[WORDS TO IMAGES] Quick 15 minute written stories about random images and my perception on what they speak

[Words To Image. The story my mind paints as I look at this random picture] Frigg, the Norse goddess of marriage, married to Odin, is beautiful in all things. In appearance, with porcelain skin, the complexion of pearls, fiery red hair as breathtaking as the grandest sunrise, and in spirit, the zest of a million smiles, blanketed in a love for all of mankind. Her gift to them was protector of marriages. During ceremonies, she would bless the happy couples, showering them with

[Words to Image. Taking a random picture and running with whatever story it prompts you to write]] Twenty-two-year-old Lauren had been battling depressing for quite a number of years. She found herself isolated from not only her peers but family and school council, as well. On the recommendation of her guidance counselor, Lauren's mother sought professional therapy for her with hopes to pull her daughter from this debilitating fog she was in. At first, the counselor only part

Charity always gave of herself. When another soul was hurting, she helped to mend. When they were lost, she assisted with guidance. If they stood at the bottom of their rung, with head hung low and an overpowering desire to simply give up, she steadied their balance and helped them climb that ladder. She was forever selfless in all things and in this never complained, offering gratitude for the few things she had in life. She was bountiful in the riches of love and character.

Monica was a hopeless romantic. She loved hard and she loved deeply. She took great pride in her ability to connect with others, as was her reputation. Her embrace was cherished across the land. People would travel great lengths just to be in her presence, to hopefully catch a glimpse of this rumored smile with wild dreams of being amongst the lucky ones to be drawn in. Many unlucky ones received their answered prayers whilst the lucky ones walked away none the wiser of the f

[Words to image/creative process. I find great pleasure in taking an image and putting a story to it. Not just any story but the one my mind asks me to write. •1st, I actively search online for images that capture my attention. If I roll past it quickly, I completely let it go. If it pauses me in my tracks for a good long stare, I download it and then send them to a folder of possibilities. When you know, you know. At this moment, I have no story, no idea, no concept, nothing

[Words to image.] ' Reuben used the old cane to hold himself up. He had stood long, and his tired legs shook from the weight. An occasional shifting between each locked out knee would offer temporary relief, only to be switched again which led to the same. The air was chilly, and its morning fog had set in, as the day before and the day before, as always. 1883 London was a lonely place. 2:13 in the morning was even more so. But Reuben came to this spot, religiously, clinging

[Words to image inspiration. This one was quite different for me. It's a bit twisted but isn't the look on her face?] "One pot of warm stew, two bowls of cold. Have a sugary treat instead and you'll never ever grow old. I haven't seen you sparkle today, Nilly. It's been almost a whole 24 hours since you've laughed and now the Ogres are on the move. Wouldn't you rather splash out in the rain with me and make them go away? Silly me, they never go away. We just always outrun the

[More words to picture inspiration] The war took the best parts of me and left me with crystallized crumbs of guilt and hatred. Hatred for myself. It would raise me up higher than gung-ho paratroopers, ready for action and then drop me like a frightened 18 year old hitting the ground, running from the screaming sounds of everything whizzing by that wanted to kill me. It was the ice savior that kept me from dying and now it is my chain, locking me down to my very abyss of dark

[Just words to picture inspiration] The horizon, it taunts me. I stare out to it and watch as it slowly begins to hide, ducking into the ocean until our eyes no longer connect. It takes with it my hopes and my dreams, robbing me. My heart melts into the waters with it. I wait by the shoreline, daily, dreaming of his return. Longing to feel love's embrace, desperate to gaze into his blues again and smell the musk of the ocean upon him. The very ocean who keeps him from me. If

As I sit alone, I feel the stares of many weighing me down. I shrug them off for they misunderstand me. They see me with head bowed, but I am not saddened. They see me in dark attire, but I do not mourn. They see me in a somber manner, but my heart is full of gratitude. No, they do not see me, the real me. They see what they imagine to be reality. But this is their implied notion of what must be, but not what is. See me for who I am. I am not your object of pity. I am not a f

This is a conversation (from my book, Caesar's Move ) between the protagonist (Casey Harwell) and the antagonist (Caesar) . They have many conversations together, throughout the course of the book, and each one leaves one man at a loss for controlling the situation. Can you guess which one dominates the control? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- “Yes. That is true. I almost forgot about that. Truly a difficult time you must be going throu

Here's a little tease for those of you who haven't read Caesar's Move yet. Chapter VI ...