This is a practice to improve writing skills.
For some time, another writer (Jumbled Writer) and myself sent pictures to each other – with a word – unrelated to what the picture portrayed and challenged each other to write a thousand words on a picture.
It was a delightful challenge and one I suggest all writer’s use when the outside world intrudes, stifling creativity.
Why haven’t I heard from him,’ I asked myself over and over, lost in an abyss of betrayal. He promised he would come yesterday, yet still I sit waiting for him.
The sun is shining in through the windows but it only hits stinging, sore eyes. Today sunshine does not make me happy. He is not in the army – he’s not even working – so there is no excuse. Why doesn’t he come to get me?
Oh those flowers – so many surround me like a cage. My whole life has been a cage of rules and behavior. I see not the colors but each pot a grey-like parallel bar that binds me to this house. The cloying perfumes cause further queasiness in my stomach. Why won’t he come?
At one time flowers were my life. Flowers were my expression. I could forget my problems – the abuse, the orders. So long as I worked with my beloved flowers I could forget the horrors outside this room. Carefully I planned my days surrounded by beauty – the beauty of my flowers. Now, even they cannot block out my pain. I have seen freedom. I have ventured beyond these walls that trap me – that made me become something I am not.
I went from my father’s house of yelling and orders straight to my husband’s place of rules. I must obey or suffer the consequences. I have no freedom. I am a woman only, nothing more precious than a man’s horse. I am just another possession to a man. It is the way of life.
Then I met him. He was all I had prayed for in so many years. My husband took me to a dinner party. I chattered with the other women about my flowers, about their music, about the problems of keeping good staff. All those topics that are of no interest or importance, while the men talked of those important topics – religion, politics or even their precious horses. But not one woman dared interrupt their conversation.
I felt his eyes on me long before I dared look up. He smiled. I hastily looked at my husband to see if he was watching too. My husband was busy with his other cronies. I turned and dared smile back. His eyes said everything to me. His admiration was visible.
Later I excused myself to freshen up. And he was there. He is such a figure of beauty and hope – the hope for happiness and change. I knew this instinctively as only a woman can. I will come tomorrow, he promises. I will set you free. We will travel Europe and no one will find us. We will sail a ship and we will enjoy the beaches of Europe in his Villa. No more will I be held to trivial deeds. Now I will do exactly as I please and no one will tell me otherwise. Eagerly I go into his arms. And the thoughts of being caught are a stimulus to my excitement.
Today is the day after tomorrow. He has not come yet. Soon my husband will be home and there will be no further chance to leave until tomorrow. Waiting… waiting.