Hi, gang! I'm 
- animate the photography landscape on Steemit.
- challenge our followers and, beyond that, all those who wish to submit to these contests, to stray away from the traditional orbit of photographic contests and try something else, different.
- give our curators a creativity boost in terms of finding, assessing and synthesize new approaches in photography, with the belief in mind that this will pay dividends in the long run regarding the quality standards of
To do that, we tried to come up not with oh-so-original themes for the contests, but at least with something that's not so much present here on Steemit. Or if it is, couldn't hurt to emphasize it in our curation guild also.
As you know, my colleague, 
Story to images
Well, this is the theme that I conceived. As I am a casual writer, enthusiast reader and, somehow, with a mindset on the beautiful geometry of words, I chose to host this. Long story short, I will write a piece of blitz literature, a really short story, conveying a feeling, a mood, a situation, a corner of a fictional reality, and you, the players of this game, will need to come up with an image, or even encouraged, a series of images, that would translate the short story.
I am not looking for a mot-a-mot ( if you allow me the pun ) translation. No, I am looking to capture in image/images, the mood of the story, the character, the feeling. Of course, as any 1-man-jury contest, I will reserve my rights to be subjective, thus there isn't a winning recipe other than...well...be close to the sweet spot. :)
- each entry to the contest should be posted under #photomatic-contest tag;
- the #photomatic-contest should be the first tag;
- please use only original content;
- one entry per user is allowed, though multiple images conveying the scene can be used, up to a maximum of three;
- the post title needs to be "Photomatic Contest - Story to Image - your title" ;
- last day for entries: 17.03.2018
- resteem this post, not mandatory, but would really help the community.
1st place prize
- 5 SBD;
- a resteem of the post by all
- a feature post on
- 50% of the feature post payout in SBD;
2nd place prize
3rd place prize
Anyhow, any other questions if you find yourselves wondering "What the heck this guy wants?", you are more than welcome to come to our Discord server and DM me,
GOOD LUCK! :)
To business... Short story starting bellow.
Mr. Billy
This image is from my personal collection. It serves as an example, a bad one if you ask me, I'm sure you can do better, for the theme of this contest.
Mr. Billy, as he was known in his circle of senile octogenarians, served his morning coffee in the same, run down, foul tavern he'd sat in every morning for the last years. The place looked like it had barely survived a bomb blast, but he liked it, concealed as it was between the concrete blocks so representative of Communist architecture. He seemed, as he sipped from a glass of ambrosia in the gardens of Gilgamesh, that he was happy and serene. His hand shook a little while trying to grab the cup's cheap porcelain handle. If one would have approached Mr. Billy, they would have easily seen the yellow nails from his long use of cigarettes and the rugged skin wrapped in cadaveric creases. He had an elongated face, like purposely designed for piercing the thick air of his diurnal life, with a crooked nose and squinting brown eyes. His coat reached the pavement of the terrace, and the sleeves of his shirt were protruding, letting some worn out buttons appear as if time itself had used sandpaper on them. Mr. Billy seemed to be meditating on something profound. Faint glimpses of many libraries could be seen in his intelligent eyes. Sometimes he liked to remember Pascal, thinking that he too, being human, was the thinking reed.
A soccer ball landed on the table where Mr. B. held his coffee, breaking his introspections into his past like a hammer shattering glass, throwing the cup on the floor and a good portion of his coffee onto his black coat.
"Fuck your mother's Gods, you little shit-with-eyes! " Saliva sprayed from Mr. Billy's mouth, and his words echoed between the concrete blocks. He got up from the chair, dropping a baritonal fart because of the effort, to resume his daily activities. Pulled a bad smelling bag onto his forearm, stuffed a ratty raffia sack into his waist belt and headed for the trash cans that were aligned in a corner and filled with the welfare of local consumers.
From apartment no. 23, B entry, block no. 3D, 3rd floor, Rachmaninoff's Vsénoshchnoye bdéniye could be heard, drowning Billy in a wash of providential beatitude as he searched through the warm garbage on that cold winter morning.
End of short story.