

 If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the straw boss who oversees our 100-word stories is Rosie “The Word Riveter” 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.

 

copyright – Sandra Crook

 

Marta smiled, displaying a gap between her teeth I hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t as wide as the Grand Canyon, but let’s just say there was room to park Brad’s Kia and still open both doors.

“This is the video room,” said Marta, once again displaying THE GAP. By now, she couldn’t open her mouth without me mentally parking the Kia. “We have over 5,000 instructional and 12,542 entertainment videos.”

“Can they learn to make a bomb?” I asked.

“Oh no,” said Marta. “We discourage that. But they can learn to brush their teeth.”

Again she flashed that Cheshire-cat smile.


*the above is an excerpt from “The Academy of Spoiled Rotten Brats” in my new book One Idiot Short of a Village soon to be available on Amazon. Stay tuned!

Spin Cycle

There was a letter to the editor in our local paper last week regarding TV drug ads. The author had watched numerous “wonder drug” ads and decided he wanted to feel the same joy, contentment, and fun times as the people in those ads.

He went to his doctor and asked for the drugs. His doctor refused to prescribe them because our friend didn’t have any of the illnesses the medication was designed to treat—but, he did recommend a doctor who would prescribe them (wasn’t that helpful?).

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the voodoo witch doctor who is always willing to prescribe 100-word stories is Marie Laveau 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. Bring a live sacrifice for payment.

copyright – J Hardy Carroll

“Mr. Crabappleton,” began Father Kowalski, “Say I, pronounce your full name and repeat after me the oath of your office.”

“I, Delbert Q. Crabappleton* . . .”

“Do hereby solemnly swear.”

“Do hereafter sit-in-de-chair”

“To faithfully execute the office of Goodwill Ambassador”

“To flick-a-flea on de cute officer of who-let-de-cat-indoors”

“To the best of my ability, so help me God.”

“To divest of my infidelity—wid’ no help from Maude—fer sure.

Father Kowalski exhaled in a long, drawn-out sigh. Turning, he looked at the mayor.

“Close enough?”

“Yeah, I think he got the gist of it,” said Mayor Peterson.


*not his real name. To find out who really got the job as Village Idiot in One Idiot Short of a Village you’ll have to read the book, which can be ordered here

 

Muscaphobia

Let’s talk about tipping. Not the kind where you knock over a sleeping cow, but the custom of giving someone bonus money for just doing their job. I don’t know the history behind tipping, and I’m too lazy to do the research, so I’ll leave that to one of you.

I don’t have a problem leaving a tip if I receive exceptional service, but the whole thing has gotten out of hand. And it’s not just restuarants. Everybody expects a tip these days. Even the pan-handlers on the corner by Walmart have started demanding a 15% gratuity for mediocre begging services. What’s next? Will bloggers soon have a tip link at the bottom of their post?

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the photo-prompt server and author of exceptional 100-word stories is Carla Tortelli 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 fashionable hairstyles of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here. Be sure and leave a tip.

copyright – Victor and Sarah Potter

Hey, Blanche. What’ve you been up to? I swung by last night, but no one was home.

Nadine invited me over for dinner. We hung out for a while.

Sounds like fun. Her place is close to the feedlot, isn’t it? A fat, juicy fly sounds delicious.

Oh, Nadine won’t eat flies. In fact, she has a terrible fear of them.

Why is that? Flies taste great, and they practically catch themselves.

She says it because they live on cow dung.

So, what did you have?

Randy came by, hoping to mate. Neither of us was receptive.

Yum. Sounds tasty.

Mandie Hines Author

Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Flash Fiction, and Poetry

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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.

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