Wednesday, August 29, 2012

I Have Moved

I Have Moved

Yesterday, I loaded up the wagon and moved on over to Wordpress.

My new address is

Same silly stuff on a new channel

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Misty Mountain Hop

My original intention was to title today’s Friday Flash fiction Foggy Mental Breakdown in honor of the Steppenwolf song.  But I was struggling powerful. The words just would not come. Then for some reason, I started thinking about wise old owl and his buddy raccoon. So, I stopped by Craig’s blog and read his story. Next thing I knew I was humming Led Zeppelin and writing about bluegrass music. Go figure.
This week’s beautiful (and inspiring) photo is courtesy of Maggie Duncan.
To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

Misty Mountain Hop

“Where’s that noise coming from?”

“What noise? I don’t hear anything.”

“It sounds like an owl playing fiddle and a raccoon on banjo.”

“You can hear all that? What you been smoking, man?”

“Nothing—I swear. It’s coming from that foggy holler between them hills.”

“If you could hear music—and I ain’t saying you can—what makes you think it’s being played by animals?”

“It’s upbeat and adventurous with a hint of sorrow.”

“So, that’s not unusual for bluegrass.”

“This is special music, not ordinary bluegrass. Powerful medicine for children.”

“Oh, I hear it now. That’s Craig Towsley’s place.”

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Redneck Mythology

Did you ever wonder why there were no mythological Gods of Redneck Folklore? Neither did I.
Then I saw this wonderful picture (copyright Lura Helms) and I said to myself, “That explains it!”
I’m sure a bunch of ya’ll are gonna leave comments thanking me for enlightening you on Redneck Mythology. I won’t be able to respond right away as I am on the road this weekend, but don’t worry, I promise to visit your blogs as soon as I return.  I appreciate you stopping by.
To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

Redneck Mythology

Billy Bob was half goat/half man. We won’t go into his genealogical lineage, but suffice it to say, his kinfolks are regulars on Dr. Phil.

One day, Billy Bob was peeping over the fork of ash tree spying on three beautiful young nymphs skinny dipping. Little did he know that this particular tree was a Venus Fly Ash.

His Mom saw him and cried out, “Billy Bob, pull your head out of that ash!” But the tree snapped shut on Billy’s head.

The moral of the story is; "When you’re doing something naughty; don't stick your head up an ash."

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Mussel Shells

This week’s entry is an excerpt from my short story, “Lost at Peter Bottom,” which has been selected by Tales From the South for their September 18th show at Starving Artist CafĂ©  in North Little Rock, AR.  This may not have the level of humor you’re used to from me, but it fit well with the prompt and gave me a chance to toot my own horn at the same time.                                      
Photo by Susan Wenzel.
 To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

 Mussel Shells

There were rocks to skip and mussel shells to scoop sand from the water’s edge. Why did I ever leave the safety and security of such an oasis?
The answer is simple. Greed.
This was a fishing trip. The primary goal when fishing is to catch fish. We had worked this hole quite a while with no success. I tried various types of bait, often leaving them in the same spot for an eternity of two whole minutes without getting so much as a nibble. Frustration mounted with each passing moment.  The length of my patience could be measured against the point of a hook—with plenty of room to spare.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Ozark Snotmouth

I ‘m known to have a strong stomach, but this week’s photo made me GAG!  Now, I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear this disgusting image has burned itself into my brain cell (singular). When I was child nightmares of snakes often plagued my sleep.  Just when I thought I’d put that chapter behind me—BAM!  Now, I have to write about it.  Oh well, the doctor says it's good therapy.
To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

Ozark Snotmouth

I hate snakes. All five kinds—large, small, dead, alive, and rubber.

As a rural farm boy, I was unfortunate enough to experience dozens of unexpected encounters with these cold-blooded vermin. From March to November they sensed my every move, engaging in a horrible conspiracy to torment and terrorize me—often generating unsightly stains in my underpants.

The most horrific of all these despicable, slimy creatures is the Ozark Snotnose. This snake does not have fangs, but smothers its victim in a disgusting drool the consistency of rubber cement.

There is no anti-venom. Your only defense is tall boots and Kleenex.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Bucket of Ideas

People often ask me, “Where did you get a crazy idea like that?” I usually reply with some cock & bull explanation that I merely observe the world around me and the stories write themselves. Today, (against my own better judgment) I have decided to share my source of inspiration. Be forewarned that this act can only be performed by skilled professionals after years of training.  DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!
 To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

Bucket of Ideas

“Billy, see that bucket hanging on the fence?”

“Sure, Grandpa. What’s in it?”

