Every Wednesday Rochelle Wisoff-Fields provides a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever work they want. This weeks photo is provided by Mr. Brainsnorts himself, guru and writing mentor to little grasshoppers like me.
I started off as usual, writing a story for the image. I had two versions but ultimately decided to try something different. So I scratched them both and wrote a poem instead.
Make sure you click on the link below to read other creations. They never disappoint.
Copyright – Rich Voza (Mr. Brainsnorts to me!)
The Matrix reawakened an ancient idea
Red pill, Blue pill
Which one to choose?
A little girl whispers
He loves me, he loves me not
As plucked petals fall
Rose’s Red, Violet’s Blue
I’ve aged White
A ghostly apparition
of Love’s Labour’s Lost
And I dream of a lush field
Where choices have become doors
White, Blue, and Red
The Greeks always knew
Their birth rite
Drink of the river Lethe
Walk the earth again
Drink from the Mnemosyne
Live in Elysian Fields forever
Prophecy my birthright
Spinning my own fate
Upon destiny’s loom
I chose the White door
Word Count: 99
***I was inspired by taking door three, mythology and these lines from the Matrix.
Neo: Do you already know if I’m going to take it?
Oracle: Wouldn’t be much of an oracle if I didn’t.
Neo: But if you already know, how could I make a choice?
Oracle: Because you didn’t come here to make the choice. You already made it. You’re here to try to understand why you made it.
This is the story I originally wrote. Figured I’d share and store it here.
Whenever Claudine had a decision to make it was the same dream. Entwined among sheets, swallowed by the cloak of night, she’d arrive before three doors-White, Blue, and Red. A choice must be made.
Facing the blue door, her question posed, “Is it time?”
The door slammed closed. Shards of glass scattered around her feet. Quickly she jumped aside running through the red door.
The orderly entered room B13 finding the window shattered, restraints hanging from the bed rails. Peering down he saw the shadow of a girl running from the asylum, sheet twisting in the wind. “Claudine’s escaped again.”