Not Much Left to Lose?

This fabulous picture was shared over at Thursday Tales as this weeks photo prompt, offered to those of us who write... to inspire.  To view it at it's original location and to see more by the artist, click here: http://veniamin.deviantart.com/art/Not-Much-Left-To-Lose-12304113.



Not Much Left to Lose
by Veniamin

To design our day's journey, one must contemplate all that has been, all that will be.  Where do we wish to find our destination?  The music helps, as I sit and fiddle with my instrument, watching the world pass by... as have the days of yesteryear. 

It was quite the day long ago, I was walking down by the shore, contemplating life as I do now.  Contemplating all that I had, the gold wristwatch, the gold chain around my neck... the black linen suit, white shirt, pressed to a tee.  All mementos of who I had become, all trinkets of my days of hard work.  Those were long days, leaving early in the morning before the sun came up and ending with me slinking in the door way past nightfall.  Those were lonely days too... 

Coming home to an empty space, furnished well, yet no one to laugh at my jokes.  No one to listen to my tales of success, beating out the next guy, selling one more than he had.  No one to share the long dark nights with.... Those were indeed lonely days.  No one to know I had been jumped there along the shore.

I laid there for what seemed an eternity... my skull cracked on the left side, blood pooling in the earth near the rock, my leg shattered from the bat they used to take my legs from under me.  The gold watch gone in an instant, the chain ripped from my neck, the linen pants torn where they snatched the wallet from my pocket.  Those trinkets had become a welcome sign to take the life from my lonely existence... with no one to know as I lay there along the shore...

The days now are full, as I sit and share the burdens of my journey with those who pass by.  Ellie comes searching when I don't come in by supper.  Never again shall I lay there along the shore... waiting to be discovered, waiting to be helped up when I have stumbled along the way.

She is such a beautiful woman.  Her hair tied back, those high cheek bones, the sensuous lips that speak so tenderly of all mankind.  Lost souls she calls them.  Those evil boys who ripped my soul to shreds, ripped the success of my days away as they swung the bat. 

Sometimes I wonder, did they have any idea?  Did they know what would come of me?  Or did they only see the gold watch, the gold chain, the trinkets of my success... the trinkets of my loss.  She reminds me when I call them that... my life-giving trinkets.  Days now are full of her, days forever shared by two hearts never to be left for dead again.

Yes, to design our day's journey, one must contemplate all that has been, all that will be. Where do we wish to find our destination? The music helps, as I sit and fiddle with my instrument, watching the world pass by...

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week was Design...  Thinking design led me to the journey of life, which fit well into this brief tale, brief experience I was working on.    Hope you all enjoy this and are having a wonderful week.

Magical Moments



Home and the Fairies
by Michael Zancan @  DeviantArt

Sitting... staring at the page taped to the wall in front of me... sitting, mesmerized by the sunlight pouring pixie dust down from the sky, dusting me and my image... magically converting my world.

Always, waiting quietly for the inspirations... allowing the plants to tangle around my directions, guiding my brush, it's hairs, transforming the silhouettes into magical wonders before my eyes.

Here in this quiet place, deep within my room, deep within my soul, an outpouring of inspiration, the page before me becoming a quilt of days, nights, moments frozen in time of days so long ago, days when fairies and pixie dust existed... as real to my days as the sun beating down, highlighting the colors of a single rose.  As real to my days as the darkness is to the night.  As real as the terrors are when the days become dark.

Yet here in these quiet moments, a world transforms, fairies dance through the air taking height, swirling around, sparkling, floating upward to the heavens, to peaceful masterpieces left as their legacies.

Petrina Lesko
February 2011


This magical moment was the photo prompt this morning over at Thursday Tales hosted by Leo and Yamini Meduri.  It is a wonderful link for those wanting to create a short tale to share with other writers.  The word limits are between 55 and 777 words.  Won't you join us and check out some amazing writers takes on this lovely photo prompt offered up this week.

Thursday Tales - His Last Goodbye

"Please, give me a moment, will you?"
"Of course sir, but we don't have long, they'll be here soon."
"Just a moment that's all, I just need to take it all in for one last moment..."

There's a knock on the door, three beats, then a pause.  "Sir, they're here, we have to go now."
"Yes, yes, go answer the door.  Let them in please."

Gentle footsteps cross the studio floor as another knock pounds.  With the creak of the door opening, "Yes, can I help you sir, I mean ma'am."
"Is he still here, is he here?"
"Yes, of course, he's over near the easel, just a moment and I'll get him for you."  quick footsteps can be heard as the younger man walks up behind his chair.
"She's here, she wants to see you sir."
"Okay, okay, let her back.  I just needed a moment, thank you for getting the door."

