Welcome back colonists! It’s been truly wonderful to see you return week-after-week to duel against each other with words as your only weapons – but boy are they powerful.
When people think of artists, they think painters, musicians, sculptors, rarely do they consider the writer – unless you’re a poet (and preferably a dead one). But writers are artists, they paint pictures with words, the page is their canvas, the pen is their brush, so this week we thought we’d pay homage to some of the greatest paintings in the world and show what could have been if they’d been written in ink. Feast your eyes on the works of Bruegel, Van Gogh, Gaugin, Ernst, Canaletto and Lautrec.
As usual, our contest will begin with three things: character, setting, and genre.
We spun, and our three elements are character: maid, setting: starry night, and genre: poem.
Feel free to write a story using those or spin a new set of your own. Be sure to include which three elements you’re using.
- Psychic
- Fugitive
- Tourist
- Schoolboy
- Tattooist
- Maid
- The Starry Night
- The Hunters in the Snow
- At the Moulin Rouge
- Europe after the Rain
- Tahitian Landscape
- The Grand Canal
- horror
- sci-fi
- steam punk
- mystery
- fantasy
- romance
- drama
- comedy
- poem
Judging this week are last week’s winners, Bill Engleson and Sal Page. 🙂
All submissions should be 100 words in length, give or take 10 words (90 – 110 words). You have until midnight, New York time to submit.
, which has generously been donated by Brady Koch, (currently available in the US, the UK, Australia, and other territories), or a similarly priced book of their choosing; alternatively, winners may elect to have the monetary equivalent donated to World Reader or another literacy-related charity.
If you like, you may incorporate the following photo prompt (not required).
Artist Palette by Johnny Berg
@firdausp
(110 words)
‘Stains’
Fuchsia, for that was her name, (her mother had thought in colours), watched the sun hover on the horizon then rapidly disappear.
The sky blushed orange. Purple. Black.
“Why Fuchsia?” She asked a star. Her mother blinked back. The waft of silence was followed by a gentle breeze, blowing hair into her eyes.
She clutched her apron, a palette of colours. Mustard from the sandwich she’d dropped. A stain of wine blushed at the memory of his look. Smudge of lipstick and faint scent of his cologne, where she’d wiped him off her lips. Her master. Doomed love.
The cook called out to her from the house…more colours awaited…
Maid/starry night/romance
psychic/The Grand Canal/mystery
109 glorious shades
@KreskaFiction
Title: A Collection of Men
‘Flashes of colour – nothing definite.’ Marcia’s long fingers grazed her worried brow; it didn’t help that The Grand Canal, crowded with gliding vaporetti stank even worse than normal.
‘Four artists killed in one week – surely something must be coming to you?’ The Inspector said; annoyed that they relied so heavily on psychics.
‘In an international murder enquiry all the flags come to me at once,’ Marcia whined. The truth is – Marcia’s malady was a migraine; a flashing rainbow aura, brief but disabling. The migraine faded leaving Marcia with a revelation.
‘They all slept with the same woman: Peggy Gugenheim.’ The Inspector winced; Peggy had been dead for over twenty years.
110 words – sorry
Clever take on the elements, Avalina. (*Five* G’s in ‘Peggy Guggenheim’ though. 🙂 )
‘The Problem with a Good Book’
Starry starry night
The words are there in black and white
The maid’s not slept for all the night
Reading ‘Time: Past, Present and
Future’
But it’s morning now
She couldn’t really face a cow
Or the squealing of the sow
The farmyard’s not at all the place to
Be
But, she’s a job to do
After the shower and a poo
She has to milk a cow or two
Or else I’m faced with drinking coffee
black
Her face is ashen grey
She needs some sleep now come what may
I’ll find her lying in the hay
And there’s no telling what will
happen then.
WC: 105
@zevonesque
hahhaa so brilliant.
” The maid’s not slept for all the night
Reading ‘Time: Past, Present and
Future’ ”
Nice advertising, AJ – is your secret identity as a copywriter?
( “After the shower and a poo” – not in that order, surely? 🙁 )
Hunters in the Snow
@voimaoy
109 words
fugitive/Hunters in the Snow/steampunk
The shouts of men and the barking of dogs carried on the frosty air. He looked down into the valley below. The lake was frozen, a glassy grey-green. The sky of this place was the same color.
His ship was hidden behind a fallen tree. Unless he could fix the drive, he wasn’t going anywhere. They wouldn’t think to search for him here, on this wintry world of hunters and farmers and villages. And yet, he felt a rush of fear, the heart of a fox beating, red blood on the snow.
A blacksmith’s apprentice, that’s what I’ll be, he thought. He headed down the path to the village.
Sounds like the opening to a gripping novel, Voima. Well done!
