Monthly Archives: February 2013

February Winner of the Clematis Award

Clematis Award IconClematis Winner for February 2013

Red Ribbon
by Alexandra Weston
Twitter: @AlexWestonyork

Congratulations to Alexandra for a beautiful photograph and words.
Alexandra, feel free to download the Clematis Award icon to let your followers know of your great success!

And a BIG Thank You to all who voted!

To read Alexandra’s winning piece go to the Clematis Winner’s Circle page.

Then participate for MARCH – the theme is: Nests

Take a photo of something you consider to be a nest and then write a short (250 words-ish) piece to accompany the photo.  Email me (storiedimpressions (at)gmail(dot)com) your photo (jpg) and words and I’ll post on this blog shortly thereafter.

Have fun, enter as often as you like.  Looking forward to seeing and reading great things from you all.

Here’s to March!


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Voting Time!

Clematis Award IconTime to Vote for February’s
Clematis Award Winner.

Voting is only open 24 hours.
~  So don’t delay!  ~


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The Cornelian Cabochon

New Amazon Collection

Ring by Gisele Ganne:

Story by
Gretchen Fogelstrom

She awoke in the darkness.  Her eyes opened but the blackness was complete.  She took a breath and felt the deep chill of the air rush into her.  As panic tugged at every fiber of her body she began to move her arms into the surrounding space, hoping to feel, something.

The air seemed to grow colder as she reached out from her body.  Trying to control her trembling, she started inching herself up to a sitting position.  As she moved, her leg slipped off an edge, nothing below, just empty.  She quickly retracted and started to scoot away, but her hand slipped off another edge and she teetered prone, half on and half off of, something.  Stifling a scream she made herself freeze. Stop, take control!

Slowly, rotating to her hands and knees, she gained solid ground.  Slow down, she told herself, see with your touch, move slowly.   The flat stone she was on sloped upward toward a rough wall of sorts.  Taking a deep breath, she inched herself closer to the solid wall and exhaled.  Now think!

And then it all rushed back to her.

She felt her finger and yes, it was there;  the blood red Cornelian Cabochon, the Life-Ring of the Amazonian Under-Lord.  The gift was from an antiquities dealer she had supplied for many years.  As he grumbled about having to pay her high fees  he turned, winked and tossed her a small package.

“What’s this?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just a knock-off, thought you’d find it funny considering what you went through to get that last piece for me” he shrugged.  Then added “Don’t say I never gave you nothin’.”

As she opened the box to the exquisite ring.  He told her it was just a re-production and with a snicker, said not to worry, the legend wasn’t true anyway, so the Under-Lord wouldn’t miss it.

As she left him, she chuckled, she had saved the best piece to auction off herself.  That sleaze isn’t paying me enough for all I do for him.  Walking through the steaming streets of La Boca, she felt a movement between her fingers, slippery and slimy.  As she looked down at her hand the skull head on the ring twisted and turned its head up to hers, the eyes piercing a yellow glow.  Then the red pool of the cornelian began to swirl faster and faster and then splashed over onto the cobblestones.  Hissing and spitting the stones broke apart and she was sucked through, down, down, down.


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Dwelling On The Mystery

Oscar + Museu de ArtePhoto and Story
by Gretchen Fogelstrom

He just sat there staring.  I think he could see his own reflection in the glass.  But from my angle it looked like he was dwelling on the tears streaming down her face.  I could almost hear him say to himself, “why, why does she cry?” as he cocked his head to the right.

He sat there for nearly an hour.  So quiet. So still. Just staring.

Then, slowly he raised his paw, reaching out to touch the red side of her face, sweet and caressing.  It was so gentle and full of emotion.  His paw curling and un-curling.

His head righted and then all of a sudden he jumped, straight into the picture, the blue and white strands of her hair parted and he was gone.  I think I saw a small upward movement in the corners of her mouth and the tracks of her tears seemed to fade.


The Trifecta weekly challenge word: DWELL, combined with Storied Impressions theme: RED.

I took the photo of this painting I have hanging in my house – painted for me by the Director of the Museo de Arte in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala 20 years ago!  And then super-imposed the silhouette of my cat Oscar.

Ever thought of jumping into the world of a painting?


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The Big Day

Photo Credit: Ermisenda:

Photo Credit: Ermisenda:

Story by Gretchen Fogelstrom

The morning had been dark and threatening.  My mood was the same.  I felt I couldn’t rise to the occasion.  Even if the occasion was a celebration of Me.  But did I really have any choice?

