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book, books, charity, Picture it & Write, Picture it and Write Publication, poetry, publishing, reading, writing
We interrupt your normally scheduled Picture it & Write to bring you this important announcement.
It’s been a little over a year since Ermisenda started hosting Picture it & Write. We look forward to it every week as you continue to dazzle us with your contributions. Whether you’ve had dreams of becoming a published author or you just contribute for fun, here’s your chance to have your writing in a publication. 100%* of sales from this publication will be go to The Girl Effect, a movement to improve the world through empowering girls to become educated leaders of their communities rather than child brides.
If you would like your work considered, paste the original contribution in the comments section of this post with a link back to the original, whether that be on your blog or a Picture it & Write post. Submissions will be accepted until February 28, 2013.
You are encouraged to go through the archives and contribute to any that inspire you. For a gallery of images, check the Facebook gallery or Pinterest board.
Not all submissions will be printed. Ermilia, LLC will chose which submissions at the sole discretion of Ermisenda and Eliabeth. If you are a photographer and would like to donate a picture to the publication, e-mail ermilia [at] live.com.au for consideration.
Rules:
- It must be your work written for Picture it & Write whether it’s in the comments section here or on your own blog between the start of the event and the last Picture it & Write in 2012. 2013 will start a new round.
- If you want your name on the work, you must include it in your comment, otherwise you will be listed as “Anonymous.” We aren’t going to hunt you down and ask what name you want printed.
- Limit of four (4) submissions. Once you add it, it counts to your four and cannot be withdrawn. While you do not need to submit all four at once, due to the time consuming nature of formatting and putting the pages together, you will not be able to withdraw a submission once it has been posted.
- By submitting here you give us the rights to use your work for publication, marketing, and merchandise with credit or “Anonymous” without any monetary compensation.
To get you started, below are the most popular images so far. Click the image to contribute to that week’s Picture it & Write.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming with a new Picture it & Write.
Contributions to this week’s Picture it & Write will not be automatically included for consideration. Please feel free to post even if you don’t want to be in the publication. Anyone wanting this week’s writing to be considered must specify as such in the post. Thanks.
I urge people to join in, comment with your paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. It doesn’t have to follow my story or reflect the same themes. It can be a poem or in a different language (provide a translation please :)). Anyone who wants to join in, is welcome. This photograph will be reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr, and added to the Picture it & Write gallery on Facebook and Pinterest.
Every fortnight we hope to host a photograph suggested by contributors. So, keep those photograph recommendations coming. Submit your favorite images (with credit) for next week’s Picture it & Write!
Image by “Eastbourne Bed and Breakfast”
http://www.eastbourneguide.com
“Must you take pictures of your food at the dinner table?” my mother asked after the white flash from my birthday present lit up our table for the en-teenth time that night.
“You would rather I take pictures of it somewhere else?”
My mother sighed and rolled her eyes. Could she not understand I was simply showing my appreciation for my birthday gift? It was bad enough to be born on Thanksgiving, when everyone thinks you should be giving to charities rather than wanting gifts for yourself. Ironic that Christmas is not far behind.
I stare down at the digital screen. The brown slab of meat arches like a title wave over a serene puddle of gravy. This camera is amazing. It picks up everything and makes me feel like a Lilliputian ready to climb the green boulders and squishy orange logs.
-Eliabeth Hawthorne
*Ermilia, LLC will need to recoup the cost of publication including ISBNs, editing, and formatting costs. Any and all sales above that will go to The Girl Effect charity.
Oh this sounds so fantastic! What a lovely idea. Thank you for allowing us the opportunity to be a part of something so fun.
If it’s all right, I would like to contribution Dangerous Waters & Chances for consideration.
Dangerous waters: http://airickaphoenix.com/Author/?p=563
Chances: http://airickaphoenix.com/Author/?p=597
Thank you so much and I look forward to hearing from you guys!!
Hi Airicka! Wow that was fast, you must have had your favorites on the top of your mind. Thank you for offering your work for publication. If chosen, do you want your name and blog included, or would you like it under Anonymous?
Hello!!
I know I’ve written a few for the challenges, but these wer the two that really popped into my head when I really thought about it. I don’t mind my name being published or my blog. Both would be wonderful. Thank you again so much for this opportunity. I can’t wait to see which get picked.
All the best,
Airicka
Hi Airicka! Wow that was fast, you must have had your favorites on the top of your mind. Thank you for offering your work for publication. If chosen, do you want your name and blog included, or would you like it under Anonymous?
Your first link is bad. Would you please repost it below along with your original contributions? It will make it much easier to go through them when they are all in one place. I really appreciate it.
-Eliabeth
Oh my! I wonder why…
My blog: http://airickaphoenix.com/Author/?cat=10
Dangerous Waters: http://airickaphoenix.com/Author/?p=563
Chances: http://airickaphoenix.com/Author/?p=597
I hope this is easier? Please let me know!😀
Dangerous Waters is still 404ing.
There appears to be a problem with your request. This is a 404 error page.
I’m not sure why it’s doing that. When I click it, it comes up fine…
How’s this:
My blog is the same: http://airickaphoenix.com/Author/?cat=10
Dangerous Waters: http://airicka-phoenix.livejournal.com/11145.html#cutid1
Chances: http://airicka-phoenix.livejournal.com/14304.html#cutid1
I don’t have livejournal and it wants a login.
Could you post the original text in a comment so I can read it in this chain?
This submission has been reviewed.
Oooh, yes, I will get back to this🙂 Thanks for the opportunity lovely ones.
Hello again!!
Here are my stories:
DANGEROUS WATERS:
“You can’t tell anyone.”
Mary looked down at her bare legs, speckled with sand. Droplets clung to the goose bump infested flesh. Unconsciously, her gaze darted to his legs. So normal now, she mused. Long, toned, and speckled with golden hairs and tanned from hours beneath the sun. A pair of black swimming trunks hugged his trim waist. He hadn’t pulled his t-shirt on, but Mary was more interested in his legs than the washboard abs and masculine torso.
“Would anyone believe me?” she murmured.
“No!” There was relief mingling with the annoyance stiffening his muscles.
She had to look away, had to focus on something else, anything else. So, she stared at the waves crashing over the sand, the sun setting over the horizon, and the spot he’d dragged her to after pulling her out of the water when her sides had cramped up.
“You saved my life.”
He shifted beside her, but didn’t comment.
Her gaze lifted to his, searching the face of her savior, a face crafted with angular features. Eyes the color of seaweed peered back at her from beneath crinkled brows. The sun shone through his hair like liquid gold over wet sand. He seemed so human. Had every pulse of heat washing off him not screamed with coiled panic, she could have easily chalked it all up to lack of oxygen, disorientation… a dream. But he was staring at her, practically begging her to forget, and she couldn’t.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered, needing to reassure him.
The shadow that dropped over his eyes, it was anger masking dread. “Why?”
It was an easy enough question to answer; because no one would believe her; because it sounded crazy even to her own mind; because she wasn’t like that. Instead, she found herself replying, “Because you saved my life.”
He seemed to absorb this a moment, searching her eyes as he did. Maybe the truth was hiding there or maybe he needed to believe her, but he nodded slowly, getting to his feet.
“Wait!” she called before he could walk away. “What’s your name?” she asked when he glanced back.
He hesitated, shifting from one leg to the other before answering, “Dylan.”
Then, he was gone.
***
Mary dreamt of Dylan nightly for two solid weeks, tossing and turning against her sheets until they roped around her like snakes. It always happened the same way; she was swimming, pushing further and further from the shore, ignoring the slight pinch along her sides.
Below her, the open waters stretched like a black chasm threatening to swallow her whole. But in her dreams, she was never alone. He was always there, holding her when the pain in her stomach became too much and keeping afloat seemed impossible. But at the same time, it wasn’t him at all. From the waist up, he was hard, golden muscles, square jaw and sandy tresses. But when he got closer, when he put his arms around her, drawing her into him, it wasn’t skin she felt brushing her bare thighs. It wasn’t even legs, but scales the opalescent shade of pearls beneath shimmering light.
She jolted from the deep sleep, damp with sweat, her heart crashing against her chest. The waves outside her window roared in her ears, seemingly mocking her for her weakness. She lay for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling fan while the night whispered around her.
***
“What am I doing?” she groaned beneath her breath, clutching her purse straps tighter in her sweaty grasp. Was she really on the prowl for some guy she barely knew? The island just east of British Columbia’s coastline was tiny, but it wasn’t that tiny. For all she knew, Dylan was a tourist like her. He could have already left for the summer. What more, he’d made it clear that he wanted her to stay away. Yet there she was, lying to her parents just so she could hunt him down.
Mary sighed, rolling her eyes heavenwards. This was crazy. She needed to get back to the hotel before her mother sent out a search party. Mary had made the awful mistake of telling her mom about the near death experience; her mother had not been pleased that Mary could be so careless. It had taken a lot of fast talking to be allowed an hour on her own to go sightseeing, which she was using to find Dylan.
“Stupid!” she muttered to herself, turning on her flats and starting back the way she’d come.
But halfway to the hotel, she found herself on the beach instead, sitting on the same rock she’d shared with Dylan, watching the ocean kiss the bank.
She was being irrational, becoming so obsessed with a stranger. She needed to forget him. Did it really make any sort of difference if she confronted him about it? Did it change the way she felt? It scared her that she wasn’t there for that reason at all; she was there to see him.
“You came back.”
Mary jumped, head snapping around to stare at the figure advancing on her from the left. “Dylan!” Her heart jumped in her chest. Her stomach fluttered. The unexpected jolt of excitement took her completely by surprise.
He stopped when there was three feet between them. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to thank you.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
His eyes seemed to narrow slightly, his head tipped to the side. “That’s all?”
Mary slicked her lips, getting carefully to her feet. “No.”
He sighed heavily, turning away. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Wait!” she grabbed his arm before he could leave. “Are you?”
The intensity behind his eyes bore straight into her soul. The taut stretch of muscle beneath her hand bunched.
“Please,” she whispered when he continued to remain tight lipped.
“Would it matter?”
Would it? Would it make her run for the hills? Would it disgust her? It wasn’t disgust that propelled her to take a step closer.
“No,” she whispered without thinking — without needing to think.
The rigid muscles along his shoulders slackened, seemingly melting like a cube of ice in the sun. The uncertainty and doubts lifted from his eyes, and he smiled, exposing dimples on either side of his mouth. “I didn’t ask you your name.”
It was her turn to smile. “Mary.”
**********************************************************************************************
CHANCES:
Jacob wasn’t a believer of things unanswerable. All things had answers; all things had a scientific explanation. But Angie had none of those things.
He could find no method to her madness, no sense to her constant ability to see things in Technicolor when life was a murky shade of gray. How could one person be so… carefree? Normal people weren’t so happy!
It was unnatural.
“Stop frowning, Jake.” Her fingers were warm, prodding the corners of his mouth. Her laugh tinkled when he jerked back. “You’re going to get wrinkles.”
“I’m seventeen,” he rubbed the tingling spot on his face. “I won’t get wrinkles for another twenty years.”
Again, she laughed, leaping to her feet and doing a twirl right there on the winding path cutting through the park. Her hair splayed out in the air, a glistening cape of shiny copper.
“Come on, Jake! Let’s go do something fun!”
Fun? For him, that would be going home and looking over his biology paper. But with her, it could mean anything.
“Like what?”
Angie shrugged her dainty shoulder. “Let’s go to the cliffs. It’s almost sunset.”
“There’s a sixty percent chance it’s going to rain—”
She rolled her pretty green eyes heavenwards, an endearing smile tilting her lips. “You are always so serious! Besides, I think it would be romantic to be caught in the rain together.”
Jacob couldn’t help wrinkle his nose. “What’s so romantic about pneumonia?”
She shook her head, swooping down and grabbing his wrist. “Come on, Mr. Stick-In-The-Mud.”
As affronted as he was by the name-calling, he allowed himself to be yanked out of his seat and dragged to the other end of the park.
The cliffs overlooked a wide stretch of ocean, now churning with an impending storm. The sky in the distance was a murky gray, bleeding into the red and orange. In his opinion, there was nothing remotely romantic about standing there with nothing but a painful death looming below them. However, Angie seemed pleased; she had a flush to her cheeks and a glow to her eyes that made them appear glassy. He would have been concerned if it wasn’t an expression she wore often whenever they were together.
“Jake?” she turned those enormous eyes towards him. “Do you ever wish you could fly?”
Jacob thought about it as carefully as he would any other question before answering, “Well, that depends on what you mean. Do I think I’ll sprout wings and take to the heavens? Then no, I don’t.”
There was a strange darkness in her eyes when she looked away, a flicker Jacob had never seen before. It was unlike her not to be glowing from the inside out.
“I always wish I could fly. I would go everywhere.”
He started to tell her it was theoretically impossible; the world was too big for a single person to see everywhere in one lifetime. But something in the way she sighed kept him in check.
Then, just like that, she was smiling again, big and bright, eyes a little wild. “Hey, you know what we should do? We should jump!”
Maybe it was the glint behind her stare or the way her grip on his hand had tightened, but Jacob shuffled back a step. “What?”
“Come on! It’ll be so much fun!”
“No!” He shook her hand off. “There are rocks at the bottom. The probability of us missing them—”
There was no smile on her face this time when she rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a baby! We’ll aim away from the rocks.”
“The winds are too strong!” Was he really standing there arguing this with her? “We’re not jumping!”
“I am!” Then she was running, like a gazelle through the meadows.
For a moment, all he saw was floating hair, the billow of her skirt fluttering around her long legs. Her laughter caught the whistling wind and pounded in his ears. His heart jacked into his throat, stopping possibly all together if he could wrap his head around it. Every nerve in his body screamed as image-after-image flashed behind his eyes of her sailing over and disappearing from sight, from his life forever.
“No!” The scream tore his esophagus.
He couldn’t recall lunging after her. He wasn’t even sure when he’d moved. But he had her, a fistful of her dress in his grasp. Her yelp of surprise had never sounded so beautiful to him. He reeled her in like a fish on a hook, yanking her into the folds of his arms, crushing her.
“Are you crazy!” he growled into the top of her head. “Don’t ever do that again!”
“I won’t.” There was a hint of a smile in her tone, but he didn’t care when her arms found their way around him too.
Thank you and I’m so sorry again!
Perfect. Thanks!
Eliabeth, here is the picture prompt for Dangerous Waters. It was one of my favorites.
Airicka, if you have a post marked as private, the link would work for you, but not for us.
This submission has been reviewed.
Awesome! Very excited to see what you come up with. Thanks Lee-Anne.
