Thread: 03/01/2013 - LM - A Picture Prompt

LITERARY MANEUVERS

A Picture Prompt

Reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner.

The winner will receive a forum award which will be pinned to their lapel by Baron himself. Also, the winner will be awarded with a one month free subscription to the forums (FoWF) which will give you access to additional forums and use of the chat room where a there is a steadily growing community!

So, do your best!


Our prompt for this month's competition is:



In 650 words or less, write a story where the prompt above is in some way inspired by the image above, such as the theme; object; setting, etc. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt.


The judges for this round are:

Moderan; Staff Deployment; Leyline; Fin
A click of a judge's name will take you to their profile.

(To the judges, send your scores to Fin via PM - and if we could aim to have them sent within a week after the closing date, that would be ideal)


Now a recap of the rules:

• The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
• You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
• Of course, there can only be one entry per member.

No comments in this thread, please - Only competition entries (and links to) to be posted in this thread.
Also, please hold off on "liking" stories until the judging's done.


There are two ways to post your entry:

1. If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
2. You can opt to have your entry posted in the LM Workshop Thread which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or something). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry there in the Workshop thread, you must copy the link into the main competition thread or else it will not be counted.

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

This competition will close on:

Thursday, the 14th of March. To avoid confusion, the thread will close at 11:59pm (Thursday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time. GMT/UTC-8

Good luck, everyone!

http://www.writingforums.com/lm-chal...ml#post1608856

Literary Maneuvers Entry: WechtleinUns


Title: Evaporated Tears (Language Warning + Mature themes)

Who would have given me a funeral? A deal is a deal, no matter how much I wish I could have gone back, and changed my bet. Cleanse the losing horse with fire. This slab is hard. You hear stories about how you can't feel anything, once you've given up the ghost. But my back ached. A marble slab is no place to sleep. The sensations continue, too. The walls are bare, but solid, and the concrete floor is littered with broken glass. It's hard to walk. A force, stronger than gravity, weighs me down. Every time I lift my head, a searing pain runs through my eyes. It isn't due to any bright light. There is no bright light. Just an ink colored--pitch black--darkness. I smell sulfur.

It's getting hard to remember. Images flash through my mind. I am a policeman. No. I was never a policeman, was I? Who are my parents? With each step I take down the stairs, I remember having twenty more. No, a thousand more. Out of all the sea of faces, who are my parents? Was I hit? An image of a dark room flashes behind me, like the ghost of a memory, or the flicker of static on a the telly, during a thunderstorm. I didn't like the taste of him. Not inside my mouth. My mother didn't want me. That was fine. The drugs and the sex were enough. I didn't need her. Daddy gave me everything I needed, anyways.

Wait. I was born a man. Or a woman? Who am I? Dear God, who the fuck am I? The stairs have ended. At the bottom of the stairwell is an old elevator with a copper bar gate, and a well-dressed gentleman as the footman. "Top of the morning, to you, son. Or daughter. If you prefer." He says, with a wink.


My head hurts. Badly, ugly...like someone striking it over and over with a hammer. Like someone spraying lemon juice inside my eyes. I fall to the ground and blow large chunks of blackened tar and coal. So much filth has accumulated on this bottom floor, so much feces, semen, and bodily fluids. So much, in fact, that the whole mess was hardened into a kind of black and white patterned calcite formation. It was smooth and polished, as if somebody had shaved off the rough top layer and applied some sort of lacquer to it, to make it look like onyx or marble. As if somebody had been proud.

"Come, come." The elderly gentleman steps out of the elevator, and puts his hand on my shoulder, as if to comfort me. I can't move. My shoulder blade cracks as he grips my wrist. Whistling, he drags me towards the elevator. "This is always the hardest part, son. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid." He chuckles. But something holds me down. It was a crushing force of desire. A desperate clinging to life. It pushed me into the ground with a horrible crunch.


The elder man swings around and snarls. "Come on--!" He grips my hair, and smashes my face into the floor. He laughs, lightly and gently, and then smashes his boot on top of my skull. The onyx-like feces enters my nostrils, and I can smell methane, and sulfur. Crunch. Crack. Nibble. There was nothing but black, and the smell of evaporated tears.


