Picture Fiction Challenge: Ladybug's Song

This is the fourth monthly Picture Fiction Challenge created by R.E.H. at Ramblings of a Madman and my third attempt at it. Each month, R.E.H. randomly chooses five photos over at Flickr.com for each of five assigned categories: Character, Setting, Objective, Random Object and an Item. Each photo must be included the story in accordance with its assigned role. I thought the last two were difficult to do, but this one just had me stumped for the longest time. I finally coughed out the feeble effort below, but even though I think I included all the photos, I'm not sure I was quite true to their assigned roles. I tried, though, she whined pitifully. I tried really hard.

I highly recommend that you check out Dianne's answer to this challenge. It's looking like she and I are the only participants this month, so I don't mind singling her out. She wrote an awesome story for the challenge. It's magnificent. And really good. Just found out that there was another PCF participant. Please check out Jill's story - in two languages (French and English), no less.

Here are the pictures R.E.H. gave us to work with and their assigned roles.

LADYBUG'S SONG: A Love Story

Lucy “Ladybug” Johnson had moved with her family to Manhattan’s Lower East Side when she was thirteen years old. She had grown up with the color, lush beauty and easy pace of Jamaica and at first city life had seemed overwhelming. But then her father had opened a small neighborhood store where he sold the fresh fruits and vegetables. To her eyes the stand was beautiful. It was full of color and smells and textures and it reminded her of Jamaica. She loved it and she loved helping her parents, meeting all the wonderful diverse people who came and went from day to day and week to week. But she had quickly adopted New York as her true home. Their neighborhood was diversity itself, with hundreds of restaurants offering all kinds of incredible foods: Greek, Indian, Lebanese, Chinese, Polish… anything you could think of, really. There was also soul food and all sorts of wonderful Jewish pastries and delights. Katz’ Delicatessen was probably the most famous place in the area… It was such a poor neighborhood in so many ways, but it was so rich in the textures, smells, sounds, and languages of its people that it was like living everywhere at once. Oh, it was true that there were drug dealers on almost every block and too many homeless men and bag ladies. It’s true that many of the buildings were run down, but she loved it. She loved the music of her mother’s deep lilting Jamaican English rising in counterpoint to Mr. Wyzowski’s Polish accent and the Martin brother’s thick New Yorkese. To her they wove a together in a kind of linguistic counterpoint that equaled the best Bach fugue.

Her second favorite place in her New York was Chinatown, which was a world in itself, with narrow streets and wonderful smells. Her best friend in the world was Martin Chow. It was Martin who had given her the name Ladybug. He had caught her one day at school – they both attended Stuyvesant High School for the gifted - rescuing a little red and black bug and quietly singing to it the ladybug song: “Lady, bug lady bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children are gone. Except little Nan, who sits in a pan, weaving gold laces as fast as she can.” He had thought it was cute, especially since she had been wearing black and red polka-dots that day.

“You look like a ladybug yourself,” he had chuckled. She had looked up from her task, embarrassed, to see the kindest most handsome face ever in the history of faces…. Or that was how she felt about it. Martin had gone on to ask her if she knew the history of the ladybug song. When she nodded, “no,” he had explained how in Medieval England when farmers would set torches to the old hop (used in flavoring beer) vines after the harvest as a way of clearing the fields for the next planting, they would sing this little verse as a warning to the ladybugs that were still crawling on the vines in search of aphids. The ladybugs' children (larvae) could get away from the flames, but the pupae, referred to as "Nan" in some versions, were fastened to the plants and thus could not escape.

“Cool,” she had whispered, smiling. “How did you know that?”

They had been 15 at the time, but she had loved Martin from the very first instant of seeing him. He had felt the same way. Later they decided that they had known each other in another life. At least one. They shared so many interests. But there was something more than that. They were connected. Even that first day, they had known they were friends, more than friends, from the first word. Maybe that was how love at first sight worked. Maybe it was just people meeting again across time and space. Whatever the reason, she and Martin had become instant friends and then they had become more than friends.