My friends, thank goodness I have good friends, had been organizing a party to celebrate my 50th birthday, under the stars, with sparkling lights of all colors, a fun band, good food and drink and probably lots and lots of dancing.

I had to pull out of my funk.  I needed to feel alive, not half-way to dead.  But just as I was about to crawl  back-under the covers a knock at the door.  I grumpily got up and opened to my dearest friend, coffees in hand.   “Happy Birthday” she gently said as she noticed my scowl.

In her hand was a not only coffee, which I took greedily, but a bag with the insignia of my favorite dress shop.  As she sat down she told me that I had half an hour to shower and then she was whisking me off to a day at the spa – full treatment.  Just us girls.  Being 50 was going to start off with luxury and end with laughing on the dance floor, according to her.

I couldn’t help but smile.  Before I could rise to shower, she pulled out of her bag the beautiful red dress I had been eying for a month, but couldn’t justify the cost.  I couldn’t help but start to cry.  How could I possibly have such an amazing friend?  50 was going to be great.


Picture It & Write!   I decided to combine Storied Impressions RED theme with Picture It & Write’s photo prompt this week – hope you enjoyed!


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Red Mini

red miniPhoto and Story
by Neens

I remember the miles of open grey road
Tom sitting comfortably behind my wheel,
The time he took Rose to the Town Hall
to dance the night away.

Her lipstick smile, when we pulled up
to greet her with a large bouquet of red and pink roses,
How she ruffled her dress as she slid
carefully into my passenger seat.

For years they sat inside me,
Laughing and talking long journeys through,
Tuning in my crackly radio and praising
me for my faithful service.

Tom started to worry that I would break down,
Cost them money they no longer had,
Rose filled out paperwork for bus passes,
tried her best to convince Tom to accept.

He hid it inside my glove box
And drove me through the Winter and into the Spring,
Patting the seat where his wife used to sit.
Talking to me in lieu of her absence.

Tom’s bus pass is still in my glove box,
I am just as I was left, minus my driver,
Rose could never bring herself to sell me,
I am part of their story.

Sitting out here, marking
the passing of time.


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Red Ribbon (423x640)Story and Photo
by Alexandra Weston

Twitter: @AlexWestonyork

I twisted the ribbon nervously around my fingers.  It was red for love, red for loss. 

Around the tree other ribbons flapped in the breeze.  I caught a white one. Letters were written on it in a language I didn’t understand but I could tell I held a prayer.

That faith shamed me.  I had none.  I didn’t even know why I was here.  I didn’t really believe in the thorn tree or the legend of its origins.  How likely was it that Jesus’ uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, had actually come to Glastonbury?  And if he did, that this tree had taken root and grown from his staff?

So why was I here? What had made me trudge up this hill with a ribbon in my pocket? 

There was only one answer to that.  I was as broken as the tree.  Only my wounds were a lot less visible than the vandalism the holy thorn had suffered. 

I stretched out my hand and rested it on the trunk.  My finger brushed against a small, bright green shoot pushing through the bark.  A tiny sign of regrowth, of hope. 

Suddenly, I was crying.  With shaking fingers I tied my ribbon with the others.  Held it tightly as words tumbled out of me, whispered to the wind and the silent tree.  Then I let it go and my red ribbon fluttered brightly, joining the tapestry of prayers woven around the holy thorn.



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Story and Photo
by Christine Funk

Mac’s favorite color went from pink to red. His favorite shirt is his red Spiderman shirt.  His favorite boots have red on them. Red is part of our new world. All colors in fact have become important because we are learning to identify them.  I never thought colors would be hard to learn, but for little ones it takes some time and repetition.  His Omi, my mother, sent us a wonderful Christmas Advent Calendar  this year with little cubbies for each day containing art, art painted by my mom sent with love to her grandson.  Red was a prominent color within all the objects and the collage seems to have a red hue to it producing an art piece that Mac loves…his favorite new art in his room.


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3-1 Household Oil

Photo and Story
by AR Neal

Adeleine and Alestair had been together for more years than either of them could remember. They’d met on the farm as teenagers; her ma milked cows for his pa, their families had been friends and neighbors forever, and so it was natural that the two of them would become a couple.

Three children and many acres later, here they were. It was their anniversary and she was furious at him. Not once in all the years they’d been married had Alestair ever taken her out or bought her something nice, other than something for the kitchen. She sighed, figuring that was what he thought she wanted. They loved each other purely, but their communication had never been quite…on.

