Shelly and David sped past the barb-wires, their fists pumping by their sides. Behind them, the first outpost sounded the alarm. Soon, another answered the call, and another, then all of them.
“You know,” David said, “if we survive this, I’m going to kill you.”
“Good luck with that, frog face,” Shelly said. “I’m not alive anyway. And you are not really here.”
“Don’t touch that,” Hannah yelled and slapped Liz’s hand.
The harmonica fell to the ground.
Hannah picked it up and dusted it off gingerly, almost caressing it. She glared at Liz. “Don’t you ever, EVER, touch it again.”
“What’s the big deal with your stupid harmonica anyway?”
The big deal is that I just saved you life, Hannah thought. One wrong note and the harmonica would have seared your flesh.
Minor changes to the blog. There’s a static homepage now, where I show my published work. Yes, I know. My web design skills are appalling. On to the writing prompt then.
Barry rushed to the living room.
Little Cathy removed the hand axe from Mr Wilkes’ chest. She titled her head to the left a little and let the heavy killing thing drag her arm down.
Barry’s face turned ashen and his mouth opened for a scream that never escaped his mouth.
Cathy smiled. “What? Oh, this?” she said. “That’s nothing.” She took a step closer to him, dragging the axe on the floor where it left a trail of blood. “Did I tell you the story of how I finally became an only child?”
Aside from the fact that it’s a really nice photo and the filters used make it even better, there’s a story behind it. At least I think there is one. And if there isn’t, well, I’m pretty sure we can invent one, yes? Isn’t that what we’re supposed we do? Create reality when there’s none?
Now, what do you think the story here is? Two elderly men talking about what? Their lives? Their past failures? disappointments perhaps? Let’s take it up a notch and go into the realms of fantasy, shall we? What if whatever story you had in mind, was told through the umbrella’s point of view? If you don’t like that, how about making the umbrella into a magical item, perhaps one that could control the weather, or something that could grant wishes? If you’re into more humourous stories, how about the umbrella being cursed and its bearer is always under a personal cloud pouring rain all the time, or perhaps the umbrella had abandonment issues and wanted to feel it is needed by its bearer. What would the dialogue be between the umbrella and the two men?
Lots of potential here. What do you think?
She stood on the building’s entrance and spared a passing glance at the drenched and hunched figure that jumped gracelessly over the puddle of water, his coat flapping briefly behind him, one hand holding on to his wet fedora. She drew one last puff from her cigarette, flicked in the rain, and opened her umbrella. Well, the meeting could have gone better. If only she had pushed him more. She turned her collar to the damp breeze that found a way under her coat and forced the small hairs at the nape of her neck to attention.
Well, that’s my take on the picture. Have a go, see where it leads you 🙂