Submissions are closing soon if you have any you’d like to add!
Thankfully, I beat Thanksgiving by a couple of weeks! I really like the image you created of being tiny looking at giant veggies, especially if you were looking at it in hi-res.
For me that’s a great choice of a charity. I can’t believe I’ve done 50 of these! I combined two images in one story which you said was your favorite. I have one easy favorite:
01-Apr-2012 – The Stuff of Legends
I guess how about these two:
22-Apr-2012 – Which Witch?
08-Jul-2012 – Dear in the Headlights
I’ll be back later with a contribution and a promotion…
Absolutely love you Anne. Thank you very much for your contributions and help promoting it.
♥ ♥ ♥ I couldn’t figure out how to reblog this, so I included a couple of extra paragraphs at the top of… Good Gravy. Hope that works. Enjoy!
This submission has been reviewed.
All my posting so far have been a thought linked with a visual most appropriate to the thought. I would love to contribute here.
Cheers
Santanu
+6590255109
All my facebook postings – Santanu
Sorry, we are only accepting submissions that have been part of the Picture it & Write exercise. Please contribute to one of the threads to participate. Thanks.
Thanks for your interest, just find an image that speaks to you from one of our Picture it & Write posts. Leave a comment in that thread, then paste the comment here with a link. Sorry if that sounds silly, but I’m trying to keep it all in one place to make sure I don’t miss any.
Great idea Eliabeth & Ermisenda!
I would like to publish this one under my name, saw the keys and immediately thought back to it:
https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/__picture-it-write-10/#comment-1313
and:
https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2011/12/04/__picture-it-write-12/#comment-1620
Under the name Otheus please😉
This week:
Eten ter reiniging van je lichaam.
Geven en nemen van de aarde,
van dieren die er waren.
Weten ter reiniging van je ziel
Dat door het nemen van leven
jij iets terug kan geven.
Energie, van vroeger en van nu
stroomt door ons lichaam.
Eating, for cleansing your body.
Giving and taking of the earth,
of the animals that once were.
Knowing, for cleansing your soul
that by taking life
you can give something back
Energy, of before and now
flowing through our bodies.
– Otheus
Thank you Otheus. I’m glad people are interested in doing this.
This is short, but profound, Otheus. Many argue taking any life. Native American cultures honored the lives they took this way.
This submission has been reviewed.
Hi, Terry Shepherd
Here with the fist of stories for the writing contest.
http://terry1954.wordpress.com/2012/10/07/picture-it-and-write-publication-oct-072012/
This submission has been reviewed.
Picture It And Write Publication, Oct. 07,2012
Posted on October 7, 2012
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Is your life as this photo shows, a broken life. Keys that would leave a legacy here on earth, now broken. Too many mistakes, too many times spent on quick decisions, not taking the time to swallow each thought process and not capable of making a decision based on our own needs.
Decisions being made on others needs and wants, barely ever thinking of our self first. Is it selfish to think of yourself as number one, to place yourself first above all others? What happens when you do for others before doing for yourself?
Does the ivory color of your soul turn tarnished and yellow as in these piano keys, at the expense of others? Are there more broken paths than a straight row when you look back at your life you have lived thus far?
We grow up in a Cinderella world, thinking it is perfect and everything will be wonderful, pretty and glorious. Life in reality does not work this way. I sometimes wish that the publishers would take away these books that lead young children to take the dream of happily ever after and replace them about what life is truly about.
It is alright to read about the dreams that everything will go our way, but we need to read about the disappointments in life also, the bumps that can throw you from the smooth path of life.
I believe that we must put ourselves first some of the times. There is a saying that you have to love yourself before others can love you. I believe this is so true. I believe that when you give to others and neglect your own needs that you become lost, not knowing why you were placed on this earth in the beginning.
We were born for a reason. There was a job to do and a talent given from the one that created us. In order to be the most that we can be, we have to first see our self for who we are. What makes us happy, what makes us want to live? What is our hidden talent here on earth. Once we know the answers we can then prosper and grow. We can then leave our mark, our legacy here on earth.
So I do believe that we need to be selfish to a point. This will show others our strength, our weakness. This will let the keys of our path stand straight and firm, with less broken paths in our life. The colors of the keys will shine bright, and not be discolored, by always thinking of ourselves last.
Our lives are as the photo of keys. We decide how we want to be played out during our brief stay here on earth. We decide if we will suffer who we are in order to not cause friction in others lives. We decide whether we want to be strong and firm, standing up for what we believe in, or do we want to be discolored and weak and broken, our days ending here on earth, with a sad heart and never-ending thoughts of what ifs.
Written by Terry Shepherd
Written for Picture it and Write Publication
https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2012/10/07/picture-it-and-write-publication/#more-1766
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Thank you very much Terry
Would it be alright to use this contribution instead of the one currently submitted for consideration? We aren’t posting the images in the publication and this one stands by itself better.
http://terry1954.wordpress.com/2012/12/23/picture-it-writeermiliablog
This submission has been reviewed.
Pingback: Picture it and write: A problem « Joe2stories
Here is my offering for today
http://joe2stories.wordpress.com/2012/10/07/picture-it-and-write-a-problem/
Enjoy
As for the publication At the moment may I offer two stories for your approval
First
The regular
I used to, for a time, work in a printing shop. It was an ok job, made enough to pay the rent. I considered it a bit of a stop-gap so I could develop my true calling, writing. You all know how that turned out so I won’t bore you any more about it.
The shop had a mixed clientèle. It was only a short distance from the college so we got a regular business of printing out theses, reports and posters for the students. I suppose that we really shouldn’t have laughed, but I have to giggle a little for the young men who’d come in on a Friday afternoon, half an hour before the deadline, with nothing but a memory stick and the hope that we’d have his work printed and bound in time. More than a few were shed across our desks on that account.
Apart from the college work we had, there was a lot of work from the local businesses. Menus, flyers, posters, often in job lots. When I started we had our own graphic designer but he was let go since anybody can do most of the work they want on a computer now but if they still need anybody I know my way around on a computer enough to help anyone that needs it with designing. It was much cheaper for the shop when I did it.
We also had our fair share of crazies that came to use our services. From the religious nuts and cranks printing out pamphlets to hand out on Main Street or at the Bus station. There was also that self-important fellow who got books of poetry bound for selling at the weekend market. Above all the regular that I looked forward to seeing had to have been Grace.
Grace was a bit of an enigma. Nobody knew what she did or what part of town she came from. None of the other regulars could place her either. It was as if she would come out of nowhere at the door of the shop and then cease to exist when she went back across the threshold. I didn’t care though, I thought she was gorgeous.
That Grace was a beauty was a popular opinion around the shop, she had that innocent, girl next door kind of look. Long auburn hair and the cutest little smile I had ever seen. Yep! it was not difficult to see what the attraction was.
Of course, in a university town, attractive young women come a dime a dozen. What really go me besotted with Grace was what she came to the shop to do. Every week or two, she’d bring in a bout a hundred sheets of A4 paper to be soft bound into a book. Over the time that I knew her, each page was different.
Most of the page was left blank but in the corner, at some part, there was always a lovely design on them. It could be anything, blue skies, stars, animals. Flowers were her favourite it seemed though, because they dominated. A seemingly infinite variety of shapes and colours, some obviously based on real life, others mockeries of botanical possibility. Moreover each page had a light scent, rose oil I think, it was similar to what Grace wore herself, as if it had rubbed off into the pages. Why she made these little books, I had no idea. I did try and broach the subject with her a few times but was always politely brushed off.
Apart from that, I had no other contact with Grace. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t occasionally think about this mystery customer. But I tried to get on with my life. Until this one time.
I was up early for work and I decided to stop in at a cafe on the Main Street to wait for Jim the manager to get in and open up. I got a coffee and sat at a table near the window so that I would have a view outside. I checked my phone and was about to take a drink when I noticed something.
On the table next to me, which looked like it had been recently vacated was a soft bound book, Just like what we made. The cover had a picture of flowers, it was one of Grace’s. I found that my sense of curiosity beat whatever right to privacy I deemed to hold. I opened the book.
Each page was filled with writing, in a smooth flowing script. It was a hodgepodge free-form assemblage of pieces of verse, quotes both famous and day to day, diary type entries and little stories. It was as if the contents of her, admittedly slightly puzzling, mind was spread over the pages. What was most interesting was that I was quite prominent in it.
23rd of June, I went to the printing shop to get my new book bound, Graham talked to me while I waited (sigh!). He did that little thing with his hands again. I find it so cute. I find him cute. I also found an ode to a book-binder and a sonnet on the plaid shirts I tend to wear. I was both intrigued, surprised and a little scared when I heard the door open and a little gasp. I put down the book to find Grace looking at me, her face rapidly reddening.
Before I could say anything, she had grabbed the book and ran out the door. I had never realised. It was a full three months before I saw her again. Cooler heads prevailed and I was able to get my apology in for reading her book. For a second I thought that that would be it. But Grace plucked up the courage to ask me what I thought of what I found. I jumped at the chance and asked her for coffee to “discuss it in detail”.
After that Grace became a much more regular visitor. Dropping in nearly every day, for a chat, show me her latest writing. When I left the printing shop it wasn’t the last I saw of Grace either, not by a long shot. We’re having our first Anniversary next weekend. It’ll be a barbeque, bring your own beer, and you’re all invited.
I suppose that I could have just told you that at the start. But I like to think you enjoyed that little story. I know I enjoyed telling it.
Which can be found at http://joe2stories.wordpress.com/2012/09/09/picture-it-and-write-the-regular/
And my second
The crossing
Janis went to the stern where Bill, her cousin, had staked out a spot to watch the wake of the ship. He had talked about how the propellers of the ship made all of the little algae and creatures light up as they are churned so that you could see a trail of ghostly light. The sun had yet to set but he was firmly placed content to wait. “You don’t see things like this every day Jan” He explained “You should have more patience”
Patience was one thing Janis had in short supply. She had used up all she had left and it had ended up on the night boat. It was hard to believe that Bill could be taking this so stoically, especially considering that she had just told him that morning. Still he didn’t quite act the same, hints that he was taking it harder than he let on. Acting coolly, for her sake.
Remembering all the times that her cousin had been there for her, Janis put her arm around Bills neck. He held her hand tenderly. “It’s going to be alright Jan. We’ll be there and back before anyone knows.” “I know!” Janis said back “I’m just a little nervous”
As if on cue a man burst out of the door behind them threw his head over the edge of the stern and started to throw up. Janis looked away from that display and into her cousins eyes. They sat there quietly as the man finished and green-faced staggered back in through the door. When the door slammed shut, they both started to laugh uncontrollably. The tension between them evaporating in a series of giggles. “He must have eaten one of those dodgy sandwiches from the canteen” said Bill, after he had caught his breath leading to them both convulsing in laughter again.
Their eyes were still glistening with laughter tears when Bill said to Janis “Jan, I’m glad you trusted me with this. I couldn’t bear the thought of you going through this alone.” Janis looked out over the increasingly dark water “I know Billy. But I have to do this. Thank you for understanding”
Bill grabbed Janis’ shoulder and turned her back to face him “You know Jan, I know some lads from the club, hard men. If you were just to give me that bastards name…” But Janis placed her hand over Bill’s mouth “I’ve told you already not to do anything like that. There will be enough hurt after this is done for you be adding to it.” She then turned back to face the sea “Besides what if they find out back home?” Bill nodded, sadly, in agreement “Still you know what that fucker is worth now, don’t you?” and then put his arm over Janis’ shoulder. Instinctively, she moved in closer to Bill, her arms lightly touching her belly, and together they stood, looking over the boiling water beneath them.
Which can be found at http://joe2stories.wordpress.com/2012/06/25/picture-it-and-write-the-crossing/
If I think of anything else I would want to submit I will add them later. You can just use JoeTwo, everyone who knows me knows my nickname.
P.S. Will this be available across the pond?
Really appreciate you following the instructions and posting them as comments with the links. I’m not caught up on reading everything, so all I can say at the moment is thanks!
Sorry, just now getting to actually go through these. Yes. It will be available on Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords.
This submission has been reviewed.
This is a great idea! I haven’t done that many, but you’re welcome to what I have done:
The Simplicity of Snowflakes
http://febuary2011.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/796/
Nationals
http://febuary2011.wordpress.com/2012/01/08/nationals/
Dark Lands and Evil Plans
http://febuary2011.wordpress.com/2012/02/19/dark-lands-and-evil-plans/
Thanks Tanitha. You’re more than welcome to go back and find others if you would like to contribute to the archives.
I know this is stupidly last-minuite, but I though that I might as well use up all four spaces:
Her Final Dance
http://febuary2011.wordpress.com/2012/07/04/her-final-dance/
Also, if I did get in, I’d like to be Tanitha Smith🙂 Thank you!
Wow, just wow. I’m glad I took a second look from the top to make sure I didn’t overlook any.
-Eliabeth
This submission has been reviewed.
Pingback: Picture it & write – Broken Keys « ABC of Spirit Talk
http://abcofspiritalk.wordpress.com/2012/10/08/picture-it-write-broken-keys/
From the archives: I couldn’t resist this one; I looked and was hooked; it ‘instantly’ spoke to me. (What a great prompt!)
I’m not being inspired to ask that it be included for consideration in your wonderful offer; and I hope to get to this week’s prompt toward the end of the week (time being kind). Thanks again… 🙂
“I’m not being inspired to ask that it be included for consideration/”
Does that mean you do not want it included?
Yes, that’s what I mean…. Thanks… 🙂
Alrighty then🙂 it is not being considered.
Here we go:
*Spider > http://cenicitas.com/2012/02/27/spider/
*Blind > http://cenicitas.com/2012/09/16/blind/
*Contortionist > http://cenicitas.com/2012/10/01/contortionist/
And I’m not Anonymous, please. I’m Nanda Fogli, if I get picked, haha.❤
Thanks Nanda.
This submission has been reviewed.
Fantastic idea! It’s exciting to potentially be part of a project going toward such a great cause. If chosen, I would love to have my name used. It eats a bit of screen space but here are two of my entries for consideration: (Fingers Crossed!)
Golem Tree
A dozen men stood fanned out in the grass on the hill looking down into the sandy basin that harbored the tree. They were like statues. Grotesque granite forms anchored to the earth by deep roots of twisted faith. Like hellish gnomes in a garden far, far removed from Eden. Anticipation hung lazily over quivering smiles and wide, dry eyes barely noticeable in the low light of the dreary bog.