“That’s where Grandpa gets the ideas for his stories.”

“Really? How does it work?”

Grandpa leaned over, stuck his ear under the spigot, turned the tap, and made a bubbling noise to indicate the invisible flow filling his brain. Once full, he straightened up, shook his head like a dog and said, “Umm, that’s a good one.”

“Wow, that’s cool. Is that where Grandma gets her ideas for all the projects she has for you?”

“Oh no, son. She has those delivered in a large tanker trunk.”

Friday, July 20, 2012

I Heard it Through the Grapevine

When I download the photo for Friday Flash Fiction, I usually go with the first thing that pops in my head. The reason being, my brain is so small it can only contain one thought at a time, and even then, if it’s a very big thought my neurocranium starts to swell. This week’s photo triggered multiple thoughts sending me into a neurocalyptic (You like that word? I made it up. J) spasm attack. I spat all three ideas out on 3 x 5 section of used Kleenex and applied the scientific method, Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Moe, to select a topic. My apologies to Edgar Rice Burroughs and Marvin Gaye.
 To read more stories based on this photo, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
I Heard it Through the Grapevine

“Jane, you look so sad. What’s the matter?”

“Oh Cheeta, since George came to the jungle, I find myself questioning my love for Tarzan.”

“I can understand your infatuation with a younger man. After all, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another male of your species.”

“It sure has. And George is so sweet and childlike. He counts the petals on every flower.”

“That’s because he has the brain of a six year old, Jane. He can’t swing from a grapevine without slamming into a tree.”

“Yes, Tarzan is a better swinger, but George uses a bigger vine.”

Friday, July 13, 2012

A Tale of Two Sissies

I can really relate to this week’s photo. I’ve been called an ‘old buzzard,’ and told that I have ‘buzzard breath’ upon occasion. Experts say we don’t have buzzards in NW Arkansas, technically they are vultures. I’m not going to worry too much about it unless one’s picking my bones. My Dad used to say if you ate a lot of hot peppers they would eat you. It’s a good thing I had a dozen jalapenos before starting this story.  To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

A Tale of Two Sissies

“Come on boys, eat your food.”

“Ah, Mom . . . .” Brian and Billy whined in unison. “Do we have to?”

“Your father works hard to feed us. You want to grow up big and strong like him, don’t you?”

“But it smells awful,” said Brian.

“And it taste raw—like it needs to ripen some more,” added Billy.

“There’s nothing wrong with this food,” said Mom. “You can’t go play until you finish your meal.”

“Why do we have the same thing every Friday?” Billy choked back the tears.

“Because Friday’s the day when most Fictioneers get run over by the prompt.”

Friday, July 6, 2012

My Adobe Hacienda

I used the title from an old Bob Wills’ song for this week’s Friday Flash Fiction. While I was at it, I raped the lyrics from another song a by popular western swing artist, through in a couple of rednecks, stirred briskly, and threw out in the hot sun to bake. 
This week’s photo by Amanda Gray. To read more stories, go to  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

My Adobe Hacienda

“How much further, Bubba? I ain’t seeing no ocean yet.”

“The guy said it’s remote. He called it a romantic getaway.”

Two hours later.

“Thar it is, Charlene. Our mansion in paradise.”

“Don’t look like no mansion to me. It ain’t even got no roof.”

“That’s so you can see the stars at night, Sweetie.  Look. Thar’s the Golden Gate.”

A section of wrought iron fence, painted John Deere yellow, dangled from a concrete pier.

“Let me see that deed again, Charlene. Why, I ought to shoot that singing cowboy.”

What’s a matter, honey?”

“This ain’t Arizona. It’s New Mexico!”

Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Great Raspberry Rebellion of 1851

When, I saw this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods  I  cried,Aww, raspberries,” in the same dismal tone of frustration as Alfalfa of Little Rascals fame.

But after twenty seconds of exhaustive research, I uncovered this tasty morsel of little-known history regarding the lowly raspberry.

The Great Raspberry Rebellion of 1851

In 1851, textile mill owner, Robert Knight, traveled to Rhode Island to seek the perfect symbol for this trade name, Fruit of the Loom.

A cornucopia of fruit auditioned for the underwear manufacturer. An apple and currants were hired immediately. A banana and peach were caught in an illicit affair and disqualified for immoral behavior, leaving only grapes and raspberries to battle for the remaining positions.

The raspberries rose up in defiance, only to be crushed by the purple and green grapes. Historians refer to this incident as The Raspberry Rebellion, or by its more common name, The Wrath of Grapes.

