story behind the photo
photo by Kristalyn Nance
What story does this photo tell? Creative writing students at Weatherford High School used student photographer Kristalyn Nance's work as inspiration to tell the "story behind the photo."
By Austin Mims
They had to hurry, Time was running out. Momma packed their bags in the car, Pappa tied down the boxes. Little Christy was half asleep, Seatbelt only hooked in thanks to Momma's assistance. Johnny was scared. Being older than Christy, but only by a few years or so, he understood more. But at the same time he didn't understand. He didn't need to ask to know that they were in danger. Grammy and Pappy were helping too, As much as their weaker forms allowed. And eldest sister Marcy stormed, betwixt the house and the car. Pappa hurried Johnny back into the house with his backpack. "Take only what you want to keep!" He urged him. Johnny stumbled up the stairs into his room, unsure of what to do. In a frenzy he began to grab things, His favorite baubles, Childhood bits. Toys and books and games that would fit. Time was up. "We have to leave now!" Pappa yelled up the stairs. Johnny hurried down as fast as he could, And when he reached the front door he was picked up by his father, and unceremoniously shoved into the car. He'd felt something drop. He pressed his face to the window as the family piled in and the car drove away. Something did drop. He admired it sadly on the doorstep, his favorite book left with its pages turning in the wind. By Bradley Link
I was on an adventure, searching for where I could find solitude,and the solace it always brings me. I don’t want to see your face. I could handle it if you hadn’t done such a thing before. But you played on my hopeless romanticism. Even if I was lost in these woods, I wouldn’t care. Into my favorite cabin. It’s empty, dying, and holds nothing of value except its scenery. Sounds like you. I remember you reading this page to me, and I remember showing you this cabin. I somewhat hoped you’d be here. I’ll leave it open to this page in case you do. |
By Veronica Williams
“North Central Texas we are having the biggest storm of the century. It looks like an F5 tornado headed our way at 7 on the dot,” the news reporter said. I sat on the couch with both of my hands folded together. I knew this storm was about to change my life. The only thing I could do was pray for God's covering over my home. God knew tornadoes were my fear. My home was not the typical home. It was a small home. A home with two small windows. A home that wasn’t made out of brick or glass. This home was made of old wood. Wood that had been around for years. I sat thinking. Should I run? Should I get in my car and drive far off? But I knew I was out of time. There was nothing I could do. Across my living room sat the Bible that I always looked in when I needed help in life. I knew I could turn to it in any situation. Minute by minute I could hear the thunder shaking the ground up under me. The lampshades began to shake. One by one the plates in the kitchen began to fall from the cabinets. I knew then my life was about to be a disaster. As I ran to my window I saw the tornado swirling up homes one by one. My heart began to tremble at the destruction. I closed my eyes, squeezed the Bible, and felt a gust of wind hit me. Dirt flew in and out of my windows, I could feel it hitting me in the face as I tried to remain steady. Suddenly, my body was consumed by the tornado and my power source vanished. I felt empty. Something was missing. Then I realized, I was gone, without my Bible. By Dakota Workman
The house was abandoned. Had been for decades. There was dust, and a slight feeling of energy in the home. The feeling of death also covered the wooden walls, afterlife seemed to creep through the air. Alone, I stumbled my way up the swirly staircase creek with every step, a heartbeat faster with every distance closer to the half lit up room. I finally stopped in front of the door of my destination, as time seemed to stop my hand began to open the door knob. My eyes closed and I hesitated to open them, knowing the door has been opened. My eyelids rose as I heard a whistle from downstairs, startled I turned around to run, but my vision was an endless scene of the half lit up room. Like a movie script, everything was sketchy and seemed to repeat. I was alone confused and beyond frightened, it has come to my realization that this moment, this room, this part of my life entered like a whole different dimension. Nowhere to run, I turned back around seeing multiple mirror vision of the squared room, like a carnival house. By this point I thought this was a dream, but as I looked down at my wrist watch, time was steady. I breathed and closed my eyes again only to remember the purpose of me being here…to unravel the truth of the house on moonlight street. I felt my heart rate slow down as I opened my eyes back up once again, this time with bravery .In the middle of the old wooden floor, laid a book half open. With each step closer the pages flipped around and scattered my mind. I was terrified, but with a sudden scream behind me that seemed translucent with reality I lunged toward the crippled book and slammed it shut. Everything was silent now and the sun began to shyly make its way through the bedroom window. A sense of peace arose inside me, and I walked home that day dazed, tired, and with a new book. |
