So there’s is this fun little thing I’ve been doing with some of my writer friends that we’re calling, Photo Tales. Simple idea, I give someone a photo or series of images and they write something based off those images.
They can write whatever they want, a short story, essay, poem, journalism, jokes, etc. It’s not a new idea, but it is a fun one. I have fun seeing how someone might view an image of mine and they have fun challenging their creativity with this visual restriction.
It’s open to anyone who is into writing, whether it be a professional or someone who just enjoys it as a hobby. If you’re someone who’s into writing or a photographer who would like someone to write from your image email me at: tomwrightphoto@gmail.com. When I have one to post, I will try and post a Photo Tales every Monday. Enjoy the first one below.
On a Deserted Couch
I woke up to a fervid sun beating down upon me. My eyes were swollen and crusted; I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, and I knew I wouldn’t get another wink now. I heard rhythmic drumming off in the distance accompanied by an occasionally frenzied shout and laughter.
I was lying on a tan and striped couch in the middle of the desert. The only problem was I couldn’t remember what desert, nor how I ended up there. I shot bolt upright on the couch and looked around at the expanse of dehydrated land. There was a low, mountainous outcropping in one direction; and that was the only defining characteristic I could identify. The rest of the landscape remained static in appearance only broken by the occasional tall rock, cactus or shrub.
I began perspiring heavily, which I knew was a horrible thing because I was incredibly parched; I couldn’t afford to lose any more water. For the moment, I would ignore the splitting headache, the absence of my pants, and my newly shaved head—I couldn’t believe it, I used to have blonde hair down to my shoulders.
A few stone throws away I saw a group of people sitting in a circle drumming away and chanting in low voices. The area between the couch and drum circle was littered with garbage: beer cans, broken liquor bottles, empty bags of chips, miscellaneous wrappers, and a few used condoms here and there. Obviously this had been the scene of some monumental party that I had apparently forgotten about.
Upon approaching the group I saw a deep concentration take hold of them and their faces became solemn; they were in the final throes of a Buddhist chant. I didn’t want to disrupt their momentum, so I sat down on the outskirts of their circle.
Nearby I found a water bottle with a few swigs left and hastily twisted off the cap and inhaled the contents. I managed to ingest a good portion of what I thought was water, but it turned out it was vodka. I spit it out, choking. I tried to hold back my coughs, my esophagus was on fire.
Behind a young girl with dark dreadlocks I saw a tradition leather wineskin, but assumed it was full of wine, so I did not bother trying. I decided to just wait until the group had finished their session before asking anything of them.
I began scanning the individuals, who were all grungy, and hippy looking in their twenties, for someone I might recognize. I couldn’t recall who I came there with, and I did not see anyone familiar. I knew it would come to me soon, the recollection of the previous night. I closed my eyes, listening to the chant, and tried to remember.
I traveled deep into the depths of my consciousness, subconscious and memory banks. In my mind’s-eye I could see lasagna floating slowly in a circle. I looked at the layers of noodle, ricotta and veggies—but there was no meat. Yes, I had the veggie lasagna at Buca di Beppo’s. I was there with four of my closest friends: Travis, Gerry, Jessica and Amanda. After that we went to the Noc-Noc club and I had … four Adios’. I remembered tap dancing on a table with a bottle of champagne in one hand. I was screaming something about “More tacos!” when I became vertiginous, and everything after that seemed dark and obscure.
I stood up and looked around, trying to see if anyone else was around the area. Where were my friends? Did they just let me go off with these complete strangers after I blacked out? Would they do something like that? Yes, yes they would, I realized somberly.
Someone in the group clapped their hands loudly and they started to stand up and stretch and acknowledge each other. I waited a moment before introducing, or re-introducing myself. I walked towards the girl with the dreadlocks and when she turned around I was hit with the sensation that we had definitely met and had some kind of meaningful encounter earlier.
Her pupils were bloodshot and she wore a lazy and tired expression on her face, causing most of her features to droop a little—otherwise I could tell she was really quite beautiful and cleaned up well. She had a lean, curving figure with dreadlocks down to her buttocks. She gave me a laconic grin and walked towards me.
“James,” she said longingly. “You missed our group meditation, man.”
I smiled, rubbing the back of my neck, feeling a bit nervous. “Yeah sorry, I was out cold on that couch over there.”
She stretched her hands over her head and bent forward while arching her back like a feline. She rose back up and yawned.
“Well, my dearest James,” she said jokingly while coming up close and embracing me around my lower back and pushing her pelvis into mine. “When do you want to make it official?”
My head reeled back in surprise. “Make what official?” I inquired eagerly.
“Our union.”
“Our union?”
She tilted her head and looked as if she were examining me for a defect. “Our marriage, babe.”
I broke away from her grasp, completely befuddled. I stepped backwards and tripped over an empty can of Pringles and fell on my ass. I looked up at her as she approached me; I probably gave her an expression of dire fear. “M-marriage? M-married?” I stuttered.
“Of course, while we were both drunk and high on peyote, Joshua over there married us. He’s an Episcopal priest and he married us, while high on Quaaludes.”
“They still make Quaaludes?—never mind, but this can’t be right. It’s a joke right? Ha-ha?”
She squatted down in front of me and took a drink from her wineskin. She offered it to me.
“Wine?” I asked of its contents.
She nodded.
“Na, I’m good, thanks though.”
“I was thinking when we drive back into Phoenix we could stop at the courthouse and sign the official papers.”
“Phoenix?” I said aback. “That’s hundreds of miles…” I trailed off. Suddenly it hit me like a bolt of lightning—no more like a horse kicking me in the nuts. “We’re in Arizona?”
I could see her nodding. Her mouth began moving, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying; I couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears. My head began to swivel and bob around and my vision went in and out. I wasn’t sure if it was the heat, my level of dehydration, the aftereffects of the peyote, my hangover, or the shock of being in Arizona and being married to some girl I just met, but I passed out cold nonetheless.
When I came to it was cooler out, the sun was much lower; probably a few hours until sunset I reckoned. It was completely silent on the desert, no one was around. I was back in the lap of the couch where I had started.
“Augh,” I moaned, turning over to go back to sleep.
At least it was a pretty soft and comfortable couch.
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