The tree itself, to the common eye, was insignificant; little more than an oddly placed tree in the sand. Closer inspection betrayed bits of cloth torn from a hundred flags, faded and lost in a century or more of harsh, acrid fog caressing proud pageantry into a soupy, uniform gray.
The thick boughs strained under the memory of weight, a thousand hangings, the nooses of which, still hang, brushing the ground in slight circles at the very threat of wind.
“To what end have you come here? What would you ask of the Golem Tree?” the voice bubbled up from the surrounding mire, ethereal and gaunt yet booming and gurgled as if erupting from underwater. The heavy stench of sulfur and ancient decay swept over the gravel ring, the tree shuddering in the breeze.
***
“There is nothing to be done Lyle.”
“Rubbish.” Was his response.
He was already a man by his own standards and by that of his elders. Lyle was sharp, and inquisitive. Features that would be greatly valued in his father’s line of work. At least they would have been, if his weren’t sick.
Nothing happened in River Crook by accident. It was far too bizarre a place for that and his father’s sickness had swept over him in wake of his refusal to service to the local lord, once again.
Lyle looked to his brother and raised a pointed finger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Win.” He regarded Lyle’s accusing finger for a moment before batting at it and pushing past him and out the door.
The air was a lot different out there.
The spring air was sweet, and the scent of smoking meat that hung low over the village compounded into a pleasant blend of aromas that stole their attentions even from their father and the putrid haze that had developed within their cabin.
“What is that Lyle? This is like, the second day someone has been pit cooking something. Why don’t we go see what we can find?”
“We can’t.” Lyle whispered through gritted teeth. “We can’t leave dad.”
“Oh come on,” his brother teased “He sleeps all day. He won’t notice while go check it out. Real quick.”
“Real quick?” Lyle relaxed.
“Yeah.”
Lyle looked back at the shack. Even the outside had become oppressive. Their childhood home had taken on an angry, squat look. It was no more built upon the ground but rather sunk into it. The disease was corrupting not only their father but the very earth he rest upon, oozing into the dirt like a nasty boil let loose.
“Alright.” He said. “But just for a minute.”
***
“Understanding.” Lyle had given up looking around for the voice. It was a hopeless errand. No matter where he focused it never changed. It was omnipresent. It was everywhere. It seeped into the cracks of his mind and nestled there somewhere in the dark corners. The shadowy recesses where only the most animal desires hide.
The silence considered the question.
“A vague question yields a vague answer.” It boomed. “The answer to understanding yields two fold in new questions.”
The ring of men had grown smaller, tighter to the perimeter of the sand, each as grim and stony before. Truthfully, Lyle hadn’t even seen them move, like specters hovering just beyond the periphery.
“Then I should be more specific. I want to know about the fires.”
If it were true, if it were possible, the tree began to smile.
***
The smoke was impressive to say the least. Until the pair had walked out of the comfortable limits of the town there was nothing to suggest that the fires and accompanying smoke was anything more than fire pits; great depressions dug and spitted to facilitate the cooking of whole animals. But these were not that. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
A half mile toward the western bank of the river, nestled neatly into a clearing in the woods, was the first pyre. They would never see the rest.
The open space was decidedly unnatural. The clearing was punctuated by stumps every several yards. Several had crude, ugly axes lodged unceremoniously into the tops and sides and everywhere an uncomfortable carpet of splinters saturated the ground.
The air above them, as they broke through the tree line, was immediately changed. It was darker. Darker then smoke alone could have made it. It was hot and thick and sour. Breathing made their throats burn and threatened to induce vomiting with every step.
They stumbled and gagged their way close enough to get a clearer view of the great pyre. It was huge. It stretched higher then they had imagined, higher than any of the buildings in town. Higher then the walls of any castle. It was a burning tower of flesh and bone.
Of friends and family.
***
“The man told me there was a way to save them. He said there was a trade?”
The ring had slipped within the circle of sand now. The grim faces lined the tree like gargoyles. As the boy spoke they began to speak, to whisper. “A trade. Yes. Make it, make it. The trade”
“That you would give me my brother back.”
“The trade. Make the trade.”
The tree rustled and the whispering grew quiet. “Perhaps. You know what it is I want. You know what I require.” It burbled from everywhere around him. The stony faces grew closer, robes whipping around in a sudden, fierce wind.
“I don’t care about those people anymore. I’ve lost enough.” Lyle stepped closer to the tree. As he did the thing shuddered and started to draw itself up, to grow in size. “The trade. Make the trade.”
The sound of tortured wood filled the bog as it splintered around the base, wrestling itself free of the sand around it. The base tipped back exposing a gnarled collection of roots, dirt and old bones and metal.
An arm burst forth from the dirt and roots peppering him with chunks of earth and mud. It brushed the side of his face like a loving mother might to a child. The skin was soft and cold.
Lyle stared at it, head back. His head throbbed, that sweet, sweet smell came rushing back. He swallowed hard, the press of a stone face at his back. He took a deep breath, anger swelling in his chest. His lip curled, tears began to well up in his eyes. He answered the tree.
“Do it.”
The link: http://greenfoxpress.com/2012/08/19/scrawling-a-bit-of-fiction-iii/
The Shortcut
The shoulder of the highway was where the two boys stopped. A lonely howl swam through the air around them, drifting over tree tops, across the road and into somewhere beyond.
“I don’t like the sound of that.” said the first. He pulled the straps on his backpack tighter.
“Me neither.” said the second. “It’s getting dark. And it’s time for dinner already.”
A pair of headlights drifted around the corner and floated past them, a white mechanical steed ushering someone else toward home.
“We could take a shortcut.”
“You don’t know any shortcuts.” said the first.
“Of course I do. I know these woods like the back of my hand.” And with that, the second burst into the treeline, the sound of wood dragging against cordura echoing out behind him.
The first shook his head as he debated following after. “Someone could get hurt.” he called. There was no response. As usual. He hesitated a moment. Then followed after.
The trees were easy to make out at least. The glow of the moon lent a cool, blue hue to everything around them. He found his companion waiting.
The two followed a dirt path that twisted around the silent pines, and crossing an old stone bridge before climbing up the hill that betrayed that this was the way home. Ahead the town lights painted the november clouds a rusty orange that stood out harshly in the night.
“Come on.” The second boy urged from the crest of the hill.
The first lumbered up after him. He could see why his companion had stopped. The hill fell steeply into a depression littered with stones and broken bits of branches.
Now there were all sorts of things he thought about saying.
“Can we actually climb down there?” was the first thought.
“Can we go around?” was a close second.
But as the second boy pushed him over the edge he lost that train of thought. Surprise, surprisingly rushed in and took over. Not anger or even truly fear. Nothing but pure, unrestrained surprise. His thoughts scattered from there.
As his leg was caught, briefly between two stones, he considered calling for help. But as the force of his tumble broke the ankle, freeing his foot from its temporary hold, that train departed as well.
When he finally came to a crashing stop in the center of the cluttered depression, he realized that there are in fact, no branches littered about and confirmed to himself that yes, he was just shoved down here.
“You pushed me.” he said as he strained to sit up. The action highlighted the injury to his foot and pain forced him to lay still. “It’s broken. I know it, it hurts. Why did you do that?” the first shouted through freshly welling tears.
“Why?” the second looked genuinely confused. That’s when the first noticed they weren’t alone. Beside his former companion, at waist height, a pair of amber eyes. And now that he could see them, they were everywhere.
Four, eight, sixteen, more.
“I told you.” said the second. “It’s time for dinner.”
The link: http://greenfoxpress.com/2012/05/08/scrawling-a-bit-of-fiction/
Thanks, I don’t mind it taking up space. It’s much easier to keep track of everything when it’s all in one place. Thank you very much for including the full text and links.
This submission has been reviewed.
Ominous.
Well, it’s not just up to Ermi and I. We’re doing this right and sending it to a professional editor, so we won’t know what made the final cut yet.🙂
Pingback: Good Gravy | Anne Schilde
My piece for this week:
http://febuary2011.wordpress.com/2012/10/09/hungry/
This submission was not reviewed as part of this publication as it was not specified it should be.
I’m sorry, I don’t understand?🙂
Deanna sat on the edge of the hard, straight-backed chair, her short fingernails digging into the wood underneath as she gripped the seat. She kept her eyes locked on the cup in front of her, watching the red liquid swirl in the small porcelain mug. The queen sat across from her, black orbs dancing with delight at the girl’s discomfort. Her cruel lips curled in amusement. Deanna blinked and met the hard stare. Straightening her shoulders, she told herself to be brave. Her fingers curled around the small handle, lifting the deadly liquid to her lips. Her fear faded as she drank.
https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2011/12/04/__picture-it-write-12/#comment-5936
Name: Samantha Warren
Author of: Vampire Assassin, Blood of the Dragon, The Seven Keys of Alaesha
Note to self to double check that I reviewed this submission.
This submission has been reviewed.
What a great cause!🙂
And, thank you so much for the opportunity. I’d love it if my name and blog were included.
http://discoveriesinaletterbox.wordpress.com/2012/09/16/the-witchs-trial/
The Witch’s Trial
By Anna Nymus
It had been created especially for her when she had come of the age to actively enter the world of magic. The years had not changed it one bit. An ever pristine mirror that held truths and power she had defiantly dared to dream of, it was the bridge and barrier to the apex of her strength.
She had been a Practicing Witch for over 6 years now and she knew the day had arrived; she would be tested as a witch and a person, to be sure power was not falling into the wrong hands.
She could allow no one in her company while she faced this ancient rite of passage. Anything else could cause the spell to go awry. If she failed, she would not be remembered. That was one of the merciful magics of the mirror- no one in her Circle would have to be heartbroken or miss her.
She held it up before her, feeling her pulse make erratic jumps. The cold metallic frame lent steadiness to her fingers. Suddenly, she felt something seize her mind. Questions and thoughts were eerily voiced by the mirror. She responded, quick and honest. There was no jarring red light which she had been told to expect in the event of an unsatisfying answer. No, she was passing with a beautiful monochrome of colours.
She twisted her hands tighter around the edges, staring deeper into its preternatural reflections with every passing second. Memories of her ancestors began to flit across the glass and into her soul. In a matter of minutes she knew how to tame a Chimaera, how to teleport back and forth from far ends of the universe, and how it felt to carry the weight of the world in the event of an impending Apocalypse. In that long, drawn out instant, she Knew.
Power surged into her fingertips as she struggled to hold onto the mirror, feeling the fire that burned so many sisters who came before her. She knew the second she released it, the transfer would cease, and she could never hope to gain more from its swirling depths. Despite the pain, she gripped it closer; she could feel the victorious end creeping not too far away.
Signed,
The Invisible Invigilator
http://discoveriesinaletterbox.wordpress.com/2012/09/02/a-new-mask/
A New Mask
By Anna Nymus
In his case, the step off the ledge was a bullet, soon to be embedded in his brain. Torn between wanting to live this life and leave it, he knew that whichever side he chose, the other side would lurk.
Day and night, he wore a mask of light, although the darkness was as much a part of him as the other. The shadows that played in the dark sometimes too closely resembled the rays of light, until he was left not knowing which were his reasons to stay.
To shed the mask, he searched for a way. But, was forced to explain himself at every turn- the whys and hows of his behaviour. Though he hurt no one, no one but himself.
He hesitantly put away the trigger and summoned his demons. They stared him in the face as he gave them a good hard look. They weren’t a danger to him as long as he watched them, he realised. And he knew there was only one way they would never leave his sight. After a long thought, he decided they would make up his new mask.
They would be his shield and his strength. There would be no more expectation of light, and if it did sneak in, he would enjoy it. But, for now he’d enjoy the dark. It meant something different to him than to others, he finally admitted.
After that, he never saw another day. Only the night. And something about it just felt right.
Signed,
A Fellow Goth
http://discoveriesinaletterbox.wordpress.com/2012/07/22/the-day-she-turned-away-from-the-mirror35-picture-it-and-write/
The Day She Turned Away From The Mirror
By Anna Nymus
Her eyes were critics and her feet were still,
Far too long had she suppressed her will
To fulfill the idea and not the real thing;
She had been the kite, now she was the string.
The day came when the wind suddenly grew severe
And she swept across the daunting frontier,
Free from all manner of flamboyant expectation,
Knowing she wasn’t built for long-standing pretension.
The glass could still see her, but she paid no mind
Staring into its depths can make a person go blind
Despite being no danger in looking through lens,
Fixated on the self, they are no longer friends.
It was the moment to explore the ‘maybes’;
With the timely help of a buoyant breeze
She breathed fresh beauty into the strains of her soul
And so, a dancing diamond grew from a clouded coal.
Signed,
A Pictorial Poet
Thank you Anna for contributing and following the directions. It’s much appreciated. I’m very excited by the interest we’ve had thus far.
This submission has been reviewed.
Hi there lovely ones,
http://oreshmemoirs.com/?p=130
Written by Lee-Anne
The bottle sat on the table in front of me, sweet pink and gold. “Trust, bottle 76” the words went round and round in my head. There was an energy there, a shimmering, love and wisdom and small spots of something hiding in the shimmer. As I focused, closer and closer, the spots became shapes, four shapes, moving out of the line between the two levels of the bottle. Words whispered in my head, the world spun, the person opposite me disappeared and I fell into Trust.
There the gold was liquid desert, the sky pink above me. Walking towards me was my husband, my pet dog Rodriguez, my Mum and Sam, my best friend from high school. The shimmered out of the pink sky and stood by my side. Tears flowed, trust, they whispered. We are here, loving you, guiding you and bringing you safely home. The colours are the key.
Self love, self worth, let go of the guilt. Allow the love to fall around you. Feel how complete you become when the love falls around you. Be gentle with yourself. Give you time. The girl sitting opposite you needs to hear that her daughter is okay. The image on the screen was caused by a bug in the imaging system. Her baby will be born fine and healthy. She will sing, just as her mother does, and dance too. Trust.
Golden wisdom lights your path. Choose to walk knowing your every step is guided. Abundant wisdom surrounds you. Draw from the deep well of wisdom within the very centre of your being, draw from there, know the inner wisdom of you is enough. Trust.
They hugged me and I hugged them right back. Tears coursed down my face. Suddenly the warm, liquid sand was gone, the sky was overhead lighting in the long hall and the bottle sat in front of me. The young girl opposite was in tears, her head in her hands as she sobbed.
“Thank you,” she said, “just to know the baby will be okay is enough. To know she will dance and sing, is more than I could have hoped for.”
She stood to go, paid across her money and handed me a card, her business card. I sat, stunned, not knowing what had happened. Had she been transported into the bottle with me? Had I spoken out loud all that was being said? What had just happened? I didn’t ask, I just sat. Then I looked at the card, the girl was a famous singer and dancer, world famous.
