Here are six more photos to make some sort of creative reaction too... whether it's a poem, flash fiction, short sentence, a short story, six words describing each image, a poem, or, if you have loads of time why not write a screenplay or novella!
Whatever, write something and put it in Comments box below this article to share with the world.
The rules are:
Whatever you want them to be!!
You can use just one photo or them all!
The choice is yours!
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No it is not - LOL
Have only discussed it with someone once before...
It was fascinating to think about, what it - The Eiffel Tower - represents,
and my obsession with it... ; )
Well Francine - from where I'm standing you're looking very phallic - I bet that's not something people say to you very often...
Forever the optimist Isobel...
I like your take on this:
'OPTIMIST : Large erection comes in the nick of time. Turns thirsty bird upside down, brings tears to her eyes, transports her to a place she's never been before...'
: )
I've ummed and aaarhed for a while about whether to volunteer my thoughts on these photos. Finally decided that if Paul Blackburn can use 'cunt' on a WOL thread, then I should tentatively offer my analysis.
Sorry to interrupt the rythm of your story boys....but this series of photos clearly has a sexual connection that Freud would have had a field day with. How you interpret them depends on whether you are an optimist or a pessimist...
PESSIMIST - Large erection comes before the 11th hour. Leaving neglected bird, turned upside down, tearful and plunged into the darkest depths of despair....
OPTIMIST : Large erection comes in the nick of time. Turns thirsty bird upside down, brings tears to her eyes, transports her to a place she's never been before...
Obvious innit?
darren thomas
Fri 5th Feb 2010 12:11
Chapter 2
Meanwhile, deep inside the hot steaming bowels of a Parisian police station, Inspector Twolittleducks replayed a surreptitious recording of the recent conversation that he’d found himself involved with. A strange, some would say - peculiar man, claiming to be go by the name of ‘Art Count’.
There was something strangely familiar about this man. In a particular light, he was almost transparent, yet, in others, the defined and unquestionable detail in his face lent itself to a sense of subjectivity, a sense that had never stirred itself in this police Inspector - until today.Something was troubling him.
The inspector closed his heavy lids. Inhaling that stale, unique smell that often lingers after a face-to- face conversation with any Private Dick.
He quickly recalled the infamous case of the Jaffa muders. A case which some would say Inspector Twolittleducks solved single- handedly.
Witnessing the scenes of the brutal mutilation of young innocent citrus fruits and the sexual exploitation of underage Watermelons had taken its toll, yet he could still afford himself a wry smile at the thought of the BBC’s pathetic attempts at the Crime watch reconstruction. Yet, something was troubling him.
He stared at the six photographs on his desk. Nobody knew this - but each one was left at the scene of the Jaffa murders. No Private Dick would ever know this. Not even his immediate Boss - Superimposed Ian Midge would know this.His eyes stared at the nearest wall of his office. They were intense - but to the uninitiated they were soul-less. Dead. Bereft. Devoid. Fucked. Glass. His left eye was made of glass. Due to a freak, charity abseiling injury sustained among the unforgiving web of steel that masquerades as La Tour Eiffel.
In quite, reflective moments he often removed his glass-eye and stared at it through the wallowing memories of his ‘good-eye’. The all seeing eye.
His solitary eye now scanning the photographs. To the uninitiated - he now had the appearance of a comical Cyclops. Fat. Balding.Ugly. Shiny faced. He winced at the notion that just appeared in his head about ‘phoning his wife’ and smiled at the cognitive psychology behind such a thought. He stared hard at the photographs. Then it hit him. Hard. As hard as a low-flying pgeon. A pdgeon without eyes. A fsh without eyes. He quickly reached for his Dictaphone.
“…I found him of course working in a fish market…”
The fact that Twolittleducks had lost an eye had a distinct advantage. His sense of hearing was highly acute. He could hear narrative voices. He folded the flaps of his left ear into a fleshy funnel before replaying the conversation.
“I found him of course working in a fsh market…” There was no ‘I’ in the word ‘fsh’. He began to sweat with excitement. “ …in a fsh market’…
‘fsh market’ ‘fsh’… ‘fsh’.