By Taylor Murphy
"Come on, Amelia, we have to go." My twin brother, Jude, says, taking my arm and pulling me up. "Wait, Jude! My book!" "No time." He says and pulls me down the hallway. "But Jude-" I start, but he pulls me to face him and puts his hand on my arms, squeezing them. "Melia, there is no time. Those people that got mom and dad? They're here." He says and I felt the blood drain from my face. My face then gets steely cold. I take his hand and we go down the hall, grab our emergency bags, and head to the door. "Wait." I say and go back, bending down below the couch. "Not that stupid book again." He says. I roll my eyes and come out with a 22. I flip the hair out of my face and cock the gun. I look at my brother, smiling at me with pride. "Good, let's go." He says, I hide the gun in my back pocket, take his hand again and we head out. "How did they find us? They got mom and dad back in Ireland, we're in Whales now." I ask. " I know, Melia, I know. It makes no sense. Neither does why they're coming after us. All I know is that five hit men are chasing us and we've got to get out of here before-" he says, breaking off to gun shots at the back window narrowly missing him. "Son of a- how did they catch up?" I call to him over the noise. "No idea, just hold on." He says. I give him an evil smile. "Yeah, I know, I know." "Like that's going to happen. Just get us out of here." I say, pulling out the 22 and rolling down the window. I lean out and start shooting back. "Hey, Jude, how's mom and dad?" One calls. "Do something about that would you?" Jude calls to me. "Working on it." I call back, shooting the guy who called dead in one shot, easy. "Amelia, we don't want to fight." A girl calls. "Tell that to our parents." I mumble and shoot her too. "When did you get so good?" Jude calls up. " I don't spend all my time reading. Just keep driving." "Uh, Melia..." Jude says. Now that the danger behind us is gone I sit back normal in the car. "Jude, I don't think we're getting out of this one." I whisper. "Yes, you are." He says determinedly. "Not without you I'm not. We're twins. You can't have one without the other." "Seriously, Amelia!" "Now is not the time to be heroic!" I yell at him as we approach the line of armed vehicles in our way, all their guns pointed at us. "I'm not, I'm being a big brother." "Big brother." I scoff. "Remember, I'm still 12 minutes older than you." He says, quoting our favorite movie and I smile but it doesn't last. "Please don't." "I love you, Melia." He says and ejects my seat belt, thows open the door, and pushes me out of the car while he makes the car barrel roll. I sit quietly, hidden in a ditch, watching the whole thing as silent tears roll down my face. I sit there as the hit men search the car and find Jude, dead, and our bags. "Vare is ze girl?" One screams cueing me to leave. Slowly, ever so slowly, I make it back to our house...a lone. For the first time ever, I am alone. I push open the door and step into the dusty, destroyed house. The hit men tore almost everything apart looking for us. I walk through the rooms, picking up a few things as I go: a picture of mom, dad, Jude, and me, a picture of Jude and me, a few rations, the rest of our money from the hidden floor board in Jude's room, the rest of our extra bullets, the rest of our guns, and his favorite shirt- just to have it. Surprisingly it's not his room that tears me down, but when I go out onto the back porch to leave and see that book. I look at that book and fall on the floor sobbing. It takes me 10 minutes to get back up, but when I do I don't do it to run from the hit men. I get up to find them. I go to avenge my dead twin. |
By Taylor Lothridge
No. How could this be? How could this be all that’s left? I know I was angry and upset with her, but why is this all that’s left? No, No, No. I fall to my knees. I couldn’t see a thing for I was shedding tears so violently that I was racking with sobs. I felt it, my wall I had built, crashing down. I am now vulnerable to every nightmare, every monster, every human around me. And the only person who could protect me from those things, protect me from myself and my mind, was gone.
Three years. I was gone for three years. When I left, I was angry with her, so mad that I told her to go to hell. She just started after me as I got in a cab and the only home I had ever known, and the only family I had, left faded in the rearview mirror. From there I flew to Los Angeles to start my new live, my own life out from under watchful eyes and silent whispers. I had saved enough money from my crappy job to rent a cheap apartment and got a job at a local radio station. I then moved on to being a DJ for all of the hot local night clubs. A few months later, I was asked to be a music producer in San Diego, so I moved there into a more upscale apartment for the rest of those three years. The only reason I decided to go back was because I saw two girls about the same age as she and I were when I left. That’s when I realized I had made a horrible mistake. I packed a bag and got on the next flight home.
