Flash Fiction
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This week’s prompt at the Grammar Ghoul Press Shapeshifting 13 Writing Challenge is the word, “Nail-biter.” ¢¢ “Bubba-Jean?” “Wut.” “I gotta know fer sher. Izzat my baby yer carryin’, or izzit that dadgum Billy-Bob’s? “Ain’t neither, Nimrod.” “Wut are you sayin’? “It’s my baby, Stoopid!”
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*** “So, Tap,” the bartender began, “What is it you do, exactly?” “I run hot & cold,” he shrugged. “It depends.” “On what?” “On whether they turn the “H” knob or the “C” knob.” “They…who?” “You know–the freaks with opposable thumbs.”
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My funeral is exactly as I’d envisioned: Shasta daisies and giant Calla Lilies just like the kind that grow around Alcatraz Island. They even got the songs right: Don’t Fear the Reaper and Jambalaya. The part that goes, “Goodbye Joe, me gotta go…me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou…” Spot On! Not much of
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The oak’s limbs are frostbitten. Icy moonlight dances between them and a glistening mosaic pirouette commences. Its aching branches sparkling terribly as the willow watches from afar, weeping.
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“Crap!” She slammed the phone down. The sitter cancelled again; right before Louise’s shift. The baby usually slept through the night… Louise grabbed her keys and tip-toed out, as her forgotten cigarette smoldered.
Ergo, the Ogre 