Sunday Picture Press: Desire

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FICTION ENTRIES

Dave Farmer continues the story of Jacob and Felicity in  Secrets.

My entry this week is Thief of Dreams which was inspired by a poem written by Steve Schultz.

Please let me know if I missed anyone!

VISUAL ART ENTRIES

Christina Deubel Has another brilliant entry that is also a visual prompt for this weeks theme.

Now, on to this weeks prompts!

THE RULES (FEEL FREE TO BREAK THEM):

The rules are simple:  Write between 50 to 1,500 words based on the photo of your choice.  Title, genre, and type (i.e. story, very short story, dialogue only, poem, lyrics, etc.) are your choice just indicate which visual prompt you chose (if you want to include the photo in your post, just click photo, then copy the link). No deadline unless you would like a link to appear on the weekly post with the new photos — then you must complete it before 12 pm ET (GMT -5) on the Sunday following this post.  If you want to share your piece after the deadline just leave a comment for others to follow. There are plenty of fantastic word prompts, theme prompts, and other challenges out there, so if a photo helps with one of those, feel free to combine and have fun!  If you don’t have a blog but want to join just email indigospider (dot) indigospider (at) gmail (dot) com (or use the contact page) to see what we can work out.

As always, everything is optional, it is all about having fun and being inspired.

THE VISUAL PROMPTS:

Note to all the visual artists: Please send a link to check out your portfolio if you are willing to give me permission to use your work in a future prompt.

Remember: Please include a credit to the original artist.  You can copy the link to the photo so when it displays on your blog it will include the credit I include under each photo.  Or, if you prefer the ‘clean’ look of the photo without a caption, please include a note somewhere on your post giving credit.  Thank you!

 

 

THE TWIST:

This week is all about want, need, desire, yearning, unfulfilled wishes.

Some examples:

  • As a writing exercise, when suffering with writers block, one technique is to simply tell me what you want.
  • What is the character missing?  What does someone want vs. what they need?
  • Tell a story of desire, deep and dark or silly.  Tell a story of desire so strong it becomes obsessive and controlling
  • Yearning and unfulfilled wishes/dreams often make good love stories… ever experience unrequited love?

I think you get the idea.  Interpret this weeks theme however your wish.  Or don’t.  Use a photo and forget the twist, all up to you!

Remember, the rules are only there for those who need that kind of thing.  The theme and visual prompts are there for you to use any way you choose.  You can use just the photo, you can use just the twist, you can combine them with other prompts you find out there in the wild wacky world of internet-land, you can write more or less, you can paint/photograph and write if you are one of those multi-talented types.  Heck, if you want to sculpt or create some sort of street art or activist stamp I sure as heck will post whatever link you send me!

That’s it, go forth and create.  Next weeks post will include links to all participants who either create a ping-back, drop a comment, send me a tweet (#sundaypicturepress or @theindigospider), or email.

SPP: Thief of Dreams

Unreal by MFunk

Unreal by MFunk

**This story was inspired by a poem titled “Dream Thief” by Steve Shultz.

The breeze blew the gauzy curtains during the night as she slept gently.  He slid in next to her, causing the bed springs to creak, and in the low light of the moon he watched her eyes flicker beneath her eyelids.  Alex wondered what secrets lived in her dreams tonight.

Nora fell into the level of dreams where her mind floated free from fear; free from daytime conventionality.  She roamed wild like the feral creature she felt in her bones.  Even as he slipped beside her she drifted deeper into the realm of dreams.

In this sleeping world she walked among tall, wild grasses dotted with flowers wearing a gauzy white dress blowing in the soft breeze.  A small cottage sat at the end of a low hill with a swimming pond in front and surrounded by lush, mature gardens.  Variegated leaves in every shade of green punctuated by iridescent flowers where bumblebees, hummingbirds and butterflies danced.  Nora meandered down the hill, through the garden and stopped at the water’s edge where a pair of ducks fluttered their wings in displeasure at her intrusion.

As she dipped her toes into the cool water she heard moans from the cabin.  Soft at first but rising in waves crossing the gardens to Nora.  She glanced over her shoulder with a sudden sense that someone was watching her, distantly, from someplace outside her vision.  Inside the cabin she heard further cries of ecstasy.  She willed herself to stay standing, staring at her rippling reflection in the water, yet her body moved anyway.  A hummingbird swooped close to her ear and his wings sounded like a jet engine floating above her shoulder.

