Every Picture Tells a Story: A Flash Fiction Challenge

[Maid of Marvels]

Do you ever look at a painting or a picture and wonder about the people or things portrayed within it? I do.

So here's the deal: I will post a piece of art every week or ten days (unless the mumblings get loud and the mob starts to -- well, whatever it is that mobs do). I won't, however, tell you the name of the picture nor will I tell you the artist's name or even what museum it's in until the next picture goes up. (This way your offering will not be affected by its title.)

Your part in this mission, if you should decide to accept this challenge, is to tell a story, write a poem, describe the picture -- whatever it inspires you to create.

Let your imaginations soar... and have fun!

Maid ​

 

[Maid of Marvels]

*unveiling Picture One*

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v516/Maid/PictureOne.jpg​

 

[Sinful_whispers]

-The Immigrant-

Okay Maid saw this and thought I'd wing it...


The door closed behind as she was led into a dreary room, the stale smell of cigarette smoke was lingering about in the stagnate air. He looked to her and told her to wait her next customer was soon to arrive. She looked about letting her eyes adjust to the new surroundings. It had been a month since she was lead from the small boat with the rest of the immigrant females, and sold to the highest bidder.

They were all taken to a small villa and looked over, washed up and dressed in scant clothing, made to look like whores she would see on the streets back in her own small village. They met one by one with their new master, a tall slim man, deep golden skin, and an air about him that made each woman fearful to disobey.

He made them stand there as he walked around them, undressing them with his eyes; they each felt that feeling that made their skin crawl. He told her to undress slowly as he watched from behind his desk, tapping the silver tip of his cane upon the mahogany wood. He would growl out barking commands for her to slow down, undress slowly he’d shout as she would respond, “Yes Sir” in a soft shaky voice.

Once she was undressed he would call her to him, make her perform oral sex upon him, bringing him to almost a full climax. He then grabbed her hair and placed her over the desk, kicking his chair from behind him as she could hear his pants drop to the floor around his ankles. The sound of his keys hit hard against the wooden floor, as he grabbed her hips and lined his cock up with her cunt from behind. She felt him move behind her his hand came down slapping her ass hard as the sound echoed within the walls of the room.

She cried out, and then felt another slap as his hand came down hard upon her ass cheek once again. He ordered her to be silent, telling her how he was going to take her harshly and treat her how she should be treated. Telling her how grateful she should be towards him as he saved her from a life of poverty, giving her a job as a working girl.

Then she felt him take her hard and deep, yanking her hair as he called it ‘putting her to the test’. He held the grasp within her hair wrapping it in his hand as she could hear him breathing heavily, grunting and groaning as he arched her harder with the use if her hair. His breath smelled of liquor and stale cigars as he leaned over her and drove in hard. She bit her lip as she felt him erupt within her, giving a last few quick short thrusts forth as he milked every drop from his sac into her.

He released her hair from his fingers, untwining it from around them as he stepped back and pulled his pants up, making himself presentable, and ordered her to get dressed as he smacked her ass hard. He watched her, she felt dirty and used as his eyes ran along her. He walked to her and looked to her grabbing her face with his fingers as she felt them upon her chin.

He looked to her and said nothing at first, then spoke out letting her know her duties as one of his whores. She was escorted out, and placed in a waiting room, handed a cigarette and told that she will be called upon as needed, to make herself presentable as she sat there taking a drag as the guard left letting her there to wait her turn to turn her first trick as a working girl in the private brothel.

 

[molly_hunter28]

I'll give it a try....

~Just A Moment ~


Finally a moment to breath. A moment of time that was all hers. No whinning, no loud noises. Just her and the silence surrounding her. She needed a break from the men. The hordes of them that surrounded her in the brothel. This moment though was hers. She took another puff and let the smoke spill into her before blowing it out.

Stretching back on the couch, her robe falling open. Her eyes drifting closed only for a moment. The hustle and bustle of the stret below filtering intoher room. It was late but not late enough for the street to be alive with noice and people. Mostly men, looking for a gaming hall or to come into her place. Everyone wanting something.

She had been smart enough to open the place and offer young beauties and a perfect price. Soon her place had become well know and now even she was approached by the wealthiest of men. Thats what had made her need a moment, a break. These wealty men and their tastes. It was good that she enjoyed sex, even what seemed strange to some got her going.

The man that was waiting fot her now loved to feel in control. He would bend her over and redden her ass with his hand. He wasn't the only one that enjoyed that type of sexual play. Some were a little rougher but most were like him. If a man had enough money then it could be done.

Letting out a sigh the woman remained on the couch a little longer. Her hand traveling over her body, feeling her arrousal starting to build at what awaited her in a few moments. A wicked smile curved her lips and she put out her smoke and walked to the door, leaving the solitude of her quiet room and entering the wickedness of her brothel.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

The previous picture was:

John William Waterhouse (British, 1849-1917)
An Eastern Reminiscence (sketch)
Painting Date: 1874
Medium: Oil on canvas
Size: 24.5 x 16.5 cm
Location: Peter Nahum At The Leicester Galleries, London, England
​

 

[Sinful_whispers]

Thats the beauty of art, no matter who's eyes are upon it, they always see something different and it doesn't matter. Next one?

