Writing to Picture Prompts

 

Back in 2010 there was an ongoing series in the blogosphere called Magpie Tales, the brainchild of Tess Kincaid and her blog Willow Manor. A photo prompt (above) would be given, and any number of folks would respond with prose or poetry. I had way too much fun with these and, as it happens, I'll be offering a class beginning next month through Great Smokies Writing Program, doing much the same thing. (For information, go HERE.) The following example shows how much fun a writer can have, just being silly.

Ceiling fans stirred the sullen heat of a Kenyan midday, setting a-whirl golden motes of the inescapable African dust. It rose in a shimmering haze and then settled back on the heads and shoulders of the three men gathered on the veranda of the Colonial Club. Humming insects and the barking of baboons in the bush vied with the Victrola's tinny jangle -- the Quintet of the Hot Club of Paris. Unnoticed, the hot animal smell of the jungle prowled and sniffed at the edge of the clearing

A silent native attendant in crisp white garments brought yet another round of gin and tonics to the men engrossed in examining the curious ivory carving that Nigel Cholmondelay, fourth Baron Delamere, had just produced from the capacious pocket of his dusty jodhpurs.

"Ever seen one of these, you chaps?" he asked, setting the little thing in the center of the round table.

Dickie Pembrocke screwed in his monocle and leaned over for a closer look. "It's a bloody elephant -- Of course, we've all seen elephants!  What are you playin' at-"

"Steady on, Dickie, old boy."  The third man laid a restraining hand on his irascible neighbor. "I think what Delamere is asking pertains to the function, rather than the form, of this object.  Am I correct?"

The taciturn fourth baron nodded and quaffed the rest of his drink.  The native attendant silently materialized with another round.

"Mtu huyu atalipia kila kitu,"* said the third man to the native, pointing to the baron. 

"Yes, Bwana. As you wish." The native grinned at the noted white hunter, a man known to be as at home in the savannahs and forests of East Africa as the natives who had given him the name Bwana Nguruwe for his great strength and messy eating habits. 

Reaching for the strangely elongated carved elephant, the white hunter ran a reflective finger along the upraised trunk.  "Where did you come by this, Delamere? If I'm not mistaken, it's one of only three in the world -- used in the traditional wedding rituals of the Samburu tribe."

Shaking his head very slightly, the white hunter set the thing back on the table and drained his glass. "Bad show, Delamere.  Old Ijumaa, a witch doctor up near Lake Naivasha, swore that Kubwa Tembo, the king of all the elephants, would track down anyone who dared to steal the sacred-"

"I say, what's that beastly sound?" Dickie Pembroke's monocle fell from his eye and shattered on the table. Beneath the tan, his foolish, rabbity face was deathly pale.

An angry trumpeting rang out in the clearing around the club house and heavy footfalls thundered toward the veranda where the three white men sat beneath the slowly turning fan.

The golden dust of Africa danced in the air.

Swahili Guide*

Mbaya Hatari = big danger
Mtu huyu atalipia kila kitu.  = This gentleman will pay for everything.

Nguruwe = giant forest hog

Ijumaa  = Friday
Kubwa Tembo = big elephant
Gari langu linaloangamu na mikunga. = My hovercraft is full of eels.

Reading in the Tub - Magpie Tales

I haven't done a Magpie Tale in a while but when I saw Willow's prompt picture, I felt compelled to bring forth a relevant excerpt from my second novel.

Art's Blood has always seemed like the red-headed stepchild of my books. For the most part, folks just haven't embraced it as heartily as the others. Too much modern art? The little lesbian interlude? Or is it the rather blah cover with a cabin that does not look like an Appalachian building? I don't know. I'm still proud of the book.

Here's a brief excerpt from the bathtub scene  --

...She stretched out a foot and turned the tarnished brass tap, letting a little more hot water into the tub. A long soak before bed was one of her greatest pleasures. Usually she brought a book with her and read till the water became too cool or till she dozed off.  Occasionally her book would dip into the water as her eyes drifted shut and she had made it a rule never to read borrowed books in the bath. Once wet, a book was never quite the same. It would eventually dry out  -- but only as a puffed up, outsize version of its former self.

