Hello! This is an activity I participated in at a recent blogger’s meeting. Essentially, you get a picture, and then you have 5-10 minutes to write what you believe is happening in that picture. Nothing is off limits, and anything you can come up with your imagination can be used. Here are the prompts and my own answers:
Ink smudges adorned his hands, sp
lotches decorating across the plane of the paper. He was a ruined artist, devoid of creativity or inspiration. His hands strangled locks of his hair in frustration, strands floating to the floor. He should give up. In the reflection, his face was filled with contempt and malice for himself. As the image of his grandfather crystallized in the reflection, his eyes widened in shock. Was he hallucinating? The familiar wrinkled lines etched along his grandfather’s face, the calloused hands, and his eyes – pleading, and a reminder. He was an artist too, before he passed away. The memories of a long lazy afternoon with his grandfather, bathing in sunlight, painting whatever they wanted on the canvas. Joyful, blissful, carefree days. The exasperation left him, replaced with peace. He painted from the heart, each brush stroke a tribute to his grandfather, a memento to his legacy.
Rain hit the pavement like marbles, before vanishing in an instant. The chasm between the boy and the other side of the sidewalk seemed endless. His first step, an imprint in the rain, seemed to push him. Then another step, and another. Hidden details seemed to catch his eye, the faded painted lines, the intricate array of stones embedded in the road. The journey had become treacherous, the rain drenching his face, dripping through his clothes, squeezing through his shoes. He almost gave up. But he focused on making another imprint in the rain, searching for another speckled rock in the road. HIs last step echoed a resounding finality. The chasm faded and the clouds unfurled, shining a brilliant sunlight.
A phenomenon. The convergence of nat
ure and humankind. A butterfly within a lightbulb. Passerbys wondered about this mystery. Was the butterfly trapped? Was the butterfly content in its solitude? Even as the seasons changed, the people changed, the butterfly in the lightbulb was a constant. It was an anchor in an ever-changing world. The rhythmic beating of its wings never eased and the small flicker of light never faded.
In the blue and black expanse, the woman cou
ld only hear the sound of cicadas and the occasional lap of the water. Her last possession left of the shipwreck was a lamp, untouched and dry. Her fingers thumbed the carefully crafted ridges and the smooth curve lamp shade. The light flickered over her head, casting a faint glow over her features. The acrid smell of the sea clutched to her hair and clothes, bringing up the haunting memory of the shipwreck. She wondered when she would be saved. When someone notices her. Only time will tell. She sat there, waiting patiently.
Her pants came out in puffs of air, before vani
shing in the sky. Lush green pine trees towered over her, the branches spreading out like fractals over her head. She shouldn’t be here. A closed-off area, with a forbidden bridge. Exhilaration pulsed through her at the thought of the intrigue. The rhythmic thump of her backpack accompanied each step, the creak of the hanging bridge adding to the suspense. Each step was a climax in a story– will the bridge break or will it stay? Her hands ran along the chains of the bridge, a metallic smell coating her hands. And with the next step, the rusty chains broke, collapsing in on themselves, the bridge unfurling under her feet. That smell coated her body, before that that was all she could sense anymore.
With that gruesome ending, thank you for reading this week! I hope you participated in some of these prompts and enjoyed my interpretations. Have a nice day!