Inspiration in Pictures

They say pictures speak a thousand words- Truer words have never been spoken. Well, it's the case for me.

When I write I see colour, images, faces. I see in pictures the story unfold before eme. When I look at the expression on a person's face in a picture I can conjure up entire lifetimes from that one look.

****

“Where are we going?” she asked, taking the rug out of my hand and folding it as we walked.

“You’ll see.” I took her hand and led her toward a small rowboat that was moored on the bank of the lake not far from where we were sitting. I tilted my head to study her. Cora’s blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, drawing a rare smile from me. It was like watching a flame sway and flicker until I had become so entranced that I lost track of where I was going. A sharp spasm exploded through my ankle. I crashed to my knees, my hands disappearing into the soft sand.

****

I felt insignificant among the forest of tall, needle-like trees. Tree roots, covered in a thick green moss, erupted from the ground like long twisted fingers. A fine dewy mist hung low to the ground and rays of sunlight speared through the dense canopy. The path that had brought me to this point had now become nothing but a trail of crushed leaves and forest litter.

****

As the door shut with a muffled thud behind us, it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Some old standing lamps lined the spacious room, casting a golden glow. The room was divided into sections by enormous arches that had been covered from floor to ceiling with impressive paintings. I think I had seen something like it in a book from Art class back in Atlanta. Lights were hanging from the ceilings in brass or copper cages. Through the middle of the main library were wooden oval desks that were surrounded by fabric couches, which were also heavily decorated. Everything looked breakable so I shoved my hands deep into my pockets as Cora led us to the end of the room and to a closed door on the right. She paused, looked back at me, then tapped.

****

Fire-engine red hair flowed across her shoulders and drizzled down her back like honey. The cherry-coloured fabric of her dress dripped from her body and flapped languidly in the breeze. The girl was on fire. She reminded me of a piece of music, graceful and beautiful. I had to talk to her, ask her name at the very least.