[Next come several paragraphs where Elizabeth considers the various suspects in the murder at hand and makes a list (yes, she has a notepad and pen nearby) of motives and opportunities. Finding herself at an impasse, as well as sleepy, she abandons her meditations.]


The intoxicating fumes of the lavender bath oil filled her nostrils. Elizabeth tossed the pen and pad onto the pile of folded towels resting on the small chair beside the tub, extricated a gardening magazine from under the towels, and began to read.

~~~

She awoke with a start. The water was cool and English Gardens was lying open on her belly.  Or rather, floating.

With a sigh of disgust, Elizabeth lifted the sodden magazine and let it drip, then laid it gently on the towels.  She yanked the drain plug loose and the water began to run out with a mocking gurgle.

When she was in the oversize T-shirt that was her nightgown, she turned her attention to the magazine, hoping that it could be salvaged. Carefully she spread it open to a double-page photograph of a luxuriant garden.  Roses cascaded from trellises, arbors, and trees -- in all shades of pink, coral, and red. The title shouted in bold turquoise print: "Don't Forget the Rose!"

She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and her mind. For a few seconds she stood there, staring at the soggy pages. 


Then she wrote on her notepad: There's always a previous murder.

Yes, there's a character named Rose. Like Elizabeth, I do some of my best thinking in the bath.  Including solving the murders that I dream up.

None of the photos are mine. For more Magpie Tales, go HERE. 

The Gordons - A Magpie Tale

The following is  written as a response to the prompt picture posted by Willow over at Magpie Tales.

Debbe McIntosh rattled her car keys and glanced at her watch. Typical, she thought. 

Heaving  a martyred sigh, she turned toward the empty staircase and called, pitching her voice to carry.

"Samantha! We're  going to be late for your gymnastics class if you don't get down here this instant. Do you hear me-"

"Relax, honey," Biff McIntosh, flushed and sweaty from his morning run, poked his head in the front door and gave her that disarming boyish grin that worked so well.  No, used to work so well, she thought as he went on.

"Sam ran next door to take some cookies to the new neighbors -- something about a good deed she was doing for Girl Scouts. She said to tell you she'd already put her gym bag in the car and she'd be right back." 

Debbe pursed her lips. "Do we know anything about these people? Anything at all? They could be axe murderers or-"

"Give me a break, Deb -- this is Hazelton, for cripes sakes! You know how strict the covenants are -- absolutely no axe murderers.  Besides, I told Sam not to go in. And I'm right here, keeping an eye on her. What could happen?"

Biff paused his post-run stretches and glanced to one side. "She's standing there on the door step -- must be talking to one of the sisters."

"Sisters?" Debbe grabbed up her purse and stepped through the door to peer across the narrow strip of perfect green that lay between the two houses.  Shading her eyes from the sun, she saw her daughter staring up at someone just inside the other house.  

"Who told you there were sisters?" she asked.

Biff  dropped down in the top step and began to remove his running shoes as he talked.  "I ran into Chuck Hendricks yesterday. You know, he's the realtor who sold that house. Kinda interesting -- our new neighbors are two sisters who last lived in Greece. Chuck said they liked the climate here and they chose Hazelton because they liked the privacy fences, of all things.  He hadn't actually met them -- their banker handled the sale completely -- but he spoke to them on the phone and their English was quite good,"

Debbe squinted against the sun's glare. "It must be. Look how Sam's just standing there listening. She seemed utterly spellbound."

"Why did these sisters leave Greece, I wonder?" she mused, really to herself but Biff was eager to share the gossip.

