Ergo, the Ogre

Author: Ergo, the Ogre

  • Art Appreciation

    Art Appreciation

    It was the first thing she saw each morning when she woke up, and the last thing she saw before falling asleep. It bungled her dreams and ruined her days.

    For as far back as Tammy could remember it had hung there, taking up almost the entire wall. The monstrosity was an eyesore; a waste of valuable space where Barry Manilow and Led Zeppelin posters should have been proudly displayed.

    She’d begged them to let her take it down, but her farty old grandparents wouldn’t budge.

    “No, dear. It would be disrespectful,” they’d said.

    She hated that portrait; the way it mocked her, sat in haughty disapproval of the few friends she had, dismissed her half-assed efforts at self-improvement. It seemed to know she would never measure-up and made fun of her for trying.

    She could tell by the way the portrait rolled its sultry green eyes when Tammy glanced its way, hoping for parental approval.

    Yes, the portrait was of her mother who had died giving birth to Tammy–another reason for it to hate her. Eventually, she quit trying and accepted herself as she was. Not everyone was cut out to be a svelte, heart-stopping-ly gorgeous and über-talented artiste like ol’ Mommy Queerest up there.

    I mean, seriously! Could Tammy help that she was:

    a) addicted to Oreos with Double Stuff

    b) able and more than willing to devour a party-size Domino’s Ultimate Deep-Dish Extravaganza pizza with double cheese in one sitting, and

    c) accustomed to slamming three (okay, four) packages of Twinkies for breakfast‽

    Tammy had had enough of the whole thing.  It was time to level the playing field.

    One dreary afternoon after Horseshoe Pitching 101 let out, Tammy trundled to the college bookstore to purchase supplies for her playing-field-leveling toolkit. The bill for the four items came to less than she’d anticipated, which left the door wide open for a celebratory bag of Oreos.

    Later, as she munched the last hunk of cheese-stuffed pizza crust, she took Magic Marker in greasy hand and considered the options:

    Would Mom prefer purple-rimmed kitty-cat glasses, or the John Lennon bottle-cap style? 

    Then there was the moustache: red, waxy handlebar, or a black & bushy Stalin-esque cookie duster…

    Oooh! How about an indigo tattoo on one of those over-sized paws that passed for hands?  

    The Daily Post: Enthusiasm

     

     

     

  • Mavra Ph’tera

    Mavra Ph’tera

    Today’s writing prompt at The Daily Post is the word, fortune.

    **

    It was a lot to take in.

    Mavra Ph’tera* struggled to make sense of it all. Below, the Chicago River flowed the way it always had, as if nothing had happened.  He thought about jumping; just to see if they really worked, but the time wasn’t right. He wasn’t ready to take that chance.

    Not yet.

    If they did work, these crazy wings he’d sprouted would spread and glide him to safety.

    If not…

    Mavra liked them at first; shiny, sleek and black. When the sun hit them just right, it set off a kaleidoscope of color–kind of like when your dad’s car leaks oil in the driveway and a rainbow  swirls  in the puddle.

    And talk about a pair of chick magnets? Saints preserve us! Last night at Bernie’s Bodacious Booty Bungalow, the girls couldn’t keep their claws off him. He’d collected more phone numbers than the Yellow Pages.

    But then they started to itch. The gypsy lady at the flea market said that it was normal, and not to worry about it. When you get new wings like these, they have to get used to you, she explained. Until they settle-in and get comfortable, well, you’re just going to have to deal with it.

    She gave him some special powder to use in the meantime, which seemed to help. The only drawback was that it attracted wild animals.  Mavra, himself, could discern no odor, but to the animals it was an aphrodisiac. Eventually, they lost interest and wandered back to their own kind—all but the lion.

    What about Sebastian?

    He’d named the lion after the chubby ‘gentleman’s gentleman’ on Family Affair. As a kid it was his favorite show.  He’d had a crush on Cissy, the eldest niece, but decided that it would make a stupid name for a lion.

    In any case, the landlord will be none too pleased, he feared. Not only that, but imagine the kitty litter such a creature would need! Who can afford it?

    There was another problem perplexing Mavra; one that he couldn’t put off for long.

