Here’s a bit of creative writing fun we can have for the last half of October, the approach to Halloween. Look at this photo from Carlos Miguez Macho of someone walking in the street. (I don’t believe I would be permitted to display the image here.) Then write a few sentences, a momentary scene based on the photo.
I suppose I should start, but look at the photo before reading the submissions. I shouldn’t do this so spur-of-the-moment, but I will.
“Dear God! I’d give thee a year of my life for an hour of my old strength! Get me to her in time!” The wind did not abate, and Señor Guerrero felt no new strength. He leaned further into the wind and tried not to think of the dead he left behind and the dead who were to come if he could not stop them from taking his prescription.
Señor Calderón had always believed the world would end in fire, the trees, the hills and even the stones themselves perishing in heat beyond imagining. He clutched his coat to himself as a sign whipped past him. A bird, caught in the tumultuous air, corkscrewed, cheeped pitifully as it struck the cobbles, and blew by, twitching. Calderón put another foot forward. His house was mere meters away, but he that reaching would only delay the inevitible. This was a wind to upend the roots of the mountains themselves.
And so Abe Deefenfarb, agent to the stars, went gently into that good night, reminded that not only is Vaudeville dead, but late-night TV ain’t feelin’ too good either.
People often asked Harold Gotobed why he dressed so funny all the time.
“Because sometimes there are windy days,” he replied. “And on such days I look extremely picturesque. It’s my small gift to my fellow man.”
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me–afraid.
Where is the Loren Eaton novel?!?