 "It's a sad story, according to Chuck." Now Biff was stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. It always annoyed her that he went through this little routine on the front steps rather than in the back yard. Rippling his muscles and showing off his tan for all the neighbors.

But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it pissed her off so she just said, "Sad?"

"Yeah," he had lowered his voice now and they were both watching their daughter. "It seems there was a third sister who was murdered --decapitated.  And the guy got away with it. Greek politics, Chuck said."

The child was still frozen in place, rapt in whatever tale this Greek woman was spinning.   

Debbe looked at her watch and moved to the car. She reached through the open window to tap the horn and recall Samantha.

"Did Chuck say what our neighbors name is? Something unpronounceable ending in -opoulous, I bet."

Biff paused in the doorway. "The first names are pretty weird -- he had to write them down for me.  Get this: Stheno and Euryale -- sounds like a cleaning product and a European ale, he said. Old Chuck's got this system for remembering names -- has to in his line of work."

Stheno . . . Euryale . . .

Back in college Debbe had had a system too. That Humanities course in Mythology -- impossible names you had to know if you wanted to pass. And she was sure she'd learned these. Stheno and Euryale were . . .  who? There were three names. Stheno and Euryale and . . .

Medusa - that was the third sister -- the mortal one of the trio who Perseus had decapitated.  Decapitated . . . All three sisters -- snake-haired gorgons whose glance turned people to stone. Mythical monsters. Mythical . . .

"Biff?" She had to ask. "What's their last name, these sisters?"

"I think it was Gordon -- not Greek at all. I figure their dad must have been English -- that would account for how well they speak the language."

Debbbe took a halting step toward the low hedge between the two properties, trying to fight back a nameless rising surmise.

 

"Sam!" The word was little more than a hoarse croak. 

The child stood open-mouthed, looking up.  Debbe saw the heavy front door slam shut and heard the crack of wood on wood but still her daughter didn't move.

"Sam!" Debbe shouted, "SAM!"

And then she began to run.




If you'd like to know more about the Gordons Gorgons, go to http://www.theoi.com/Pontios/Gorgones.html

Nature Laughs at Time-Pieces - Magpie Tales

                                Not for her, Man's silly watches, keeping

                                Manufactured time, turning eternal

                                Tracts of forever into infernal

                                Seconds and minutes bounded by beeping.

                                No, not for her, the minute hand creeping,

                                Alarm clocks ticking order external,

                                Making the rules for lives once diurnal 
                                Setting strict hours for waking and sleeping . . .
 
                                Her time is reckoned by the Great Bear's pace
                                Circling the lynch pin of the starry skies . . .
                                Hot summer's fecund growth . . . late swarming bees . . .
                                Slow fall of crisping leaves . . . bright ice's trace.
                                Her clocks are dandelions and brief May-flies
                                And cuckoos calling from the spring-green trees.

For more Magpie Tales, go HERE.

Lilith -- Magpie Tales

 Not quite human was what they whispered . . .

Some called her daughter of the djinn.

Old Adam's first wife, others muttered . . .

Immortal,  she returns again.

Wicked stepmother in grim fairy tales,

All of history's evil queens,

She-wolf, Jezebel, Medea . . .

Stalking  through our midnight dreams.

Honing her lipstick to the killing point,

La Belle Dame sans merci paints her smiles.

Blood-dark kisses stain forever

Those lost souls by Lilith beguiled.

Learn more about Lilith HERE.
Follow the link for more  Magpie Tales 

Shameless Haiku - Magpie Tales

"Of course," said the English professor, "flowers are nothing more than sexual organs.  Remember this in your study of poetry." (Emory University, 1960.)

