Thursday, September 6, 2012

The World's Hearing-Aid and a Sad Man

Craziness! The start of the semester, moving, life. I've been so incredibly scatter-brained. I have a few picture-stories sessions I still need to go over and publish! To anyone who has been waiting for theirs, I apologize and love you. Readers, please be inspired to write. I can't wait to read your stories! Share a picture with someone, have them write, have them send something back to you -- and write! The following story's a longer picture-story I wrote early this morning. I'm thinking of editing it and submitting it to a journal, I don't know, lemme know what you think!


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Story by Thias:

Six months and three days. In this time he'd tried everything else. Talked to a rabbi friend, to his own priest, to God. Shouted against the creaks and rattles in his lonely house; against the wind blowing the curtains. But today was different. He didn't have strength to talk or shout. In fact, so far, he had spent the whole day face down on the now dusty carpet of the narrow hall. The dust was the accumulation of his withering days. Breathing it in caused him to cough. Coughing sent more dust into the air. He sobbed and coughed and lay on the ground. The wind came to stir him, as it always did.

“Be quiet!” he groaned in his gravelly voice and rocked himself onto his side, onto his haunches, to sit up. The wind sighed. He glowered at nothing in particular – or maybe at the piece of wallpaper peeling back to reveal an older pattern of horsemen and dogs on a hunt. He dabbed at the muddied-by-dust sweat on his head with the sleeve of his cardigan. He pushed back his wispy white hair. Strands wafted back into view of his eyes. He blinked and left them. He watched as the curtains signaled the moan of wind a moment before he heard it. Windows lined one side of the hall. Curtains topped every window except the third one at the very center, its curtain had fallen a week prior. As the wind moved down the hall each window's curtain billowed and fell into itself.

“You aren't in the wind.” he said to no one in particular.

Billowing curtains.

“I hate the wind...” he scratched the stubble on his chin and looked around, “hell, I hate this house.”

A breeze lifted a bit of his hair.

He closed his eyes, feeling the wickedness of old age as he shifted his weight off his bad hip.

“Where are you?” his head settled against the wall at his back. He listened for a moment.

The wind stopped. He opened his eyes.

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The wind met him again as he stepped out of the house. It didn't embrace him, caress his face, gently move him. It was cruel. The wind shoved through his body, stabbing his stiff joints, grabbing his old bones. He tensed for a moment. Coughed. He continued walking towards the piers; past the piers, to the wave breaker. To it. When she had sculpted it thirty years prior the local news paper, a small usually three paged publication, had called it the “Hale Harbor Shofar.” She had liked that. Though, she'd told him it was really something different.

You know what it is, don't you?”

No.

Well, it's simple really. It's a hearing aid.”

Hm? For what?

Everything! You can hear the whole world. It's set into the ground and you can hear everything. The wind talks to you, the earth, life, love. You can hear anything.”

Is that so?

It is.”

You crazy girl. What do you hear?

What I need to hear the most.”

“What I need to hear most.” he murmured as he stumbled up onto the curb leading to the wave-breaker. The cold wind caused his eyes to water. He knew that he wouldn't hear anything when he arrived. He knew not to hope for a sign or voice. Really, he'd learned well not to hope ever. He just wanted to be closer to her, even in a small way. Viscerally he ached, craved, needed a connection to her. A moment. Though, he wasn't a fool, to hope for anything more than a nice memory. The Shofar. The hearing-aid of the world. Even through blurred vision he could make out the curved sculpture set against the cloud-darkened sky and waves. He was carrying a little wooden box with an intricate brass clasp. He tucked the box snugly between his arm and slowly shuffled toward the Shofar. The wind pushed at his back now. He felt like he might stumble again, he shuffled faster. A strong gust caught him just as he was reaching the sculpture and he was thrown to his knees. To his hands and knees. The small wooden box slipped, skidded and bounced across the cement of the breaker; it almost seemed surreal, the frailty of it, as it ripped apart. The contents, pictures, letters, and newspaper clippings, exploded from their resting place. Alive they flipped and rolled with the wind. Danced away. The man fell to his side, ignoring his hip. Eyes wide, looking between the sculpture, the freed memories, and the cement directly in front of him; there wasn't anything to say. He crawled to the statue's steel-beam and sat against it. The tears in his eyes came now without sobs. He closed his eyes.

