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#1 of 9 Old 02-09-2006, 06:58 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Choose a photo and use it to create a short story, poem , whatever...The photo could be from a magazine, an art book or really anywhere. Try to write it so the reader doesn't have to see the picture. I'll post one of mine taken from a photo of which I will not describe so I can see if it makes sense w/out the picture. This would be the first draft, I just wrote it as a writing assignment...so I'm up for feedback of all kinds...let us know when you post , which kind (if any) of feedback you are open to. If you say nothing, I'll just assume you want either nothing or 'some lovin'

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#2 of 9 Old 02-12-2006, 10:26 AM - Thread Starter
 
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I can't find my piece anywhere on my pc : I hope it is not lost...I have hard copies but no backup, my cd burner is broken : : : :

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#3 of 9 Old 02-12-2006, 10:43 PM
 
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I'm only typing this right now in the message, so it's the roughest of first drafts. I'd be open to any kind of comment, though. This is all a learning experience and my feelings won't be hurt.

The picture I'm using is an add for a realtor selling beach property. There's a toddler in red overalls sitting on a piece of driftwood with his (or her) back to the camera. Also on the driftwood is a blue bucket with a yellow handle and resting on the rim of the bucket with its butt in the sand is a fishing pole. The ocean is visible in the background, and appears to be shallow pretty far out.

The sun was low by then. The harsher light we'd fished under relaxing into golden and letting in the offshore breeze. I felt my cheeks were warm and knew they were burned. I could see Jessie's shoulders were pink too. Damn. He'd been wearing a T-shirt when we were leaving this morning, it never occured to me to put sunblock on his shoulders. The shirt had been in my knapsack since lunchtime when he'd done his little boy fountain trick while I was concentrating on getting his diaper changed while keeping sand away from his most sensitive skin. Now his shoulders and upper arms were noticably pink beneath the straps on his overalls. closer in hue to the red cordurouy than the white osh-kosh-b'gosh label. He'd had a good time, though, and I didn't even want to bring him in now. His bottom would be getting wet sitting on that driftwood, though, and the wind was starting to pick up. I snuck up behind Jessie, but he heard me just as I leaned in to kiss his neck and we clunked heads instead. He laughed. Being outside makes him come so alive. After just this day on the beach I felt like he'd grown noticably. The sand flying before his feet, the bait in our blue plastic bucket, the one catch of the day dangling from the hook, then soaring, wiggly, back into the surf, were all new experiences for him to build his mind with. I lifted him with one arm, carefull of his first sunburn, and grabben the fishing pole and bucket with the other. "Say 'bye-bye ocean, bye-bye fish, bye-bye sand'," I told him, "We'll see the beach again soon, buddy, time to say bye-bye." He waved and blew a kiss over my shoulder as we headed back to the house.

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#4 of 9 Old 02-12-2006, 11:15 PM - Thread Starter
 
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I think that is a great 1st draft. With a little polishing up it could be the beginning of a great story, or maybe it is the ending (?)

I purposefuly didn't read about the picture that prompted you bc I wanted to see if it stood alone and it did. I'm not in the mood to take apart the content right now...Red, where are you?? You are so good at constructive feedback

I think you accomplished the goal, which was to depict the picture so that your story stands alone without the pic needed.

Now I'll go back and read about the pic...

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#5 of 9 Old 02-12-2006, 11:34 PM - Thread Starter
 
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This is the piece done from a photo prompt...what I want to know is ; does it make sense on its own? This has inspired a longer piece that I'm still gestating...I'll post in the WIP thread when it comes to fruition


I found it!





Fallen Angel; by Kelly Gorski 10/05


Flaxen tresses tangled in my tiny fingers as I looked up into her face. Her bright blue eyes were shining orbs as she gazed down upon my naked body with love and awe.
Father had taken me within moments of my birth wrapped in his warm black wings. He placed me back in mother’s arms only after I satiated myself at the breast of a stranger. My mother’s name is Bronwyn and when I am in her arms I grip tightly because I know Father will soon take me to that odd smelling woman to feed.
Several times, I have seen Mother shed tears while cradling her engorged breasts. I wanted to drink from her but Father said no,
“I don’t want Bronwyn hurt” I had to learn to use my teeth, he said. They were as sharp as razors and so diminutive that one could hardly see them, but once I finally tasted that first drop of blood, the hunger preceded any fondness I had for Mother.
I rode into life on a river of blood, slipping easily from between Mother’s legs.
Once we were cleaned up, Mother was led through a field of poppies to an isolated concrete platform with a throne that rested against a huge Goddess figure carved from stone. Her legs were chained to the base, hidden beneath her flowing dress.
Father had the stone embellished with all of the finery a deity should wear; a bronze breastplate covered with jewels surrounded my imprisoned Mother.
I heard Father talking to my Nurse,
“Bronwyn will feel safe here, she won’t want to escape, and perhaps her milk will dry soon” Then I heard murmuring as Nurse replied in a soft manner.
Father usually wasn’t visible; he was a shadow that changed forms as the sun moved in the sky.

