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.