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The man watched the horizon. First, boats as they moved into safe harbor for the night. Then he watched as the sun slowly descended into the sea. The wind had begun to die down. The water had forgone fiercely slamming against the breaker, now it merely lapped against the rocks. His tears had dried but he still felt a hot sting at the bridge of his nose. Felt empty. Felt remorse all over again, felt alone, felt certain that it was over now. Forty-eight years was over. In fact, he felt he'd only truly lived for forty-eight years. The light breeze twisted around the crown of his head, pushing his hair up. His cheeks were flush and his nose red. He sniffed. He sniffed again and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He thought of how often she'd chided him for using his sleeve. A ship's bell rang to announce it's arrival. The old man looked across the sound, watched the small fishing vessel as it headed home. For six months he'd tried everything. He'd tried to reconcile the reality of it all. He'd tried to remember everything. He'd tried to forget. No matter what, in his soul, he still felt the gaping lack of “her.” It wasn't right.

His gruff voice cracked and he couldn't keep his head up as he whispered, “God. Oh, God... there's no purpose in this.” The heat at the bridge of his nose gave way and large tears rolled down his cheeks. He turned away from the setting sun, looking down the distance of the wave-breaker. He rested his head against the sculpture's cold, steel brace.

“I'm an empty shell.” he whispered.

No wind.

“A fisherman with no reason to go home.”

He thought he faintly heard a flapping sound. He sniffed, wiped his eyes with his calloused fingers, and looked the opposite direction to see if anyone was approaching. There was no one. He closed his eyes.

“I can't do this.”

The flapping noise, faint, again.

“Hello?” he called, not too loud, as the wind was still gentle.

No answer.

He shifted and began to stand up. Oh, how his bones ached now. His muscles were even more stiff, even slower. After the moment it took him to get up he heard the flapping again, this time realizing it was with the breeze. Perhaps it was some trash. Some flyer handed to some passerby for some event for some reason, caught in the rocks. He straightened his back as much as he could, groaning. This time he heard a buzzing. No, he felt the buzzing. Against his leg, in his pocket, his phone was vibrating. He pulled it out. It was his forty year old son, David, calling. He answered.

“Hello.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Dad... where are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren't at your house but you left your front door open. We thought something might have happened. Mr. Gallegos next door said he hadn't heard anything all day though.”

“I just went down to the piers.”

David paused for a moment. “To the Shofar?”

“... yeah.”

“I can't imagine how much you miss her, Dad.” the pitch in David's voice changed. He was a good boy. Always loved people, always tried to understand; and when he didn't, was always there to comfort regardless. David sniffed, and probably straightened his shoulders and stuck his chest out. Trying to be strong. “Dad, I'll be there in about five minutes, just stay put alright?”

“No, no. You don't have to. I'm fine.” The man heard the flapping noise again. He slowly scanned the rocks just before his feet. The wind began to pick up.

“No Dad, I'm coming down there. I'll be there in a moment, alright?”

Distracted, “Sure. Alright. See you soon.” He saw a faint contrast of white moving against gray stone. He moved towards it.

David had paused on the other end of the phone. “I love you, Dad.”

“Hm?” he realized it was a piece of paper.

“I love you.”

“Oh. I love you too, son.” the white paper was stuck, flapping in the intensifying wind , between two rocks very near the water. The tide was slowly rising, but in about ten minutes the paper'd be ruined. “I've got to go. I'll see you soon, alright kid?”

“'Kay, dad.” beep. David had hung up.

The old man stuck his phone in his pocket. The rocks weren't treacherous so much as tedious, but he made his way to the paper rather quickly. It was just about to wiggle free as he grabbed it. Instantly he recognized it. Its weight, its width and height. It was his and her wedding picture. It had been in the box. They had been so young. Tears came again and he fought to keep his vision clear. The wind began to pick up even more. He flipped the picture over, reading the back. He knew what it said, but he still read it aloud.

