What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Welcome to Friday Flash Fiction. This week’s offering should strike a chord with those of you living in the Razorback Nation. Photo courtesy of Madison Woods http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/ be sure and leave a link to your story when you comment on this one. Thanks for stopping by.
Hole to Hide in
Have you been caught in a scandal? Did you publicly embarrass your employer and bring disgrace upon your family? Are you the butt of every new joke on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube?
If so, Hidey Hole Inc. has just the place for you. Our secluded underground apartments provide the privacy to wallow in self-pity while you struggle to create a new life. Amenities include comfortable park benches for crying, praying, or sleeping, and waist-high steel rails to drape over when expelling cheap wine.
To tour one of our apartments, tap on the manhole cover in front of Van Winkle Tunnel.
Chunky Dunkin’
Welcome to Friday Flash Fiction. Photo courtesy of Madison Woods http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/ be sure and leave a link to your story when you comment on this one. And, Thanks for stopping by!
Chunky Dunkin’
“This is where it happened, Sheriff. Do you want me to stretch yellow crime tape between those trees and start the investigation?”
“No, I don’t think skinny dippin’ qualifies as a real crime, Barn.”
“Humph, there wasn’t anything skinny about those two. Clem Miller said they came running out of the brush, naked as jaybirds, and jumped cannonball-fashion right into the river. It created a tsunami that washed his truck off the low-water bridge and swept away three of Arthur Boatright’s cattle.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll have a talk with Aunt Bea. She needs to stop drinking moonshine with Otis.”
On the Reservation
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.
On the Reservation
Back in my younger days, I had the freedom to roam this country. Then I got involved in the civil rights movement in 1964. It wasn’t a popular stand, particularly in the south. Local officials drummed up false charges about an Apache running wild. The next thing I knew the Department of Indian affairs put me behind a fence.
I reached out to the National Association of Abused Chevy Pick-ups for help. They racked their pipes, tooted their horns, and blew a lot of hot air, but nothing changed.
This summer, I’ll open a casino and smoke-shop. Who’s laughing now?
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.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
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What's So Funny? 