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Entries in writing painting stories (7)


Painting Stories #18



                                   What I got:

You follow her through the crowd. There are beads under your feet that snap and shoot out across the pavement with each step. They fly over your head and slap you on the cheek, but you do not care, will not let your eyes leave the woman’s black hair and the miniature, red top hat cushioned in her stiff curls as she navigates under awnings and arches. She reminds you of a wasp buzzing in between the clotted masses, surfing around tongue-locked couples and dizzy walking travelers. You think she is, perhaps, as dangerous as that creature, seeking out prey, juicy morsels to penetrate, but at that moment, you see only the freedom she offers.


Painting Stories #17

I have no excuses, except to say..."procrastination is a helluva drug."

Warning, this image is pretty disturbing and was taken from here.

What I got (part of the WIP):

It begins with only the faint echo of the willow branches splintering in the gusts. Small leaves swirl on the wind and fall into the cave opening, still, like the creature, on the damp floor. Then, the formless figure convulses, pulses into a thin outline— bone, then muscle, blood and muck— until It stretches fingers and limbs, pumps blood, expels an awkward wheeze. Without a backward glance at the Master, or the darkened ground that was its bedrock, It traverses time, space and enters Man's dominion.


Painting Stories #15

From me:

But, he thought, if he could skirt the mist, hide beyond the spray of tides and shadows of twilight, and return home, he could forget this man. He would forget the years of struggle. He would forget the heartache of loss, the blackness of disease, forget the labored loves lost, shameless deeds and lustful joy; he would cast it aside and beg his fathers and mothers to welcome him back into the fold. There, he would forget the sorrow of loving Man, forget their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses. There, he would be free to live without heartache.


Painting Stories #14

What I got:

Its fingertips rest on her forehead, leaving a thin imprint and the memories emerge. Greedy for her thoughts, for the recall of moments that are the crux of the girl, It noshes and tears through childhood- smiling at the sound of a leg breaking, at the ache of baby teeth loosening- then invading her adolescence- the piercing sting of rejection, of awkwardness, of a body plunging onward with curves and swells into womanhood.


Painting Stories #13

What I got:

That night, the winds were ceaseless, cruel. Like the quick slaps of a thunderstruck wave, it hedged forward, onward until she is consumed by its power. It is relentless, like him, like his lust, his power and she can bear neither.

Picture courtesy of this place.Link