Photography and Inspiration
Last week I made a Flash Fiction post on a prompt L.S. Engler made with this photograph she picked out of the Five Minute Get-away page on I Can Haz Cheeseburger.com. (Whew! That’s a lot of links for one sentence, though it’s about par for the course lately, only for me clicking one link usually involves opening four or five more and then another four or five ad infinitum. No wonder I love fractals.)
And this week, I again did more Friday Flash fiction–although I mistakenly posted it on my Many Worlds Many Minds writing process blog. Both pieces of short fiction were based on photo prompts, and it got me thinking about the power of artists to inspire each other with our work. Obvious examples are everywhere in poetry, sculpture, painting, and my present hobbyist attraction, photography, and this seems especially poignant at the moment since I worked with several photo prompts in that last post.
So allow me to share a few pages of photographs here:
- Check out this page to see where I browse for photographic inspiration. Like me, you may wish to do the same when you need a reason to smile or to just see something you may have never seen before.
- Here I credit four very wonderful people who have shared their art and their suggestions on how I could improve my own. With their initial help and inspiration that list of advisers and helpful critics has now become endless; I will point out a few major groups that I’ve found or been directed to that have made this a great journey.
- Lastly, please enjoy some of my own works, pieces that truly stand out to me as special. I also note any effects or processing I’ve used on the images.
I hope you enjoy sharing this passion with me.
And lastly, I leave you with a piece of Short fiction based on Chuck Wendig’s newest challenge, The Present Tense, which, given the picture I intended on using for inspiration, seems oddly appropriate, particularly given the variations I found. (Original photo here, credited to Rishi S.)
He sits in solitude every day at this time, though he cannot tell anyone why when they ask. And they do. They ask why is he not working in the fields down below the great rock with them? They ask what does he expect to find up in the sky so far from the world of men and so very close to the sun and the moon now that the gods have all gone
He doesn’t answer. He never answers them. He never speaks at all. He sits; he looks; he is.
He frightens them.
They have chased him out of their villages. They have made him unwelcome in their homes. He can no longer walk into their temples, the Elders declare, for he has cast himself as beyond man.
And so he sits. He is alone today, as he was yesterday and the day before. He does not mind. He cannot mind. He can only look, and see, and try to understand the mystery. Why did the gods leave, he wonders aloud sometimes. His words are barely whispers to the wind around him.
Then, as the sun is setting, and the world is growing dark around him, and he feels for the first time the pinch of hunger inside his belly, he sighs. He feels so helpless, so lost.
“Why did the gods leave?” he croaks, his voice hoarse from misuse and thirst. He coughs a second, his hunger making the spasms all the more painful. “Why did the gods leave!” he demands of the chilling evening air. And when not even his own echo returns to him, he spits into the abyss. “I’ll tell you. They know they aren’t wanted anymore. They left us because we don’t deserve them.”
“No. That is not why we left you, child.”
He doesn’t dare turn certain that this must be the proof of his madness he has feared so long. Though he sits here day and night waiting for the answer to his questions, he never expects an answer. Still, the child inside him needs that answer, even if he must cast himself off this precipice into the forests below upon receiving it. He needs to know. He asks, “But why then? Why did you leave us to this fate? Why do you allow us to destroy ourselves? Why do you–“
“Hush, child. Hush, and grow, and be as we once did. It is your turn to make the world, as it was ours and it will be for your own children. Make the world. And when it is your turn to leave, leave it, and trust, as we have.”
He blinks and turns to see the kindly face of the being next to him. His mother? No, his father, so many years gone… No, surely it is his nurse.
He blinks again. He sits again in solitude.