…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.


Rod was a real butterfingers.

As he sat there, stuck at yet another red light while trying to race home so he could get his fingers in the freezer before they all melted, he was wishing.

Wishing he could travel back in time a few weeks so he could decide not to visit that voodoo priestess. Or at the very least, still visit her but keep his hands to himself and not pick up her djab statue only to drop it on the floor, breaking it and getting slapped with Jean-Marie’s “butterfingers” curse.

Sure, his hands smelled good, like pancakes. But other than that, having sticks of butter for fingers was no picnic.


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