Tell the story
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Muezzin
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Three separate narratives, eh? Is it against the rules to write one that unites all of the images?
Who is this by? It reminds me of Simon Bisley's 'Heavy Metal' Judge Dredd. Here's another example.
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Picture 2:
"No!! Please!! I haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t hurt me anymore!!"
Charlie lay on his bed, clutching his chest, desperately trying to stop the flow of blood slowly oozing from a gunshot wound. He looked up to his captors, eyes full of terror. He was met by three pairs of merciless, cruel eyes, their owners showed no sign of any remorse. So.. This was it. This was the last sight he would see before he was murdered.
Ohhh, how did it come to this?? Now he understood what people meant when they said life flashes before your eyes when you are close to death.
...Charlie lived a simple life, growing up on a farm with his parents and five siblings. He was extremely close to his elder brother James, who was killed following a nasty accident with farming machinery. Life had never quite been the same after his death. Jack had been the golden boy, the apple of their father’s eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he could never live up to his father’s expectations. Afters years of being shunned and being labelled the useless child, he decided enough was enough and he left his home at the tender age of 17.
Two years on and he was employed in a large corporate business, not a job he had anticipated that he would take when he left home, rather one he had been forced to take following his girlfriend Caroline’s unexpected pregnancy. It had all happened so fast, within days his marriage had been arranged and he now worked for his father in law, who despite all of Charlie’s effort to make him proud, never seemed to think that Charlie was good enough for his only daughter.
Old Bob Warner had intended to marry off Caroline to someone in his circle of business partners. Yet his errant daughter had a mind of her own. Foolish girl! Something had to be done about the boy, she couldn’t possibly stay with him- he grew up on a farm for god’s sake! Of course he wouldn’t get his own hands dirty, just one call and the job would be done the same day. And then he would deal with Caroline…
Charlie came home that day full of happiness. Things were finally looking up for him; he’d managed to find his own job away from this horrible place, so he would no longer be indebted to his father in law. Caroline was nowhere to be seen, and he made his way to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed. He was exhausted. A sudden bang ripped through the silence in the room. Alarmed, Charlie sat up, only to experience searing pain in his chest. He looked down to see a small hole in his shirt, blood rapidly spreading across it. The light coming from the window was blocked off, by the shadow of a large man, Charlie looked up to see not one, but three masked figures surrounding his bed. The one closest to him raised his pistol once more. To finish him off. "No!! Please!! I haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t hurt me anymore!!"
But it was no use. These men had a job to do and they intended to get it done. He turned his head to the bedside table where a photo of Caroline stood. Oh Caroline….
And Charlie knew no more. Another bullet had been lodged into his chest and silenced him forever.
Caroline was outside in the garden when the shots had been fired. From under the tree where she was sat, she saw the figures of three men retreating from her house. The colour drained from her face. Oh god, please no!! She leapt up and raced to the house. Out of breath she turned to her room and stopped dead in her tracks. There, lay her husband, dead, his blood dripping slowly onto the floor. His lifeless eyes were staring in the direction of her photo. Tears filled her eyes and she turned away, she couldn’t bear to look at him. This had to be her fathers doing, she was sure. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She hated that man, the man she called father, the one happiness she had in her life, he had cruelly snatched away. She had to do something, for justice, for Charlie, for her unborn child. Bob Warner wasn’t going to get away, not this time.
She would have her revenge.
"No!! Please!! I haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t hurt me anymore!!"
Charlie lay on his bed, clutching his chest, desperately trying to stop the flow of blood slowly oozing from a gunshot wound. He looked up to his captors, eyes full of terror. He was met by three pairs of merciless, cruel eyes, their owners showed no sign of any remorse. So.. This was it. This was the last sight he would see before he was murdered.
Ohhh, how did it come to this?? Now he understood what people meant when they said life flashes before your eyes when you are close to death.