~~~

Daffodil trumpets

Blare . . . blatant they sing,

Come and ravish me . . .

Flaring bright signals,

 Seductive sirens of Spring,

Lure an early bee,

Who, bumbling, plunges,
Blind obedience humming
To April's decree.

~~~

Go HERE for more Magpie Tales

Where Do Nails Come From?

It all began that night at the Workbench -- yeah, I know, the regulars are a bunch of tools but, hey, it's handy, man.

Me and some of the other fellas were drinking Rusty Nails -- it'd been that kind of a week and I was ready to get hammered.

Nine-Inch Nails was playing and the pounding beat was really getting to me when all of a sudden Brad says, 'Hey, hey, hey, look at that hot-dipped, galvanized little number. How'd you like to nail that one?"

And I see her over there, all shiny-slim and sharp-looking.  She's with a couple of tacky losers, you know, the kind they always say has a terrific personality, but this one, well, she can ride in my nail belt any time!

Me, I'm a big galoot, tough as nails, and I stand out in this crowd of common nails. I can see she's looking me over, but playing it cool, you know what I'm sayin'?

 So I sort of meander on over to where she is and offer her a coffin-nail. We stand there smoking for a while, just kind of getting to know one another. I ask does she come here for the music and she says yeah, I hit the nail on the head -- it sure wasn't for the company.

Turns out her name's Penny and she's got a boyfriend named Spike but I know this Spike --thinks he's a big stud when he's nothing but a common framing nail --I could chew him up and spit out carpet tacks.

One thing leads to another and I ask can I drive her home. She wants to know am I hitting on her but than she says yeah and ditches the girlfriends and once we're at her place, it doesn't take long for us to get to the point, if you know what I mean. 

++++++++++

I didn't see her again - months went by  and one night I'm on the computer, checking out exotic fasteners and then watching a video called 'Nailin' Palin.' when I get a call.

It's the hot number from the bar. She has to remind me and then-- well, not to put too fine a point on it, she tells me I'm a daddy --  says there's all these little nails and they're crowding her out of the house and she wants me to do something.

I think I'll go get hammered.

Go HERE for more Magpie Tales.

Thank You, Noni

My dear Noni,

On Friday last, I received the Strega's Hand by your courier (poor lad, I fear he'll be of no further use to you) and look forward with certain anticipation to ultimately harnessing its undoubted powers.   You think to test me with this gift, to goad me to failure-- you see, I know the machinations of your twisted mind -- but this time, dearest sister,  my superior knowledge of The Craft will prevail.


Yes, of course I set the wards at once. The Hand is safely contained within the Pentangle. I am not the fool you think me, dear Noni -- I remember the story of poor Grisel's untimely fate. You were jealous of her as well -- oh, all the Sisterhood knows the truth of that debacle, though they have been strangely reluctant to act.

Yet I confess, the tapping of the wooden fingers against the table where the Hand lies confined grates on my nerves.  And in the flicker of the candles it seems -- no, surely I mistake -- surely it has not moved.

I laugh at your pathetic attempts to -- hark! what's that? A tapping . . . a sliding  of wood over wood, the scuttling of ragged claws-

Sisters of the Circle, our late lamented Froniga's letter breaks off at this point. The investigation into the whereabouts of our former colleague Nonissa of Nairn continues. The Hand Of the Strega has also vanished. A word to the wise . . .

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

And this, of course, is another Magpie Tale, a response to the weekly prompt. Go HERE to know more about the tales, to join in, or to see what others have written.

Magpie 4 - Mbaya Hatari

Ceiling fans stirred the sullen heat of a Kenyan midday, setting awhirl  golden motes of the inescapable African dust. It rose in a shimmering haze and then settled back on the heads and shoulders of the three men gathered on the veranda of  the Colonial Club. Humming insects and the barking of baboons in the bush vied with the Victrola's tinny jangle -- the Quintet of the Hot Club of Paris. Unnoticed, the hot animal smell of the jungle prowled and sniffed at the edge of the clearing

A silent native attendant in crisp white garments brought yet another round of gin and tonics to the men engrossed in examining the curious ivory carving that Nigel Cholmondelay, fourth Baron Delamere, had just produced from the capacious pocket of his dusty jodhpurs.

"Ever seen one of these, you chaps?" he asked, setting the little thing in the center of the round table.


Dickie Pembrocke screwed in his monocle and leaned over for a closer look. "It's a bloody elephant -- Of course, we've all seen elephants!  What are you playin' at-"

"Steady on, Dickie, old boy."  The third man laid a restraining hand on his irascible neighbor. "I think what Delamere is asking  pertains to the function, rather than the form, of this object.  Am I correct?"