She tried to brush it away but a butterfly caught her finger and lifted her up, her feet only a few inches from the ground, and carried her to the front steps of the cabin.  She felt someone smile.  She stood a couple of feet from the entrance listening to the sounds coming from inside.  The sky overhead darkened with rain clouds as Nora tried to walk away but her feet remained stapled to the wooden steps of the cabin.  Slowly her mind registered the sounds.  Inside a couple made love with deep passion.  As the realization formed a scream of ecstasy punctuated the air.

Nora tossed in bed becoming restless.  Alex brushed a strand of hair from her face and smiled.

Thick drops of rain fell from the sky and Nora stepped further towards the door attempting to duck the sudden downpour.  A floorboard creaked beneath her feet and for a moment everything fell silent.  Nora held her breath until the couple continued, laughing, sighing, moaning happily and seemingly oblivious to anyone entering the cabin.  As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light Nora looked around the unfamiliar place.  A fire was dying in a field-stone fireplace with a pair of deer antlers hanging above the mantel.  There was an overstuffed chair and sofa, a rug, a coffee table and a couple of lamps.  Overall a sparsely decorated place.

Nora blinked and found herself standing outside the bedroom door.  The bed squeaked violently with the rhythm of the couple.  She tried to will herself away, back to the pond, or up the hill but the bedroom door slowly opened.  Inside she saw a familiar face.  A young man, the young man who lived next door.  She hated his girlfriend who always seemed to shout into her cell phone as she paced the driveway.  Her eyes widened in recognition.

The young man, Neil, was kissing the neck of another young man.  Someone with blonde hair and pale skin.  Muscular like Neil.  Nora thought she heard a laugh roll in with a clap of thunder.  She vaguely recognized the blonde man but couldn’t recall his name.  She knew he was a friend of Neil’s, he always visited when Neil’s girlfriend was away.  Neil looked up making eye contact with her yet nothing registered in his face, as though he stared at nothing more than the doorway.  Suddenly Nora felt her focus shift, her body feeling warm, and her fingers wrapped around blonde hair.  As she looked down into deep blue eyes she felt love.  More than love, she felt loved, felt understanding, felt freedom of being completely who she was meant to be, not her really, Neil, but she was Neil, they were the same, she felt Neil’s freedom in that moment of truth.

She also felt the shame, the secrets Neil was keeping, the truth he kept hidden from everyone but this blue-eyed young man.  The rain poured heavy on the roof sounding like they were beneath a waterfall with nothing more than a thin piece of tin to keep the water at bay.  Thunder echoed and lightning lit the room like a strobe light for a brief second.  In the moment of bright light Nora saw someone else looking at her, at them.

Alex smiled in the darkness.  Inhaling deeply, sighing slowly, he smiled at the exquisite taste of Nora’s dreams.  All the secrets she revealed, a rainbow of emotions, all the beautiful landscapes, all the smells and tastes she presented were beyond compare.  Stealing her dreams every night was all that sustained him in the dull world they inhabited.  He only survived the gray, nondescript blur of mundanity filled with mannequins because of Nora’s gorgeously feral mind.

 

Sunday Picture Press: Secrets

Week three already!  

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FICTION ENTRIES

Don’t miss this weeks great stories:

Dave Farmer prolific as ever!  This is a continuation, of sorts, from last week’s story.  This week he tells Felicity’s story in Missed Communication.

Mike submitted this one just under the wire!  Wonder What’s Keeping Them is another short yet fantastic read.

My entry this week was only 486 words but woke me early morning (I am not a morning person) to write it out before it slipped away — Unspoken.

Please let me know if I missed anyone!

VISUAL ART ENTRIES

Christina Deubel had a little art therapy with the theme this week!

Nate M O’Neill also submitted this brilliant piece:

Now, on to this weeks prompts!

