I am late on this and the entire Super Snap thing from Fictional Campfire is actually over BUT after reading Ozlem Yikici’s post (which is where I stumbled on this) it’s been knocking around in my brain and this morning I came up with a story using all four photos. Yep, day late, dollar short, par for the course. I had a lot of fun with this, I hope you enjoy it as I plan to do more of these as they interest me.
So here it is. Fiction using 4 photos as inspiration, no more than 5oo words.
My daughter ran away while I was in the shower. She had been crying over her six year old injustices and I left her to sort it out alone. We had things to do, places to be, I didn’t have time for her nonsense. She came back. From a dirty, tear streaked face she confessed.
She had wanted to join the gypsys. To dance barefoot, bracelets tinkling as the music swirled through her body.
But I wouldn’t let her.
She had decided to walk all the way to New York City.
To be washed in the neon lights of Times Square, to feel the hurried heartbeat of a million people. Surely, it couldn’t be that far away. Even though mommy had told her we would have to take a plane. And even if we wanted to, we couldn’t afford it.
And how amazing would a plane be? She would run away and meet a pilot that would whisk her into the sky so high she could touch the stars and make a wish. They would loop-de-loop and never come back down to earth. No one would ever tell them “no” again.
Or maybe she would go to the lake though she didn’t know the route, the fireworks on the Fourth would happen soon, she was sure. She would wait and watch the entire show, staying up much later than mommy ever let her before.
“I’m thirsty.” She said, smearing together the dust and tears and salt. I took her little hand in mine, still hot from the sun.
“How far did you get?” I asked as we walked back to our little house. Bessie cow mooed as we passed, begging for grain.
“Only to Mr. Blak’s. I woulda gone further but I was afraid you’d miss me.”
“I would have.” I squeeze that little hand, my own memories, injustices, wetting my eyes. “You’re brave than me, you know. I only made it to the mailbox.”