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Monday Micros: “Making it Over” and “Blame Pennywise”

Flash! Friday has a run of incredible tales for round 2–44, based on this picture:


and the need to include a surgery.  Head on over to the winners’ circle to check out Josh Bertetta‘s fabulously clever use of the human ability to rearrange the middle letters of a word and still recognize it. The best part about the technique is that it’s integral to a touching and meaningful story.

Here’s mine:

“Making it Over”

Here’s what I need:

Nose: shave off all bulbousness, pare it down to a perky wee nub so I sneeze like an aunt’s Pekingese.

Mouth: remove the rainbow smile, deflate the lips, take out the teeth. Smooth gums are soothing.

Eyes: peel them open—crow-footed merriment is for the old grannies spending their pensions at the bingo parlour. Make them round as a teddybear plums.

Erode everything, particularly the apple bright cheeks. Leave me cherub-chinned and jellybean-jawed.

You do work on vocal cords, right? Pinch the pitch to soprano sweetness. Rein in the uproarious laughter—it startles the little ones like an uncle’s unwanted attention—temper it to titters. Hilarity has to hush.

Gotta move with the times in this biz, else end up some sad sack passing out balloons in a truck stop arcade trying to avoid returning home.

The kids’ll love the new look. I’m sure of it.

And maybe they’ll love me again.


“Blame Pennywise”

Joey guided the black crayon over the page. His clown posse gathered round like circus balloons.

“Oh, I just love drawing,” crooned Percy. “I can draw a breath. See?” He inhaled.

Zola nose-honked in punchline appreciation.

Rollo danced his puppy over the Spiderman bedspread. “What’s he drawing, Scrumps? Frankenstein’s monster?”

“A gorilla!” Mimi guessed.

Joey scrutinized the image. “Dad won’t let me watch <i>Hell’s Guardians</i>.”

Zola shifted in her shoes—squeak, honk, squeak

Mimi’s garish grin faltered as Joey fetched up the red crayon. “How about I pull a horny toad from his ear?” she suggested.

“Scrumps can pee in his slippers!” Rollo piped.

Joey flapped the page at them. Marks like surgical scars hashed the caricature. “It must be done.”

The four traipsed from Joey’s room laden in iron chains of misery.

“Here we go again,” Percy muttered.

They shuffled down the hall toward the master bedroom and dreamed of the zany days when clowns stood for fun.


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