Updated:Deb’s Tuesday Captions — Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

(Note from Fandango: I completely forgot, when I originally posted this to include the photo of the Trump brothers. So this is an update.) 

Each Tuesday on her blog, Twenty Four, Deb Whittam posts a picture and asks for suggested captions. Today she posted this photo and asked, “What are this pair discussing?”1245CADF-DBFE-454B-997C-2B03738CC6AEHere is my suggested caption:

“Look out, Bambi. Rumor has it that the Trump boys have just arrived in town.”21BA7A9B-3673-4019-8E82-46E6EBBFFA36

FYI, Deb’s caption is, “I heard a rumour that they’re going to shake things up – predators and prey in the same enclosure.”

My New Total

As I noted in this post, I had a bit of a conniption fit when I found out that my local grocery stores were no longer stocking my favorite breakfast cereal, Total. I thought for sure that the cereal industry had some sort of conspiracy going against me, since this was the second time they had sandbagged me. How could they persecute me like this?

Well, me being me, I searched far and wide to find a suitable new dry cereal to replace Total. And this was not a cursory search. No indeed. In fact, I could spin quite a yarn about all my trials and tribulations. But I don’t want to bore you to death with the details.

But in the end, I finally managed to find a replacement, albeit a surprising one. It’s actually an old standby, a cereal I used to eat, but haven’t since I was a kid many, many decades ago.

So what cereal fit the bill? None other than “The Breakfast of Champions,” Wheaties.

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Written for these prompt:

 

 

Twittering Tales — Hiding Place

img_2217Jack looked at the storm drain, at the narrow gap between the sidewalk and the street. He saw an orange glow, but there was no flickering, so Jack eliminated a sewer fire.

He walked over, squatted, and peered inside the gap. He was surprised to see Donald Trump hiding down there.

(279 characters)


Written for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales prompt.

MLMM Photo Challenge — True Essence

Mavis was thrilled when Anita, her co-worker, invited her to attend her brother’s opening at a local gallery. “I’ll introduce you to him,” Anita told Mavis.

Mavis had never stepped foot into a real art gallery, much less to the opening of an artist’s show. In fact, she’d never even met an actual artist. When the night of the gala came, she could hardly contain her excitement.

The gallery was crowded by the time Mavis arrived. She looked all around until she spotted Anita chatting with a man and she made her way over to the couple. Anita smiled at Mavis when she approached. “Mavis,” Anita said. “I’m so glad you made it. I want to introduce you to my brother, Barry. He, of course, is the artist behind all of these paintings. Mavis, this is Barry. Barry, Mavis.”

Anita excused herself as Barry reached out, grabbed Mavis’ free hand, and gallantly bent down and kissed it. “Enchanté, mademoiselle” Barry said.

Mavis giggled and said, “Oh, I don’t speak French.”

Barry laughed and said, “Ah, neither do I. But you are a delight for my eyes and I wonder if I might paint your portrait.”

Mavis blushed. “I won’t pose naked, I won’t do that. I’m not that kind of a girl.”

“No, no, no,” Barry said. “I would never ask you to take off your clothes. I had something much more pastoral in mind for your portrait.”

Mavis didn’t really know what he meant by pastoral, but agreed to meet him at his studio on Saturday morning provided she wouldn’t have to get naked.

When she arrived at Barry’s studio as arranged, he showed her a simple dress with horizontal black and white stripes and asked her to change into it, which she did. He told her that it would take four six-hour sessions to complete the portrait. He instructed her to stay as still as possible and to let him know when she needed to take breaks.

Mavis tended to talk a lot when she was nervous, and posing for a professional artist made her very nervous. After a while, Mavis’ inane chatter was taking its toll on Barry and he asked her to please stop her incessant talking so that he could concentrate on his painting.

At the end of the first session, Mavis asked if she could see what he’d painted so far. “Oh no,” he said. “You cannot see it until I have finished it. Please come back tomorrow at the same time.”

Posing for a portrait was a lot harder than Mavis thought it would be. Between having to stand perfectly still for hours on end and having to hear Barry always telling her to be quiet whenever she started talking, she was looking forward to the ordeal being over.

By the end of the second Sunday, Barry had finished the portrait. He stood back and admired his work. “This is my masterpiece,” he said. “They’ll call me a modern day Magritte.”

“What’s a Magritte?” Mavis asked.

“It’s not a what, it’s a who,” Barry said. “René Magritte was a Belgian surrealist known for his witty and thought-provoking images. He depicted ordinary objects in an unusual context, challenging observers’ perceptions of reality.”

“May I see it now?” Mavis asked.

“Of course, mon cher,” Barry said. “I believe my portrait has perfectly captured your true essence. I call it ‘Airhead.’”

Mavis came around to look at her portrait. And then she let out a blood curdling scream.
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Written for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge. Photo credit: CityVarsity.

FFfAW — The Way Station

5C5CD5D3-3C20-4453-A922-519EC22F65AFJerry glanced at the piece of paper and double checked the address written on it to see if he was at the right place. He was.

Ignoring the signs saying “No Entry” that were affixed to posts leading up to the building, Jerry proceeded to walk toward the double doors at the building’s entrance.

Suddenly appearing out of nowhere, a uniformed guard stepped in front of Jerry and held up his hand. “Don’t you know how to read?” he barked.

Startled, Jerry jumped back, but quickly gathered himself and said, “This is the address I was given by the concierge.” He handed the piece of paper to the guard, who looked at it and then tore it up.

“What are you doing?” Jerry yelled.

“You cannot enter here.”

“Okay,” said Jerry. “Then tell me where I can enter.”

“There’s been a mistake,” the guard said. “Go back to the concierge at the way station and tell him that you must first be sent to purgatory before you can be permitted to enter heaven.”

(174 words)


Written for this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers from Priceless Joy. Photo credit: Yarnspinnerr.