RULES: Use the painting as inspiration for your main character(s) and setting.
Read the poem "Your Hands" and pick two lines to use in your piece.
Use one or more philosophical ism as either a word or theme.
This may be a short story, poem, play or screenplay.
Write for 20 minutes. Edit for 15 minutes.
Title and author and e-mail to andiebottrell(at)yahoo(dot)com and I will post it below.
by Andie Bottrell
Mr. Rigley was married to Anita Rigley for 47 years. Every day after work he would walk the cobblestone streets through the city’s main square passing men just like him- working, well-dressed and well-respected husbands going home to their wives. The day after day routine didn’t bother him much. He was able to find joy in the little things like the perfect combination of the sun’s warmth and a cool breeze. He was grateful to see and hear the birds sing, to smell the scents of the bakers baking, and to observe the children playing.
Mr. and Mrs. Rigley were never able to conceive. This was a sore and painful subject for Anita, and while Mr. Rigley sympathized with his wife, he never had any deep seated longings for offspring. The fact of the matter was, that until recently, Mr. Rigley had not ever been aware of any deep seated longings of any kind, for anything. He was the picture of contentment at all times. This is the sort of thing that may have bothered some wives- the kind who enjoy dissecting and disrespecting rival ladies and enjoy a good enemy tale to wash down their suppers. Mrs. Rigley was no such woman, however, and as such they made for a very compatible match.
It was unfortunate then, on October 5th, as Mr. Rigley returned home from work, that he found her stabbed to death in their angelically lit kitchen, mid spaghetti dish. The shock caught him woefully off guard and he stumbled back out onto the street, hand over mouth, eyes refusing to close- caught in a sight they could not unsee. His heels tripped over the cobblestones and he fell into the arms of Neil Harrison, who was still in his army fatigues, a small bundle over his shoulder, a wound on his left leg. As Neil straightened Mr. Rigley back up to posture, he recognized the look of horror on his face and immediately took his hand and pulled it in to his heart. Neil studied Mr. Rigley’s eyes upon his own and his hand clutched all the tighter as his heart pounded like a Morse code replying to an S.O.S.
In this strange moment of sudden loss and shock, Mr. Rigley began to feel the beginnings of an inner longing so deep seated and unaware that to acknowledge it would be to whisper answers to questions that had not yet and never would be asked. Time seemed to stop and circumstances suspend and through Mr. Rigley’s mind passed an observation meekly and with great awe, “Why do I recognize them as if then, before, I had touched them?” His hands clenched Neil’s back, in gratitude for salvation. The thought was purely absurd- impossible even- and yet, despite it all he was positive. A wind of change was stirring in him, deeper than he’d known he could go. And while his waters grieved within, a sun was rising with pointed strength and new passion upon the gay golden horizon.