Showing posts with label PFC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PFC. Show all posts

April 21, 2008

PFC #4

As we move on the the fourth edition of the Picture Fiction Challenge I can tell you that this thing has become a much bigger success than I could have ever imagined. And, there have been some excellent stories written, so it has been a whole lot of fun blog-hoppin' and reading up on your stories. I would like to take this opportunity give my thanks for participating to those who do, and also a big Thank You to those who do not participate, but still show up to read and comment on the stories.

Any newcomers who would like to try their hand at this writing exercise are of course welcome - last month saw yet another couple of newbies who offered some really good stories. You will be able to access last months stories from the sidebar links all month.

And, don't forget to check out the ARCHIVES for previous PFC entries!

The deadline for PFC#4 will be set at May 14th - May 16th, which should give you ample time to write a story.

If you're new to the game, you might want to read through the rules below. If not - scroll on down and get a peek at the pictures for next months story!

THE PICTURES:
Each picture below represents a certain aspect of the story. Analyze each picture and try to interpret what you see into the specific category the picture represents.

Character(s): The main character(s) of your story. This is the person(s) whose perspective the story is told through. You can have any number of additional characters, but the one(s) on this picture are who we will relate to.

Objective: This is the overall objective of the story. That which our main character is trying to achieve - what the MC is trying to reach. This is the objective of the story.

Setting: The place where the story unfolds.

Item: An item of significant* importance to the story.

Random: This could be a picture of anything at all, and what you see on that picture must have a significant* importance in the story you write.

*significant. That means that these things do not simply appear in a fleeting moment in the story. They hold an importance to the events that unfold, and are as such necessary to the outcome and progression of the story.

THE STORY:

All of the picture representations must be present in the final story.

The story you write can be as long or short as you wish.

You can write the story in either first or third person perspective.

The story must be a fictional story.

DEADLINE & POSTING:

The deadline to post the story on your blog will be between 14th - 16th of May. Not sooner - not later! (Ideally, everyone posts on the 14th, but I'm giving you a couple extra days because there are many reasons one may not be able to post on a specific day)

Let me know in a comment when you have posted your contribution, so I can add a link to your blog (and story) in a list of all participants on my sidebar.

Read the other people's stories (only after you've posted your own) and comment on their writing.


Those are the rules and here are the pictures that we get to work with for Picture Fiction Challenge #4:

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Remember! You can click the pictures here and go to the Flickr page they came from, so you can see higher resolution versions of them.

Lots of colorful pictures this time around, and I'm hoping to see lots of colorful stories to go with it in mid May.

Don't forget to check back tomorrow for the WWC!

April 17, 2008

PFC #3: "The Spirit Of Loa"

After a bit of a garbage delay and some serious writer's block, I am finally able to present a story for this months Picture Fiction Challenge. I had to bang my head several times against the surface of my desk to shake out a few words today, hehe.

Anyway - as you probably have noticed, I've been keeping the links up to date on the sidebar here, as well as in the archives - so I hope you all got around to read some good stories. I've been longing to do the same myself, but as it is nearing midnight here, I might have to save a couple of them for tomorrow.

I might just as well tell you this before I present my story. The next PFC challenge will be announced on Monday. I've decided to present the next challenge quickly after the last one - that way we get a little more time to write. And - if you're anything like me - the inspiration level is higher right after you have posted and read these things, so maybe that'll help us all get a good jump.

Well, enough of the chit chat - you have plenty of reading ahead of you as it is!

Here is my story:

********** THE SPIRIT OF LOA **********

She weaseled her way down the streets in the Harbor District area, head down and a firm grip on her guitar case. She hurried as fast as she could walk, without running. She avoided making eye contact with anyone on the street. Dressed in a green mini-skirt and a red sleeveless top, her masculine features made her look like some crazed cross-dresser. Anywhere else in town she would draw attention simply by the way she looked. Not down here in the Harbor District. Down here is where all the low lives roamed the streets - the hookers, the tricks, the homeless, the druggies and their dealers. Every now and then she would lift her gaze to check out the surroundings and try to localize where she was, and where she needed to go.

She had to be close now.

An hour earlier she had left the hotel behind. The other girls were asleep, and she had gone up, grabbed her guitar and then she ran down the hall, down the stairs – too nervous to wait for the elevator – and through the lobby and out onto the streets. She was leaving her old life behind. She was leaving the band, the girls and the life she sold her soul to get.

Growing up had been tough. She fought, she drank, fucked around and did drugs and alcohol. Her life was destined to be a short one, likely raped, murdered and left dying in the gutter of some deserted alleyway. She contemplated suicide often, but she loved her guitar. Playing her music made her feel good – playing her music is what would keep her sane and even alive. Her music was angry. She let everything out of her when she plugged the electric guitar into the amplifier.

She wanted stardom. She wanted the world at her feet as she played them her music.

That’s what Anabel had promised her. That’s what Anabel gave to her. And, now she was running away from it all, fearing for her life.

Maxime Steel stopped for a second to catch her breath. She felt her heart pounding in her chest – even in her ears as she leaned against a wall. She looked up, trying to figure out where she was. She didn’t know this city at all – this was the first time she’d ever been here, but this place could provide her salvation. If the stories she heard were true, there was a small voodoo shop in one of the back alleys down here. The magician who ran the place was well known among practitioners of Voodoo. Pierre-Jean Brassard was a master magician, and only he would have the powers to save her from her fate.

Her head snapped to her side as she heard a chirping sound. Her eyes fell on a yellow-rumped warbler as it landed in a small planted tree on the sidewalk. In its mouth was a worm, squirming helplessly for a second, before the beautiful bird cocked its head back and seemed to swallow it whole. Maxime watched in fascination. Spring was in the air – she’d seen a bird just like it outside the window of her hotel room as she dressed up in a hurry and grabbed the guitar case. She had to move on, before someone noticed her guitar, and wanted to steal it from her.

The guitar she could live without. It was the thing that was lying next to it in inside the guitar case she needed to protect. The thing Anabel had given to her - the thing which held her soul captive. The Loa Doll.

Anabel showed up that one day when Maxime and her band “Butch Bitches” were looking for a new singer. The Butch Bitches were just an obscure garage punk band of girls looking to blow off some steam. Occasionally they would play in some backstreet joint where people were generally so blacked out or stoned that they couldn’t make sense of any kind of music, but Maxime always wanted the band to be her salvation. She wanted to play in front of thousands of adoring fans, screaming her name and going crazy as she ripped a vicious solo. But, she was never a good enough guitar player to go beyond an angry, monotonous riff from start to finish of a song.

Anabel was a raw singer. Perfect for the band, and she said she could make the Butch Bitches a raving success. Maxime wanted it – the other girls did too. A ticket out of poverty was the lure.

But, there was a price to pay.

“Sell your soul to Loa”, she had told her.

“Loa?”, Maxime had asked her, thinking she would do anything for fame.

“Loa is a powerful Voodoo spirit. If we give our souls to Loa, Loa will give us fame and fortune”.

So, Anabel had given her the Loa Doll, and Maxime had spilled her blood onto it. She will never forget that day, as she could feel her soul being drained from her body. She felt as if she was high on some incredibly powerful drug, and she felt invincible. From then on she had never looked back. From then on the road to stardom lay in front of her, and the Butch Bitches were now playing in front of crowds of 20-30 thousand fans.

But, there was a price to pay, and as the crowds grew larger the price went up. Loa wanted blood, sacrificial blood. And to honor their God, the Butch Bitches would take unsuspecting fans to a “party” after the show, where they killed them ceremoniously and sacrificed their blood to Loa. It had always struck Maxime as fascinating how easily the fans would let themselves be murdered, but they too – the fans – were under the powerful spell of Loa. Their music drew them in, captivated them and made them want to die for him.

But, Maxime wanted out.

The yellow-rumped warbler took flight and Maxime watched as it flew around the corner into a narrow alley.

Down there, she thought. That’s where it is.

She started walking again. Faster than before, eager to look down that street. She couldn’t explain it, but she just new that the Brassard Laundr-O-Mat would be down there, and behind the laundry machines there would be a small draped passage leading to a flight of stairs to the second floor. That was where the voodoo shop was.

Maxime rounded the corner, and saw what she had been hoping to see. The place looked run down and for a second she thought it may have closed. Forever. That would be just her luck. She could not turn back now. Anabel would know by know that she had eloped, and the punishment for that would be severe. Anabel would evoke Loa’s rage upon her, and her fate would be far worse than death alone.

Unable to hold her composure any longer, Maxime started running down the street. As she stopped just outside the door, she noticed the yellow-rumped warbler sitting on top of a fire hydrant… as if it were looking at her.

She walked inside. No one seemed to be there. All the machines stood still and empty. The smell of incense was powerful, and comforting. The incense assured her that she was in the right place.

Behind a large clothes dryer, she noticed the small passage, covered only with a colorful beaded drape. She went through it and ran up the stairs – praying that Pierre-Jean would be there.

She came upstairs and saw a jungle of paraphernalia. Crows feet, dried lizards and chicken heads. All sorts of dolls, incense and jars full of things she didn’t even want to know what they were. But, no sign of another human being.

She looked at the many different voodoo dolls, and was relieved that she didn’t see one that resembled her own. The Loa Doll was much too powerful, and if Pierre-Jean would have them in the store, Maxime would be worried that he too, like Anabel, belonged to Loa. Loa was an evil spirit.

“Lady, you look like you was run over by a freight train”.

