reluctantly hits the post button

I've lurked here for a long time, and I am constantly amazed by the quality of writing (that I get to read for free! such a thief...)

Anyway, I've finally got one, as inspiration is slow to come for me. It's probably terrible, but I know you all will forgive. :) This is for Picture Four, for the little girl in the back. (Also, 100 words is hard!!)

I try to look forward, but I see only Papa. I was to visit them next summer… catch fish at the river, play rough games with my cousins, drive Nana insane with my “tomboy antics.”

But now he’s dead, and all I see is his face. My dear Papa, once so vibrant, now only a shell. Pale skin, almost waxen. His best suit, the last time I’ll see it. Busy hands, now folded and still. Cheeks sunken, unnatural, collapsing without his beautiful soul.

Father snaps the picture, and I look at the wall and try not to break in two.

Ailleann, you are CRAZY about thinking it's terrible! I like it -- it's very powerful, particularly the last line.

Half a drabble. I tried padding it out, but it didn't seem to work. Suggestions?

Picture six: [link]

FOR SALE

"Hortense," a donkey, five years old, teeth good, hooves excellent. No history of colic, heaves, or laminitis.

Patient, gentle, steadfast, occasionally stubborn. Tolerates goats. Dislikes children and dogs.

Bridle, standard saddle, side saddle, and sundry other tack available separately, prices negotiable.

Only one previous owner, the late widow Renault, who only rode her on Sundays, to and from church.

dcp, I wouldn't change anything! I love that "only rode her on Sundays, to and from church," Bwah! Talk about turning a cliche on its head.

You could consider prefacing/interspersing it with the thoughts of the person writing the add. How did they really feel about the donkey? How did the donkey interact with original owner, did it take any of its personality from her?

Drabble for picture three:

Afterward, I thought of that summer as the Lost Summer, a blur of blues and beiges, sea and sky and sand. Larry, with his omnipresent cocktail, was the putative host, though invitations were never really issued, and lack of same wasn't a problem; guests just showed up, dogs and coolers of beer in tow, and Larry seemed to know them all.

It was a constant trickle of fruity alcoholic drinks, naps at midday, and raucous shenanigans until the wee hours, every night. The goal was supreme decadence, pursued with zeal. This was nirvana, we declared, and vowed to repeat it every summer for the rest of our lives.

I can't remember more than a handful of names now, if I ever knew them then, and I lost touch with Larry years ago. Every summer, though, I think of them, and wonder if they're still on that beach, drinks in hand, pursuing their idyll with fervent dedication.

less scared, she posts again

I've got another... this one for Picture Ten:

“Sweetheart, time for picture!”

My mother. So proud of Rebecca, married today to a wealthy stockbroker. She basks in her eldest’s success, her smug look taking credit for this amicable match.

But I know. I know the stockbroker’s a mailroom clerk with a one-room, and precious Rebecca will be a mother too soon. She confided in me, fearful and teary-eyed. I keep her secret, because she is my sister.

But Mother pokes me to suck it in and smirks “you catch more flies with a honey smile,” and I can’t wait till gossips wipe the smirk off her catty face.

Yeowtch. Very nice.

any damned reason on this green green planet why they allow so little time?

Because publishers like to schedule themselves a procrastination window. (I happen to know.)

Because publishers like to schedule themselves a procrastination window.

Heh. Infuriating. I never did that when I worked in publishing, though, damn it. I was scrupulous about giving the authors at least three weeks, and those all had art that had to be checked, too.

scp, I'm with Steph. Terse, perfect and nails it.

Ailleann, this:

Cheeks sunken, unnatural, collapsing without his beautiful soul.

Gorgeous. The idea of soul as blood running, air moving, is as pretty as it is poignant.

Teppy did my favourite kind of photo drabble: a freezeframe. I love those.

And it's interesting that both Amy and Ailleann looked at #10 and saw the mother as someone who needed a bitchslap to get the smirk off her face.

BTW, a question, because my brain is apparently a collander: famous case, early sixties, a Queens neighbourhood, girl stabbed to death repeatedly, screamed for help, no one came out because they didn't want to get involved. The case became a metaphor for uninvolvement.

What in hell was the poor girl's name?