Vanities

This is Harmen Steenwyck's Still Life: An Allegory of the Vanities of Life. There are so many different parts to this painting that the creative juices would definitely flow. I was really excited about the outcome of this story. Wonder what you will come up with.

Twilight was soon to pass on the year’s aged time to greet the coming youthful days. The mortal world celebrated the new dawn in animated voices surrounded by colorful decorations, sumptuous food, and imbibing wines. With slumber weighing the lids of their festive eyes they each make their way staggering to the calming cover of beds. Dreams and hopes fill their heads to awaken with them on the coming morn.

                While the last of the mortals sway and saunter to their abodes, the spiritual world arouse from their lofty or bottomless dwellings.  The last of the mortal music dies out leaving the night silent to the mortal’s ears, but the ethereal beings their ear did hear thunderous clamor approaching. 

                From the heavens along a hopeful path a chariot of white pearl, came to view, a sun of radiant gold with swirls etched out to the sides came out to the sides decorating chariot, gold trimming the wheels. The chariot was pulled by four luminous white horses, rays of light in their wake,  a man of colossal height at the reins.  He wore a robe shining as bright as the sun, his hair and long beard brighter then the snow in midday, his eyes a crystal blue like the a calm sea.  A loving expression enveloped his countenance but strength and authority radiated his form. He guided his airy beasts to a grove hidden within the woods outside the concrete forest. Once the white beasts were pulled to a halt the heavenly being stepped from the chariot his sandaled feet touching the emerald grass.  His feet took him to a plane wooden table, filled with curious objects, light on one side and darkened on the other. Placed at each end of the table, two high backed chairs one ashen, one ebony; taking the ashen chair he patiently sat his arms placed on the carved armrests.  He wasn’t there long before heard jingling of bells and glanced beyond the far chair.

                From the highway of despair a black carriage, dark as a moonless night, emerged into the secret grove. It was made of the finest materials, the wheels where lined with gold but the spokes where embedded with precious jewels of various cuts. The carriage was pulled by six ebony horses their manes and hides as dark as a bottomless pit.  Their eyes a flaming fire as the trail they left behind.  A shriveled being unrecognizable to the mortal eye sat atop a bench situated at the front of the carriage. The being was a man who once alive chose evil acts against his fellow man, now is in eternal servitude. He whipped the horses one last time before drawing them to a halt within the grove. He scuttled down from his perch and slithered to the carriage door to open it for his passenger.  The shriveled creature, cowered in fear when a dazzling black shoe stepped from the carriage.  A man emerged; a dark silken suit adorned his body. A crooked cane with a skull at the top was held firmly in his hand. The man’s hair was ebony slickened back to show his alluring handsome face and dark sinister eyes. Scowling he raised the cane to his pathetic driver as if to hit him the creature cowered and then he chuckled. The richly dressed man confidently made his way to the table where the other sat, bowed and smoothly took his place.

                “Old Man,” he greeted.

                “Satan,” the man in white acknowledged.

                “Another year, Old God, has come and gone and here we are again.” He said with excitement.

                “Indeed, we are. What doest thou see upon this table that is earth.” God asked his companion.

                “Upon this table, “he mocked leaning forward. “ I seeth what has always been here. But, now I see that more of the objects on my side then on yours.” He laughed a chilling laugh. “I see the sword, a symbol of war. With the sword countries have been conquered, resources have been claimed, people enslaved, and even with the young, domination runs high.

                “The instruments of music! What fun! The parties, the merrymaking, oh the merrymaking,” he sneered. “The mortals that get drunk to see what fools they can be, entertains me so. What possibilities. I so enjoy it.”

                “Let’s not forget the purple silk a symbol of riches. How I adore the rich. They look down their noses upon the poor never to raise a finger to help. They despise them. And to watch them seek more; the pleasure runs deep.” He looks back at his servant.

                “These books of learning, the teachings of men take the mortals away from you. Don’t they, Ancient?  They care no more for scripture or prayer you are fading from their sight, no longer important. Knowledge is power; a power that enslaves.  It leads them right where I want them.”  Satan clenches his fist.

                “The skull is Death. I look forward to death when my kingdom fills with many souls. It delights me. And what do you have on your side, Ancient God, a shell?”

                “Yea, a shell; a symbol of birth. Into this world the spirits of heaven are born to choose for themselves good or evil.” God leaned forward too. “One thing thou art missing, Satan.”

                “And what is that?”

                “A heavenly light still shines upon those objects placed on this table. There are many that will bear the sword to triumph over evil and protect the innocent. The instruments still sing praises of God and hope to comfort souls lost and burdened. Riches big or small, of many mortals, are shared with the poor; never despise or look down on. With books many lips utter the scriptures that can guide them home; within books knowledge is taught to do good.  When death comes I stand at the gate to welcome my children home. Satan, thou evil snake, do not forget that in this mortal world, evil cannot thrive without good nor good without evil.  Good shall triumph.”

                “That I do not believe, Old Man!” He sneered leaving the table angrily stalking to his carriage. Before getting in his once handsome face turned ugly. “We shall see!” getting in he banged the roof. The withered creature snapped the whip the horses whining in agony.

                God sat back looking at the objects smiling. “Dear children, I have faith in you.”

Sorry

Sorry to all that I have been away from my blog but I am back with great determination to continue my writing.