She spun around, surprised at the voice behind her. She came face to face with a large Haitian man, tattooed and pierced like he added one each day to his face… for the past 20 years. He had dreadlocks, and colored beads – making him look like a crazed punked out rasta man. His eyes penetrated her very soul… had she had one.

“Brassard?”, she asked. “Are you Pierre-Jean Brassard”.

“You are a lady of question. You have a purpose”, he motions to an old arm chair. “Let us sit.”

Maxime didn’t want to sit. She needed to know she was speaking to the right man… her life depended on it.

“I asked you a fucking question. Are you Brassard?”

That dead stare of his wouldn’t leave her eyes, and she was getting uncomfortable with it.

“What troubles you, lady? And for what do you seek the guidance of the spirits?”

“I’m not talking to anyone but Pierre-Jean”, Maxime says and sits down in the arm chair. She found she was too exhausted to stand up any more.

“Then speak, troubled lady”. His eyes never leaving hers, penetrating deep. Was he looking for her soul? You keep looking fucker, she thought. You’re not going to find it in there. My soul is trapped in a fucking doll in my fucking guitar case.

As if he could read her mind, Pierre-Jean’s gaze wandered to her guitar case. Then back to her eyes.

“Well, you better fucking be Brassard then. I’m in some deep shit, and I hear you can help me.”

He sits down in front of her, in an identical arm chair facing the one she is sitting in. For a second his gaze shifts back to her guitar case. She gets the feeling he is a little nervous after all – despite his unfaltering eyes.

“Show me”, he says.

“Shit man…”, she begins. “I don’t know where the hell to start. It is bad… it is really fucking bad, and-“, she is interrupted.

“Lady, I don’t want to hear. I want to see. Show me what is in that guitar case”.

“Maybe I need to explain…”, she could almost feel his eyes penetrating her – forcing her to stop talking. “Ok. Fine.”

She picks up the guitar case and opens it up. Carefully holding the guitar up, so that she can reach into the small compartment where the Loa Doll is hidden. As she touches it, she feels a razor sharp pain shooting through her entire body. The doll is small, brown with piercing black eyes. It’s mouth is a gaping wound of blood red with a line of sharp teeth on the top and bottom.

She takes it out and holds it out to him.

His face paled instantly, and she could hear his breath slowing down – almost ceasing completely. But, his eyes never falter.

“Loa…”, he whispers.

“Yes!”, she almost shouts. “It’s a fucking Loa Doll, and I want my fucking soul back!”

“Silence!”, he screams at her, and stands up quickly. “Do not curse in the presence of a Loa Doll! You do not want to anger it, Lady”

“Can you help me?”, she gets up herself. Walking toward him, with the doll held out in front of her. He takes a step back.

“Maybe…”, he says. “Loa is a powerful spirit. Lady put the doll back where it belongs”

“I don’t want it”, she says. “I want you to bring my spirit back to me and get rid of this fucking doll”.

“Put it back!”, he screams at her. “And, stop with the cursing! I will try to help, but I can’t help you here. You can only help yourself, and I will give you what you need. Then you leave here, lady. Far from here, and you help yourself”

Desperate, and defeated, Maxime puts the doll back in the guitar case. Pierre-Jean watches intently as she does so.

“Good”, he says. “I don’t want Loa to see me”. Then he turns and starts going through a lot of stuff in the store. He is putting together some things in a small wooden box, and after a short while he returns and holds out the box to her. She puts her hands on it, and as she does, Jean-Pierre clamps both his hands onto hers and squeezer her hands tight.

“Take this, lady. Go far away - out of this city. Only then must you open this box. Only then must you see what is inside, or your soul will be lost forever.”

Those eyes of his look into hers so powerfully that she can barely breathe.

“Thank You”, she says for the first time in her life. “How much do I owe you?”

“You owe me only one thing, lady. Do not open the box until you are out of the city.” He lets go of her hands. “Now, go!”

She takes her guitar case and the small wooden box, and hurries down the stairs. As she exits the Laundr-O-Mat she notices the warbler still waiting for her on the fire hydrant. As soon as she notices it, it takes flight again. She watches as it flutters down the alley, and lands on top of a car.

Maxime runs after it. The bird was showing the way – she knew that now. The bird was showing her the way to freedom. She had stolen many a car in her youth, and she knew she could still do it. She ran up to the drivers side door and crashed the windshield with her elbow. Pain shot up through her arm as blood started pouring out of the wound. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

She unlocked the door and hopped inside, quickly breaking off the panel underneath the steering wheel, and expertly – as if it was only yesterday – wired it started. The bird suddenly took flight again and disappeared into the night.

“Thank you little birdie”, she said after it and then she drove.

She drove fast, but careful. She didn’t want to be stopped by the police now. Not when she was so close. She got on the highway and left the city behind. Soon after the city lights were behind her, she took an exit and went down a small road headed towards the mountains.

When she was certain that she was far from civilization, and no cars would be passing through, she pulled over to the side of the road, and stopped the car. She grabbed the small wooden box Pierre-Jean had given her and stepped out of the car. Her heart was pounding heavily in her chest. Was this finally it? Was this the end of the Hell she’d been going through for all those years?

No more sacrifices. No more blood spilled. No more death on her conscious. No more Anabel and the girls of Butch Bitches. Only freedom!

She heard something rustling the leaves of the trees to her side, and turned toward the sound – half expecting to see what she did see.

The yellow-rump. It landed on some branches, and sat there looking at her.

“You are my savior, little birdie”. She opened the small wooden box in her hands. Inside was a small black voodoo doll. She didn’t like the look of it, as when she looked at it, it sent shivers down her spine. Next to it was a tiny note, neatly folded.

She took the note out, and unfolded it. Then she looked over to her little savior bird.

“Lets get my soul back, huh? Fuck Loa!”. The bird chirps, as if in agreement. That’s what she thought. “Yeah…”, then she read the note:

DO NOT BETRAY THE SPIRIT OF LOA

“What?”, she read it again in disbelief. “You fucking asshole!”. She crumples the note in her fist and throws it away, as tears begin streaming down her face. She looks back at the bird. “Do you fucking believe that?”

The warbler takes flight again. Right towards her. It came at her so fast she never had the chance to start defending herself as it attacked her face. Pecking at her eyeballs, and flapping its wings. Maxime tried to run, but stumbled and fell to the ground. The bird continued to peck at her eyes, her nose and her ears. She screamed and flailed her arms around.

She struck the bird with the palm of her hand, sending it to the ground. Maxime quickly got to her knees. She was only able to see with one eye – the other one was punctured and she could feel a gooey mass pumping out of it. The pain was unbearable.

It was only now that Maxime remembered what Anabel had told her that night.

“If you ever betray the spirit of Loa, she will come after you and tear you apart. You can not escape from her wrath.”

“Has anyone ever seen this Loa spirit?”, she had asked.

“In our back yards. In the trees. Loa is a beautiful bird”

Maxime had never pictured Loa as a yellow-rumped warbler, though.

The bird was flying again. It didn’t attack. Instead, it landed on the hood of the car, next to the wooden box which still lay open on top of it.

“Alright little birdie”, she says. “Attack me again, and I’m going to fucking tear you apart. You don’t scare me!”

Then, in amazement, she watches the bird dip its head into the wooden box. She feels a burning pain in her left side, as if her entire rib cage was suddenly crushed by an unseen force. She screams in pain and fear. At the same time, her eyes register the small bird flying up to the trees again. It lands on the same branch Maxime first saw it on. In its beak, she notices the voodoo doll Jean-Pierre had put inside the small wooden box. The bird lays it down in front of it. The little black piercing eyes looking at Maxime as if they were hiding an evil smile.

“No”, Maxime said. “No, please, no…”

The little black doll was her. She suddenly realized this. Whatever happens to the doll would happen to her. That’s why her rib cage shattered as the bird took it in its beak.

The bird chirped a happy song, while Maxime begged for her life, and then it tore into one of the arms of the doll – ripping it lose.

So far away from civilization that night… no one would hear Maxime’s screams in the night.

********** THE END **********

Well, that's my story this month. And, as I've said I would always do - here are my little notes that I write on each picture before I start writing - just so you can follow my thought process... for whatever that's worth:

**********

One disturbed main character this month. Now, there's been controversy regarding the sex of this (human) being, but I clearly see a pair of boobies in the chest area, so I am going to go with this being a woman. Those arms... that face, though - there is nothing feminine about that... *shrugs* One butch hard rockin' bitch!

Time to think outside the box... snowy mountains, long winding road, desolate - driving a car. I am starting to think that my hard rocking butch bitch (knowing the story takes place in a city setting) wants to just get away from it all. Maybe she's hit rock bottom, and is looking for an escape?

City lights, night time. Big city, harbor district type area. I'm thinking this is not a nice part of town. Our butch bitch has one final thing she needs to take care of here in the crowded (and dangerous) streets of the city. One final obstacle to overcome before she can escape the city and head for freedom!

This little strange thing will be that obstacle. If this were a movie, that little funny looking doll would not be suitable for use, but I'm hopeful I can describe that doll into something a little more creepy... a voodoo doll of sorts (you didn't think I wasn't going to go all horror on you did you?). That voodoo doll is she - it is what is keeping her in the crazy punk rockin' band. As long as this doll is with her, she will never be able to escape. Getting rid of the doll has its price though!

A bird. More specifically a yellow-rumped warbler. Hmmm... I believe this bird will be following her around. We'll see where that takes us? She notices it, thinking of freedom... but is that what the bird really represents?

**********

Ok... so now I'm off to read your stories. I'm sure there will be a number of really good ones out there this time - I can feel it!

