Friday, March 15, 2013

Cause for Contrast

One may choose to be inspired and write from these image directly, (or not), but what I suggest is that in your piece that you create a distinct contrast within the imagery or emotional feeling within the writing. Explore opposites of any given concept, (such as happy and sad as an example).

(Image via Photobucket: jolly_si)

(Image via Photobucket: jolly_si)

(Ballerina in Metro-sent from Russia Image via Photobucket: Kaheli_album)

Happy Friday to you all,  Flashy Fiction writers!!! 




    Dusk had fallen, a quick and rapid descent. The evening light filtered through the flimsy window treatment; a curtain disguised as gauze. Lana came into view. At least the shadow of her was visible.
    One of my oversized dress shirts draped over slinky shoulders; a walk to reflect the same. In the narrow hall she waited. The gentle curve of her nakedness plays upon my eyes, teasing and pleasing in the same breathless gasp. The shirt did little to hide her beauty. For in the silhouette boiled unadulterated love, a smoldering ember inflamed. I called her Lava. She was molten. She flowed sensuously, destroying everything in her wake. I hear her sigh, a sultry hiss like the beckoning of steam. She dropped her arms, and shrugging her shoulders, my shirt as well. I could tell we would erupt in passion. Vesuvius is envious. Alert the town’s people. This night will be volcanic!



    El Blanco ran with no other creature; a rebel in equine beauty. Her stride was long and lanky; her gallop unbridled. There was no hiding the fact that she carried an aura about her that said she was remarkably singular. No other horse compared. The plains were her playground with no one around for miles. If a horse had smiles, El Blanco would be grinning from ear-to-ear. It was here that she was in her glory.

    The story could have ended there, but it was apparent that such thoughts would come across as fantasy. El Blanco was nudged awake. Another behemoth pressing his massive hind quarter against her, staggering her step and arousing her slumber. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the other horse’s insistence wore on her sense of independence.

    El Blanco has been corralled, thrown in with the rest of the population. She was a horse, this was her station. She was conspicuous in her bleached contrast to the brown and black and roan beasts that shared her fate. Another day to ponder. And dream. Someday her spirit will triumph. Independence rests in the muted night.



    Lilianna was a graceful swan in the tumultuous waters of the human condition. She dreamed of stardom. But mother Russia had dealt her other cards. She had trudged through the streets of Minsk, where she waited for the shuttle; a ride to the bearing factory where her petite frame suffered in contrast to the burly women who made that familiar trek as well. Her own mother shared her dream; a prima ballerina in training, applause raining down upon her as she stood center stage of the St. Petersburg Metropolitan Theater. Swan Lake had been her calling. But ball bearings held her back.

    All the obtuse women huddled at the end of the bus; chatter like a rustling in the hen house. Clucking and looking down their noses to this glorious waif. Lilianna stood in the center of the car, the buds in her ears offering the symphonic strains that drove her motor. She swayed with her eyes closed feeling every note, every crescendo. Each flourish of strings and tympani a counter-point to her heartbeat. Stretching and lunging, arms waving like the wispy clouds that laced the eastern skies. Prima Ballerina’s sometimes live their dreams behind clenched eyelids. But at least they still dreamed.

    1. These are such fun to read, Walt!! Love the details and your flashy-fiction style! Thank you for writing! :)'s