The beginning of September is the perfect time to do some picture prompts using fall scenes. Try to write a few paragraphs, or even a full story using each of these photos for inspiration. Since the weekend is nearly upon us, maybe you'll have a little extra time to try this exercise.
Anyone who has walked a dog knows how many things you see and hear while doing so. Use your imagination to write a story about this man and his dog. Or is it really his own dog?
What is this little cutie doing leaning against the tree trunk? Where did she get her purple jacket? Whose child is she? Who is she looking at. Be creative with this one.
The House of Falling Leaves..
ReplyDeleteSlowly, delicately, the golden, yellow leaves leave their lifeline; so too, did the children of this house, this place of ceremonies beginnings and tragic endings. There were roses, perfectly trimmed hedges, a wreath made of lavender, all delicate and beautiful displays of care and order, but behind the oak French doors of the entryway, there was a length of sadness measured in tears, that stretched from our little town in Kansas, to a war stricken land in Iraq. In the seven months that had gone by since my mother left, our house and happiness declined, our father lacked motivation to thrive, he became weary in his attempts to keep any sense of normalcy. The laundry was piling in all corners of the house, the last of the paper plates had been used, and both the dishwasher and the sinks had a smell of sourness, copper-metallic decay. Three of us children were left to make the best of a "present only in person" father; who's depression had spiraled deeper than the recoiling of his weighted legs could spring himself to catch a breath of air, hope, in his own drowning pool of exhaustion and despair. With her, he was complete with love and strength to spare. Without her, we were a slowly ending season, falling leaves.
MWC
Quite a nice effort with the first photo prompt. Thank you for sharing.
DeleteThe House of Falling Leaves..
ReplyDeleteSlowly, delicately, the golden, yellow leaves leave their lifeline; so too, did the children of this house, this place of ceremonies beginnings and tragic endings. There were roses, perfectly trimmed hedges, a wreath made of lavender, all delicate and beautiful displays of care and order, but behind the oak French doors of the entryway, there was a length of sadness measured in tears, that stretched from our little town in Kansas, to a war stricken land in Iraq. In the seven months that had gone by since my mother left, our house and happiness declined, our father lacked motivation to thrive, he became weary in his attempts to keep any sense of normalcy. The laundry was piling in all corners of the house, the last of the paper plates had been used, and both the dishwasher and the sinks had a smell of sourness, copper-metallic decay. Three of us children were left to make the best of a "present only in person" father; who's depression had spiraled deeper than the recoiling of his weighted legs could spring himself to catch a breath of air, hope, in his own drowning pool of exhaustion and despair. With her, he was complete with love and strength to spare. Without her, we were a slowly ending season, falling leaves.
MWC