Tomorrow, with college now behind them, they were to be married. Twice actually. Both ceremonies were to take place in the elegant The Lotus Flower Restaurant that belonged to Martin’s family. Ladybug loved Martin’s parents. They were a complex mix of modern and traditional. And they were kind, like Martin. They had welcomed her into their lives with open arms. And they had welcomed her family as well. The weddings would take place in the Lotus Flower's huge banquet room. The whole restaurant was elegance itself, but rich and warm and embracing. The walls were squares of red, white and rich mahogany wood and the seating was likewise rich mahogany wood with red and gold bolsters of the finest silk. It was like walking into a Chinese Palace. And it was awash in magnificent art and flowers and the luscious aroma of the finest Chinese cooking in the city. For the weddings, though they would combine cultures and the wedding banquet was to be an amazing combination of Jamaican and Chinese delicacies. Her first wedding would be traditionally Chinese. She would wear a red dress onto which her mother-in-law had embroidered with her own hands somewhat non-traditional lady bugs. Lucy thought it was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, until she saw the gown her own mother had made. Then she thought that she was perhaps the luckiest woman on earth to be wrapped in so much love, wearing not just one but the two most beautiful dresses on earth. Her mother too had added a ladybug to the wedding attire. In her case it was “something new” – the most magnificent little earrings in the shape of lady bugs, but crafted with such skill that they were elegance and beautiful.

Sitting on the edge of her bed in the apartment above the fruit stand that she loved so much, she felt profound peace mixed with a sense of nostalgia for the childhood she was about to leave. I am indeed the luckiest woman on earth, she thought. And as if to confirm that thought and give its blessing a ladybug landed oh, so softly on her window and then flew away.

The End
(And they lived Happily Ever After)

Picture Fiction Challenge: A Muse By Any Other Name

Ok... I think this is the third monthly Picture Fiction Challenge created by R.E.H. at his Ramblings of a Madman and my second attempt at it. Each month, R.E.H. randomly chooses five photos over at Flickr.com for each of five assigned categories: Character, Setting, Objective, Random Object and an Item. Each photo must be included the story in accordance with its assigned role. I thought this was REALLY hard last month. This month I thought it was REALLY REALLY hard. It was also fun and now that I have posted my own, I can't wait to go read what other participants have come up with. Last time they were all very different from each other and wonderfully creative and entertaining. I recommend that you check it out... and consider joining in next month.

Here are the pictures R.E.H. gave us to work with and their assigned roles.







And here - for better or worse - is my story.

A MUSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
or
Brandy and the Zen Monster

Brandy Wines was tired of being a rock star. She was tired of life in the big city, tired of her walk-up apartment in a so-so part of town, tired of battling her way through bums and crazy people just to get to and from work. She was tired of fighting with her band about where to perform and how much they would get paid. She was tired of road trips and loudness, tired of drinking to fit in.

More than anything, she was tired of the nightmares which had begun filling her nights so that she woke exhausted and baffled and a little bit frightened. Rock stars did not get frightened and Brandy Wines did not like the feeling one bit. She had tried drinking more but the dreams had persisted. So she had tried abstaining completely. That didn't help either. The creepy little monster - it looked like stuffed toy gone mad with a huge mouth and spiky teeth - was there every night almost as soon as she closed her eyes and right before she awakened again. Some nights, it would lumber towards her making viscious cackling noise, getting bigger and bigger with each step. Other nights it would attack while she dreamed she was on stage, remaining small. But it's teeth would turn into fangs and it would nibble at her ankles and torment her, moving in circles around her feet so that she never knew where it was going to bite next, so that she couldn't out-maneouver it. It was exhausting and she had no idea what it meant, but she knew that she couldn't take much more. What made things worse was that she had begun to watch for it when she was performing, to half expect it to dart out from behind the drums and attack her as she leaped and gyrated on the stage. And she was tired down to her bones. Something had to change. She knew that.

