THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY of Art Inspired Stories

It is hard to imagine that Mr Gene Kester and I hatched this idea over coffees three-plus years ago for the 2014 Proctor Artsfest.  While never claiming it was an original idea, it has turned out to be a very enjoyable and fruitful one.  Not only have I done two ArtsFests, but I did another installment got the Peninsula Art Guild last fall, and the project has extended into the virtual world as well.


I'll be at the Juried Art Show at Mason UMC at 11:30am on Saturday with the third set of Art Inspired Stories for this year's Proctor ArtsFest.

I happily dedicate this post and this year's stories to Gene Kester: Thank you for always seeing the creative possibilities, and being the first to stand behind them!

I love doing these projects, and it is hard to choose individual favorites, but here are some highlights from the five Art Inspired Story Projects, real world and virtual, over the past three years.

ART INSPIRED STORIES at Proctor ArtsFest 2015

Welcome to the 2015 Art-Inspired Stories Project!

This year I chose 21 pieces out of the entire show, and this year I wrote for all. Ten of those were presented live this afternoon at the Festival.

My choices were not meant to be qualitative. All the work submitted was lovely and merit-worthy, but I could not possibly organize and write 71 stories in less than 48 hours. So here are some of the criteria I used in making choices when I viewed the exhibit and photographed the artworks to develop.  

I did not choose:

Works whose message was clear - why muck with or restate something that is already strong?

Works whose stories could not be contained to 100 words

Balancing the general themes of the stories (funny, sweet, contemplative, etc) and the various mediums and styles.

I am very pleased with this year’s stories, and I hope that you enjoy them as well.

**********

Pieces Selected for Presentation at 

the Proctor Arts Fest Juried Art Show
Note: All Stories are © 2015 by Judith Cullen
Use of any of the photo images on this page without the express permission 
of the individual artists is strictly prohibited

{LOCATED IN THE FOYER}

1948 Ford Woody Station Wagon

By Jens O Pedersen, Three Dimensional

We chatter together, loading the wagon in the morning sunlight.  The paneling is warm against my hand as doors open and close; eager for the seashore. 

Marta hands me the picnic basket. “You’re better at packing the car.” It’s her Mother’s basket, borrowed for today.  Woven slats feel friendly and familiar as I slide them into a little hole between chairs and beach bags.

The sky is blue and the ocean bluer, twinkling, inviting.  The waves shout. Running on hot, tingling sand, my feet restless to feel what my hands know, even through layers of wax: the sentience of wood.

Backyard Band

Susan Strohm, Watercolor

“What are those kids up to?  Norman, go see what those neighbor kids are up to.”

“It’s none of our business, Iris, let them alone.”

“They’re always setting up a ruckus.  They’ve got to learn some manners.”

Norm has fought this battle before.  He knows when to withdraw with honor.

As he peeks over the fence, camouflaged by laurel and rhododendron, he sees a bow, sticks, strings and the glint of brass.  He returns quietly, and sweet sounds usher him into the room where Iris sits, knitting. He smiles, and she looks up in surprise.

“I think its music, Iris.”

IT'S BACK TO SCHOOL TIME!

This year's "Back to School" season is filled with mixed emotions for me.  My eighteen year old nephew is off to college.  He's the only child of his generation in our branch of the family, so we are all feeling this moment of transition keenly.

Also, in the last year I have returned to the neighborhood of my childhood, and experienced freshly life in a community infused with college students.  So today I include reflections from both.

A Drabble (100 Word Story) - Written for Laurence Simon's Weekly Challenge to the prompt "Load"

Load

By Judith Cullen

(c) 2014

Tomorrow he starts college.  No more using all his Mom’s blankets, cushions and chairs to build forts.  No more “Mr Baloony” stories, with three prompts from the young master himself. 

He bequeathed me his Disneyland Play Set – figures, slides, trains, things that spin.  A tiny drawer contains the surviving figures.  Not all of them made it through the many years of joy. Princesses lost their heads, as they often do.  The flying elephant ride is missing one car. As my wee boy departs for halls of higher learning I am emotionally and functionally one Dumbo shy of a full load.

An Essay

LIFE 101 – Living Off Campus

By Judith Cullen

(c) 2014

I wasn’t always this age.  I was young once. I even used to be a college student.  I remember the first home I had that was not under my parent’s, or anyone else’s, supervision.  I have fond recollections of mismatched glassware, decorating with batik cotton and Christmas tree lights.  I remember the freedom of playing whatever music I wanted, eating exotic meals of my own creation, and having friends over at all hours.  Up until recently I still enjoyed the delights of 2 am bubble baths and watching movies when I couldn’t sleep. I still have a cut glass jelly jar that is my guilty pleasures wine glass, which I have had for years. So I understand the heady independence of being out on your own for the first time and crafting your very own first nest.  It is TOTALLY great!

FEELING "FAINT" from the Drabble!

This week, Laurence Simon/Crap Mariner's 100 Word Story Weekly Challenge prompt word was "Faint." (Click on the link to listen to all the challenge contributions!)  I wasn't sure it was a word that would bring me anything.  Then I started writing anyway, as I needed to warm up to get some other writing done (I use haiku and drabble to shake my Writing Muse to wakefulness).  BOOM!  Some ideas from things I have been reading and watching took off.  Here's the result!

Faint

It’s a veggie-carb day on my menu cycle.  It’s self imposed and pretty successful so far. 