All I could think was I should have got her autograph. The bottle glowed gently on the table, pink and gold, shimmering and benign. The queue in front of me grew, one by one the readings continued, bottle after bottle, falling into colour, falling out of colour, remembering nothing.
http://oreshmemoirs.com/?p=134
Fire on Fingers
Ancient memories stirred within my heart. The world blurred and ran like colours in the rain. Deep within I felt the call of the universe, I felt it burn and coil through my being. Suddenly, without warning, the fire leapt to my fingertips as it scorched through my being called there by some ancient connection to a long lost world.
“Uriel, my fire”, the words whispered through my veins. “Uriel, it is time to remember.”
My cloak fell away as wings sprouted from my spine. Before me the world shrank away, beneath me the soil glowed as fire engulfed my being.
People shrank away from me, the heavens opened above connected with Earth through the pillar of fire I had become. With a mighty heave I lifted away from Earth and rejoined the light.
“Home,” sighed my being.
“Uriel,” whispered the light.
“Uriel,” shouted the masses.
“I am Uriel, Fire of God, and these are my memories. You are my chosen channel to write my words.” The words flow from angel to me.
As I type the fire floods through my veins and lights my keyboard. As it burns my resistance away I feel the power of Uriel merge with my own small being.
What am I? Who am I? What am I becoming??
Lee-Anne
11th December 2011
From Picture it & Write 11th December 2011.
Just saw this! Ignore my earlier comment, just wanted to make sure you got everything submitted that you wanted considered.
This submission has been reviewed.
Pingback: Scrawling a Bit of Fiction V « The Green Fox Press
Pingback: __picture it & write « ermiliablog
Pingback: __picture it & write « ermiliablog
Ok, it took me awhile to do this. I wanted something to represent the strength of girls and women everywhere. Here are my thoughts, chosen for the publication or not, it was fun to do.
http://musingsfromtheturnippatch.wordpress.com/2012/10/24/girls-can-fly/
Thanks for your submission🙂
If chosen, do you want to be Anonymous, Swirling Turnip, or a different name?
Short and sweet is this one………
Come for dinner this Sunday
I will cook us up a feast
Potatoes, peas and carrots
A slice or two of beef
I’m sorry Mum I can’t
Oh why? My dear mum said
Mum, I tell you every week
I can’t eat something dead
Sharryann (Gemini)
….A longer version was required I think….
Come for dinner this Sunday
I will cook us up a feast
Potatoes, peas and carrots
A slice or two of beef
I’m sorry Mum I can’t
Oh why? My dear mum said
Mum, I tell you every week
I can’t eat something dead
You can’t eat something dead?
Don’t be silly dear
If it was still alive
Mooing we would hear!
Anyway my love
All you eat is dead
The flour when it’s ground
Is dead in your bread
It started as a seed
As alive as you and me
So don’t be silly dear
And eat the beef for me
Sharryann (Gemini)
Thank you, Sharryann (Gemini). Just to clarify, would you like this considered for the publication, or is this just for the blog? Also, which name (or both) do you want credited?
Hi Ermilia,
It would be great if it could be considered for the publication. Could you please just use Gemini for my name as I don’t reveal my name on my blogs. Thank you..
This submission has been reviewed.
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Pingback: Picture it & Write « ermiliablog
Pingback: __picture it & write « ermiliablog
Hi there! I read on the book of face that you are already starting editing your collection. If it is not too late I would like to include the following two pieces
The History at our feet
All rocks tell a story. That’s what Professor Kelly would tell us during freshman geology lectures. I supposed we understood what he meant, in theory. But I didn’t really grasp what he was on about until we went on our third year field-trip, all the way to Tenerife, in the Canary islands.
We had all gone, figuring the three days we were going to spend actually in the field were worth the four we were going to spend on the beach and in the clubs. The first place we visited was a large mountain by the name of El Tiede, it was a Decade volcano, one to watch.
Prof. Kelly was in his element, pointing at the various rocks and formations asking us to identify what they were. “That black stuff over there, what is it?” “Basalt Professor!” “And the grey material there?” “Compacted ash!” “And this porous rock here?” “Pumice stone Professor!”
In time, we reached a ledge about half way up the volcano. There Professor Kelly bade us to stop and look out over the vista. “Remember I told you that rocks tell you a story? Tell the story of here.”
Julie, the swot started by pointing out a long streak of black going into the distance “Basalt flow! Lava eruption, slow flowing!” Prof. Kelly nodded approvingly “And what about the yellow-white region beside it?” I ventured “Pumice stone, Pyroclastic flow, fast flowing.” “Not bad Joe! Can you see anything else?” I looked, puzzled at the whitish expanse. Then something came to me “The pumice crosses over the Basalt! The pyroclastic flow happened after the lava eruption!”
“Very good!” Prof. Kelly Answered “Notice how the rest of the plain had a grey colour, what does that tell us?” Julie again “That there had been ash fall there before that!” He grinned “Exactly! So now you can see that there is a basic story here. But the rocks can tell us more! Follow me!”
We hiked back down the mountain. With the professor regaling us with how we could derive the age, and the origin of the rocks through stratigraphy and isotope analysis. “If you’re lucky” he said as he approached a small hole on the brush-filled plain, “Then you can find even smaller, almost personal tales. Look at this” We all approached the hole and looked in.
Down there was a collection of rocks, forming a square, like the foundations of a house. They looked blackened. Professor Kelly’s voice became quieter, “The rocks tell us a story. It can tell us some of their story. The ash had been falling here for millions of years, but they didn’t know that. They only knew that this place was fertile, the perfect spot to grow crops. The first eruption happened in the spring, red-hot lava travelled down the edge of the volcano, slow but unstoppable. By the miracles of topography it missed this house and they must have thanked god that they had been spared. But it was only the beginning. Five months later the volcano erupted again. Much more violently than the first time.” He pointed at the ledge we had looked out from. “A whole side of the mountain had blasted off forming a flow of millions of tons of superheated ash and rubble, travelling at over four hundred miles an hour. Straight down here.” He looked again into the hole “They must have just had time to get into their house before the flow. It would have done them no good. The roof would have smashed in in an instant. This place was found by a man digging a well nearly twenty years ago. Right there they found what might have been a meal, bread, burned to charcoal and beside it some charred bones, of at least two people. The rocks tell us their story. And what they tell us might help and prevent scenes like this happening again.”
That last line hit us like a ton of bricks. The science, the art of geology became more real, more immense then it had ever been before. All rocks tell a story. That is a line that I have kept with me ever since. And is what I tell my own students, so many years later. As I show them the history at our feet.
The link for that is http://joe2stories.wordpress.com/2012/01/29/picture-it-and-write-the-history-at-our-feet/
And the second
The offering
She had drawn the short straw, it was her turn to go into the mountains. Her friends and family had feasted and toasted to her success but they had left her at the start of the forest. It was only her now, she had to do this, alone. Her red dress, filled with symbolism and her basket, weighed down, swayed as she moved nervously through the trail. Up higher into the mountain, into their domain.
The forest got darker and the air more foreboding as the trail wound through the tall trees. Every now and then she could see movement in the trees, just beyond the limits of her vision, she was being watched.
As if from nowhere there it was, right in front of her, a giant wolf. It’s massive paws threading the ground, as if in waiting. It eyes, deep yellow, looking straight into hers. It knew why she was here. She steeled herself and said the words that she had been taught. She then reached into the basket and removed a lump covered in red-streaked paper, opening it to reveal the bloody, still warm, lambs liver. The wolf started to salivate as she approached, speaking the words and holding the liver in her outstretched hand. She wanted to drop it and run, but that was not how things worked. Her hand reached right to the wolf’s muzzle and it gently took in its jaws. She gingerly took her hand back and the piece of flesh disappeared into the beast’s mouth without so much as a chew. She then finished the words and the wolf responded with a howl. It was finished.
She turned to pick up the now empty basket and looked back to find the trail again empty. Her heart was still beating furiously as she set back down the trail, to the village and to her family to tell them the news. That the offering had been accepted, that they were safe again, for a while.
With the link http://joe2stories.wordpress.com/2012/01/22/picture-it-and-write-the-offering/
I hope you will consider them favourably!🙂
Joe
Not too late! That’s why I posted it on the book of face. I want to make sure everyone has a chance to get their submissions in.
Pingback: Picture it and Write « ermiliablog
http://mythoughtsonthesubjectareasfollows.wordpress.com/2012/11/24/simple-night/ Enjoy! Name: Deana Burson Thanks for the opportunity!
Thanks Deana.
-Eliabeth
Deana, I love this piece as a normal contribution, but it’s borderline. I messaged Ermi to get her input, but I’m trying to keep the Publication appropriate for all readers. If there’s another writing sample you would like to have included for consideration, that might be better.
-Eliabeth
I understand! This is one that Ermilia asked me to contribute. If you read the comments you will see. Im sorry if I crossed a line. I know its borderline, so I do understand. This isnt the only one I have entered.
D
I just found your other one. You’re golden. You didn’t cross a line and it might even have been me who asked you to contribute it, but with recent concerns regarding some of the contributions, I wanted to err on the side of caution. Please continue to write as you are inspired.
-Eliabeth
I will! I enjoy this prompt, and I understand the concern.. Thanks!
This submission has been reviewed.
Ok Ok! I know that I have already submitted four. But Eliabeth specifically requested this one
How Much
“How much will you miss me?” That last question came suddenly, as if out of the blue. I was still reeling from what she had told me. A year is a long time for a six year old, I had only known her a year. We had the whole of Junior Infants and a gloriously long summer together. Now she was going, that very Friday. I had no idea what a placement was or why it was temporary. I just knew she was going. We were sitting on the dock, her red hair flowing over the wooden boards, throwing stones and watching the ripples. She lifted her head and looked at me, expecting a response. “I will miss you a lot!” I said, “You are my best friend. You are fun to be around. I always have a good time with you. I will miss you loads!” She jumped on me, giving me a great bear-hug. “Good answer!” She squealed, “I will miss you loads too!”
“How much do you like me?” I had dreaded that question. We had known each other since we were children. Been as inseparable as any friends could be. But lately things had started to change. At thirteen I was beginning to notice different things about her, things I couldn’t believe I had missed before. It didn’t help that she had taken to wearing dresses during that summer, dresses that showed far too much for me to cope with. I had been struggling to think of something to say for a while now, afraid that I would ruin what we had. But I was on the spot now and I had to speak. I went through everything I had practised. “I, I , I, think you’re cool! I think you’re smart and, and, funny! I really like you, a lot!” She smiled, grabbed my hand, and gave me a kiss, short but sweet, on the lips. When I opened my eyes. She was staring right at me, grinning like a maniac. I felt my face redden too. I needn’t have worried. It was a good answer.
“How much do you love me?” She said it softly, her hand caressing my back underneath the silken sheets. We had just made love and were enjoying the feel and scent of each other. It was a perfect moment, A wonderful end to a graduation day. “I love you more than life itself.” I said “You are the woman that I have been searching for my entire life, I feel blessed that I found you so early. You are my soul-mate, you make me whole, complete me. No words can describe how much you mean to me and how much I love you!” He felt her arms pull tighter around him, pulling him closer. She sighed contentedly, it was a good answer. I remembered my tuxedo. The small box in the inside pocket. I was waiting for the perfect moment to ask her. I decided to do it then.
“How much do you hate me?” She said through sobs and tears. The obstetrician had just stepped out, giving us time to digest the news. I held her hand, tightly. “I do not hate you!” I said through my own tears “You are my wife and I love you. You have given me a daughter and a son who I love dearly. This, This just happened. It was no one’s fault. I do not hate you, I cannot hate you. You mean too much to me!” She pulled my hand up to her face and kissed it, her tears dripping onto my skin. It was a good answer, it was all I could say. I didn’t move or say anything else. I just sat there, helping her in grief.
“How much do you care for me?” I looked at her over the rim of my glasses. She looked as good as she did when I married here, even with a little grey. I couldn’t believe that it had been twenty five years. We were setting out decorations for our anniversary party. Geoff, our oldest, had just gone out to get some more snacks and we were awaiting the arrival of Sam, our daughter. Sam said she had an announcement for us. We had already kind of figured it out but we kept silent so as not to ruin the surprise. I sweeped her up in my arms and said “I care for you more than anything else. You are my wife and the mother of my children. We have had good times and bad times but I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it. I love you, more than I ever have!” She looked at me, smiling, “Good answer!” she said and gave me a pick on the cheek. She then walked back to the table, doing that thing with her hips that still made by blood run red! “She’s still got it” I thought.
“How much will you miss me?” She said it frailly, barely audible over the noises of the hospital. I held her hand, gently so as not to do damage. She had been getting so weak. I leaned in close and said softly “I will miss you more than anything I have ever missed before. You completed me and without you I am only half of what I was. We have known each other our entire lives and have shared everything. I will be lost without you but I know that we will see each other again.” I then remembered a little piece of our childhood and finished with “I’ll miss you loads!” I waited for her to say something else but there was nothing, not even the sound of her breath. I held her hand, waiting, until the day turned to night and her hand felt cold. I never knew if it was a good answer.
And the link is http://joe2stories.wordpress.com/2012/11/25/picture-it-and-write-how-much/
And you use Joetwo as my name OK?
Oh my god, this is so damn good. So good I ache after reading it. So good I cry as I type. Geez… superlatives aside, this is amazing. You have given us death, and love, and life, and all those things so important in one short piece of writing. Breathtaking!
Exactly. I read it and I knew I just had to have it officially submitted. I’ll fight Ermi over this if I have to lol, but I think she’ll agree.
As a character I’m fond of writing would remark. “Rules and the majority of laws were made to be broken!”
Joetwo – capturing all from life to death – young love to old, beautifully written.
It is a popular one!
This submission has been reviewed.
Hi I’d like this to be considered for the Picture it & Write Publication. I realize it sends a positive message and whether it be included or not, I thank you for the opportunity and the inspirational photos.
http://theeclecticeccentricshopaholic.wordpress.com/2012/11/25/picture-it-and-write-ii/
I wouldn’t mind it being named under KZ and my blog The Eclectic Eccentric Shopaholic
thank you🙂
Thanks KZ
This submission has been reviewed.
Pingback: Writing Challenge: Picture it & Write II « The Eclectic Eccentric Shopaholic
Strawberry curls flying in the wind…
Ring of daises ’round her lovely hair…
As she ran barefooted on emerald grass,
Her laughter filled the soft spring air.