The taciturn fourth baron nodded and quaffed the rest of his drink.  The native attendant silently materialized with another round.

"Mtu huyu atalipia kila kitu,"* said the third man to the native, pointing to the baron. 

"Yes, Bwana. As you wish." The native grinned at the noted white hunter,  a man known to be as at home in the savannahs and forests of East Africa as the natives who had given him the name Bwana Nguruwe for his great strength and messy eating habits. 

Reaching for the strangely elongated carved elephant, the white hunter ran a reflective finger along the upraised trunk.  "Where did you come by this, Delamere? If I'm not mistaken, it's one of only three in the world -- used in the traditional wedding rituals of the Samburu tribe."

Shaking his head very slightly, the white hunter set the thing back on the table and drained his glass. "Bad show, Delamere.  Old Ijumaa, a witch doctor up near Lake Naivasha, swore that Kubwa Tembo, the  king of all the elephants, would track down anyone who dared to steal the sacred-"

"I say, what's that beastly sound?" Dickie Pembroke's monocle fell from his eye and shattered on the table. Beneath the tan, his foolish, rabbity face was deathly pale.

An angry trumpeting rang out in the clearing around the club house and heavy footfalls thundered toward the veranda where the three white men sat beneath the slowly turning fan.

The golden dust of Africa danced in the air.

This is a magpie tale, written for the prompt of the first picture. For more Magpie Tales, or to join in next week, go HERE.

Swahili Guide*

Mbaya Hatari = big danger
Mtu huyu atalipia kila kitu.  = This gentleman will pay for everything.

Nguruwe = giant forest hog

Ijumaa  = Friday
Kubwa Tembo = big elephant
Gari langu linaloangamu na mikunga. = My hovercraft is full of eels.

One Key

A response to the picture prompt from Magpie Tales . . .
with apologies for where my mind has taken me . . .

The old candy man swore
The weight was true
In spite of the missing chip.

The buyer shrugged,
And put down his cash,
Eager for the trip.

 

One key of cocaine,
Ain't asking for more,

Just lay down the line
And open the door . . .

Oh, ain't that fine!
One key of cocaine . . .

Now watch me soar 
Oh, yeah, high flyin' . . .


One key of cocaine . . .
Lame dance; blind see . . .

Ho, ho, honey, take a whiff on me . . .

(Cue Leadbelly...)

ADDENDUM:

key - drug slang for kilogram

Candy man - drug dealer

I was intending to evoke the drug culture of early 20th century USA -- thus the link to the Leadbelly song.

Admittedly, a casual user wouldn't have been purchasing such a large amount ... I'm using my poetic license here. 

A Lucky Son of a Bitch

 Here's a short piece inspired by the photo below -- another writing prompt from Magpie Tales -- which you can visit to see how others responded. If you're so inclined, think about signing on for the next one!
 

"Oh, come on with me, Travis, honey. It'll be fun and maybe we'll get to be on TV."


Loreen  reached over and trailed a suggestive hand down his chest. "Travis, honey, pleease . . . . I'll say thank you real good when we get home . . . You know . . ."

Travis considered, watching the throng of people pouring into the Civic Center. The big sign on the marquee said "Antiques Road Show ~ Last Day!" 

He sighed deeply. If he just stayed in the pickup in the parking lot, she wouldn't say nothing but like as not she'd cut him off for a week or more.

"Okay, I'll do 'er but it's a waste of time. I'll tell you now, Sugar, that stupid doll ain't gone be worth more than a couple of bucks. Fact."

That got Loreen riled.  He had to hold back from laughing as she swole up all huffy and snapped out, "You think you know so much. You wanna make a bet?"

She didn't even wait for him to answer but plowed right ahead, the words just sputtering. 

"How about this? If my doll's not worth more than fifty dollars, then I'll buy you that big screen TV you been carrying on about -- right out of my own savings. And I'll go you one better, Mr. Smart Ass; if she's worth more than fifty, I'll still buy you that TV. . . But,  for every dollar over fifty that they say she's worth, that's one whole day that I get to pick what we watch."

"Deal," Travis said, grinning to himself. He'd been dreading the fight it was going to take to get that TV he wanted so bad. And here it was, falling into his lap.  Looked like this was his lucky day after all.



They climbed out of the pickup, Loreen carrying the big bag with her special treasure -- the Barbie Doll in its original box.


As they made their way to the entrance of the Civic Center, Travis  stopped. "You go on ahead, babe; I gotta have a smoke first" and he headed over to the side where there was a convenient wall to lean on. 


Pulling out a Marlboro -- Loreen was after him to switch to those cheap generic cigarettes but she could kiss his ass -- he put it to his lips and clicked his Bic.

