Visual creative writing prompts #13 – In the beginning

It’s been a while since I shared a photo writing prompt on here but I’ve had permission from the lovely Anya Kubilus to share her photograph, The Beginning. I spotted the picture (as I often do) on Flickr and felt inspired to share it here for you writerly types!

While the last visual writing prompt on here did get some much-deserved love, one commenter mentioned that the images were so crisp and clean that she was struggling for inspiration from them. It’s horses for courses, of course, but it’s always good to change things up, so I’ve chosen a photo for that post that is wonderfully dream-like; full of soft colours, gentle textures and tiny sparks of colour.

What I loved about Anya’s brilliantly titled “The Beginning” was just the depth of feeling that I got from the image. The rich colours, the half-light, the curls of smoke, the sudden excitement of the sparks, and the melancholy – or simply neutrality (you decide – it’s a writing prompt, after all!) on her face. The picture does feel like a beginning – the beginning of a long night, perhaps, or the beginning of autumn, with the twilight, the trees and the fragrant wood-smoke. Maybe it’s the sparks that are the beginning of something – as small sparks often are. In any case, I really hope you love this photo as much as I do – I’d love to hear your thoughts on it and I’d like to thank Anya once more for being so kind as to let me share her work here.

If you’re looking for more inspiration, why not have a look at the newly re-vamped list of photographers who’ve been featured on here? They’re a lovely lot :)

[ Photo copyright: Anya Kubilus. Please do not reproduce without specific permission from the photographer]

Lust and rum

The low pulse of the base vibrates through me as I navigate the crowd, searching for her. We’ve had no description, but all the signs point to her being here tonight. The night air is thick with the coming rain

the river will swell and that guy in the corner will be hauled out, grey and bloated, at the bottom of Dumaine Street by tomorrow

and, even with the windows open to the terrace, the air in the bar is heavy, weighed down with the sickly smell of lust and rum as it snakes between the bodies of the revellers. Gaudy beads clatter and flash under the dim lights as I push through

that couple will be having sex in the bathroom less than twenty minutes from now. She won’t call him again and he’ll swear off women for the next year.

a group of rowdy tourists. The crowd finally spits me out somewhere near the bar and I edge to a tall stool where I can sit and keep an eye on the room. The barman

grew up in a house with an abusive alcoholic for a mother – he hates it when people order vodka

hovers and I order a sparkling water; he offers me a friendly jeer and I smirk obligingly. He doesn’t mean any harm by it, anyway. No one ever does.

As I lift the glass to take a sip, there’s a sudden shift, as though the lines of the room have tilted slightly, revealing new angles to the scene.

I know where she is.

I turn toward the open door leading to the terrace and I can see the top of her head, a mess of dark curls

where are you?

in the space between a couple of tall white guys. I can’t tell much from

I can’t find you. I thought you’d be here but I d-

here but it’s definitely her and she’s getting clearer by the second. Satisfied at how quickly the evening’s worked out, I place my water untouched on the

on’t have any idea where to look. Please, I have nowhere else to

bar and start to push my way through the crowd, which seems denser now than it did before. A heavy drop of something like nerves settles at the pit of my belly, surprising me and making me pause for a second. Someone’s dimmed the lights, I think, and in the semi-dark, all I can see are silhouettes – their tangled

go and I think they know where I am. I really thought you’d

arms and necks and the curves of their shoulders painted red in the glow from the bar. The scene is starting to change, like somehow I’ve moved slightly

be here and oh God I think I can see them. I think that’s them and I can’t

off balance. There’s something here that shouldn’t be. Her thoughts are getting louder even though I’ve not managed to get much closer to her – she’s frightened. I start really shoving into the crowd now, making progress but at a price. The friendly shouts over the music turn to complaints as my elbow connects

the fuck, man? I’ll slice you up like that bitch at the

with some guy’s ribs. I duck away from him, slamming straight into

She loves him so much it frightens her. He doesn’t feel the same way, and he feels too guilty to tell her.

a couple who are wrapped tightly around one another, kissing hungrily. As my disruptive presence registers in the crowd, and people start trying to move out of the way, the thoughts around me get louder and more chaotic. Drunks.