...Charlie lived a simple life, growing up on a farm with his parents and five siblings. He was extremely close to his elder brother James, who was killed following a nasty accident with farming machinery. Life had never quite been the same after his death. Jack had been the golden boy, the apple of their father’s eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he could never live up to his father’s expectations. Afters years of being shunned and being labelled the useless child, he decided enough was enough and he left his home at the tender age of 17.
Two years on and he was employed in a large corporate business, not a job he had anticipated that he would take when he left home, rather one he had been forced to take following his girlfriend Caroline’s unexpected pregnancy. It had all happened so fast, within days his marriage had been arranged and he now worked for his father in law, who despite all of Charlie’s effort to make him proud, never seemed to think that Charlie was good enough for his only daughter.
Old Bob Warner had intended to marry off Caroline to someone in his circle of business partners. Yet his errant daughter had a mind of her own. Foolish girl! Something had to be done about the boy, she couldn’t possibly stay with him- he grew up on a farm for god’s sake! Of course he wouldn’t get his own hands dirty, just one call and the job would be done the same day. And then he would deal with Caroline…
Charlie came home that day full of happiness. Things were finally looking up for him; he’d managed to find his own job away from this horrible place, so he would no longer be indebted to his father in law. Caroline was nowhere to be seen, and he made his way to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed. He was exhausted. A sudden bang ripped through the silence in the room. Alarmed, Charlie sat up, only to experience searing pain in his chest. He looked down to see a small hole in his shirt, blood rapidly spreading across it. The light coming from the window was blocked off, by the shadow of a large man, Charlie looked up to see not one, but three masked figures surrounding his bed. The one closest to him raised his pistol once more. To finish him off. "No!! Please!! I haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t hurt me anymore!!"
But it was no use. These men had a job to do and they intended to get it done. He turned his head to the bedside table where a photo of Caroline stood. Oh Caroline….
And Charlie knew no more. Another bullet had been lodged into his chest and silenced him forever.
Caroline was outside in the garden when the shots had been fired. From under the tree where she was sat, she saw the figures of three men retreating from her house. The colour drained from her face. Oh god, please no!! She leapt up and raced to the house. Out of breath she turned to her room and stopped dead in her tracks. There, lay her husband, dead, his blood dripping slowly onto the floor. His lifeless eyes were staring in the direction of her photo. Tears filled her eyes and she turned away, she couldn’t bear to look at him. This had to be her fathers doing, she was sure. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She hated that man, the man she called father, the one happiness she had in her life, he had cruelly snatched away. She had to do something, for justice, for Charlie, for her unborn child. Bob Warner wasn’t going to get away, not this time.
She would have her revenge.
Muezzin
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Okay, here's my attempt for the first picture. Kind of flash-fiction in that it's less than 500 words and I don't really have too much time. Anyway.
Immortality is not a lie.
The hag was the proof. Clomping up the steps, she creaked open the door, staggered into the studio and smiled - stretched leather framing white mesas in a desert of gum. My ability to smile back was a testament to my choice of vocation. I paint portraits. Lying is second nature. The most convincing lies are unspoken.
I cannot recall her precise words. Something about her daughter’s young sons, about how her own grip on life loosened and how she wanted the boys to look upon the picture as a testament to the beauty of their grandmother.
“Paint me not as I am,” was her silent request, “but as I was.”
So I’d taken her shawl, watched her skeletal frame hobble away, heard her black shroud rustle as she sat on the stool.
I prepared my oils while she gazed around the room, chin cupped in palm, fingers hooking her cheek. As if she were a young lady. As if she were beautiful.
Some deceptions are so sweet I wonder if enjoying them is harmful. My gut twisted and fizzed and spiralled into my chest and channelled through my arms and made them fetch two canvases. I set them up before her, answering her curiosity with painterly sagacity involving my three magic words “Outlines. Elegance. Technique.”
She flitted in and out of the studio for a month, always curious about my interpretation of her past beauty, always sated with my assurances that it was of fullness, of richness, of fertility. Which wasn’t a lie.
At least regarding the picture I would give her.
