Yay!

Er, um, that is to say, I, for one, will look forward with eagerness and anticipation to any stories you may happen to fabricate with the aforesaid photographs in mind. Yes. Thank you.

Huh. Well, that one popped into my head quickly:

Photo #10

A sure way to determine if someone is a true aficionado of urban ghost stories is to casually mention the Vetimert Quadruplets. The uninformed will respond with a blank stare, or nod their head and make up stories about four children joined at the torso, or other spooky nonsense. The Vetimerts were, by all (scarce) accounts, perfectly happy and normal women. They passed into legend when the small diner they owned and worked at vanished. Overnight, where the diner stood was transformed into a small park with a weather-beaten statue of a dog balancing a small frog on its nose. Stories of the Vetimert Quadruplets appearing on roadsides across the country and singing prophecies in four-part harmony to startled passers-by have never been adequately verified.

Jilli, that is fantabulous! Better than Lemony Snicket anyday!

Teppy, I would like to thank you for this (these) drabble topic(s). For whatever reason, looking at those photos you selected has seemed to kick-start my writing. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

What Jilli said.

A second look at Photo #4.

The Photographer

His assignment for the magazine was almost over. Last week, Elizaveta hadn’t shown up and he’d started to worry. He’d missed her quiet looks and the sweet singing she did while she worked. She was here today and he put his worries aside. Life had been hard since her mother had died this past winter; taking care of thirteen younger brothers and sisters wasn’t easy.

“I missed you last week. Are you alright?”

“We took my brother, Yefim, to the railway station. He is going to America for work.”

Perhaps, before he left, he would ask Elizaveta to marry him.

Anyone up for looking over a synopsis?

[link]

Sixty years later – can you imagine? Sixty years have passed? – sixty years later, there were just two of them left, dotty old ladies now. Their children grown, even grandchildren grown, husbands gone, friends gone. The two of them still carrying on, surviving. Making the best of things. Scraping together some extra money out of social security checks and widows’ pensions for a cruise. Come Talent Show night, they pulled together baby-doll costumes and sang songs from the old days. A shame more of the girls weren’t there with them, but the two survivors kept laughing. Just like the old days.

Jesse, that's lovely. I'm so tickled every time you post a drabble. It's a side of you we never get to see.

Sail, that's a very good beginning. Now, of course, I want to know more.

Jilli! I'm clapping my hands in glee. I DO believe in fairygoth storytellers, I DO believe in fairygoth storytellers, I DO believe!

Aw, thanks, Beverly. I'm kind of wondering if it would be worth the explanation to send it to my grandmother, since it's about her. Even though that picture isn't as old as all that.

Okay, one more, and then I really am walking away from the computer for the night.

Photo #4

The village of Wollston Ripple is renowned for being the home of the only banshee that does not foretell death and despair. The banshee takes the usual form of a young woman washing clothing in a local stream; however, instead of blood-stained garments, she appears to be washing doll clothing. She does not cry or scream, but, if approached, will recite limericks and give clues as to where lost treasures from one's childhood can be found before vanishing in a small shower of forget-me-nots.