This week Justine has asked us to consider the story below and do one or both of the following:
- To take a photograph that to you encompasses something about what you have just read, a depiction of a part or all of the story. If you could then write a little bit about how the photo links to the text, what it means to you.
- I would like you to continue the story, there is no length limit on the text, I leave it up to your imagination, can be one short sentence or a novel – LOL. I would love to see how someone might finish this off.
I have chosen to write the next part of the story.
The easel stood proudly before her, placed exactly where the artist’s eye would get the best view. The empty canvass would have wriggled in excitement if it could, waiting for just one splash of colour to take away its starkness.
The woman rested back a moment in her chair. The garden ahead gave its own glorious canvass of colour as the forest and fields behind created a nice backdrop, a small sigh escaped recently moisturised lips.
Mossy green eyes now took a leisurely look upon the multitude of squeezed tubes, brushes and array of artist’s tools, her slender pale fingers twitching, eager to start. There was just the twitter of birds interrupted by the snore of a lazy house dog as the cat meandered back and forth between her legs.
The sun peeked its rays through the haze of branches, splintering in to more rays to dust upon the petals and grass, a smile creasing upon her lips as the warmth radiated through clement veins. A splash of gold and russet found itself being placed upon the canvass, the emerging of what, she was not sure at this precise time, her art always morphing as the day went on.
Resting a moment after a few brushstrokes the wooden handle found itself twiddling and twisting between fingers like a baton, the clouds making an eager appearance nudging against the toasty rays, drowning them out.
Saturated greenery suddenly became lacklustre as a shiver ran down her spine, the hairs of the brush now coated in darker and deeper shades, sweeping across now wetter and more colourful canvas.
There was a tussle and a ruffle as the sun fought its way back, today was going to be one of those days. Resting back in to her chair lids closed a moment, distractions always trying to pry her away from intended task as the warmth kissed her lips.
Memories floating back to that bar, the hustle and bustle of urban life, the opposite of her now rural existence. That kiss, so different to the kiss of sunshine, that kiss that tasted of whisky and cigars, the stubble burning her skin as she gasped, surprising herself at the memory, it invoking tingles to rage through her body, goosebumps erupting everywhere.
Breathing in deeply, she resisted the necessity to open her eyes, enjoying the memory, though it had faded, another sigh, this one of disappointment. Sadness swept through her veins, lashes lifting to survey rural surroundings once more.
A jolt went through her body at the crude sharp sound of a trilling bell, the phone, it obliterating any vestiges of memory, any moment of calm as she lifted up to go and answer it…..
© Justine Nagaur Eclecticoddsnsods.com
Part 2 – The Envelope
As she walked across the room away from her easel she felt a momentary irritation that her quiet had been so easily interrupted. Who could it be she thought as very few people ever rang and if it was one of those telephone call centre people she would be hanging up.
As it turned to be Andrew Latham from the Art School. Andrew had been a student of hers in the past and was now head of the art School and was now interested in bringing her back to do some teaching.
Her first thought was those days are over, I am way past all that stress and bother. She had moved to the country for a very good reason, to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life.
She’d been here for six months now and loved every minute of deciding each morning if she would paint, draw or sculptor. It was wonderful having that choice.
But Andrew sounded desperate and was pleading with her to consider his proposal: a three day a week commitment for six months until the teacher she was to replace returned from maternity leave.
She knew the curriculum and knew it would be no issue teaching the course and she did have a wealth of experience to offer but there was one nagging thought in her mind, what if I don’t want to.
She ended up asking Andrew for a few days to consider his proposal.
There was so much to consider in this, the teaching as she’d decided wouldn’t be an issue but having to pack up and move back to the city for any length of time was a factor she needed to give serious thought to.
Retirement brought many advantages the main one being the thought of not working.
She didn’t need the money as she had a healthy pension and was able to live very comfortably. Her house in the country glade offered everything she had ever wanted. Privacy, seclusion and a small village at the end of the road who sold everything she needed to eat healthily and keep herself fit, as it was a lovely walk littered with small farm houses and the most likeable people she had ever met.
All thoughts of continuing her art that day had gone out of the window. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat beside the window that looked out over the farms below her house.
The tranquillity and serenity excited her each day she took in this sight.
In her mind a debate raged: she had done her time in the classroom, there were more things in life than going to work, Andrew sounded like he really needed her, she hated to disappoint people.
After an hour of serious intellectual debate sprinkled with some serious emotional outbursts she came to a decision.
There was one deciding factor in all this.
She had she determined moved to the country for a reason and that reason over rode every other consideration.
Looking back over the room she had come to love being in these passed months her eyes fell on the envelope sitting upon the mantle above the fire.
The envelope held her destiny, her next six months, her creative output. Sipping the last of her wine she looked down at her hands, hands that had taken her to new depths of creativity, had allowed her to explore her own version of artistic expression.
Like her they were tired and worn.
She glanced again at the envelope and reached for the phone.