Eventually, she got so desperate, she decided to try therapy, much to the scorn of the rest of the band. At first she had almost given in to their mockery, but desperation had won over embarrassment and she was glad that it had, because therapy was helping. Her therapist was wonderful, helping her to quiet her mind and look at the dream from outside her fear. Everyone and everything in her dreams, he had told her was a part of her, so they had to try and figure out what she was trying to tell herself. What was her psyche trying to tell her and what part of her did that strange little monster represent? They tried a variety of gestalt type techniques. You would have thought that being a performer, that would have been right up her alley, but it seemed performing for her was a way of maintaining a mask so she pretty much left the stage when her therapist tried to get her to go into the dream. "Not happening," she replied. Not that she didn't try. It was just too scary. Finally her therapist suggested that she try dialoging with the dream. "Try having a conversation with the monster... just put down what ever comes into your head first. Don't edit, don't second guess. Just go with it." Frankly it had seemed like a stupid idea to Brandy, but she tried it anyway and the result had been nothing short of mind boggling. It went something like this:

Brandy: Hi, may I speak to the toothy little monster in my dream?

Monster: About time, jerk face.

Brandy: About time?

Monster: Well, I've been trying to get your attention for about two years now. You are a hard nut to crack.

Brandy: Well, at least you're a monster with a sense of humor. What is it you've been trying to tell me?

Monster: Oh, now you want to know. What if I don't feel like telling any more?

Brandy: Well, I'm guessing that if you didn't still want to tell me whatever it is, you wouldn't be tormenting me every night.

Monster: Could be. Maybe I'm just mean.

Brandy: Well, you have a sense of humor and you're talking to me, so my instincts tell me that you aren't as mean as I thought you were.

Monster: Ah... this gives me hope

Brandy: Hope about what?

Monster: Hope that I can save you.

Brandy: Save me? Save me from what?

Monster: Yourself.

Brandy: I'm listening.

Monster: About time.

Brandy: I think we covered that.

Monster: Ah, yes we did. I'm just a touch bitter still... and exhausted... It's hard work haunting dreams every night and feeling like you are getting nowhere. I was at my wits end.

Brandy: Well, I was trying to listen...

Monster: No you weren't. You were trying to make me go away.

Brandy: Guess you've got me there. Now that you've got my ear, how about spilling the beans. What was so important that you've been torturing me?

Monster: You're killing yourself. You have to stop what you're doing or you'll die.

Brandy: Killing myself? What are you talking about? I'm the most clean-living rock star in history.

Monster: More than one way to kill yourself. You aren't killing your body self. You're killing your creative self, your spirit self, your inner song-bird.

Brandy: My inner song bird? I sing for a living.

Monster: But it's what you sing. You don't love it any more. In fact you hate it. You run around the stage and scream and jump up and down because it's a habit. You hate it.

Brandy: I don't hate it.

Monster: Don't lie. You haven't loved it for a long time. It bores you.

Brandy: But I need to earn a living.

Monster: You have plenty saved up. Like you said, you are a very clean-living rock star.

Brandy: Well, that won't last me forever.

Monster: Did I say you had to stop living? Did I say you had to sit comatose? I don't think so.

Brandy: Well, what are you suggesting.

Monster: Something quieter. Something softer. Something that expresses your true self.

Brandy: I don't know who my true self is.

Monster: Obviously. If you did, I wouldn't have been chasing you around in your dreams to get your attention.

Brandy: So do you know who my true self is?

Monster: Yes.

Brandy: Well?

Monster: Please, I can't tell you. You have to open your heart to her.

Brandy: What are you? A Zen monster?

Monster: Zen monster? I like that. I think perhaps I am.

Brandy: Can you give me a hint at least, Zen Monster?

Monster: A hint? Hmm. I think perhaps I could do that.

Brandy: I'd appreciate it. Thank you.

Monster: You're welcome.

Brandy: Uh, the hint please...

Monster: Oh, yes, of course... the hint is this: "Look to the goldfinch."

