The assignment was to look at different pictures and create a story or something form them. So these are the pictures and what it inspired me to write is underneath.
Self Portrait of Vincent Van Gogh
I hate that word ‘love’ or trying to prove my love I mean. There I was, knelt in front of my girlfriend with a diamond ring asking her to be my wife. She looks at me and says, “I want you to prove your love for me before I can marry you.” Now I don’t know if it’s just a guy thing, but I thought that’s what the ring was for. Anyway I looked to my friends for advice, so after a little girl bashing and a few…more like seven beers later we came up with an idea. So I proposed to my girlfriend again but this time in a Van Gogh like manner, and she left me…or more like sprinted through the restaurant, knocking over three waiters, a matradee, and even a valet. None of them were harmed in the process, just so you know. In the end this whole love lesson left me not only with the bill, but a seat in the emergency room with my ear in an Igloo cooler.
“Learn to love him.” That’s what my mother’s advice was when I got married. Well it’s been fifty-two years and I haven’t found there isn’t even an inkling of kinship. Thank God I never had any children with this man because that is a personal boundary that would never needs to be crossed. We live in a tiny farm home away from every one and yes I mean every one. I don’t know who ever decided that little farm homes away from civilization was quant but apparently they were never stranded like I am. It’s just him and me…alone…everyday. I clean the house and feed him all while he sits in his chair and stares out the window, at what I’m not sure of because there is nobody to watch, it’s just empty dirt fields for miles. The only peace I have is when he leaves to work in the field and I’m left in the house. It’s wonderful. My only wish and longing for some scrap of love is that when we do die the mourners at my funeral will love me enough not to bury me beside him.
Portrait of Rembrandt's Mother
You know all those children’s stories with the wicked witch and the poison apple? They used to terrify me as a child, but my mother would always assure me that they are only stories and were never real. Well it wasn’t until my visit to an art museum that I realized my fear has become a reality. Thanks for that Rembrandt!
You know those don’t do drug campaigns that were drilled into your brain during the golden years of school? I never listened but now have created a little word of advice… don’t do hallucinogens and alcohol. I mean don’t get me wrong it makes the absolute prettiest colors but at the same time your head feels like a volcano ready to erupt. I’m sure getting hit by a car would be less painful then this.
The Persistence of Memory
The heat…I used to love the heat but right now it has become my worst enemy. I lie here motionless as I try to grasp any sort of coolness from the ground beneath me. This place baron wasteland contains me, it pierces me with it’s rays. I feel the sun burning every inch of my exposed flesh. My clothes feel as if they will melt on me or that I’m melting into them…whichever way I’m not sure of anymore. My body is week a victim of the heat as its fists beat me into the dirt. A breeze…I thought I felt a breeze or a hope of one anyway. I open my eyes enough to see that the breeze has come from the shadows that once circled above me. They’ve come to take me away from here.
*** there is another story about a picture but I'm posting that separately**
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Short Story / Romance
Short Story / Other
Short Story / Thrillers
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