Author Topic: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic  (Read 13132 times)

0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.

Offline Beautiful_Anastasia

  • Boyar
  • **
  • Posts: 140
  • I love Chris Massoglia!!!!
    • View Profile
    • The Blackrock Panthers
Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« on: April 21, 2010, 10:53:54 AM »
Hello everyone and welcome to the (*fanfare*) Every Picture Has A Story Creative Topic!!!! Please post pictures and try and make up interesting stories to go behind them...we're all ears! Please be as creative and original as possible!
Emily x

Offline Grand Duchess Valeria

  • Graf
  • ***
  • Posts: 270
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #1 on: April 21, 2010, 02:15:00 PM »


A princess, called Marie, was walking in the sun. She raised her head and was facing the sun, blinking several times. It was summer and the garden at the White Palace was glowing freshly and in every colour. The air was filled with the smell of the white and scarlet red roses which her grandmother once let planted here. Marie looked over the hills at the sea, magnificent blue with little white hoods on the top which appeared and vanished in one moment. Blue like her eyes, that was what he once said. She smiled about her silly thought.
"Marie?", the soft voice of the young man who was standing near her ripped her out of her daydream. "Marie, did you hear what I said?"
She looked and his handsome face, his handsome eyes which where staring at her, his handsome smile which was disappeared since he came to her this afternoon.
"Marie, I am sorry. I do not have a choice, I have to fulfill my duty for this country, for your family...and for you. I want you to be proud of me. Do you understand?"
He was leaving, as every time when they met but this time it would possibly be for ever. The war was going on outside this beautiful fairy land. And it won't stop just because she was in love.
Marie only nodded. What else could she do?
He took her hand and smiled for the first time.
"I know that we will meet again. Everywhere."

She ran away, her tears blinding her. As she finally could breath again she was standing in her mothers boudoir. No one was in the room. The sun was shining as if nothing has happened. She walked through the fluttering white curtains on the balcony and held her face into the warm light. It would dry her tears soon. She sat down on the balustrade wishing her mind stop thinking and her heart stop aching. A high voice suddenly sound in her ear. Her mother was standing in the window, an old but beautiful lady, a camera in her hand.
„Mashka, you are here. Tanushka and I have looked for you about an hour. Don't you want to come to have tea with us.“
Marie nodded and than she slowly said
„I'll come, mother.“
„Fine my dear.“ and she make a pause and smiled, looking at her third daughter
„ Look at you.“ she proudly said, „You are a woman now not the childish little girl anymore. Please stay this way, I want to make a photo“
Marie did it as always when a photo of her was done.
But for the first time the woman did not smile.
And when he shall die, // Take him and cut him out in little starres, // And he will make the Face of heaven so fine, // That all the world will be in Love with night, // And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.

Offline Grand Duchess Valeria

  • Graf
  • ***
  • Posts: 270
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #2 on: April 21, 2010, 02:16:22 PM »
and the photo of course ;) sorry, my first try to write a story about a pic

And when he shall die, // Take him and cut him out in little starres, // And he will make the Face of heaven so fine, // That all the world will be in Love with night, // And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.

Offline Beautiful_Anastasia

  • Boyar
  • **
  • Posts: 140
  • I love Chris Massoglia!!!!
    • View Profile
    • The Blackrock Panthers
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #3 on: April 21, 2010, 02:35:34 PM »
That was beautiful, Grand Duchess Valeria! It brought tears to my eyes...and I am NOT a crying person!
Emily x

Offline TimM

  • Moderator
  • Velikye Knyaz
  • *****
  • Posts: 1938
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #4 on: April 21, 2010, 04:20:13 PM »
That's so sad.  Well done.
Cats: You just gotta love them!

Offline Grand Duchess Valeria

  • Graf
  • ***
  • Posts: 270
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #5 on: April 22, 2010, 12:59:55 AM »
Thank you both a lot!  ;)
And when he shall die, // Take him and cut him out in little starres, // And he will make the Face of heaven so fine, // That all the world will be in Love with night, // And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.

Offline Beautiful_Anastasia

  • Boyar
  • **
  • Posts: 140
  • I love Chris Massoglia!!!!
    • View Profile
    • The Blackrock Panthers
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #6 on: April 22, 2010, 06:44:32 AM »
You have a talent. And I, writing a book about OTMA, and aspiring to be an author, am uncharacteristically jealous!  ;)
Emily x

Offline Grand Duchess Valeria

  • Graf
  • ***
  • Posts: 270
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #7 on: April 22, 2010, 07:59:53 AM »
You don't have to be, cause I am too writing a book about the IF and the rescue of two of the GDs and I don't advanced in it :D
And when he shall die, // Take him and cut him out in little starres, // And he will make the Face of heaven so fine, // That all the world will be in Love with night, // And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.

