Threats & Promises

Threats & Promises

I’ve really done it now.
Jesus hates me. I have no guts. Bad luck, or death, will strike at any moment. I have spurned great wealth, eternal happiness, and an all-expense-paid cruise to Las Vegas.
How, you ask, was I able to bring such trials and tribulation upon myself? It was easy. I failed to forward emails.
Yes, I’m the one who broke the chain. Because of my laziness, a cure for cancer has not been found, our troops are still on foreign soil, and your chance to become a millionaire through an email pyramid scheme went down the tubes.
They say confession is good for the soul. That may be true, but the profound and all-knowing “They” never had to deal with the fallout created by a breech in email etiquette measuring 7.9 on the Richter scale—the equivalent of cyber-space treason.
According to a recent poll, taken at a McDonald’s restroom in Fairfield County Ohio, 86% of you will delete me from your contact list. Another 12% will publicly denounce me on Facebook, Twitter, and/or a YouTube video. The 2% who are out for blood will attempt to infiltrate the witness protection program and locate my whereabouts.
These figures don’t include the 8% who were undecided, or the 22.6% that don’t give a damn. If you are among the .04% (thank you!) who will pray for my soul, please let Jesus know that I am not ashamed of Him and will be contacting Him soon to personally clear up any misperception.
I know these statistics add up to more than 100%, but there’s an acceptable margin of error when four complete strangers are held against their will in the handicap stall of a public restroom. I’m sure we would have gotten better data if the guy in the wheelchair hadn’t kept beating on the door, shouting profanities, and demanding to use the toilet.
If you don’t forward this to 27 people in the next 3 minutes, you will be plagued with boils, hemorrhoids, and an unpleasant visit from your Mother In-Law.

Grandpappy’s Gal

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.  Please post the link to your story with your comment. 

Grandpappy’s Gal

“Son, see them white sticks out there,” said Grandpappy. “That long skinny one reminds me of a girl I used to date when I was about your age.”
“How can a stick remind of a girl, Grandpa?”
“Her skin was pale as the moon and her body held no curves—straight as a string.”
“What became of her?”
“She ran off to California with a sailor. I heard they both made it big in Hollywood.”
“Really?  What was her name?”
“I can’t remember exactly. Her last name sounded like some type of lubricant, but her first name was . . . Olive.”

 

Not a Pup Anymore

This week’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.  Please post the link to your story with your comment. 

Not a Pup Anymore

I may be getting a few gray hairs, but I still like to run with the big dogs now and then. Problem is, the aches and pains catch up with me and the next day I can’t even lick myself.
At my age, the rising cost of dog food and veterinary visits become a real concern. Who’s going to look out for my needs?
Then I heard about the American Association of Retired Canines. AARC membership entitles me to discounts on flea collars, rabies shots, even hotel* stays.
If you’re a mature pet visit their web site, or call 1-800-Old-Dogs and check out AARC. You’ll howl with delight.
*(when traveling with a human)

From Under the Bridge

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.  Please post the link to your story with your comment.

From Under the Bridge
I was assigned to this bridge by the union in 1935, immediately after completion by the WPA. In those days, foot traffic and children on bicycles kept me pretty busy. In fact, had it not been for our union contract requiring mandatory breaks and lunches, it would have been non-stop.
The hardest part of my job is living up to people’s expectation. The hair, make-up, and uniform have to be perfect if you want people to take you seriously when demanding the toll.
The availability of automobiles has eliminated a lot of our jobs. When is Obama going to extend unemployment benefits to trolls?

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.  Please post the link to your story with your comment.
 

Evidence

Detective Whitfield fanned out the tiny packets on the conference room table.
“These are the calling cards of the Hard Candy Killer. The homicides are committed on holidays. Each kill is marked with a half-eaten candy in a color or flavor relating to that particular holiday. St. Patrick’s Day is in two weeks. Keep a sharp eye for suspicious characters with green Lifesavers, mints, or clover-shaped cough drops.”
“Sooner or later these guys always screw up,” said Sergeant Doss.
“Remember the Soft Candy Killer?
We never would have caught him if he hadn’t bought Ex-lax by mistake.”

 

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.  Please post the link to your story with your comment.