Her footsteps, impatiently clicking as she too walks up behind his chair... "Father, we have to... What's this?"
"My last tribute to her."
"You did this?  But it's exquisite... you?  You did this?"
"Of course I did this, you are in my studio, aren't you?  Who do you think did this?"
"But... how?  You really did this?  Father it's an amazing piece.  You said you couldn't paint.  You said you didn't have it in the crippled hands anymore..."
"Yes, I said that.  And I don't.  It's time to let it rest.  It's time."
"But Father, this is amazing!  Have you done any others?  Is this the only one?"
"No... no others.  Just this final goodbye to a world lost a long time ago."
"But Father, how?  How did you manage such a fine piece?  Are you sure it's time?  We could keep the studio.  I mean if you still can paint, we don't have to sell it right now..."
"Yes we do... It's time.  It's time!"

Just then there is another, softer, knock on the door.
"As I said, dear sweet Anne.  It's time.  Opportunity knocks, you don't want to keep her waiting.  Go let the new owners in.  Go answer the door."



painter, montmartre
by Somebody 3121

 written by
Petrina Lesko
January 2011

This picture prompt was found via Thursday Tales, prompt #44.  It is by Somebody 3121 and can be found here over at deviantART.

The Pocketwatch

The following picture is photo prompt #41 over at  Thursday Tales.  It is called Pocketwatch by Kiara.  More of her work can be found here over at Deviantart.  Please drop by these links to explore more of other artists' work and for other tales.  The following short story is my take on this prompt...



Pocketwatch by Kiara

The Pocketwatch

I fumbled with the brown butcher paper as I unwrapped the small package that had arrived in the mail earlier that day.  Inside I found a small box and an envelope with my name on it.  I opened the small box and found a beautiful gold pocketwatch cradled in black velvet lining the inside.   Then I opened the letter...

Dear Corrine,
                  I am writing to you today to share the enclosed heirloom that was to be a gift to your father upon his return from the war.  As you know, now that you have grown into the beautiful young woman that you have become, your father never returned from the war.  Just days before you were born, the family was notified that he was MIA, a soldier lost to the unknown evils of war.  This gift was to be given to him as a young man, from his father, whom also did not return from the same war.  This, of course, can be one of the evils of military families, however, it is also one of the blessings, having such a love of our beautiful country, that one family could pass the honor of serving from generation to generation.
                  But alas, you are well aware of the family history, the history of the heroes that we have lost.  Your grandfather had wired me while he was overseas, knowing that his son would return before him, to secure this small package from our father, so I could insure that he would receive it upon the day of his return as a young man, a proud soldier.  I did as he asked, having our father send it right away with the enclosed letter along with it.  I have cherished this over the years and have waited for just the right time to pass it down the generations.  I believe that you will totally understand its meaning, and that this is the correct time to pass it on.
                                                    With love always,
                                                           Your great-aunt Corrina

Inside of this letter from my great-aunt was another envelope, one that had hints of yellowing as does paper over the ages.  The outside of the envelope showed only my father's first name... Collin.  As I opened this second envelope, my hands trembled, goosebumps running the length of my arms.

Dear Collin,
        I am writing this letter just hours after you have come into this world.  It was just this morning that I saw you for the first time, lying there in your mother's arms, our beautiful son.  I asked my father to select this pocketwatch for you (as you know, he was a clocksman, a keeper of time-pieces).  I have always held his fascination of time deep within my heart and look forward to being able to share this love of time with you also.  I have asked him to set it to exactly 7:51 for the moment you were born.  I shall hold this safe over the years, and when the time is right, I shall give it to you, just as he gave me his coveted pocketwatch when he felt I was old enough to understand its special meaning to this family.  Until then my beautiful son, I will hold you forever in my heart.
                                                             With all my love,
                                                                       Your devoted father, William

The tears flowed freely now from my eyes, a single tear landing on the yellowed paper just below his signature.  I sat down and stared blankly at the pocketwatch I was holding in my hand.  'Thank you Aunt Corrina, yes... yes I do understand the meaning this has had throughout the generations of our family.  Thank you, thank you.'


Written by
Petrina Lesko
January 2010

I am linking this tale over at Thursday Tales.  Thank you Yamini and Leo for inspiring us to share these wonderful shorts for all here in blogland.  And a special thanks to Kiara for lending us such an inspiring piece of art.