And, don't forget to pop in on Monday and check out the pictures for Picture Fiction Challenge #4!

April 16, 2008

PFC Garbage Delay

As I said yesterday, I won't be making the deadline on the Picture Fiction Challenge this month. Well, the deadline doesn't end until Friday, so I'll be on time really.

I'm just quickly stepping in here to give you guys a post where you can announce your own stories, so I can add them up as links to the sidebar here later tonight when I get back home. Also a good place if you're looking to read the contributions.

So, until I get my own story posted, I will not be reading or commenting on your stories (I don't want to be influenced in any way).

Good luck!

And, in the meantime - check out my WWC yesterday, in case you missed it!

March 28, 2008

PFC #3

Time to put up the pics for the third Picture Fiction Challenge.

Last one saw a few newcomers from the first one, and offered a lot of really interesting and good stories to read. I've enjoyed this little challenge tremendously, and I'm so glad to hear some of you find it both inspiring and challenging. I hope you all continue to play along, and I hope others decide to give it a shot as well.

I'll leave the links to PFC#2 stories on the sidebar - and there is always the archives where you can go back and read stories from past PFC's if you want to. The feedback we get from readers (participating or not) is important, so keep reading and commenting!

Deadline for PFC#3 will be set at April 16th - April 18th.

Ok, lets take a look at the rules (if you're new to this):

THE PICTURES:
Each picture below represents a certain aspect of the story. Analyze each picture and try to interpret what you see into the specific category the picture represents.

Character(s): The main character(s) of your story. This is the person(s) whose perspective the story is told through. You can have any number of additional characters, but the one(s) on this picture are who we will relate to.

Objective: This is the overall objective of the story. That which our main character is trying to achieve - what the MC is trying to reach. This is the objective of the story.

Setting: The place where the story unfolds.

Item: An item of significant* importance to the story.

Random: This could be a picture of anything at all, and what you see on that picture must have a significant* importance in the story you write.

*significant. That means that these things do not simply appear in a fleeting moment in the story. They hold an importance to the events that unfold, and are as such necessary to the outcome and progression of the story.

THE STORY:

All of the picture representations must be present in the final story.

The story you write can be as long or short as you wish.

You can write the story in either first or third person perspective.

The story must be a fictional story.

DEADLINE & POSTING:

The deadline to post the story on your blog will be between 16th - 18th of April. Not sooner - not later! (Ideally, everyone posts on the 16th, but I'm giving you a couple extra days because there are many reasons one may not be able to post on a specific day)

Let me know in a comment when you have posted your contribution, so I can add a link to your blog (and story) in a list of all participants on my sidebar.

Read the other people's stories (only after you've posted your own) and comment on their writing.


Ok. I know you're dying to see the pictures this month. As usual, I am not doing any selection what so ever - it is completely random. The only thing I do is select the first picture that could possibly represent the category... for example, when I draw the Character pic - the first picture with a human being on it is chosen from the random display on Flickr.

The only one that causes a problem, really, is the Objective picture. I keep staring at them, and asking myself - is there an Objective here? I mean - just about anything can be an Objective, so I guess just using whatever picture comes first is what I should do (and, I'm almost sure I've done that so far). I mean - first one we got a close-up of a pretty girls face - yes, there's an Objective. Second time we got the tiger cubs - and Objective indeed. The one present in today's challenge is likely to be more open for interpetration... we'll see.

Any suggestions on how I should work my mind around deciding the Objective for future PFC's? I'd like to know...

Item, Setting and Random are of course real simple. For each category I click for a new random page.

For Item - I use the first *drum roll* item I come across.

Setting - the same, any location will do... so many beach pics on Flickr. Missed out on them this month, but I'm seriously considering ignoring those.

Random - for this one I get a new random page on Flickr. There are 9 pics on a page, and I have a 10 sided dice. 0 means I click for a new page, 1-9 represents the pics left to right, top to bottom.

Just thought I'd clear up the selection process, in case you're wondering.

This is what we get to work with next month:

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Remember! You can click the pictures here and go to the Flickr page they came from, so you can see higher resolution versions of them.

Ok. Now get those creative juices flowing, and you have plenty of time to finish this one up. I've been working my way towards the middle of the month with this challenge, where I'll try to keep it. I'll always make it a Wednesday through Friday deadline.

I'm making it mid-month, so as not to be too close to my Monthly Commenter Story, leaving me with plenty of time to do both during the month.

Write On!

March 19, 2008

PFC #2: "The Money Shot"

Finally, I was able to put together... something... for the Picture Fiction Challenge this month.

I struggled something bad with this one. But, it wasn't an easy collection of pictures to work on. Especially seeing as I don't know the first thing about tigers, really. And, did I have time to do any research? Nope - not any at all, so bear with me if this story comes off a little unrealistic. Heck, we're just doing this for fun, right?

Anyway. Hope you enjoy reading it. I'm off to read yours, and I think that part is going to be a lot of fun indeed.

Lets get on with the story.



********** THE MONEY SHOT **********

”You been out here all night?”

Clara Taylor was sitting on a rock overlooking the ocean, her knees brought up under her chin as she had her arms wrapped around them. She looked like she was freezing despite the warm, breezy air – but it got cold at night. Really cold. Next to her, on the ground, was her camera on top of its case, ready to go at any time.

“Yes”. She didn’t have to turn around to know who was standing behind her. She was too tired to turn. Doug Feinstein was a well renowned wild life photographer, just like Clara. They had always worked close together. Doug was getting ready to retire, having celebrated his 60th birthday just two weeks earlier.

Doug had pretty much lost the passion, while Clara had lost the respect she once had. It was a long time since she brought in any “A” class photos.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around Clara before he sat down next to her. Her gaze remained fixed out over the ocean, as if she was paralyzed. She had large bags under her eyes, a clear sign of her lack of sleep.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m ok”, she says as she reaches for a Starbucks coffee cup standing next to the camera.

“So you’ve been keeping awake drinking coffee all night…”

She shakes the coffee cup which has a plastic lid on. It makes a sound like that of a home made rhumba shaker. She pops the lid open, and reveals a half full cup of green candies.

“M&M’s. Can’t live without my sugar high you know.” She holds out the cup toward him and gives him a tired look for the first time since he arrived. “Want one?”

“I think it’s better you keep those for yourself.” He looks at her, concerned at what he sees. “Maybe you should get back to the hotel tonight. Get a good night’s sleep.”

“I need these pictures, Doug.” She pops a green candy into her mouth and puts the lid back on.

“It might just be hear say, Clara. You don’t know for sure they even exist. And, even if they do… maybe they’ve moved on. Maybe they’re not around here any more.”

“They’re here”, she looks back out to the ocean.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Clara! You’ve been out here for four days straight. There hasn’t been a sign of them this whole time”.

A little startled by his sudden outburst, Clara wearily looks back at Doug.

“Tiger cubs, Doug”, she looks him over. “You, of all people, should know what it means to capture tiger cubs out here by the ocean side. Look around.” She motions with her hand to shed light on the scenery. “Right here, how beautiful it is. Those pictures could be the best I ever took… probably the best pictures I’ll ever take. Every wild life magazine in the world would want these pictures, Doug. This is a money shot if ever there was one.”

She falls quiet. Her tired eyes remain fixed on the vast ocean in front of them.

“I’m just worried about you, is all. You don’t look well.”

“They’re here”, she states absently.

“I hope, for your sake, that they are.”

Doug gets up. He takes a look around, and deep inside him, where that part of him that once shared the passion for wild life photography that Clara still possesses, told him that this was a money shot indeed. Maybe years ago, he too would sit here day and night waiting for those tiger cubs to show up, just so he could get that one shot. That one shot that everyone would envy.

“I guess you wouldn’t accept my offer of driving you into town.” He says to her. She doesn’t reply. Just keeps staring out to the horizon. He turns and starts walking back to the car.

“Doug…”, she turns around to look after him. He stops. “Your jacket.”

“Keep it. You’ll need it when the sun goes down.”

“Thank you”, she says. Her fingers play with the collar, as her tired eyes fall to her feet. “I mean, for everything… for caring.”

“I’ll be back to check on you in the morning”.

And, just like that, Doug hopped into the car and drove off. She watched as the trail of dust settled behind the vehicle, and then reached into her backpack bringing out a wrapped up half of a sandwich.

“And food… bring me some food, Doug”, she mumbles to herself as she takes a large bite out of the ham and cheese sandwich. She swallowed it down with some bottled water she kept in that backpack, and realized she was running low on water as well. After eating, she took another green M&M from her Starbucks cup and was thankful she was well stocked on those at least.

She wondered when was the last time she got up to move around a little. She had been sitting on that rock much too long, and her butt cheeks were numb. Deciding that she needs to get her blood circulation going she stood up and began walking down to the beach. Her legs barely held her as she staggered the forty feet or so down to the small stretch of sand. She almost felt like stripping down and go for a swim in that blue water. She hadn’t had a shower for four days.

Right, I should be in the water if the tiger cubs show up. That’s gonna make it real easy to get the pictures. No, I have to be ready every second. No time for swimming… or sleeping.

And, could she use some sleep? Yes, indeed. She had averaged at most one hour each night out here. She was so tired right now she could feel her pulse in her temples. And, if she closed her eyes and laid down, she was certain she would fall asleep in two seconds flat. She began to realize that she was barely thinking at all any more.

What if I’m too tired to react when they show up?, she wondered to herself. I can’t take quality pictures if I’m totally exhausted.

