A writing prompt for The King of Texas

16 07 2011

Hey Dad—remember this photo of me, shot by you after you discovered I had gotten into Mom’s lipstick while she was working (and you were supposed to be babysitting)? I stumbled upon this shot this morning and thought it might make a great writing prompt for you, so I’m sending you down memory lane to write a (lengthy, as always) caption for this photo! (No, your photo won’t win any awards—just look at that green color shift!—but it sure speaks volumes about my strong will and need to be creative, doesn’t it?)

Response from The King of Texas:

This child—this sad-eyed waif—this refugee from a war-torn country is in pitiful condition. Such innocence, such reluctance to reveal who assaulted her and left her in this deplorable condition. She claims that she took a little nap and when she awoke she found lipstick everywhere—yeah, right!

One can see that she tried to cover up the evidence—note the hand-print on the left side of her shirt, and also note the lipstick-covered left hand. Her plaint was “It’s not my fault. Who did this to me?” She places the blame squarely on her father, complaining that as the official babysitter he should have taken precautions to prevent such a disaster.

She even blames the green color shift of the photo on me—oops, I mean on the official babysitter. All her readers need to be reassured that ultimately the wayward lipstick and the sad-eyed waif were separated—it required lots of scrubbing and lots of complaints, both from the scrubbed and the scrubber, but she emerged unscathed and good as new, ready and eager to seek more challenges, and all the while maintaining her innocence.


				

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2 responses

17 07 2011
sue

That is way too cute and very insightful of you to recognize your God-given gifting for creativity in this photo. Think I’ll go back and look at photos of myself as a child to soee if I can gain some insight.

19 07 2011
thekingoftexas

This child—this sad-eyed waif—this refugee from a war-torn country is in pitiful condition. Such innocence, such reluctance to reveal who assaulted her and left her in this deplorable condition. She claims that she took a little nap and when she awoke she found lipstick everywhere—yeah, right!

One can see that she tried to cover up the evidence—note the hand-print on the left side of her shirt, and also note the lipstick-covered left hand. Her plaint was “It’s not my fault. Who did this to me?” She places the blame squarely on her father, complaining that as the official baby-sitter he should have taken precautions to prevent such a disaster.

She even blames the green color shift of the photo on me—oops, I mean on the official baby-sitter. All her readers need to be reassured that ultimately the wayward lipstick and the sad-eyed waif were separated—it required lots of scrubbing and lots of complaints, both from the scrubbed and the scrubber, but she emerged unscathed and good as new, ready and eager to seek more challenges, and all the while maintaining her innocence.

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