# February 2015 - LM - Picture Prompt



## Bishop (Feb 2, 2015)

Click here for the workshop thread

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​*Picture Prompt (See Below)​


The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


The judges for this round are:

Folcro; Guy Faukes; Pluralized; Bishop


Rules



All forum rules apply. The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do not forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click here for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
No Poetry! Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click here for the poetry challenges.
No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed. If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the LM Coffee Shop. We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed. You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
Only one entry per member.
No liking entries until the scores go up.
The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.





There are a few ways to post your entry:



If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the [URL="http://www.writingforums.com/threads/154303-February-2015-LM-Picture-Prompt-Workshop?p=1824177#post1824177"]LM Workshop Thread[/URL] which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.


Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

This competition will close on:

Monday, the 16th of February at 11:59 PM, GMT time.
Click here for the current time.


Good luck, everyone.​*


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## Bishop (Feb 2, 2015)

The picture that is this month's prompt:


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## Dubhthaigh (Feb 6, 2015)

*The Passage of Time. Adult theme. (600)*

The little blonde girl looked, at first glance, like a bed sheet caught in a gale. She pelted along the cobblestone path wearing just a man’s white work shirt which came down to bellow her scratched knees.  A smile brightened her dirty face when she saw Hooligans’ Arch loom out of the twilight but her heart fell to her bare feet when she saw that he wasn’t waiting for her there.
“Theo?” she whispered to the emptiness as she rested one small hand on the graffiti which adorned the cold wall of the brewery. “You around, Theo?” her small voice faltered on his name. How could she have been so stupid? Girls like her didn’t get opportunities like this. _I’ll bring you away from here, from all this, just be at the Arch when darkness falls_, the echo of his promise rang hollow in her mind.
Sobbing, Bridget turned and walked slowly back to the pub she called home; before her father found her missing. The soles of her feet hurt and her stomach felt as though it was full of fiery whiskey. Like her father was. She had gotten twenty or so feet before she heard, “Bridget, sorry I’m late- don’t go”

She turned and saw him standing under the Arch, tall dark and splendid in gentile clothing. “It was America I promised you, wasn’t it?” his voice was the same soothing flow of notes it had been last night as he sat at the corner of the bar while her father had served the patrons, and himself. “Yes, there” she breathed, her eyes- so recently washed with tears- shone like moons on a cloudless night. “Where is that?” Theo laughed at this question and Bridget was slightly thrown that a man with such a silky voice could have such a rough laugh. “Why Bridget, where is your luggage?” he enquired in a low voice as he bent down level with her, “luggage would have been clever, you stupid urchin”. Bridget took a step backwards, more out of shock than fear for her own safety, and his hand flew out like a dog on a chain and sunk viciously into her arm. Bridget cried in pain
**********​Bridget stood at the dock-side in her Sunday-best. She had been told he would be here. She waited with an unnatural stillness in her soul, many years ago her youth had been stolen from her and it was almost like she had been waiting for this since that moment at Hooligan’s Arch. He appeared out of the gloom with a smile on his face and a young red-headed girl holding his hand. “Sir” Bridget said as she walked toward him with a confident smile, “My name is Bernadette, Madame Gilbourne sent me to escort you and the girl to the den”. He looked at her face for a moment that time stood still in: “My name is Theo, this is our daughter Fiona. You and I have been married ten years”. 

Bridget smiled sadly when she heard his voice croon to the red-head, telling her it'll all be over soon. The trio were walking in the back alleys when Bridget produced a switch-blade from her handbag, she twisted behind Theo and stabbed him in the back, blood splattered her dress. He grunted in an inhuman manner and slumped to the cobbled street. Bridget sighed with contentment as he lay writhing silently on the ground and slipped out of her dress, revealing plain fair beneath it. She looked at the red-headed girl and wondered how many times he had used her on the passage over. “Come on” Bridget said roughly, “I know someone who’ll pay a good price for you.”


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## J Anfinson (Feb 7, 2015)

No Hands (594 Words)


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## Bishop (Feb 11, 2015)

*Six Cubits (650 words)
By Anonymous*


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## kilroy214 (Feb 12, 2015)

The Lady From Langley
by Philip James
644 words

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...rompt-Workshop?p=1827970&posted=1#post1827970


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## joshybo (Feb 12, 2015)

*Innocence Lost*
by joshybo (650 words, graphic content)​


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## TJ1985 (Feb 13, 2015)

Evening on Bailey Street. 

Sixteen hours she'd stood there in the cold air. She'd sold precisely one taco, one donut, and two kebabs, and earned eight pounds and fifty pence. The cart permit was ten pounds per day, so again she was working at loss.

