Weekly Challenge #803 – Doubtful



We looked at the letter, a small candle leading our doubts.
“He disappeared such a long time ago,” my friend said.
I nodded and reread the letter.
“Maybe this is an old letter, written a long time ago,” she insisted.
I nodded, my brain going over every detail. I knew he hadn’t written the letter.
“Did you tell anyone?” she asked in a whisper.
I shook my head.
“Then I shall clear our names,” she barked.
“Our names?” I asked, a grin on my face. “You mean… your name.”
We had buried him that night.
But I wrote the letter.


Mrs Doubtful

I got the idea from that Robin Williams’ movie.

Like his character, I was desperate to see my kids, and would do whatever it took to achieve that; even if it meant dressing as a woman, adopting a fake accent and fooling the ex into employing me as a housekeeper.

I called myself, Mrs Doubtful – mainly because, I didn’t think the plan would work.

How right I was.

The family court decided that a crossdressing fantasist, willing to employ deception to gain entry to his estranged wife’s property was definitely not the sort to be around children.

Not a chance!


What Could Go Possible Wrong 003

Ford did not slow or quicken his step. A wry smile settled on his lips,
the product of a rising string of memories. Without turning Ford said,
“Doubtful is day will end in quiet repose. Arnesto, will I need one are
two bags?” “Oh, Ford why do you think travel when I appear. Couldn’t this
be just an opportunity for two very old friends to exchange pleasantries?
“ “Not where you’re toting that vermilion case.” “Oh, this silly thing.
Nothing more than … “ “ A charge from the Queen of England.” “Found me
out old man, where can we talk.


Billbert scratched his head and asked Samantha, “If it wasn’t your parents that caused everyone to avoid you, was it your grandparents, or who do you live with, anyway?”
Samantha took a deep breath and some of the redness faded from her cheeks. “I’ve lived with my aunt since I was just a baby. She’s a little eccentric, and because of that, everyone is afraid I am too.”
“You don’t seem strange to me. Can’t you show them you’re not like her?” Billbert asked.
Sabrina shook her head. “Once you’ve been given a label it’s doubtful that anyone would even listen.”


The priest seemed a little doubtful of his abilities when it came to dealing with the demonic.

He stood over my bed, where I lay, restrained and bound tightly by my wrists and ankles, then nervously muttered a few words of prayer, before waving his bible in my general direction, and sprinkling a spritz of holy water over my forehead.

It was clear that he had little faith in his actions.

When I tore free from my bonds, vomited in his face, and crawled across the ceiling, he howled in terror and ran screaming from the room.

As if possessed!


Billy was what they called a self-taught artist.
Historians call it a naive or primitive style.
He painted for years before he was discovered by the New York Times art critic.
After that, everything Billy painted, it sold.
And it sold for a lot of money.
Billy was too busy being rich and famous to paint.
So, he designed, and other painters painted for him.
By the time Billy died, the shill art critic was revealed to have gotten a cut of the money.
The painters were all shunned for being in on the scam.
And Billy’s paintings were burned.

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