A Picture’s Worth . . . How Many Words? # 2

Here’s the second photo in the series that began a couple of weeks ago:  A Picture’s Worth  . . . How Many Words? (Click on the link to see the first one.)

The point? A prompt that’s the opposite of a photo challenge. Instead of finding or shooting a photo to suit the word/s, you bring the words to the photo.

Maybe it’ll trigger a memory or  prompt a story or poem.  The possibilities are as limitless as your imagination!

So jump in . . . Write about what’s happening in the picture. Write what came before. Write what comes after. Take it anywhere you like . . .

I would love to see what you do! Post your first 100 words or a few lines of a poem in a comment. Or share a link to a longer piece.

Happy writing!

[The photo has a title, but I’m not going to give it to you!]
http://www.istockphoto.com / photo by CREATISTA

Wordle 63: July 1

Today’s Wordle 63 at The Sunday Whirl:

skin, lips, thin, snapshots, touch, other, act, hanging, gesture, stand, sent, utter

The result? A bit of flash fiction:  

light on snow — photo by Clay Jones

He stands silhouetted in the doorway, the light behind him, his hand on the frame as though it bears him up. His lips are drawn in a thin line, the words he’s just uttered hanging heavy now in the space between him and the woman.

He tells himself what he’s done is an act of mercy. He’s cut her loose, sent her away. She cried, but she’ll get over it. Some other guy will spot her in a bar or an elevator or on the subway and know she’s what he wants, and in a week or two or maybe a month, she won’t be so angry. But she won’t forget.

She crosses the parking lot and doesn’t look back, and in that light, her skin is the color of pale in faded snapshots. He has to admit she’s a class act, better than he deserved.

What will he remember? Her last gesture, how she touched his cheek, just barely, like a whisper. He imagines her still standing there, her breath suspended in the air like frost.

Sunday Wordle: June 17

Here are the words from Wordle 61 at The Sunday Whirl: blend, latch, chest, current, draft, string, crack, spare, temper, refrain, racket, trace, strike.

These words seemed to want to be a poem. Here’s a draft:

Muddle

Outside, the air’s a rare blend of jasmine

and wood smoke from the grill. My chest hurts

from hunching over the computer too long,

this draft a muddle of temper, a racket of voices.

 

I need something spare: a bare room, silence,

a crack in the face of time. There’s too much noise

in here; it drags me down its racing current.

I wait for the clock to strike the ending.

 

Where’s the latch and string when I need it,

a simple exit where not a trace of sense

remains: not jasmine, not smoke, not even this

refrain of words, scrabbling to be heard.

cane chair in sunlight