Tag Archives: photography

April Theme: Corners

When I conjured up the theme for April, back in December, I was envisioning sunshine filtering through the branches creating long shadows that bend and fracture.  My mind thought corners.  But of course your corners could be a photo of the edge of an iPhone or a door jam, someone (or something) walking away, turning a corner.  Be creative with your photo and then write something fun to accompany it.

Dog Turning A Corner, 1980
By Fernando Botero

Then, most importantly, share!

Send your photos (via attachment and in jpg format) – paste your story/words into the e-mail body and send to:   

storiedimpressions at gmail dot com.

I’ll then post and we can all enjoy.

Have a great and creative April everyone!

Gretchen

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The Food Fight

Photo Credit: fineartamerica.com

This story is part of the Food Fight Write Routine  combined with Storied Impressions’ March Theme: NESTS

Story Starter
by Gretchen Fogelstrom

There were four of them.  Two were strong and loud; Sarah and Sally.  They reached higher, made more fuss, got more attention.  They seemed to take up more nest space too.

Two were scrawny and more reserved; Ralph and Rusty.  They let the girls bask in the attention of their parents.  They sat back and took what was left.  But it wasn’t enough.  They were always hungry and the girls stepped all over them.

Then one spring morning after dropping a large worm into each of the girls’ mouths, Father pulled out another one, snipped it in half and dropped the pieces into each of the boys beaks.  They swallowed.  They coughed. They felt alive.  Energy flowed and they stretched their wings.  It felt good.  They wanted more.

That evening as Father was flying over the river looking for food, he spotted a fisherman.  He was lying on the bank, boots floating in the water.  Seems odd for a fisherman to be lying down, thought Father.  So he circled round to get a better look.  As he swooped in he saw that the man’s hat was over his face and his belly was rising and falling in a rhythmic way.

Father landed and hopped over.  Curious about this massive up and down, Father jumped up on to the man’s belly and rode the rise and fall.  It was thrilling.  As the belly rose, Father would get a better view of all the equipment, bags and poles the man had scattered about him.  There was so much.  At the fall of the belly, he could nearly see straight up the man’s nose and witnessed tiny little hairs quivering as he exhaled.

At the next rise of the belly, looking once again at all the scattered stuff, he spied a bucket.  Hmmm, that could be interesting.  He hopped over and peered inside.

His eyes widened and he jumped back.  It couldn’t be.  He shook his head and flapped his wings and took a deep breath.  He jumped up to the rim and peered down.  It was half full.  Everything was moving.  Little slimy, wriggling worms.

Goldmine!  I have to get this home!

The bucket had a handle and he lifted it up with his beak.  Not too heavy so far.  He clutched the handle with his claws and he could get the bucket up a few feet.  But this wasn’t going to work.  Then he had an idea.  Grab the jacket lying next to the guy, cover the bucket, fly home as fast as possible, grab Mother and get back here.  Done.

He swooped in, told Mother of the amazing bounty and off they flew like lightning.  The girls chirped their disappointment and the boys, feeling confidence due to their somewhat full bellies, shushed them.

Together Mother and Father were able to lift the bucket and within an hour, after a few rest stops, they slung the handle over their home branch and exhaled.

The smell of those wiggly worms was too much.  Sally started an all-out tantrum, screaming at the top of her lungs for the food.  Then Sarah chimed in.  The noise was obnoxious.  The boys, sniffing the air and feeling a bit more self-assured, reached there small necks as high into the air as they could stretch and let out a bawl of desire their parents had never heard.

The girls stopped their screaming and gawked.  Mother and Father stared and then smiled.  Their boys were energized.

With a great show of abundance, Father picked up a claw full of worms and flung them into the nest.  The girls and boys went crazy.  Flapping wings, hopping around, diving beak-first into the squirming.  It was a mess of fun.

As Ralph was diving for a wiggling tail, it slipped through his beak and landed “slap” right on Sally’s face.

Everyone stopped.  Sally peeled the worm off her face and glared with squinted eyes at Ralph.  Rusty burst into laughter and Sarah, giggling, grabbed half a worm in her claw and squeezed.

~~~

Now You Help Me Finish It!

~~~

This post is part of FOOD FIGHT, the Onomatopoeia Appreciation Week.  The idea:  I start a story and take it right up to the point where a food fight ensues.  Then stop.  The story is then continued through YOUR individual comments.  Each new comment has to add on to the story where the comment before left off.  Also you have to add in as many ‘pows’, ‘zaps’, ‘zings’ – it is Onomatopoeia Appreciation Week after all.

Join me in this fun?  Let’s make a great story together!

We only have until 3/8 – so comment today!

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Filed under Contests and Such, March

Snow Birds

Snow Birds

Photo and Story
by AR NEAL

It is November; I and my family are preparing to travel to warmer climates, to new fields. Planting and harvesting is done here and it is time to move on. The children hate it, the moving, the change; they want to be like their classmates who stay in the same home all year. They want to go to school and stay in school. They tell mama and I to stay home when it is time for parent conferences because they are ashamed of our callused hands and poor language. I am a simple man who loves his children; I care not for formality but only for what is best for them. I too wish we could stay, not travel south to north and north to south, but that we could have a permanent nest like the blackbird who lives in the tree outside this home. He does not worry about his food for today but rests in the Lord for provision. I and many generations before me continue to labor for morsels, following the heat of the sun and the sprouting of the plants. My children don’t know but I have plans for them; this will be the last year we go. After this winter harvest, we will have enough to come back and call this place home.

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The Cornelian Cabochon

New Amazon Collection

Ring by Gisele Ganne: http://www.giseleganne.com/

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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Filed under February

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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Filed under Contests and Such, February, Uncategorized

The Big Day

Photo Credit: Ermisenda: http://ermisenda.tumblr.com/

Photo Credit: Ermisenda: http://ermisenda.tumblr.com/

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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Filed under February

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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Filed under February