Scene From a Picture– Snarky Reader Style


This was the image for last week’s reader writing challenge. Here are the results.

BTW, the new image will be at the end of this post. Play if you want or just read and get a glimpse into some of the coolest minds out there. Global warming due to flatulence? 9 penises? We have it all!

Write a scene, a plot, or just one line. No rules. For ideas of past responses
The Write Snark: Scene From a Picture– Snarky Reader Style
The Write Snark: Scene From a Picture- Snarky Reader’s Style.

X. Dell from The X Spot said:
Both the cattle and the Grays had a beef with each other, so to speak. The bulls had had it up to their horns with the rampant mutilations. At the same time, the Grays blamed global warming entirely on their flatulence.

“I’m not sure this will work out,” said Bossy. “I’m not like you. I have to know.”

“I have calculated our success at 91.35%, a virtual certainty, counted Krlll. He would have given her a seductive wink, had he any eyebrows–a trait that Bossy still wasn’t used to. To her, he always seemed surprised.

“But I don’t care about the statistical probabilities at varience with the normal curve,” cooed he, believing that he actually sounded romantic.

“You don’t understand. Interracial relationships are hard here on Earth. We’d be ostracized by the cows, AND the Zeta Reticulans.”

“Let them laugh. I love you. You’re the most beautiful Earthling that I’ve met. Your fine framework, in all it’s nakedness, outstrips that of even the Hollywood idol.” Looking passionately into her eyes, he leaned closer and said, “I love you. E mine.”

They say ever since the Hatfields and the McCoy, that’s the way most familiy feuds end. A marriage: followed by seven translucent children, a goldfish and a dog.

Jo Smith from Writer of Fiction said:
“OK sister, I’m from the planet of people that see romance in everything, Stone Statues, sex pots on high heat, women with all the newest military weapons, sweet little ladies under the apple tree, cops who love to frisk you all over and a creature with 9 penises all hard and on point.

We are known as “Writers”. We all require two things to retain life, one is good wine that another team went to a grapey place to find and take into thier position, all the wine there.

The other is chocolate. Now get on board the space discombooalator We know you give cocolate milk and chocolate butter along with all the other chocolate products. You will live like a “Queen” better yet like a romance writer as long as you cooperate and give hordes of chocolate everyday. Now get going befor the old man get down here and we have to make him into bulldurum.

Get Me?”

Kelli McBride from Kelli Blogs said:
Hmmm…9 penises: could that be the perfect mate for the Martian Cutie with 9 eyes, 9 arms, and 9 legs featured in Sesame Street’s ditty about the guy’s Martian girlfriend?

“1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9: She’s a real Martian beauty, my number 9 cutie, she has 9 hairs on her head. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 tied up in ribbons of red.

She has 9 little eyes, all the same size, looking up, down, around and straight ahead.

She has 9 little holes in her turned up nose, and she snores when she goes to bed.

She has 9 arms, that’s one of her charms, each one just like the other. Some say that she looks like her dad, and some say she looks like her mother.

She’s got 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 little toes on her foot. She doesn’t go shopping cause she doesn’t like hopping, so usually she just stays put.

“You can view the video on You Tube: http://youtube.com/watch?v=rOAthOufeIU

For once, I hit a blank!!!!!!!!!!! This is pathetic, but here goes.

“Take me to your milker.”

——————————————-
The next challenge photo! And remember, you can post for the next week. I’ll gather up all the responses and post them (with a link to your blog or website!) a week or so later. Have fun!

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About Rinda Elliott

Writer.I love unusual stories and credit growing up in a family of curious life-lovers who moved all over the country. Books and movies full of fantasy, science fiction and romance kept us amused, especially in some of the stranger places. For years, I tried to separate my darker side with my humorous and romantic one. I published short fiction, but things really started happening when I gave in and mixed it up. When not lost in fiction, I love making wine, collecting music, gaming and spending time with my husband and two children. I’m represented by Miriam Kriss of the Irene Goodman Agency.
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10 Responses to Scene From a Picture– Snarky Reader Style

  1. Excellent photo.

    Must think. Be back later.

  2. X. Dell says:

    I’m having a harder time with this one. I’ll get back to you.

    Especially fond of Jo’s prose, and Kelli’s rhyme abd rhythm.

  3. Oh, take all the time you need. I won’t post for seven to ten days . I let the pics percolate a while myself.

  4. Laura says:

    “What the-” Rodrigo faltered, then stumbled back against the chair. “How could you?”

    Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at Emelia one last time. He turned and dashed out the door.

    “Wait!” Emilia cried. “Let me explain!”

    But it was too late. He was gone forever.

    “If I could’ve gotten the operation sooner,” she thought to herself, “then he never would’ve had to know.”