The uttered word was just made up of fricatives. He stared back at the six photographs - three of which were eyes.
‘fsh market’. A fish without eyes?
Not only did he now know who the real Jaffa Murderer was - he knew just why those unprovoked and seedless attacks had taken place?
He reached for his phone.
“Get me Scotland Yard… Barry? It’s Twoducks... (silence) Two-little-ducks. Yes, yes, quack - quack. Listen - I have reason to believe that Europe’s most sought after murderer is heading your way…
to be continued.
“You a count?” He said it loud and bluntly, oh, and with out the 'o'.
“No!” I shouted back affronted, “I’m a dick, a private dick. The names Art Count, private eye.”
I was always getting shit like this from clever, sarcastic coppers who thought they’d seen it all and should have known better. Although, to be honest, this fat, sweaty, middle-aged DI looked like he’d seen it all and then some. His eyes were as dead as my last farts and his big, stupid flat-feet seemed to contain his brains from the way he kept consulting them.
My client started crying. She was an attractive woman, successful burlesque dancer, a craze that seemed to be sweeping the country, and if I say she was six-five and built like the proverbial … ten high-court judges wouldn’t find me guilty of perjury.
The cop handed me the photo of the wide-open eye of the corpse.
“That’s a big help!” I gave him the full Count stare.
“She was alive when that was taken.” he snarled. To him I wasn’t worth the effort of civility and my client looked slightly shocked at his attitude.
“Mr Count is my representative, and I want you to tell him everything you know about my sisters death.” she breathily demanded, surprising both me and the dope who would make Neanderthals seem a bunch of Stephen Frys.
“I’m sorry miss,” he tried to sound sincere, “but we’ve nothing to go on.”
Typical, reminded me of my last case when they couldn’t find a murderer with an orange for a head, I found him of course, working in a Fish market.
“There has to be something…”
But he just gave his dandruff a bit of an outing with a cursory shake.
“Come on babe, there’s nothing more to be done here!” She smacked me across the head and said “Don’t call me babe!”.
I scraped myself off the floor and followed her outside and over the road to a coffee shop where she ordered and I paid.
“There is something,” she said purposefully, passing a photograph of the Eiffel tower across to me, “I found this in her hand bag.”
I looked at the picture. “Paris, uh?” I was really quick on the uptake. Turning it over I discovered some notes….
---------------
It was 38 minutes past 10 of the clock, French time, and I was stood at the bottom of a gleaming silver escalator at Charle De Gaulle, when it struck me.
“Zoot alors!” I muttered to myself in a perfect French accent. What, I reasoned, would a north country girl be doing in Paris?
It was the pigeon that told me. Well, obviously not told me, but made me think. I’d felt oddly moved when I’d seen it on that windowsill and I’d been edgy ever since. It came to me in a flash, it wasn’t Paris you idiot but Blackpool. What a fool I’d been.
Still, as I was in Paris, and the client was paying, I thought I might as well enjoy myself and hit the town.
To be continued
time flies within a tear.
paris dies with a flapping of a pidgeons wing
That is chaos theory.
Towering time,
a pigeon toed stare
and escalating tears
It's 22.38
and I'm late late late
I'm meeting a pigeon
for a date date date
up the Eifel Tower
and I've brought him a flower
there's a tear in my eye
cos he's lost his pigeon-power.
I used to love him so
how the sparks did flow
but now he's just
a no-show-Joe!
<Deleted User> (7164)
Mon 1st Feb 2010 23:06
Nylon Pylons
Oh! What an eye-sore
obscuring the countryside.
Reminds of a sight
I have always wanted to see.
Did someone turn the world around
to bring the Eiffel Tower to me?
and was it transported by train
through the Euro-tunnel?
Is the crackle and buzz I hear
electricity? or communication,
from an unknown source.
Or static as the robbers'
peel their nylon stocking masks
revealing lies upon their faces.
While a homing pigeon,
lost in chaos and confusion rests
upon a ledge, bridging a gap
between two worlds.
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John Aikman
Sat 5th Feb 2011 16:05
The Eyeful Tear
Epitome of Gallic phallic.
:-)
Jx