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The antidote to boredom

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Here are six 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're REALLY bored/have some spare time, fuck it!! why not write a screenplay!

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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Comments

Frances Macaulay Forde

Thu 7th Jan 2010 14:35

This is my re-write of the 1st attempt (Tuesday)as a French Cinquain.
It goes with the car picture Number 2:

Sixty
-------

Like
the car rusted
up half-way down a hill
in the middle of a pasture,
I turn

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winston plowes

Wed 6th Jan 2010 01:17

Siobhan came to the club in her satsuma phase.
Stan was pushed past despite protests.
Saskia clocked a small bargain on tick.
Seth's burnt out carcase picked to steel.
Seb spent a night on the curb, bent.

And the club... well, it was a converted church for converted minds, shacked.Win x

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clarissa mckone

Tue 5th Jan 2010 03:42

After a long hard day, taking care of his mother, pushing her around town in a wheelchair, seeing tiny people while shopping. Cleaning up after his mother, the ever dutiful son, sets his eyes on an unimaginable view, seeing two lovers cloaked under winter hats and coats, ahhh, but he knows who one of them is! Saddened beyond belief, he takes his mother home. Sets out on a quest to find her, and sadly him, along the way hes so over taken with grief, he passes out in the middle of the street.Then within a dream, he makes his plans, he tries to blow her up, in her tiny car, but, that did not work, as she was seen later at a video arcade cloaked in snow, sipping some fantastic tropical drink, wild eyed and never to be caught!

this is fun and very silly!

Frances Macaulay Forde

Tue 5th Jan 2010 02:01

Like the car
all rusted up
half-way down a hill
in the middle of pasture,
I turned 60.

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carol falaki

Mon 4th Jan 2010 16:15

Alas poor Alice

Alice knew she’d downed a drop too much of bitter juice
From the bottle labelled ‘drink me’ she had ignored the news,
those TV adds, the warning signs and other nanny statements
meant to dull the splendour of a long inebriation.

Intoxicated, she enjoyed the power over people,
picked and lifted from the crowd
hung one from a steeple,
laughed, depositing them anywhere,
head up in the clouds.
Couldn’t see her lifestyle wrought a devastated mess
Then one day the reflection of her image in the glass
a rear view from across the street,
the spread of her humungous feet.
sent Alice searching for a cure,
to rehab and the health food store.
Alas a cure was never found,
and in the ocean Alice drowned.

A note the size of Gravesbury, mailed to Alice’s MP

said

NEXT TO WHERE IT SAYS ‘DRINK ME’ SHOULD NUMBER CONTENT CALORIE

<Deleted User> (6034)

Sun 3rd Jan 2010 17:26

number 1
reminds me of Portobello slot machines
tea in silver teapots
drawings in the sand
a fur handbag
photos of the old me
youthful face
innocent charm
no warmth to draw me into the
sea long walks you and me

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Ann Foxglove

Sun 3rd Jan 2010 15:56

The town hall landed on the beach with an almighty bang.
The car spontaneously combusted with a whoomph and then a clang.
The alien with the orange head gave her the bite of death.
She lay apon the pavement and her jeans were in a mess.
But the shrinking powder antidote it really worked a treat
though she still needs her wheelchair as she trundles down the street.
So if you see a town hall go sailing through the sky
you'd better run for cover - but please don't ask me why!

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