EXERCISE Picture Challenge #18: Last farewell

Discussion in 'REFINING WRITING' started by redblood, Apr 12, 2015.

  1. INFO: They say that a picture can tell a thousand words. How many can you find?

    Each week a new image will be posted, and your challenge will be to write whatever the image inspires you to write. It can be anything as long as it relates to the picture. A plot, a scene, a short story, a poem, a character, etc. You can write as much or as little as you wish. It's not the length that matters, it's what you put into it. There is no time limit to these challenges, so feel free to jump in at any time.

  2. The war was over. Piece brought to the kingdom. Yet, no one celebrated. The kingdom had suffered the worst casualty imaginable. The king was dead. He had suffered a fatal wound on the battlefield, dying almost instantly. The queen took the loss in the worst way, hanging herself, leaving the kingdom to their two children. The castle that sat on the hill was now empty, glowing with the dim light of candles placed by grieving citizens. Warriors surrounded the King's body, preparing for a funeral pyre. The priests, who had grown to love their king, were lying on the ground, sobbing. They had overwatched many pyres, but this one was personal. The treaty was signed the next day, giving the young prince and princess control of the kingdom, and forming an alliance with their old enemy. The king will never be forgotten. Long Live The King!
    • Like Like x 1
  3. "Ha, a 'kind king' lies dead on a alter. Surrounded by the blind faithful. Let me tell you something about your king.

    Greed was his food.

    Pride was his gold.

    Lust was his sleep.

    Damn your king for he built his kingdom upon the bones of my people.

    Built upon the misery and sweat and blood of my people!

    He betrayed us when we needed him the most.

    Left us for dead. Came back when we died.

    Built a kingdom he did. A kingdom that loves.

    Only him.

    Countless fell.

    By his word.

    Or his sword.

    Yet one fateful one night.

    A knight came.

    On a camel from the east.

    Slip through the traitors the knight did.

    To find the kind king in bed.

    With a whore.

    Fitted for filth.

    The knight slip a dagger through the king's neck.

    Now he lies dead.

    Upon a alter surrounded blind faithful.

    Be damn old king.

    For we are returning.
    • Like Like x 1
  4. Another day do the heavens beat down upon me, the vast sky overwhelming yet the same familiar face which greets us each day. Yet this day I was visited not by the falling waves of the sky, but by the tears of men, fine metal and resounding silence. Among them lay only one, the finest of metals which spoke only of the suns beautiful light sang to me. A man lay clad, a vision of calm spread across a young face drawn pale as the moon. I've seen many lay in eternity, returning to me with time to one day rise again in a time beyond the memory of the living. But few times do I witness a passing such as this. Overwhelming steps clashing and grinding, insides strewn across as the skies eternal rain, yet a stain I cannot wash away.

    Remarkably beautiful speech came from one and then many, quivering sounds full of something I knew to well. Always after their clashes would I hear such a poignant sound stretch across my skin, disappearing with the ebb of time. I'd hear many of these 'songs' and with each one do I feel myself soften, ready to be the milky cradle for the one they sing for, the many they sing for and I abide.

    "Our hands are in the branches,
    they are all within the breeze.

    Dance oh our valiant souls,
    have your fill as your glass runs full.

    Our land as our mother,
    cradle now and rest.

    Our hands are in the branches,
    they are all within the breeze..."

    I continued listening. To all of them. My skin would shudder far away, hidden by the leagues of tender ocean so I could hide my fear. In these days, I heard to much song fraught with such melancholy tidings. The depression of a peoples, the depression of myself and in turn the depression of a planet. I cannot wake 'nor can I sleep. I cannot call out 'nor can I help myself. It will be many passing until their singing dies, only to replaced again, somewhere in the ebb of time.​
    • Like Like x 2
  5. The intrepid chevaliers, generously granted the title of being Sir Grevinard's Wights and recognisation of merciless character to the adjacent country, gallantly armed their weaponry in woven joy, like the Petrichor after years drought, and dismal. With the conquest subsequent to warefare, woebegone, the horsemen congregated, in concentric formation, around the perimeter of Grevinard's sepulcher. The prospect of mortality, ineluctable, was not anticipated upon their leader. Came forth the bishop, wielding taut a bible, positioning his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. The holy book was read aloud, at the very end where the bishop wrote down prayers.

    'Sir William Grevinard III,' he begun, hemming sickly his old age, 'indeed chivalrous, and valiant, died honourably through conflict, building upon the foundation that claimed the Wights victorious.'

    Halting, the Wights were scrutinised before the bishop went on.

    'Sir Grevinard will find his place, quite comfortably, in Heaven, acknowledging these accomplishments with great laud.'

    Rain pelted the armoury, a clamourous symphony of amplifying noise reverberated, distracting the bishop only momentarily. Lest the metal turn to rust, the bishop had ended his speech.

    'I bid thee farewell, Sir Grevinard.'

    The body was to be buried later that afternoon, and a memorial held a few days ahead. Nevertheless, the angels mourned his fate, eyes obscured in fog.

    Our noble king has arrived!
    #5 PinkMilk, Apr 23, 2015
    Last edited: Apr 23, 2015
    • Like Like x 1