Writers need to be challenged, and sometimes reminded to have fun. It was Saturday after all!
The mystery writer Veronica Cline Barton shared the fantastic photo below on Twitter from her trip to Banff of an oil painting hanging in the historic hotel she had the great fortune of staying in recently.
We decided to have some fun and use it as micro-fiction writing prompt. The only rule was to tell a story and use one hundred words or less. We might have gone slightly over, but it was a cool challenge. The name Annabelle was discussed before we went off to write on our own, but the rest is purely our imaginations. These two very different stories are what we came up with. We hope you enjoy them. Please feel free to comment, engage and retweet. Thanks so much for being here with us!
Sister Twins by Veronica Cline Barton
We wuz joined together in the womb, fusin’ our mind and spirit like most twins do. Evangeline and Annabelle dressed in lace, with ribbons braided in our strawberry blond curls. I wuz the oldest by two minutes, and the favorite of Mama and Daddy, truth be told.
Our nanny Juju used to separate us often. My sister had a mean streak a mile long.
One day we jumped in the pond to get out of the heat, the cool water cushioned me as I floated round and round. Next thing I knew, my face wuz bein’ shoved down in the black mud, ‘til I remembered no more.
Mama and Daddy had a paintin’ done to commemorate me by.
Juju knew what had been done that day. She rubbed some of her black magic on it; so I sat and waited, watchin’ the world from a gilded frame.
“Just wait ‘til you turn eighteen, darlin’, then it’ll be your turn,” Juju cooed.
Tomorrow is our birthday. I didn’t think Annabelle wuz gonna take kindly to her present.
Witchcraft by Bibiana Krall
The priest whispered, “Annabelle be a fine Lady, and pose for your portrait.”
I gleaned the truth after the torches were snuffed out at the castle gates.
Last eve it rained. The waters rose until filth spilled from the moat like The Great Mortality.
The magistrate arrested them, and now my family is gone away. It was the dreaded carriage with iron bars and a curtain meant to hide their shame. Branded as witches, my protectors are condemned to die.
Shall I ever be queen? Am I next for the pillory or perhaps, might I lose my head to thee?