 Her rent came due in a week, and towards that sixty pound debt she had earned nothing. Gilford—her landlord—was a nice man, but she knew his charity had limits. It had been weeks since he'd seen any money from her.  

 Bailey Street was one of nine cobble streets left in the city, and the only place left where vending permits were within her budget. Bailey Street was known more prominently by another name: Tramp Row.

 “Maureen,” a voice called from the shadows, “I'm surprised to see you still out and about.”  

 She turned to see Mr. Morris. He was a nice man, but he rarely could afford to buy. Still, a friend is a friend. “Good evening Jim, how's the day for you?”  

 He beamed, “Ah, Maur, things have been nice. I'm in the mood to make people happy.”  

 She warmly smiled, “Oh?”  

“I was at Winton Downs, watching the horses. Well, I saw a little filly, a slip of a thing. I fancied her, so I put two pounds on her. Little dear was vetted fifty to one long shot, but I liked her. She won by a length! I put half that on another horse, and it won as well!”  

 “Oh Jim, that is a good bit of news. I like watching them run too, but I can't pick them.”  

 The man smiled, “Well, you've got other skills.”  

 She lifted the lid of her cart chiller and peered in, “Indeed, I can make a fair mouthful of food,” She knew she had no real chance to make a sale, but a pair of kebabs and she would at least have something for profit. Plus, it was legitimately good food. It didn't sell because nobody who often wandered Bailey Street had anything in their pockets but holes and their hands.  

 “Miss Maureen, it is Miss, isn't it?” 

 She smiled, “It is.”  

 “Three weeks ago, you and I were standing over there in the shade of the cross way bridge, and my stomach growled. You gave me two donuts and a kebab. Do you remember?”  

 A smile and a nod answered him, “I do Jim. I'm a lot of things, but when a man needs to eat, he'll be fed if I have a say.”  

 He stepped near and a smile crept into his expression, “I bet you didn't know I was an entrepreneur, did you?”  

 She shook her head.  

 “I am. I like to snatch up good ideas and put my own little twist on them. It doesn't always work, but sometimes it does. I'd like to buy your business here, food, cart, permits, everything. I'll give one hundred seventy five pounds, without seeing what's in the chiller. Are you interested?”  

 “Oh Jim, I couldn't take your winnings, just for my old cart of grub. This cart's ten years old.” 

 Morris pursed his lips, “Ten years old? Then my offer will need adjustment. One seventy five and seventy five p: I'm a fan of antiques, but that is my final offer.”

 Maureen was stunned. That was more money than she'd had in years, and her cart could be bought for a third that amount. Still, a good offer is a good offer. “Jim, I'll accept, but I think you're making a terrible mistake.”  

 “A mistake? Then let me take you for a coffee, you can console me. I think I'd like that.”  

 Maureen smiled as ideas ran through her head, “I think I would too.”  

 Arm in arm, they strolled off Bailey Street—and for once—that dank miserable street wasn't so miserable for her.


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## Bishop (Feb 14, 2015)

*Big Events (Content Warning)
By Anonymous*


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## Ephemeral_One (Feb 14, 2015)

Betwixt

	Morning mist tangled with cigarette smoke once more. Entwined like lovers after a violent tryst, Michelle couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Tabacco and cheap coffee were the flavors of an army of mornings like today's. Once more, she'd rushed to work earlier than anyone else at the behest of her boss to finish work he was too incompetent to do. Another few hours lost in the eternal grind with only this brief respite to show for it.


 	Money is snapped up as soon as she gets it. Another car passed underneath her perch between the two buildings. A cruel reminder of what is out of her reach. If she got paid what she was worth, well, she'd be a Duchess. Putting that aside, a nice lorry would do. Just something so she wouldn't have to ride her bike. Or, maybe just enough to get one of those little music players so she didn't have to listen to the cars whizz past.  


 	Men passed by. A pot bellied pair long past their prime. Why did it seem like all the young, strapping bucks thought only of bucking their hips into some dumb tart? If it's all the same to them, why not give her a good squeeze? Sure, the belly might bulge a bit but at least they could get some leverage with her! Not to mention all that bike riding gave her plenty of strength where it counted! Michelle took another drag to refresh the taste of her breakfast.  


 	Marred by age, the stone below needed to be fixed. Michelle recalled nearly being tossed from her bike last week when some idiot came roaring down the causeway. He'd nearly sent her to the hospital. Luckily, she'd had the good sense to use the wall to kill her speed. It'd cost her favorite jacket mum had given her last Christmas but better to be alive, right?


