Photo Prompt July 2014

This prompt will last through the month of July. From the stories submitted I will select the 3-Paragraph Story which I find to be exceptional in areas of originality, description, emotion, paradox … and which strikes me as damn fine writing. And, I will take into account comments made by other writers to the stories. The winning story will be posted on a separate winner’s page. Writers may submit more than one story.

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. No edits will be permitted after your story is posted.

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

Jeff

15 thoughts on “Photo Prompt July 2014”

  1. Savant

    Pa would be mad if he knew I wasn’t studying my lessons while he and Ma are doing the chores. He doesn’t understand they’re so easy that I finish them before I leave the schoolhouse. Ma knows this is the only time I can play the piano, so she keeps Pa busy in the barn longer on nights when I’m supposed to be doing my lessons. This old piano has always been my best friend. Pa says only girls play the piano, so he won’t listen to my music. He doesn’t understand that it’s not the same as the music we sing in church. My music doesn’t have any words. One time Schoolmarm brought her gramophone to school and she played some records for us. She told us “this is classical music.” My music sounds a little bit like that.

    When I go to bed I think about the keys on the piano, and which ones will make the sounds I want. With my eyes closed I can see my hands playing those keys and hear the music in my head, even though I’m in bed. In the morning after Pa leaves for the fields, Ma asks me to play for her. Sometimes it makes her cry. I wonder if she’s crying because her boy is a sissy and doesn’t want to hunt and fish like the other boys.

    Schoolmarm is teaching me to make marks on paper so I can write the music that she let’s me play on the school piano. It looks pretty funny, five lines with a bunch of black dots on them, but when I look at what I’ve put down I know how to play it again. Schoolmarm said, “It’s called reading music. You have those long fingers because you were born to play. I believe someday you’ll be a famous pianist.” Would Pa listen to me then?

  2. galelikethewind said:

    Waitin
    © 2014 Gale Davis

    “You git on outa heah, hear me? This ain’t no place for girls. You sit on outside a spell, while me and the boys have us some beers.” Daddy always gits on me when I try to watch the TV when his ugly old friends come over.

    I kinda like sittin alone sometimes.I think about Momma mostly. She got the cancer last summer and died. So it’s jus me and Daddy now. With the crops failin and all, we goin through some tough times. Daddy keeps talkin about movin to Californy, but we don’t have the do-re-mi, if you know what I mean.

    He does worry about me sometimes. Like when he got all drunk last week and started cryin about how he was sorry he couldn’t buy me fancy dresses like the other girls have. What Daddy don’t know, is that I don’t want to be like those girls. I always feel much more natural in boy’s clothes. I wish I had the guts to tell Daddy how I feel deep inside about that. Aw, he would never understand.

    • You have a powerful storyline going here, Gale. Congrats!

      • Thanks, Meeg. I promise that I had seen your story before I wrote & posted mine. Similarities were entirely coincidental . ( country folk, vernacular, etc)
        I enjoyed your story a lot – nice how the shape of the hands inspired your theme.

    • Good tale, Gale, and one that is pertinent to today written in a well-designed three paragraph story. I’d like to read more about this father and daughter. A couple of things.

      I’d use heah twice in “You git on outa heah, hear me?” Why would he pronounce them differently. If this weren’t in dialect, wouldn’t you write them to sound the same?

      Consider deleting “if you know what I mean.” It’s a cliche. Yes, it’s how he speaks, but I’m not sure it’s needed.

      What if you delete the last sentence and let the reader decide how Daddy would feel? For me the next to last sentence tells me what I need to know.

      • Thanks for taking time to critique. I debated the heah & here issue, and decided that each of those words would have a different inflection. May heeya me?
        I agree with your suggestion for ending on 2nd to last sentence.

  3. Had NOT seen your story… Wow

  4. Krystyna Fedosejevs said:

    Understanding

    “You try that again, boy, and I’ll have to find you a new home,” Grandpa yelled shaking his cane. Ted didn’t answer. He knew where he had to go when he disobeyed. I stared at him and he at me, his sister, when the car I was in wheeled backwards off the driveway. Grandma had her hands firm on the steering wheel, didn’t glance his way. Ted had to sit on that bench for quite a while.

    I felt sorry for him, for myself too. Our life had been in turmoil since our parents died in a car accident. He had a more difficult time adapting to our new reality than I did. His teacher was lenient at first when Ted played hooky. She acknowledged he needed extra time to sift through his feelings. Eventually, he would straighten out and stride forward. When he continued having trouble concentrating on daily lessons, she wanted him to stay after school for extra help. I was often with him. Mrs. Bradley talked with both of us. I liked that. Our grandparents hardly did.

    The scolding Ted got from Grandpa today was not the first, but it was the most damning. Ted had become a serial thief.

  5. Gale, it didn’t bother me in the least that your take on the photo prompt was similar to mine. Quite the contrary, it excited me to think a real writer had thoughts along the same line.

  6. Cynthia said:

    She spotted him on the elegant, tourist-jammed streets of Rio. Upon his slender shoulders, balanced a rack of cheaply made sunglasses to sell. Twelve, alert, with eyes a lush, penetrating blue.

    His name was Bonito, or that is how the other members of Rios dispossessed, Brazil’s “throw-away” children reverantly addressed him. Menino bonito or “pretty boy” was what the nuns squeeled as they plucked him from the steps of the Candelaria Church, twelve years ago today.

    “Perde me” she swallowed, as she raced up to the slender boy. Pointing to his dusty glasses, then to her pale, contrite eyes, the young woman reached into her closely-guarded purse and handed him a weathered envelope.

  7. Cynthia, it looks as if you have the beginning of a very good story here. I’d love to read more.

    • Cynthia said:

      Thank you so much. As a person who is new to writing, your encouragement is so appreciated. By new to writing, I mean new to using the written word as a form of self-expression. I have come to this by way of fine art painting. At least, this is less messy.

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