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Painting Stories #8

What I got:

The path before her was guarded only by a small picket fence, haphazardly held together by vines that twisted from the willow beside it. Beyond the path, the mist, and through it, the way home, the only home she'd ever known. Behind her stood her family, the congregated past that displayed all she had been, all she could be. Despite her mother's warning, she looked back, knowing she could have never resisted. What kind of soul, even battered and bruised, could not look back? What kind of daughter would she have been not to see them, one final time, and know that it would be the last glimpse.

Reader Comments (6)

Love yours, beautifully epic.

The dryad sat on the grass beside her tree, watching the sunset and wondering when life would pass by her once again. It had been so quiet these last few years. Once, her tree had stood all alone in a meadow. Then men had come, building a road, sheltering below her branches and bringing music, noise, and the fear of fire. Then the sounds grew dire, brash, loud, as men clashed and blood was spilt, and she cowered in her tree, terrified. And then, time passed, the bodies decayed, and quiet reigned. Would someone come again one day, to laugh and sing beneath her tree?

July 25, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterElaine Lowe

Gah, C, I love, love, love this!!!

July 25, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterTS Tate

I love this one. Just looking at the photo all my senses are engaged. I'm going to HAVE to come back and write something for this!

July 26, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterHeather

You should, Heather!

July 26, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterTS Tate

Wow, gorgeous picture. And I love your description - particularly the bit about the fence being held together with vines from the willow. Very evocative.

July 28, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterK.M. Weiland


July 29, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterTS Tate

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