For this constraint I used http://tinyurl.com/5ctyo7 to generate random pictures and then write a short paragraph of the situation that comes to mind when I first saw the picture.
It’s nearing the witching hour and for most of the town that means that it is time to rest. Except for a select few for whom sleep brings nothing, but nightmarish dreamscapes. It wasn’t unusual to see the same handful of people walking to the tavern in an attempt to find the answer to their troubles in the bottom of a glass. Mr. Landle, who had lost his daughter and wife in a car accident would often stand outside staring blankly at the mortar walls after a drink or two. The two twins who had flunked out of college and had returned to live with their mother walked home together in a weaving line. Mrs. Flotsam, she just liked to take evening walks to escape the snoring of her dear husband.
Drum beats and match the steady pounding of his heart. A wildly burning fire leapt angrily in the middle of a circle of people and the air was filled with the wild and keening cry of a village in mourning. The shaman’s danced in the middle of the circle, beseeching the gods to safely usher the fallen boy into the afterlife. The dry ash he had rubbed on his body had hardened in a thin layer on his exposed skin. The sheen of sweat that covered his body reflected the flickering fire and the ashes began to run like sludge.
The mom looked off towards their home in the distance. Her son had picked up aluminum cans and glass bottles for weeks and exchanged them for a few cents each, in order to pay for balloons for his little sister’s birthday. She had walked with him to the store and stood with a soft grin as he began to proudly pull coins from his pockets to the man behind the counter. He squealed with glee as the man handed him a fistful of floating balloons. When the exited the shop the mom took the balloons to ensure that his hard earned prize didn’t disappear into the blue sky.