I posted this on the blog site and the old mailing list, but I want to post it here too so our new members can participate:

We had such great fun with the August/September writing prompt that we decided to go with something similar this month.

Find an interesting photograph of a random person. The person should be someone you don’t know and someone without an obviously identifiable character. In other words, don’t use a picture of a television or movie character. Write the story of this person as you interpret it based on what is going on in the photo.

Here are some sample searches:

Google Image Search: http://bit.ly/drLVSO...
Flickr: http://bit.ly/a7iaMc...

Submit your work to the mailing list, but e-mail me the image directly or bring it to the meeting. We’ll try to match up images with the writing.

How long should it be?

Denise

We're not generally a group of page counts. Some write a few paragraphs, some add more. I say go with whatever is comfortable for you.

Cool! I've used this kind of prompt for writing groups before. I've got a stack of old photographs (carte de visites) that I collected from flea markets for this purpose. :)

Here's my submission for the latest writing prompt. Yes, it's based around a picture and yes, Tim, it's of a living thing this time. You're so untrusting. It does also happen to be an opening for a book I would love to write someday though.

Mind Over Body


My name is James Edward Gray II and I live each day with a horrible burden. Did you know that you can't get Dr. Pepper in every restaurant? Oh, and I also have a deadly disease.

I'm serious about this Dr. Pepper thing people. It's an epidemic! Where I live, in Oklahoma City, OK, Dr. Pepper is readily available. It's very rare that I go some place and cannot find it. That's as it should be.

However, for some reason I can't begin to imagine, all bets are off when you cross the state line. While traveling, the wait staff is always politely suggesting alternatives for my drink requests. "Mr. Pibb?" No folks, they're not the same. One waitress in Colorado even asked, "Root beer?" Think about how our society has failed her. She has obviously managed to grow up without even knowing what a Dr. Pepper is! In another great irony, I often find myself in Texas where Dr. Pepper is oddly challenging to come by. Don't the residents know it's bottled there? In Japan, Dr. Pepper was so rare I had to resort to drinking sweat! I wish I was making that up.

I suppose you want to know more about the deadly disease. OK, let me explain.

I have Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), Type 1 or Werdnig-Hoffman Disease. It's a general deterioration of skeletal muscles causing patients to grow weaker over time. Eventually it leads to death as key muscles like the diaphragm fail. SMA, Type 1 is characterized by symptoms like having trouble swallowing and the inability to sit up unaided. It usually claims the life of young children at or before the age of six. I don't have trouble swallowing, I can sit up unaided, and I'm 34 years old.

OK, I guess I haven't been entirely straightforward with you. That's what the disease use to do. Or that's what I use to have. Now I have that plus "compensating proteins." I don't think it's well known what that one does.

Confused yet? Me too. So is the Muscular Dystrophy Association (MDA), if you ask me, and they make up all of these descriptions I've been giving you. They have very literally tried to kill me off before because it was past time for me to be dead. I hope they weren't planning to send a hit man to finish the job, but they did require two forms of proof before they were satisfied: proof I was diagnosed with SMA, Type 1 and proof I was still alive.

As you can see, nobody really knows what I have or what it does to me. They don't understand it. But I do. I can explain it to you.

Honestly though, the Dr. Pepper crisis affects me far more in day to day life.

Here's my submission for this month's writing prompt. I have an image ready to go and I'm sure it will be easy to guess:

http://dl.dropbox.com...

Bah, I'm not liking the fact that you can't upload files to the message board here on Meetup.com. Maybe we should use the mailing list instead of the Message Board so we can attach files? Meh, we'll discuss it at the meeting.

I'm guessing I shouldn't add my image here, just paste in my writing submission?


I met him on vacation. I was supposed to be relaxing and getting away from all the stress of my life, but even on my vacation, I'd managed to find a way to bring it all with me. I scheduled a cruise of the Caribbean for the vacation time I had. Unfortunately, having never been out of the country before, having never been on a real vacation before, there were so many things to do and see that I couldn't give up the adventure and just lay on the beach; I could lay on the beach at home. So burnout followed me as I hiked into the jungle on the Yucatan peninsula, past Mayan ruins, on my way to the zip line into a lake.

Worn down by too much work and not enough rest, I'd fallen behind the rest of the hikers. We'd left the crowded port behind with the stands and hawkers calling me to come buy their wares, and I hadn't seen any locals, other than the guides, since. I was understandably surprised, then, when he darted across my path, a flash of orange in the otherwise green wilderness. We tripped over each other, and he stopped, untangling himself from me.

“Excuse me, Lady” he said softly, in heavily accented English. “You ok, Lady?”

“Yes,” I said, picking myself up and dusting myself off, looking over my things and then over to him. He was browned by the near constant exposure of the sun, his black hair hanging in a shaggy bowl cut over his face. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and unfathomable. “I'm OK... what about you? Esta bien?” I hadn't had much Spanish, but I hoped it would pass.

“Si,” he nodded. “You will lose your group, Lady.”

“I think I lost them already,” I replied. “If I get back to the port, I can get back on the boat, and I'll be OK.”

“Si,” he nodded sagely. “I can take you there.”

“Won't your mother wonder where you are?”

“She work in the port,” he grinned, his eyes lighting up. “And mi hermano tambien, he one of the picture people.”

“Picture people?”

He struck a pose like the traditionally dressed Mayan warriors had in the port. “He dress up and people take picture with him.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding, gathering my few scattered things. “What about where you were going before I bumped into you?”

