Angel or Moth

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.]

Lazy Blogger’s Day, Auggie 12


Sign in shop in London. You think they really were?

In honor of Lazy Blogger’s Day – three totally unrelated pictures.  Can you make a story out of them?  If you can I’ll post it here on Ye Olde Twissel Bloggie!


Maimed sculpture in the British Museum. What do you think the model was doing with her arms and legs?


Beautiful penmanship but what do you think this person’s name was?

Okay, that’s it. Happy Lazy Blogger’s Day!

Making Scents of Gibberish

IMG_0680I know you’ve all been dying to hear the result of my gibberish project (yeah, right!), however it’s summer and mother, who is now living with us, needed underwear and a haircut and since she’s no longer driving, well, you get the picture.  

This morning I did finally manage a few chore-less moments to sit down and revisit my squiggles and doodles and here’s what I came up with:

SalvadorYup, apparently this guy haunts my “trying-not-to-think” mind!  Well, there’s room for at least two of us in there. Here’s my story:  

Salvador and the Chocolate Witching Wind

cloudA wind unlike any other, so powerful that birds gave up trying to fly, forced young Salvador to take a different route home from Abuela’s cottage.  Instead of tearing through  fields of sunflowers, over the hill and down, he followed the  Garbanzo River as it wound through town, past bakeries and candy stores whose chocolatey delights always waylaid the wistful lad.  He wrapped a scarf around his face thus protecting his nostrils from danger for it would not do to be late for lunch.  Would not do at all.  The thought of Papa’s mustache, sharpened to a razor point, twitching close to his eye as he received a lecture in punctuality made him shiver.  No, he could not be late.  You see, Salvador intended to be a watchmaker and thus needed those eyes!

thAs he passed  Pablo’s Cantina, church bells began ringing. Twelve times they cried. Is it midday, he thought, then I am late!  The usual senors looked up from their usual positions assessing their usual day:  There goes crazy Salvador with a scarf over his face like a bandit. What next?  A starfish in his eye?

Young Salvador’s imagination was the shame of the family, often causing Mama to lament he’d inherited Great Uncle Loopy’s “diarrhea of the mind.” Thus when he spotted the church and the clock read only ten after eleven,  he assumed the worst.  Not that Friar Francisco had gotten drunk  and attended to his duties early but that a mighty cyclone followed the awful wind and soon the river would rise and flood the town with hippos in search of chocolate and elephants whose trumpets full of sand would bury the town.  He ran th-1toward the church, knowing he would be safe high in the steeple, however, as he did, the wind stole his scarf, twirling it through the air until finally wrapping it over the face of the already melting clock.  Chocolate, chocolate – I must have chocolate, he thought. Ah the wicked Chocolate Witching Wind!

Okay – please tell me you guys did better with your gibberish projects!