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Tag Archives: sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge

What to do about The President

Just for a change, I’m going to give you the title of this painting—The Princess picking lice from the Troll—because I don’t think that knowing what it’s about will be too much of a limitation. Why a princess is sitting in a darkened room picking lice out of a troll’s fur is up to you. […]

via Sunday Strange microfiction challenge — Jane Dougherty Writes

 

My response:

You’re so vain. Let’s give up this charade. Not that shaving your head will help your brain but it may improve your image and that’s what you care about isn’t it? I understand that you can’t trust anyone but your family to help you rule but what if you actually hired a competent hairdresser? Is that too much to ask? It’s hard being a princess these days and I could use a tiny office in The White House to get my thoughts together. Just think about it.

Another idea. Maybe if you didn’t mess around with every person who annoys you, you might not be in such a tangle. You’re coming across as a troll, up all night monitoring the net for fake news. The more you lie to combat perceived slights, the more wild your hair gets. Every evening it takes me a longer time to straighten you out. Pretty soon, it will be beyond me.

Did you ever see the play “Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson?” I highly recommend it. Meanwhile, can we do this somewhere besides your dungeon? It smells of Democrats down here.

Jesus ain’t got nothin on me

This is a painting that’s odd if you don’t know anything about it, so I’m not going to give anything away. I like it for itself, and I’m sure it will suggest some dream-like writing.

via Sunday Strange microfiction challenge — Jane Dougherty Writes

I began doing Quigong off the Coastal Trail some years ago. I’m not a very grounded person.  Supposedly all the movements follow the breath and I would become more whole and integrated with daily practice.

Then I took it too far. I  kept breathing in such a mindful way that I popped the buttons off my jeans and had to switch to wearing a toga. I began to expel large amounts of gas because of my overly mindful breathing. The gas propelled me off the ground and I began to float over the water.

All I could think of was where are all those microwave cameras now? This must be how Jesus did it.  No one would believe me anyway because they’ll think I’m just using special effects like in Swiss Army Man.

That’s when I hit the water. I have since realized that if I can maintain mindful breathing, avoid gluten and negative people then  I can walk on water and my farts smell like ice cream.  But I can’t wear shoes, especially ones with marking black soles.  Bad karma.

I would suggest you try this at home in the safety of your own bathtub. Work your way up to a wading pool before you get over your head. It’s not easy being holier than everyone else but it’s lots of fun.

 

 

If I could see as you do……

Ivan Bilibin was a Russian illustrator, especially of folk tales, whose work is beautiful. Russian folk tales can be pretty odd. This must have been one of them. When you work out what’s going on, write me a story, please.

via Sunday Strange microfiction challenge — Jane Dougherty Writes

https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/02/26/sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge-3/

If I could see with the eyes of the dead, I would not waste my youth in fear or lust. I would not cry in the dark but treasure the sharp edge of loneliness.  I would cast off the faith which castigated me for living. I would see what matters instead of relying on magic wishes and futile comparisons. But there were donuts, doe-eyed men and other distractions.

The house of my childhood is now fenced with bones. I cannot enter without their owner’s permission. When they give it, I choose the eyes of the most misunderstood and venture into the woods. They see without pain now and offer me not the rewards of love, peace or prosperity but that of humor.

The picture is from a Russian folktale in which a girl, whose mother has died, escapes the home of Baba Yaga thanks to a blessing from her dead mother, something with which I can identify.