“I go to the port,” he grinned. “I like to see the big boats, but I not supposed to go where the people are, so I go to the back. With you, I can go to the people. Maybe Mama will let me stay in the mercado with her.”

We walked back to the chintzy port city. He didn't remember how things had been before it had been built, but his family said it was new, and sometimes his grandfather complained that the old ways were being ignored for the people from the boats. I asked him what he thought.

“If they had not built the port, if the people on the boats did not come, you would not come, and I could not go see mi mama today.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Your mama wouldn't be working in the port if it wasn't here,” I pointed out.

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully, pausing, and then grinned, looking up at me. “Then she would be working in the jungle, and I would be working with her, or I could not see her. I still could not have fun.”

I nodded. “So you're happy about the port?”

“Not everyone is,” he said, “but yes, I like it.”

It didn't take as long to get back to the port as it had to get to where I lost the group, or at least, it didn't seem to. He paused just before I reached the gate. “I should leave you here,” he said.

“Can I take your picture?”

“Like mi hermano?”

“Like your brother, si,” I said. “I've even got some pesos here...” I dug in my bag and pulled something out, handing him several bills. “To thank you for being such a good guide.”

He beamed. “I can tell mi abuelo that the port is a good thing!” he cheered. “Maybe I will buy him something special.”

“You do that.” I pulled out my camera, the one I'd loaded with pictures of birds and flowers and water and sunsets so far. He stood still, struck a stoic pose, and waited. I snapped the picture and showed it to him.

“It's a good picture,” he said.

“What's the name of your mama's mercado?” I asked. “Maybe I can print this out and give her a copy?”

“Mama doesn't speak much English,” he said, “You keep it.” He darted off, back into the jungle, running away, and I stared after him. After a moment, I turned and walked up to the gates leading into the port and my waiting ship.

Here's my submission for this month's writing prompt. I have an image ready to go and I'm sure it will be easy to guess:

http://dl.dropbox.com...

Bah, I'm not liking the fact that you can't upload files to the message board here on Meetup.com. Maybe we should use the mailing list instead of the Message Board so we can attach files? Meh, we'll discuss it at the meeting.

TIM!
That was TOTALLY awesome. I really enjoyed reading it. Still didn't get to see the pic . . . and I don't understand how you linked it like that or the maildrop thing. I tried to figure it out, but couldn't. You know we could post the picks in here under photos for the topic I think, if it is created as a meet--not sure. But, then title the photo for this prompt project, so people can just go and find them there to go along with the writings here on the board. :) Let me know if that will do.

MY PHOTO FOR THIS IS IN THE PHOTOS SECTION HERE.


Maria tried to control herself. She looked at the peacefulness of the rolling river waters, how the adjacent willow seemed to reach for a drink, everything was so green . . . "Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out," she told herself as she was thinking.

Why would he want to start a fight when they were supposed to be having vacation time together? Isn't that why they left the noisy city and came to the cabins in the country? She thought of all the planning they did, or rather she did, to make this happen . . . Pricey kennels for the dogs, extended stay at abuelas for the baby, specially coordinated PTO from work to fit his more flexible time-off, . . . sexy lingerie that seemed so fragile, yet was so expensive!

Breathe in, breathe out. Her thoughts were running circles trying to figure out the moment and calm down. Maybe he was just settling into the environment. It was a long trip. Maybe he doesn't really want this special time alone. Really I thought of it, and he just passively agreed.

What set it all off? She wanted to take in the scenery, go exploring and enjoying the relaxation and enthusiasm that Nature can so easily impart upon a person, together. He didn't want to, at all. His irritation at her desire for a treasured union of experience, boiled over into his complaining about everything he does for her, and her apparent lack of appreciation and understanding of why he needed to not go for a walk with her . . .

She's had this conversation so many times on so many other issues, she doesn't even try to argue about it anymore. It is just too frustrating. There seems to be no reasoning and no compromise. Then, the ensuing argument arouses her deep held anger, the volcano within, the spirit of the animal that lies dormant unless provoked. No. It is better to leave for a minute, face flushed and take a breather. Even if anger turns to tears, that is better than the pointless arguing that bring about no solution, resolution, or anything of any value.

Maria kept reasoning her husband's behavior away, deciding they could start dinner in the cabin, have some wine, relax, and maybe the night will be full of romance. If that goes over well, then in the morning perhaps he will be willing to take in the sights with her.

She said a prayer to St. Valentine to restore the love in her husband's heart for her, and the prayer for patience and gentleness for her to be able to handle their struggles, with dignity. She slowly and deliberately crossed herself, feeling each point, and at each point delivering her sincerest desires for her prayers.

She stood a while longer by the river, watching it flow, peace filled her now. Looking around her, energized, breathing in the life there and really seeing the place she came to see, she realized life was like the river. It continued, despite the impositions people attempted to inflict upon it with their docks and floating houses and bridges . . . The river continued, and the things upon it not made to withstand time, would deteriorate, break apart, and be destroyed if not well maintained and restored as needed.

Again, she hoped for restoration in her marriage, "breath in, breath out," quickly crossed herself one more time and turned away from the river to go suggest to her husband a tasty dinner that would go well with that bottle of Armida rosso, "Please tell me I packed the cork screw!" she thought, excited and anxious as she walked up the hill back to their cabin.

Heather!! I enjoyed reading your story! It was very nice. Very creative. I can see myself there!