White cotton dress blown by the breeze,
A little girl hiding behind the trees…
A yellow butterfly came in sight,
And her amethyst eyes shone with delight.
On the front porch she awakes from slumber,
Reality creeps in and she’d soon remember…
Those were but mem’ries of days long gone
Eaten by the cancer that brought her down.
Tears filled her pale violet eyes ,
No longer a brilliant purple shade,
Along her hollow cheeks, a steady cascade…
Rosy tresses fell and shorn,
In its place, a ‘kerchief worn.
All beauty was lost, she thought,
All that’s left, a bittersweet dream…
Eternal oblivion she sought.
But a warm hand covered her cold frail one,
With love, gentle lavender eyes shone.
No longer tiny, a li’l more of a lady,
Was the little girl in her dream…
‘twas at that moment that she understood,
Golden locks were not her crowning glory,
But her loving and caring family…
Circles ‘round her eyes, hair cropped and trimmed,
She’s more beautiful now than she had ever been.
– kz
http://theeclecticeccentricshopaholic.wordpress.com/
thanks ^^
Thanks kz
This submission has been reviewed.
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http://mythoughtsonthesubjectareasfollows.wordpress.com/2012/12/09/imaginary-dreams/ my 2nd entry! Thanks
Got it, thanks!
This submission has been reviewed.
Hi! I absolutely love your blog.
I would like to contribute to the Picture it & Write Publication: Here are my three entries:
In Hope: http://tjoetsie.wordpress.com/2012/12/14/in-hope/
Sally Sings the Songs: http://tjoetsie.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/picture-it-and-write-2/
Red Fibers of her Being: http://tjoetsie.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/picture-it-and-write/
Thanks for all of the inspiration and for encouraging me to write.
If chosen, do you want to have a name included or be published anonymously?
I’d like to have my name published, please. Thanks.
If I am chosen I would like my name, Lee-Anne, used🙂 Thank you for the chance and I’m glad you found my offerings because I totally missed the first note you sent asking for them lol
This submission has been reviewed, but I don’t have a name for you. If chosen, we’ll use “Korea, Love and Longing” unless you reply before it goes to an editor.
Hi! I am Helena Lorimer.
Thanks!
Pingback: Dancing in the leaves « MY THOUGHTS ON THE SUBJECT ARE AS FOLLOWS
Now for a third! Again, would love to be named if chosen.
It had only been an hour since Mickey died and things just weren’t going well. Here she was struggling to pick her limbs up, straining muscles in her neck and back. At least she thought she was. She couldn’t quite remember what strain felt like, her ghostly form being free from physical limitations.
Death stood beside her clicking his tongue.
“Stop it.” She said.
“Sorry.” The clock, clock, clock noise ceased at once allowing the hum of the forest to return to the foreground.
Mickey’s body had slumped forward and fallen, face first, into a pile of soggy leaves. Why was she out here again? What had she been doing?
“I’m really sorry about this.”
“Shut up.” Mickey didn’t even give him a glance.
Death rubbed his neck with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his scythe.
Mickey sat in her own lap again. The skin was solid allowing her incorporeal form no purchase on her insides. The comforting enclosure of flesh and bone and blood was gone. She glared at Death.
“This is all your fault.”
“I know. I said I was sorry.”
The two just stared at each other for a long moment until Mickey forgot what she had been so angry about. Why was she wearing a dress? She put her thumb to her lip and nibbled at the end. She couldn’t even bite her nail. It wasn’t there anymore, not really.
Death put his hand on her shoulder. He let the scythe dangle down at his side.
“You looked beautiful in that dress Mickey. I’m glad you wore it. It was my favorite. Very thoughtful of you. I only wish you could have made it a little further. See, I set a picnic basket up about a hundred yards from here. One hundred thirty seven to be exact. I really thought we had something great going on. Now you’re dead. I wish I could explain it.”
He gave her a gentle push on the small of her back. Instinctively she started walking. Who was this man? What was he talking about? Who was that girl laying on the ground?
“I’ve been looking for love for I can’t tell you how long. For some reason as soon as I start to get close to someone. And I mean really close to someone they…expire.”
They stopped passing trees. Or more accurately the trees ceased to be melting away into a muddy mixture of earthy colors that puddle behind them. It was like the world had been submerged in a mud bath and she was looking in from the outside. All around her white empty space stretched out into infinity. It was calm. Warm.
“I think we were on the verge of something great Mickey. But I guess that doesn’t matter much anymore.”
Death repositioned himself in front of her wielding the scythe in both hands now.
“I’m so very sorry.” He said.
He hefted the scythe above his head.
“Find peace in this place, Mickey Edgerton. May you find whatever sort of paradise it is that you are expecting.”
He clenched the handles and brought it down. The edge was so fine that it cut reality itself as it passed through the air, allowing not even specks of dust or air opportunity to flee from the cutting edge that pierced the fabric of the universe.
“Wait.” Mickey whispered. Death’s supernatural reflexes paused the reaping tool inches from her throat. A flicker of recognition danced across her face and she frowned and knit her brow. She licked her lips before speaking again.
“Worst. Date. Ever.”
http://greenfoxpress.com/2013/01/05/scrawling-a-bit-of-fiction-however-many-were-on/
Caught up through this submission.😀
This submission has been reviewed.
I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and I’d really love to submit my contributions but I have no idea what to submit! I’ve done so many Picture it & Write… I’m too lazy to read them all again xP So I don’t know, but I’d really love to get included in this. Maybe later this month, I’d leave a few links, well four max, since the deadline is in February.
Just letting you know already. And if ever one of my work gets chosen, here’s my author’s name: D. Judy
Thanks!
My submission!
Original PW: https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2012/12/23/picture-it-andwrite-2/
Contribution:
So this is Christmas…
But what have you done?
That night I saw an angel fall from the sky. Her golden hair gradually lost its shine as she reached the ground. Her beautiful white gown was stained with dirt. I could not see her eyes or her face, but I knew that she was the loveliest thing that could ever exist on Earth. She looked so fragile and innocent.
So why? Why did you send her away from your kingdom up among the clouds and stars?
I was there. I saw the red petals falling like rain onto her body. It looked like a shower of blood. What has she done? What is her story?
I did not know what to do, but as a honourable man I felt it was the natural thing to go and help. I slowly walked towards her. She was immobile. Was she even breathing? I bent down and, with a trembling hand, I touched her blond locks.
She moved.
She sat up and looked up at the sky. Then she looked at me.
I held my breath as she stared straight into my eyes and through my soul. Her eyes were like the infinite ocean and her skin was as fair and soft as a baby. Her voice was melodious, though a little broken as if it has been far too long since she had last uttered a word.
“Where am I?” she asked.
I opened my mouth and answered her with much effort. “In the forest of Azelga.”
She stood up and looked around. I straightened up as well. “Who are you, fair lady? Are you an angel?”
The creature turned to me and smiled. She started to go round in circles and lifted her hands up in the air. Red petals fell even more onto her and her only. She laughed as if I had asked her a stupid question.
This time when she spoke, it echoed everywhere. “Why do you say so?”
Then, something strange happened. The petals began to form a tornado around her; I could not see her anymore.
And it started to rain. For real. The water felt heavy upon my body. Soon, the red petals joined.
But as the petals touched me, they became blood.
Real dark blood.
I screamed but no sound came out of my mouth. The red substance covered my hair, my eyes, my skin. I could not move. I fell down. I could only smell the rusty odour of blood.
To my horror, my skin started to peel off. It burnt.
“Merry Christmas,” the angelic voice cried out.
And she watched as I drowned in my own blood.
Thanks! Do you want to be noted as Evil Nymph as the author if it makes it into the publication?
Ok but don’t forget the ‘An’, so ‘An Evil Nymph’ will do🙂
Gotcha.
Just saw your earlier comment. I’ll use D. Judy🙂
This submission has been reviewed.
Here is a link to my offering, entitled “Sisters” http://starvingactivist.wordpress.com/2013/01/20/picture-it-write-publication-submission-sisters/
Thank you for submitting. If you want your name included, you’ll need to let me know. Otherwise you’ll be listed as Anonymous.
Hello! Yes, please use AR Neal rather than anonymous, please🙂 Thank you so much!!!
This submission has been reviewed.
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Hello! I’ve been away from the internet so it’s been a while since I’ve participated🙂 I hope all is well on your end!
I’m messaging as a heads up that I’ll be doing late responses to some of the prompts posted and I didn’t want you to be alarmed by the sudden flood of links in the days to come.
Have to be honest, during my time away from the internet, your blog and weekly prompts were one of the things I missed the most.🙂
Hey Sami! That’s fine. Write away, if we miss one of your contributions you can always send us another friendly reminder. Sometimes we get a flood of comments from the more recent Picture it & write’s and can miss the old ones. Happy writing and I look forward to reading more of your work.
– Ermisenda
I haven’t had a chance to look past this post, but just wanted to make sure you had warning to get your submissions posted by the end of the month if you’d like anything considered for the publication. I’m so glad you like our event. We’re honored to have you.
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Hello, I apologise I am a late participant. This is so amazing, giving us the opportunity to be in Inspirations. Ramblingsfromamum of Jenny T either names are acceptable to use, if you deem my work suitable.
I have written four entries. I am placing two today:
http://ramblingsfromamum.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/open-your-eyes-and-see-me/http://ramblingsfromamum.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/run-for-your-life/
Not to worry. We’re trying to make sure everyone has a chance to contribute. Thanks for taking the time to submit to our publication.
No, thank you for the opportunity, even if I am not fortunate enough, I simply love writing on the beautiful photos that you present on this site.
If chosen, do you want a name attached to your submission, or would you like it included anonymously?
That would be fine, Jenny Tacken, or perhaps my blog name Ramblings from a Mum. What is the general consensus?
I’ve been adding people as [name]: blogger at [blog] unless otherwise requested.
This submission has been reviewed.
I was a late comer to the 2012 prompts so I want to look through the archives and find more inspiration since several of my pieces belong to larger works I intend to submit for (paid) publication as well. I do want to take a moment to ask when is the deadline for submissions?
Also, this seemed to be a favored piece among my readers so I will submit it. I would like my name to be attached as Stephanie Ayers.
this is the link: http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com/2012/11/22/the-puppet-master/
“That circus tiger is going to break your heart,” Finn said to Abigail as he cleaned the puppets and tightened the screws of their joints. Abigail, absorbed in counting their profit, ignored him. “You can’t take something that wild and turn it to paper.”
“Hmmm?” She did not look up from the bills spread out before her. Neat stacks of currency lined the small wooden table according to value.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. Everything he said was important, but she only listened when she wanted to.
“You said something about turning something wild into paper…” She turned her head slightly. The circus car they shared was small. It consisted of two tables, a dresser, and a bed. A nudge of her elbow would send him sprawling to the floor.
“Yeah, I did. I was just musing.” He laid the last puppet into the wooden box where they slept between shows. So far, every show had been successful. No one in the world had puppets as life-like as theirs. People turned out by the dozens to see them. He still worried about what would happen if the police stopped by asking for their permit. They had none, but did the show for profit anyway. The rising popularity of the show brought the reality of fines and possible jail time closer to home. Abigail would never survive in jail.
“Well, stop. You aren’t making any sense. Besides, I need a neck massage. You know how badly it hurts after a show. Stop playing with the puppets and give me a massage!” She packed the money tightly in an envelope and closed the safe.
She always demanded, never asked, and he always obliged. He did so now, begrudgingly. The circus tiger was still on his mind. So very wild it was, and Abigail wanted to put its likeness on paper and use it as a background for a show. The whole circus scheme, hiring them for their unusual puppet show, made him uncomfortable, though it did provide a cover. He stopped massaging, running his hand through her long mahogany hair. “So, did we do it? Do we have enough?”
She turned on her stool, one smooth leg crossing and uncrossing until she faced him. He was a handsome man with his clean cut golden brown hair, lean shape, and dimpled smile. “No, not tonight, but it was close.”
He slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit, Abby!” His eyes wandered over to the puppet box. He moved to it swiftly and pulled out two puppets. They were new, a green genie and the red-faced butcher. “And yet, you buy more puppets!”
Spittle landed on Abigail’s face. She flicked it off with the back of her hand. “Yes! New puppets that will make us even more money, Finn!”
Finn shook the puppets, squeezing the butcher hard enough to break him. “Wonderful! Just what we needed!” Sarcasm dripped from his lips. “Tell me, exactly how did you plan to fit a genie and a fat old butcher into the show? Were you going to wish for a pig?”
Abigail shrunk back, away from the fist she expected to plow into her body at any moment. Anger always got the better of Finn. It would not be the first time a bruise had marred her porcelain flesh.
“Yes, we will grant the audience three wishes! What a great idea!” She shook as her hands clasped together with excitement she did not feel. “You’ll see! The money will come rolling in! Then we can leave. We’ll go wherever you want!”
Finn cooled down. She knew how to defuse his anger, though it did not always work. “Three wishes, eh? So how do we go about making the wishes come true unless we know about them beforehand?”
Silence pierced the tension in the room. Abigail knew exactly how to get the three wishes fulfilled. Her grandmother taught her well. Finn never knew where the puppets came from, never questioned until now.
Finn set about fixing the broken puppet, something he always did when he needed to think.
“I have an idea, Finn,” Abigail interrupted. Finn ignored her long enough to lay the butcher down delicately.
“What is that, Abby?” His eyes rolled sideways to look at her.
“We could set up three people in the audience, each holding a slip of paper with the wish we want them to share. Then, we write the story to follow and make them come true.”
Finn’s jaw dropped open. It was a clever idea, one that would suit all purposes. She kept her face devoid of emotion as she waited for his response. He started to speak, stopped, examined the puppet again, tightened a screw, and stopped, then repeated the whole process once more before answering.
“You know, I do think that would work. Can we trust three people to play along?”
“Yes. I know three who would be willing.” Abigail smiled. She knew exactly who would play along and why.
“Excellent. I’ll start writing the script for tomorrow then.” Finn turned to the map of the world stretched across the wall behind him. Abigail knew he was looking for where he wanted to go. She would make sure he got there.
“Did you decide where we are going next?” She asked.
“Hmmm. I want to go somewhere exotic, but our funds, even if this is successful, won’t allow for that. We need to move from here though before the police catch on to us. What do you think of Niagara Falls?”
She smiled again. “Sounds like a plan!”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Abigail peeked over the top of the stage. As expected, today brought a bigger audience than ever before. She spied her three minions and, when they returned her look, shot them the evil eye. They shivered to her satisfaction. Finn finished his lines and Abigail dropped the genie on the stage.
“Who dares summon me from my sleep?” the genie said.
