100th Post on this blog! Woo Hoo! I could not have seen this coming when I began this blog 4 months ago 🙂
So, what better way to celebrate than by giving credit to the many blogs out there that have helped me reach this milestone? 🙂
If you’re writing fiction – of any kind- and you are just dipping your toes in this proverbial pool, then it makes sense to find something to write about. Most of us have ideas and we start off strong. Quite unexpectedly, though, we run out of steam and realise that we could use some help. That’s where writing prompts come in handy.
Richard drew a long puff on his cigar and pointed out into the garden.
Why not get rid of it, Emma?
Glancing back at Sybil in her rocking chair, Emma wiped her hands on the apron and said, You know how some things have sentimental value? They remind you of a special memory, a stolen kiss, a warm embrace, a colourful rainbow or a dog’s bark?
Richard shrugged, Yeah?
Sybil doesn’t recall much. But, I have seen her gaze at that window with a glimmer of knowing on some days. Those days are the best.
Rasping and wheezing, he propped himself up on one elbow, only to fall back on the bed in fatigue.
‘Wilma…’, he called out weakly, but his voice did not travel beyond the strong, oak door of the bedroom. Coughing in laboured breaths, he brought up dark, blackened blood which he was unable to wipe away with his weakened hands.
He lay there, staring up at the ornate ceiling, feeling his insides burn as the disease wracked his ravaged body.
An hour and a half later, the door opened and a woman strode in, attired in a lavender blouse and a burgundy skirt, which swept the floor in her wake. Her face was composed in a passive expression, which broke into a practised smile. Her hands bore an elegantly carved wooden tray with a single bowl of soup on it, which she proceeded to spoon into the invalid’s mouth.
The illness had destroyed his body thoroughly, much like a tornado rips through the green fields, rendering them lifeless and skeletal. But the real damage lay in his eyes as he watched Wilma feeding him. They drank in every bruise that her face showed, every scar that lined her cheek where he’d struck her, every wrinkle that masked years of domestic abuse she’d endured at his cruel hands.
Those hands were now powerless, rendered so by the arsenic that she fed him daily, in minute doses mixed with the soup.