She walked back up to her hiding place and that rock, which over the past couple of days had started to feel quite comfortable. To her, right now, it was as good as any recliner, and the view of the ocean was as good as any television program. The excitement of the show was to see when the tiger cubs would come strolling out of that small grove of woods to the right. Maybe if they didn’t come out soon, she would go in there and look for them. It wouldn’t make for the same quality shots, but at least it might give her some pictures, right?

I’m waiting for them right here. This is the money shot.

She sat down in her rock recliner again, leaned over sideways so that she was almost laid down on there. She was barely aware that she closed her eyes.

I just have to rest my eyes a little while…

And then she was asleep. The sound of the waves breaking onto the beach, the distant rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the soothing warm wind in her hair, made her feel more comfortable than ever in her life. Sleep was as welcome as anything. She drifted off into dreamland, and there wasn’t a worry in the world.

She didn’t even worry about missing out on the tigers. In her dreams she was back in her comfy, albeit small, New York apartment. Malaysia was millions of miles away, and she was developing photos she’d taken of beautiful birds. She was holding them up in the dim red light, in awe of her own beautiful pictures. Behind her, she heard footsteps. She turned around.

“Twiggy…”

Twiggy was the name of her dog, a rottweiler she kept for protection. She bent down and patted the dog on its head.

“Hey… what’s wrong?”

Her stomach protested… something was wrong with Twiggy. The dog sniffed at her, and its eyes seemed wild and distant somehow. Clara started to feel very afraid indeed, but she continued to pet the dog. It’s nose brushed up against her cheeks, cold and a little moist. It pushed at her face a little harder… too hard. It was hurting her.

“Cut it out, Twiggy”, she waved the dog away from her face… and it began to snarl. A deep growl that didn’t sound doglike at all. It took its paw and jabbed it against her shoulder – much too powerful it seemed. It hurt like hell.

“What’s the matter with you?”, she blurts out half asleep, half awake. She puts her hands out to push the…
the dog?... away, as her eyes slowly open.

The orange and black stripes of a giant tiger standing right there, only inches from her face, looking at her. Head lowered, bent down, the muscular shoulders pointing upward.

Clara stifled a scream of terror in her throat. Screaming now would certainly aggravate the large cat, and it would attack her – tearing her apart like an old Raggedy Ann doll.

She quickly came to understand that it was the mother of the two cubs who was sniffing at her, poking at her… assessing the possible danger to the cubs she may propose. Moving slowly, breathing slowly… that was her only way of getting out of here alive.

Where’s my camera?, she wondered. Very slowly, she reached behind her and traced her fingers along the rock, looking for the camera case. The large cat moved, threw a glance at her arm and took a step forward, making a grunting sound. Clara stopped dead, just as her index finger reached the strap of the case. She tried to look to the side, down towards the beach, to see if the cubs were there.

They were. Engaged in a playful fight they hissed and clawed at each other. The sun was coming down, creating a magnificent red sky backdrop over the blue sea and the two cubs. Oh, my god, this is a one in a million photo opportunity, her brain was screaming at her.

But, there was a problem. A very large problem! And it had an attitude.

Its large front paw came toward her again, hitting her shoulder and pinned her down with her back on the rock. The tiger moved in closer, the large head – a beautiful, yet ultimately horrifying, head – almost touched hers. It had a foul breath, and a slobber of saliva dangled from one side.

Quietly. Slowly, she began moving her hand again – fighting against the pain inflicted by the giant paw on her shoulder. Her fingers grabbed something… it wasn’t her camera, she could tell.

The cats eyes seemed to focus on her neck, and her terror escalated. She came to realize that the feline beast in front of her was very likely to strike out at her any second now, and sink those large fangs into her neck like a four legged monster of a vampire… only it wouldn’t suck her blood – it would tear her neck wide open and start chewing, feasting on her long before her brain would have time to shut down, and save her from the horrors of being eaten alive.

Her fingers were wrapped around her Starbucks coffee cup. The one filled with green M&M’s.

Oh, how I wish I could have my sugar high right now, her mind said incoherently. Another part of her brain was telling her, urgently, that she must do something. Really quick, because she was going to die very, very soon if she didn’t.

That subconscious part of her brain made her flick the lid off with her thumb. There was no rational thought going on – it was the only thing she could do… and if you have to do something, and there’s only one thing to do… what do you do? Yes, you do what you can in order to survive.

She tipped the cup over once the lid was off, and M&M’s spilled out on the rock. It made a rattling, scattering sound as green M&M’s rolled and bounced down the short slant of the rock.

Unbelievably, it seemed to work. The tiger’s eyes moved from her neck and to the side – watching the green little candies scattering down the rock. The large paw that held her pinned to her back eased, and the cat went around her and started sniffing at the candies.

Still dazed and confused, and scared out of her mind, Clara operated on instinct. She quickly seized her camera, and slowly slid herself away from the predator. The tiger seemed very puzzled and watched the green M&M’s with great interest, sniffing them, putting its large tongue out licking at them. Clara was no longer of any interest to it… as long as she moved very slowly, she thought.

She looked back down toward the stretch of beach, and saw the two cubs still playing with each other, uninterested in Clara and their mother. The view was simply perfect right where she was… of course – that’s why she’d chosen to sit by this rock those four nights that she’d been out here hoping to see them. She unscrewed the cap in front of the lens, and slowly raised the camera to her eyes. What she saw through the viewfinder was simply astounding.

This is not just “a” money shot… this is “the” money shot, she thought to herself, as she snapped a number of shots in rapid succession. The sound of the shutter opening and closing momentarily drew the attention of the large cat to her again, and her heart was racing. She was almost immediately, somewhat, relieved as the tiger resumed his interest in eating the candies.

Oh, my god. It’s eating the M&M’s, she thought. I need pictures of that as well – no one’s going to believe me if I tell them.

She turns the camera towards the mother of the cubs, and starts snapping pictures. The sun had quickly fallen behind the horizon, and there was little light… so she snapped the flash on. Even with her super sensitive camera, these shots would come out too dark. She waited for the little red indicator lamp to tell her that the flash was ready, and when it came on she turned it towards the large cat. She scooted back a little, slowly – what if the flash would startle it?

She needed the picture.

The flash went off. Looking through the viewfinder she immediately knew she nailed the shot perfectly. Green M&M’s, and a tiger licking them up off the ground. Perfect shot.

The sudden flash of light did startle the cat. It must’ve scared it really bad, as it suddenly turned and darted into the woods again. The two cubs were quick to run after their mother, as if they sensed the fear of their protector.

Clara just sat there, paralyzed with fear, with the camera held in a firm grip in her hands.

It’s gonna come back. It’s gonna come back for me and kill me, she thought. She had no place to go – the nearest village was over 50 miles away. And, to even attempt walking through the dense jungle between her and the nearest town would surely be even more dangerous than staying put. Doug was going to be here in the morning to check up on her.

“I got my money shot”, she said it out loud – just to hear the sound of it. Even if I don’t live through the night, Doug will find the camera and know I got my shot.

She remained sitting right where she was, holding on to her camera for dear life. It was going to be a very long night, and sleep would not have the mercy to guide her through it.

It’s gonna come back. It got scared of the flash, but it might just be hiding there in the bushes looking at me… waiting for the right time to attack.

She holds on to her camera a little tighter.

When it attacks, I’ll flash it again, she told herself. Hoping that would be enough.

Hoping the batteries on the flash would last her through the night.



********** THE END **********



Well, that's my story this month. A little shorter than the one I offered up last month... and a little less structured.

Anyway. As is my intention - I will offer you the little notes I make about each picture before I start writing, which may or may not explain how the story I wrote came to life, looking at the pictures we had to work with. Here goes:

**********

I see a woman. From her clothes, sunglasses and the wind in her hair I get the feeling she's an adventurous woman. She's fit... but she might be lonely.

**********

Tigers. Are they cubs? Anyway... it should work well with the adventurous woman's nature. Her objective is to encounter these tigers in some way.

**********

Thanks a lot. A beach setting. Ok, did minimalistic research... there's a Malaysian tiger - it could possibly be found in the coastal areas right? Possibly down by the beach? Let's work on that... we'll be in Malaysia for this one.

**********

A Starbucks coffee cup filled with green M&M's. Okay! Can they be some other kind of pills? Green ones? Does she have a condition which requires her to eat medication... why? Or, maybe she simply has a sweet tooth and carries the M&M's in a Starbucks cup because she can fit more in there than the one pack?

**********

A camera... this is easy. She's looking for the tigers to take pictures of them.

**********

So there you have it. Keep checking the sidebar here where I'll add links to the other contributions to the PFC, so you can read up on them all. It's fun to see how people interpret the pictures we got to work with.

And, check back next Friday - the 28th - when I will present the pictures for next months PFC.

PFC #2... Running Late

I'm just quickly throwing this post together, because I'm running awful late posting my own PFC.

Right now, I'm cursing the hell out of myself for not having written the thing earlier... one should learn from ones own mistakes, right? Well, let's hope so.

Anyway. I probably won't be ready to post until later tonight, but I thought I should give you all a post where you can announce your own contributions, and that way you all can start blog hopping and reading up on what everyone else has written.

I will update the link list once I get my own story posted.

Sorry, guys - I'll be sure to have my PFC ready to go as soon as I get out of bed on deadline day in the future...

February 29, 2008

PFC Archive

The Picture Fiction Challenge is a monthly "game" in which I present a number of pictures representing Character, Objective, Setting, Item and Random. All of which will be incorporated into a short fictional story. Any one is welcome to play.

