We do a monthly Scene From A Pic-Snarky Reader Style (SFAP) here. Its purpose is to provide visual inspiration and spark creativity. All readers are invited to play!
A scene, an outline, a poem… or just one line–whatever grows from that particular image.
Details and deadlines can always be found here. I’ll post your work on the next deadline day along with a link to your site–so not only is it a way to practice and show off those writing skills, it’s also an excellent way to bring a little extra traffic to your site.
Here’s the next Picture! Deadline June 15th, 2007. (This is a stunning image that became slightly blurry manipulating it to fit. If you click, it will come up full size and you can see all the incredible ice detail.)
And here are the submissions from the last one. Very, very impressive.
The House of Me
I am a haunted structure,
Standing against the elements.
And I show the wear of my years.
Hemmed in by a wall of confusion,
Responsibility threatens to crush me.
Clouds of depression encroach from behind.
And seek to smother my dreams.
If eyes are windows to the soul
Mine are dull, despairing of hope.
My heart’s entrance is barred
By ghosts of lovers past.
Its approach treacherous and full of ruts.
Grass does not grow here.
Flowers don’t burst forth with color.
Only skeletal trees landscape my life.
But when clouds part–
Gnarled branches can touch the sky.
No structure is completely sound.
There are cracks in this cement.
Inside hoary partitions,
I fight to break free.
My faith is strong.
Bones shift and rearrange.
Like any small creature
Through impossible holes
I make my escape.
Heather Harper wrote:
Emmy couldn’t breathe. The thick residue of death was choking her, cloying away at her lungs. She began to recite Dr. Thorne’s formulas in her head, because the spirits feared them. Destitute and demented, they had died at the whim of Thorne as innocent pawns. Moments before Emmy’s world drifted to black, she was able to gasp for air. Through the haze of muted rainbow prisms that clouded her returning vision, shadows gathered around the room.
She was surrounded by a ring of white lights tinged with garnet auras.
The shapes allowed her to breathe so she could witness her destiny.
They wanted her to join them.
Emmy was going to die in the East wing. Demolition of the historic state asylum was scheduled for 8AM. The Halifax Corporation would build their luxury apartments and rent them to people wanting to live with ghosts.
She ate a peppermint candy and closed her eyes. The white was too bright.
And then it was morning.
Carol Shenold wrote:
“Oh come on, Dad. You don’t really expect me to stay up there do you?”
“Barb. It’s perfect. It has all the privacy you could possibly need to work on your books, a private entrance. You could come and go as you please.”
“It’s not even connected to the rest of the house. And, what happens to those stairs when it snows or there’s an ice storm. Besides, that door makes it look like a jail.”
“Now your imagination is really getting hold of you. But, if you don’t want it, rent free, I know I can find someone who does.”
He was right. What with rent anywhere near Seattle and my lack of money, it might be just what I needed.
I started up the stairs, which seemed to extend as far in front of me as behind. After a century of climbing, I reached the top. The dark windows revealed nothing of the inside as they reflected the light back upon itself.
Behind the bars, a wooden door with an old-fashioned iron latch waited to be opened. I pushed open the door, expecting to hear the unearthly screetch of rusty hinges, other worldly beings, but the door opened silently, as if waiting for me to complete something.It closed behind me, without help. Darkness moved in. No light from the windows made it into the room. I felt around for the door to open it. I felt nothing but smooth walls. Darkness smothered me. Panic built up, no deep breath was possible. I turned in circles feeling for the door, windows, light switches. Nothing. Dark was a blanket, a restraint, prison. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream or even whimper. It touched me.