Rating potential candidates to woo in ninety second increments is like playing Twister with a blind man. Speed dating, another craze my sister has convinced (coerced) me to attend. Granted, we are allotted a generous three minutes, but none made it beyond the ninety second mark before I lost interest.
I’m a fossil in their killing field.
Right hand, red.
“You wish your ex dead?” I repeat.
Left foot, blue.
“…migratory patterns of birds; how they flew.”
Right foot, yellow.
“…like, shots? Jello ones!”
Left hand, green.
“Quite a cold-front we’ve seen…”
I’ve defective DNA, and love in the Digital Age is a corrupt system.
Fiction Written for Micro Bookends:
A New Micro Fiction Contest. Come write!
“A WEEKLY MICRO FICTION CONTEST WHERE WE PROVIDE THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS AND YOU PROVIDE THE REST.”