Tag: Ermiliablog

Picture It and Write is a weekly writing challenge, posted every Sunday by Eliabeth, the author of Ermiliablog. The challenge is to write a piece of fiction or a poem in response to the photo prompt supplied by the host.

Here is this week’s photo . . .

 and this is my story . . .

Evaline Rawston flicked on her favourite CD and sank into a comfortable armchair, closing her eyes as Madame Butterfly’s dulcet soprano soared. Memories of her final performance at the Theatre Royale flooded back: such applauds; such ovation. So many friends with promises of keeping in touch …

Two years had passed since her glorious, thirty-year career had ended. Her throat could have taken no more. Time to cease the hours of rehearsal and gruelling performances, before her voice completely failed.

The heyday of her life was over; the fiery sun of summer set. No friends had flocked to her door. Autumn had hurried in fast, and once the mellowing colours had faded, years of cold, wintry loneliness and regret would follow.

For twenty years Geoffrey had wanted Evaline to marry him, but she’d always put her career first, imagined he’d wait until she was ready. News of his leaving had hit her like a hammer blow; six short months before she’d retired. How she still missed his deep, soft voice, his gentle touch.

Beyond the window, October sunlight played on the ambers and golds. She loved this old house with its beautiful garden; drew comfort from its ever changing moods …

‘Miss Rawston, there’s a gentleman at the door. Says you know him.’

‘Really?’ Evaline said, smiling at her housekeeper. ‘Then you’d better show him in.’

‘Evaline, my dear, how are you?’ Geoffrey asked as he entered the room.

‘Much better for seeing you,’ was all Evaline could say over the thumping of her heart. Winter suddenly seemed a lifetime away.

*

If you would like to read other entries click on the link here.

Picture It and Write is a weekly writing challenge, posted every Sunday by Eliabeth, the author of Ermiliablog. The challenge is to write a piece of fiction or a poem in response to the photo prompt supplied by the host.

Here is this week’s photo . . .

and this is my story . . .

*

‘You have got the ring …?’

‘You asked me that two minutes ago, Rob, and my answer hasn’t changed since then.’ Adrian grinned at his brother, the jittery bridegroom. ‘What kind of best man would I be if I left it behind?’

Robert tugged at the unfamiliar bow tie at his throat: it seemed to be driving him insane. Adrian knew it was all down to nerves; standing before the altar, all eyes fixed on him. The lad from the Council Estate was marrying into money – big money – and was feeling somewhat overawed …

Adrian glanced behind at the wedding guests. The bride’s family were blatantly snubbing the lesser mortals to their right. Adrian hated their supercilious sneers and wondered how Robert would cope with it all, particularly as Anthea’s parents seriously disapproved of her choice of husband.

‘She’s fifteen minutes late already,’ Robert croaked.

‘Probably changed her mind … run off with the butler …’

The sudden commotion put an end to Adrian’s jest. Anthea’s chief bridesmaid was hurtling down the aisle towards the bride’s parents …

Robert yanked off the ridiculous bow tie as all was revealed, a look of utter relief on his face. Anthea had simply changed her mind and run off with the new chauffeur.

‘Drinks are on me,’ Robert yelled, heading towards his smiling mum and dad.

*

 If you would like to read other entries click on the link here.

Picture It and Write is a weekly writing challenge, posted every Sunday by Eliabeth, the author of Ermiliablog. The challenge is to write a piece of fiction or a poem in response to the photo prompt supplied by the host.

Here is this week’s photo . . .

and this is my story . . .

The river roared across the unsuspecting land like an unleashed beast: a raging, untamed torrent, devouring all in its path. The mid-March air had lost its penetrating bite, snowmelt in the hills resulting in the river’s angry swell.

Sweating after miles of rapid flight, Culann stared at the frothing water, the stepping stones engulfed by vengeful, swirling eddies. There was no possibility of him going back – nor was there any way of crossing.

He jogged on, following the river upstream, the land gradually rising as he neared the hills. The first sounds of the tracker dogs intent on ripping him to shreds reached him …

Panic surged and he bolted, ignoring the painful stitch in his side. As the gradient steepened the river plunged over a series of rock-strewn rapids, but beyond, the stream narrowed and became shallower, its flow less turbulent. Culann removed his shoes, tucked them under his arm and scrambled down the grassy bank. He waded in, gasping at the water’s glacial embrace, and headed slowly upstream.

Sharp pebbles gashed his bared feet and after only thirty yards he could bear no more. He clambered up the opposite bank, careful to leave no indication on the grassy slope.

Confident that the baying hounds would lose his scent, he embarked on the twenty mile trek to the coast. He just needed to convince the master of an outgoing ship that an extra hand would be useful …

The fat purse stolen from his brutal master sat comfortably at Culann’s belt. It ensured his passage home.  And freedom: like that of the unleashed river.

If you would like to read other entries click on the link here.