Thursday’s Thoughts, Questions, and Comments About Writing

Is the woman seated upset by what the older woman is looking at?
What are these women doing?
Who are these women?
Where do they live?
What is the time period?
What has happened?
Is the seated woman related to the older woman, and if so, how?
Again, short writings can be posted directly in the comment section below. If your story is over 500 words, however, please send them to my email address and I will create a special post for those stories.
Please either add your short stories to the comments below or send your longer stories to me at: no later than Thursday, August 27th — that gives you two weeks to study the picture, consider the questions, and create your story. Good luck!

2 thoughts on “Thursday’s Thoughts, Questions, and Comments About Writing

  1. It took me a few days to get to this, but here it is.

    I dropped my head into my hand. Baby Rebecca slept in my arms and if I laughed out loud, she’d awaken. Granny Keene’s hand weighed heavy on my back and the warmth she threw off left me in no doubt of her anger. At twelve years old, Isaac’s antics never failed to incite my husband’s great aunt’s ire. Gaining control over myself, I looked out the window again and, this time, allowed the irrepressible smile to surface.
    “Ain’t ya gonna put a stop ta that?” Granny Keene’s mouth pulsated as she gummed the words, almost like she was chewing on her indignation. A quick glance at the red rising through the deep lines of her cheeks almost provoked a full laugh so I shifted my gaze back out the window in time to see Isaac once again jouncing up and down as he rode Rufus, our eight-year old, seven-hundred pound hog. That hog was hoofing around like a wild stallion and Isaac, covered in mud and other unmentionable stuff was laughing like a crazy person.
    “That boy’ll be the death of me.”
    I refused to acknowledge Keene’s comment, but I could tell she was warming up to a massive outbreak of spitefulness all on her own. Cradling baby Rebecca, I rose, setting aside the quilt I’d been making for Mrs. Bradshaw, the wealthy widow who lived in the big mansion up on top of the hill at the far side of town.
    Since Jacob had gone missing this past winter, we could barely scrap together enough to keep body and soul alive. And now, with the baby things were harder. I knew Keene’s anger. It reflected my own. Resentment toward Jacob for insisting he go hunting despite the snow storm. Fury with myself for letting him. Annoyance with Keene for always seeing the bad in things. And rage toward God for … well … everything else.
    I lifted my gaze to the yard again. Isaac’s whoops of delight filtered through the real glass window Jacob had insisted we install last year. A blessing. Light filtered through it better than through the old oiled paper that had been there, brightening the room and allowing me to sew without wasting oil or candles.
    And now I found pleasure in watching my son’s dizzying joy. A last ride. Before the butcher came for Hamlet. Funny name. Isaac picked it when he was five and the pig was nothing more than a tiny bit of a squealer.
    “Dat dang boy’s dirtier than the pig. Ya better tell him ta wash up in the trough afore comin’ in. Elstwise his dirt ‘ll be all over.”
    My eyes closed and I lifted a prayer. The same prayer I’d uttered day after day and hour after hour for the last five months. Only this time when I opened my eyes, Jacob stood in the yard, hugging Isaac. Joy filled my soul and I laughed.

    Liked by 1 person

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