The Graveyard Image Challenge
A friend recently issued me a drabble challenge, which happened to coincide quite nicely with the recent image challenge here in the community. I've been in a writing slump lately and this seemed to fix it.
NanoLJers: A graveyard image.
Cheery_idiot: old, weed grown cemetary, sunwashed lazy village, prairie flowers, worn out boxer OR guitar playing pueblo must experience an epiphany, a glimpse of a dancers ankle
I'd been mulling over this for a while and it finally hit me this morning what I should write. I tried to go for more show than tell, please let me know what you think, especially with the feel of the piece and the emotions.
The old man stumbled painfully as he navigated the flagstones that wove through the graveyard. The long years of fighting in the ring had taken their toll on both his mind and body. He couldn't remember if it was a right turn at the angel statue or a left. He stopped there, gazing up at the crumbling stone as though imploring the creature for help. The statue did not move, tied down as it was by creeper vines though its stare did gaze off to the left. The man chose the other direction.
His hand clutched the bouquet of prairie flowers, tendons stretched and swollen with arthritis, fingers crooked from too many breaks. The ribbon around the stems was silky to the touch, encasing vibrant greens and yellows. He counted the gravestones as he slowly walked the path. Hers was number seven. One... thick weeds pushed out of the ground and tried to grab at his shoes but he plodded onward. Two, three, he breathed heavily, willing himself to get to her grave, four five six. Seven.
There she was, beauty and life now encased beneath tangled weeds and soil only marked by a piece of etched rock. Only his memory preserved her warmth and love. He stared down at the base of the headstone, counting each ribbon, a testament to the years. Some flowers had long ago taken root and flourished, nourished by her beauty.
He started to bend over to place the new flowers by the base but grimaced, slowly straightening. He held his hand out, willing his fingers to release the bouquet, which they did with an agonizing jerkiness. It fell to the ground, the fresh mixing in with the already rooted.
A breeze sprang up and the ribbons fluttered, one pulling loose from the tangle of growth and danced along the wind. The man followed it and for a moment thought he saw her. She danced in the sunlight and breeze, barefoot in the dust, her feet flashing in and out of sight under the sussurating layers of silk, just the like the day they had met. A smile crept across the battered face as he remembered and the old man sighed, letting go of a breath he had been holding since the day of his birth.
Please read and critique!
NanoLJers: A graveyard image.
Cheery_idiot: old, weed grown cemetary, sunwashed lazy village, prairie flowers, worn out boxer OR guitar playing pueblo must experience an epiphany, a glimpse of a dancers ankle
I'd been mulling over this for a while and it finally hit me this morning what I should write. I tried to go for more show than tell, please let me know what you think, especially with the feel of the piece and the emotions.
The old man stumbled painfully as he navigated the flagstones that wove through the graveyard. The long years of fighting in the ring had taken their toll on both his mind and body. He couldn't remember if it was a right turn at the angel statue or a left. He stopped there, gazing up at the crumbling stone as though imploring the creature for help. The statue did not move, tied down as it was by creeper vines though its stare did gaze off to the left. The man chose the other direction.
His hand clutched the bouquet of prairie flowers, tendons stretched and swollen with arthritis, fingers crooked from too many breaks. The ribbon around the stems was silky to the touch, encasing vibrant greens and yellows. He counted the gravestones as he slowly walked the path. Hers was number seven. One... thick weeds pushed out of the ground and tried to grab at his shoes but he plodded onward. Two, three, he breathed heavily, willing himself to get to her grave, four five six. Seven.
There she was, beauty and life now encased beneath tangled weeds and soil only marked by a piece of etched rock. Only his memory preserved her warmth and love. He stared down at the base of the headstone, counting each ribbon, a testament to the years. Some flowers had long ago taken root and flourished, nourished by her beauty.
He started to bend over to place the new flowers by the base but grimaced, slowly straightening. He held his hand out, willing his fingers to release the bouquet, which they did with an agonizing jerkiness. It fell to the ground, the fresh mixing in with the already rooted.
A breeze sprang up and the ribbons fluttered, one pulling loose from the tangle of growth and danced along the wind. The man followed it and for a moment thought he saw her. She danced in the sunlight and breeze, barefoot in the dust, her feet flashing in and out of sight under the sussurating layers of silk, just the like the day they had met. A smile crept across the battered face as he remembered and the old man sighed, letting go of a breath he had been holding since the day of his birth.
Please read and critique!