“It is I, the lonely butcher!”
The genie’s large green eyes rolled in extreme exaggeration. “Humph. Fine. I grant you three wishes. What shall they be?” Glitter sprinkled onto the stage.
“Who among you knows my plight?” the butcher said. He pointed to the audience.
A female voice shouted from the crowd, “I wish for a new home away from these others!”
“So shall it be!” the genie answered. She waved her wand and glitter filled the stage. A puppet sized box appeared in front of her. “I don’t have time for games, now. On with your second wish or I’ll feed you to the tiger!”’
Another female voice, older this time, trembled as it voiced, “I wish to be thin and handsome!”
The genie waved her wand again and glitter fell over the butcher. When it cleared, a leaner, younger butcher resembling Finn stood where the old fat one had been. The genie blew a wolf whistle. “Hello, thin and handsome! Starve the tiger and tell me your third wish?”
A male voice boomed from the audience, “I wish I was a puppet master!”
Another wave of glitter filled the stage, and miniature puppets lined up in front of the butcher. “There, you are a puppet master!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Abigail hummed as she cleaned the puppets and placed them gently in their box. She opened the new box and pulled the puppet out. She brushed the clean cut golden brown hair until it gleamed, then ran her finger down the lean body. She fingered the label postmarked for Niagara Falls glued to the front of the box. She sighed. A hint of a smile creased her face as she placed him inside the box.
“If I loved you, that’s my fault. Now, it’s time to let you go,” she said as she placed one circus tiger stamp on the box after another.
Thanks, Stephanie! We’ll take submissions through the end of February. After that, we need to get the ball rolling and hand it over to the editor.
This submission has been reviewed.
Here is another to consider. Thanks. http://mythoughtsonthesubjectareasfollows.wordpress.com/2012/10/13/645/
This submission has been reviewed.
A further submission – thank you.
http://ramblingsfromamum.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/looking-in-the-mirror/
I am sorry, I forgot to add the Picture it and Write into the title header.
That’s alright, it’s not a requirement to have it in the title.
Thanks for the additional submission🙂
This submission has been reviewed.
Return of Memories Past
The sight of her childhood summer home sent a shiver of grief through Mariette Holst. The swell of emotion had begun within her chest at the airport was now proving to be more overwhelming than she had expected. She remembered the last time her family had spent long summer days relaxing and playing at this very spot. She could even recall watching her father refurnish the building with his own two hands when she was a child; her mother had been so happy here, away from the terrible stress of the big city. She could feel the sting of tears threatening the back of her eyes while looking at the building in this decrepit state, but instead of letting her emotions get the best of her, Mariette reached up and harshly rubbed her closed eyes to keep the tears at bay. Clenching her teeth, she marched forward, breaking away from her sister’s protective arm around her shoulders. She didn’t need to be sheltered anymore, not here and not after everything that had happened.
Time had not been kind to the building by the sea; the salt water had all but torn the wooden structure to the base. The vivant red paint that the whole family had applied together was now completely gone, and the wood underneath was slowly rotting away. Upon closer inspection the two women could see that even the metal hinges upon the windows and door had rusted straight through. “We shouldn’t go inside. Let’s wait for Jeremiah.” Bretagne said loudly as she looked into a window. Mariette could tell that this was a hopeless journey; her parents had not traveled all the way to this island in decades, not since Reyna had died. Setting her jaw, she looked at her older sister defiantly, before she began to pull at the door. “I don’t want to wait for Jeremy. You promised we would be gone before he even arrived, and it’s already past noon, I do not want to be here when the fishermen head back to the docks. You know how they can get.” She dropped her voice at the last sentence, but spoke through clenched teeth as she pressed the bottom of her boot against the door frame and pulled at the door with all of her strength.
After several minutes, Mariette stopped and lowered her foot to the ground once more. She was no longer upset and feeling nostalgic about her childhood, instead she just wanted to get back to the town on the mainland and to her hotel room. Moving her leg back, she began to swiftly kick the bottom of the door, much to her older sister’s horror. “Hey! Are you crazy? What are you doing? Calm yourself!” Rushing over to her side, Bretagne grabbed Mariette by her shoulders and forced her to turn away from the door in time for Mariette’s foot to connect with her leg. A sharp howl of pain escaped her lips and she began to shake her younger sister by her shoulders roughly. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you! Why did I let you come! You’re going to bring the whole building down, you idiot!” They were both shouting at each other now, the emotions finally getting the best of both women. “I am not 12 Bretagne, you cannot tell me what to do anymore! I do not know why I even bothered to come; it is not worth spending time with you!” She immediately regretted the words when they rang back into her ears, but she was unable to show remorse, her pride wouldn’t allow such a sign of weakness.
She could see the blow that her words had caused, but instead of addressing the anger, Mariette harshly jerked her shoulder from Bretagne’s grasp and turned towards the building once more. It was then that both girls noticed the door now stood ajar. Standing still, she could hear her sister draw in a sharp breath before taking a step towards the door and pulling it out wider. Everything remained inside from the last time she had been here, all the furniture, fixtures, and even a few electronics. It appeared that her parents hadn’t even had the strength and heart to move anything out; instead they just boarded up the building without a second thought. As Mariette took a step forward, she could feel the muscles in her throat tighten dramatically. “Reyna…” she whispered as she reached forward and picked up a small doll from the table next to the door. Her blue eyes found the grey pools of Bretagne as she showed her the ragdoll.
“If you cry, I fear I will not be able to keep myself composed.” Her older sister warned her with a shaking voice. Without saying another word, Mariette moved a pair of weather-beaten shoes out of her way, and moved further into the house. She couldn’t bear to look at the Davenport sofa piled high with crumpled towels, sheets, and dirt. Like everything in the house, they were part of the last scene the inside of the building saw, the last scene that both sisters were part of decades ago. Bretagne’s left hand covered her mouth as she moved towards the kitchen in the back of the house, pushing past her sister in order to reach the area. Mariette didn’t bother to follow her, instead she made her way to the stairs that lead to the second floor, but thought better of walking on the rotting wood. She wouldn’t want to fall through the ceiling and land back on the ground floor injured.
Instead she decided to rummage through the fishing station near the living room. Her father and mother had bought this stretch of land in order to fish and relax during the summer, and seeing all the equipment reminded her how much her father had given up after Reyna’s accident. As she ran her finger along the dust on a fishing pole, she finally let her mind drift back to the last day her mother had been happy. All four of the children had been playing in front of the fishing cabin, their mother in a chair by the door looking out over the water at the harbor. If she had been paying attention to the children, the accident could’ve been avoided, but instead she had her nose buried in a book as the gentle sea breeze washed over the area. It was Reyna’s turn in hide and seek, and though she was the youngest, the older kids insisted on cheating and picking the most difficult places to hide. No one had witnessed the 7 year old slip from the rickety bridge into the waves below; in fact, it wasn’t until the silence had caused their father to emerge from his fishing station inside that anyone noticed the young girl floating in the water.
Everyone heard his shouts at once, and came out of the hiding spot or put down the book in order to understand what had happened. He had rushed Reyna inside to the couch and attempted to revive her as their mother had brought down towels to dry them off. It soon became apparent that she had been in the water too long, and could no longer be revived. Her father had still hurried Reyna to a hospital, while their mother had packed up their belongings; they were going to stay in town closer to the hospital. It had all happened so fast, and Mariette had only been 9, she replayed that day over and over again in her mind since it had happened, but there were so many things she had missed that none of it added up. Bretagne’s voice cut through her thoughts and broke the silence, “Marie! I found them! We can go now.” Pressing her lips together, she looked around at everything once more, “Alright, did you get all of them? Let me see.” Turning towards the kitchen, Mariette found her sister scooping up a large stack of papers into her arms and nodding her head towards the stack of books on the table. “Will you please carry those; I cannot take everything on my own.” Gathering up the dust covered books in her arms Mariette let her sister lead the way out of the house and into the bright sunlight. Just before she left the building, she picked the doll up from the table by the door and stepped onto the stone path outside.
Turning, she pulled the door closed tightly, and then closed the rusted metal screen. “I think I am going to come back next week.” She said a bit too quietly, though she knew her sister heard her. “What?” Bretagne asked, shocked at the confession. “Yes. I think I will come and collect more things, perhaps explore this place and see what else I can find.” The older woman paused, took a deep breath, and looked out over the water towards the docks on the mainland. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, do you mind if I join you?” Smiling softly, she looked back at her younger sister, “would it be so bad if Jeremy joins us, too?” Pausing in thought, Mariette let a smile cross her face as well, “No I suppose not. He can tell us all about his recent divorce.” Both of the women chuckled all the way to the bridge, where they grew somber again. Pausing for a moment, Mariette tossed the doll she was holding into the water and watched it float away into the sea, where it belonged.
https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2012/05/27/__picture-it-write-28/
I just wanted to say that I would like my name to be
Amber “Serene” Russell
http://www.Daeluin.net
If possible. I am still learning how to do this. e____e
Caught up through this submission.
This submission has been reviewed.
My final submission – Thank you – Blogger at ramblingsfromamum if accepted, as with any of the other entries submitted.
“Come with me” Robert held out his hand to Mary, who eagerly took hold.
“Where are we going?”
“To a special place nosey, you’ll love it”, he smiled reassuringly.
They had already parked the car and had been walking for over half an hour through the woods. Suddenly the trees came to an end and they reached a clearing at the waters edge.
Mary stood motionless, her gaze transfixed at a broken weather beaten old house with an equally dilapidated bridge that meandered it’s way to a small island on which the house stood.
“Whose house it is?” she asked.
“Mine” Robert replied. “Come on it’s safe, trust me”.
“It doesn’t look that safe, what if the bridge breaks?”
“Then we shall get wet, I suppose”, he chuckled.
Mary edging her way across the wooden planks looking down at the water below, holding tight onto his hand, till she set her feet safely on land once again.
“How long have you had this? You have never mentioned it at all”.
“I bought it 3 years ago, it was up for sale for so long and it was cheap, too isolated for most, but for me, it’s a place where I can write and paint to my hearts content, far from the madding crowd as they say, my little sanctuary”.
Robert retrieved the key from his jeans pocket and placed it in the lock. Mary stood behind him looking out at the water, the forest from where they came. This was indeed a secluded part of the world, where you could retreat to, but not really her cup of tea.
The door creaked open.
“After you madam,”he politely suggested holding his arm out in a gesturing manner.
“Why I thank you kind Sir”, she grinned.
Inside was dark and lacked furniture, an old wooden desk strewn with various pens and pencils, a copper lamp and some note-pads. A fireplace that was dusty and full of ash from the previous fire was centred on the far south wall. A small kitchenette, with the same proportion of dust over a saucepan left upside down on the steel sink. A couch, rocking chair and paintings on the wall completed the picture. She smirked giving a slight ‘tut-tut’.
“I know it needs a woman’s touch, I haven’t been up here for over six months,” Robert said trying to wipe down the desk whilst gathering the papers in his arms.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to do that on my account, you do have a bathroom though I hope”? she asked.
“No, I go in the ocean…joking.. yes right through that door,” he laughed, pointing to a small door off the main room.
“I’ll get a fire started, it’s turning a bit chilly in here”.
Mary went to the bathroom she sat, looking at the corrugated iron walls around her. Thankfully there was toilet paper, though she wondered how old it was and if in fact it was still sanitary enough to use.
“Feel better now”?
“Yes, thank you”, emerging from the loo, blushing slightly
She looked around the walls upon which hung, mini paintings of boats, the ocean and the island itself. In the corner, stood a small easel not noticed on her first inspection, with a rather dirty palette containing dried up paint.
“You do these”? she said pointed to the paintings.
“Yes, my first pieces, so please don’t look too closely, I believe it’s best if one stands back to capture the image properly”.
“They are good Robert, no seriously, really good”. She walked along the wall admiring them. “What on earth is this one”?
Robert walked up behind her, the smell of his after-shave was almost hypnotic, she felt his breath on the back of her neck.
“That”? “That my dear is my chest fridge, I just love the way the steel has been hammered and…ok I was particularly bored one afternoon, had enough of painting the boats”.
“Fascinating”, she responded, trying so desperately hard to sound convincing.
He smiled. “Why, I thank you Mary”.
“So, no phone, no TV?”
“No none, the last thing I want is to be contactable when I’m in an artistic throe!”, Robert flung his arms in the air with mock grandeur.
“So much about you that I do not know”, she quipped.
“I’m not that complex, really I’m not, just an ordinary run of the mill kinda guy” he said giving her a slight wink.
She tried to ignore it, maybe he had something in his eye..was it a wink. “So how long do you stay here, at one time I mean?”
“Sometimes a week, sometimes a month, depends on what I have going on and how much time I can get off. Of late it’s just been the weekends and holidays, as work has been so bloody busy” he said placing more wood and paper into the fire-place.
“Please sit down woman, you’re making the place look untidy”, he smirked.
“As if!” she retorted.
Mary obliged and sat down on the small couch in front of the fire place, watching Roberts lean forearms even more closely, the strength in his arms, the tendons, she shook her head to stop thinking this way, she had only known him for two weeks.
“Right then, that should do nicely, drink?”
“Yes please, and what would you recommend?”
“Let’s see, warm coke, water or red wine, I’m afraid the parlour is substantially lacking at the moment. Normally I bring supplies in from the mainland and bags of ice for the chest fridge, but this was spur of the moment to bring you up here, so I’m afraid it’s rather slim pickings”.
“How very primitive of you”, she giggled.”Then I shall partake in some red wine, I would hope it is vintage”?
“I think you will be pleasantly surprised madam”, he said bending down to lightly kiss her cheek.
She gazed into the fire, watching the lights flicker off the timber, the smoke curling its way, into the bricks above. We haven’t been intimate yet, she thought, which is rather odd, but why rush these things, possibly now, here, that will change, thinking of the kiss planted on her cheek.
Robert entered the room, holding the glass of wine.
“For you madam, I hope it is to your liking”, he said handing her a goblet of cherry red nectar.
“Thank you”, she put her nose to the inside of the glass and inhaled the aroma deeply.
“Oh I have wine connoisseur on my hands do I?”
“Not really, I’m just showing off”, she winked back.
“No electricity out here either?” Mary asked inquisitively, noticing no light switches, I honestly don’t know how you do it, I couldn’t, even if it was only for a few days I’m afraid, I like the luxuries in life, be they ever so humble. This is way too primordial for me”, she said taking her first sip of wine.