This will be the place where I will store all of the participating stories for each month, so you can go back and read up on them any time you feel like it.

Enjoy!

PFC #1 Stories:
"Untitled" by Dana
"Untitled" by Dianne
"Pieces of Autumn" by Emmeline
"A Tragedy" by Farmer's Wife
"Untitled" by Jo
"One Little Leaf" by Kell
"Untitled" by Leighann
"Boy Meets Girl" by Maggie
"Untitled" by Newt
"The Cold Room" by R.E.H.

PFC #2 Stories:
"Game Over" by Dana
"Family Day" by Dianne
"One By One" by Emmeline
"Bedtime Stories: Tell Me A Dream" by Farmer's Wife
"The Road Back" by Jay
"Untitled" by Jill
"One More" by Jo
"Tigers In The Beach" by Joel
"Dark Ocean" by Knight
"Photographer To The Stars" by Newt
"A Life In Pictures" by Raven
"The Money Shot" by R.E.H.

PFC #3 Stories:
"A Life To Love" by Farmer*s Wife
"The Dissidents" by Jay
"All I Need" by Jeff B
"Untitled" by Jo
"Taking Her Home" by Newt
"A Muse By Any Other Name" by Raven
"The Spirit Of Loa" by R.E.H.
"My Dream & A Lifetime Memory" by Single In The City

February 25, 2008

PFC #2

It is time to present another Picture Fiction Challenge.

The first one turned out a raging success, and I think a lot of us enjoyed writing and reading the stories. I hope those who took part in the first one will take the time to write a story based on the pictures below as well.

Hopefully we'll see a couple of debutants as well.

If you've missed reading any of the stories from the first PFC, you will be able to find the links to all participants on the sidebar here. I will keep them up there until the new stories are due. Then that sidebar will be updated and show the stories for PFC #2.

Do you all think I should add some kind of archives to this? A place of reference where you can go back and find stories of PFC's of the past? Take the poll on that one to the left here as well!

I've decided to put the deadline for PFC #2 at 19-21 of March, so that should give us all plenty of time to write our stories.

Let's review the rules of this little game before we go on to the pictures:

THE PICTURES:
Each picture below represents a certain aspect of the story. Analyze each picture and try to interpret what you see into the specific category the picture represents.

Character(s): The main character(s) of your story. This is the person(s) whose perspective the story is told through. You can have any number of additional characters, but the one(s) on this picture are who we will relate to.

Objective: This is the overall objective of the story. That which our main character is trying to achieve - what the MC is trying to reach. This is the objective of the story.

Setting: The place where the story unfolds. (Only the place in the picture need be considered, if people or other things are present in the picture they are optional to include)

Item: An item of significant* importance to the story.

Random: This could be a picture of anything at all, and what you see on that picture must have a significant* importance in the story you write.

*significant. That means that these things do not simply appear in a fleeting moment in the story. They hold an importance to the events that unfold, and are as such necessary to the outcome and progression of the story.

THE STORY:

All of the picture representations must be present in the final story.

The story you write can be as long or short as you wish.

You can write the story in either first or third person perspective.

The story must be a fictional story.

DEADLINE & POSTING:

The deadline to post the story on your blog will be between 19th - 21st of March. Not sooner - not later! (Ideally, everyone posts on the 19th, but I'm giving you a couple extra days because there are many reasons one may not be able to post on a specific day)

Let me know in a comment when you have posted your contribution, so I can add a link to your blog (and story) in a list of all participants on my sidebar.

Read the other people's stories (only after you've posted your own) and comment on their writing.


If you want a step-by-step "tutorial", or walk-through... check THIS out.

That was easy, wasn't it? For me it was... all I had to do was copy what I wrote last time, and change the date of the deadline. Oh, and I added a line on the "setting picture explanation", which states that you only need to focus on the location of the shot... as in this one's picture there is an elderly couple as well. You can include them (not as main characters) in your story if you want, but feel free to ignore them completely if you don't want them in your story.

Ok... so here are the pictures we get to work with this month:

**********






**********

Ok! Get crackin' on those stories. As usual, I can hardly wait for the day this is due, so I can read all your stories, and recieve all that fun feedback from all of you who read mine.

Tomorrow it's time for another "feature" - the Weekly Words Challenge. The words for this week are WOOD and METAL.

Until then...

February 23, 2008

You Are What You Write

After the very successful first Picture Fiction Challenge, I thought I'd reflect a little on the experience of it. A big Thank You goes out to all of you who decided to participate - and I know it was hard for some of you. It goes to show how powerful the medium of the written word really is. Another Thank You goes to all of you who went around to read and comment on each one of our stories. Feedback is invaluable for the wanna-be writer.

One of those who commented, really set my mind wandering. I wish I had a better nickname/handle/identification on this person, who prefers to stay "Anonymous". Thought provoking and interesting comments have been left for me by this person, however, and I can't help but look forward to reading them.

I will start this little reflection by responding to "Anonymous". Here's what he/she said in a comment on my "The Cold Room" story:

Anonymous wrote:
You gave people pictures instead of ink blots but the words "rorschach test" come to mind.

People always say "you write what you know." It's interesting to see what people know about cockroaches, drug addiction, loss, pain, death, beatings, violence, sadness and long-shot happy endings.

If I read your story correctly you've been beaten down and isolated.
Your inherent goodness has been overlooked by women.
You feel compelled to rescue women.
You're worn out from being the hero. Now you want a woman to rescue you...

Did I read that correctly? Or am I interpreting your ink blot the wrong way?

I figure this story must have a pretty deep meaning to you. After all 4228 words is one hell of a big ink blot. It takes balls to put yourself out there like that. That's probably why people liked your story so much...

It's hard for anyone to write a true work of fiction.
"We write what we know."


Anon. I didn't respond to anything of which you said in the comments section, but now I will. Let me dissect this and see what we'll find. Lets start at the beginning, shall we?

"You gave people pictures instead of ink blots but the words "rorschach test" come to mind."

The rorschach reference is an interesting one. While I believe there is an element of truth to what you are suggesting, I take that with as much reliability as I take the actual ink blot test. Many people would doubt its authenticity and how correctly it describes the mental frameset of the test subject.

The question here is, is it the individual doing the assessment - or is the assessment done by the picture itself - projecting it's own emotion onto the viewer? If you take a picture that provokes darkness, or evil - each individual looking at that picture will see bad things, right? You don't put a picture out there of a beautiful loving couple, embracing and kissing one another on the beach with the sun setting in the background, and inspire thoughts of murder and dismemberment, right? Such a picture would induce serenity and calmness, and feelings of love - no matter who is looking at the picture.

If we look at the what happened on this first challenge it becomes quite apparent that there was one picture in particular which inspired the writings we got to read. That picture was the "Setting" picture. The run down building caused us all to think of darkness, loneliness, despair and other emotions along the same lines. That one "ink blot" influenced how we interpreted the rest of the pictures we were presented with.

Had we used the same pictures, but changed the "Setting" to an image of a large 18th century mansion, with a beautiful flower garden, and a limo parked out front... we would've seen very different stories indeed.

"People always say "you write what you know." It's interesting to see what people know about cockroaches, drug addiction, loss, pain, death, beatings, violence, sadness and long-shot happy endings."

That's a two-faced statement, the way I see it. I can either read it as if you are suggesting that we write about cockroaches because we know about cockroaches. In which case I disagree. As a writer of fiction, you reach out and find territories and things to write about that are alien to your own experiences. If you take a look at my own story, it is full of violence and death. I have lived a very secluded life, and never really had any violent episodes in the vein of what I write about here.

I have, however, witnessed domestic violence (although, of course, nowhere near as brutal as what I wrote here), so to a certain extent even that angle of your statement rings true.

But, do we want to look at this from a more "factual" angle? I take it from your comment that you took the time to read the stories by other people too, derived mostly from your mention of drug addiction. There was only one story presented in this PFC that dealt with drug addiction, and Emmeline, who wrote that story, does NOT know about drug addiction (as she said herself in comments on her own blog).

Now, don't get me wrong, Emmeline, but I will use your writing as an example in what I'm trying to say here. This is not to put you down or anything - the story you wrote was good, and I truly enjoyed reading it (I don't want you to think otherwise), but I will admit that I thought it was apparent that your knowledge of drug addiction was limited. Of course, if one wants to write a story about drug addiction, and wanting to really convince the reader (including those who have gone through that hell themselves, or witnessed it up close) research is key to a successful story. No one would expect anyone to do extensive research for a "fun little game" like this is supposed to be. What was important about your story is that you fleshed out your characters, and evoked emotion as we were reading. Limited knowledge about drugs, really didn't matter in this case.

What I'm trying to say here, is that when writing "serious" fiction Anon's statement needs to change to "you should write what you know". If we look at how Emmeline's story "Pieces of Autumn" described the drugs, and what the sister was using, this is how it went down:

"She ticked off a laundry list of street names for all kinds of addictive drugs - some of them I'd never heard before."
While it works very well. We understand that she uses a lot of different forms of drugs. But, a similar description written by someone who really knows drugs came to mind as I was thinking about this. That is this excerpt from William S. Burroughs, who was a drug addict, more or less, for almost 60 years, and this is how he ticks off his laundry list:

"When I say addict I mean an addict to junk (generic term for opium and/or derivatives including all synthetics from demerol to palfium). I have used junk in many forms: morphine, heroin, dilaudid, eukodal, pantopon, diocodid, diosane, opium, demerol, dolophine, palfium. I have smoked junk, eaten it, sniffed it, injected it in vein-skin-muscle, inserted it in rectal suppositories. The needle is not important. Whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction."
That was taken from the introduction to his own novel "Naked Lunch". See how that short paragraph immediately draws us in, and makes us understand the hell that is drugs?

