Sunday, January 29, 2012

Painting Stories #15

From me:

But, he thought, if he could skirt the mist, hide beyond the spray of tides and shadows of twilight, and return home, he could forget this man. He would forget the years of struggle. He would forget the heartache of loss, the blackness of disease, forget the labored loves lost, shameless deeds and lustful joy; he would cast it aside and beg his fathers and mothers to welcome him back into the fold. There, he would forget the sorrow of loving Man, forget their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses. There, he would be free to live without heartache.


Elaine Lowe said...

Truly beautiful Tee. You leave me breathless!

The sun beat down with unrelenting disdain, blasting the grasslands with the hot, dry fever of drought. The grasses of early spring had withered into a sad mockery of sustenance for man or beast, and he strayed into a crisp-dry patch of fodder that the goats hadn’t yet mustered the energy to try and chomp to dust. He collapsed to his knees, his bare back blistered by the heat, his skin barely touched by last dregs of sweat his body could product. He prayed, harder and more honestly than he’d ever prayed before – to the one God, to the gods of his ancestors, to any and all divine who would listen. To anything that had not abandoned the valley to the desolation of a curse they’d brought upon themselves.
Holding his head in his hands, he waited for a sign- a breath of wind, a wisp of cloud in the endless grey-blue sky. Anything but the threatening death of everything he held dear.

Heather said...

What a beautiful picture. This one makes me wish I had time for flash fiction! And I love yours!