To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334547

The surface of the lake rippled gently in the breeze, sending vibrations down to through the water. The old pike read the sensations and shifted his gaze to the school of fish he felt approaching.

He lay, quiet and still, as calm as the sky and the sunshine. A rush of water, a single snap, and the briefest flurry as the surviving minnows fled in every direction. The pike settled back into his weeds, and all was tranquil.



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To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334545

"Mom, can we keep it? Please? I found it on the road, it doesn't belong to anyone. It needs looking after - and we'll get eggs and baby chickens and ... "

"Let's take a look at it then. Give it here."

"It could live in the shed, and I could sell the eggs to buy food and straw, so it wouldn't cost anything to keep, and I'll do everything for it, I'll feed it and clean it and everything. Please can we keep it, Mom? Can we?"

"Sorry, honey. See this ring, here? That means it belongs to Carrack's Farm. We have to take it back. But we wouldn't have got eggs from it anyway, I'm afraid. It's not that sort of chicken."

The boy's face crumpled in disappointment, and his mother pulled him close in a hug.

"I'm sure you'll be allowed to visit, sweetie. Come on, let's go and give Mr Carrack back his rooster."




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To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334543

Tons of steel, dozens of men and years of working in all weathers.

What a lot of fuss for compressed, rotted down vegetation. Just hydrogen and carbon atoms, arranged in various shapes, and you have a substance that is worth retrieving from under the ocean floor, that can make or break fortunes on the stock exchange, that can start wars. A substance that can be used in many ways, but is often just burnt. A substance that can choke the life out of the very sea it was found underneath.

This black gold, like its metallic counterpart, has great power over the lives of man and beast. Thousands live or die by its word, and the love of it is the root of all sorts of evil. Yet without it, I could not write this article. The plastic that covers the keys of my keyboard, that covers the delicate electronic components of my monitor, even the hard plastic casing of the plugs and sockets - all derived from hydrogen and carbon atoms, arranged in various shapes.



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To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334542

"Bad cat! Get away from there! Go on, shoo!"

The cat couldn't have leapt higher if 240 volts had been shot through his tail. Whiskers quivering, he glared balefully at his owner, then cast a glance at the cage, and the bird within it. A final "Shoo!", and the sight of a foot moving towards him sent the cat away as far as the garden. He promptly got up on the window ledge and looked in through the glass, his eyes never leaving the dainty white figure of the caged bird.

The bird met the cat's stare and returned it, unblinking. She hopped to her highest perch and sang loudly, hoping to make herself heard through the window.

"Be patient," she sang, at the top of her little lungs. "Be patient, my love. Some day we will be together. Somewhere, somehow. Wait for me, wait patiently."

His eyes never leaving her lovely face, the cat waited.



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To see the prompt photo click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334541

I spend my life in the background, squashed into corners. Thousands of people will see this banner I'm working on, but no-one ever sees me.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be famous. If I'd wanted a life in the lime light, I wouldn't have chosen to study calligraphy. I'd have learned to dance, or play music. I could have chosen to be an artist, selling my paintings, or a writer for a newspaper. But calligraphy is what I love. It is the perfect combination of words and pictures - conveying information both intellectually and emotionally. The left brain responds to the words, whilst the right brain is engaged by the sweep and flow of the brush strokes. It is an holistic experience and, consequently, a lasting one.

But it must stand out - be noticed. When you look at this picture, what do you notice? You see the man in the foreground, finishing his final character before moving onto a new sheet. You see the calligraphy itself - even if you cannot read the words, you can appreciate the shapes of the writing. Maybe you notice the girl under the window, almost in the middle of the photograph. Her long, dark hair is striking against the harsh, white light. But do you see me? Over on the right, brush in hand. How long did it take you to notice me? You can't really see me, my face is indistinct, but you pass me every day. The passenger in the full train, the neighbour walking the dog, the dozens of nameless, faceless people you pass by on a daily basis. We are all beautiful, a combination of intellect and emotion. We are calligraphy.


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To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334531

The ale migration started early this year. The travelling crates were annoyed to find their road blocked by a lorry.

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Wow, what a party!

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Notice to all space-craft: Fly-tipping is illegal.

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The real entry follows shortly. These captions are mere place-holders until my imagination kicks in.