THE RULES (FEEL FREE TO BREAK THEM):

The rules are simple:  Write between 50 to 1,500 words based on the photo of your choice.  Title, genre, and type (i.e. story, very short story, dialogue only, poem, lyrics, etc.) are your choice just indicate which visual prompt you chose (if you want to include the photo in your post, just click photo, then copy the link). No deadline unless you would like a link to appear on the weekly post with the new photos — then you must complete it before 12 pm ET (GMT -5) on the Sunday following this post.  If you want to share your piece after the deadline just leave a comment for others to follow. There are plenty of fantastic word prompts, theme prompts, and other challenges out there, so if a photo helps with one of those, feel free to combine and have fun!  If you don’t have a blog but want to join just email indigospider (dot) indigospider (at) gmail (dot) com (or use the contact page) to see what we can work out.

As always, everything is optional, it is all about having fun and being inspired.

THE VISUAL PROMPTS:

Note to all the visual artists: Please send a link to check out your portfolio if you are willing to give me permission to use your work in a future prompt.

Remember: Please include a credit to the original artist.  You can copy the link to the photo so when it displays on your blog it will include the credit I include under each photo.  Or, if you prefer the ‘clean’ look of the photo without a caption, please include a note somewhere on your post giving credit.  Thank you!

 

 

THE TWIST:

This week is all about secrets.  Keeping secrets, telling secrets, discovering secrets, hiding secrets!  Tell us the best secret story you can!

Also, feel free to use one of the artists submissions (like Dave did with Christina’s painting from last week) if you prefer that as a visual prompt.

Remember, the rules are only there for those who need that kind of thing.  The theme and visual prompts are there for you to use any way you choose.  You can use just the photo, you can use just the twist, you can combine them with other prompts you find out there in the wild wacky world of internet-land, you can write more or less, you can paint/photograph and write if you are one of those multi-talented types.  Heck, if you want to sculpt or create some sort of street art or activist stamp I sure as heck will post whatever link you send me!

That’s it, go forth and create.  Next weeks post will include links to all participants who either create a ping-back, drop a comment, send me a tweet (#sundaypicturepress or @theindigospider), or email.

SPP: Unspoken

Let There Be Light by Alex Markovich

Let There Be Light by Alex Markovich

The sun still had the soft, golden glow of morning, highlighting the dust I disturbed when I opened the shades.  Everything seemed quieter now that fall was here. Summer, with frantic bird calls, car radios blasting from open windows, children screaming and laughing, gardener’s with leaf blowers and people generally bustling about outside on warm days made it loud.  Fall, with crisp air and cooler skies, transitioned to silent winters; when the only sound was death’s calling among the crows.

I heard the crows outside now, calling raucously amongst each other in the bare treetops.  No doubt communicating where lunch was, a tasty road kill off Route 22, or where the hunters were gathering.

The cabin was dark and dusty from years of neglect.  It was tucked away in the far corner of my parent’s property; my father’s secret workshop.  I knew it was there, we all did, but no one ever actually went inside other than my father.  It was his space and we all assumed it was nothing more than another potting shed, although larger.  Everyone said I was serious like my father.  I always assumed my depression was from my mother but now I realize it’s from dad.

He told me as a child everyone has responsibilities and when you have big ones, like wife and children, you have to give up dreams to take care of them, to provide.  I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me.  I figured it was some life lesson on being responsible.  Now, sitting in the darkened, dusty cabin, the only light coming from the window, I understood what he really meant.

Strewn about the cabin were carved wooden sculptures, figurines of all types, some abstracts, and holding down a bunch of papers was a black steel rose.  I knew he made that rose at work, in his shop, between building skyscrapers.  He told me it was his way of doodling, bending steel to his whim.  I remember how he told me he learned his trade, iron worker, when the only jobs were to rebuild bombed out cities.  He liked to work with his hands, even though he preferred wood, so it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, he said.

I saw drawings, paintings, carvings, all sorts of artistic outpourings left to collect dust.  This is how my father spent his time, alone, in the cabin tucked away from all his responsibilities.  I found old movie reels where my father made stop-motion animation movies and found a collection of characters he created from clay collecting dust on a shelf near-by.  I heard him talking softly, telling me everyone has responsibilities that means giving up dreams.

As I stood afraid to touch, afraid to disturb all his creations, I wanted to tell him — you didn’t have to give up your dreams for me.