Offline Beautiful_Anastasia

  • Boyar
  • **
  • Posts: 140
  • I love Chris Massoglia!!!!
    • View Profile
    • The Blackrock Panthers
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #8 on: April 22, 2010, 08:19:03 AM »
You don't have to be, cause I am too writing a book about the IF and the rescue of two of the GDs and I don't advanced in it :D
Really? Which GDs?
Emily x

Offline Grand Duchess Valeria

  • Graf
  • ***
  • Posts: 270
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #9 on: April 22, 2010, 10:16:04 AM »
On all accounts Maria. As for the second I am not sure and range between Tatiana and Anastasia. Guess its going to be the latter. ;)
I wonder were there is nobody with another story-of-the-pic?   :)
And when he shall die, // Take him and cut him out in little starres, // And he will make the Face of heaven so fine, // That all the world will be in Love with night, // And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.

Offline Beautiful_Anastasia

  • Boyar
  • **
  • Posts: 140
  • I love Chris Massoglia!!!!
    • View Profile
    • The Blackrock Panthers
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #10 on: April 22, 2010, 10:42:11 AM »
I would try and think up one for this picture:

Emily x

Offline abbigail

  • Newbie
  • *
  • Posts: 90
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #11 on: April 22, 2010, 03:14:56 PM »
I've made up two stories based on photos and they're alreadyon the "Romanov Fiction" thread...would it be ok if I posted them here too?
There is a clock that never strikes...
There is a cathedral that goes down and a lake that goes up...
There is a little carriage abandoned in the copse...
There is a troupe of little actors in costume...
And when you are hungry or thirsty, there is someone who drives you away.

Offline TimM

  • Moderator
  • Velikye Knyaz
  • *****
  • Posts: 1938
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #12 on: April 22, 2010, 04:22:34 PM »
Quote
I've made up two stories based on photos and they're alreadyon the "Romanov Fiction" thread...would it be ok if I posted them here too?


I wouldn't mind.  I'd like to read them.
Cats: You just gotta love them!

Offline abbigail

  • Newbie
  • *
  • Posts: 90
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #13 on: April 22, 2010, 04:40:08 PM »
Ok cool
This first part isn't based on any particular photo.

In the corner of a boudoir sits an old plush armchair. Amid the noise below it sits silently, turned slightly toward the open window. The frayed ruffled eyelet curtains brush delicately against the left arm of the chair, making a light and eerie sound—fwshhhp, fwsshhp, shhhhh. No one is upstairs to hear it; the seat below is vacant. The chair presses its legs into the carpet, a thin smooth covering on the floor that disguises the wood beneath—printed with a tile-like pattern of light green vines and creamy space onto which the curtains pool. From the floor rises the faint smell of dust, soap, wood, stale ink, lemons—the curtains sway and ripple. And there it sits, alone, until light, quick footsteps and a panting voice reaches the top of the stairs.


“Nicky, I don’t like it,” Alix complains. “It’s…it’s too big for me. I’ve been thinking of making it like a…an English cottage or something like that, you know what I mean…this won’t work at all. All this big, empty space. It isn’t homey.”
Alix’s husband—her new husband, and the most beloved person on the Earth to her, she keeps repeating silently and excitedly to herself—turns and smiles at her. “If you don’t like it, Sunny, I can get it fixed for you. There are people you can hire nowadays who can--”
“Oh, I don’t want to do that,” Alix falters, lacing her fingers together and blushing. Just the idea makes her nervous. “I want to fix it all up by myself. After they move everything in, of course…” Sweating, dark-haired men filters frequently in and out of the room, delicate cherry wood tables and drawers, green-shaded glass lamps, velvet-cushioned stools and large silk pillows in tow. Their sleeves are pushed up, some of their shoes untied—one man glances at the young couple gazing solemnly at each other and rolls his eyes. This is not noticed by Nicky and Alix—his Sunshine—for they have eyes only for each other and for the work being done.
Alix leans suddenly to the right and grabs Nicky’s hand
“It feels very strange, doesn’t it?” she says quietly.
He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, soothingly. He knows what she is thinking—even so early in their marriage they can practically read each other’s thoughts. This ability is welcomed by the both of them; for they can hardly bear to be apart and rarely does one feel the need to speak in the presence of the other.  Often, on some old bench in a garden or courtyard of Darmstadt or the Catherine Palace, they would sit for hours watching birds and insects swoop through the summer air, Alix’s head resting on Nicky’s shoulder. Sometimes they would both fall asleep and a younger cousin would be sent out to fetch them. Now they have their own house, the smallest of the available palaces and disapproved of by the most imposing members of the family, but it is their own house still. And yet this isn’t a courtyard or garden or sitting-room in Hesse-Darmstadt or the Catherine. Nothing is familiar and Nicholas knows this is what’s bothering his Alix.
He lightly squeezes her fingers: Everything will be fine. When she looks up at him he smiles, a magnificent soft smile that calms her nerves. He mouths I love you.
The couple moves fluidly to a pale armchair that was just carried in. Right in the middle of the activity they settle into the chair, squeezing in together easily—they are both young and thin. From there they watch the haphazard carrying up and putting down of their things.