Friday, June 22, 2012

The Perils of Penelope

What’s up with all the insects? Is it because it’s summer? Those are just two of the questions that occurred to me upon seeing this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods  I realize bugs have their place in the grand scheme of things, but is inspiring creativity really part of the job description?  I think not. Had it not been for its name, you would be staring at a blank screen.

The Perils of Penelope
“Help, help! Please saaa-ve me!”

“Give it a rest, Penelope. I’ve rescued you from a speeding train, a buzz saw, a five-hundred foot waterfall, and an IRS auditor—and it’s not even noon yet.”

Four years at Hero Academy had not equipped Raul for the constant whining, screaming, and over-acting forced upon him by this little drama queen. To her, life was one perilous misadventure after another—with Raul, her trusty safety net.

“You’re resting on top of a fat man’s bald head. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Oh, wise guy, eh?” said Moe. 

He swatted Curly on the noggin.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Myth Confirmation

When I saw this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods  my mind started racing like a heavily sedated sloth on an exercise wheel.  Could that be the road less traveled? Nope, the grass is worn down. Is it the path of least resistance? I don’t think so. It looks like an uphill climb. This fat boy would be out of breath before he got to the first bend. Unable to generate even the tiniest spec of genuine creativity, I did what any self-respecting humor writer would do in times of duress.—I stole an idea from a cartoonist.  Let’s just say I’m “borrowing” it. He can have it back after you’re done reading.

Myth Confirmation

Marty had been planning this hiking trip for months. He and Judy both loved the outdoors, and their children, Will and Teresa, had finally reached the age where they could run wild in the forest with only limited supervision.

They’d spent a small fortune on gear and supplies only to be confronted by a large bear at the edge of the woods.

The bear rose to his full height, thrust forth a gigantic paw clutching a half-roll of Charmin. He leaned forward and whispered, “Trust me on this . . . you don’t want to go in there right now.” 

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

I can really relate to this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods  As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also become wider. (That’s right WIDER, not wiser) Some have even accused me of being full of hot air. The joke around my house is that my wife, Connie, could write “Goodyear” on my sides and rent me out to fly over sporting events and private parties. So far, I’ve not been able to overcome gravity, but I’ve got high hopes! 
Where the Rubber Meets the Road
When I was a young rubber tree, springing up on a plantation in Indonesia, I often fantasied of becoming a blimp. Not just any blimp, a genuine, bona fide Goodyear blimp.
I could imagine my milky latex sap being refined into a glorious covering for the world’s finest airship.
I would be the star attraction at the coronation of kings, the Indianapolis 500, the Super Bowl, and of course, the annual Walmart Shareholder’s meeting.
But the hands of fate are often cruel. So here I lie, used, abused, and thrown on the trash heap of life—just a soiled prophylactic.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Medical Marvels

I know my blogging buddy, Douglas MacIlroy , was thinking of me when he sent this week’s photo to Madison Woods  for Friday Flash Fiction.  You could hear the snicker echoing across the waves all the way from his mountain-top perch in Hawaii. This one’s for you, Doug. I hope you’re still snickering when you read the last line.

The encroachment of civilization brought death and disease, decimating the tribe’s number. Their only remaining virgin was the Chief’s nine year-old daughter.
Still, the belly of the mountain grumbled, belching smoke and fire, demanding a sacrifice.
Three castaways were captured near the lagoon—a white man and two women. The Chief forced the man, a college teacher, to choose which woman would die.
“You bastard!” screamed the redhead, hurtling into the fiery pit.
The next morning snow, frigid and unforgiving as a jilted lover, covered the mountain.
The Medicine Man noted in his journal; Ginger cures mountain God’s molten reflux.

Medical Marvels

Friday, May 25, 2012

Best Laid Plans (of Clowns & Men)

I don’t normally continue a Friday Flash Fiction story from one week to the next, but after seeing the photo Wednesday afternoon, I realized there was no alternative.  So here goes . . . .
Photo courtesy of Madison Woods

Best Laid Plans (of Clowns & Men)

The interview went better than he could have ever dreamed. Ray Kroc was so intrigued by his marketing strategy proposal that he encouraged Ron to implement it at their busiest restaurant.

The focus would be on attracting and retaining young children as the primary customer base. Step one would be development of a small-portion meals containing a prize. Unfortunately, Ron relied on his degree in Entomology when selecting the contents.

Unsuspecting mothers shrieked in horror as live insects darted from their children’s lunch sacks. Angry complaints came pouring in.

Employees dubbed the highly unsuccessful and short-lived venture the ‘Grumpy Meal.’