Picture1

Many people can get inspiration for stories, poems, or songs from pictures. The story doesn't have to do anything with what the artist themselves meant the picture to mean; what it should mean is what ideas you get from it. In my writings class we were given 3 pictures to write about. The first one I am going to share is called 'The Execution of Lady Jane Grey' by Paul Delaroche. We were asked to write a story on the perspective of two of the people in the painting; keep in mind that we didn't know the background of this painting.
I wrote from the perspective of the person standing against the wall, thinking that the person was a man. I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman (the painting was a little blurry). So, i asked my classmate if she knew, to which she replied that she thought it was a man as well. In fact it is a woman. So, I suppose this little story could go either way, but for me it was meant to be a man. The other perspective I chose was from the man holding the woman, who, i thought was a priest but is in fact the jail guard. A story can unravel before you just from a picture whether you know the story or not. Don't be afraid to let your imagination take you.

Just another little note: I wanted to revise this but I couldn't.

The Lover by the pillar

I cannot watch. I cannot! I cannot watch my love going to her death. Her mother sits at my feet on the uncomforting stone floor, the cold pillar at her back her only support for she will find none here. How can I console the mother of the woman who broke my heart? How can I speak words of ease to the woman who birthed a harlot?

                Jane why could you not have loved me? Why did you find passion in the embraces of another man? Why could you have not found love in my lips?

                You kneel there weeping, I could have saved you from those tears if you but loved me! Never will your ears know that it was I who betrayed you. Never will your blue eyes gaze my guilt and shame. You should have loved me! I cannot watch you go to your death.

The Priest

                “My dear Child, do not cry,” I whisper in her ear as tears of despair moisten her cheek.  “Find comfort, child, that the angels await you. Your crimes are forgiven. I place my hands on her sweet soft arms to comfort her and dispel her fears. but, alas, I say these words to ease her heart; A heart that is wicked and treacherous ready to do the devil’s will never see the gates of God.  She will spend her time in purgatory, damned, until her family can pay. then, and only then, will she go to God.

Tones

In one of the classes we learned about different tones people use. The writing for that tone is essential to convey to the reader what the writer actually wants them to feel their character feeling; even scenery or places can have a tone. Our instructor asked that we write a short story using one tone then use that same story using another tone. My class came up with some awesome works. After I wrote mine i revised it and not wanting to make the blog to long I will share that one; however, if you would like me to share the first I will do so, all you need to do is ask.

Two Tones

(Thankfulness)

                A pinkish ray seeped through thin closed curtains catching the sleeping eye of a man tucked warmly in bed. The ray mingled with his blanched hair. He opens his eyes smiling, slowly but eagerly getting up from his warm bed he limped to the window. His leg had always given him trouble from the time he was young. It never mattered it never stopped him from doing all that he wanted, what was expected, and what he needed to do. His withered hands pulled back the drapes to see the beauty of the setting sun. He loved the evenings, sitting there watching the sun drift to sleep. When the last of her timeless grace was blanketed by the horizon he would think on his blessings.

                He stood there now bathed in the radiance of her light. He looked over his shoulder at his bed, a wonderful reminder that his visitor would soon be here. His visitor could wait however he wanted to spend this time with an old friend, in a glowing hug to talk of seasons past.

                He chuckles to himself lifting his shoulders, then asked, “Do you remember, my dear friend the day I married. My wife was an amazing woman, beautiful too, inside and out. She was what I needed and wanted. She loved me; I was a lucky man indeed. Each day, dear friend, you and I watched our children grow from accomplishments and failures, honored to be there to see it. In them I am proud and blessed. Dear friend, my life has not always been perfect and yet I would not change a single moment. I am who I am because of it all, the joys and sorrows.

                Yes, he thinks to himself as the horizon wraps itself around his cherished friend, a happy tear falls down his cheek. Yes I have had a wonderful life, a good life. He leaves the curtain open and limps back to bed to embrace the blankets once more.

                Still smiling he glances to the foot of his bed. The visitor in his silky ebony robes has come. Death has come and he is welcome.

(Regret)

A pinkish ray seeped through thin closed curtains catching the sleeping eyes of a man tucked warmly in bed. The ray mingled with his blanched hair. He opens his eyes frowning; slowly he got up from his warm bed he limped to the window. His leg had always given him trouble from the time he was young. It had stopped him from doing some of the things he wanted, what he needed to do, and what was expected. He wished he hadn’t let it be a handicap.

                His withered hands pulled back the drapes to see the beauty of the setting sun.  He had always dreaded the coming evenings, sitting there watching the sun drift to sleep. When the last of her timeless grace was blanketed by the horizon he would think on all that could be different in his life. Had it been so bad? He thought

                He stood there bathed in her light. He looked over his shoulder at his bed, a constant nagging reminder that his visitor would soon be here. His visitor could wait however he wanted to spend time with an old friend in a supportive hug to talk of seasons past.

                He groaned to himself hanging his head then asked, “do you remember, my friend, the day I married. My wife was an amazing woman, beautiful inside and out and I never saw it. She was what I needed and I never realized it. I took her for love for granted all she did for me. She gave her love; I took it and trampled it. I should have seen how lucky I was. Each day, dear friend, you saw our children grow from failures and accomplishments. I was always gone something more important took me away. I did not tell them how proud and blessed I was to be their father.

                Dear friend, my life has not been perfect but I wish it could have been different. I wish I could have done things differently and better. I am who I am and I wish I wasn’t.

                Yes, he thinks to himself as the horizon wraps itself around his friend, a sorrowful tear falls down his cheek. Yes, I wish things had been different. I wish it had been wonderful. I wish it had been good. He closes the curtain shutting out the on reminder of his failed life and limps reluctantly back to his cold bed.

                Still frowning he glances to the foot of his bed. The visitor in his harsh black robes has come. Death has come and he is not a welcome sight.