Casting Call

Hey, look at this,” said Cara
Rochelle hopped across the gray stones toward the cavern’s mouth. “Looks like sticks, stones, and bird bones to me,” she replied.
“But look at how they’re arranged. I bet it’s some sort of cryptic message. In the old days, fortune tellers used stuff like this to predict the future.”
“Really,” said Rochelle sarcastically. “Let me give it a try. The bones say ‘men will encircle you, shouting chants, and casting lots for your clothing’”
“That’s ridiculous.” Cara raked the blonde hair behind her ears. “Let’s go. I have an audition at the Pink Pussycat at five.”

Grandma’s Rock

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.
Grandma’s Rock
It wasn’t far from the little cabin. The once well-worn path, now overgrown with greenbriars and honeysuckle, just a faint memory.  Ears strained to capture the harmonious melody of water trickling over stones, I picked my way through underbrush.
There, beneath a slight opening in the trees, was Grandma’s rock.  Solid and unchanged by the ravages of time and technology, the large curvaceous stone could be imagined as a love seat or daybed.
Decorated with patches of moss, lichen, and a smattering of dried leaves—a living memorial to the calluses on Grandma’s knees from washing diapers in the stream.

Happy VD

Here’s a little poem I wrote a few years ago.

Cupid
Although he may be naked
This little imp with wings
Always keeps his knee up
So you won’t see his thing
With his trusty bow and arrow
He’s ready to attack
And turn an unsuspecting woman
Into a raging nymphomaniac
So if you’d like to celebrate
A Happy Valentine’s Day
Put on some romantic music
And a skimpy negligee
And when you’re passion is heating up
And your vision blurred by lust
Remember poor old Cupid
And give him some for us!

On the Way Down

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website    http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  and find links to other Friday Flash Fiction stories from authors around the globe.

On the Way Down
Uh, oh. This is gonna hurt.
Slapped in the face by that sad realization that there’s no way I can catch myself. Mother earth is fast approaching.  
Arms flailing, cries of desperation pierce the forest in a long, deep moan of slow motion agony. I close my eyes and brace for the inevitable. My nose plows a furrow in the moldy loam beneath the leaves. Instinctively, I look around to see if anyone saw me fall.
What caused me to trip? All I can find is a broken mushroom. No greenbriar, no grapevine, not even an Indian powder-puff.
Stupid mushroom!

Workin’ on a Building

Workin’ on a Building
Sometimes I wonder how Connie talks me into these major projects. Am I extremely gullible, or am I like that little dog on the Looney Tunes cartoon that follows the bulldog around saying, “Can I help Spike? Can I? Huh, huh? Just say the word, Spike—I’ll get right on it.”
When we were young, she would skillfully employ her feminine assets to tempt, tease, or reward me. While there is still a strong allure to those magical powers, I must confess they don’t have the bargaining power they once held.
While I have worked hard to maintain a lifestyle of laziness and procrastination, Connie has earned a master’s degree in salesmanship and persistence. She forges strong arguments as to why we need these things and how much pleasure and enjoyment we will derive once the project is complete.
Presently, we are in the midst of constructing a 564 sq. ft. structure. People ask me, “Why do you need that? And what are you going to use it for?” The answer I’ve been given is that Connie will move some of her treasures out there and hold sales at strategic times throughout the year. This will, of course, will provide the resources to purchase new treasures, thus rotating the stock and stimulating global economic growth.
Everyone agrees that such a magnificent edifice deserves an equally appropriate name. Connie originally referred to the building as her ‘Woman Cave,’ which I quickly revised into ‘The Hen House.’ A title that would be more accurate, but would take up the entire north wall, is ‘Big Mama’s Little House of Horribly Old Stuff.’
Feel free to submit a suggestion, or offer a vote of confidence for one of the names above. Serious consideration will be given to all.
Yesterday, we laid the subfloor and stood the walls on three sides. The goal is to have the metal roof screwed down before I return to work early next week. I’m sure Connie will be posting construction updates on Facebook, and possibly some pictures in the coming days.
In the meantime, I am soliciting donations of BC Powder, Ben Gay ointment, and beer. Your support would be greatly appreciated—especially the beer.
Mandie Hines Author

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