The other canvas contained that image and one more. A beautiful young lady before a hag. A juxtaposition of elegance and ugliness, of past and present, of life and death.
Of deception and truth.
At the month’s end, I received my payment and she received her picture. Painterly sagacity silenced questions of the other canvas. She nodded, leather wrinkling around her desert-mouth, and left to hang her painted effigy.
Let her. For as her offspring’s spawn will honour the dishonest beauty she mothered and I fathered, so too will I honour my canvas. My truth.
Their image will not last forever. They’ll suspend it for all to behold and believe, but it is beauty based on a lie and so it will crumble doubly fast. My truthful image will lay covered, protected, forever.
Immortality is not a lie. Immortality is truth.
Immortality is not a lie.
The hag was the proof. Clomping up the steps, she creaked open the door, staggered into the studio and smiled - stretched leather framing white mesas in a desert of gum. My ability to smile back was a testament to my choice of vocation. I paint portraits. Lying is second nature. The most convincing lies are unspoken.
I cannot recall her precise words. Something about her daughter’s young sons, about how her own grip on life loosened and how she wanted the boys to look upon the picture as a testament to the beauty of their grandmother.
“Paint me not as I am,” was her silent request, “but as I was.”
So I’d taken her shawl, watched her skeletal frame hobble away, heard her black shroud rustle as she sat on the stool.
I prepared my oils while she gazed around the room, chin cupped in palm, fingers hooking her cheek. As if she were a young lady. As if she were beautiful.
Some deceptions are so sweet I wonder if enjoying them is harmful. My gut twisted and fizzed and spiralled into my chest and channelled through my arms and made them fetch two canvases. I set them up before her, answering her curiosity with painterly sagacity involving my three magic words “Outlines. Elegance. Technique.”
She flitted in and out of the studio for a month, always curious about my interpretation of her past beauty, always sated with my assurances that it was of fullness, of richness, of fertility. Which wasn’t a lie.
At least regarding the picture I would give her.
The other canvas contained that image and one more. A beautiful young lady before a hag. A juxtaposition of elegance and ugliness, of past and present, of life and death.
Of deception and truth.
At the month’s end, I received my payment and she received her picture. Painterly sagacity silenced questions of the other canvas. She nodded, leather wrinkling around her desert-mouth, and left to hang her painted effigy.
Let her. For as her offspring’s spawn will honour the dishonest beauty she mothered and I fathered, so too will I honour my canvas. My truth.
Their image will not last forever. They’ll suspend it for all to behold and believe, but it is beauty based on a lie and so it will crumble doubly fast. My truthful image will lay covered, protected, forever.
Immortality is not a lie. Immortality is truth.
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Selam aleykum,
Interesting. Some kind of psychological project you've got going on, Skye?
First picture:
I stand there, looking at her. Her beauty has faded away, she is an old lady now. Old and barely breathes. Her hands are shaking and the once elgance she had, is gone.
See the beautiful young lady, her fire-red lips and dark eyes, telling a story which no one can hear? This is just how I remember her, the young and beautiful Miriam.
And this is how I see her today, Miriam, very old of age and... I cannot remember how old she exactly is... Lived through the Second World War and today, fearfully expects a third one. Or has it already begun? Ever since, she hasn't dared to look out of the window. As a Jew during those times, it wasn't easy. The traumatic happenings still haunt her. Oh it wasn't easy to watch them get killed. She herself get raped. Oh how I pity her. She had been such a wonderful character, helpful, kind and her smile overshone even the sun's rays.
I see Miriam how she is now. Wrinkly and a shadow of a smile is haunting somewhere, somewhere in that face...
The mirror is a bit dusty. I try to clean it. My wrinkly hands slowly touch the glass. I smile. The young beautiful Miriam smiles back at me. Maybe she knows who I am? It's been so long since the beginning of World War 2, when I last saw her so beautiful.
I try my best to collect my voice, lips dry, I say: "My name is Miriam too. Nice to meet you... Again."