Alestair was a strong man whose love was as fierce as his anger; he hated it when he didn’t know what to do, especially where Adeleine was concerned. It was their anniversary and he wasn’t sure what to get her. He’d secretly hitched up the wagon and had it washed and decked with flowers. The package with the dress in it was hidden under a hay bale in the back. It was already dusk and he figured she would be mad, thinking he’d forgotten.

He walked up onto the porch to find her standing at the screen door with her arms crossed. He had the invitation behind his back, under his hat. She huffed as he looked at her and cleared his throat. “Now woman, you know’ed I love you more’n anything in this world. I figgered out a nice present for ya since it is our anniversary afterall. Can’t say as I’m good a figurin’ so’s I admit I forgot how many years it’s been but I’m grateful for the household y’keep for me.” He could tell she was softening but since she was about as stubborn as he, she wasn’t giving in. “Anyways, the way I see it, all we need is some loosenin’ up and we’ll have a nice evenin.” He stepped to the side so she could see the wagon. Her eyes widened and a smile teased the corners of her lips. He knew he had her hooked, and went for the punchline: “Maybe this’ll help us both.” He handed her the beat-up little metal can and her cheeks turned as bright as its bottom as she laughed and laughed.


So – what do you think of the picture and/or story?
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Making It Easier for You to Participate

Here are the NEW Instructions:

Send your photos (via attachment and in jpg format) and story/words to the following e-mail:  storiedimpressions at gmail dot com

Please make the size of your photo a max of 680 pixels horizontally so it will fit prominently in the blog.

In the body of the email – paste your story/words.

Please include your name and website so that I can give you full credit.

Looking forward to having you participate!

Click here for more details.

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12 Midnight

12 Midnight

Photo and Story
by Gretchen Fogelstrom

Careening along the high cliff road, the Spitfire kept spinning out at each turn.  Frank had to make it.

If I’m late, no, can’t think that way.  I will make it. Damn this car.

Inside the cabin, the clock was ticking.  It was one of the old fashioned ones and its tick was loud.  A heartbeat.  Her heartbeat. Was the ticking getting faster? The clock had been placed in the only direction her secured head could see.  She squeezed her eyes closed.  He wasn’t going to make it.

Abruptly the door swung open and a man in a red sweatshirt walked in and cut the bindings holding her to the chair.  He grabbed her still tied arms and forced her up.  Out the door and towards the cliff.  The clock had two minutes left on it.  It wasn’t fair.  He has two minutes! “He has two minutes!” she screamed.  The man just laughed and yanked her forward.  “Best to be prepared and ready to go” he said in a leisurely way, as if he knew something she didn’t.

As the cliff drew closer she could hear the crashing of the waves down below.  It was a short drop, but the sharp rocks at the bottom would end her.  She craned her neck to the road, wishing for headlights.

As she reached the precipice, toes shoved to the very edge, she thought she heard the Spitfire.  She struggled in the arms of her captor, twisting to see if he had come. The red sweatshirted man lost his grip for one second. And as she turned, searching the road for headlights, her foot slipped. The cliff edge crumbled.  It was if she were floating.  Floating.

The Spitfire rounded the corner at 12 midnight exactly.


So – what do you think of the picture and/or story?
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RED: Survival

Photo and Story
by Gretchen Fogelstrom

Sharply he turned and plopped the last ice-cold berry into her mouth.  It felt brusque and she hadn’t been expecting it.  She thought he would save them for a more desperate time.

But now they were gone.  They had eaten all of them. There was nothing else.

Just as quickly, Jake rose and brushed his hands as if they were dusty.  His nervous energy was keeping him warm.  Justine felt a terror gripping her chest.  She couldn’t move.  She needed him.  She looked down and saw that the blood had frozen into a kind of cast around her knee.

If the search crew didn’t find them soon, she wouldn’t make it.  But as she thought this, her mind went somewhere, wandering.  She couldn’t control it.  It was as if it, she, were floating above her.  She looked down and saw lots of frozen, little, red berries all around her leg.  She couldn’t believe how sloppy Jake had been.  She reached out and tried to grab them, harshly, but one at time.  But her fingers kept missing them.  Desperate, she began clawing at them and soon she was screaming.

Where was Jake, why wouldn’t he help her?  She needed nourishment.  She needed to survive. Where was he?

As Jake turned to see Justine grabbing at the bloody snow that lay around her, he heard the deep swoosh of their saviors’ wings.


So – what do you think of the picture and/or story?
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February’s Theme: RED!

So January flew by!  And here we are skipping into the “love” month, hand-in-hand, with both arms swinging.   Excellent.  Time to get right down to the Theme of the month: RED.

Hope to see many fun posts by lots of new participants!

Won’t you join me on this lovely adventure?

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