Retelling

RETELLING
Look at a photograph and describe the photo. You could choose to tell a story about what prompted the event or literally describe the content of the photograph, or a combination.

Tabby’s Entry:

These days my thoughts seem to slip away from my old habit of meticulously planning the grandiose escape from the hell we’ve somehow managed to survive all of these years. Instead of calculated plans and fearful re-directs of mid-night flees, I catch myself dreaming of what could be so. I don’t know if he’s there yet, or if he’s still planning his next escape but all that really matters is that he’s here; that we’re here together, facing this journey to a new land, away from the life before.

The sun shines on our faces as we wait for this photo to be taken. I lean in, closer, as we wait for the man behind the camera to let us know when to smile. The wind is blowing and I am chilled, but the sun bears down on me making the air dry and crisp. I try to imagine life outside of this moment, but all possibilities do not seem as comforting as being here, next to him, feeling his next breath against my arm.

This vast ocean spreads far and wide; deeper than you could ever imagine. This thought takes ahold of me and I smile to myself and squeeze him a little tighter.

Kristin’s Entry:

My mother was lowered into the ground at 2 in the afternoon last Monday. I have sat at her kitchen table for the majority of the time since then, her mug between my palms, and her favorite photo before my eyes.
Ma’s parents were little people, with wild curls. Little voices, wild dreams. And they dragged her across the Atlantic Ocean, never saying more than a few words. That is how she told it anyway. I always imagined that trip to be somehow a defining moment in her life. Not just moving to a new home, but the silence that carried her there.
Ma was a chatterbox, really operatic. And I always remember her checking her leather wallet when she went into a particularly long aria, and then she would be still. I was always curious as to what she saw. She saw them. These still, strong people. She saw the part of herself that ran off in chords and songs and stories and called that part back. It was amazing to me.
So now I sit, looking at this photo, still and quiet. And I see my Ma, and her big voice and big heart and big joy. I see the part of myself that is those things she taught me. I get bigger, brighter more operatic.

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12 Responses to “Retelling”

  1. Juliana Says:

    THAT’S BEAUTIFUL! =)
    when you will came to brazil?
    I think, GbD has a lot of fans here in brazil! I’ve done a blouse with the slogan, it was perfect!
    we are waiting for GBD here! love you, kristin kreuk! β™₯ kiss from brazil

  2. LI Says:

    Kristin, PLS write a book in your free time.
    πŸ˜›

    I’m from Israel and my grandmas (both of them, not together..) made a very hard journey from German to Israel. They escape from the Nazis. and back then the Britishs ruled here. The British had ‘The white book’, it was a statute book. One of the rules was not to let the ‘Mahapilim’ land in Israel. So one of my grandmas sneak to here near Haifa (a city). This photo remins me both of πŸ™‚ I miss them.
    This is a true story πŸ˜‰ and sorry for my english πŸ˜›

  3. LI Says:

    Links to mahapilim’s pic-

    and

  4. Lesley Says:

    great idea!this looks fun! both beautifully written! wish i could write like that.Once i have an idea ill be back to attempt to write as well as you two. =)

  5. Emma Says:

    Squinting our eyes tightly as the cameraman beckoned us to stand at the far-left side of the big deck on ‘Queen Tuscany’, the cruise liner. About to set sail, headed for New York… what awaited us… mere uncertainty, but it was the the thought that we might never cross paths with our Italian family again that welled my eyes up with tears…my vision was blurry and I remember feeling dizzy… I barely noticed the other passengers chatting noisily along the deck when my husband put his arm on my shoulder and then kissed my forehead.. “C’est la vie,” he said, “life is journey, we can’t always explain our choices, nor foretell the ending. I’m here with you, don’t cry Sweet Pea” ………. I woke up 14 hours later…. only to hear the days events narrated in detail……It so happened that I had fainted in the sun’s blaze and nearly slipped off deck; had it not been for my husband, James and several worried passengers I might not have survived that day. How did James always remain so calm, nothing disheveled him…. I knew I’d be safe with him..

  6. Ver0nik21 Says:

    I’m too lazy to do the exercises hihi but I love to read all of your stories!!!

    Can’t wait to see new posts!

    xoxoxo

  7. skahahoo Says:

    @Lesley – you can write like that…just in your own way. definitely give it a shot when you get the chance! i’m looking forward to reading your take on the photo. πŸ™‚

  8. Maxima Says:

    “Log entry #25”. Everyone is taking our picture these days….I guess they never seen people like us!
    It all started when a giant of a man approached our tiny island….We captured him only to find out later that Mr. Gulliver was not our enemy, but a friend. We, little people, learned a lot from him, and him from us. One sad day, during his sleep, Gulliver had a nightmare and started to sleepwalk……..Aiaiai!!! He was not aware of the destruction he was causing, walking through our village and crashing everything in sight; me and my wife were the only survivors of our race.
    That’s her in the picture, her name is Botola…..and that’s me, of course, next to her……my name is Sean Penn.

  9. GoodFoot Says:

    We took this picture the day after we bought the boat, it was being auctioned by the ferry service and we managed to get it for a portion of what it was worth. The weeks passed and it became our life’s passion to create our heaven on this floating space. A farmer taught us how to power our boat with the waste from the local eateries, so we were free to travel wherever we wished. I worked tirelessly to build the dream we had imagined. We met a performance arts group that volunteered to work for room and board. Together we built the top level as an outside garden park. An inventor from a port taught us how to distill the water from the ocean to feed our plants, so there was an unlimited amount of sunlight and water for everything we needed. The main level was transformed into an ever changing performance art space, bamboo floors and handmade furniture. Word spread quickly throughout the towns we visited, so we began to welcome guests for weekly performances. Our dream had become more beautiful than we had ever imagined. This picture is framed above the main entrance to remind us of the day we began building our dream.

  10. skahahoo Says:

    “This is a bad idea.”

    “This is a GREAT idea.”

    “Yeah, we’ll see how great it is when we’re both rotting in prison.”

    “That’ll only happen if we get caught. And we’re not gonna get caught.”

    “How do you know that? What do you know about faking old photographs?”

    “I know Photoshop. And I know people do this kind of thing all the time. It can’t be that hard.”

    “People do not try to con an old guy with fake pictures all the time.”

    “RICH old guy. And we’re only taking a little bit. He won’t even notice.”

    “You’re right. Of course he won’t notice. Of course we’re not going to prison.”

    “See? I told you.”

    “We’re going to hell instead.”

    [chuckles] “In that case, we might as well go out with a smile. So, smile for the camera babe.”

    :: click! ::

  11. skahahoo Says:

    @Maxima – lol…yours is hysterical. “Sean Penn”…lol! and i like the gulliver take. πŸ™‚

    i also liked these other phrases from other posts:
    “fearful re-directs of mid-night flees” (tabby)
    “little people, with wild curls. Little voices, wild dreams” and “operatic” (kristin)

  12. Maxima Says:

    skahahoo …..you must have some serious taste to like my writing…..it is much appreciated, and back at you. GirlsByDesign is starting to open doors to many creative goels!
    Mi piace tanto….(I love it).
    All the best to you.Ciao.

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