So, while we do write what we know, from the knowledge and experience we have gathered in our lives, it does not mean that we choose to write what we know.

"If I read your story correctly you've been beaten down and isolated.
Your inherent goodness has been overlooked by women.
You feel compelled to rescue women.
You're worn out from being the hero. Now you want a woman to rescue you...

Did I read that correctly? Or am I interpreting your ink blot the wrong way?"

Now this is the part of your comment that really caught my attention.

Not for a second. Not in a million years would I have thought I put that much of my soul into this short piece of fiction. Whether you just hit the lucky numbers and won the Jackpot with your analysis, or you are simply that good at analyzing a person from his writing will remain a mystery... are you a shrink by any chance? LOL!

Lets further dissect this part:

"...beaten down and isolated."

Well, for anyone who read the Introduction to the Rubicon Heart story, you will know that I was pretty much "beaten down and isolated" growing up. I wasn't physically beaten down (except for on a couple of rare occasions), but mentally I really was. I was also very much isolated - closing the door to my room, where I created my own world to live in. That is where I started writing fiction - from the age eight on I have enjoyed putting pieces of my mind into (what I hope to be) entertaining stories.

I will also say that most of the short stories I have ever written, have an element of loneliness and longing. That's where my own label of "Mystery Horror" derived from... one of my favorite stories I've ever written was called "Rest In Peace, My Dear", and told the tale of an old woman who got in a taxi and asked the driver to just drive. She told him a story of love and longing, of loss of her husband, and all the while she was thumping that walking cane she had against the floor of the taxi. There was something eerie about her, something almost scary, and in the end - the cab driver had taken her to a graveyard. She asks him to stop, gets out of the cab, thanking him and then telling him she will now join her husband. Curiously he followed her, and witnessed as she lay down by her husbands grave, and died...

I think I may re-write that story some day. I have often thought of turning it into a movie script, with that short segment being the introduction, where the cab driver would become my main character, and this event having a significant impact on his life. I've thought of merging it with the suicide story "Red Roses On A White Satin Bed"...

"Your inherent goodness has been overlooked by women."

Haha! Yes, I do feel that way, I must admit. Sometimes I am (honestly) outraged by the fact that women choose the guys that will treat them like crap, and not really care about them - whereas I am there for them and will fight to the death to keep them happy. It is a cliché that the bad guys get the good girls, but from my experience it is also the truth in most cases.

Wanna analyze that part further?

Like I said - I was not consciously thinking about any of this while writing the story... but notice how the girl chose the bad guy first? How she only ended up with "good guy" Brian, after she had been beaten up badly by her first choice man, Jake? Is that something I unconsciously put in there as well? And, did I kill Jake as a "fictional" revenge on all the Jake's I've despised in real life? Because I'm a good guy in real life, I would not resort to violence on such people in reality - but brutally slaying them in a work of fiction may be satisfactory to me...

Funny, isn't it?

"You feel compelled to rescue women."

Ok... not so much, actually. But, looking back at it, I find that I have often gotten in a relationship with a woman because I "feel sorry" for her. So, in a way that may be true also.

I am very protective, I would say. So, rather than being put in a situation where they need rescuing, I am adamant they stay away from potential danger (physically or mentally).

"You're worn out from being the hero. Now you want a woman to rescue you..."

Oh, wouldn't that be nice for a change! Hehe... Well, I can't really claim to be a hero, but like I said, I will fight to the death for the one I love - but I will expect something in return as well. When I am the one needing to be rescued, I would expect the woman to be there for me.

The part in my story about her showing up with the gun is where this comes from right? It is, however, a classic "Hollywood" climax. When all other options are depleted - we bring back a character we'd almost forgotten was there to solve the situation (rescue the hero).

"Did I read that correctly? Or am I interpreting your ink blot the wrong way?"

You read that very correctly. I am impressed. But, let me retort... how much of this is true to you? How did this "ink blot" bring these assumptions to your mind?

"I figure this story must have a pretty deep meaning to you. After all 4228 words is one hell of a big ink blot. It takes balls to put yourself out there like that. That's probably why people liked your story so much..."

To be honest... this story doesn't mean much to me at all. While I always put my heart and soul into what I write, this would go down as one of my lesser efforts ever. 4.000 plus words isn't really a lot for me. Like I said, I've been writing fiction since I was a little kid, basically - over this time it has become a natural process for me. Words just flow out, and I become immersed in my writing to the point that the outside world fades away, and I am part of the story I write. I watch as it unfolds.

I think the part about me letting go of reality. The part about me becoming one with the story is what makes people like what I write (at least that's what I'm hoping). I do not sit down and think "I am going to write this and that". What I do is sit down, start writing, and then as I get into the "zone" as I call it, the story presents itself to me - rather than me forcing it out of my imagination.

This is the wrong way to go about writing fiction. But, it is the method I use mostly when writing a short story. I have absolutely no idea where it is headed when I start writing. That is why it is imperative that I return to what I have written, read it through, taking notes and then go back to re-writing, so that I can eradicate any obvious mistakes. Like never addressing a situation I present at some point, which later escapes my memory and is left unsolved for the reader... or as in the case of this story - introducing a gun at a critical point of the story that has not been planted into the events earlier... making the reader think "how convenient she has a gun all of a sudden", instead of the much preferred "Thank God, she saw the gun he left on the table earlier". Of course, I should've added a situation which let the reader know that Jake actually carried a gun... something I pictured in my head all the time I wrote, but never mentioned.

Thinking back on it now, perhaps I should've had her use the knife the other brute was carrying. She could've walked into the room, noticed the knife on the floor next to the body, picked it up and stabbed Jake in the back of the head with it... I could've made the whole ending much more dramatic, but in all honesty I was rushed to finish the thing off.

Further more. I can write a lot, without realizing how much I've written. I just took a look at what I'm writing right now, and realize this is turning into a very long post... I didn't think it would drag on this long.

(Hope I'm not boring you all)

"It's hard for anyone to write a true work of fiction. "We write what we know.""

I'm with you there. The best fiction will always contain elements of our own lives. It is the only way to truly be able to captivate the reader.

It's not only hard - but it is impossible! What comes out of our imagination, and onto a piece of paper is brought out from within ourselves. We cannot reach for something that we do not have inside of us, which is why it is so often said that you put your soul into your writing - because that is true.

That is not to say that any work of fiction is a true reflection of who we are. Often will we write about things we want to experience, or dread it will ever happen to us. But, there is only one way we can approach those things... and that is through what we know, and what we have experienced, whether that be through our own lives, reading books, watching television or studying behavioural patterns of strangers we meet.

If we don't have it in us... we can't bring it out of ourselves.

.....

Now, initially I had intended to reflect some more on the PFC itself - but this post ended up long enough anyway... I'll leave that for (maybe) another post. Let me just summarize this rather long analysis, and response to a thought provoking comment by "Anonymous" with these words;

You write what you know, because you are what you write.

February 20, 2008

PFC #1: "The Cold Room"

Finally, it's time to post the first Picture Fiction Challenge story.

Still, I wish I'd had more time... hehe. Well, to be honest - there was plenty of time, but I didn't get started on it until this morning. So, no time to proof read, re-write or regret anything.

I am really looking forward to reading what all of you have come up with for this one. My own story certainly went in a direction I didn't really predict from the start.

Well, I'm not going to be writing a whole lot in this introduction, as the story ended up quite long (4.228 words long), so you have enough reading to do for one day.

So, grab that cup of coffee and some snacks and enjoy my contribution. After the story - you can also read about how I interpreted the pictures, to see how this story was formed in my head. Something I intend to do for each PFC story. Only if you're curious - you don't need to read that part...

And, don't forget! If you posted your own PFC - leave me a comment and let me know, so I can add the link and check it out!



********** THE COLD ROOM **********

The floor was cold and hard against his face as he slowly came to. His entire body was hurting tremendously and he tried to open his eyes to see where he was. His left eyelid remained closed at first, and all he could see was blurred darkness. The eyeball behind that left eyelid felt swollen and about ready to explode, that’s how much it hurt.

He remembered the blow that caused the pain in his eye. A strong fist connected with his face, and he could even remember hearing the skin of his eyebrow splitting open and the gush of blood that flooded down his face. He was thrown back, landing flat on his back, and then they were on top of him. He couldn’t remember how many they were, or if he ever really saw them all. He fought them with everything he had, but he never stood a chance. That first punch to his eye alone was enough to render him defenseless. He could barely remember the struggle that took place after that, but he knew he had been flailing his fists and kicking like mad trying to escape the inevitable.

Valerie…

What happened to Valerie?

He tried to move. He wanted to get up off the floor, but his body felt like it had been run over by a freight train. His fingers spread out and tried to grasp the floor, as if he tried to drag himself up like that. He had to get up. He had to find out what happened to Valerie.

It was a year ago now, since he and Valerie did the unthinkable. He had been in love with her for as long as he could remember, but she took a different path than he did when they became teenagers. She started hanging with the wrong crew, and quickly she was involved in the Gang. They continued to speak every now and then, but he always felt they were slowly losing that connection with each other that they had had since they were children. It wasn’t until that day she showed up at his college, crying with a black eye that they found each other again.

She had been beaten up badly by her boyfriend Jake. He held her close to him and comforted her. Then she’d looked him right in the eyes.