Mother looked sad. The sweet liquid I so craved pulsed beneath her veins, but the milk leaked all over the thin bodice of her dress.
Soon, I could see clearly beyond her face. That hair went on forever, changing direction with the wind. Once again, my wet fist grabbed at her amber hair. The quivering of blood danced with her steady heartbeat, enticing me with every thrum. Luckily, Father retrieved me in time.
What I stole from my portly Nurse woke up all of my senses. I watched as wind rustled the crimson poppies like a serene river disturbed by a rock. I could see my mother from a distance.
Ensnared to the throne, I heard as Mother turned towards her Deity,
“How could you leave me like this Mother?” She asked.
I felt her grief as she once again rested her back on the dazzling breastplate of the Goddess.

I couldn’t help but love Father each night as he plucked me from her arms, placing me in the firm grip of Nurse.
Practicing with my needlelike teeth, I pierced her flesh, taking in the tangy nourishment along with her sweet milk.
Mother wept audibly. Father beamed in the moonlight.
There were others, older than me. They would sometimes carry me back to Mother.
With each drop that I received from Nurse, Mother became less and less important to me.
Father showed himself to her one night.
“You look the same” she said.
Clearly a man, he wore wings like an angel only they were black, his skin ashen, eyes sunken, teeth like mine, only larger.
He reached below the platform and pulled out a glass of liquid, clear as water.
“Drink” he held it out to her,
“No” she asserted.
“Drink or you’ll never see him again Bronwyn” His voice grim and serious. She reluctantly took the urn and drank.
He vanished like smoke wisping around the corner. Her teeth chattered. With heavy eyes, she leaned her head back. I clung for hours before she turned cold. He allowed us to be together until her body stiffened.
I didn’t even miss Mother. Evil had won, Father laughed. He had given her potion that would paralyze her body. Cradling me in his bat-like wings, I wondered with admiration if he had fallen from the heavens.
The others helped Father drag her onto the pyre of wood. Once it was well lit, he pushed her into the river.
Watching, knee deep from the field of poppies we all saw as she sat up. The charm had worn off.
“Pity” He said.
Unearthly screams rose as cloaked in her own burning hair, she vanished. Father smiled down at me. My eyesight was good, but I still couldn’t watch as my Mother burned alive, her ashes crackling above the still waters.
“I have much to teach you son” He said, turning me over to Nurse who was sore and pallid from all of that bloodletting.

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#6 of 9 Old 02-13-2006, 11:06 AM
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Well I am probably missing some fabulous literary picture of something here but all I could muster was utter upset over the lack of being allowed to nurse.....

Great imagery..I am just not getting what the picture could be, but that is probably my early morning cluelessness. LOL. A fable story picture? A painting?
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#7 of 9 Old 02-13-2006, 11:26 AM
 
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I, too, was more upset by the feeling of not being allowed to nurse than being burned alive. That's probably more a product of _my_ perspective than your writing, though. I was near tears throughout the piece. It does seem to stand without the picture, but I'm glad you've been turning it into a longer work, it seems to warrent a little expansion. One thing that bothered me was the disorienting POV. It's _interesting_ to read a scene as a newborn would see it, but not exactly comfortable, if you KWIM.

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#8 of 9 Old 02-13-2006, 01:34 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Oh, thanks for the replies...

The photo was of a woman (looking like a goddess) sitting on a large , stone throne in the middle of a field of poppies. Her dress was flowing and she was holding a baby , she had a sad look on her face...I wish I could send the pic, it really was beautiful.

Was the POV of the infant really disorienting? That was an experiment. Maybe I will try to write the piece from the POV of the father *and* the mother...that would be a good excersise.

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#9 of 9 Old 02-19-2006, 11:07 AM - Thread Starter
 
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No other takers?? Maybe you could write about times when you *did* use a photo prompt...they really are ways to break free of writers block and begin a whole new story

I guess on to the next prompt, look for it

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