Remember those thrilling days of yesteryear when you could actually sprint through an airport like O.J. Simpson in those Hertz commercials? This is before he’d killed anyone—except those who died from over exposure to poor acting in “Naked Gun.”
And who can forget that classic movie, “Airplane?” It’s still hard to believe the Academy passed over Lloyd Bridges for Best Supporting Actor. The writing was amazing. Remember this line, “I guess the foot’s on the other hand now, isn’t it, Kramer?” (-Striker)
Our flight attendant for this week’s journey across the friendly skies of Friday Flash Fiction is the lovely and talented, Ruth Ann Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue I n links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
“It was supposed to be a joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t funny to me.”
“I never dreamed they’d take it that far.”
“What did you expect, Ken? They work for the government. They have no sense of humor. Now we’ve missed our plane.”
“But it was just a couple of metal ink pens.”
“A couple? They counted fifteen. One in every pocket and open seam of my overcoat. After the metal detector went off the third time, I knew I was in trouble.”
“I feel bad about the full-cavity search, Barb.”
“Don’t worry. When I’m able to straighten up, you’ll get yours.”
Hello, I’m Louis Feinberg and welcome to Disasterpiece Theater. Our story this week is written by a little known, and even less cared about American author whose autobiography, “Dreams of Mediocrity” has become the poster-child for rejected short story manuscripts.
This week’s photo prompt is courtesy of Claire Fuller. Our unpaid sponsor, and a the gal with a smile as wide as Texas, is the lovely and talented, Rainbow Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue In Links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
His mother in-law declared, “He’s a chip off the old block.”
“A nut doesn’t fall far from the tree, but this one is certain to roll further down hill,” remarked a well-known New York art critic.
“If he’s striving for mediocrity, he needs to lower his expectations,” wrote another.
Negative reviews fanned the fire of determination. “With God as my witness, I will be average,” he declared.
Despite half-hearted efforts to improve, his work remained far below the norm.
Then, for no apparent reason, he was commissioned to sculpt the bust of a hypocritical politician.
Overnight, he became a sensation.
If you’ve read any of my previous bursts of brilliance (or BS, if you prefer), you’re familiar with my penchant for weaving warped memories of old TV shows, cartoons, and even (gasp) dramas into my weekly diatribe known as Friday Flash Fiction. Well, once again I’m staying true to form.
Our unpaid sponsor, and the hostess with the mostest, is the lovely and talented, Rowena Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links other author’s blogs.
*To those of you kind enough to post a comment, I will be late in the weekend (translated in Russellese—Monday) responding. I am booked in a Lean Manufacturing training program (No, this is not some type of diet) for two days this week and three and a half next. Please pray for me!
This week’s photo prompt is courtesy of Renee Homan-Heath.
“Martha, I can’t believe you booked our vacation in the Bahamas.”
“Yes, beautiful isn’t it? A snow-white beach, blue skies, palms waving in the breeze. What a romantic way to spend our twenty-fifth anniversary.”
“It’s horrible! The sand burns my feet, the water is eighty-two degrees, and the waitress is late with my drink. I thought we’d agreed on an Alaskan Cruise?”
“Look on the bright side, Tennessee—no polar bears. Just loosen up and have a good time.”
“Believe me, I’d take this tuxedo off if I could. How would I look in a Speedo?”
“Not a pretty image.”
This week’s Friday Flash Fictioneer photo is courtesy of our hostess, the lovely and talented, Rajah Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ To read more stories based on this prompt, click on the little blue InLinkz critter and follow the links other author’s blogs.
“Freleng, we have Mr. Sylvester on the phone. He’s going to give you a description of the suspect.”
“Got it, Chief. Good morning, Mr. Sylvester. My name is Friz. Let’s start with the shape of the suspect’s face and then add any distinguishing features.
Large, round head . . . good, good. Chubby cheeks, large blue eyes, tiny body, orange lips . . . got it. Huge feet, like a clown? And they’re orange too? What else? Appears to have jaundice—entire face and body is yellow.
Chief, here’s what I have so far.”
“Freleng, you’ll never make it as a police artist.”
I love music—always have. As I mentioned last week, I spent a lot of years writing songs and playing bass in rock and blues bands. Personally, I enjoy all types of music with the exception of rap, and I might even enjoy some of it if I could understand the lyrics and they weren’t about slappin’ yo mama (or something worse). Some folks are not so tolerant, as you will see in today’s story.
This week’s Friday Flash Fictioneer photo is courtesy of Roger Cohen. To read other stories, or learn how to participate, visit our hostess, RenettaWisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinkz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
BIG BASS IN COW TOWN
“Any information on those two prisoners, Marshal?”
“Yeah, I just got a telegram from the Sheriff in Wichita. They’re known as Texas Red and Brown Bart.”
“Any serious crimes?”
“Naw, same as here, Festus. Switching sheet music when the piano player isn’t looking.”
“What kind of music, classical?”
“No, even worse—Jazz.”
Marshal Dillon faced the prisoners.
“Boys, you may get away with this kind of thing in New Orleans, but this is a western town and we listen to western music. If I catch you around here again we’ll string you up. Now, get the hell out of Dodge.”
This post is dedicated to my wife, Connie, who chose to marry me on January 11, 1975. It’s not always been easy, but things worth having are worth the effort. Lord knows, she could have done a lot better, and I married way out of my league.
Several years ago, I wrote her this song for our anniversary.