“Why are you always so good to me, Brian?”

“You deserve to be happy. You don’t look like you’re happy with Jake”, Brian had told her. They had looked at each other for a while, and then he kissed her. She’d responded by pulling him closer to her, hard, and kissing him back while fresh tears were streaming down her face.

Jake was a bad-ass. No one ever double crossed him and walked away from it, but Brian loved her so much he wasn’t thinking about the consequences. They saw each other more frequently after that, and they had the most amazing sex two people could ever experience.

Two weeks later, Jake found out about their affair. Valerie had heard him coming for her at their home. The walls had been thin, and she had heard the muffled voice of her stoned out boyfriend saying to one of his “guys” that he was going to “fucking kill that bitch for screwing around with that pussy-boy Brian”.

She had reacted immediately. She’d known he was serious about killing her. There was an old lunch-box under the bed where Jake stashed his money – a couple of thousand dollars – and she reached under the bed and snagged the box. Then she escaped out the window and ran as fast as she could. She ran all the way to Brian, and when she’d found him she started screaming crazily.

“Brian! Brian! We have to go!”

Brian would never forget that moment. The instant he saw her face, and heard the urgency in her voice, he knew something was terribly wrong. She threw herself at him and hugged him so hard he could barely breathe.

“He knows. Jake knows… he’s going to kill us!”

He didn’t need to hear any more. He knew all too well what Jake was capable of. For a while he was just frozen in time, his eyes scouring the college campus expecting to see Jake coming at them with a gun in his hands.

“Where the hell are we going to go?”, he’d said to her.

“Anywhere. Out of here. Far from here. Away from him”, she held out the lunch-box. “I took his money”.

Brian’s heart stopped at the sight of it. He knew what was in there – Valerie had mentioned it to him one night in bed. She’d said she wanted to take that money and run away with him. Run away with Brian and never ever have to fear Jake again.

“Oh, Jesus… tell me you didn’t.”

“I had to… he was going to kill me, Brian. I could hear it in his voice.”

His love for her knew no boundaries, and they had quickly gone back to his student apartment where he swiftly packed whatever belongings he had that he could not do without. Then they got in his car and they drove away – never to return.

That was a year ago. The fear had subsided as time went by, and they no longer worried every day that Jake would find them. Jake’s money had been enough to get them to another state and set up a new life for them. Brian never went back to school, but they both worked decent jobs and although it was tough, their love for one another kept them happy.

Now… Jake had finally found them.

They had been out jogging this morning, as they usually did on Saturdays. They both just stopped when all of a sudden in the park they saw Jake and his Gang waiting for them. How the hell was that even possible?

“Did you really think you would get away from me, bitch?”. Jake’s eyes were filled with rage. That’s when that fist came out of nowhere and connected with Brian’s left eye.

Brian managed to get his arm moving. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but he was able to pull both his arms up and he tried to lift his body up from the cold stone floor. The pain was unbearable, but he had to get up… just had to. There was a wall behind him, and after some excruciating pain, he was able to prop himself up in a sitting position with his back leaning against that wall.

He looked around the room. It appeared that he was in some abandoned building. Not a single piece of furniture existed within these four walls. No lamps hung from the ceiling and the only source of light came from a small crack on the boarded up windows. It was still daytime.

The heavy layer of dust that covered the floor moved slightly as a gust of wind found its way inside through those boarded up windows, and Brian was aware of an almost silent rustling sound. His eyes searched for the source of that sound.

A dried up leaf lifted off the floor and spun quickly around before the breeze let go of it and it sailed silently back to the floor. Brian’s eyes watched that leaf, and somehow the ease at which it lifted itself up in the air, and the smoothness of its fall back to the floor filled him with hope and comforted him.

His gaze remained fixed on the leaf. In the darkness it was the only thing he could really see, and it reminded him of freedom.

He had to get up.

Slowly, he dragged his legs across the dust covered floor and curled them up in a fetal position while his back remained propped up against the wall. Aided by the wall he tried to shift his body over and get to a kneeling stance. Once there he tried to bring his right leg forward, so he could stand on it and lift himself up. His leg would not do what his mind wanted it to do. It felt numb and detached from his sensory system. Something was wrong with his leg, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

He used his left leg instead. Moaning and grimacing in pain, he was able to plant his left foot in front of his right knee, and holding on for dear life to the wall with his hand he started pulling himself up off the ground. His shoulder leaned against the wall and used it for support as he gathered all of his strength to get to a standing position. He had been beaten up pretty damn good.

Tears filled his bad eye and stung like crazy. As he grimaced he could feel the dried up blood on his face crackle and it was itching like hell. He realized he couldn’t breathe through his nose. One of those punches that had landed on his face must have shattered every bone in there, and for a second Brian was terrified that his nose was not even there any more. That it would only be a slab of loose skin flapping around in the center of his face.

As he reached a standing position he looked around the room again. In the dark he could make out the shape of a door across the room from where he was standing. He needed to get out of here.

He moved his right leg in front of him. The pain was overwhelming, but he had no choice but to use it. Walking required the use of both his legs. As he managed to bring it forward and he shifted the weight of his body onto that right leg to take that first step toward the door, the world around him started to sway.

The pain that shot up the right leg as he put his weight on it was far beyond any kind of pain he had ever experienced in his entire life. It was as if a bolt of lightning shot up from the foot, alongside his inner thigh and then buried itself in his scrotum.

He cried out loudly, and then his leg gave way completely. He went crashing back down to the floor, landing face first and it was as if someone had hit him on the jaw with a sledgehammer, full force.

He almost passed out. But, his eyes again fixed on that leaf, which moved ever so slightly across the dust. A gust of wind was produced as his body slammed back on the ground, causing the leaf to slide a little further away from him. Brian focused on that leaf, to keep himself from passing out.

When the danger of losing consciousness subsided, he rolled over on his back and looked down the length of his right leg. At the end of it, his foot pointed in the wrong direction. It was a horrid sight… his foot was not only broken – it was no longer properly attached to his leg. He drew his leg upward, bending his knee, and watched in terror as the foot lifelessly dragged across the floor. He attempted to make it move – wiggle his toes or anything at all… but there was no way his brain could connect to the muscles of his foot. The foot was a thing of its own, dead and limp and the end of his leg – only held in place by his skin and flesh. Brian started to cry, softly.

There were voices outside.

He turned his head toward the boarded up window. The one that let a little light into his world. And, he could hear the panic stricken voice of Valerie out there.

“No, Jake! No!”

The sound of a door opening. They were coming into the house/building he was in. Valerie was crying in fear and desperation, pleading to Jake incoherently.

“I’ll do anything. Don’t hurt him, please. I’ll do anything at all – just let him go, please!”

The voices were loud and clear. Brian figured they must be in the adjacent room from where he lay helplessly on the floor.

“Shut the bitch up, Jake”, another voice said. “She’s getting on my fucking nerves”.

There was a loud banging sound, followed by a painstaking cry in Valerie’s voice. He could hear her crying, almost screaming out of pain and fear.

“Stop the fucking cryin’, Val!”, Jake’s unmistakable voice roared at her. It was followed by a frighteningly loud cracking sound – it sounded like he had slapped her in the face so hard it almost echoed back at them from the walls of the abandoned building.

Her loud cries became a quiet hopeless sobbing. From where Brian lay on his back in that empty room, he could actually hear hope disappearing from her heart, and how she was reduced to nothing but a mindless heap on the floor. He could almost picture her lying there, curled up with that empty stare – wishing she were dead already. That the pain and fear would just go away.

“Don’t fucking tempt me, bitch!”

Brian listened closely. He didn’t hear any other voices, or sounds of movement that would indicate there were any other people in that other room, except for Jake and that one other guy. And of course, the love of his life, Valerie whose sobs were even beginning to slowly die on her. That scared him more than anything. Baby, don’t give up, he wanted to tell her. We’ll get out of this somehow, and I will hold you in my arms again.

The wind outside was picking up. Brian watched as the leaf became airborne once again. It drifted, twisted and turned in the air, as it flew closer to the wall. It landed just below the boarded up window.

Brian started to crawl after the leaf. He didn’t really understand why, but he felt as if that leaf had something to say to him. That the leaf wanted to show him something. Something that would help him get out of the mess he was in.

As he crawled across the floor, he listened closely for sounds in that adjacent room. Valerie’s sobbing had almost stopped completely, and there was only the occasional sniffle.

“Go check on the boy.” He could hear Jake’s voice. Footsteps immediately started approaching the room Brian was inside. The other guy was going to come in here any second now. Brian had crawled his way to the middle of the room, halfway to the window. Panic started building up inside of him. In his state he would be totally defenseless against anyone. There was no way he could fight back – hell! He couldn’t even stand up!

Valerie’s voice suddenly cut through the air.

“No! No! I hate you! I fucking HATE YOU!”

Brian could hear the commotion out there. He could hear how Jake punched her several times.

His eyes fixed on that leaf. His brain tried to find a way to get him out of here, but of course there was nothing he could do. He crawled as fast as he could, dragging his body through the dust on the floor. It was painful and he wasn’t moving fast. It was all in slow-motion to him.

Behind him, he could hear the handle on the door turn. There was a slight creaking sound as the door opened and a stream of light came through it, lighting a path from him straight toward the leaf on the floor.

In fascination, Brian witnessed as the leaf again became airborne. The wind outside was blowing harder, and as the door was opened it created a whirlwind of sorts. The leaf went up the wall, twisting and turning as it did. Brian eyes followed its every move. It continued to rise and rise, dust swirling around it as it did.