I want protein.  I am craving protein.  A hamburger, some barbeque pork, even some refried beans! Thoughts of fried chicken are mocking me.

“Nyah! Nyah!  You can’t have me!”

“Bullshit!  You just WAIT until tomorrow!”

Giggling triumphantly the chicken thoughts dance away, still teasing.

I refill my trusty water bottle. Take a deep breath. Oh God!  Someone’s firing up a barbeque!  Wafting scent of mesquite!  I run around madly shutting windows.

“Get away from me!”

The room starts to spin around.  Fade to black.

##

The Serial Faintress – a Series of Three 100 Word Stories

(with a small nod to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Peter Jackson)

***

Hearing the noise behind me, I turn quickly and gasp aloud. I am positively shocked at what I see.

Sherlock Holmes is standing smiling at me across my home office. Suddenly a gray mist swirls before my eyes, and when it clears he is bending over me, his flask in his hand. 

"My dear lady, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected." 

“But why are you in Tacoma?”

Then it appears that I faint again for the second time in my life.

My head hits the floor with a dull thud.

***

I open my eyes again with a sharp intake of breath, and blink. 

I see a much younger face than the one I saw before. Dark, swirling hair frames the most remarkable pair of intense, changeable hazel eyes I have ever beheld.  I look puzzled.

Hello there!  They call me “Ben” but my actual name is “Benedict.”  Season 3 of my acclaimed Sherlock series is coming, and I am in the next Hobbit movie.  It’s going to be excellent.  You’re a fan?

The room starts to swirl around in a now familiar way. Everything gets dark, those eyes disappearing last.

***

Returning to consciousness, thinking how unreal this is, I shake my head to clear the haze.

Someone is still here.  Good Lord, won’t they leave me alone?

This one has a brooding forehead, furrowed brows, but somehow he is compelling, breathtakingly handsome.  His temple braids graze my cheeks.

“I am leading my kinsman to retake our homeland and reclaim the legacy of our fathers.  We travel to Erebor.  Have you seen Smaug the Terrible?”

I close my eyes, letting the fog roll back over me, and everything blinks out. 

There’s just no point in getting up until they go away. 

##

To Listen to Audio Recordings of these Stories CLICK HERE
by Judith Cullen (c)2013

As with all the audio downloads on this blog, this one is offered freely. I am an artist and fledgling indie author.  I only ask if you enjoy the files, you consider leaving something in the tip jar on the right hand margin.  Even $1 helps keep the stories coming!  

Visit oneadayuntilthedayidie.com to enjoy the podcast and the other contributors

COMING THIS WEEK:  

~ More Judy's Stories Live in the Proctor District ~ Saturday, June 29th at 3pm

~ More Samples from the soon-to-be-released (really!) A TRIO OF MY FATHER'S TALES

In Honor of the Tony Awards . . . Trois Drabble!

So they are going to do it all over again . . . and we won't know till it is done whether we are emboldened or embarrassed to call ourselves "theater people" for yet another year.  Okay, we'll probably actually know before they finish the opening number.

I can't claim credit for thinking of writing these this particular week. My friend Laurence Simon of the 100 Word Stories Podcast chose the word prompt "stage" for his Weekly Challenge.  I have been using drabble (100 words exactly) and haiku as warm up exercises for my writing, and could not resist the prompt.

She tripped over the lip of it and fell flat on its aged wooden surface with a painful thwack! 

“What’s this?  Who put this here?” 

An ethereal voice came out of nowhere, “Welcome to a rarefied world where art and life collide.  Welcome to the great forum of thought and emotion.”  The voice raised in pitch, and intensity, “Welcome to the deep reality of emotions reflected with …” 

She interrupted impatiently, “Yes, yes, get on with it.  Where’s the ladies loo?” 

“Backstage left, and down the stairs to your right.  Push the handle twice, please, or it won’t flush properly.”

***

The veteran and the neophyte stand in the wings watching, and waiting. 

“Do you ever get nervous?” the young one asks. 

“Every time,” is the curt reply. 

“Really?” the young one croaks, hand shaking as he raises his water bottle and slurps, hoping to not botch his very first line out on the boards.  He twitches.  “But all those people, all those eyes watching you!”

The veteran turns a slow, patience gaze on the young one. He very softly, very deliberately whispers, “If you hit your marks and stand in your light, you will not see them. Do not look.”

***

Bette reached for the shiny statuette.  It was a local award, but it sparkled like a Tony.  As she sputtered out her humble gratitude, the past entered her mind.

It was a sunny, hot bee-buzzing July afternoon. She hid high amidst the fanning branches of the old backyard swing tree. Mamma and Auntie on the back porch sipping huge, foggy tumblers of supposed lemonade. 

“I wish I knew why Bette needs so much more attention than the other children.  She’s always performing!” her Mamma cried.

Her Aunt’s patient reply, “Don’t worry, dear.  It’s just the stage.  She’ll get over it.”

***

 

Text and Production (c) 2013 by Judith Cullen 

Click Here  to listen to these stories recorded for your enjoyment.  As always, the recordings are offered free, AND tips are welcome!

Click Here to check out the other submissions in this week's challenge on the 100 Word Stories Podcast!

The music snippets on the audio recording of my three stories are from Royalty Free Music.  The piece is called "Batty McFadden" composed by Kevin McLeod at incompetech.com.

COMING THIS WEEK:  A Trio of My Father's Tales on Kindle and in Paperback.