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.
I’d like to start this week’s intro by saying I have the utmost respect for Mr. Fred Rogers. He brought a gentle, comforting presence into the lives of millions of children and the world is a better and happier place for him having lived in it.
When I was young, we used to watch the Dean Martin Show every week. My favorite episodes featured Jonathan Winters squeezing into a room stuffed with random items (not unlike my garage). He would pick up an item, such as a ball glove or carburetor, immediately jump into character, rattling off the funniest story you ever heard—totally spontaneous and unrehearsed.
Something similar, only different, happened to me today as I wrote this story. The Friday Flash Fictioneer photo for this week is courtesy of Doug “Flying Disc Man” MacIlroy. To read other far-fetched offerings visit our hostess, Ruby Slippers Wisoff-Fields’ blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
“Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to Mr. Roger’s workshop. Today we’re going to build a disco ball for our friend, Mr. Mac, in Hawaii. Can you say that . . . disco?
First, we soak strips of paper in paste and cover a beach ball with them. This is called papier-mâché. When the ball is dry, we’ll glue on thousands of tiny mirrors.”
“What’s Mr. Mac going to do with it?” asked Ruby.
“He wants to put it on his red bucket and take it to the disc golf course.”
“Because it’s on his bucket list, Ruby.”
This week’s photo prompt inspired me to take a brief respite from the laborious task of writing humor and take on one of the most serious challenges facing our society today—addiction. Not a single family on the face of our planet has escaped the unscrupulous chokehold of dependency. Alcoholism, gambling, drugs, and even sex addiction are some of the most common.
Today’s story is an effort to raise awareness to a lesser known affliction and simply say, “You are not alone.” If you or someone you love is suffering from addiction, please get help.
This week’s photo is courtesy of Rich Voza. To read more stories, visit Roberta Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
“Where is she?”
“Last door on the left, room 2213.”
“God, I feel so guilty about admitting her. We tried so hard. I feel like a failure (choking back tears).
“Now, now, (placing a hand on his shoulder) don’t beat yourself up. You did everything you could, and bringing her here was the best thing for both of you.”
“Can you cure her, doctor?”
“This is the best addiction treatment center in the Ozarks. We can help her, but she’ll always be a recovering addict.”
“Is she making progress?”
“Yes, Mr. Fields. She readily admits to being addicted to purple.”
Very few people know (except Rochelle, of course) that six hours before Ian Fleming finished the first draft of Casino Royale (released in 1953), a little known Ozark novelist, Hershel “Jim Bob” Frugalstein, submitted an original spy-thriller manuscript to New York publisher Shyster & Ponzi. Editors and agents agreed the book was destined for the best seller list, and quite probably book of the year.
Unfortunately, negotiations broke down over movie rights to the story. Jim Bob insisted on playing the lead role and personally hand-picking the female cast members. The Publisher and Hollywood both rejected the notion, citing the fact that Frugalstein’s only experience as an actor was a non-speaking role as “Jim” in a third grade production of Huckleberry Finn.
Today’s Friday Fiction installment is a 100 synopsis of the original novel. Remember, this is a work of fiction and any character resemblance to modern-day Fictioneers is purely a figment of your imagination.
This week’s photo is courtesy of our bus driver, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read more stories, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links to other less ridiculous offerings.
By Hershel “Jim Bob” Frugalstein
Israeli intelligence discovers B.O.W.D.* mastermind, Randal Gnomes, plot to destroy the world’s supply of candle wax, darkening menorahs and crushing Jewish morale during the Festival of Lights.
The Prime Minister dispatches the country’s top spy, Percy (formerly cute) Cube—code name 005, to intercept Gnomes and castrate his evil plan.
Percy is captured breaking into Gnomes lair by the cunning and voluptuous Rowena Vermouth. Vermouth finds her emotions both shaken and stirred by her animal attraction to Percy.
As the countdown to Hanukkah begins, Gnomes dangles Percy above a cauldron of hot wax. Rowena must decide which wick to dip.
*(Bent on World Destruction)
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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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