“Us,
We've got quite a lot to be, don't we?” he smiled; at her curly handwriting, but moreover at who she was.

“We'll start off being a king and queen,
Then maybe pirates to sail the seas.
We'll rediscover old worn out countries,
and whisper into the world new dreams.
The whole world might never know us,
But don't think about it, they're just silly.
Besides, in the whole world, I only need know you.
And wherever the wind may carry us,
Of all the things to be, lets be known
In our life I'll learn to know you -
And your part's quite easy do trust,
All you have to do is smile and
Know me, and know I love you
And know it's true.”

The old man began weeping. His whole body shook. His whole heart cried. He sat on the rocks, didn't give a care for the aches and pains of his old and worn body. Every pent up fear, every moment of despair – it all washed out of him. His breath was ragged, but he stopped sobbing. In that moment tranquility was an icy chill down his spine.

“I know it's true, sweetheart.” he hugged the photo to his chest and lay back against the stones. He heard his son running down the breaker. The old man was exhausted.

“Dad!”

“Thank you.” he whispered between ragged breaths.

“Thank you.” To God. To her. To the wind. And he closed his eyes.

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Thank you for reading, guys and dolls! Love y'all! God bless!

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I hope you've enjoyed reading our stories! If the photo featured in this post happens to be your photo and you don't want your photo up, let us know! More stories to come, and soon, pictures that you can write stories for!


If you're interested in playing a game of "Picture-Stories;" it's simple! Just grab a friend, find pictures, choose names, and write! Submit the photos, names, and stories to thiasthiasthias@gmail.com and we will consider posting them! Have a wonderful September 6th/7th!

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Grace-ful stories!


A new game of "Picture Stories" has been played. Are you ready to meet: Annie, David, Mitch, Jaina, Lynne, and Lindy? Well, be ready! They're wonderful people. Stories by Grace "Gracie" Thomas and Thias. Enjoy~
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Name: Jaina Cleveland

Thias' Story: 

Jaina is fierce! And, she's very kind. She's the sort of girl that everyone in town knows in some way or another. When she was twelve she bungee jumped from the town bridge. When she was fourteen she wrote a novel – all one-hundred copies were sold and are considered a sort of town relic. The novel was about a girl who was really a dragon; the girl-dragon wanted some way of showing her town what she really was, but every time she tried something would go wrong. Until one day a little boy, whom everyone affectionately called “Bubby,” got stuck in a frozen lake. Then the girl, as nervous as she was, rose to the occasion, breather her fire, and saved little Bubby. Then the whole town celebrated, the new school mascot was a dragon, and she was able to walk around the way she was meant to! Jaina doesn't breathe fire and she isn't a dragon. But she definitely stands out. Recently she's come into the habit of telling tourists and people new to town that she was raised in a circus. The funny thing is, no one doubts her for a moment. Her heart is as big as she is silly. Every Tuesday and Friday she reads books at an elderly-home, and on Wednesdays she teaches elementary schoolkids to juggle! Jaina's fierce! But, she's mostly kind.

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Name: Annie Robinson

Gracie's story: 



Annie has always known she was different. Maybe it was the way words came alive for her. She loved to watch the way they clinked and snaked and tumbled out of peoples mouths, snaking through the air like colorful ribbons. She could stand and watch them for hours, getting completely lost in conversations. Maybe it was something about the way they hung in the air...

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Name: Lynne Young

Thias' Story:

 Lynne-Lynne! Come on! We're going to miss it.”  A young woman shouted over the moan of cold, sea wind. 

“I am! Just a moment!” The girl, Lynne, called back with a smile. She turned to me, “I'm sorry! She's crazy sometimes. She thinks we're going to miss the ship-launching ceremony. It doesn't start for another hour!” I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded and smiled. “What were you asking before she interrupted? A photo?” Yes, I had asked if I could take her photo. I had thought she hadn't heard and, a little relieved, I was going to let it blow over. I had seen Lynne at a coffee shop in my small coastal town. She had been playing the piano and it was so... altering. 

“Yes! A photo. I'm a local photographer. I love to take photos of tourists. When I was younger I-...” she didn't want to hear about that. Or, so I had thought. She smiled. 

