Superman Can’t Find a Phone Booth has challenged me to write a story using this photo as a prompt.
Here’s what my demented imagination conjured:
The Shameful Secret
Carl couldn’t confess to his dear sweet mother. Nor could he tell his father or his sister or anyone in his family. And he most certainly couldn’t tell his best friend, Dr. Clarabelle Litchfield.
“Now Carl,” whispered the angel assigned to comfort him as she wrapped her wings around him. “God is with you. God loves you.”
“But how could he possibly forgive me?” Carl said aloud.
“What honey?” Clarabelle, who could not hear angels, asked as she leaked oil onto the driveway. “There’s a giant moth wrapped around your shoulders. Should I get out the BlackFlag?”
“She’s my guardian angel.”
“Now dear, I can clearly see, she’s no angel. But we’ll get to that delusion later. Now, why don’t you tell me what has you in such a state. I promise I won’t judge you.”
Carl raised his eyes to her face. She seemed sincere but no, he couldn’t tell her.
“Are you gay?”
“It’s alright if you are. In fact there are some nice guys at -”
“No. I am not. Oh god, how could this have happened?”
“Did you tell that moth or guardian angel thing?”
“No, but she knows.”
Clarabelle addressed the angel. “Moth, I implore you to tell me what the problem is so that I can help my friend. He’s clearly distraught and I am a licensed psychoanalyst.”
The angel rose to her full height, spread her ten foot wings and, then enfolding the two of them, whispered Carl’s shameful secret.
“NOOOOOOO!” Clarabelle cried in disgust. “You can’t be addicted to that brain dead television show! It’s idiotic and so phony. What’s happened to your brain?”
The angel’s eyes turned into those of an irate tigress. “That’s my favorite show too, you snobby bitch!”
Dr. Annabelle Litchfield soon found herself in a puddle on the parking lot.
[I suppose there’s a moral to this story but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.]