Thank you, Geoff! Much appreciated.
Title -The Maid’s Secret
maid/starry night/poem
@danafaletti
110 words
Monseiur Van Gogh will never know
If I dare add a dash of gold, a flick of butter yellow, to his canvas.
I’ll dust the shades and fluff the sheets as well.
I’ll make the floor shine bright as my master’s Starry Night.
But oh, what sets my soul alight is the secret of his brush between my fingertips,
Cakes of paint that give birth to such a story.
Hills rolling toward Heaven.
Brilliant spirals, each singing unique arias on a backdrop of indigo.
A quiet village, asleep, unaware of any change to their cut of sky.
My servant fingers sweep and twist and dare to add a watchful moon.
This is brilliant writing. My favourite piece. Nice job!
Thank you for your kind words! I appreciate you taking the time to read.
Don’t Come a Courting
Maid I be, but not for thee.
I yearn to travel; watch the miles unravel.
There’s more to see than mere embroidery.
Bred to be meek, but it’s adventure I seek.
The silk road and warriors in woad
Faraway isles and dragon’s smiles.
Starry nights and tavern fights.
No wish to stay, I must away.
For the Barbary coast, or hunting ghosts.
I’m no trophy wife, I want a life.
Inca gold, not the sheepfold.
Your proposal is sweet, but I spit at your feet.
Aegyptian tombs interest me more than your bedroom.
I sail at dawn. For me, don’t mourn.
Maid/Starry Night/Poem
101 words
@davejamesashton
Sounds like she could make an Old Maid – but have a shedload of tales to tell. Good stuff, Dave
Splendid poetry! What a wonderful character.
Predictable Coda
David Shakes
@theshakes72
100 words
Psychic / Europe After the Rain / Horror
God paints many futures – gouache smeared possibilities constantly smash into her reality without welcome or warning.
Nobody comes to hear readings now and who can blame them? Futures are colliding – none end well. Tomorrow is smeared across the canvas of this Earth like a cancerous growth.
War is coming – total war; final war – a multi-layered armageddon painted in rotting organics and radioactive waste.
She wants no part in it.
As noose tightens and tongue lolls the beam unexpectedly gives way.
She lands, winded.
The pustulent future is still there but she’s maniacally laughing.
She didn’t see that coming.
Excellent writing—love the ending!
Another Man’s Treasure
She has mastered seeing everything
and turning it into nothing
She has taught her head not rise
above what her busy hands are doing
All that is not hers, never hers
A flash of color
startling and new
waiting
at the lip of one of their trashcans
She reaches out to touch it,
hears her mother’s voice
calling her a rat
But she picks it up anyway
A postcard, glossy and vivid
a sky she has only dreamed of
a place beyond this too real world
They think this garbage?
She pockets it
ashamed
and joyful
And then takes out the trash.
@caseyrosefrank
102 words
maid/starry night/poem
Love this! “A place beyond this too real world” Just beautiful.
The dance
She spies a kaleidoscope of pinpricks in the sky
The very colours her mistress wears this night
In the sparkling bodice of a dress for dancing
Opening the casement window in her tiny room
She gazes wide-eyed on those mysterious lights
And gasps to see them dart across the wide firmament
Whole worlds burn out as she watches
Below, in the house, she knows the dancers whirl on
Oblivious to lives beyond their own
The girl’s eventual dreams, star-driven,
Are of another house in another world
Where mistress and maid are turned about, the dance amended.
maid/starry night/poem
96 words
@CathBarton1
Beautiful, Cinderella-esque piece, Cath.
Thank you Geoff
@GeoffHolme
#FlashDogs
Word Count: 110
Tourist / The Grand Canal / Mystery
Life Imitates Art
“Don’t, Luke. Now… isn’t a good time.”
Catriona hadn’t wanted to since… This trip was meant to help. He rolled over, dressed angrily.
Outside, an old, white-sticked lady accosted Luke. “…Pericolo, signore!”
“Non parlo italiano.” Pulling away, a story he’d once read began to surface.
Watching moonlit gondolas, he glimpsed a blood-red blur: the small, hooded figure ran, someone pursuing. Memories stirred. Luke followed down an alley.
Snatching her hood, he saw a girl, the age Charlotte would have been. She lunged, but he easily disarmed her.
“Fermo!”: a cry behind him.
Luke turned, the blade glinting. A police Beretta thundered.
Pain stole Luke’s breath as he hit the floor.
Vivid and atmospheric, and so much story in so few words. Great job!
Thank you, Voima , for the kind words.