“You what?”

 “Well... I didn't understand why all the tourists would come, would smile so much; would breathe in fresh air, run, whoop and holler – and then just leave.” My eyes dropped to my shoes as I twisted them into the sand. I felt a drip forming at the tip of my cold, red nose and sniffed, cleared my throat, and continued. “Um. - I asked my grandfather about it and he told me that it was a good thing. That they were people who had lived a whole different life, very unlike ours, and that they dreamed of sunsets over the ocean – to see one was beyond words! I mean, you should see some of the people I take photos of. They're--” 

“Lynne! Seriously! We're meeting people!” Her friend said. I thought I saw her stamp her foot even. Girls are so silly. 

“Be quiet! I'm talking to this man!” Man! I was only 17. I blushed a little, for no good reason. “Please continue Mr. Photographer.” 

“David.”

“Yes, Mr. David.” She smiled again and I couldn't help but smile as well. 

“Hmm, but anyways. The people. I asked him why they didn't stay longer and he said, 'Because, they don't know that they can.' And – well, I don't know. I tried talking to a few of them, I was seven, and told them they could stay.” I stopped, thinking about how the various tourists had been kind, smiled even – but not taken me seriously. I shook my head to think how funny it must've been to have an over-sized, awkward, sea-salt crusted little boy asking them to stay. “Of course,” I continued “the people weren't so easily convinced. I think I got so frustrated I cried even!” I made a weird “ha” sound at that. I was definitely conscious of my strange laughs. “But, when my grandfather came and found me he told me 'There's another way, you know, Davie?' And he handed me a camera -- this one, actually -- and taught me how to use it. He said 'When you take a picture of a person, especially when they're smiling, you capture a little piece of them. And they can stay here forever.' I mean, of course, it isn't real... but, you know... it was nice. It gave me a way to wrap my mind around living here. Pretty weird, huh?” 

Lynne giggled, like girls always do. “No! It's wonderful. I love it.” I definitely blushed this time. 

“But, yes. May I take a picture of you?” 

“Please do! I'd love to stay here! I can't, I have school, but if you keep the picture I'll know I always have a place here.” I think I stared at her for a moment, she made an odd “So, what now?” sort of face. But I was able to smile too. 

“Thank you! Stand just there.” I snapped the picture, captured her smile – and was just pulling the camera from my face when she was right there. 

She kissed me on the cheek, “Thank you David! I've got to run now! I'll see you later I hope!” 

“Bye! Enjoy the boats.” The dingle-ling of the song she had played at the coffee shop was playing through my head – she'd kissed me on the cheek! I've never seen her since then, but I've kept her picture. And I still remember that song.

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Name: Mitch Becker

Gracie's Story: Mitch grew up the youngest of 5 boys, so of course as a boy in an all-American family filled with boys, his days were filled football and hockey and spending lots of time outdoors. He grew up fighting to live up to the reputations earned by his all-star older siblings, and he mostly succeeded. 
...
Later on, he will have a huge midlife crisis, in which he will renovate his loft apartment into an art studio, and paint in happiness for the rest of his life.

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Name: Lindy Carmichael

Thias' Story: 

Close your eyes and think very intensely on one thing that is lovely! Do it. If you're still reading and you haven't, you're missing out! Because, you see, this is a story about a young woman – a young woman named Lindy Carmichael. And closing her eyes and thinking intently on something wonderful, well, that's one of her most favorite things to do. Actually, it'd be safe to say she loves most anything to do with imagining things – and closing her eyes. She has the longest standing record for falling asleep in Mr. Engle's class. He's more amused than he lets on, I think. Lindy aspires to be all things. Which, isn't farfetched if you get to know her. Oh! And, she's rather short! Very, actually. It's a running joke for her taller friends to “lose” her in plain sight. They only do it because they adore her though. It's hard not to, seeing her stare off into the distance at some other beautiful world. She's a treasure trove of magic, but she's funny about keeping it all locked up in her head. She does share stories with her very closest friends though. They're often mesmerized, and the rest of the time they think she's very silly. She doesn't mind though. The worlds in her mind, even an ounce of them, are worth sharing with the people she loves.