____________________________

Patient
(language warning)

Stairs to Heaven

It was dark. Completely dark. Then there was a light, just a faint light but still a light. Then he can see. He's in a room, it's dim and cold, very cold. He shivered, he felt himself shiver but his body didn't move. Where was he? Nate Comer was laying still on a hard bed in a cold room. Where was he? Nate looked around shifting his head side to side. He was to tired to stand so he sat up. He didn't notice his own body left behind because it was but a ghost to him. There was nothing on the walls, the windows where covered in dust. He sat longer trying to gather his strength. He couldn't quite make out his last memory. He knew his name and that was all. There were blurs but his mind made no effort to decode them. His name was enough. He looked around one more time and spotted a door. When he got up just enough strength to stand he stood. It was like the first time he had ever walked. He wobbled weakly to a door in the corner of the room. He grabbed the door nob and turned then pulled but the door stayed shut. He pulled again this time with more force but still nothing. Again he tried to open the door, grabbing on with two hands he yanked on the door with every once of his strength. With this the door flew open throwing him at the wall on the other side of the room. He sat dazed for a long time trying to gather his energy again. When he finally did stand again he walked up the stairs in front of him. There were a lot of stairs. He tried to count them, going one, two, three, four, five, six, then somehow lose count and start again. He had counted many times over by the time he reached the top of the stairs. At the top there was a short hallway. It took him just three steps to reach the end of the hallway where there was another door. He first tapped the nob, nothing. Then he grabbed it, nothing. He turned the handle, something. He was thrown back all the way back down the stairs, to the very bottom. Strangely enough he wasn't hurt, he was just cold. So he walked up the stairs again. Counting one, two, three, four, five, six, and then one, two, three, four. He was one the number one when he started to notice a change. The light was growing brighter and less dim. He kept climbing and the light got brighter. He wasn't quite squinting when the coldness started to go away, so he kept climbing. Three, four, he was getting hot, the light was to bright to open his eyes. Six, seven, eigh... eight. Then he stubbled on a step, he fell into what felt like the hallway but he kept his eyes clenched shut. He kept walking, the hallway was longer now and the heat grew, and the light grew. He could no longer feel his own body taking steps in a hallway. He felt like he was floating as he walked. Soon all sense of time and numbers disappeared. Then the heat didn't feel hot, it just felt warm, embracing. And then it was light. Completely light.

Victoriana

http://www.writingforums.com/lm-chal...ml#post1609586

Astral Search (Strong Language)

Emergency sirens blare through the downtown core. I take a deep breath and will the chaos to leave my subconscious. I’ve got to find her; time is running out. The sirens fade, the darkness lifts like I'm crashing through the surface of a tsunami wave. Dimensions pass, like being on a spaceship made of glass, traveling through a Monet landscape.

My body shifts from stillness to intensity as I jump to my feet, jogging toward a crowd of faces, pushing through the blondes and brunettes. Where's the red hair? The colours blend together, smearing into dull greys. Find her, Goddammit. You promised; keep it for once. My pulse drums through my ears and I quickly step around a child, only to stumble at the mere sight of his red bow-tie. Keep moving!

The sky darkens and invisible hands wrap around my shoulders, tugging at me. The stale air of my apartment seeps into my taste-buds, bitterness biting at my tongue. The adrenaline surges through my veins and my heartbeat punches Morse code through my ribcage. Footsteps turn to soft whispers, synchronized to the second hand of my bedroom clock. NO! NO! NO! Please, don’t go back. A warm hand on my forearm squeezes and I roll over, refusing to acknowledge the green eyes of my failure.

He clears his throat, “Morgan. It’s okay, man. It’s only been two months. She’ll still be there. We’ll find her.”

I grimace and keep my back to him. “If I didn’t need you, I’d break your fucking jaw along with your arms and ribs, you asshole. It’s your fault we lost her over there to begin with!” A tear slides over my nose. “She’s waiting for me. I can’t lose her. Time shortens each trip!”

My room is silent, my vision is clear, my hands are numb at my sides -- Valium is the only way to pass days into night. Her voice echos, her smile shines, her arms wrap around me tightly. “You’re safe with me, Rosaletta.” I grin and pull her arms from around my waist to kiss the back of her hand.

“Don’t go back there man. I know you’re replaying it, Morgan. You’re whimpering in your sleep. Wake up!” I keep my breath at a steady pace and refuse to be pulled into a room with that prick when I’m lost in the past with her. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to let her go,” he slurs through a whooshing exhale of smoke.

The hours pass too slow and I decide to start early; the sun hasn’t even set. “You know you shouldn’t be traveling when you’re still drugged.” I close my eyes and nod. I don’t care. I’m sure part of me wants to get lost over there with her.

The glass in the spaceship is blurry and nauseating this trip. I crouch onto the floor and stretch my legs for only a minute when I arrive. I’ll run this time. Faces blur and blend together, but it’s not the faces I’m searching through. My eyes sting with sweat, like I’m running through a topical-storm of saline. My hamstring pulls and I stumble. Find her, just keep going! I stand and pick up speed.

It’s all beginning to quickly fade. The stench of Marlboros coats the inside of my mouth. I run harder and squint through the burning in my eyes.

“Morgan?!” Her angelic voice is soft, but frantic. I stop so fast I fall to my knees. “Morgan, over here!” I look up and instantly feel that euphoria at the sight of her.

