Such a unique monument. It captivated me the moment I saw it. The disconcerting hand. The way it leans on heaving ground.
Since nothing more than "Mary, Daughter of..." is readable, I decided to share this image a bit differently. I cleared my head, then composed a flash fiction piece stream-of-consciousness style. It's nothing more, or less, than what crept into my head as I stared at the picture.
No rules. No hard connection. No coherence. Just my thoughts. And a scene.
* * * * *
I walk the hallways. Smelling the linseed oil, the dark paneling. It boxes my thoughts more than the light. The paneling is hungry. Always hungry. Rolling shapes in mahogany. The shapes weave night blankets from threads of day.
The weathervane turns. A rusty groan with a shifting wind. The afternoon moods are boiling, erupting in the sky.
Rumbles travel the walls like thoughts. Storms are coming. Twirling seeds peck the windows. Tears of the Maples.
Wind. The weathervane decides, then changes.
A gust presses the house. Windows rattle in loose panes. The walls complain. But quietly.
Then, the pattering. Slow. Teasing.
Becomes large and slapping.
The heavens bow, and all streaks down. The glass sheets. Outside greens bleed into more greens.
And no one can see them but me.