An evil laugh was heard behind him. The man who entered the room obviously found it quite amusing to watch as Brian tried to drag his beat up body across the floor.

“Hey, boy! Where you goin’?”, and then the door was slammed shut behind him.

As the door was closed, it caused the leaf to quickly turn in the air, and it threw itself against the boarded up window, almost up by the ceiling.

The top wooden board was loose. It barely hung onto the window frame by a single nail. It was poking outward, and Brian noticed two large nails protruding from the other side. Nails that once had held the board in place, but had now come loose, leaving that one board slightly askew. That’s where the light had trickled in – that’s where the wind had come through blowing that one leaf around, lifting it up off the ground.

Brian crawled as fast as he could toward that window. Behind him the other guy was mocking him, laughing that evil laugh.

“You go crawlin’ there, boy. Where you crawlin’ to? You momma ain’t here.”

He stopped by the wall. His hand reached out for the window sill. His survival instinct took over as he pulled himself up against the wall. Pain shot through his body like he’d never thought was possible, but this was a matter of survival.

“You remember Jake, don’t you boy?”

As Brian turned around to look at the guy, his heart skipped another beat. This guy was huge. His forearms were bigger than Brian’s thighs, and the guy looked like he could single handedly lift an eighteen wheeler off the ground. His head was shaved, and his eyes were wild and crazy, staring right at Brian – a piercing stare.

“Jake has some unfinished business with you, boy”

Brian reached for that loose board. He raised his arm way above his head, as his fingers searched for that wooden board. It was the only weapon around that he could use. His fingers found nothing – only air.

The other guys crazy eyes followed his hand, and caught sight of that loose board. It became clear to Brian that the giant in front of him immediately understood what Brian was reaching for. His crazy-man smile widened on his face, as he began to laugh that evil chuckle once again.

“Oh, I see”, he said as he started to walk slowly toward Brian. “You don’t wanna go without a fight do you?”

He took out a knife from his jeans pockets. His eyes never leaving Brians.

“You gonna have to jump for that thing, boy. It’s out of your reach.” His smile widened further. It was the most evil smile Brian had ever seen. “Can you jump with that leg of yours, boy?”

Brian jumped. Well, at least he tried to jump. There was no strength in his legs. His feet barely left the ground. As he came back down his broken foot awkwardly bent backward, and shot that same rush of pain up his leg and into his scrotum. Somehow, he remained standing up.

The knife wielding maniac in front of him came closer… slowly.

Again, Brian jumped. This time he really became airborne. His hand reached the loose board, and his fingers closed around it. As he came back down, the board tore loose from its last remaining nail. Brian quickly seized it with both hands – holding it out like a baseball bat.

“Holy shit, boy. You impress me”, the man in front of him said and raised the knife.

Brian swung the wooden board at him. It swooshed through the air with all the remaining strength in his body. Then it connected with the giant’s head. The two long nails at the end of it buried itself into his skull, and Brian could hear it as they broke through the skull and dug themselves into his brain.

The scream that followed echoed back from all four walls. The crazy eyes widened. The knife fell to the floor, as he raised both his hands toward his head. It looked as if he was trying to hold his head together, as if it were exploding.

Brian pulled back. The wooden board was stuck to the side of the man’s head, and he had to pull harder to get the nails out of his skull. It was a horrible sight as the mans head cocked to the side, unable to free itself from the rusted nails, and then the nails came loose. Brian could actually hear the sound of them being pulled out of the mans brain.

When the board came loose, Brian couldn't fight the recoil. He went sprawling to the ground again, crying out in pain as he landed flat on his buttocks.

“VALERIIIIIEEEE!!!”

He barely realized he’d cried out her name. The man in front of him, now had both his hands up to the side of his head. Blood was seeping out from between his fingers. That crazy stare was fixed on Brian. Then his knees gave, and he fell to the floor. He then fell, face forward, landing on his belly and remained motionless.

“BRIAN!” Valerie’s voice reached him. He began crawling again. Towards the door, dragging the wooden board with him.

“What the fuck is going on in there?”

That was Jake’s voice. He could hear him running toward the door.

Brian crawled faster. Somehow he managed to reach the door before it was opened again. He stopped next to it, so that when it opened the door would provide cover for him. He prayed to God Jake wouldn’t see him first.

The door swung open. Jake saw the lifeless body of his friend in the middle of the room.

“Mother fucker!”, then he began to turn.

Brian swung the board as hard as he could. The nails buried themselves into Jake’s right knee. The board broke in two.

Jake went down like a KO’d boxer. But, it didn’t last long. He dragged himself up, twisted the piece of wooden board that was nailed to his knees, and pulled it out. Blood slowly began to run down his pants from the hole in his knees.

“Now you die, Brian. Now you fucking die.”

Brian tried to hit him with the remaining piece of wood he had, but missed. He had no strength to hold on to it any more, and it went flying across the room. Empty handed, with no weapon, Brian was powerless to fight back as Jake’s fist landed squarely on that very same left eye again. Jake then closed his strong fingers around Brian’s throat and began to strangle him.

Brian couldn’t breathe. He tried to fight back, flailing and kicking, but Jake was much too strong for him. He could feel the life being drained from him. Jake continued to tell him he was going to die, he was going to die right here, right fucking now!

“Leave him alone”

The voice was barely audible. To Brian it sounded as if it came from another planet. He almost wasn’t here anymore. His mind was already starting to accept the fact that, indeed, he was going to die. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that voice as that of Valerie. Somewhere deep in his conscious he remembered how much he loved her.

The world was fading away from him, but somehow he managed to open his eyes. He still couldn’t see clearly… but that same deep consciousness recognized Valerie behind Jake. She was holding a gun with both hands, pointing it straight at Jake.

Jake continued to choke him. It wasn’t long now before his life would escape him forever. Jake’s head was turned away from him. He was looking at Valerie pointing a gun at him.

“You don’t have the fucking balls”, he said to her. Then a shot went off.

Blood and grey matter splattered across Brian’s face. That was the first thing he noticed. Then the grip around his neck loosened. He quickly took a desperate breath, as he saw Jake’s limp body falling to the side, away from him.

Then everything was quiet.

Slowly, the world was coming back to him. Slowly he could see the world in focus again. He looked at the lifeless body of Jake beside him. A large hole in the side of his head exposed the remains of his brain inside. Jake was dead.

Valerie was still standing there by the door, holding the gun out in front of her with both hands. She had been badly beaten up, and her hands were shaking. She had no tears left inside to cry, only a blank stare toward the body of Jake. She was completely detached from the world, in a state of shock.

He began crawling toward her.

“Baby… Valerie…”, she remained frozen in that pose, as if she were a doll at a wax museum. Despite everything, Brian noticed how beautiful she was.

He reached her. He started tugging at her leg, trying to shake her out of her catatonic state.

“It’s ok, baby”, he tells her. Then she suddenly lowers the gun, and her knees buckle beneath her. She sits down heavily on the floor next to Brian, and then her eyes flooded with fresh new tears. “It’s ok, baby. It’s all over now. Everything is going to be all right.”

He pulled her closer to him, holding her tight.

And, it was. Everything was going to be all right. They were together now.



********** THE END **********



Well, that's my story this month. Below you can read how this story was formed in my head - well, parts of it anyway. What you will read below each picture are actual notes I put down as I thought about each picture - so those notes were written prior to the story. You may see how some things made it into the finished article, while other things went in a whole other direction.


**********

This picture doesn’t speak to me. For a guy like myself who likes to write character driven prose, this really made this first PFC difficult for me. I can’t get a good grip on the boy in that picture.

What I do see… I see a young boy, maybe in his early 20’s. He’s wearing a jogging suit, and he’s running towards the camera. That’s all I get. He’s running towards something…

A beautiful young girl, approximately the same age as the boy. I see budding romance here… the boy was running towards something – maybe he’s running towards her. Not necessarily literally… he wants her. He’s longing to be in her arms. Are they a couple already? Something keeping them apart? Or does he desire her…

Hmmm… what is that? A run down apartment building? A warehouse of sorts? An abandoned building? Yes, I think it will be an abandoned building. This gets me thinking… what if the boy is in that abandoned building? What if he’s being held in there by some bad people, and he needs to get out of there and reach the girl. Maybe he’s held captive in there so that he cannot protect the girl… and he knows she is in trouble. The setting is my life-saver in this story. I like this picture.

A single leaf. Ok. That doesn’t really make sense. But, looking at the story I’m beginning to structure from the above three pictures… I’m thinking the boy is locked in this room, right. The room is empty – no furniture, windows boarded up. A single leaf on the dust covered floor is the only thing around that the boy can focus on. Yes, it can be a catalyst of some sort… we’ll see where that thing goes.

For the longest time, I could not figure out what the hell to do with that picture. At first I couldn’t get past the fact that it was some girl jumping on the beach. Well, after a while I figured it wasn’t so important that it was a girl – nor that it took place on the beach. Lets focus on the fact that someone is jumping. Jumping… somehow, needs to be a way for the boy to reach the girl – to save the girl and himself.

Maybe the girl is held captive too… in that same abandoned building – just not in the same room. Maybe jumping is an obstacle that he needs to overcome – made even more difficult on account of his broken foot?

**********

There. That's it. That is my first PFC. Check the sidebar here, as I'll try to update with links to all the other people who wrote stories based on these pictures.

I will announce the next Picture Fiction Challenge on Monday here on my blog. So come back then to find the pictures for next months PFC!