Tag Archives: writing

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!


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Filed under April

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?


Filed under Contests and Such, February, Uncategorized

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.


Filed under February

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?
Leave a comment!


Filed under February

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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Filed under February

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?
Leave a comment!


Filed under February

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?
Leave a comment!


Filed under February