    How to get this jacket off!

    Homesickness, René Magritte
    Homesickness, René Magritte

     *Black Wings (Greek)

  • Tuesdays of Texture | 51

    Tuesdays of Texture | 51

    SusanWritesPrecise

     

     

     

    SusanWritesPrecise/TheAnjectMuse

     

    SusanWritesPrecose/TheAbjectMuse

  • Share Your World | 51

    SusanWritesPrecise

     

    What types of food is associated with your holiday?

    Traditional Hanukkah fare includes latkes (potato pancakes) and sufganiyot (jelly donuts). Fried foods are symbolic of the container of oil that lasted for eight days. I don’t eat fried foods because I get heartburn. I also get fat. Instead, many Jewish people go put for Chinese food on Christmas Day. It’s almost become a tradition. One reason is that Chinese restaurants are pretty much the only places that are open. Also, observant Jews don’t have to worry about inadvertently mixing meat with dairy (which is forbidden)  since Asians tend to keep there food dairy-free.

    Do you travel for your holiday?

    No, not usually. Although sometimes we’d travel to NC to visit my in-laws before they decided to hate me. But now, they can kiss my big, fat latke.

    Is it a religious or spiritual holiday?

    It is a bit of both. Lighting the menorah each night is important to me. Hanukkah  begins on the 25th of Kislev each year, and lasts for eight days. Since we use the Lunar calendar it falls on a different day every year. This year, though, it begins at sundown on 12/24.

    Is there a gift exchange?

    It is tradition to give a gift on each of the eight days, but that’s mostly for the children.

    How long does the celebration last?

    Eight days.

  • Greg & Iggy

    Greg & Iggy

    He’d been waiting for an hour.

    Well, maybe not a whole hour, but it sure felt like it. The little girl who sat next to him had been waiting for a long time, too. He could tell by the way she squirmed in her seat and the panic in her eyes.

    A second-grader with three older sisters, Greg didn’t normally feel sorry for girls.

    But this was different. He felt sorry for every kid in Sister Ignatius’ class—even the mean boys who made him pick his nose and eat it during recess.

    In any case, Sister Ignatius had a strict rule regarding interruptions: “Do NOT.” Therefore, no one dared raise a hand during her spelling rants. The whole class was afraid of her, and with good reason: The horror stories passed down from older siblings to younger were turning out to be true.

    Connie, Greg’s eldest sister, liked to tell about the time Sister Ignatius (Iggy) grabbed her by the back of the neck and repeatedly slammed her head against her desk for getting 33% (an F) on a phonics test. Iggy’d left thumb and fingerprint bruises on that tender part, right below her ears, and a bloody nose.

    That afternoon when Connie told the folks, she got Dad’s belt instead of sympathy.
    They were ‘good Catholics’ and assumed the nuns could do no wrong. Connie must’ve deserved it.

    Greg was in kindergarten then, so had no recollection of the incident. He didn’t believe it the first several times he’d heard it. He did now, though, because of what happened to Jimmy Cooper yesterday.

    In the middle of the Spelling Bee, Jimmy let his pencil roll off his desk and onto the floor. Wild-eyed, Sister Ignatius stomped over to Jimmy’s desk and rapped his knuckles five times with a splintered wooden ruler. He wouldn’t cry, though, which served to fueled Iggy’s rage and so she slapped him. Jimmy still didn’t cry.

    Then the bell rang so she had to stop.

    If that’s what happens when you drop a pencil, imagine if…

    And then, from the corner of his eye, a yellow puddle began to form in the aisle. He glanced at the little girl and saw tears spilling down her cheeks.
    The puddle meandered its way toward the front of the classroom—and Iggy. It was inches—no, centimeters—away from her ugly black boots.

    All hell was about to break loose. He knew he had to do something…but what?

    Nothing.

    What happened next, Greg would later describe as Divine Intervention.

    Unaware, Iggy took a step and went sliding. The back of her head cracked against the edge of her desk…or maybe it was the chair—it happened so fast that none of the kids remembered, exactly. Either way, she landed flat on her back. Her veil and head dress had fallen off in the process, revealing a few wiry strands of hair.

    Iggy was bald!

    Dead, too.