Rules - prompt - word or photo.
Write 1,000 or less words.
Keep it family friendly.
The early morning sun illuminates the arched stained glass windows as a solitary, dark figure glides across the rough cobblestone floor.
A cowl covering his lowered head allows him a quiet moment to think in the serenity of the… the… the… argh!
June glared at her computer screen. This is crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Maudlin crap. Crappier than crap.
Slamming her index finger on the backspace key 227 times, she deleted the opening scene of what was supposed to be her latest almost-guaranteed-to-be-a-NY-Times-#1-bestseller. Her publisher had been screaming at her agent. Her agent was screaming at her. Fans hounded her on Instagram – when is the next book coming out?!?
The rectangular black cursor blinked at her from a white, blank — very blank — screen.
A screen that was waiting for the first of the approximately 90,000 brilliantly inspired, heart-wrenching words.
Facing the truth was difficult. Worse than difficult — hard. Really hard.
June closed her eyes as she shook her head. Really hard. I’m a highly successful, enormously paid professional writer and all I can come up with is — really hard.
The truth is… She rubbed circles on her forehead, trying to ease the pain before it split her skull. There are no words. Books need words. I have no more words. I have — no — more — words.
A soothing New Age musical riff floated from her cellphone. She glanced at the text message. “It’s your birthday!!!!!!!! Happy!! Happy!! Birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We must parteeeee!!!!!”
Even under the grip of her current funk, her BBF, Seelie’s love of exclamation marks always made her smile.
She tapped her fingers across the keyboard. “No party. Art gallery. I need… I need… ??”
A moment later came Seelie’s reply, “You need to get drunk and meet a guy and do things your mother told you never to do.”
June sighed. You’re probably right. “No. Art Gallery is calling. It’s telling me to visit. Soak in some art. Restore my spirit.”
“Then we can get drunk???”
“Yes.” She laughed then typed, “Then we can get drunk.”
“2-ish. SYL.” A tiny alligator emoji ended her sentence.
By 2:15, June had parked, waited for twelve minutes in the lobby and then suffered the humiliation of Seelie screeching that it was her birthday before wrapping her in a suffocating bear hug. Other gallery patrons frowned and moved aside.
Oblivious to their discomfort, Seelie grabbed June’s hand and pulled her through the tall glass doors and into the hushed silence of the art gallery.
It always bothered June’s sense of appropriateness when the gallery did not smell of old oil paint, dust and long ago. The sterile, disinfected air assaulted her nostrils. Stainless steel shone, marble floor glistened, and sky-high skylights cast pure light throughout the building.
“Which exhibit do we hit first? Sculptures? Picasso?”
“Old Masters.”
Seelie’s jaw did the cliché drop. “Old? Masters? Like Rembrandt? Like painted apples on a plate, old masters?”
June nodded, turning to the elevator. She pressed the 4 button, then waited while Seelie slid between the closing doors. She had no idea why she wanted to see the old masters. She’d been to this gallery a coupla dozen times. Visited the Old Masters Exhibition at least a dozen times. How could there be anything new in the Old Masters section?
But something told her to go. A little voice in the back of her head. The universe giving her a nudge. Who was she to ignore The Universe?
The doors slipped open. The brightness of the entrance lobby contrasted against the muted light. A sense of peace slid over June.
Yes, she was right. This was where she was supposed to be.
At this moment.
Why? She didn’t know.
Without hesitation, she turned and walked through the first room, to the second, then turned left into the third gallery.
A gasp of surprise breached her lips. She covered her mouth to silence any other expressions of delight. A gentle band of light caressed a small painting of exactly what Seelie complained about; two apples on a plate. Resting next to it was a tea set decorated with little blue flowers. On the left was a plant. Maybe a rose. Possibly a geranium. She wasn’t good with flowers.
June scratched her neck. These days she wasn’t good with words.
But what elicited the gasp was not the painting, but the man viewing it. That was the face she knew was hidden by the monk’s cowl.
She smiled. That’s why the Universe sent me here.
Him!!!!!!!!
What's happening in January on
Romance – Sweet to Heat
28 – My Blog. My Post. My Books
29 – Backlist Saturday Spotlight –Two O'clock with the Billionaire
30 – Weekend Writing Warriors #8Sunday
31 - #OpenBook Blog Hop
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