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Name: David Fischer

Gracie's Story: 

Everybody that knows David loves his huge genuine smile, which he gives willingly and without thought to everybody he meets. He is the lead singer in an indie-rock band, but he prefers more intimate settings for his music then on stage in front of huge crowds. David loves to take his guitar and sing in coffee shops, on street corners, or anywhere people will let him. He loves the people he meets, the smiling faces on passers-by when they hear a familiar tune, the random people who linger for a moment before walking on. His future wife will be one of the few people who stop to drop a dollar into his hat, and they will live happily together for the rest of their lives.

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I hope you've enjoyed reading our stories! If this happens to be you in any of these photos, you know Gracie or me in some way or another. If you don't want your photo up, let us know! More stories to come, and soon, pictures that you can write stories for!


If you're interested in playing a game of "Picture-Stories;" it's simple! Just grab a friend, find pictures, choose names, and write! Submit the photos, names, and stories to thiasthiasthias@gmail.com and we will consider posting them! Have a wonderful August 8th!



Sunday, August 5, 2012

What we are, today -

Thias here!

Was just explaining what The Picture's Story is to a friend and thought I'd quote it here:


"A friend and I are starting a project on a blog where people play this sort of game. Two persons play. Person One shares a photo. Person Two comes up with a name for the person in the photo and a story, any sort of story, for the person in the photo. And then they swap and person Two shares a photo and One comes up with a name and writes a story. And you submit your stories to the blog. (It's all rather silly, but very fun!)... 

"There're two other projects attached to it as well. 1) A bi-weekly picture that everyone can submit a story to and the winner gets a hug or whatever. And 2) everyone's favorite characters get put into a continued story-line and we come up with a sort of running series.
 So if this is all something that might interest you, let me know, or if you think it might interest someone else - let them know!"


The First Stories -

These are the first stories. The seedling few that made The Story's Picture even possible. The stories have been posted in order of their creation, so as to retain the evolution of the "picture-stories" game. Stories by Thias and Katie. Enjoy~
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The Name:  Jody McSteiny
Katie's Story:

He and his girlfriend had an unplanned pregnancy, but they kept the baby and are still together, and this is a picture their son took when he stole daddy's camera!


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The Name: Herbert Nichols
Thias' Story:

He's a photo-blogger that has recently been doing a collection of "Childhood Memory" pieces as well as "Self Interpretation" pieces. This photo is a collaboration of both of them. Herbert enjoys cold beers and long walks in the sun... in the desert. He also hasn't had a bubble bath since he was 8... well, until now.

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The Name: Megan Cambric
Katie's Story:

She's been on the short side all her life and tries to make up for it by being tough and a little introverted. She writes poetry inspired by world events and is a math wiz, because no matter how crazy life gets, numbers will always make sense. She likes her coffee strong and her tea weak.

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The Name: Serah Valen
Thias' Story:

She was conceived on a small water-vessel in South America while her parents were documenting a rare breed of butterfly. The butterfly was, six months later, called the "Valen Princess" -- and when she was born a name meaning "Princess" seemed fit. She's seventeen now and has had an interesting, if not difficult for lack of environmental stability, life... but she loves who she is and feels that her identity, as whoever she is, is what she loves most. At any moment she's the best by being her! Serah! The Valen Princess!

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The Name: Barnabas Market
Katie's Story:

Barnabas is a simple, happy go lucky man from Kentucky. He believes that Life is captured simply and accurately in the most mundane surroundings. He has made it his profession and life calling to travel the United States with his trusty camera and document 'Life' one grocery store, gas station, and high school cafeteria at a time. The collection of his life work will go on to become the first complete photographic book of 'Accurate American Lifestyle Representation'.

