Weekly Challenge #814 – What’s that on your face?



The crow landed on the arm of the scarecrow.
“Well, I never,” thought the scarecrow.
The crow groomed himself and just sat there.
What on earth. They were supposed to be afraid of him.
A bit of wind made the crow flap the wings briefly.
This is really too much!
“Oh, what’s that on your face?” asked the crow.
What, what? The thing was talking!
“That’s so sweet. It’s a ladybird!”
A ladybird? Where, where?
The crow laughed. “You crossed your eyes!”
The scarecrow smiled.
“Friends? I promise not to eat the crops here.”
And even the ladybird smiled.


Big Disgrace!

“What’s that on your face?” She asked, as I stumbled through the door.

“Oh my God, is it blood? What happened to you?”

It was a reasonable question: Bruised, bloodied and battered, my clothes in disarray, and stumbling over my own feet, I must have looked a state.

“I got mugged!”

She flung her arms around me, helped me into an armchair then poured me a large whisky.

My face hurt like hell, but my self-inflicted wounds were worth it.

The whisky would mask the booze on my breath, and she’d never notice the lipstick on my collar now!


“Oh my god, Stan! What’s that on your face?”

“It’s No-Shave November, Linda. To grow awareness about cancer.”

“Nobody should see that. It’s going to scare small children and don’t you have another date with Ellen tonight?”

“Yeah, third date and you know what means. Oh, yeah!”

“Well, good luck with that on your face.”

Later that night…

“Dinner was wonderful Stan. Too bad it was raining. Or maybe not, huh? Let’s slip out of these wet clothes.”

“Ellen, you read my mind. Let’s just… Oh my god! What’s that?”

“What? Oh, come on silly, it’s No-Shave November!”


“And what’s that on your face, you evil little girl?”

“It’s a smirk, sir!”

Mr Johnson’s own face flushed so red I thought he might explode, which would have been a lot of fun, and delightfully messy, but unfortunately, he didn’t.

“It’s not a laughing matter!” He hissed, “I’ll be speaking to your parents about this.”

Good luck with that, I thought, he’d need a medium or an Ouija board to speak to either!

I couldn’t see what the big deal was: I’d only squished Milly, the school hamster, with my foot.

Maybe I should have squished Mr Johnson instead?


“What’s that on your face?”
Charlie woke up as usual one morning, but when he turned to his wife, she screamed in panic, “What’s that on your face?”

“What?” said Charlie, touching his face. Nothing seemed wrong, but by that time she had fled from the house without even dressing.

He looked in the bathroom mirror, but the glass fell off and shattered.

He got dressed and wandered outside. Everyone who saw him screamed and fled.

An approaching car suddenly accelerated towards him. The last thing he saw was the driver’s face, grimacing in terror.

So he never did discover what was on his face.


Never Underestimate a Good Editor

Few people have read Tolkein’s early drafts of The Hobbit. The versions of some iconic moments found there are quite different from what ended up in the published manuscript. Take the riddle contest between Bilbo and Golem in the tunnels of Goblin-town, for instance. Instead of Bilbo asking Gollum ‘What’s in my pocket?”, he points at Gollum, and asks “What’s that on your face?”

The scene ultimately still led to Bilbo winning the riddle battle, but had a lot more banal dialogue along the lines of ‘above your nose’, ‘below your eye’ and ‘no, no – the other side. Your left.’


Billbert considered Sabrina’s words. She had said the weather witches wanted him in Eureka.
She asked, “What’s that on your face?”
Billbert wiped his lips. “What? Is there food on my mouth?”
Sabrina smiled now. “No. Not food. It’s the funny expression on your face. Why are you so surprised?”
Billbert shrugged. “You just said you and your fellow witches brought me here, to Eureka. I don’t know why you would want to do that.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sabrina asked. “You have something we want.”
Billbert shook his head. “Everything I had burned in the fire.”
Sabrina smiled. “Not everything.”


“What’s that on your face?” said my doctor.
He took out a tissue and tried to wipe it off.
When your doctor doesn’t know what something is, you know you’re in trouble.
He took biopsies and made slides, but nothing about it made sense.
Referrals to experts and specialists amounted to nothing.
It didn’t get any bigger. Or smaller. Or deeper.
It stayed the same color, which was… well,,, I can’t describe it.
But it was there.
It resisted all measure of drugs.
Eventually, my doctor prescribed me some makeup to cover it up.
“That solves that,” he said.

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