 	Martin Smith, the shoddy little turd, came out of the office and passed by her. He was all smiles and sunshine. Probably spinning tales of a happy wife and another vacation they were planning. Perhaps they were off to deli or something. It was a farce. You need only one bad eye to tell the only reason he had a wife was to polish his knob. There was no love there, beyond her and his checkbook. So, what was the point of all those trips?


 	Michelle looked to her right. The door would lead back to her office. All she had to do was turn right and it'd be the third door on the left. Her coffee would be cold by now. Once more she examined the cobblestone. It's bumpy texture reminded her of this fancy bed she'd seen in the shops a while back. Wouldn't it be wonderful if roads could be that nice? Without realizing it, Michelle found herself taking a seat on the railing.


 	Monday would claim its first victim in the next minute. Michelle Caulfield would simply lean forward and let gravity do it's work. Yet, no scream passed from her. She simply fell forward on a promise to herself. If she woke up after this, Michelle Caulfield wouldn't exist anymore. Perhaps she'd be a Sharon or a Matilda; it didn't really matter what she called herself. She just wouldn't be the same person she was now. Perhaps she'd sleep in everyday? Or maybe she'd sell herself? Maybe she'd become a lesbian? At least she'd not have to worry about sagging or liars anymore. So, with that, she went to kiss the cobble.


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## aj47 (Feb 16, 2015)

Encounter (544 words)

I could feel the weather. It was what they call a _dark_ day, a _dreary_ day. The air was heavy from the intermittent rain. Not much traffic today, surely. Who would want to be out and about in this mess? Though my alley had many passers-by on good days, today there would be few people seeing Hawknose to lay wagers. There would be even fewer on other business.

I hunched against the wall beneath the skywalk, hoping to be spared the worst of the drizzle. I only had a few pennies to rattle. These pennies I used as seeds to grow my income. Without the rattle, it was often difficult to get the attention of the people as they ran their various errands.

I heard her rustle. I shook my cup, rattling my seed coins. I didn’t have to be very loud. Not, today. With no crowd, there was little sound to obscure my words.

She came nearer to me. A man was walking with her—he smelled strongly of stale beer. I could tell that she was a Lady—and not of the night. Her scent was a sophisticated bouquet of flowers whose names I didn’t know. I heard three coins drop into my tin cup.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I told her.

“How do you know I am a woman?” she asked. Her companion whispered to her. I couldn’t make out most of it, but caught the part where he said I wasn’t blind.

“Ah, you _smell_ like a Lady. And your skirts swish in my ears,” I explained.

“Today is not a good day to be out in the damp. Here,” I heard the sound of more coins, “go to the tavern and get a decent meal.  Warm yourself by the fire.” Definitely a Lady—her voice lilted a bit in what I thought might be a foreign accent. Judging from her approach, she was headed to see Hawknose. I wondered why a foreign Lady would want to lay a wager.

“Thank you again, Ma’am. Going to see Hawknose?” I ventured.

“Why do you ask?” She sounded surprised, as if I’d caught her in some indiscretion.

“Well, you came from Weaver Street. And you’re walking on my side. Often people traveling that way are planning to see Hawknose.” I didn’t mention the lack of traffic.

“As it happens,” she said, “I’m about on my hus—“

She took a sharp breath and stepped away as Stale Beer said, “Enough! We aren’t here to talk to beggars!” They hurried away, in the direction of Hawknose’s.

“God bless you, Ma’am! And Sir!” I called after them.

When I judged them to be safely distant, I felt at the coins in my cup. She had suggested a meal. Ha! I had enough now that I could sit by the hearth at the Green Goose for at least three days, and maybe four or five if I ate only the porridge with no meat.

Pocketing the coins—all except for my seeds, I took my cane and tapped my way down to Weaver street and along the block to the Goose. As I rounded the corner to Weaver Street, I could smell chickens being cooked with herbs and garlic. I preferred mutton, but there’s a saying...


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## bazz cargo (Feb 16, 2015)

*Ritual*
By 
Bazz Cargo

So dark, like a velvet black hole no moonlight ever entered or left, the high walls  were a light prison. 

Tam braced his right foot against the peddle. Soon the midnight bongs from St Floggits  would begin and he would have to race like mad through Damnation Alley, his ten-year  old body would be hammered by the saddle as he crossed the cobbles.



 Sneaking out and subjecting himself to this ritual would mean he could finally join the gang, finally have some respect and be valued amongst his peers. It was worth the pain, the stupidity.





 First bong coming up...



 Is there such a thing as ghosts?


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