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The Name: Chris "Shad" Herron
Thias' Story:

Chris is an active, avid, and unfathomably sophisticated role player. "Shad" is always his roleplaying name. At points throughout his life he has convinced himself that 1) The Force is real. 2) He is Dumbledore's nephew (he has an old uncle...) and 3) With three weeks of intense study, he could create one of the guns from 'Portal.' Chris' friends love him to death and say he is very "huggable." Which makes him happy and sad. He thinks "huggable" means "fat." But it doesn't. He doesn't realize that Aayla, the girl he's in love with, absolutely adores him and thinks he's a perfectly mad gentleman. Don't worry though! He realizes it eventually and they get married. He names his son "Luke Potter Herron."

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The Name: Ian Peter Colfer
Katie's Story:

Is a 20 something Liberal Arts and Obscure Music student working on his Masters. He's vegetarian and prefers not to wear shoes. He plans on marrying his girlfriend of three years, a graphic arts designer named AnneMarie Shoeman, and proposing to her as part of his College-Valedictorian Speech. His mother will cry. AnneMarie will laugh. She will say yes.

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The Name: Charlie Spelling
Thias' Story:

Charlie is a very contemplative young woman. She's been through things in her life that most people would pity her for, but she prefers to surround herself with people that giver her hope of brighter tomorrows. She misses her dad and hasn't seen him in awhile; but, her best friend Clint sends her a letter "from her father" every year for her Birthday. He thinks she doesn't know it's him, but she does. And she loves him for it. And for many other things. They never get married and eventually they regret it. Regardless, they're there for one another until their very last days. He dies of cancer when he's 31. She moves to London the next week.

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The Name: Cleo Patricia Norman
Katie's Story:

Her parents thought the name 'Cleo Patricia' a cute pun spin off of 'Cleopatra.' Her parents are both psychologists and greatly encouraged a scattered and varied home education based on creativity and kinesthetic learning, thus, Cleo is a very hands on learner. She likes cooking, cartography, calligraphy, Shakespeare, Hieroglyphics, and Botany. She will become a florist and textile designer. Her tattoos are inspirational words from her favorite childhood books.

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The Name: Jarrod Tiebeaux
Thias' Story:

His best friend, Lee Foote, wrote on his year book: "This young stud is my rock. My cornerstone. Ladies, be jealous for his attention. Because he only beholds beauty. I've only known him for two years but he has inspired me to go a step beyond in everything I do. I almost didn't try out for band, now I'm two weeks out from training with the marching band with CU-Boulder. I almost didn't ask Ashleigh Speccenzi out but he practically forced me to... now we're engaged, and I couldn't be happier! I love you Jar-Bear! Dream dreams." Lee didn't know but Jarrod's parents had just split up, his girlfriend had quietly broken up with him (he was too much of a gentleman to mention it), and he had been denied at all of his Universities. Reading Lee's message helped Jarrod get through all of that. It inspired Jarrod to join the Marines. When in Iraq Jarrod jumped on an IED to protect all of his friends and brothers. He saved three daddies, two future inventors and an author. Lee raised his kids teaching them the importance of always inspiring and lifting up other people, he told Jarrod's story. Jarrod was always a hero.

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The Name: Ariel P. Darwin
Katie's Story: 

The P stands for Pomona but everyone calls her 'Poppy.' Ariel likes Anime and drawing, she lives with her single mother and her aunt. She's a dreamer and more often than not lives in a world of steampunk invention and clockwork songbirds. She has a very fragile, innocent heart and is a bit naive. She tends to retreat into her own world when forced into confrontation with reality or ugly facts, because, in her imagination, everything is lovely, and everyone has good intentions. Her aunt looks out for her anxiously, because her mother has very poor health, but both love her very much. The entire family shares a love for family heirlooms and antiques.

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The Name: Clement Brady
Thias' Story:

