Picture this: two faces framed in gilt. Ornately carved laurel leaves
intertwined with golden vine.
I was going to post today about how I go about writing short stories but this arrived in the post and I want to read it, and if you are interested in writing or knowing more about writing short fiction, you should, too.
One face turned aside, ear lobe cushioned to lip, receives the hidden word. Curiosity runs its fickle fingers down your contorted spine as you lean in closer.
I was going to pick out a painting to top my post: a pixilated prize for those who seek a visual lure. And then the words came and made a frame. Now all I have to do is fill it, or do I?
He, or is it she, stares ahead and would close her eyes if she thought she could hear better for doing so, and doesn't see anything but the shape of the words going into her ear. She doesn't see the way the body at her side is poised to flee; doesn't see the the thing that glistens in the hand, inches from her neck: a ring? A blade? A torch, perhaps? She is unaware of how the eyes set intent upon her do curve with narrowed lids which mask their unreal colour so that only a tease of it can be seen by you. But you know that the eyes are shaped by ugly satisfaction or grim enjoyment. Lies, you say? Lies it is.
But what's a painting if not words coloured into shapes? We squint at clouds, at clods, at the mottled colours until we can find lines which our eyes translate.
Now it's your turn. Go on? No? Then end it.