Brandy: God, you ARE a Zen Monster. What the hell does that mean?

Monster: You're on your own now, babe. I've done my part.

Brandy: Does this mean you won't be bothering me any more.

Monster: If you do as I've suggested, I see no need. Don't cross me though. If I come back rested, what you've been through so far will seem quite the cake walk.

Brandy: Well, thank you for talking to me I guess. What on earth does "Look to the Goldfinch" mean?

Monster: You'll figure it out. I have faith in you.

Brandy: You do? Really?

Monster: Really. Mind if I go now? I'm a bit weary and looking forward to some R&R.

Brandy: Well, OK. Thanks again. I guess.

That night, Brandy slept deeply for the first time in a very long time. In her dreams she was sleeping in her bedroom back home in the mountains where she had grown up. Outside the window she heard a voice singing an incredibly beautiful song. The words and melody vibrated through her being. Her dream self rose from it's bed and walked to the window and looked out on a magnificent old tree in full flower. And on its branches singing with as beautiful a voice as legends attributed to the nightingale, sat a goldfinch, small and radiant in the morning sun. As it's song washed over her, Brandy realized that she knew both the words and the melody to the little bird's song. She had written them years back and - fearful of what her band mates might think - had tossed her composition into a box in her closet, along with at least a dozen others. As though reading her thoughts, the little bird seemed to bow to her and, although she knew it was impossible, she thought she saw it look her in the eyes and smile.

She woke the next morning refreshed and at peace for the first time in many years, knowing what she had to do. Even the insensitive clods in her band recognized that something had happened. Before she even opened her mouth to speak, they knew intuitively that she said was leaving the band. When she told them about her dream of moving to the country and finding a home somewhere in the mountains, they couldn't even resent her decision, though it was inconvenient for them because just looking at her peaceful radiant face, they knew she was doing what was right. They didn't even try to change her mind or protest.

Three years later, after her first single folk album, SONGBIRD came out and went gold(finch), they visited her at her mountain retreat and were perhaps a little envious, not of her success, but of the radiant happiness that still glowed from her. Her house was simply and elegantly decorated. There was one odd thing that almost every visitor commented on. It was an strange stuffed creature with a gaping red mouth, big teeth and beady black eyes. When people asked about it - as they often did - she would get an odd little smile on her face and reply. "That? Oh, that's my muse. "

THE END

Picture Fiction Challenge #2: A Life in Pictures

Ok... I think this is the second monthly Picture Fiction Challenge created by REH at his Ramblings of a Madman and my first attempt at it. The idea is to take the five photos below and write a story based on them. Each photo has an assigned role in the story. I thought this was REALLY hard. Needless to say my inner demons are partying their psychotic heads off as I post this. I was tempted to keep trying to fix it but I finally decided to just go with what I have. As I so wisely advise others about about the wordzzles challenges, this is about inspiring your creativity and having fun, not saving the world or writing the great American novel. So anyway, here are the pictures and my feeble attempt to meet REH's evil challenge. Not too happy with my title, but it's the best I can come up with at 1:30 in the morning. It will have to do.

And now I can go see what everyone else came up with and judge myself even more. Ah, the joy of being me.

A LIFE IN PICTURES

Even as a child, Carlotta Rodriguez had had dreams. Amazing, technicolor dreams, as exotic and vibrant as her waking life was dull and drab. She had started life on the wrong end of the poverty scale in a posh beach resort community where her mother worked two jobs - maid and waitress - and still barely earned enough to house and care for her young daughter. On occasion, though, Mrs. Rodriguez would bring home throw-away treasures, things that rich, self-indulgent tourists discarded as carelessly as you or I might toss away a used kleenex. It was one of those treasures that had changed Carlotta forever. For her daughter's 10th birthday, Maria Rodriguez had splurged on three rolls of film and wrapped up an old Kodak camera that someone had dumped unceremoniously into the waste basket in their room at the hotel. From that moment on, Carlotta had seen the world in photographs. She was a born artist with a gift for creating beauty from even the most unexpected scenes and objects. A wise mother, Maria had quickly taken note of both her daughter's passion and her talent and had encouraged her enthusiasm. They read books on photography and together explored all the potential aspects of picture taking - except color. This was not because Carlotta didn't want to take pictures in color, but because even baby-sitting for extra money and even with her mother putting aside every cent she could, it would have been a choice between a new camera but no film and no pictures at all, or continuing to work in black and white. All Carlotta ever dreamed of was a new camera. She saved every penny she earned towards that dream.

