Portrait Of Words #19...

This writing challenge has changed. Originally Jeff (A Word in Edgewise) started up this monthly challenge, derived from a previous challenge from R.E.H.'s "Picture Fiction Challenge", but Jeff has given it up and Dr. John (Dr. John's Fortress) and Thom (Thom's Place 4 Well Whatever) have taken over. The challenge is now every two weeks and you can get all the details here, where you can also pick up the links to read all the entries. Do pop over and read, you won't be disappointed.


I haven't written one for a while but I felt inspired by these particular photos, so here goes....

Sheila was busy arranging the altar flowers for Sunday morning service, in the church that had stood in the centre of the village for centuries. It was a beautiful village, peaceful and friendly.

The surrounding countryside attracted a lot of visitors such as ramblers and people just out for a Sunday drive or, quite often, people came for a peaceful weekend staying at the local pub which had half a dozen rooms to let. Everyone in the village was friendly and helpful, there was no crime and apart from the occasional ‘too much to drink’ after a family party, which Sheila found acceptable, the village was a veritable paradise, even her husband had loved it.

The flowers had been cut from her garden this morning. She was proud of her garden and her semi-detached cottage not far from the church. Sheila had moved here with her husband when they had retired, as it wasn’t too far away from town where their son lived but was a lot quieter obviously. When her husband had died, only two years into retirement, her son had asked her to move back to town and live with him and his wife but by then Sheila had settled into country life, making many friends in the village. She decided to stay and ten years on was a long established member of the church council, which is how she had been able to arrange for her grandson to be baptised there. She was looking forward to the service tomorrow, it wasn’t to be just a Sunday Service it was the day her first grandchild was to be Baptised, a momentous occasion.


“Poor little Daryl must have colic” she thought, he started screaming as soon as they brought him into the church and hadn’t stopped since. Hopefully he wouldn’t carry on through the baptismal service, how embarrassing would that be? The godparents were called to the font by the vicar as they desperately they tried to calm the yowling baby. Sheila was getting more and more agitated watching her squirming grandson being passed from pillar to post in an effort to placate him. Eventually it was time for the child to be given to the vicar for the blessing, which made the child’s crying even worse. The vicar made the sign of the cross on the baby’s head with the holy water and there was an audible gasp as Daryl projectile vomited green bile all over the vicar’s cassock! Sheila was mortified when she heard a member of the congregation mutter “Maybe they should have called him Damien, he’s obviously a demon!”


“Maybe it’s time to move back to town. Daryl has inherited more than his grandfather’s eyes” thought Sheila.