Deeper in Love with You
When I was seventeen, I knew everything
That’s when we met in school
First time I saw your face my heart began to race
And Cupid’s arrow flew
Straight for my heart I saw it comin’
Just like a bolt from the blue
Straight for my heart I saw it comin’
And in that moment I knew
That I could easily fall in love with you.
And then one Saturday by a fireplace
In your light-blue gown
The Justice of the Peace said, “Will you love and keep?”
I thank you Mrs. Brown
Nobody there to throw the rice
No camera to camera the news
No champagne on ice to cool down the night
Just two young lovers who knew
That I had already fallen in love with you
The days go by, the years go faster
We watched the children grow
We may grow old someday, but if we do I say
I’ll still be wanting you
Somebody there to share my life
Turn all the gray skies blue
One special girl to be my wife
What else could any man do?
But fall deeper and deeper in love with you.
Last fall I had a hearing test—and guess what? I have significant high-frequency hearing loss. All those years standing next to a drummer playing bass in Rock’n Roll and Blues bands finally paid off. I couldn’t hear an army tank land on a bed of wrinkled sheet metal.
Those of us with severe hearing loss eventually get tired of sayin’—huh? , what? would you mind repeating that?, etc. We grin, nod our head, and try to fill in the blanks based upon the few utterances that we do understand. The bad news is we often indicate “yes” when the correct answer is “no” and make ridiculous statements when we misinterpret phrases such as, “Ford shocks” for “pork chop.” Some say this ability qualifies me to become a foreign diplomat, Supreme Court Justice, or star in a reality show on History Channel. I’m open to all options.
This week’s Friday Flash Fictioneer photo is courtesy of Lora Mitchell. To read other stories, or learn how to participate, visit our hostess, Ralphie Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinkz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
“Isn’t that beautiful?” She yelled to be heard above the fireworks.
“Yeah.” He studied her expression in the flash of each new explosion.
“Would you like to share some cotton candy?”
“Naw, I’m not interested in the bearded lady. Why don’t we get something to eat?”
“That sounds good.” She bit her lip to suppress a smile. “There’s a hot dog stand with huge pretzels over on the midway.”
“Yeah, they claim she has huge muscles, but she’s just overweight. I wonder about the facial hair, though.”
“Maybe it’s from all the pretzels.”
“You’re right. She’d make a great wrestler.”
As 2012 comes to a close, it’s only fitting in keeping with my mantra of laziness and procrastination, that I be fashionably late on my final Friday Flash Fictioneer post of the year.
This week’s photo prompt, featuring her beautiful stained glass work, is courtesy of Jean Hayes. To read more stories visit “Rockette” Wisoff-Fields blog http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter.
He felt like he’d been pummeled by a herd of reindeer. Halloween to New Year’s was a blur of parties, parades, shopping, and feasts. Aliens had failed to abduct him, world peace was elusive, and even attempts to pick up additional bad habits failed miserably. “Time to get a new bucket,” he sighed.
Lost in a depressive state of holiday lag, he sipped coffee and waited for ‘the next big thing.’
A sunbeam burst through the cut glass above the doorway, spraying a rainbow over his wife. “It’s time to get back on our diet,” she said.
“Yeah . . . I know.”
How many of you grew up wanting to write an advice column? Okay, okay, Randy, you can put your hand down now. We all know you’re dying to be the next Dr. Phil, but this is my blog so save your gems of wisdom for the comments section.
In my lower-middle-management supervisor position, people invade my office from time to time to tell me about a “friend” who’s knee deep in kitty litter and just discovered the little treasures they’re turning over aren’t Chicken McNuggets. That’s when I refer them to authority on the subject, Tabby.
The Friday Flash Fictioneer photo for this week is courtesy of Scott L. Vannatter. To read other fascinating cat-tales visit our hostess, Raquel Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
My caregivers, Mistress Anne and Servant Bob, act like I don’t exist when Christmas comes. They run from one event to another like gravy through a goose, all the while ignoring the center of their universe—ME. How can I get them back in line? – Felix in Phoenix
It’s time to slam down your paw and extend the claws. A little spray in Bob’s truck or golf bag would send the message that you own him—for life. Shred a curtain and drop Anne a few unexpected gifts in hard to reach places. After all, it is the season for giving. – Tabby
I have a friend who absolutely loves lists. Arrange a group of random items in a single-file, alphabetical or numerical, by order or importance or stupidity (it doesn’t matter), and she’s as happy as Viagra salesman at a lingerie party.
My experience with lists is a series of dreaded encounters, none of which increased my joy or happiness. The majority of these lists consisted of tasks I was required to perform or items to purchase. Both of which rendered a feeling of helplessness. Here I was, a slave to a piece of paper—couldn’t wipe my butt with having one in my hand.
But age has a way of making a man look at things differently. After awhile, you quit counting the years you’ve lived and start a lottery pool on how many you have left. This is a heavy burden on the mind of many. Thankfully, I only have a mind of one.
The popularity of the “bucket list” hit a home run with a lot of Baby Boomers. I’m usually one to buck the system, but with the Mayan calendar bearing down on us like a racehorse in the home stretch, I decided to devote my remaining time to the betterment of humanity—including myself. Here, in no particular order, is my list;
Well, that’s probably more than I can get accomplished in a day and a half, so we’ll stop here. I hope this list inspires you to consider your pending mortality and what you hope to accomplish while still in the flesh. Best wishes for a speedy and painless demise.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
Stories From Within
Finding ways to make words sparkle
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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AS I TOLD THE GIRL THAT I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO, THANKS FOR LAUGHING AT ME HERE TODAY.
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