  5. Betty S says:

    The funeral was almost over. Closed casket, of course. The explosion hadn’t left much to bury, but there had to be some kind of ritual, something to give closure to those left behind. Angelica fixed her eyes on the priest. Mea Culpa.

    Henri’s parents wept loudly. Their other son’s arms wrapped around his mother. The air at the gravesite was saturated with pain and the putrid scent of the sweet flowers that ringed the gaping hole in front of her. They were almost too much to bear. Mea Culpa.. Mea Culpa..

    “Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee”. The robes of the priest rippled like the mantle of God. The sun was bright. Beautiful puffs of white drifted peacefully across the clear blue sky. Life goes on.

    Angelica struggled to manage a tear. To join in the sorrow. The bastard had beaten her and murdered her unborn child. Sorrow was hard to come by. Secretly she fingered the airline tickets in her pocket. Nothing held her here any longer. No family. No ties. No love. Tomorrow was resurrection day. Woman reborn. The million dollar insurance policy would take her far away from the ugliness she had been forced to endure for the last 5 years. But first she must take care of her lover. He was the only link connecting her to her husband’s death. She would make his dying quick and painless. The poor fool deserved at least that much for using his skills to set the explosives. For setting her free.

  6. X. Dell says:

    The black velvet dress complimented her frame covering just about everything, including her wrists. The veil, hwoever, was the key, and Merisol only donned it at the last moment, almost as an afterthought. Yet the lacework, a fine mesh flecked with straight lines of tiny black spots, gave her the appearence of grief and sorrow, and successfully masked her true emotions.

    His widow, a woman Merisol had never met, grapsed her by the hand as she entered the catheedral. With the smiles widows have perfected through the centuries, she asked Merisol if she were one of his co-workers. Although offered the convenient explanation, Merisol introduced herself as a cousin. After all, his family was large. No one hardly knew anyone outside immediate kin. Her veiled face gave enough of a hint of resemblance. His widow had no difficulty believing her husband and Merisol were related.

    The veil also fooled the police. Looking over the viedotapes and photographs of the funeral, Chief Inspector Carmosa, who prided his perceptive eye, looked for the small tell-tale signs that hinted at the killer. The deceased had many enemies, as did the victim, his business partner. Many of the deceased’s adveraries attended the funeral just to confirm that he was, in fact, dead.

    One videotape showed Merisol approaching the casket, while the victim genuflected and prayed for the corpse in front of him. The victim would have liked to reach out to her, but couldn’t for his wife and three children were standing nearby.

    “The murder of one business partner at the funeral of the other had to have some connection,” said Caromosa, “especially given their power and prestige.” He had compiled a shortlist of suspects for the first murder, and he knew that whoever killed the first man killed the second.

    Carmosa didn’t know, however, about Merisol’s affair with both men. He didn’t know that there was a witness to the first shooting, a close-up hit with a .22 in one of the city’s most vice-ridden back alleys, the lonely track which later that evening would be full of drug merchans and professional women. The chief inspector didn’t know about the partner’s addiction, or Merisol’s.

    But Merisol knew, for she was there when her old lover shot her new one in that alley. Her lone paramour, a powerful man to whom the police owed many favors, would likely never go to jail, even if she testified; and this Merisol knew as well. If she wanted justice for her lover, she had to get it herself.

    She managed to escape with her lover’s killer sometime during the interval between the service and the funeral procession. Her victim had no reservations about making love one with her in a secluded church closet. He felt less shame about shooting up with her in lieu of an afterglow, especially since Merisol supplied him with a fresh syringe, taking the older one for herself.

    The autopsy showed high levels of heroin and stychnine in the victim’s blood, and this alerted the police to the fact that the man at the funeral did not die from a heart attack, but from a hot poisoned hotshot.

    Carmosa and his team pored over the photographs looking for evidence of drug usage, one of the tell-all signs of the killer. But most of the women had worn long-sleeved dressess, and all of the men wore jackets. But Carmosa prided himself on his ability to read the signs of guilt in a person’s face.

    That’s why Carmosa always skipped over Merisol, whom he summarily dismissed as a sad mourner, a distant cousin (according to the widow).

    Althoguh the dress hid her guilt, the veil masked her rage, and afterwards, her guilt. The veil was indeed the key.

  7. X. Dell says:

    Wow. Just read Betty’s entry. I think it’s kinda freaky that we both had Catholic funerals in mind.

  8. X!!! That is so good!

    I can’t believe the talent gathered here.

  9. Betty S says:

    Good post, X.

    Great minds follow the same paths.

  10. X. Dell says:

    Bless you, Rinda. Thanks.

    Betty, I’m going to agree with you on th interpretation, so that we can pat each other’s backs.

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