Where's the Funny Here?

Jayne at injaynesworld  has put out a challenge for Hint Fiction.

Here's my 25 word entry.


Pressure, so profound as if the weight of the world.
Hours waiting, hot and crowded.
Alone. Then a visit.
He says I have a cold.

Don't forget to visit We Work for Cheese and see who is not incommunicado today.

A little kiss

A wet tongue on your earlobe

Nuzzling into your neck

Feeling his breath

Nipping your bottom lip

And then, one bite

And the puppy gets put in his crate.


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Don't forget to head on over to We Work for Cheese and have that bite looked after.

"Mrs. Chamberlains? What's a succubus?"

It was the zombie apocalypse for sure. They shuffled towards us in their ripped, dirty clothes, groaning. As they stared at us with their dead eyes, we realized what we were in for. A year of trying to teach teenagers who eat 'special' brownies so they can tell their kids not to. Dear Lord, SOS(Save Our inSanity).

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Laughingdaughter wrote today's post as laughingmom was too busy baking special chocolate chip cookies to hand deliver to her dorm.

Don't forget to drag your dead body over to We Work for Cheese and check out the other post-apocalyptic posts.

Bob Dylan appeared to me the other night. It was on my tv during the Super Bowl.  I rubbed my eyes to straighten out my vision, but he remained a specter on the screen. It was a rather odd image, something about America and trucks and it made no sense to me, kind of like a Dylan Thomas poem, too deep for my simple brain.

I once saw the singing Dylan in person. It was me, my brother and sister and about 40,000 Grateful Dead fans in 1989. He played with the Dead and Tom Petty and while he didn't call me out by name I know that his eyes never left my psychedelically painted face. I'm not altogether sure that my eyes never left my face, but they were still attached when I got home late that night. 

Bob Dylan was a mystery to me then and remains so, thus the odd tv appearance didn't disrupt my psyche to a great extent. I saw other odd things that night as well, like the Seahawks winning, and Mary Lou Retton looting a Radio Shack. 

Perhaps he haunts my dreams as well, I wouldn't know. I never remember my dreams. Probably a good thing considering the things I see when I am awake.


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Laughingdaughter says:

Kinda hypocritical to tell me not to do drugs, isn't it?

Be sure to pop on over to We Work for Cheese  and see who else is singing the blues about this challenge.

Has the mail come yet?

No.

Damn. I was waiting for my publishers clearing house entry form.

You know that you can enter on-line now.

I don't like the internets. It's not trustworthy to put your name in that dang computer. 

Now, honey , you didn't like it when the Montgomery Ward got those computerized cash registers either, but they turned out just fine.

Well, I don't want any Ed McMahon look-a-likes to get my photo and ruin my retirement benefits. I want my entry to go straight to the source. 

You do know that Ed McMahon is dead.

No, he's not.

Oh yes, he died about 5 years ago around the time that Thelma lost Elbert in that Swine flu epidemic.

Well, Thelma should have known better than to keep that pig in her house. She just got too attached to the damn thing.

Don't matter, but Ed's dead.

Then who will bring me my oversized cardboard check?

I don't know, but it won't be Ed.

Then I guess I may not enter after all. Want some iced tea?

Sure, sugar. Here comes the mail man. 

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Laughingdaughter writes:

Damn, I'm too young to understand most of what you wrote! Or maybe my damn brain has just decided to stop working. Damn college!

Head on over to We Work for Cheese and see who else signed on for this damn challenge.