Write What You See - June 2008
Last week, I introduced what I hope will be a regular spot of fun here at Words of Redemption: Write What You See - The Monthly Micro-Fiction Challenge.
Click on the link above to catch the details and the general idea if you missed it.
Or, I can give you a brief summary here:
Each month, for WWYS, I’m going to post an image and (maybe) some background information to get you started.
Your job, then, is to take the picture and write a short, short story about it.
And I do mean short. Like 100 words will work. You can write more, but don’t feel like you have to. That’s easy, right?
Here’s the picture for the inaugural WWYS:
Click on the picture for a larger version… if you dare.
Some details: This picture was taken by my lovely wife in Vernazza, a small Italian coastal village, in September of 2007.
Your assignment: Write a story about this picture. The sky’s the limit. You can make the paper-wearing gentlemen your main character, or you can use the photo merely as a jumping-off point. It’s your story. There are no rules.
You have until Friday. Write your story and post it and a link here to your blog on Friday morning. Once you’ve done that, return here and enter your name in the form I’ll have up for results.
If you don’t have a blog, you can email me your story and I’ll post it. Or you can post it in the comment section on Friday.
Happy Writing!
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June 23rd, 2008 at 9:55 am
January 2009, deposed members of Democratic party’s campaign team scour the want ads in exile after they fled the country when it came to light they were complicit in schemes to stonewall attempts at improving the economy for political gain.
June 23rd, 2008 at 10:14 am
Chuck, this is a good start. But I would argue that this is a caption and not a piece of micro- or flash-fiction. It’s lacking the beginning, middle and end you’d need to really call it a story.
I think you can use this idea to create a solid story of a couple-hundred words. Perhaps tell it from the Point of View of one of the “deposed” leaders as the man reading the paper.
Also, you could consider changing the back story to deposed Republican leaders who are using the current economic climate to distract us from the war in Iraq, global poverty and the environment. Seems more realistic…
Again, good start. Give me more!
June 23rd, 2008 at 1:48 pm
Legs. Wherever she went, her camera found them. Long, stubby, knobbly, hairy, or baby’s-bottom smooth, it mattered not. Slipping behind a sturdy oak in the park or pretending disinterest at the edge of a cafe menu, her hand always ended in the same place. On the body of the camera, clicking away, collecting the stories that legs can tell.
Today was a particular windfall. Old men loitering shirtless, bare-legged in the courtyard. The mountains rising behind them, stony, peppered with grasses and wizened shrubs. One man especially drew her in. He was standing in the center of all the others, as if on parade, though none of the other men were paying any attention.
His legs were tan, smooth, long and mildly curved like a woman’s. His sandals looked like something her own mother might have picked up at a boutique–a casual yet attractive pair to wear on Sunday afternoons. He was reading a newspaper, holding it in such a way that his hips, his shorts were hidden. She chuckled to herself. He looked naked, but for the paper. And the scar above his left knee. She zoomed in on the scar. It was the shape of a woman’s body. Yes, this man’s legs had stories to tell.
June 24th, 2008 at 5:21 am
LL, this is great! Funny and oh so visual, this is a great and engaging story. You had me smiling the entire way through!
June 24th, 2008 at 12:57 pm
Brandon, thanks. I’ve never had the courage to try writing fiction. I admire all you who do write it… who are willing to follow a story where it might take them. As for me, I’ve never felt ready. Maybe someday. Writing something this short was fun and not as scary.
June 25th, 2008 at 5:29 am
LL, maybe someday indeed! This is a great start, in my humble opinion. I hope you’ll join in regularly.
June 25th, 2008 at 11:34 am
I have a really busy week stacking up in front of me, but I want to give this a try. So even if I’m late, I’ll have something for you eventually. I’ll post a link here when I’m done. Thanks for the challenge.
June 25th, 2008 at 4:23 pm
Vernazza is a place I’ve been. We happened to be in Florence when the Pope died - now that was an extra interesting experience. Once we arrived there, a friend recommend we visit the Cinque Terre. We rode the train up to Monterosso al Mare, then hiked from there to Vernazza. We’d planned on walking from town to town, but not having packed appropriately for such an adventure, and finding ourselves hiking up and over those hills on a hot Spring day, wearing blue jeans and toting leather jackets, we ended our trek at Vernazza and took the train to each of the other three villages.
Anyway, the writing challenge took me in an unexpected direction once I started, and even disciplining myself not to add too much of what I remembered of that and the other towns, the story topped out at over 1,000 words.
So, here’s a short version with an alternate ending, and following is a link to the site where the long version can be found.
Antonio’s left thumb twitched.
This always happened when he got excited, like when Papa said, “let’s take the boat out and snag some fish.” Or like now, when Mama said, “Antonio, run back down to Bernelli’s and get me some mushrooms.”
In all his seven years, Antonio had never been asked to do something so important as this.
With a pouch of coins tucked into his pocket, Antonio raced down the narrow streets to the upper piazza, where St. Peter’s cappella stood, and he considered stepping into the cool fragrant church to see his papa.
His papa was a reverent man. That’s what his mama said, anyway.
“Tony is a reverent man,” she had said to Grams on the phone just yesterday. “He spends his lunch every day on his knees at the altar. I know this because his knees are as calloused as an elephant’s hide and two days ago I pulled a damn…” here, she crossed herself and said her prayer “…splinter from his knee!!”
