Self Portrait

This week, an idea that has been bobbing about in my mind for a while now without form or structure. I’ve tried to realise it here but I’m not sure about the result; it will be interesting to hear your opinions.

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields

 

 

 

 

 

Salvin writhed in his slumber, trapped in a painting. He knew it from the thick black outline round his shape; the mirror, creased in the middle and suspended from a  staircase sweeping to infinity on the neck of a frightened horse.
The sun burnt fiercely with the promise inherent in bright colours waning to the calm of cobalt. Yet where he stood was arid.
Time dripped blood-like from a broken watch caught in the gnarled fingers of a dead tree. He recognised the tree in the mirror.
Snatching up brushes and violent hues, he lunged at the canvas and began, “Self-Portrait.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

(A short explanation: Van Gogh would often include a dead or dying flower or branch  to represent himself in his paintings and obviously symbolism pervades most art. Here we’re supposed to be in an artist’s dream.)

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The Primary School Teacher

 

 

 

 

 

PROMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

They’d been her charges since they were five; now they were dispersing to higher schools. She liked to think with a good start. She was sending them out to bloom into the butterflies she hoped they’d become.
But today was sadder than the emptied playground.
This year one butterfly wouldn’t emerge. Melissa wouldn’t be graduating.
As her pupils waved goodbye, she imagined she saw the pretty smile and ponytails.
‘Why did it have to be her?’ But she knew she’d be asking the same for any of them. ‘Why did it have to be?’ Sometimes life just doesn’t proffer answers.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Maybe Tomorrow

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Yarnspinnerr

The solid slab of heat pinned Forbes down into his chair. The wicker scored a painful lattice in his dripping thighs but not painful enough to consider moving.
For want of anything else to look at, his hooded eyes rested on the ceiling fan and the flies buzzing endless figures-of-eight beneath it. Their energy drained him more.
“Any chance of having the fan on?”
“Fan broken many years.”
“I’ll fix it for a beer. What’s wrong with it?”
“No ‘lectric, need re-wiring.”
Forbes sighed, as he had the day before and the one before that, “Put the beer on the tab.”
Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Hope is Forever, an Allegory

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Proudly stood that solitary tree amid the ochre bricks and daisy-strewn lawns. It grew where the grass wasn’t mown; a magnet for kids from streets around, its arms constantly full of adventures enacted by marauders, happily distracted from the tedium of long holidays.
So we couldn’t comprehend the sudden death, lightning dealt our friend. The leaves crumbled and the lifeless branches humbled; it remained bare for five years and bound with barbed wire to keep the children down, who just climbed higher.
Until one spring, a sprout of green and branches swarmed again with naive belief and that prodigious disregard for mortality.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

The Last Day Mending Nets

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Saline tanned and rope-roughed hands, the old fisherman pulls the needle through and round, over and hitch as he’s always done.
The waves against the sea wall fizzle respect for a worthy adversary; the gulls keen camaraderie from a deferential blue sky.
A disabled, rotting hull, he mends nets but can no longer fish. His stagnant, rock-pooled tears harbour painful pining beneath dead eyes, lamenting brutal years of toil.
Life’s soundtrack of the sea’s noises, fades like a relentlessly turning record slowing to an elegy. There’s a last weary wisp of breath and the needle drops unnoticed to the cobbles.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

The Circles of Oppression

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

“A cult is a malevolent circle, Mrs Mantle. A circle has no egress.”
“So how do we get her out?”
“She has closed her mind on the proposition of this twisted clique, until she opens it up, she’s lost.”
I looked down into the dregs of my coffee. “She is surrounded by others like ranks of concentric circles imprisoning her; you cannot break through from the outside. The weakness is on the inside. The only weapon, independent thought.”
“You mean she has to think for herself?”
“Is she used to that Mrs Mantle? Has she been allowed to do that before?”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Cold Turkey

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg

“Dribble said it was in the goatherd’s hat. There’s loads of ‘em.” Fingal bit his lip; this could get ugly.
“Why Spanish goatherd hats in Liverpool? It’s not exactly goat country.”
He began rifling the mound of woollen hats.
The shopkeeper approached the pair dismantling his display, “Need assistance gentlemen?”
Fingal exchanged looks with Crammer, “Just fancied a goatherd hat.”
“They’re Peruvian alpaca herders’ hats. The goatherd’s are there. We’ve only one…”
“I’ll take it,” blurted Crammer.

Outside, his shaking hands fumbled a tobacco pouch from inside the hat.
“Thank heavens,” sighed Fingal, “I wish Dribble would quit hiding his gear.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.