“That’s why I love it, I have no need for anything, a bathroom, a desk, a fire-place, a couch, a kitchen, the fridge to keep my food cold, oil lamps and my easel, what more could a man ask for… I mean really?” There was that edgy smirk again, that seemed to hit right in her groin area.
Mary sipped more wine, it was slightly bitter, which she put down to being either, not a very expensive drop or past the ‘use by date’ even for a red.
“Hey, you’re not joining me?”
“No, I’m not much a red drinker, I just had some water.”Please don’t let that stop you enjoying, is it drinkable?”
Mary swallowed a mouthful. “It’s fine Robert thank you”. ”Do you get any visitors?” she asked gulping more wine, for some reason he was making her a little nervous, she had no idea why, probably because they hadn’t known each other that long. The wine was helping waylay any notions that sprung into her head as to where this little relationship or being privy to his private corner of the world was leading.
“More wine Mary?” Robert asked lifting the bottle to her glass. “You seem to be a little thirsty”.
He smiled that broad, delicious come hither smile and the only answer to that question was.
“You are trying to get me drunk and have your wicked way me kind Sir”, she replied hoping that yes that was indeed the plan, instead the only other thing to spring from her mouth was “Yes, please”.
Another glass was consumed, her head was starting to feel heavy, the speed in which the alcohol was taking effect was far quicker than what she anticipated and she was normally good at holding her liquor.
The room started to spin, her body starting to slowly sway and her eyes closed and opened several times as she gazed deep into the fire.
“You ok Mary?”, Robert held her hand “You don’t look very well, perhaps the wine is was too much, you didn’t eat much at lunch today did you?”
She couldn’t speak, she tried too, but no words came out, her mouth was dry and her body felt like lead, the thought of being lain on his bed, with him beside her was all she could think about. The fire pirouetted before her and just before she passed out into his arms she swore she saw the devil dance in the flames.
Robert picked her up and carried her out of the room, she was so groggy, so unaware of her surroundings, but she heard him speak.
“Let me introduce you to my chest fridge my love”. She barely recognised his face contorting as he spoke.
Kicking open the lid, he gently placed her body inside, she couldn’t speak, could not yell, could not move, what had he done, what was he doing.
“I am sure you will be able to sleep that wine off”.
Locking the lid, Greg whistled as he casually strolled back into the house, grabbing a fresh bottle of red, he walked towards his easel and grabbed his finest red sable paintbrush, smiling.
http://ramblingsfromamum.wordpress.com/2013/02/18/my-sanctuary-for-picture-it-and-write/
This submission has been reviewed.
only 2012 posts right? early 2013 entry not included? awww😦 i joined picture it & write way too late , missed lotsa great photo prompts ^^
No, don’t worry. They’re accepting submissions from Feb 2012 to Feb 2013. I began quite late and you can back-date any of your writing prompts.
hey, cool, thank you ^^
We’re accepting submissions through the end of February, but the original prompt must have been posted in 2011 or 2012. In theory, this will become a yearly publication, restarting at the first of the year, but we wanted to give newcomers the ability to contribute to prompts as well.
Only 2011 and 2012 because 2013 posts are going to go into the next publication if this one goes off well. You are invited to participate in earlier prompts now. So long as you submit them before March, we may be able to include them. Please keep them PG/PG 13 though.
got it. will join for 2013 maybe. thanks ^^
You are welcome to contribute to 2011 and 2012 posts now. If you don’t want to post them to your blog, you can do so in the comments section if you’d like to be in this publication🙂
Here’s 2 of my submissions for this years collection.
Diving:http://poeticalpoet.wordpress.com/2013/01/29/picture-it-and-write-diving/
Ballet Shoes: http://poeticalpoet.wordpress.com/2013/02/06/ballet-shoes/
Oh, and by the way. My real name is Melanie Coulthard.
Note to self to confirm I have this name in the publication.
My final submission: http://poeticalpoet.wordpress.com/2013/02/19/picture-it-write-tardis-strikes-again/
This one is good because it’s from 2012. I’m glad you used that picture, I don’t remember anyone else using it yet.
This submission has been reviewed.
Thanks for posting these and your interest in submitting to our publication, but these will qualify for the next publication. We’re only accepting submissions originally posted on our blog in 2011 or 2012. It can be posted on your blog or in the comments section through the end of February though.
Ah! I miss-understood the instructions! Thank you for clarifying that.
Apologies that they were unclear. Feel free to resubmit since your first two would count toward the next one.
This submission has been reviewed.
Okay, so here’s my first one:
Sunday Girl
We both lay beside each other in contented silence, backs on the sun warmed tier boards. Her eyes to the sky and the sky in her eyes. Mine were on her. They couldn’t help themselves as her flaming coppery locks stirred lazily by the cool salty breeze. Not for the first time I wondered, but I dare not ask, why me. I was nothing special, anything but. Paperboy in the dawn shivering my behind off in the biting morning mist, community collage during the day and gas station attendant at night.
Not enough sleep but I had to scrap what I can to save up. So that I could run. Run away from the sneering privileged clowns who feel as if they own the very dirt you walk on because their daddies were rich. Run away from the indignity of being born of … of … I swallowed, no I mustn’t go there. Time with this stunning, living, breathing enigma was to be treasured, not be wasted on dark, useless thoughts. She was my enigma, no on else’s, I smiled to myself. A secret I held close to my heart. But then she had secrets of her own as well, one of them I came close to understanding this very morning, the discovery chilled me to the tips of my toes.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said softly, a chime really, looking straight at me for God knows how long. I had been staring at her but not looking, but she saw. Oh, this woman saw everything it seemed.
“Stray thoughts. Nothing really.”
“But you looked angry … and sad then you were smiling. Come on now, tell me, you always tell me everything,” she pouted her full pink lips but she got serious, “you’re not bipolar are you?”
God, she was beautiful. I laughed but my throat burned.
“No, I’m not. It’s … it’s just things I remember, things I can’t even talk aloud by myself. I can’t, but I tried so many times in my head to tell you but the words always come out wrong …” I trailed off. And I’m scared to death you’ll never come back, I left unspoken.
“Oh,” her green cat’s eyes were sunbeams that shone with warmth through my soul, or what I felt was my soul. It’s a silly notion but it was nice to have such intense attention focused on me by anyone but especially by her, the Sunday Girl.
It’s true what she’d said, well not everything, but I told her a lot about me and I never in my twenty years could I believe I’d share so much with another human being, albeit a strange one at that and maybe that was why, because she was so different from anyone I’ve ever met. Generally with people you could clump them together and label them as uncaring, pretentious, sincere and well-intentioned, etc, not exactly stereotypes but they all have a similar bearing.
But my Sunday Girl, she’d listen and not say anything until I finish. She’d take my words that were floating in the air between her fingers one by one and look at them and then look at me with a soft gaze, one I had prayed that she never show to another man, and tell me what she thought. Somehow she’s always found a way to make my faults seem less of a burden and more like little odd gifts that only I had. And like now, she’ll only push so far to get me talking and let me be if I won’t. She didn’t judge me, just accepted and that was why I find it hard to believe she even exists at all.
But this wasn’t the only bit that puzzles me about her, there was something much more strange. Sunday Girl only showed herself to the sleepy mazes of Trinton only on Sundays, that’s where she got the name but I knew her real one. No one has seen her on any other day of the week, even me. The one time I’d ask where she came from she became distant and only said “Oh, just somewhere far from here.” I never asked again.
When I finally save up enough money and graduate, that being not long from now, I wonder if she’ll meet me again where ever I’ll be by then. It scares me that she mightn’t. What if I don’t leave after all? What if I stay in this damned town just for her? Would we even have a future or will I succumb to her spell and wait for her every Sunday of my life onwards?
Someday I’ll build enough courage to ask her all these and more but as I now stand here on the roof of my house overlooking the bay an hour after we parted once again, I just looked. Looked at her silhouette against the fading sun as she perched on the end of the pier boards, as she extended a long shapely leg, letting her toes skim the high water and step onto the surface as if she’s walking on the ground. I just looked as she descended into the gently lapping waves blazing with the colours of the sunset. And looked as her fiery hair disappeared into the depths from which she came from each time, each Sunday, the day I only lived to see.
This can be found at: http://hotchocolateandbooks.wordpress.com/2012/12/04/sunday-girl/
I’ll see to post the other three soon🙂
Oh yes I’d like to include my name: Devina S.
This submission has been reviewed.
Pingback: The Murder of Cassie Hartford « The Eclectic Eccentric Shopaholic
i have one for consideration🙂 thanks🙂
The Murder of Cassie Hartford
Dear Journal,
Someone is trying to kill me.
If I haven’t been sure of it before, I am most certain of it now. For weeks now they have kept a watchful eye on me… lurking behind the shadows, minding my every move… revealing nothing of their identity yet never failing to make their presence known… or the power which they hold over me. More than once, I have alerted the authorities but there is very little that they can do… not without sufficient evidence, not without clues. Whoever it is that’s staking me must have some knowledge of what they are doing.. for there are no loose ends, no false steps, no inaccuracies on their part… every move is deliberate, intricately planned, and perfectly executed. Devoid of fingerprints, DNA or any unusual recordings in the security cameras installed in all entrance and exits in the building, I might as well have imagined the whole thing. Except it’s real. As real as the untouched cup of tea staring at me unabashedly from my kitchen table. Where it came from and how it got there, I’ll never know. Yet, here it is, the vermilion liquid predicting blood.
One might ask “why?”… Why not do it here and now? Why all this torment? Why me? But these, I think are inanely futile questions. Does one ask a predator why it chooses its prey? Does one question the pleasure it receives during the hunt? And furthermore, does one dare to examine the reasons why a beast of prey pauses to relish the look on its victim’s eyes on that short second before the slaughter… I am a single female living alone in a big city where plenty of horrifying things occur on a daily basis. I have no family and very little acquaintances. No one will miss me when I’m gone. If these aren’t reasons enough for a serial killer to single me out as an easy target, I don’t know what is… but above all, I believe, it’s my fear that they find most irresistible. I think it’s the terror that they’ve instilled in me that keeps feeding them… the aroma of my inherent faintheartedness, a heady aphrodisiac, nurturing their obsession… that very same nervousness and reticence that keeps me from seeking help from strangers – for fear that they might think I’m crazy. And with each passing day I could feel the assailant growing stronger… for right now, at this very moment, I am utterly and extremely terrified.
Signed,
Cassandra Hartford
***
Dear Journal,
This morning I woke up with a sense of impending doom. Whoever it is that wants to kill me, is planning to do it soon. Perhaps even tonight. Once again I discarded another cup of tea. With every stroke of this pen, I feel my last shreds of courage progressively dissolving into nonexistence. But more than that, I sense something within me. It’s as though with each passing day, I’m slowly fading into nothingness… In my nightmares, I saw myself dropping into a black bottomless chasm… desperately clawing at the air for that elusive rope, my frightened screams dying in my throat. I can’t let them do this to me! Tomorrow, I intend to put up hidden cameras in my bedroom. God knows how they always manage to get past the building’s doorman, the cameras by the door and the burglar alarm in my apartment but I plan to find out who they are once and for all. This ends now.
Signed,
Cassandra Hartford
***
Eva finished reading the last journal entry, her expression one of sheer contempt, then unceremoniously flung the notebook into the fireplace. She poured herself a warm cup of tea, savoring its soft floral notes before allowing the warm bittersweet drink to touch her crimson mouth. She had painted her lips red in celebration. Cassie’s right. It has ended now. Finally. After years and years of being pushed into the background, it is at last Eva’s time to sparkle. Her time to live. Eva was bold, brazen… a sensual soul who yearned for freedom and sophistication. She wanted to see, hear, taste, touch everything in the world. Cassie’s a loner… a pathetic little hermit who was perfectly content to go about her banal existence. And so very often, she had stood in Eva’s way. Not anymore…
***
Eva was born when Cassie was six years old. It was during the time when their parents were getting a divorce. That morning, Cassie had overheard the adults’ heated conversation and though still very young, she was old enough to comprehend that the fairytale life that she had always known was about to be shattered into insignificance. Cassie had ran up to the attic with her hands over her ears, tears trickling down her soft plump cheeks. There in the company of the unwanted and the forgotten, she stayed the entire day, whimpering in one corner. It was nearly dusk before someone had found her. By the time the setting sun engulfed the sky in orange flames, Eva was born.
Eva was the exact opposite of Cassie. No two girls could have been more different. Whereas Cassie was timid and awkward, Eva was fearless and self-assured. But with Eva’s confidence came what could only be described as an evil streak. Once, she had persuaded Cassie into stealing money from Mrs. Hartford’s purse for some ice cream, for which Cassie got caught and was punished. There was also that one time in school when she had goaded Cassie into engaging in a fistfight with another kid, resulting to suspension. From childhood to early adolescence, Eva was constantly getting Cassie into trouble but most of the time Cassie’s kind and gentle nature would prevail. It wasn’t until Cassie entered adulthood that Eva came to loosen her grip on her. Cassie was able to live in quiet contentedness. But her mom’s accidental death, followed by her father’s illness and gradual demise, inevitably brought Eva back into her life. Cassie needed Eva… her strength and indifference. Just as she had needed Eva during that time in the attic. As with most cases of multiple personality disorder, the host, Cassie possessed no awareness of Eva – the alter personality that she created to shield herself from the painful childhood trauma. The little girl who came out of the attic on that awful day wasn’t a grief-stricken Cassie but a smiling, unaffected Eva. True to dissociative identity disorder, Cassie had no recollection of what she did each time Eva took over. Eva, on the other hand, was deeply aware… knew very well when she was needed… So Eva returned… with every intention of remaining.
But then there’s Cleo… Cleo was born the day Cassie’s father died…
http://theeclecticeccentricshopaholic.wordpress.com/2013/02/22/the-murder-of-cassie-hartford/
ps. i used a couple of the photos but only cos i cant decide which suits the story best🙂 hope you don’t mind
ps if i’m lucky enough to get chosen, my name’s Karyl Zshamaine🙂 i wish i could come up with another story before march starts..
This submission has been reviewed.
I have only just discovered your blog and your picture challenge, I should read through all these comments to be very clear… I am not sure which images you are considering. So I have posted these links, please let me know if they are not being used. I will try to write today pieces for the most popular pictures you have posted on this thread.
Thanks
PS What a great cause.
Links from Neens at A Writers Fountain
http://awritersfountain.wordpress.com/2013/02/10/picture-it-write-speed-date/
‘Blind Date’
http://awritersfountain.wordpress.com/2013/02/04/family-tree-word-and-picture-entry-2/
‘Family Tree’
http://awritersfountain.wordpress.com/2013/02/02/athena-picture-it-write-it-challenge/
‘Athena’
This submission has been reviewed; as you already know they’re from 2013. I really hope you keep them in mind for the second volume if we repeat this next year though!
