Picasso

 

            It was not a good day. Her hair was sideways. Her eyes sat on one side of her face. One breast was huge, the other practically non-existent and sitting somewhere around her belly button. Her right arm was straight as a rod, and her left arm like jelly. She moved with the undulations of an amoeba as she shifted across the room.

            “Whose idea was this anyway?” she asked through a gash on the side of her face.

            “They have pictures of themselves,” a green blob said from across the room. “It was determined that we would blend in better if we looked like them, so we gathered pictures from all over the planet and fed the information into the body scanners.”

            “But this can’t be right,” she said again. “I can’t do this mission.”

            “You can, and will,” a brown blob slithered to sit in front of her. Holding a picture up so she could see, he said, “You are a perfect match. No one will know you are not of their world.”

            She examined the canvas. “A picture with a name. Is that me, then? Picasso? What kind of a name is that?”

Author's Note

Just a silly bit of flash.

Reviews

[J.K. (Not Rowling)]

Oh, they should have scanned Renoir instead! Excellent! At first, I thought you had pulled a Harry Potter on us with talking paintings, but this is so much more fun. My favorite line is, "She moved with the undulations of an amoeba as she shifted across the room." What an image! This is a great write and made me smile. Thanks for sharing.

[Boris Jonathan Novak]

I enjoyed this. It flowed like a stream of conscious with a sense of purpose, if that makes sense. You have a talent for words and your imagery is very evocative.

Great work!