The clock ticks, and I can’t move. No, please no! I moan from the bumpy mattress pressing into my spine. The smoke is so rancid it chokes me.

Her glassy stare and outreached arms fade until the red of her hair wilts into green eyes of regret at my bedside.

“Rosaletta!”

Survival

I've lost count of the days since it all began. The stench of death and the incessant moan of the tortured souls wash against the walls of the citadel without mercy. Gunfire punctuates the symphony of suffering, a comforting sound. They’re sending out a search party, looking for my medicine. I told them not to go, that I wasn't worth it, but my daughter insisted and these fools follow her. I don’t expect them to come back, fewer return every time we send them out.

By my count there are six hundred thirty nine of us left, plus twenty seven lost souls on search parties and rescue missions. Six hundred thirty nine against billions. When this all started we had confidence that we would make it through; we holed up with friends and strangers and waited for the all clear. When things got worse we lost confidence, but we still had hope. We scraped out an existence in this bastion of smoke and mirrors. We fooled ourselves into believing that just by going through the motions of normalcy we could restore what was lost. Today, some still believe the lies we told ourselves, but I see the truth. Sitting here in my bed I listen to the last vestiges of the world as they crumble into the putrid storm of death that surrounds us and I know; it’s only a matter of time.

My daughter comes in to comfort me. She tells me that everything will be alright. She tells me that I need to hold on until they come back. She tells me that I’m going to be a grandfather, and I cry. How could she be so cruel as to bring a child into this hell? I tell her I’m happy for them, but I silently pray it will be stillborn. Days pass, or perhaps it just feels that way, and the search parties still haven’t returned. My daughter alternates between standing at my side telling me to be strong and staring out the window hoping the twenty seventh street wall doesn't collapse.

The sun starts to rise and I watch the dust motes floating in the early light; it is the first beautiful thing I have seen in years. My daughter sleeps quietly in the arm chair on the far side of the room. There is a glow in her cheeks. A warmth that has not been there since she was a child. I sit up in bed and notice for the first time that it is silent. The constant rhythm of death has halted, it is finally over. I stand and walk to my daughter. She stirs as I brush my hand across her cheek, and I smile. In this newfound silence, perhaps there is reason to hope. I turn to leave the room and see myself lying on the bed.

Tunnel Vision 646 words

The ceiling above me was the wrong color; this wasn’t my bedroom. The window was open and the room was cold. I could hear traffic from the street below; I wasn’t in my neighborhood either. Each day, before I left my bed, I stretched to catalog my aches and pains as an indication of how my day would go. Today, I felt no pain; something wasn’t right.

When I sat up I noticed my legs looked odd, sort of shimmery and I muttered, “Great, now I’ll have to get glasses, too.” It took a while to realize that something was really wrong. My legs were opaque, and I wasn’t sitting on a bed, but floating above the surface of a hard table.

It took me a few minutes to acknowledge that I was a mere shadow of my former self, a spirit, a flipping ghost. The body lying behind me was … me. Disappointment ripped through me, there had been no tunnel with light at the end and no relative had come to take me home. I tried to remember everything I’d ever read about ghosts. Was there something I’d left undone that needed to be finished? I couldn’t think of a thing. I’d known I was seriously ill and had settled my affairs and said my goodbye’s weeks ago. I’d forgiven those who needed it and had gotten right with God. What more did I need to do?

The whole situation was aggravating. I’d been looking forward to seeing the DVD of my life flashing before me. What had happened to the tunnel? What dead relative would have come, and where were they? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

I was cold and tried to shut the window, but my hands passed right through the glass. I tried concentrating on the window closing, but that didn’t work for me. Evidentially I was not going to be a poltergeist. After failing to with the window, I thought about being warmer and concentrated, picturing a sunny beach with heat radiating off the sand, and after a few moments I began to feel comfortable. This ghost business had some good points to it.

As I hovered in one spot I wondered if I could leave the room or the building. Most ghosts I’d read about seemed to be stuck in one spot. A chuckle escaped me when I walked to the door, and passed through it. Now that was a strange feeling. It was like moving through Jell-O that tickled. The room I’d been in was in a funeral home and I wandered through the place, exploring. I saw a few other ghosts floating around, but they were a sour bunch, and I ignored them.

There was someone pounding on the front door, but I couldn’t open it for them so we both waited for somebody to come. Finally, a man came from the back and walked right through me, it tickled and he shivered. The wind was blowing outside and I was bobbing around like a rubber duck in a whirlpool, just being beside the open door. No wonder ghosts stayed put, the outside was dangerous.

I went back to my room and floated close to the ceiling. The day was almost gone and I was sad. Was this all that was left for me, just hanging around a funeral parlor, making people shiver?