« Last Edit: April 22, 2010, 04:44:27 PM by abbigail »
There is a clock that never strikes...
There is a cathedral that goes down and a lake that goes up...
There is a little carriage abandoned in the copse...
There is a troupe of little actors in costume...
And when you are hungry or thirsty, there is someone who drives you away.

Offline abbigail

  • Newbie
  • *
  • Posts: 90
    • View Profile
Re: Every Picture Has A Story...A Creative Topic
« Reply #14 on: April 22, 2010, 04:41:15 PM »


Gradually, the empty space fills up and the boudoir is crowded with knickknacks, flower pots, rocking chairs and tiny silk couches. Drawers and tables bulge with letters, files, photographs—the products of an exuberant family of seven. Nicky and Alix are both older now; the eldest of the children is twelve.  It is a summer day; even the breeze is faintly hot. The living rooms smell of clean cotton cloth, Violette perfume, and warm green grass, little indoor breezes stirred up by four very energetic children. The girls run from outdoors to inside very frequently, flowers, stones and papers clutched in their hands. At this moment, most of the girls are lingering outside. Maria and Anastasia are sprawled in the dirt just by the door, making dugout houses in the ground. Tatiana stands slightly away, picking at a stalk of wheat that reaches her knees. She rubs her eye with her free hand. Olga is just wandering inside, a stem full of tiny, fluffy daisy-like flowers in her hand. She turns a corner and skips methodically through another doorway surrounded by colorful religious icons. Saint Feodor’s “Mother of God” stands out as always to her. There, in the boudoir, sit her mother and brother, resting. Alix smiles sleepily at her oldest daughter. Then she scratches one eyebrow and says:
“I hope you girlies aren’t getting too dirty out there.”
Olga laughs. She rubs her nose and holds the daisies out to Alix. “I got these for you.”
The woman on the sofa smiles widely and accepts the gift with real pleasure. “Thank you, my darling! They’re very pretty. What tiny little petals.” Five-year-old Alexei, reclining next to his mother, ignores this exchange and squints at a picture book. All the windows are open wide and the cool airy room feels more outside than in, though Alexei being in the real outdoors, under the hot sun, would worry his mother. Olga moves her gaze from Alix to Alexei and states simply, “Alyosha”.
An imperial “Chto?” is her answer. She grimaces—her brother is being difficult today—and asks, “Want something from outside, dear?”
“Neechevo.”
“Nastya found beetles.”
Alix looks up, startled, and pronounces, “Absolutely not. Not in here.” She glances back down at her sewing, blinking rapidly in the sunlight, and Olga rolls her eyes. Then, trying again, she entices Alexei. “But do you want some crystals? I found a big one. And violets. Big ones too.”   
Alexei looks up, clearly interested. “Pozaluista.”
Olga leaves, running and giddy from interesting Alexei in something. He feels weak today, though the bright weather outdoors is hard to ignore and almost overshadows the problem. Bounding down the stairs, she gallops over to Tatiana, her confidante. The air smells like bread.
 “We’re getting things for Alexei.”
The latter runs to collect stalks of wheat and the two youngest pick smooth stones from the ground. Olga hoists up the large rock crystal and holds it under her arm, then struggles to pick violets while still holding it. When the four girls have collected enough, they hurry back inside with their findings, giggling and pleased to be bringing so much. Alexei’s eyes widen when he sees the mounds of gifts and he grins, putting down his book, forgetting to be imperial.
Alexandra laughs. “Girls!”
Olga hands Alexei the crystal and he examines it delightedly. Then the other girls fill his arms with stones, flowers, grass and large green leaves, grinning and watching his happy expressions, Anastasia patting his arms and face as she laughs. Alix watches nervously as her son strokes the sharp crystals, but slowly relaxes when she sees him smile. She knows he’ll be careful.
“I want to take a picture now,” he says in English, the real indicator of his pleasure.
So the girls pile into the mauve armchair by the window, curtains billowing in the warm draft. Squashed in the middle, Maria giggles and kicks at the ground with her toes. Olga rests her left arm on the windowsill, feeling suddenly weary. Anastasia takes a pose she has become fond of recently, clutching the charm around her neck and turning slightly to one side. Tatiana, seeing Alexei struggle with the camera on the nearby sofa, bites her fingernail. Then the photo is taken.


There is a clock that never strikes...
There is a cathedral that goes down and a lake that goes up...
There is a little carriage abandoned in the copse...
There is a troupe of little actors in costume...
And when you are hungry or thirsty, there is someone who drives you away.