So, Jack's hand running through his hair, and comes away with a sense memory of Anna? And he knows it? Does she know it?

Susan, that is so neat. I like Cindy's idea.

More torture.

Photo #4.

Baptismal

It wasn't for much pay, the scrubbing and wringing, but it was for always. A guaranteed income was a good thing; it put butter on the table in addition to the bread. Sometimes, even a good, thick piece of sausage for stew. Her babies were going to grow up strong, a testament to the care of their mother. And the work was no harder than what any other village woman had to do, especially in the way of conscience. Hers was as clean as the prisine, smoothly ironed sheets that she returned to Madame Tilda's for her back room work.

#4

He came there often, but never spoke. He'd stand quietly and watch her as she washed, meeting her eyes calmly whenever she looked over - no embarrassment, no invitation, nor even interest.

Somehow he made her feel the interloper, and she self-consciously broke eye contact, irritated at herself each time. This was her space, where her work was done.

She felt that familiar presence away from the river sometimes, late at night, when she was the one out of place, hurrying home after hours. But try as she might, she couldn't pick him out of the darkened alleyways as she passed.

Both of you, those are wonderful. And they could be about the same character, rather than the same photo.

Susan, what a gratifying response. I'm with Cindy--type up the comment and frame it!

So, Jack's hand running through his hair, and comes away with a sense memory of Anna? And he knows it? Does she know it?

She wouldn't know it, I don't think. She's nothing unusual in the intuition/empathy department, and she's got her own overwhelming rush of physical and emotional sensations to cope with at the moment.

I mean, it was quite some kiss, if I do say so myself.

Photo #3.

Swing Me, Baby

Would you look at them? A couple hausfrau-cum-partygirls dying for someone to ask them to do something a little naughty. Took off their pearls and put on peek-a-boo panties, hoping for some John Doe to ask for a peek of their pampered pussies. Do they really believe that just any Joe Schmoe is going to make them a queen instead of Mrs. Howard Kendall-Smythe from Suburbville, USA? It doesn’t matter what they wear, Chanel No. 5 or Avon Cotillion, they’ll always smell of the nursery. There’s only one queen here, darling, and we both know who he is, don’t we?

Photo #2

The Ogred-Vole boating incident of May 1897 is still hotly debated in occult circles. Did Hortense really step off the boat into the depths of Lake Waulingstone to become the bride of an underwater spirit, as her sister Hibiscus claimed? Or is it true that Hibiscus pushed her older sister out of the boat to a watery death?

Reported to have a morbid fear of river rocks, Lady Hibiscus Ogred-Vole retreated to the family estate in 1901. In 1949, she was found dead in the library; her mouth and throat filled with silt.

Local legend claims that that Hortense can be seen walking just under the surface of the lake, wearing a crown and a flowing gown of duckweed.

Oh dear lord, I love these.

Sail, how much do I fucking love that one? Wonderful.

Great take on the intrepid boaters, Jilli. I love this: "In 1949, she was found dead in the library; her mouth and throat filled with silt."

Amy, that one came while I was driving home from work today. I had to stop at the library to pick up a hold request and as soon as I got there I pulled out my little notebook from my purse so I could jot it all down. I was so afraid I'd forget some of the phrases I wanted to use by the time I got home, if I didn't.

And Jilli's was very gothic. Taking a nice, sunny day of boating and turning into something dark. I loved it!