But then her mother died suddenly and Carlotta became a ward of the state, a foster child. The state - and, the foster parents to whom she was entrusted - decreed photography to be frivolous and expensive. Foster care was a nightmare. Her foster parents felt no compunction about going through Carlotta's belongings and "borrowing" whatever they wanted. When she asked for her precious old camera back, her foster father simply smirked and said, "not on your life. It's mine now." Later that night, he had come into her room, camera in hand and told her that perhaps he might let her borrow it if she would consider "entertaining," him. She ran that night without the camera, but with her innocence still intact. Luckily, neither social services nor her foster parents had found her hidden camera money. She had hidden it well. She ran with almost nothing. A few photos of her mother, a change of clothes, and steely determination.

Strangely, horrible and frightening as it was, it turned out to be the luckiest night of her life. When, the next morning, she stumbled, sleepy and frightened, off the train and into the crowded, bustling roar of New York City's Grand Central Station, she had no idea where to go or what to do. But as if led by an unseen angel, the very first thing she saw was a camera store. Hunger and tiredness forgotten, she entered the store as one walking into paradise. She saw and heard nothing except this world of cameras. Like the proverbial child in the candy store window, she was consumed with a hunger that pushed aside fear, doubt, even common sense. After train fare, she still had $180 of her camera fund left, nestled snugly next to her heart. She would worry about food and a home later. She had to have a camera. Nothing else mattered, nothing. And then she saw it. The camera of her dreams... the one she had read about, hoped for, pined for, dreamed of for what seemed like forever. She asked the clerk if she could see it and he handed it to her with an unnecessary warning to be careful with it. It felt like heaven in her hands. She pointed it here, there, checking the focus, the zoom. It was perfect. So lost was she in this world of her imagination, that she didn't notice the elderly man at the next counter watching her with a thoughtful expression. When she asked the clerk what the price of the camera was and he said $350, she couldn't believe it.

"But I only have $180," she said. "It's everything I have. Is there any way you can lower the price... or maybe I could work it off or...."

"Oh, sure," the clerk replied, "sarcasm oozing out of him, "I'm sure I can trust you for it. No chance."

It was then that the miracle happened. The old gentleman who had been watching her stepped in, whispering quietly,

"Give her the camera for $180, Fred,"

"But Mr. Candoza..." Fred stammered.

"I'll make up the short-fall, Fred. Give her the camera... and a dozen rolls of film. I've been watching her. She has the gift. Look how she holds that camera... with love... how she frames the world as she looks at it. I can see myself in her. She should have that camera... and I can easily afford it... but I want her to feel that she bought it herself."

Fred thought the old man was crazy. She looked like a punk kid to him, but as long as he got his money, he didn't care. Tony Candoza was a long-time customer and a famous photographer and Fred wasn't about to cross him over a $350 camera.

"Here, kid. This is your lucky day, I guess." And he was right. Because Tony Candoza did more than just help buy her a camera. He decided to take her under his wing.

"Excuse me, young lady," he said kindly. "My name is Tony Candoza. May I ask your name?"

"Tony Candoza! The photographer! I love your photos! They're so.... creative... and the way you get shadows, why... I just love them... I... I...," she trailed off, blushing. "Oh.. my name is Carlotta. I'm honored to meet you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Carlotta. And always an honor to have my work appreciated so generously. May I offer you some breakfast? And maybe you can tell me about yourself - and who or what you are running away from. Come on, let's get some food into you and hear your story. I sense a fellow artist in you and us artists have to stick together." To her own astonishment she followed him eagerly as he led her to a surprisingly quiet little restaurant at the other end of the station.