Friday, May 18, 2012

Under the Rainbow

Welcome to  Friday Flash Fiction.   Photo courtesy of Madison Woods Your suggestions for improvement are greatly appreciated. Be sure and leave a link to your story when you comment on this one.  Thanks for stopping by

Under the Rainbow
Ron gazed upon the double rainbow with awe and admiration. A strange sensation swept over him, sending a tingle down his spine.
Unlike those who ran away to join the circus, he ran to escape it. His father was a juggler, his mother a trapeze artist.
Finding employment had been difficult. His unruly hair, goofy grin, and oversized feet proved to be unwelcome liabilities in the job market.
Sitting in the lobby with a dozen other applicants, Ron cast a wish upon the rainbows. The sky began to clear.
“Mr. McDonald,” said the receptionist, “Mr. Kroc will see you now.”

Thursday, May 10, 2012


I’m really looking forward to reading everyone’s entry to this week’s Friday Flash Fiction photo provided Madison Woods When I first saw the photo, I imagined stories of Werewolves and other evil creatures going bump in the night. As might be expected, I took the road less traveled. As always, I look forward to your feedback. Thanks for stopping by.


Moonbeams danced through the intermittent clouds drifting high above the scattered trees. Chad, Amy, Mark, and Veronica planned to spend the evening watching a meteor shower on the banks of Wildcat Creek. On the way, they stopped by One-Eyed Jack’s and picked up a quart of double-run shine.
The couples lay in the bed of Mark’s truck listening to Van Morrison and passing the fruit jar. Clouds obscured any view of meteors, but the liquid corn cast its own sparkle across the celestial canvas.
When the last drop was drained Chad hopped upon the pick-up cab, pulled down his pants and shouted, “Look everybody. It’s the moon over my Amy.”

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Hole-in-the-Wall Gang

This week’s Friday Flash Fiction photo is provided by Mary Shipman by way of Madison Woods Be sure and leave a link to your story when you comment on this one. I will be attending OWFI this Friday and Saturday and unable to reply to or visit other blogs until later in the weekend. As always, I look forward to your feedback, and thanks for stopping by.
Hole-in-the-Wall Gang

“Bang!” slammed the gavel.
“This meeting will come to order,” bellowed nine year old Chad Orton. “Brother Secretary, have we any unfinished business?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Wally Green lowered his chin and peered over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. “The broken plank on the south wall must be replaced. The hole permits cowans and eavesdroppers access to our secrets.”
“Very well. I appoint a committee of Steve Faubel, Billy Lang, and Rusty Hinson to secure lumber and repair the hole.
“Who will chair this group?”
“Faubel’s dad is a carpenter. Steve is hereby appointed Chairman of the Board committee.”

Friday, April 27, 2012

Bob-ware Prison

Welcome to  Friday Flash Fiction.   Photo courtesy of Madison Woods be sure and leave a link to your story when you comment on this one.  Thanks for stopping by
Bob-ware Prison
No one knew how long he’d been there before they found him. Even the coroner had difficulty determining the exact time of death. His report read “sometime on Friday.”
There were signs of a struggle. Locks of hair—torn from his head, chewed pieces of fingernail, coffee spills near the keyboard.
Friends and family gathered to grieve, wondering aloud if anything could have been said or done to prevent his untimely demise.
Everyone commented on the barb-wire halo draped over a fence post. Perhaps that was the key to unlocking the mystery. The words “bob-ware prison” scrawled beneath the prompt.

Friday, April 20, 2012

Call me in the Morning

Welcome to  Friday Flash Fiction.  This week's offering is tribute to Harry Nilsson and Jack Webb.  Photo courtesy of Madison Woods be sure and leave a link to your story when you comment on this one.  Thanks for stopping by
Call Me in the Morning

“Good morning, doctor. I’m Sergeant Friday, this is Officer Gannon. What seems to be the problem?”
“Some woman called, woke me up, complaining of a bellyache.”
“What made you suspicious of her activities?”
“She combined two substances and consumed them. What do you need from me?”
“Just the facts ma’am.”
“Her brother bought a coconut for a dime. She had another, paid it for a lime. She put the lime in the coconut and drank ‘em both up.”
“What did you tell her?”
“You’re such a silly woman. Call me in the morning and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Friday, April 13, 2012

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 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.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Chunky Dunkin'

Welcome to  Friday Flash Fiction.  Photo courtesy of Madison Woods 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.”

Friday, March 30, 2012

On the Reservation

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website  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?

Monday, March 26, 2012

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.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Grandpappy's Gal

Today’s Friday Flash Fiction post is my take on the photo prompt provided by Madison Woods. Visit her website  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.”

Friday, March 16, 2012

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  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)