As I was composing my Flash Fiction Friday this week, I was torn between using the “My hand! Oh, God my hand…" opening phrase in a poker-themed story, or a story about a man whose autographed giant foam-rubber finger was stolen.I turned to my husband for advice. My dirty, disgraceful Dilf. He replied, “I think it should be about ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ with Bea Arthur.”
My husband is a foul beast. Now, I have lost my will to write. Perhaps forever.
