1000 Words Worth 1#


New series: 1000 Words Worth


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A picture is worth a thousand words” is an English language-idiom. It refers to the notion that a complex idea can be conveyed with just a single still image or that an image of a subject conveys its meaning or essence more effectively than a description does

This saying was invented by an advertising executive, Fred R. Barnard. To promote his agency’s ads he took out an ad in Printer’s Ink in 1921 with the headline “One Look Is Worth a Thousand Words” and attributed it to an ancient Japanese philosopher.

This series will examine that very thing – …

Some look at an image and see only the image itself, others look at the same image and see something else and others still can look at an image and see a completely different picture unfolding into a journey, a memory a story to be told. I have often pondered on this topic, a picture is worth a thousand words … but what words? 

Each week l shall post a different image, and each week l would like you to tell me what you see …

Your image for this week is above and below … what do you see?



12 thoughts on “1000 Words Worth 1#

  1. I can’t write 1,000 words but I can say that this picture to me is the quintessential old style British church with a graveyard that is probably haunted on cold wind swept nights. Some of the graves look ancient while others are more recent. I get the feeling that they belong to people whose families have been there for generations and are part of the history of the place. In Australian country towns the oldest churches are from the colonial period, many in the Gothic Revival style with a similar graveyard that tells the stories of the lives and demise of pioneers who came from far and wide but now belong to this land. We all build on our past.

  2. Dunno if this is any good…but I tried!

    ‘‘Twas a dark and story night. The bitter wind whipped round the graveyard, working its hardest to uproot the headstones. The rain fell hard, as though determined to chill a man right to the bone.
The priest inside the crumbling church snuffed the last of the candles, their whispers of smoke bringing him comfort as he inhaled. Each one, a sacred plea or prayer of gratitude. He was slightly dismayed to see there were so few.
The elements outside rattled the old church. The doors shook so fiercely he began to have his doubts that the decaying wood protecting the entrance would last the night.
As he made his final genuflection, an unfamiliar noise reached his ear. A small flutter. He waited, ear cocked, straining to drown out the gale outside. Again. A flapping, like wet sheets blowing on a washing line. He had spent the best part of his days in the worn building, first as an altar boy, then as resident padre, he knew the church better than he knew his own reflection, and he wasn’t imagining things.
A scuttling, across the cold stone floor. With all candles gone the only light was from the moon fighting to puncture the dark clouds that blanketed the miserable night. More scritching and another flap, closer this time. He couldn’t see the source and felt his body prickle with goosebumps. He wasn’t easily spooked but he was no longer a young man and although he may not have admitted it, he was frightened to be alone.
Then a whisper. “What? Who’s there!”, the words spluttered their way out of his throat and he silently cursed himself for not having more courage. Nothing except another scurry on the floor – closer still. The priest felt panic begin to wrap it’s long fingers around him and he reached for the cross around his neck. “Who’s there! Show yourself! You would hide in the dark and scare an old man?”
From a corner a shadow grew, he heard a click click, then a woosh. The shadow lifted off the ground, the priest leaned forward, struggling to focus his failing eyes on the darkness. All at once he saw two great black wings spread and advance toward him. The priest gasped and stumbled back. He almost lost his footing and had to reach for a statue of St. Jude to steady himself. An enormous black bird finally revealed itself in a shard of moonlight and came to rest it’s huge black talons on the end of a pew not two feet away.
It was an unearthly beast, it’s size alone was fearsome. The bird looked straight at the old priest. It fixed its black eyes square on his, he shuddered and felt dread run down his spine. Despite his own fears he drew himself forward….was this an omen from above? What could this portent mean? He swallowed the lump lodged in his throat and stepped closer to the bird, intrigue driving him forward. “What is it bird?” He whispered. The Raven opened its coal-black beak and replied; “Nevermore.”

        1. You wrote a great short story and l do agree with the comments here already … you should exercise your ability more.

          Nomination Awards do take some time and TIME – well where does it all go to, really? It just slips through our fingers like water l feel.

          I think l need a 40 hour day to complete a fraction of the things l have got to do these days.

          Again, seriously great work 🙂

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