Ignore those links then I just read your reply and see 2011-12 only – I will have a go at the older posts.
Thanks, be sure to add your name as well if you would like to be credited.
I’d like to submit the following for possible publication. You can print it under my name if chosen🙂 -Marisa Lyon
This is so exciting and a fantastic idea to donate to a wonderful cause. I can’t wait to see the final project!!
Link to the original- http://fate423.wordpress.com/2013/02/23/neverland/
Neverland
“Wow, this one’s heavy” she grumbled, placing the box on the flimsy wood beam. “Cleaning out the attic, what a glamorous way to spend a Sunday morning,” her cranky expression mocked.
The raindrops splashed against the window. The wind howled through the creases. The dreary, gray sky mirrored her disposition.
BOOM!
The startling crack of thunder echoed through the old house, rattling its bones, and uncontrollably sending a mess of blond hair and contorted legs to the attic floor.
She soothed her now throbbing head and scraped knee, as the swinging light bulb flickered a few times before going black. Only a hazy ray of light peeked through the window and across the room, illuminating the dusty path.
“Figures,” she griped.
That’s when she saw it. A tall, curvy bottle at the end of the dim stream slowly came into focus, as her eyes, and pounding head, adjusted. She inquisitively crawled to it, popped open the top, and turned it over.
The tiny, sand-like crystals slipped through her fingertips, reflecting shimmers of color off her face. Wide-eyed, mouth agape, she watched the pixie dust dance through the air and swirl around her. The colorful gems radiated a bright light as they circled, forcing her eyes shut.
When the glow dimmed, she opened them to unimaginable enchantment.
It was truly a dream world, somewhere in between being asleep and awake. The forest echoed with song, the sun beamed, the air tickled her skin. She took a cautious step upon the supple earth. It was like nothing she had ever experienced, yet there was a recognizable element in everything, from the feel of the ground beneath her to the sound of the waterfall in the distance.
She hesitantly spun around, taking a second account of her surroundings before springing forward toward the gleaming fall. She climbed over rocks soft as cardboard that lined the path, before reaching the cool, crisp water and plunging her hands into the cascade.
A familiar crack boomed in the distance, although she couldn’t place it’s sound. It wasn’t startling, but rather pleasant, as if nature was speaking to her. She pranced along a short path to the clearing, and peered down the stair-like slope. A sun-drenched valley leading to a colorful lagoon sparkled below.
She smiled, twirling around, breathing in the wondrous life surrounding her. It was beautiful, but she couldn’t shake the feel of its familiarity. Familiar, yet sweeter. Was it a place she had once dreamed of?
Perhaps the daydream she often longed for. An escape from her ordinary life. But it was never like this. This vibrant world was special. Sacred. And she was special for being a part of it. Why had it been hiding all this time? Or was it somewhat here all along? She couldn’t be sure. But she had found it now, and was never letting go.
This submission has been reviewed.
Hi! I know I haven’t done that many Picture it and Write’s, especially lately, but I was wondering if you could consider one of my entries for the publication? I would like this entry: http://iwritewhaticannotsay.wordpress.com/2011/12/04/__-picture-it-write-8/ and as to my name, could I email it to you (I do not want to put my name on a public blog, that’s all). Thank you!🙂
Sorry to just be getting to this now. We will be posting the list of contributors and their blogs publicly once the publication is finalized so everyone can see whether or not they made it. If you’re not comfortable with your name being public, we can use “Eliza” or Anonymous.
The second one:
Trapped
… twenty five years old … frequents top class bars … twice divorced, no children … the new face of Cover Girl … net worth of … an very private individual …
The lights didn’t come from bulbs but from the small sea of rectangular monitors that cluttered every available surface in my personal bat cave. There were no outlets for lamps or light bulbs at all, and this was the way I preferred it, surrounded only by the continuous stream of back lit information flickering across the screens. I reread what I had so far as I sucked on the cherry passion flavoured lollypop. My current case was a rather strange one on two counts. I let my fingers dance a complicated foxtrot over the keys and waited for the search to be completed.
Turning my focus on another monitor, I leaned back and reclined a bit and the wheels of the soft black leather chair complied easily enough rolling back allowing me to stretch my feet and rest them on the desk. Ankles crossed before the flexible scrolled neon keyboard. It’s been a one of those days so I’ll soak in the blizzard of blinking of tiny reds, blues, greens and oranges for a while.
The first was that the voluptuous darkish blond of my attentions before me happened to be a model. French. I knew this one. I can’t say why, but before looking her up for the first time years ago I could see something Frenchy about the beauty but I couldn’t, for the life of me, with any amount of certainty say what exactly gave me the impression. Now I’m tasked to dig a lot deeper than my previous curiosity had warranted then. Point is, my usual characters extended from petty thieves, ambitious prostitutes, to corporate spies, and more lately international criminals.
But I’d be kidding myself if I thought I was amongst the big boys, the last one the FBI found my assistance necessary in tracking down a high profile continent hopping cat burglar. It would be a foolish to think they’d forgotten me. When they need me again they will use me and claim all the credit to their brilliant and dedicated detectives. Oh so inspirational! Heh. Typical. But I don’t mind it all that, I don’t want to attract a lot of attention. In this line of work too much is asking for trouble, and there’s no telling who might come knocking at my door.
But what ticks me off about those suits is that they get it into their heads that they did everything all by themselves. Not even a cheap ‘thank you’ card. But the fact I’m sitting my ass comfy as I please in my hideaway little world where the damned bureaucrats can’t dream to find me attests that I got the canary. It was delicious, I might add, but perhaps not as sweet as the gift I left the team leader. I feel the smile curving my lips and closed my eyes. A story for another day.
The second was that of my client. And would you have believed it if I hadn’t said it to you myself? Mrs. Fracker, our resident cat lady and bird enthusiast. Please don’t ask me how that works out, it’s one if those unsolved mysteries of the universe. Why would the old crank want the bitch next door to locate the whereabouts of a very private public personality? That one was half easy.
~*~
I was collecting for a job three months ago at Manslow Park two in the morning and the old lady spied me a few yards away while she was on her way home from a 24/7 convenience store. Apparently she had ran out of cat food. Convinced that I was doing drugs she threatened to tell the authorities. Somewhat disappointed at my concern she then declared with all the dignity she can muster while heaving after dragging the sack in her mottled old coat, a pair of bedroom slippers and a head full of curlers, that she would tell everyone of my worthless character. Oh joy.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” humour her I’d thought but make no mistake, I had been impatient to get out of the cold. I looked at her small hunched from and realized that she must be freezing.
“I do not mix with filth!” scandalized right down to her smelly toes.
“Look, I don’t do drugs, okay? I don’t really care if you believe me but is there something I can do to prevent you from making yourself look like a fool? And let’s get inside, shall we?”
Gave me the royal run around, she did. But Mrs. Fracker had surprised me by inviting me to the house of claws and feathers, right after which she made me carry the ton of cat food four blocks and up three cramped flights of stairs. And she’s does this by herself all the time? I sat in the tiny living room, and it smelled like my old aunt’s house. They had had approximately seven feline nightmares before straying them.
Mrs. Fracker entered from what was the bedroom, the layout of the apartments was uniform throughout the buildings, and presented me with a stiff folded piece of page torn out from the latest edition of Vogue. Yet another surprise. On it was the heartthrob of men and some women, to be fair, across the globe. Jacqueline Pierre. Full lips slightly upturned in a secret smile was painted in a subtle pink rose, minimal make up from what I can see. Her straight blond hair was done in an artfully loose bun and covered knee high in a pretty sleeveless floral dress. Deceptively understated.
“Find her, Raine. Tell her I must see her,” the words trembled out and I froze. Her eyes were expectant. I didn’t need to be told something was seriously wrong, nothing cuts the jaded Mrs. Fracker.
“Why me? Couldn’t you find her some way else?”
“No. Only you, you I trust.”
“Wait now. Hold it. You call me mean things in Yiddish, embarrass me in public and accuse me of smoking pot and you trust me?” I was baffled.
“I say what I want to, young lady, and how I want to. I know you do not smoke anything other than the smoke from burnt toast that somehow pass for food. I wanted you to ask. You did and now I ask. You find people, no?” No longer was she a frail waif with her back straighter, arms folded and everything about her defiant.
“How – ?” She had fooled me into asking. I felt the anger slowly bubbling up. I could have easily turned away earlier, but no, I walked right in. Any warmth I felt for her evaporated. I hated being manipulated and I’m beginning to hate this woman. How dare she? This was the reason why I don’t mingle with people. Hang around with them for a while and they get under your skin, they begin to mean something to you and the affection you would then feel for them can hold you at ransom, can be used against you. Betrayal. I know that special blend only too well. It’s bitter taste makes your insides quiver and knot, the grittiness of it remains on your tongue long after your heart had gone numb with the pain.
I sent her a cool glance and sharply asked, “Well, old woman?”
“Salma,” she said simply.
Salma. Oh, pretty pretty Salma is a dead dead woman walking. I’ll be letting her know it soon enough. This means Fracker knows what I do, or at least a part of it. The FBI only know me to be a very discrete part time two cent private eye who gets lucky from time to time. They know nothing else I’m certain, but Fracker sees me from day to day and could piece one and one together but she would rather chew her left foot off than utter a word to a suit of any kind, of this I’m also 100 percent certain. I don’t want to have to kill her, nasty piece of work she may be but she’s just an old coot. No. Remember she’s a sharp one. Remember that appearances are meant to be deceptive. Never believe anyone until you can prove it yourself. I am my only friend.
“How much do you know?”
“Only that. I don’t want any more. You will find her, I know this,” utterly convinced I’d know this Jacqueline.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I’d said, and I’ll be steering clear of her from now on, move if I have to. She doesn’t need to die, only until she proves herself a threat. Not yet.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I repeated over my shoulder and left.
~*~
I was following through. My eyes were still closed when the machines beeped like crazy and startled me out of my daze into a disoriented mess. The lights burnt holes in my retina. The world was a kaleidoscope. I sat up and braced my head in my hands, taking deep breaths. Eventually it all came in focus and the beeping stopped as fast as it began. Ugh. Man, I hate it when that happens.
What the … ? The search wasn’t finished. It was an e-mail alert. Did I set it to make that racket? Let’s see … It was a letter from one Mr. Patrick Donahue.
Hello Miss O’Leary,
My aunt had made a strange request to me which leads me to believe that she made one to you as well. I attached a copy of an old photo that was buried in the stacks of her belongings at the old house in Montana.
It’s a rather personal matter for her I am aware, but she’s insisted. So here I send you this at her bidding before she mails me a sheep’s heart in the post. Have you heard of that incident two years ago? Anyway, I hope you find this helpful.
Sincerely,
Patrick D. Donahue
The old lady’s nephew … Sheep’s heart? What is with these people? Get into it Raina. That’s right, just another quacked client, no sweat –
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
And another goddamned bleep! I’ve got to fix that. This was the last bit of report, a collection of well known facts of Ms. Pierre and some need-to-know info that had required me breaking past several firewalls undetected. I hope with all my heart that this was all worth it, not that I’d get caught.
Originally from Paris, France, Jacqueline Genevieve Pierre was the daughter and only child of the French consulate in America, Jean C. Pierre, and would often accompany him as a child.
An accomplished ballet dancer at the age of 20 but left the stage to study Fine Arts and Textiles after which she became a model for Dolce & Gabbana with whom she still works with to date … … …
Those were the known.
Pierre was one of the unknown amount of children in the tragic De Claude incident of 1998. She also had a younger sister who disappeared around the same time and is believed to have been included in the numbers of ’98 along with Jacqueline and is thought to be amongst the dead and unidentified … … …
These most certainly were not.
How …? It … No. It can’t be. I know about the De Claude case, I knew a lot more than I’d ever want to. But this Jacqueline, how did she get involved? According to the media reports, her name was never mentioned but yet she was there, nor was there any record the supposed sister. A flood of pictures came with the report, pictures of a younger girl, just coming about her womanly curves and there was something familiar about her features that I couldn’t see in the adult version of her. At the back of my mind something was pulling at me. I could almost touch it …
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Okay, that’s it. I swung around to haul out the cables but that was when my eyes met the attachment photo of Donahue’s message, glaring accusingly at me as if for not looking even once. And all the breath left my body.
It was a black and white of three children, a little boy to the left in the background walking on stilts, in the forefront to the right was a small girl who seems to be the same age as he but her face was turned away from the camera. It was the older girl beside her that commanded the attention of the photographer. She looked to be around fifteen or sixteen. She stood there relaxed, right arm rapped around her torso and held a cigarette in her left hand. On her pretty face was a devil may care expression.
I knew that look. I know that face. Isabel.
I don’t know how long it was before when I remembered to breathe and by the time I did the lollypop was chewed up to a sticky mush. Oh dear God. My hands were trembling, everything was shaking. How does Fracker know her? Why did she send me this? What does she know about me? What exactly does she want from me? This can’t go on. No way in hell.
The phone rung thrice before she answered.
“Hello?”
“Who is she, Mrs. Fracker?” I demanded.
“Who – Oh. That is Jacqueline. What happened? Did you find her? Tell m -”
“This isn’t her,” I interrupted, it simply can’t be.
“I am telling you it is her.”
“How are you related to Ms. Pierre?”
“Will you tell me if you have found her or not?”
“No I haven’t but what I will tell you is that I won’t go further. I don’t have to give you a reason. You can tell whoever you want whatever you want about me, I couldn’t care less. Leave me alone, you understand? Don’t call me. Don’t try to find me again,” and I hung up.
I lied when I said I wont continue this search, because I will. I have to find the connection between Jacqueline and my Isabel. I can’t understand how it could be but then again I wouldn’t know, now would I? I can’t remember, and this fueled my need to find people, and perhaps to be found. But to be found by who? To find whom? I didn’t know but maybe it’s becoming more clear now. I will get to the bottom of this. I have to.
Where are you Isabel?
By Devina Singh
This can be found at: https://hotchocolateandbooks.wordpress.com/2013/01/27/trapped/
This submission has been reviewed.
I wish it qualified, but it’s from 2013 and won’t qualify until the second publication, assuming this one goes well.
Oh, that’s okay. I hope it works out.
I hope you submit it for the next one, at least Sunday Girl qualified.
No further submissions will be accepted.
Thank you everyone very much for your submissions.
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It has been a long time in the making. The publication is live! https://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2014/05/18/picture-it-write-publication-is-here/