What happens when several writers respond to the same images? What does each person see and how do their interpretations differ? How significant are the differences and what conclusions can be drawn, if any? This is the tentative start of a longer creative dialogue.
SAME PICTURES DIFFERENT STORIES Arvind Bhatt, Paul Rudman, George Sfougaras, Michele Witthaus
Same pictures, different stories.
I asked friends if they would be willing to write a short story in any form of their choice, to accompany ten images that I created. The images were loosely based on a ‘search for answers’ scenario, but they could be interpreted in a number of ways. I needed only four to five stories in order for the task to be manageable. I was really delighted that four friends agreed to complete the task within a time-frame of two weeks. There was no stipulation as to content, other than it should be brief. I suggested 20-30 words per image as a rough guide. Although this was mainly to reduce the work needed and entice contributors to participate, it actually resulted in short, sharp, poignant narratives. Although this was mainly to reduce the work needed and entice contributors to participate, it actually resulted in short, sharp, poignant narratives.
The four stories
‘Grandfather’ by Arvind Bhatt, engineer, mathematician, polymath and linguist. ‘Love’ by Paul Rudman: learning designer, academic consultant, inventor and writer. ‘Benediction’ by Michele Witthaus: writer, editor, photographer and musician. ‘The Soul’ George Sfougaras: teacher, artist, curator and illustrator. Within this little book are their beautiful short stories.
George Sfougaras March 2018
‘Grandfather’ by Arvind Bhatt, engineer, mathematician, polymath and linguist.
One afternoon Prince Taj was reading a book his grandfather had given him, It was an old diary. It was a sultry afternoon and Prince Taj was almost falling asleep...
When he opened his eyes the Prince saw an orange glow over his head; the palace had disappeared and he was no longer a prince‌.
He had turned into his grandfather as a young man who was slowly drifting into a blue lagoon‌.
At the bottom of the lagoon was an undersea city, looking strangely like Baghdad, where the grandfather was born. The young man was lying on bed, feeling scared. Out of the gate he could see a storm brewing and sparks falling on his bed. Is there a war going on?
Getting up cautiously he looked out of the window. There was a fallen building, with just a minaret standing. He rang his grandfather but there was no answer...
He quickly got dressed and made his way to the family farm where he thought his grandfather might be hiding. The air was full of ash and blackened bits were falling everywhere. The plants were being covered with the ash...
As he looked up he saw strange and menacing creatures coming at him. No, oh no, he cried and put his hands in his face for protection. Perhaps this is just a nightmare, he thought or hoped‌.
The ground beneath him heaved and he fell down, the black debris falling all round him; the creatures disappeared – may be they too were blown up... He felt himself passing out. Deep sleep was enveloping him...He closed his eyes‌.
All he could feel were cool hands tenderly massaging his body. All was calm and he heard murmurs of people speaking softly. He was dreaming he was in heaven, his grandfather among the ministering angels...
I n his dreamless sleep he felt weightless; he was floating in the sky, among stars. But he was not alone, his ancestors were with him. Prince Taj was not alone, grandfather’s diary was talking to him in many voices.
I’m reading your Holy Book. It’s all you left me.
The view goes unseen, from the window where you sat. Hills and trees, sun and sky, lost behind an empty frame.
You nurtured such beauty with your hands. Flowers and fruit from the brown earth, from me.
I watched them take you away. Hard wood and forged brass. Black suits and polished shoes. Garden’s red rose.
What were those demons in your head? Why did they haunt you? Something in you I couldn’t understand.
In the night I would hear you, calling to your god, crying out for mercy.
The love I gave was everything. My body, my soul. I thought I could make you happy, like you made me.
We imagined growing old together. Closing into the space two minds create, holding back the chill.
The book tells me you’ll burn forever. But you took your life to save me from the demons. And I forgive you.
I look within, and you are there. Always a part of me. You gave me so much. All you could. I love you.
Soul of things invisible Search the parchments Knowledge that I crave White as sand The breeeze Letters on the page driftwood
Sun master, impossible tyrant More than you we cannot fathom. Mean You give no answers Your knowledge Held inside Blinding ignorance
Night enters Day leaves Stars like questions Multiply Sweet scent Cadmium and Cobalt Flesh
The reader has no more stories. Above, where she now resides, Almond perfume The touch of her hand Only a flicker Empty vessel My memories Shudder
Beyond these days Glassless Windows Visitors Are few Their presence Flickers From Heaven
Olives Transplanted New skin Your perfume Faces South Our lives A garden Perfumed Earth
Cruel time Unending time Short time Fear That breath Of decay Serated knife Stone hard inevitable
Turn for help Desperate screams Call of duty Guilt Fall from grace Be worthy Make Good Be someone
Be something
But this life‌ The hands that held me The life that was Breathed into me Concrete Beautiful And real In dreams Old souls Sooth me
The essence of us A sea, Dark red Womb like Eternal Stay No… leave I will Follow.
This is the story of an ordinary human, one of many.
The sun shone that summer, longer and hotter than the farmer could remember. The crops wilted and the land grew parched.
Even at night, there was no respite from the heat. The stars blazed in the dry heavens. He lay awake, restless, counting the hours of darkness.
From his window, he saw bent rows of corn illuminated by the moon. The shrivelled cobs rustled like paper in the paltry breeze.
He rose before dawn to share the last of his water with the plants that still lived. It was all that he could do.
The cool ground soothed his feet as he walked through the fields. Maybe it would be all right. He imagined he could smell rain.
But as the new day broke, the soaring temperature stifled his hopes. Dread assailed him from all sides.
Then, astonished, he felt the first drops. Disbelief turned to joy as he danced in the downpour. The drought was over at last!
That night, his ancestors visited him as he slept. He breathed their calm assurance.
The stars smiled and blessed the earth. Sleep came and hope returned to the farmer.
Copyright the authors. Images and text may be reproduced by permission.2018