When I got out of the cab, the driver looked at me with sympathy. I realized that he was the same driver who took me to the airport three years earlier. I turned the doorknob. Barren. It was a wasteland of what was. I stood there for a moment, taking it in, and then I rushed inside. Setting my bag down, I called to her, “Temperance! Sister, I’m home!” All I heard was silence. I walked to the mini-library we had built for our vast array of books we had gathered over the years. A hole in the roof caused mold to seep in with the rain water. From that hole, rays of the golden sun were hidden by storm clouds. Everything was gone. Books, belongings, presence, everything gone. I collapsed to the floor, sobbing so violently the windows shook, making the house more depressing. Yes, it was only a house. No, how could this be? How could this be all that’s left? This is a never-ending nightmare. I look up, just enough to see a book, white as heaven’s light. I reach for it, feeling every crevice, every detail. It was the collection of fairytales that were read to us at bedtime. All of them there, the ones we read over and over again, even when frogs and Prince Charmings were considered child’s play. Something falls from between the pages. I pick it up, again crying upon seeing the familiar handwriting. It became clear where she had gone, never to return, as I read the words over and over until they became a blur.
The Suicide’s Soliloquy
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do, and this the place to do it;
This heart I’ll rush the dagger through, though I in hell should rue it!
Sweet steel! Come forth from out your sheath, and glist’ning , speak of your powers:
Rip up the organs of my breath, and draw my blood in showers.
I stike! It quivers in that heart, which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart, my last – my only friend!
I hardly needed to read them to memorize the words, for it was I who wrote it. I wrote it when in my deepest mental insanity, when all I thought I had were my blades. Something else was stuck between the pages. A chunk of rope. It was from our swing that hung in the backyard oak tree. I feel nothing. I know nothing. I look up, the noose still hanging, a way to the heavens.
No. How could this be? How could this be all that’s left? I know I was angry and upset with her, but why is this all that’s left? No, No, No. I fall to my knees. I couldn’t see a thing for I was shedding tears so violently that I was racking with sobs. I felt it, my wall I had built, crashing down. I am now vulnerable to every nightmare, every monster, every human around me. And the only person who could protect me from those things, protect me from myself and my mind, was gone.
Three years. I was gone for three years. When I left, I was angry with her, so mad that I told her to go to hell. She just started after me as I got in a cab and the only home I had ever known, and the only family I had, left faded in the rearview mirror. From there I flew to Los Angeles to start my new live, my own life out from under watchful eyes and silent whispers. I had saved enough money from my crappy job to rent a cheap apartment and got a job at a local radio station. I then moved on to being a DJ for all of the hot local night clubs. A few months later, I was asked to be a music producer in San Diego, so I moved there into a more upscale apartment for the rest of those three years. The only reason I decided to go back was because I saw two girls about the same age as she and I were when I left. That’s when I realized I had made a horrible mistake. I packed a bag and got on the next flight home.
When I got out of the cab, the driver looked at me with sympathy. I realized that he was the same driver who took me to the airport three years earlier. I turned the doorknob. Barren. It was a wasteland of what was. I stood there for a moment, taking it in, and then I rushed inside. Setting my bag down, I called to her, “Temperance! Sister, I’m home!” All I heard was silence. I walked to the mini-library we had built for our vast array of books we had gathered over the years. A hole in the roof caused mold to seep in with the rain water. From that hole, rays of the golden sun were hidden by storm clouds. Everything was gone. Books, belongings, presence, everything gone. I collapsed to the floor, sobbing so violently the windows shook, making the house more depressing. Yes, it was only a house. No, how could this be? How could this be all that’s left? This is a never-ending nightmare. I look up, just enough to see a book, white as heaven’s light. I reach for it, feeling every crevice, every detail. It was the collection of fairytales that were read to us at bedtime. All of them there, the ones we read over and over again, even when frogs and Prince Charmings were considered child’s play. Something falls from between the pages. I pick it up, again crying upon seeing the familiar handwriting. It became clear where she had gone, never to return, as I read the words over and over until they became a blur.
The Suicide’s Soliloquy
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do, and this the place to do it;
This heart I’ll rush the dagger through, though I in hell should rue it!
Sweet steel! Come forth from out your sheath, and glist’ning , speak of your powers:
Rip up the organs of my breath, and draw my blood in showers.
I stike! It quivers in that heart, which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart, my last – my only friend!
I hardly needed to read them to memorize the words, for it was I who wrote it. I wrote it when in my deepest mental insanity, when all I thought I had were my blades. Something else was stuck between the pages. A chunk of rope. It was from our swing that hung in the backyard oak tree. I feel nothing. I know nothing. I look up, the noose still hanging, a way to the heavens.
Proudly powered by Weebly