The last thing I need is security to pick up on the trouble I’m causing, but I’m struggling to keep track of her, both visually and in in my head. The top of her head disappears behind a dark-haired woman who

cuts herself when she eats too much, greedy, disgusting, greedy, greedy, filthy

turns and gives me an unfriendly look. I’m almost there now – I can see the curve of her shoulder – and she’s turning

Please God, just let me hold it together a little while longer, I can

towards me, her eyes wide, when I see them standing right behind her. I know straight away that this is what she’s been afraid of. I can’t tell if

feel them and I think they can see me, I just don’t kn-

it’s the way the light’s catching them or something else, but there’s something very, very wrong with them. Something about the way they’re

-ow where they are. Please, if you’re here, please hurry

standing, the way they’re starting to move, like insects unfolding overly long limbs. Their faces are a pale blur, the eyes too dark, and they’re not giving off

[...]

anything even though I’m trying to get a read on them. I need to get her out of here, but she’s not looking at me. I’m screaming at her silently, shouting at her to

Where are you? Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t know they would

look at me, to catch my eye, but she’s too frightened now. I thrust my arm forward, round the brunette and catch

Get off me, get the fuck off me, fucking touch me, shit, please, let go

hold of her arm. For a second, I think she’s going to scream or faint or

It’s

smack me one, but she doesn’t – something seems to click in her mind and she knows that she’s been found, that I’m not with them. There’s no time to

you thank you thank you oh God quick please we ha-

do anything except run so I yank on her arm, pulling her so hard that somewhere in the back of my head I wonder whether I’m going to do her some damage. A black woman goes sprawling in front of me

-ve to get out of here please I think they’re here, I think they see me

and I wince as my feet tangle on her legs. I’m being flooded with thoughts now – the woman, the crowd, security, the barman, and I struggle to keep my eyes open under the weight of it all. I can see dark

[...]

shapes moving in from the shadowy corners of the room and I can’t tell if they’re

[...]

security but my gut tells me they’re probably not – they’re too

[...]

quiet, not thinking anything that I can hear, just sensing, just moving forwards. The glass door is ahead of me and my hand is still tight around her wrist, dragging her through the

hurry please

crowd. When finally I hit open space, I stumble forward, my body unused to moving without resistance now, and she runs straight into

we have to go, go, now, go, please, move

me. Her head hits me between the shoulder blades and for a split second, it registers with me that she’s shorter than I expected, although what I expected I don’t even know. Then I wonder what the fuck I’m doing, thinking about what she is or isn’t, and I pull her forward again, out through the door and down the stairs to the street.

I don’t know where

The night is hot and fragrant, not lust and rum this time but the tang of the river, and cigarettes, and the sugared doughnuts from the stand on the corner. We’re running and

we’re going please we have to run faster I

all I can hear are her frightened thoughts, and our pounding footsteps and the trilling of the crickets. One hand on her, the other in my jacket pocket, I grab my keys and slam to a stop next to my car. The door’s open in a second and

don’t know how they found me here but

I push her in first, not caring that it’s the driver’s side. I drop in straight after her, slapping and pushing her out of the way, shaking with our combined fears now and pushing the keys at the ignition, once, twice, driving them home on the third attempt. I don’t look

they move so quickly, they’re coming, they must be

outside; I employ the same logic that got me through a thousand terrified bed-times as a child, treating the pitifully thin glass

[...]

around us the same way I treated my comforter, like some magic barrier that will keep us safe. The car splutters and roars into life and I want to hush it

nearly here

and tell it it’s going to give us away. In the seat next

[...]

to me, she’s twisted down, her arms folded over her head as she struggles to wedge herself into the space there, under the level of the dashboard. It’s not safe but

[...]

this is hardly the time for a vehicle safety lecture, so I pull out, swerving sharply away from the side walk, and the dark shapes I think I see there. If silence can be deafening, this one is. They don’t think

[...]

anything; they don’t have to. What they feel is cold and vengeful and hungry, and it tells me everything I need to know.

I’m shaking and freezing and she’s nothing but a pale crouched animal in the foot well of the passenger side now. Her thoughts are a mess – even she doesn’t know what she’s thinking – and I tune them out in a bid to calm myself enough to get us back in one piece.  Taking us west on the I-10,  I watch the lines in the road disappear under us, and I don’t look in the rear view mirror for a very long time.

Still thinking about those plains…

I’m feeling a bit melancholy and writer’s block-y at the moment. I don’t think there’s a problem, really – I’m just a bit tired and grumpy. Work is heavy going and I’ve found out I need surgery on my knee – a good thing in the long-term, but definitely not something I’m looking forward to. I want to get out and about, get some inspiration, but I’m in quite a bit of pain, so I’m spending a lot of time indoors. Maybe I’m going a bit stir-crazy.

I’m still thinking about that house on the plains (see nyah and nyah). So I wrote this:

“The deep of late afternoon; sheets and pillow-cases like pale ghosts tethered to the line.  Wooden pegs held between her lips and skirts snapping around her legs, she snags them one by one and loops them into the basket under her arm.

From the circle of dry scrub that surrounds the house, the silvered grass stretches out and away, rippling like billowed silk when the wind passes through. In all the years she has spent there, the beauty and rhythm of its undulations have never failed to soothe her troubled thoughts.

Straightening up, she turns to go. Her eyes, so accustomed to the bowing and crackling of the grass, take a second to register the pale, rounded shape nestled low in the grass, perhaps twenty metres away. Without knowing why, she feels afraid.”

I wonder if this will grow into a full story eventually.