Over a toast and eggs and bacon and orange juice, she told him the story of her life... and he told her the story of his... how he always seen the world in images, had drawn and painted from the time he was two. He had been lucky to have parents who were able to nourish his talent both emotionally and financially. He had gone to art school and during his time there had discovered the mystery and magic of the camera. It had become his life, his love, his mistress, his eternal passion. Watching her in the camera store, he told her, he has seen in her that same love. As she finished off her breakfast he said, "I have a proposal for you. Let's put some of that film into that camera of yours and see what you can do with it. If you're as good as I think you are, I'll make arrangements to become your legal guardian. If not... well let's not worry about that. I know you have the "eye." Let's go play. Today for certain you will have food to eat and a roof over your head in my guest room where you will be safe there, I promise."

They spent the next four hours exploring the city, taking picture after picture until all 12 rolls of film were used up and they were both happily exhausted. He watched her work, even as he took dozens of photos of his own. She watched him too, much as he watched her and picked up - even on that first day, little tricks she would not have thought of on her own. Then they ate sandwiches in the dark room and she watched him bring her photos - and his own - to magical life. She was in heaven. And just when she thought it couldn't get any better, they ordered Chinese food - which soon became her favorite - and he showed her many of his own photos. Her favorite was a strange photo of green M&Ms in a giant Starbucks cup. She didn't know why she liked it so much, but she did. He told her it wasn't one of his favorites and if he had to guess why she liked it, he thought it was because the colorfulness of it that appealed to her after so many years of being forced to create her work in black and white. She had realized that he was right. He knew her that well even from that first day. And she knew she was home in that moment. She knew that everything was going to be alright.

It was the beginning of a life-long (probably an eternal) friendship. Carlotta Rodriguez spent the next 15 years as Tony's adopted daughter and devoted student. He taught her everything there was to know about cameras, light and shadow, framing, developing film. He taught her about art and beauty, nurtured and nourished her talent, her passion and when she was ready, fostered her career. And he did something even more important; he wrapped her in kindness and love. He became the father she had never had, and his gentle generosity eased the pain of losing her mother at such a tender age. It didn't take long for Carlotta to become famous in her own right, but she became something better than famous. She was happy and fulfilled - in her life and in her work. Not everyone can say that.

Three months ago, when Tony had crossed gently from this life, he had bequeathed to her - among other things - the summer cottage by the shore where they had spent many happy days taking pictures and basking in the beauty of their surroundings. Even after she had married, she and her husband Tom (who loved Tony as much as she did) spent many weekends by the ocean with visiting with Tony - Tom drawing and painting while she and Tony did what they loved most. The cottage was full of Tony's love and his photographs and she studied them now, like journey through her own life. Her two favorites were very different. The first, surprisingly, was a picture of herself standing on the beach, wind blowing her hair across her face. It brought back a particulary happy moment on a particularly happy day. It wasn't very flattering, but it didn't need to be.

Her other favorite was taken on the last photo expedition she and Tony had taken together. It was her gift to him for his 78th birthday - the fulfillment of a life-long dream to photograph Siberian tigers of all things. She was surprised at first that he had never done it, but then she realized that he had probably sacrificed many dreams when he adopted her. That was one dream, at least, that she had been able to give back to him. It had been a wonderful trip. Their beautiful black and orange framed against white snow, those tigers were a photographer's dream. Tony had taken some of his best photos on that trip... and so had she. He had photographed tigers and she had photographed him, absorbed in his work and as young in spirit as if he'd been a teenager. She loved those photos. All she had to do was look at them and Tony was right there with her, laughing, pointing out some trick of light or color, pointing out some object of beauty or showing her the beauty of something most people didn't see as beautiful.

But there would be time to think about this later. The others were waiting for her on the beach now to give his ashes to the wind and rejoice in a life of a man they had each and every one been blessed to know.