Welcome!
This blog is dedicated to the literary/psychological practice of free writing based on inspiration from random pictures. For every picture posted, write a random story about what the picture brings to your mind. The idea should come quickly, but you can spend however much time you would like on writing out your story. I suggest 30 minutes, but you are free to write longer or shorter. Enjoy!
The Photograph
ReplyDeleteJack squirmed in his seat, sweating silently. His left foot unconsciously tapped the rhythm to that new song on the radio; he couldn’t remember its name at the moment. For the thousandth time, Jack looked over his note cards, rearranging the pictures and maps.
Mr. Gregory, the tightfisted and despondent tyrant of all of the freshmen English classes, barreled into the room, his heavy footsteps signaling a hard and laborious hour-long class. Tossing his briefcase onto the desk, he collapsed into his plush chair and rested his feet on the desk.
“Harris! You’re up. No excuses today.”
A lean, greasy kid in the back of the room gathered his material and shuffled up the aisle. There was something repugnant about Charles Harris, something Jack unconsciously didn’t like. As Charlie passed Jack, his foot knocked into the outer leg of the desk, upsetting the perfectionist order of Jack’s papers and pictures. Jack longed to punch Charlie in the face – to see the blood pour from his nose.
There was nothing in particular that Charlie did that could begin to explain Jack’s feelings toward him. A more contemplative high school student may have considered the nebulous origin of these violent feelings. Jack never judged his aggressive reactions to Charlie’s oily face and personality as an overreaction. Perhaps one day in the future, resting vertically on a posh couch, Jack would recall his vicious imaginations of taking a bat to the back of Charlie’s head. But at the moment, he was too concerned with the knowledge that his turn was next. There were only two presenters left for today – Charlie and Jack – and Charlie was going right now.
Charlie blabbered in front of the class, trying to pretend like he had researched his family’s history. Jack knew it was bullshit. Mr. Gregory probably did too, but he didn’t seem to listen to anyone’s presentation. He took the week off from planning class; and even during class, he took the week off from listening or caring. Actually, he probably took the last five years off.
When it came time for Charlie to present the visual artifacts about his immigrant ancestors, he awkwardly presented a bunch of black-and-white photographs. He held them up too quickly and at clumsy angles, and no one could see what they looked like – not many people even looked. But Charlie paused before offering a larger picture for the class to view.
“Now, this is a pretty cool picture. It’s of my grandfather from Russia. He came over here in the 1820’s and worked on the building of the empire State Building.” No one cared that the dates didn’t match up. “Here he is sitting atop a dangerous ledge. From what my Mom said, he was pretty bad-ass.”
It took a moment for Jack to sink his mind into what was happening – he couldn’t believe it. There it was, the picture of his great grandfather, the one he kept framed by his bedside – (Jack didn’t know why he did that either; perhaps that was something else he’d be taking to a therapist about, later in life). Here his great grandfather was, being pawned off as Charlie Harris’ relative.
Had Charlie stolen the photograph? Was he making a mockery of him? Or were they (oh God!) somehow related? Or perhaps the picture wasn’t his great grandfather after all.
In his seat in freshmen English, on the day both Charlie Harris and he made his family immigration presentation, Jack changed. He began to doubt his family’s history – even his own past. He began to be suspicious of everyone. In response to the crime that had been committed, Jack desired, even more than before, to bash Charlie’s face in. But he never did. Perhaps the therapist in the future would know why.
The Photograph
ReplyDeleteJack squirmed in his seat, sweating silently. His left foot unconsciously tapped the rhythm to that new song on the radio; he couldn’t remember its name at the moment. For the thousandth time, Jack looked over his note cards, rearranging the pictures and maps.
Mr. Gregory, the tightfisted and despondent tyrant of all of the freshmen English classes, barreled into the room, his heavy footsteps signaling a hard and laborious hour-long class. Tossing his briefcase onto the desk, he collapsed into his plush chair and rested his feet on the desk.
“Harris! You’re up. No excuses today.”
A lean, greasy kid in the back of the room gathered his material and shuffled up the aisle. There was something repugnant about Charles Harris, something Jack unconsciously didn’t like. As Charlie passed Jack, his foot knocked into the outer leg of the desk, upsetting the perfectionist order of Jack’s papers and pictures. Jack longed to punch Charlie in the face – to see the blood pour from his nose.
There was nothing in particular that Charlie did that could begin to explain Jack’s feelings toward him. A more contemplative high school student may have considered the nebulous origin of these violent feelings. Jack never judged his aggressive reactions to Charlie’s oily face and personality as an overreaction. Perhaps one day in the future, resting vertically on a posh couch, Jack would recall his vicious imaginations of taking a bat to the back of Charlie’s head. But at the moment, he was too concerned with the knowledge that his turn was next. There were only two presenters left for today – Charlie and Jack – and Charlie was going right now.
Charlie blabbered in front of the class, trying to pretend like he had researched his family’s history. Jack knew it was bullshit. Mr. Gregory probably did too, but he didn’t seem to listen to anyone’s presentation. He took the week off from planning class; and even during class, he took the week off from listening or caring. Actually, he probably took the last five years off.
When it came time for Charlie to present the visual artifacts about his immigrant ancestors, he awkwardly presented a bunch of black-and-white photographs. He held them up too quickly and at clumsy angles, and no one could see what they looked like – not many people even looked. But Charlie paused before offering a larger picture for the class to view.
“Now, this is a pretty cool picture. It’s of my grandfather from Russia. He came over here in the 1820’s and worked on the building of the empire State Building.” No one cared that the dates didn’t match up. “Here he is sitting atop a dangerous ledge. From what my Mom said, he was pretty bad-ass.”
It took a moment for Jack to sink his mind into what was happening – he couldn’t believe it. There it was, the picture of his great grandfather, the one he kept framed by his bedside – (Jack didn’t know why he did that either; perhaps that was something else he’d be taking to a therapist about, later in life). Here his great grandfather was, being pawned off as Charlie Harris’ relative.
Had Charlie stolen the photograph? Was he making a mockery of him? Or were they (oh God!) somehow related? Or perhaps the picture wasn’t his great grandfather after all.
In his seat in freshmen English, on the day both Charlie Harris and he made their family immigration presentations, Jack changed. He began to doubt his family’s history – even his own past. He began to be suspicious of everyone. In response to the crime that had been committed, Jack desired, even more than before, to bash Charlie’s face in. But he never did. Perhaps the therapist in the future would know why.