Eager to get back home to lunch, Antonio left the piazza and ran down to the store on the bay, where he bought the mushrooms. Figuring his running had saved him some time, Antonio detoured to the bay and mounted the parapet, where he intended to sit and watch the sun on the water.
It was here he found his reverent papa with his friends, in his skivvies. His papa looked up from the paper he was reading, eyed Antonio, smiled, and put his index finger up to his lips. Antonio, flushed with confusion, mimicked his papa’s gesture, then continued on into the street, knowing he’d have to make one more stop before going home.
A few blocks up the hill, Antonio squeezed between buildings 403 and 404, emerging on the slope overlooking the bay. Sailing out of the bay were two stripped down fishing boats, each boasting nothing more than a mast and boom with sail, and a tiller. The boisterous voices of the men floated up to Antonio, who heard for the first time the language of racers cursing each other, begging the wind to favor them, and making all sorts of promises to God if only He’d give them the win.
In the stern of the lead boat, on his knees working the tiller, was Antonio’s reverent papa. Antonio watched long enough to see his papa’s boat round the buoy well on its way to victory, then he squeezed back into the street and raced home.
Antonio devoured his mozzarella and tomatoes, enduring the scolding of his mama, who told him not to inhale his lunch. She turned from the skillet of sizzling mushrooms and asked, “What are you smiling at, son?”
“Nothing, Mama. Just hoping Papa prayed for me today.”
Another nine hundred words and the characters get a little more life, which pleases me more.
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1443524
June 25th, 2008 at 5:06 pm
Well, I’m sorry that the formatting for paragraphs didn’t copy over!
Just for the sake of not driving you mad with reading, here’s another copy.
* * * *
Antonio’s left thumb twitched.
This always happened when he got excited, like when Papa said, “let’s take the boat out and snag some fish.” Or like now, when Mama said, “Antonio, run back down to Bernelli’s and get me some mushrooms.”
In all his seven years, Antonio had never been asked to do something so important as this.
With a pouch of coins tucked into his pocket, Antonio raced down the narrow streets to the upper piazza, where St. Peter’s cappella stood, and he considered stepping into the cool fragrant church to see his papa.
His papa was a reverent man. That’s what his mama said, anyway.
“Tony is a reverent man,” she had said to Grams on the phone just yesterday. “He spends his lunch every day on his knees at the altar. I know this because his knees are as calloused as an elephant’s hide and two days ago I pulled a damn…” here, she crossed herself and said her prayer “…splinter from his knee!!”
Eager to get back home to lunch, Antonio left the piazza and ran down to the store on the bay, where he bought the mushrooms. Figuring his running had saved him some time, Antonio detoured to the bay and mounted the parapet, where he intended to sit and watch the sun on the water.
It was here he found his reverent papa with his friends, in his skivvies. His papa looked up from the paper he was reading, eyed Antonio, smiled, and put his index finger up to his lips. Antonio, flushed with confusion, mimicked his papa’s gesture, then continued on into the street, knowing he’d have to make one more stop before going home.
A few blocks up the hill, Antonio squeezed between buildings 403 and 404, emerging on the slope overlooking the bay. Sailing out of the bay were two stripped down fishing boats, each boasting nothing more than a mast and boom with sail, and a tiller. The boisterous voices of the men floated up to Antonio, who heard for the first time the language of racers cursing each other, begging the wind to favor them, and making all sorts of promises to God if only He’d give them the win.
In the stern of the lead boat, on his knees working the tiller, was Antonio’s reverent papa. Antonio watched long enough to see his papa’s boat round the buoy well on its way to victory, then he squeezed back into the street and raced home.
Antonio devoured his mozzarella and tomatoes, enduring the scolding of his mama, who told him not to inhale his lunch. She turned from the skillet of sizzling mushrooms and asked, “What are you smiling at, son?”
“Nothing, Mama. Just hoping Papa prayed for me today.”
* * * *
Another nine hundred words and the characters get a little more life, which pleases me more. And, properly formatted
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1443524
June 27th, 2008 at 5:19 am
[...] monday, I posted the photo for the first Write What You See challenge, with instructions to write a piece [...]
June 27th, 2008 at 5:24 am
Kate, no rush, but thanks for letting me know. I hope the challenge is a fun break from your busy week.
Lauren, thank for posting the story… twice
I’ll comment on it in the comments for the official post today.
June 27th, 2008 at 12:44 pm
“Papa, your pants.”
“What about them?” the old bald man asked, turning another page in his tabloid newspaper.
“You’re not wearing any pants, Papa.”
“I’m taking a bath, son.”
“Are you going down the stairs to bathe in the river, Papa?”
“No, I’m taking a bath right now.” Papa turn another page and the breeze threated to rip the tabloid from him like a kite.
“But there isn’t any water, Papa.”
“An air bath, son. I’m taking an air bath.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Why not? Benjamin Franklin took air baths. Maybe it’s going to catch on someday?
July 2nd, 2008 at 4:15 am
Mark,
Hilarious! Thanks for writing a story…
and perhaps you are right.
July 24th, 2008 at 6:03 am
[...] month, I was pleased to get a few takers. The submitted stories were all unique, creative and [...]