Piece of crap. Probably been through the wash one too many times. Travis slapped his pockets but it wasn't no good --no matches. 


Then he saw it. Proof that he was still a lucky son of a bitch. Right there on the wall beside him was a box of matches. Hotel Something or other -- weird looking black-tipped matches but the first one fired right up and he sucked in the smoke greedily. 


Five minutes later he was in the crowded hallway trying to figure out where Loreen might have gone. The place was like an anthill a kid had kicked --  people swarming every whichaway, each one carrying some kind of treasure.

"Through that door and to the right." It was a geeky-looking guy standing next to him with a couple of big scrapbook-looking things in his arms.

Travis frowned.


"That's where the philumeny experts are," the geek explained. "I couldn't help noticing your matchbox . . ." 

He nodded toward Travis's hand which still held his lucky find. "I collect covers myself, but sometimes those foreign matchboxes bring amazing prices. Good luck with it!"

Luck . . . well, what the hell, thought Travis and went through the door and to the right.


It was another geeky guy he finally talked to and he was sorry that Loreen wasn't around because while he was in line, the TV cameras had started rolling.


Just like he'd seen watching the show at home, there was lots of fancy talk -- how long had he had the matchbox (he said a friend had given it to him,) any idea of its worth (he could be honest here and say none at all.)


"Well," said Geek number 2,  setting the matchbox on a black cloth and looking at it like it was some kind of big ass diamond, "it's a very special matchbox, even though it's not an antique. But the Trans-Canada Swapfest is coming up in May and there are several collectors who would be very interested in a Hotel Forum ~ Bratislava."


The Geek, who was wearing white gloves, for crissakes, very gently pulled open the box of matches and delicately spilled them onto the cloth. His finger quivered above the matches and his lips moved.

" . . .  twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . ."


His brow furrowed and he counted again.


The Geek sighed. "Unfortunately, collectors demand a complete box.  If all thirty matches had been here, I believe that, at auction, the box could have fetched two to three thousand dollars. As it is, however . . ." he shrugged. " Worthless  . . . just not your lucky day, I'm afraid."

 Above the sound of many voices, Travis could hear Loreen's shriek of delight all the way across the vast hall. 

"Five thousand dollars! For my Barbie? Really?"

Five thousand. Minus fifty and that made four thousand, nine hundred and fifty days when she held the remote -- four thousand, nine hundred and fifty days of movies about women talking about their problems and handsome vampires talking about theirs. It meant hot and cold running Oprah and Martha . . . shows about fixing up a house and shows about kids and more shows about women, talking about their problems . . .

"Sir? Sir? . . . are you all right? "

The floor rose to meet him and the babble of voices grew farther and farther away. All the light in the room seemed to gather into a ball of fire which flared up briefly then diminished to a single pinprick which pulsed . . . and fluttered . . . and went out . . .

"Somebody call 911! . . . Sir? Sir? . . ." 

She's So Vain

 

Here's something new -- Willow, of the charming blog Willow Manor, has put up a writing prompt blog called Magpie Tales. She proposes  to put up a photo every Thursday or Friday and ask for response the following Tuesday.  A visit to Magpie Tales will provide links to the various responses.

Willow began with the photo below and wrote a charming vignette about the little pewter pitcher, supposedly once used by George Washington, and then asked her readers to make up their own stories or poems based on the picture.

 Well, probably because I'm in the midst of writing about Elizabeth and her sister Gloria, I couldn't help noticing the matching sugar basin standing in the shadow...

It's always the same. 

Just look at her, posed all sexy, pouting lip, one hand on her hip.  She's been like this ever since the story about her and George Washington got around.  Oh, she's the big star, the one at the front of the shelf who gets the extra polish, who gets passed around reverently like she was some bloody Holy Grail. 

Me? I'm just the plain dumpy little sugar basin. Georgy Boy wasn't interested in me. No sugar for him, not with those rotten teeth of his. So here I stand, hidden behind her, dull and dusty, a receptacle for dead flies. 

No one remembers the time the Marquis de Lafayette emptied out the sugar, filled me to over-flowing with champagne, and made a mighty toast to the new nation. Bumpers all round, he cried, and no heeltaps!

Those French -- tres galant -- we were all so in love with them.


At least I have my shining memories. And if I can just creep up a little . . . Miss I'm So Special is quite near the edge  of the shelf . . . the tiniest shove and over she goes . . .


One lump or two, my dear?