Dreaming
94 words
Elements: maid, starry night, poem
@el_Stevie
#FlashDog
Worn fingers trace the stars
On glass misted by whispers
Of wishes and wonder
Leaving the long day behind
A trail of grey hours
Now buried beneath velvet
And dusted with glitter
Her tired eyes brighten
As they regard the heavens
Claiming them as her own
A private exhibition
To do with as she will
Until another day breaks
Takes her prisoner again
Defiantly, she frees her mind
Turns monochrome reality
Into a palette of fantasy
And brushes the night
With brazen strokes
To create a celestial canvas
On which she paints her dreams
Beautiful imagery in this piece.
Lovely poem.
“…glass misted by whispers
Of wishes and wonder”
(She should have used “Finish” dishwasher tablets… 😉 )
But seriously, Steph – voluptuous lines, in a great piece.
Love your replies Geoff, they always make me smile (and often give me ideas I wish I had included).
How did you get a box round your entry, Steph?
(My comment ended up below… SOZ)
Haven’t the foggiest, I did wonder when it suddenly appeared. Think it’s because I’ve got admin status so I was able to draft up a post. Probably to do with the settings. Trouble is I don’t want to root around in the bowels of this engine (being a wordpress newbie) in case I do untold damage! Perhaps it’s one for Kristen.
Starlight’s Reprieve
She cleans;
yet in the light of the passing day,
dust particles still dance,
in spite of her efforts.
She cleans;
the infallible remains of dead skin and soil,
twirl around her,
(her only company).
She cleans;
until the light fades from the sky
the dust is silent, unseen
and she is alone.
She cleans;
until it happens:
the flickering light of a single star
then another, and another, and another.
She cleans;
mopping, sweeping, scrubbing, polishing,
but she cannot clean the stars above,
and for this she is grateful.
@agardana09
90 Words
Starry Night/Maid/Poem
Beautiful ending
Thank you so much. I’m glad you enjoyed!
I like how you worded the image of “dead skin and soil twirling around her.” Cool
Thank you – I appreciate the feedback.
@stellakateT
#FlashDog
Psychic /The Starry night /Horror.
110 words
Come Dine with Me
He sings as he stirs the cheese sauce, yodels whilst he roasts the aubergines, smiles as he crushes the walnuts. Preparation better than a four star Michelin chef, my favourite dishes waiting to be spooned into my mouth. I will clench my teeth, try to force my hands out of these cuffs and overturn the dining chair I am chained to. I will try to calm my thoughts and pray to hear the sirens coming to save me but I know at midnight under the stars I once thought romantic he’ll kill and eat the gourmet dish, me. I’ve seen this in my nightmares. Grandma always said I was psychic.
Horror? You had me at “he crushes the walnuts” – ouch!
Nice job, Stella.
Emily Clayton
@emilyiswriting
109 words
tattooist, hunters in the snow, horror
Tattooist En Plein Air
Flesh is Leah’s canvas, although she practises designs on the recently deceased. Those already gelatinizing are just billowing cushions destined to spill their contents.
It is true plein air work, but she makes deals with the undertaker to avoid much of the later decay.
She glances up from within her outdoor work shed, watching hunters traipse down the snow-packed road. The leader carries a gingered crimson bundle. She must hurry, for she’s inking his departed son.
He spots the clothing bundle, his son’s tattered jacket.
With a roar he’s upon her, inking her neck beyond the dermis, down deeper where vessels bleed scarlet into the pulsating black walnut ink.
Scrub
I polish and shine till it sparkles,
This vase that’s worth more than my car.
My fingers all ache and my limbs are dead tired,
But my mind is alive in the stars.
They say that there’s nobody out there,
That we are alone in this void.
As I scrub round the rim of the toilet,
It’s so hard to be glad I’m employed.
I pray for the day of invasion,
When the creatures are finally free.
They will crush our defences and rule us,
And my boss will become just like me.
@todayschapter
93 Words
Starry Night/Maid/Poem
Sounds like you’re longing for the Last (of Donald) Trump or do you just need more Lemon Pledge? B-)
Midnight on the Boulevard de Clichy
The bitter redolence of anise and herbs cloys and nauseates, lingering disagreeably on the palate like a penniless relation. The tourist sets the glass of “Bohemian wonder” aside, dismissing another exaggerated experience.
That evening, he slips in behind her, the cygnet he’s selected. She is a celebrated provincial artist’s model, an unattended swan with an exquisitely elongated neck. Beneath the great dark cloak, his fingers caress his dearest. Stroking the keen edge of his anticipation, he appreciates its firm chilly linearity emerging from its case.
Tonight, Paris’ flawless pen entertains his distinctive painting style. The traveler’s discovered the only piquant diversion offered in this fin de siècle washout city.
Dave @ParkInkSpot
109 words
Tourist/At the Moulin Rouge/Horror