Words of Art

This prompt gives a picture and you must write a short story, poem, or other original work based on the picture.




It was just a sad, dilapidated little church in the middle of town. The church was the heart of the town. Town dances. Town meetings. Town rummage sales. Town weddings. Town deaths. Town everything.

This day we were gathering for a death. Baby Julie Allson had fought for life from the day she was conceived. So much had changed because of her.

John Parker was the first in town to receive the news. After all, Baby Julie's mama is his daughter. The man was so heartbroken he'd taken a seat on his front porch and cried. Just sat there, wailing as if he was living through his own heart being ripped from his chest.

Cal Scotts is his neighbor. For years they've argued over the pear tree that is planted near the property line. Rotten pears fall off the tree during the season and blemish Cal's yard. John refused to cut it down. They'd despided each other for thirty years because of it.

When Cal came home from work, he found John on the porch crying like a baby. No one needed to ask why. The whole town had been expecting it. But no one had expected Cal to slam his truck door and make his way up the Parker walkway to console John. Tears in his eyes, Cal had looked down at John and placed a hand on his shoulder. Without a word, he took a seat next to John and sat there with him through the night.

The feud forgotten.

Bridgett Donovan is the promiscuous neice of Baby Julie's father. Last summer when she was caught with her skirt around her hips in the back seat of Laura Henley's SUV with Jack Henley, there was almost a brawl in the middle of the town. Bridgett and Laura were bitter enemies. Especially when Jack chose his wife over Bridgett.

Laura, the nurse who spent the most time with Baby Julie in the hospital was there when Bridgett showed up to drive me home the night it happened. I wasn't there to watch the scene unfold but I heard the whispers around me. Laura offered her condolences to Bridgett. The two women hugged, calling it a truce for the sake of Baby Julie.

The Rusty Glass Bar was usually full on Saturday nights with the local fisherman. They'd waste their paychecks on buckets of beer, bet money on darts and pool, dance to loud music, and try their hand at single ladies. But the night it happened, the night Baby Julie died, the patrons of the bar collected "first round" for Baby Julie. All the money for first round was put in the fish bowl for her funeral fund.

I was startled from these thoughts as the last of the mourners made their way to me to offer condolences. I was the focus of pity that day. A husband dead. My daughter dead. No one left but me.

"Hailey, you have my prayers. Are you ready to go home?" The pastor's soft voice asked.

"I'd like to stay here for a while if that's okay." I glanced over his shoulder at the black and white portrait of my daughter. Tears filled my eyes again.

"Of course." He started to say more but shuffled down the aisle and back to his study.

I wasn't sure how long it would take but I grasped the bottle of pills in my hand. Sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed so that I wasn't a walking zombie during the planning of the funeral. Seven pills left. Shaking, I twisted the cap off and tossed the pills to the back of my throat, swallowing them dry. Feeling the grit of the dissolve in my esophogus as I made my way to the front of the church.

I collapsed to my knees at the alter and said a silent prayer, my daughter's precious face the last image I saw in that lifetime.