A Friday Flash Fiction Submission (And A Rhyme In This Inscription)
Writing good fiction takes a lot of hard work. Writing great fiction takes a minor miracle. I don't write good fiction or miracles, but I enjoy participating in a micro fiction contest named Flash! Friday from time to time. Like last time, I allocated a time box of thirty minutes.
This time the words came fast and I was done in ten minutes. A feat owing, in large part, to the interesting prompt and to the local public library.
Yesterday the local library held a book sale. At this book sale, on a folding formica table, I found a worn paperback copy of The Unabridged Mark Twain for which I exchanged a jovial librarian's assistant a slightly less than shiny quarter.
At three pounds, the book is by far one of the two pound for pound best purchases I've made. (The other was a king size Mr. Goodbar which I purchased on a golf course for a nickel.) That night I read the foreword by Kurt Vonnegut, After Jenkins and The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.
Some folks report reading makes you a better writer. I'm not certain this is true. If it is, this betterment likely depends entirely on the quality of the writing read. However, I do believe reading, in this instance, made a me a faster writer.
"Why Clarence Hatry, you 'ol coot. Didn't no one ever tell you, you ain't supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
"Gift? You call this here nag a gift? Her teeth is yellow and brown as that buttercorn squash rottin' yonder by the fence post. Straits is dire round here, but don't think for one secon' you gonna foist this here swaybacked butter-toothed beast on me Sam. Don't care how good ah price you give. You think that buzzard's up there circlin' for that rotten buttercorn squash? Well he ain't. Buzzards is opportunistically inclined carnivores, Sam. That one there's on a reconnaissance mission eyeballin' this pitiful used up creature anticipatin' her impending demise after which he'll send word back to his wake what'll swoop down an pick off what little meat's left on her tired ol' bones."
"Alright Clarence, alright. Knock fiddy bucks off it for ya."
"Throw in a quart of that sweet corn liquor?"