Clement is a foreign exchange student from Ireland. He absolutely adores his country, more for it's rich history of striving and overcoming than for it's current political or societal climate - but loves it none the less. He has two younger brothers, Seamus and John. He calls them "Shameless" and "Yawn." His dad is a professor at a University in Scotland, so his family has two houses. One in Dublin and one in Edinburgh. He's mischievous, and as he lives in the US, Scotland, and Ireland - he has three "girls," one for each country. Although really, he's given his heart to Ellie Stephens. He met her on a train ride through Scotland and he, for the first time, didn't have the courage to talk to a girl. She was so beautiful, but not in an overbearing way - more in a meek or "I have the beauty to start and stop wars, but I'd be content to live in a small cottage and raise beautiful children--" sort of way. He was mesmerized and... oh! He draws, sketches, is going to Art School in America. He was drawing her, she caught him and forced him to give it to her. She pretended to be angry, he turned beet red, and then she laughed and shook his hand "Ellie." "Ellie?" "My name, ya' goof. Where are you stopping?" "I'm not sure." "Why aren't you?" "Well..." "Well listen here, drawing boy (she said "drawing" like "drawering", it was adorable) I'm stopping in Glastonbury until the train for London, if you're stopping there join me for some tea and give me an explanation of why you're drawing girls without their permission. I'm very worried!" "I... I wasn't... I mean... yes, please. I mean! Sure! Yes, tea sounds beautiful. I mean lovely! You're..." and after some muttering, he got his wits about him, "You're quite right. Tea." "Good." "Clement." "Hm?" "My name." "Oh. Well, drawing boy will do for now." "Yes, alright."


They got off at Glastonbury, which was silly because he needn't stop there. In fact he ended up being late for an interview for a rather large contract that would've been used in advertisements all over Europe, but if you asked him today he'd say "Oh, it wasn't that big. Hardly a thing to think of."

They arrived at a small out of the way pub and drank Tea and chatted for a long while. He fell in love more and more with each passing moment. But as such stories must go, his love was to be a dire curse. A tall, well built, strong-voiced Welsh man came to the table. "Ellie!" He boomed heartily. "Love, where've you been the past hour!?" And he leaned over to kiss his red mustache to her perfect lips. "Right here, Danny." She said with a smile. Clement's heart stopped. "Yes, she was reprimanding my art." He quipped. He regained his wittiness, which really was a masquerade to keep people from his heart. His charm was his shield and his smile a wall; they both were up. "The name's Clement," he reached a hand out "It's a pleasure."

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The Name: Emily Brook
Katie's Story:

Emily Brook saw the shadowy prints of people long gone. She felt their plaintive sighs undulating down from cloudless skies. She walked shoulder to shoulder with the dead, the past-their-time wraiths. It had always been this way for her, and in her quiet, sensitive way, she knew this was different. She was different. There were hazy, half formed paths between this world and the next, that only the deceased could travel, and by some freak miracle, some starling curse, she was one who could walk with them. She was a Crosser.

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I hope you've enjoyed reading our stories! If this happens to be you in any of these photos, you know Kate or me in some way or another. If you don't want your photo up, let us know! More stories to come, and soon, pictures that you can write stories for!


If you're interested in playing a game of "Picture-Stories;" it's simple! Just grab a friend, find pictures, choose names, and write! Submit the photos, names, and stories to thiasthiasthias@gmail.com and we will consider posting them! Have a wonderful August 5th!


Saturday, August 4, 2012

The Picture's Story -


The Picture's Story is a wonderful project started by Katie Garcia and Matthias Schricker! Ha ha. In truth, it was born from a bout of late night craziness. Matthias, (or Thias), mused of a sort of game in which he could invent to new people to meet! Not that real people are so terrible to meet, but this would be different. The limits were none, the stories - full of potential! And thus the "Picture-Stories" game was born. Two can play, three or more can play! (We've only done two though.) Person One submits a picture of someone that they know. Person Two must then come up with 1) a name for that person and 2) a story for that person. The stories must be kind, if not delightful. Sad stories are alright, but they have to have a reason for being sad. Mean stories are not tolerated.

On the first night of playing, Katie and Thias wrote many wonderful little tales. But then another idea emerged: The stories were so fun, they HAD to be shared! Over the course of the next day Thias worked on developing a collaborative version of "Picture-Stories." The Picture's Story was born. What if we could submit photos that everyone could tell stories about? What if we could play games of "Picture-Stories" and submit them? What if we could do all of the above and even more as it came to us? Things like developing characters and worlds, interweaving them, following the characters, developing longer-stories, etc. What if? Who knows! But lets find out together. Here's to the stories, to the people, and to the worlds that we will create! Dream dreams.