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Remember, you can always go back to a previous painting/picture. Just tell us which one you're writing about.

"Picture Two"

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v516/Maid/Two.jpg​

 

[qerasija]

Scènes de la vie de Bohème

Marcello read the newspaper article a second time. Musetta's singing had received a notice, though surely one of her lovers must have paid for the placement in return for favours granted. He was resigned to her ways. Schaunard was lighting his pipe. Barbemuche was smoking his cigarette and glancing again at his watch. It was too early to be drinking but Colline had set the last of the cognac on the table by his elbow. He drank the tea for now, crossed his legs, and looked appropriately philosophical. They were waiting on Rodolfo.

These days they constantly waited for Rodolfo. He almost didn't live there anymore. Always he was down three flights of stairs in a room that Schaunard had once thought a closet for Benoit's mops and tools.

What was the philosopher thinking?

Colline lifted his bass voice and sang: O Rodolfo, sono affamato per l'alimento che avete.

 

[Sinful_whispers]

Oooo nice one..will have to give this one some thought.

 

[chris2c4u]

The impressionists crowded around, though they didn't try to look perturbed. Indeed, they made it their business to eshew apparent emotion.

Flaubert had brought the newspaper and they waited, as patiently as they could. They talked about their girlfriends, aka their models, the pictures they would paint of them.

Eventually, Claude, leaning against the wall, asked.

"What does it say?"

Everyone listened though most tried to stay aloof.

He read the weather forecast. "Grey. Overcast. Little sun." He added his gloss. "Skies of dark slate and white. Especially at dusk."

The artists sighed and waited for a night of purple and gold skies.

 

[chronicle_tenko]

Be kind.

Wellington glanced at the menu again. Nothing had changed. It was still the same collection of simple german wines, likely strained through a cheesecloth and all of them far too sweet. The same honest but bland dishes full of sauerkraut and sausage. It all gave him wind. A stray hand ruffled his coppery hair now grown darker with his time in the Rhine. A bored and dreary look settled upon his brow. It was his turn to choose something for the main course and that could hardly be done without first picking a suitable wine First. And the frst bottle had been no good at all, Only Stroheim seeming to enjoy it as it rested by his elbow.

Hallorahan lit his pipe finally deciding that if Wellington would take his time deciding he would at least enjoy a smoke while he waited the match lingered casting eerie shadows around his hand, a blur through his coat jacket in the dimly lit inn. The single lantern casting shadows amongst the four bretheren. Completely focused he gazerd into the first sparks of his tobacco, the anticipation of the fine smoke hitting his lungs the entirety of all his thought right then.

At the head of the table, Bonhomme let his cigarette smoulder. No matter what his companions picked it would likely be some dreadful course, inferior wine, and the worst of cuisine. Deep in his slit eyed imaginings he was back at home in Paris enjoying a well roasted cup of coffee, instead of the bland darkened water he had steaming in front of him, try as he might this chicory drink simply could not compare to the taste of his home. His eyes lidded further as the strain began to wear his day was long and he was slowly falling to sleep.

Across from his compatriot, Stroheim crossed his legs in some sense of urgency, he was hungry and the englishman was notorious for being indescisive. He simply didn't care it seemed as his hand rested his head. Stroheim stared, the thick dark eyebrows all but obscuring his face as his dark eyes stared mournfully across to Wellington. His relaxed posture coming from the consumption of much of the previous bottle of wine which it seemed only he cared for. finally letting his mouth open only slightly to peek from behind his Dark mustache and beard he spoke but a single phrase as suggestion.

"Schnitzel tonight?"

 

[MaiusImperium]

Their bellies bloated with fives courses of rich, opulent food the four gentleman lounged at the dining table a while longer, as if any sudden movement might cause their stomachs to burst at the seams.

“What do you think? Do you see it?” Dillinger’s tone was enthusiastic, almost fevered, he gazed intently across the table at his friend. There was a pregnant pause as Clarke gazed in helpless incomprehension at the sketch scribbled on the paper in his hand. His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled in consternation. Dillinger’s gaze never left his friend, but his fingers traced the rim of his china cup impatiently.

“I looked at it for a good ten minutes, I’ll you what it is, a damned mess.” Piped up Adams as he struck a match and set it to his pipe. He leaned against the fireplace and impassively gazed at the mouth of his pipe as puffs of acrid smoke filled the room. He seemed completely oblivious to the vexation he was causing Dillinger, the creator. At the head of the table Francis seemed not to be paying attention, his eyes were swimming in the sugar bowl before him.

“Looked like a sack of coal to me.” Francis seemed to rouse himself from his sugar-bowl reverie, “Can we retire now?” Clarke finally looked up from the crumpled drawing in his hand and gave his friend Dillinger an apologetic look.

“I don’t suppose it’s a cauliflower?” Clarke immediately regretted making the suggestion, he’d never been a man of the arts. Dillinger’s face exploded in frustration.

“No, no, no! Philistines! God, give me aesthetes. It’s a baby’s face. A baby’s face!”