I think belly buttons are obscene. There was a commercial that was about stomach problems for women and the entire commercial was shot belly level and had belly buttons talking. It gave me the skeevies everytime I saw it. Breasts or Man Bits — no problem there.
From the Imagination Prompt Generator:
What do you want to be remembered for?
My stories first, my artwork second, my photographs third. I want to be thought well of NOW before I toddle off Beyond the Veil since it would be a bummer if the only good thoughts came at my funeral. That is, if anyone shows up.
I have told people before that I am a Storyteller. I don’t think that most people realize that a storyteller isn’t someone working to get published. By definition, certainly I am author, so I won’t discount that.
au·thor
? ?/????r/ Show Spelled[aw-ther]
–noun
1. a person who writes a novel, poem, essay, etc.; the composer of a literary work, as distinguished from a compiler, translator, editor, or copyist.
However, a Storyteller is someone who does more than just write a story and hopes that others will read it, or buy it, etc. A Storyteller has an audience and tells them a story. I write fanfiction because I know there is an audience out there that not only wants to read it, but they want someone to tell them a story.
When I was a kid, I love Winnie the Pooh and Mowgli and his friends. My mother would read the stories to me because she was a Storyteller.
It’s a bit different being online and telling a story, and for awhile I felt a bit lost, and certainly frustrated. When I got over the fact that I couldn’t “see” the people I was telling a story to, I fell back into myself, into my comfort zone.
So, I hope there’s a corner of the internet that will remember me as a good Storyteller.
I hope, too, that I get remembered for my artwork. I know there are people in the past that remember some of the “on paper” art I used to do. I doubt they know my name, but my artwork is out there and there are those that remember it. My art affected them.
I haven’t picked up a pen in ages and taken it to paper, but I do still let my imagination go digital in this digital age. It isn’t the same, but I certainly wouldn’t be doing my digital abstracts if I didn’t feel I was putting my emotions into them and they were touching people viscerally.
I hope that enough of my artwork is now out there, that people will find it and think it’s something to talk about. If they don’t know who I am, my name, that’s all right.
And, ditto for my photos. I hope that I leave a lot of photos for people to appreciate. Mostly dogs, cats, gardens, trees, and flowers. Very few people. I hope that what I have gives everyone a bit of peace.
From The One-Minute Writer:
Write a brief piece of fiction using the prompt: Sharp.
Sharp.
Was it sharp enough?
He drew it along his thumb and was fascinated by the red pearl that welled up underneath the glittering blade.
That was sharp. He didn’t feel any pain from the cut.
At least, he didn’t think there was.
Holding out his index finger he placed the blade against the pad and drew the blade smoothly across.
No. There wasn’t pain.
He smiled.
Baring his wrist, he watched as the thick, blue vein pulsed just beneath the skin. He allowed himself a moment to drift as he watched the vein pulse, and for a moment, just a very brief moment, he forgot about everything. When he was sure he could think of nothing but that vein and the blood that it held, he drew the blade across it.
Oh!
Good God help me!
That hurts! It really, fucking hurts!
Then he saw the blood. It wasn’t like the slowly, almost prettily oozing pearls upon his thumb and index finger. This was a wash of blood that spilled over the edge of the white porcelain sink and onto the cold, white, tiled floor.
It was obscene.
Never had he ever seen something so terrible, and yet, as much as it hurt, as much as it was horrible, he could not take his eyes away or do anything to stop it.
And then the wash became the trickle he’d expected. A dribble, actually. And, it didn’t really hurt all that much anymore. He just felt… sleepy.
When had he joined the pool upon the tiled floor?
Gary’s going to be so mad about this mess.
His words were slurred, but he didn’t know it. He closed his eyes, telling himself he’d feel much better after a short nap.
. . .
The blade was very sharp.
I am seeking a question.
