Now Write!
Mar 6, 2011 20:14:37 GMT -5
Post by Rosetta on Mar 6, 2011 20:14:37 GMT -5
So, I just got this book called, "Now Write!" that has all these writing tips and activities in it. So, I recently just did the first activity, which is that you must pick a wedding picture, any picture, doesn't matter who it is, and write a 1 page fiction inspired by it.
I found this picture and fell in love. It's a really beautiful picture and whoever these people are, they're wonderful. Anyway, so here is what I wrote inspired by this picture. It's not that good, but this book is all about improving and stuff, so why not post it:
The Wedding Picture
The boy nervously stands outside the church, clutching the heavy horseshoe in his hand. Eyes squinting up at the cross perched atop the church, he sighs, in a bored fashion. His restless feet shift weight over and over until the withered woman to his right smacks his hand.
“Can’t you stand still?” She reprimands, her wrinkled philtrum taut with the force of her pursed lips. The boy drops his head, still uncomfortable in his tight Sunday school shoes, his shirt having been forcibly tucked into his shorts. His grandmother continues muttering with the other women around her, her flowered hat casting a shadow over her face, sharp eyes still on the boy. “Third marriage,” she sniffs, obviously astonished by such a thing. “As if the second wasn’t enough….” The other women mumble in agreement, and the boy’s eyes find that of a young girl, hair curled to perfection, face screwed up in boredom, clutched in the arms of her mother. The girl wrinkles her nose further at him, and the boy crinkles his own nose in mockery. She rolls her eyes, and turns away. They all wait, waiting for the crowd of people in the church to thin. The boy swallows, unwrapping his sweaty hand from the horseshoe and transferring it to the other.
“Stop moving, and wait for your mother,” his grandmother snaps, smacking his hand once more. As if she could hear them, the bride comes out of the dark chapel, accompanied by her new husband. The tall man still frightens the boy, with his straight suits, his dark eyes and unpleased face. His body is slim, hands neatly folded, gaze turned down at the boy, as if unsure what to do with him, his son who is not really his own. The young boy licks his lips, anxiously once more, glancing back at that sour-faced girl, now watching him. The boy looks away, glancing downward at his pinched toes. However, his nerves are eased as soon as he sees his mother, her dark hair pulled up into a cascading veil, teeth pure- white against her red lips, smile wrinkles showing with her laughter. Rich, sugary laughter echoes across the tall, stone walls of the church, drawing smiles from all those who can hear it. Her dress rustles as she glides down out of the chapel, smiling, brightly. The boy’s grandmother nudges him forward, and reaching out, the boy offers the horseshoe his grandmother claims is lucky. Without a word, he stares up at his mother, his stomach welling up with an urge to run into her arms, let her hoist him up, and snuggle against her breast to sleep. Knowing such actions will earn him a slap from his grandmother, the boy remains stock still, waiting for the horseshoe to be accepted.
For a moment, overwhelmed by the occasional flashing light signaling a photograph and the dazzling sun, the bride looks off, that grin still withheld. Then, her eyes find the boy, the smile widening, pride showing clearly on her face at her only son. She reaches out for the horseshoe, her warm delicate hand momentarily closing around the boy’s. The same hand that has stroked his face, pulled blankets under his chin, endured the stinging pain of a slipped sewing needle, and held her child, scrapes his. Their eyes meet, a gesture of love, before the boy’s finger’s release on the horseshoe, and it is accepted by the luckiest mother in the world. His mother.
I found this picture and fell in love. It's a really beautiful picture and whoever these people are, they're wonderful. Anyway, so here is what I wrote inspired by this picture. It's not that good, but this book is all about improving and stuff, so why not post it:
The Wedding Picture
The boy nervously stands outside the church, clutching the heavy horseshoe in his hand. Eyes squinting up at the cross perched atop the church, he sighs, in a bored fashion. His restless feet shift weight over and over until the withered woman to his right smacks his hand.
“Can’t you stand still?” She reprimands, her wrinkled philtrum taut with the force of her pursed lips. The boy drops his head, still uncomfortable in his tight Sunday school shoes, his shirt having been forcibly tucked into his shorts. His grandmother continues muttering with the other women around her, her flowered hat casting a shadow over her face, sharp eyes still on the boy. “Third marriage,” she sniffs, obviously astonished by such a thing. “As if the second wasn’t enough….” The other women mumble in agreement, and the boy’s eyes find that of a young girl, hair curled to perfection, face screwed up in boredom, clutched in the arms of her mother. The girl wrinkles her nose further at him, and the boy crinkles his own nose in mockery. She rolls her eyes, and turns away. They all wait, waiting for the crowd of people in the church to thin. The boy swallows, unwrapping his sweaty hand from the horseshoe and transferring it to the other.
“Stop moving, and wait for your mother,” his grandmother snaps, smacking his hand once more. As if she could hear them, the bride comes out of the dark chapel, accompanied by her new husband. The tall man still frightens the boy, with his straight suits, his dark eyes and unpleased face. His body is slim, hands neatly folded, gaze turned down at the boy, as if unsure what to do with him, his son who is not really his own. The young boy licks his lips, anxiously once more, glancing back at that sour-faced girl, now watching him. The boy looks away, glancing downward at his pinched toes. However, his nerves are eased as soon as he sees his mother, her dark hair pulled up into a cascading veil, teeth pure- white against her red lips, smile wrinkles showing with her laughter. Rich, sugary laughter echoes across the tall, stone walls of the church, drawing smiles from all those who can hear it. Her dress rustles as she glides down out of the chapel, smiling, brightly. The boy’s grandmother nudges him forward, and reaching out, the boy offers the horseshoe his grandmother claims is lucky. Without a word, he stares up at his mother, his stomach welling up with an urge to run into her arms, let her hoist him up, and snuggle against her breast to sleep. Knowing such actions will earn him a slap from his grandmother, the boy remains stock still, waiting for the horseshoe to be accepted.
For a moment, overwhelmed by the occasional flashing light signaling a photograph and the dazzling sun, the bride looks off, that grin still withheld. Then, her eyes find the boy, the smile widening, pride showing clearly on her face at her only son. She reaches out for the horseshoe, her warm delicate hand momentarily closing around the boy’s. The same hand that has stroked his face, pulled blankets under his chin, endured the stinging pain of a slipped sewing needle, and held her child, scrapes his. Their eyes meet, a gesture of love, before the boy’s finger’s release on the horseshoe, and it is accepted by the luckiest mother in the world. His mother.
