Prompt: You’re in an interrogation room. A man walks in and throws a bunch of photographs on the table in front of you. The photos are old and were taken at different points in history. You’re in each one. He demands to know who you are.
He stared at the painfully thin blonde woman as she smiled blandly at the photographs spread out on the table in front of her. Her bony hands cradling the same cup of coffee she’d been sipping for hours. Somehow, steam still rose from the mug.
“What is it I’m supposed to be seeing in these pictures?” she asked, her expression remaining unchanged.
He frowned as he studied her. His eye had started to twitch almost twenty minutes ago, and the tic wasn’t showing any sign of letting up. He tapped his capped pen on each of the photos in front of her. “You’re in all of these.”
Her icy blue eyes lifted to his. “Of course, I am. I’m one of his most trusted advisors.” She laughed, and the sound grated on his nerves. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be in those photos?”
He opened a folder and tossed several more photos on the pile. “And here you are with Putin.”
She glanced at the images and sipped her coffee. “Mhmm.”
He just stared at her in disbelief.
“What?” she asked. “I mean, I do travel with the man. I’m his advisor, remember?” She shrugged. Clearly those were taken during a trip to Russia.”
“Those photos were taken the day that Yeltsin appointed Putin acting Prime Minister.” When she had no response, he added, “In 1999.”
“Party over, oops, out of time,” she murmured half into her cup.
“What was that?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He pushed himself away from the table and stood, pulling a manila envelope from the top of a filing cabinet. Pulling out a stack of eight by ten photographs, he began to toss them at her.
“Here you are in Iraq in the mid-eighties in the blue hijab, standing to the left of Hussein. Then in a black burka with Bin Laden. And there you are with Castro in ’76 and in Libya with Gaddafi in 71.”
She set her cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “I enjoy world travel.”
Silently, he added photo after photo to the pile. Inexplicably, she she’d been with Idi Amin in Uganda, Kim Jong II in North Korea, Pol Pot in Cambodia, Mao in China, Hitler in Germany, Mussolini in Italy, both Stalin and Lenin in Russia. He threw the last picture on the table. “And here you are with Emperor Hirohito in 1929.”
She tilted her head to the side as she studied the black and white image, then nodded. “Japan in the twenties was such an interesting place.”
He glared at her. “Who the hell are you?”
She tossed her brittle hair over her shoulder. “No one of consequence.”
His hand tightened around the envelope he still held. He didn’t understand it. The photographs had all been authenticated. This wasn’t a case of a bored college student with above average photoshop skills. “We’ve run all of these images through facial recognition software, Ms. Conway. There is a hundred percent match. How is it possible for you to be your current age in 1929 and in 2018?”
“Robert,” she purred, leaning forward on her elbows. “Or can I call you, Bob?”
“You can call me whatever you want as long as you explain what the fuck is going on.”
She smiled, truly smiled, though it never reached her dead-looking eyes. Then she pulled one of the most recent pictures from the bottom of the pile, setting it on top. He glanced down at the image of Trump endorsing Roy Moore and his gut churned with rage.
She tapped the president’s head with a blunted fingertip. “You really want to nail him don’t you? Him, Pence, Jared, Ivanka? You want to take them all down.”
He stared at her.
“How much do you want it, Bob?”
“What do you mean? What does that have to do with who–”
Her chilling, dead-eyed smile was back. “Enough to sell your soul?”
Okay, that’s it for me this week. Be sure to check out the other bloggers’ stories.