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PS It is now 3 am, and my imagination is still out to lunch. Well, out to dinner by now. I thought I had a story about migrating beer crates, but it fizzled out and left a mere caption to mark its passing. Such is the fate of many an idea.

Hope my muse returns in time for tomorrow's prompt.

 

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334530

"Thank you for inviting us, it's been a marvelous party"

"So glad you could come."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Did you see Honoria's face when midnight came and she realised she'd been dancing with Ralsingham all evening? She was so sure she had finally managed to snare Deveran. Almost makes you feel sorry for her, insufferable as she is."

"Ha, yes. I wouldn't invite her, except that she can always be relied upon to bring her brother. I didn't see who he danced with, did you? Who was he with at midnight?"

"I didn't see either, I'm afraid. What about your daughter - who did she end up with?"

"I didn't see, and when I asked her she went all shy and changed the subject. You don't think ... ?"

"It's possible. I'll invite Honoria to the party I'm giving in two weeks, and we can await developments. I'll even keep the awful sister busy, so as to leave her brother free. If it is your girl, we'll know soon enough."

"Dear Brenda, you are a good friend. Oh, excuse me - I see Lord and Lady Pintriton are leaving. I must see them off. What? Oh, the mask - just leave it on the side with the others. The sun will be rising soon, and I must get all my guests back into the sea before it does. It would never do to for anyone to get caught. Which mask do you have there? Oh, one of the human ones. Yes, they're terribly popular. I'm sorry, I really must see my guests out. I'll see you in two weeks, if not before. Thanks again, you're an angel."





**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334528

"Whoa!"

"Do that again!"

"Awesome!"

Chris glowed with pride, but never lost concentration. She expertly twisted the sail to catch the wind, and felt the board buck against the water. The spray dappled over her legs and back, and she grinned hugely, enjoying the salty tang of the air on her tongue.

She leaned in to the next jump, making constant, minute adjustments in her muscles to maintain her balance. She was glad she had tied back her hair in a pleat - getting hair in her eyes now could ruin her focus and dump her in the water. She straightened her back, and swung round in a graceful arc, heading back for shore. She was greeted with cheers and hugs.

"Chris, that was wonderful! How did it feel?"

"It was so great to be on the water again - I felt so alive! Here, give me a hand with this, would ya?"

"Sure," they bent over the straps and carefully worked the artificial leg loose from the board. Chris smiled as she stood up.

"You know, after the accident, the doctor told me I would get used to the leg, and be able to do almost all the things I did before. But I don't think I really believed him, until today."

"Does that mean you'll do it? You'll teach me to surf?"

"Yeah, Dad. Get your board, I'll give you your first lesson right now."




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To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334527

Life bustles around me, everyone is busy. Buying and selling to keep themselves and their families alive for another day. For me, that is all in the past. My sons feed me now, kind to their poor old father out of respect for his white hair - even when the only hair remaining to me now graces my chin. My sons bustle on my behalf, to save my aching bones. But who is to save my aching brain? Busy lives leave little time to talk to an old man, and such words as they do speak I must strain to catch. My failing eyes drink in the busy world, seeking someone to connect with, but the brighter eyes slide away from me, fixed on their destination - or on the floor.

What do they see, I wonder, as they hurry past? An old, bearded man in a striped suit, with just a cap to warm his head. They grant me the honour my years demand, but they never grant me the companionship that I so desire. My friends are now thin on the ground - frailty, sickness and death keep them from me. The younger generations venerate me, but they would as soon think of sitting and chatting to the craved image above the household shrine as to sit and talk with me. As for listening to me, what good is an old man's knowledge compared to the mighty wisdom of the young? The mighty young, who know everything except how to be lonely.

Ah, I see my son. He calls out to me, but I can hardly hear him above the sounds of the marketplace. What do you say, my son? Say it again. Speak to me.



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To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334524


Heather crept toward the magnificent beast. This would be the best photo ever! Let her just get the camera near enough, and it would be her picture on the front page of the school magazine, and push snooty Pamela and her posh digital images out. The alligator lay asleep in the hot sun, and Heather was so close. She could count every ridge on the creature's back, every scale on its face.

Heather pressed the shutter, and breathed a sigh of relief. What a shot! One more for luck - click!

* * *

The camera was found by a man walking his dog. The two pictures came out beautifully. The first made its way into the newspaper, winner of the nature's photography competition. The other was considered a little disturbing - the open eyes of the alligator were staring directly into the camera.




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