----
Interesting. Some kind of psychological project you've got going on, Skye?
First picture:
I stand there, looking at her. Her beauty has faded away, she is an old lady now. Old and barely breathes. Her hands are shaking and the once elgance she had, is gone.
See the beautiful young lady, her fire-red lips and dark eyes, telling a story which no one can hear? This is just how I remember her, the young and beautiful Miriam.
And this is how I see her today, Miriam, very old of age and... I cannot remember how old she exactly is... Lived through the Second World War and today, fearfully expects a third one. Or has it already begun? Ever since, she hasn't dared to look out of the window. As a Jew during those times, it wasn't easy. The traumatic happenings still haunt her. Oh it wasn't easy to watch them get killed. She herself get raped. Oh how I pity her. She had been such a wonderful character, helpful, kind and her smile overshone even the sun's rays.
I see Miriam how she is now. Wrinkly and a shadow of a smile is haunting somewhere, somewhere in that face...
The mirror is a bit dusty. I try to clean it. My wrinkly hands slowly touch the glass. I smile. The young beautiful Miriam smiles back at me. Maybe she knows who I am? It's been so long since the beginning of World War 2, when I last saw her so beautiful.
I try my best to collect my voice, lips dry, I say: "My name is Miriam too. Nice to meet you... Again."
----
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Second picture:
She left the room, crying her heart out. She did all she could, but she isn't a doctor. Outside the wind blows even harder than before and the snow has covered everything, one cannot see the sky, the ground or any light. That's why no help was able to reach to them. They simply lived too far away and needed help during the time no help could be given.
It isn't easy to loose someone you've loved. No one says it is, no one. Diana won't surpress the tears, she carries on grieving. Her brother was her one and all. She has no other family. How can she cope now, without his strength, his love and guidance?
It's cold outside, just how she feels inside.
She left the room, crying her heart out. She did all she could, but she isn't a doctor. Outside the wind blows even harder than before and the snow has covered everything, one cannot see the sky, the ground or any light. That's why no help was able to reach to them. They simply lived too far away and needed help during the time no help could be given.
It isn't easy to loose someone you've loved. No one says it is, no one. Diana won't surpress the tears, she carries on grieving. Her brother was her one and all. She has no other family. How can she cope now, without his strength, his love and guidance?
It's cold outside, just how she feels inside.
جوري
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جوري
Soldier Through It!
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btw I think you guys are brilliant.. I wasn't expecting such cohesion and flow..
guess what they say is true a picture is worth a thousand words..
and No! I am not working on any projects or here to psychoanalyze any of you -- bro Woodrow is the only psychiatrist/psychologist on board as far as I know..
besides the more variables you add the more complex the subconscious.. this level of psychoanalysis takes years of practice not a random forum quiz I assure you --
guess what they say is true a picture is worth a thousand words..
and No! I am not working on any projects or here to psychoanalyze any of you -- bro Woodrow is the only psychiatrist/psychologist on board as far as I know..
besides the more variables you add the more complex the subconscious.. this level of psychoanalysis takes years of practice not a random forum quiz I assure you --
that correspond with these pix
Once upon a time there lived two nuns, they were very happy but one nun didn't want to cover her booootiful hair, the end.
One stormy night there lived a princess and the fat ugly prince died on her bed, the end.
In a kindom faar faar away, lived the man with a ugly face, he was really ugly and killed everyone he saw with a bat and ate everyoe after he killed them with his long, sharp and shiny teeeeef, the end.
Argh mom gone out and theres lightening =(
Musaafirah
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Bumpety bump! 
TrueStranger
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I loved yours the best, it was simple and down to the point. lol
IbnAbdulHakim
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first pic - the mother wants her daughter to hug her
second pic - the womans got a headache and she's too kind to allow her husband to hurt over her pain so she left the room
third pic - its haloween
second pic - the womans got a headache and she's too kind to allow her husband to hurt over her pain so she left the room
third pic - its haloween