The door of the room flew open with a bang, creating a breeze that tossed me around, and my late Aunt Sophie came strutting in. “Come on, move it,” she ordered. With a wave of her hand, a tunnel appeared, complete with light in the distance. I smiled as we walked because my personal DVD was playing on the tunnel walls.

I should have known it would be Aunt Sophie that came for me; she had always been late for everything.

Separation

http://www.writingforums.com/lm-chal...ml#post1610380

A Good Night's Sleep

"Gambler"


http://www.writingforums.com/lm-chal...ml#post1610773

Dusty Worker's Apartment
by B.D.Branch 276 words

http://www.writingforums.com/lm-challenge-secure-entries/137079-03-01-2013-lm-picture-prompt-workshop-thread.html#post1610822

The Visitor

The children are long gone by now. One in Chicago. Another overseas. Their portraits sit on the mantelpiece, smiling their bright smiles in the gloom. I’d promised myself I would not focus on the past but I can’t help meeting their still gazes and feeling the tears rise in my throat. If Carl were here, I’d have the strength to swallow those tears. I’d have the strength to pick up that phone and I’d have the strength to speak to them.

Instead, I sit in the chair beside the fireplace and watch its last embers die. My cup of coffee sits untouched.

There’s a knock at the door. There’s no force behind it, but in the silence I can hear it as clearly as in the days of my youth. My joints creak as I rise from my chair and I shuffle for the door in the foyer. The porch light is out, so I can see nothing through the window. I open the door.

Every time I get I shock, I worry it’s the beginning of a heart attack, but this time I would gladly have welcomed it for this to be real. For this person, this silhouette on my doorstep, to be here. He steps into the light and, not caring for my aching bones, I embrace him as hard as I can. I do not care how cold he feels or how insubstantial he is to the touch. I’m numb most of the time these days, so that means nothing.

"Dolores," the man says and I back away to let his craggy face fill my field of vision.

A warmth seeps down the side of my face and I force unconditioned muscles into a smile. "Carl," I say. "How are you here?"

"I-I don’t know. I wanted to see you."

Something isn’t quite right. He looks distracted. He keeps glancing over my shoulder but when I look, there is nothing there. I turn back to him. "Carl…?"

"Listen. Dolores, you know I love you."

"Of course."

"Then you must understand and please don’t be sad."

I study his face. "Why would I be sad? Carl, you coming here now makes me so happy, I can barely speak. I don’t know how you’re here, but…"

"You thought you’d never see me again."

I nod.

He places his hand on my shoulder but I barely feel it. "Whatever happens, just know that I love you and that I want you to be happy. Call our children. Tell them that you love them."

"I don’t understand…"

He smiles. "I wish I could stay here longer, but I have to go, Dolores. Don’t forget what I’ve said."

"Carl." His touch leaves me cold as he turns back toward the door. "What do you mean? Where are you going?" A worm of fear wriggles its way into my heart.

"I need to see the children. I need to tell them that I love them."

"Wait until morning, Carl, please! We can call them. We can talk to them together."

He gives me one last glance. "Goodbye, Dolores."

"Carl…" I whisper but he is gone. I stand beside the door, waiting for him to come back. The coldness of his touch lingers and I am afraid of the way the darkness seems to have made him disappear.

I don’t understand why he came to me now, after all this time. It has been many years since I’ve seen him last.

My vision blurs. My legs can no longer support me and I slump against the wall.

It has been many years since I said my final goodbye and saw him lowered into the ground. Forever.

Coming Home
By Matthew A. Campbell

She said she loved me, that she’d never do this. I trusted her. She took my son, their love, everything, and left.

We’d grown apart. We were both to blame, but I was alone in wanting to fix things. She’d moved on, found someone else. I told her he’d turn out the same, maybe worse. She didn’t believe me. I was wrong.

When I call, she says she’s happy, that they’re happy, and that my son even calls her new husband, dad. I lie, and tell her I’m glad things are working out for them, that they deserve this. I ask if things were that bad with me. She tells the truth.

This house is cold and empty, abandoned. She used to greet me at the door and ask how my day was, my son running from behind her, saying how much he missed me. We’d share a hug and a kiss, and I’d hold him tight like it was the last time.

I miss coming home the most. Those memories are all I have left…and even they’re fading like an old photograph.
Some believe in heaven. I think that when you die you relive all of your happiest moments. At least, that’s what I believe right now.

Lying here, all I can think about is their beautiful smiles, their laughs, the good times we had, and how I’ll never see them again. It’s hard imagining walking away from all this, leaving a mess of a body behind, but it’s even harder living without them.

The trigger and barrel are cold and hard, inviting and promising all at the same time.

I remember the first Christmas my son found the joy in Santa Claus, the surprise in his voice and the smile on his…