Photo Prompt January 2015

This prompt will last through the months of January and February. Stories should be brief and in 3 paragraphs and capture the moment.  More than one story may be submitted. From the stories submitted, authors will vote on their favorite story based on concept and creativity. One vote per author regardless of the number of stories submitted. I hold the tie-breaker.

There is no need to rush to be the first poster, so please take your time and edit, edit, and edit. I want your best story posted when you have honed it sharper than your severest critic’s tongue.

If you know of a writer who might like to participate, please send them the link.

If it’s not clear, the collage of photos at the top of the page is the prompt.





5 thoughts on “Photo Prompt January 2015”

  1. Dan Slaten said:

    Happy Birthday

    Glen looked at the photo collage the kids had given him for his birthday this year. His eyes wandered to the faded pictures of people he hadn’t seen in more years than he cared to count. He recognized his parents, his aunt, a cousin, his younger brother, and an uncle who had gone off to fight in some far away war. His eyes lingered on one photo in particular, one from an early birthday party. He was about to open a present. He didn’t remember who the gift was from or what it was, but there was something about the look in his eyes that he wished he could recapture.

    Glen used to love birthdays. He loved the presents, he loved the parties, he loved the cake, and he loved the attention. Back then he also loved how he could remember each one of his birthdays, which wasn’t hard to do when you hadn’t had very many of them. Each one seemed special, unique, the one day every year that celebrated his very existence.

    Birthdays were different now. He still got presents, though not as many as he used to. He still got cake too, assuming he asked Marge to buy one ahead of time. The attention was limited to the kids calling to wish him a happy birthday, and if he was lucky, maybe one of the grandkids would call as well. The parties had ended a long time ago, however, and asking him to remember specific birthdays was like asking him to recite a poem he had learned in junior high school; it wasn’t going to happen. But today, looking at a picture of his younger self celebrating a birthday he no longer quite recalled, Glen smiled and made a wish. Every birthday from here on out was going to be special again, whether he remembered them or not.

  2. Good Bye Dad

    My dad was a tortured soul. Agoraphobia, coupled with a severe gambling addiction,made his life and the lives of his family miserable at best. As I was growing up, I recall that no one he touched escaped his con for money to feed the poker parlors in Gardena, or the Santa Anita racetrack in Arcadia. Mom was always struggling to feed our family of five kids.

    At age fifty-three, I am convinced that he willed himself to have a heart attack and die. I figured it was his way to escape the misery of his daily life of lies and cheating friends and family alike to cover his losses. He was at the Sahara Tahoe Hotel at the time of his attack, working as a lowly floor sweeper in the Casino. He had long lost his job as a staionary engineer at that wonderful property. A job he had secured by calling in a few favors from an old high school friend.

    As the oldest sibling, I took on the funeral arrangements. Mom could not have handled it. She was still in shock from not only his death, but from learning that her last paycheck for her maid’s job at the Sahara had been picked up by her husband the day before he died, and was long gone. I had been burned by my dad so many times that I found it difficult to prepare any kind of eulogy or memorial to him. As I was helping mom clear out their meager apartment, I found a drawer full of old photographs in his dresser. I decided to just pin them up on a bulletin board near the casket. Good bye, dad.

  3. Hi Gale, thank you for your entry, Jeff

  4. oliviascarlett said:

    Fragments of Time

    After Grandmother’s funeral, I sit next to my grandfather as he pulls out a crumbled box from underneath his bed. “Somewhere here, in this old box, is a picture of me and your grandmother. We were ice skating on Weaver’s pond surrounded by the slow majestic ballet of snowflakes when the picture was taken.” Grandfather rubs his creased and weary hands over the box and asks me to help him find the picture. “We were both twenty-one,” he adds.

    “Maria wore a bright blue coat that day with a red hat trimmed with white fur. But, of course, you won’t be able to tell this, the picture was taken in black and white; all we had back then.” I pour through the mountain of pictures in the beat up old box and comment briefly on the stories they each tell of so many lives: my mother, my father, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts and cousins. But, for now, as Grandfather waits patiently, I continue to search for the precise picture he has described and set the others off to the side.

    As I continued to search, Grandfather fills up the space between us with his memories. “I proposed to my Maria that day on Weaver’s pond. I want the picture propped up next to my bed so she knows I will always remember her.” Finally, I reach the bottom of the box and sure enough, I find the picture, albeit tattered and torn. I hand the crumpled piece of time to Grandfather who rubs his hands over the scratches and tears as I describe it to him. “I will always see the fragments of time which enriched my life,” he explains as he continues to caress the photograph in his hands. He then dips his head in my direction; appreciation for his eyes which are now blind.

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