A picture's worth a thousand words

I love the foggy island!
Here's a cottage in the woods:

This inspires me:

Yeah, I went there first. Shocking, innit?

Okay folks. This will be a lot of fun, testing our prowess with words, since pictures are considered by the old saw to be worth a thousand of them.

But lest this thread become a photo album, let's set up some conditions.

I like the idea of this game...let's have fun with it.

WillowArcane said:

I see a potential problem with the requirement of giving credit to the picture's creator. I don't take them myself, I grab them from various sources on the internet. Many times, even *these* sources do not tell or know where they originated from. So all I could reasonably say is "this pic came from Livejournal/google/4chan/etc" Is that alright? We are, afterall, using them for creative expressive purposes only, not to claim them as our own or make profit from them.

Click to expand...

Sure. Just as long as the source of the photograph is credited, I think we're all right.

Does this also mean we should start off with my first image of the chandelier and take it from there before the thread becomes swamped?

Click to expand...

That's a fine idea. Let's start with that one, get a few paragraphs from participants, then move onto the other photos that are already here.

Cascade Chandelier

Ice raindrops flowing from the ceiling into a pool of glass.

WillowArcane said:

Image #3 - Foggy Island

Click to expand...

Each bicameral mind grapples with choice. From one side, tendons of emotion or perhaps fantasy grip the issue. From the other side comes expediency or perhaps even sloth. But only one choice is the more realistic. The incorrect choice, if chosen, soon demonstrates the shallowness of its draw to have been an illusion.

WillowArcane said:

Image #3 - Foggy Island

Click to expand...

Are the trees kissing, Haggis wondered frantically, or is it the image of a vase between the trees? Dammit, I'm going to fail this Rohrshack test, too!

WillowArcane said:

Image #3 - Foggy Island

Click to expand...

where we find comfort
is fragility; we must
return the favor

#3. There was, like, this set of trees--no wait, did I remember to say they were on an island? Anyhow, you can, like, totally see them in the water below. Not the trees being in the water, all wet. No, not like that exactly....more like a reflection or something. It was awesome.

In the end, the only thing that remained to remind us was a crystal chandelier; each shimmering drop a tear shed for the world that had been lost.

Using Image #2

It was September and people were tugging their collars away from sticky necks, fanning themselves with restaurant menus, consuming cold drinks. But the sun never reached into the alley between the old church buildings flanking the square and it was cool there. Weeds of some kind had invaded the joints between the large sandstone pavers and because it was a pleasing effect, had been allowed to flourish.

The walls of the old church were made from the same stone, it seemed, turned up on edge. Above and visible only from the square the gables and turrets that crowned the church were clad in sheet copper shingles, washed brown and bright by the rains that, absent all summer, were soon to return. There was no evidence of verdigris, not even in the most remote crevices. Someone took good care of this place.

Standing at the entrance to the alley, Miller could see, beyond the shadows, the glimmer of sunlight on the wall beneath a roofed arch that led to some farther square, perhaps, or maybe the churchyard. Miller didn't care. He was on a mission. For beyond that arch, a bell tower soared into the sky, its conical roof clad in the same copper shingles surmounted by a small Celtic cross. It was not nearly as intricately crafted as the wrought iron cross that graced the main tower, lacking the Fleur-de-lis filigree finials. But it was made of solid gold.

Miller adjusted his rucksack, heavy with the tools of a burglar, and smiled. Tomorrow, the skyline would appear a bit emptier. But by the time anyone would notice he would be two counties away.

WillowArcane said:

Simplistic yet poignent, threedogpeople. I like it

Very nice description, Pthom! I wonder where it would go if you continued it

Click to expand...

Thank you.

I'm overwhelmed and humbled by the excellent prose being contributed to this thread. Outstanding job, everyone.

Judy

Using Image #3

Theo heard the singing and smelled the smoke long before the island appeared from out of the mists. Cursed the owner of the boat. Ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and stuffed it the loose oarlock to silence it. It would make less noise to just paddle with his hands and he considered doing just that, when the singing stopped.

Theo froze. Then, out of the gloom, the orange light of a lantern. He was on the right course. To the island. But too close to the encampment. He dipped a hand in the water, tried to turn the boat around to the left. But there. Another light. Soft, low voices, urgent, warning.

He hoped the mists would keep him hidden. By the sound of the voices, he was within gunshot range. Again, he dipped his hand into the water, slowly steering the boat away from the voices, from the light, from danger.

Then, when he felt he was going to make it, when the boat obeyed his stealthy paddling, the mists lifted. And in the dingy brown light, the island emerged. Two lights, high in the trees and below, shadowy forms moving among the trunks. Shouts. A bullet zipping into the water beside the boat, the crack of a small caliber pistol. Another. One into the wood of the boat.

Theo slid over the side, and with the boat as cover, swam away from the island.