“Did you hear about Aunt Edna?” Betty asked her daughter. “She had yet another nervous breakdown.”
“Oh, poor Aunt Edna,” Donna lamented. “This must be her nineteenth nervous breakdown.”
“At least,” Betty agreed. “I’ve lost count, but I heard that she was tied up in knots in this latest of her multifarious ordeals. She actually became violent this time and started hitting poor Uncle Henry with her cane.”
“It’s such a shame,” Donna said, “that she got her brains all scrambled in that skiing accident during her winter vacation back in 1987. Dad told me that Edna really had her shit together before that.”
Written for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Music Challenge from Jim Adams. He presented us with the Rolling Stones’ song, “19th Nervous Breakdown,” and asked us to focus on that song and use it for inspiration in any form of creative expression (including, but not limited to, short stories, poems, lyrics, artwork, photography, etc.).
Also for these daily prompts: Ragtag Daily Prompt (knot), Your Daily Word Prompt (multifarious), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (scramble), Word of the Day Challenge (vacation), and The Daily Spur (1987).
So I just saw a few clips on TV of the meeting between Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin at the G20 summit in Japan. A reporter asked Trump if he would warn Putin not to meddle in America’s upcoming 2020 election.
“Of course,” Trump replied. Then he turned to Putin and facetiously said, “Don’t meddle in the election.” He playfully repeated the request while pointing at Putin, who laughed.
No one but Donald Trump thinks that Russian interference in American elections is anything to joke about. Well, Vladimir Putin probably does.
And yet Trump continues to serve as President of the United States.
I hate Donald Trump. I hate what he looks like, I hate the sound of his voice. I hate what he is doing to our country and to the world.
I saw this image on Facebook and it serves as an accurate reflection of what it feels like to me when I hear Trump’s voice.
Officers Martin and Lewis were dispatched to the old asylum after reports of a disturbance at the facility had been called in. The building had been abandoned years earlier and there had been periodic stories of the halls of the asylum for the criminally insane being haunted by the souls of some of its former inmates.
Even though this wasn’t the first time that officers Martin and Lewis had been sent to investigate strange noises at the asylum, they were never comfortable going into the old building. Every floor had these long, dark corridors that resembled catacombs. There were a dozen or more doors on either side of the hallways that opened into the small rooms that had occupied by the inmates back in the day. The place was just downright creepy.
The two detectives slowly walked up the steps to the second floor. Martin said, “You go down the left hall, I’ll head to the right.”
“D-d-don’t you think we should stick together,” Lewis said. “This place scares the bejeezus outta me.”
“Oh please, Lewis, don’t be such a wuss,” Martin said. “There are no boogiemen around to get you.”
“Fine,” said Lewis. Both men switched on their flashlights, and with service revolvers at the ready, headed in opposite directions.
About a minute into their walkthrough, officer Martin heard the crack of a pistol shot followed by a bloodcurdling scream coming from the other wing of the hallway. “Lewis, Lewis, are you all right?”
Martin ran down the hall and flung open the doors of each room until he found the one Lewis was in. “Jesus Christ!” Martin exclaimed.
And then everything went black.
Written for this week’s Thursday Photo Prompt from Sue Vincent.
Seth walked into the ornate, Art Deco lobby and headed to the counter. The man behind the counter looked at Seth. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I just got into town and I’d like to see a live show tonight. Are there any tickets available?”
“I don’t sell tickets to live shows,” the man said.
“What about for movies?” Seth asked.
“Not for movies, either.”
“Well what do you sell tickets for?”
“I don’t sell tickets for anything.”
“But the marquee outside says ‘Box Office,’ so if you don’t sell tickets, what do you sell?”
“Boxes, duh,” the man said.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Ted Strutz.
Marylou was a daddy’s girl, and a spoiled brat for sure. When she turned 16 and got her driver’s license, her father asked her what she wanted for her birthday. “I want Barbie’s car, Daddy dear,” she said. And so daddy bought his precious little girl a classic, 1959 pink Cadillac convertible.Marylou loved her pink Cadillac. It was unlike anything any of her rich, cliquey, valley girl friends had. Unfortunately for Marylou, her rich, cliquey, valley girl friends were vindictive bitches and they couldn’t stand the fact that Marylou had the coolest car of any of the rich, cliquey, valley girls at their school.
One morning, Marylou came out of her house to find her beautiful pink Cadillac covered in whipped cream. She ran inside her house and cried to her daddy. He threw Marylou a towel, ran out, ran out the front door, grabbed a hose, and sprayed the car down. Then he helped his daughter dry the car.
“It fills me with sadness,” he said, “that children these days are so mean and cruel,” and grabbed his precious little girl and hugged her.
And now this:
Written for Paula Light’s Thursday Inspiration prompt, where the theme is music. Also for yesterday’s Three Things Challenge, also from Paula Light, where the three things are we “Cadillac,” “towel,” and “sadness.”