The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
Starry Starry Night
Those of you who have read my previous ramblings may be aware of my nomadic tendencies, which mean I never reside in any one place for very long.
But there’s one thing I probably haven’t explained.
How I determine what is, for me, home.
It’s not where I lay my hat.
That sits in a cobwebbed corner awaiting summer sunshine.
It’s not where the heart is.
Because my heart is in many places.
There are people I love scattered across the globe, and my heart is already painfully fragmented.
No, it’s where I hang an old battered print in a cheap wooden frame.
I was barely in my teens when I purchased this in a flea market in, I think, Port Elizabeth, South Africa, for the princely sum, in those days, of one shilling and nine pence.
Don’t fret, there’s no way to translate that into real money.
For some reason it caught my imagination.
I had no particular interest in art, being devoid of any talent in that field.
I’d like to say I was inspired by the poignant tale of the artist, but I’ve no recollection if that is so.
Regardless, throughout my life, single or married, whenever I move into a new place, my first act is to hang it prominently on the wall.
It is, as shown below, a self-portrait by Vincent van Gogh.
I like to think he looks after me, as he tragically failed to do for himself.
Sound Bite Fiction 
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Story and painting, and story inspired, the right work of art calls one’s broken heart back home. Especially in Vincent’s intense eyes.
Heartfelt, elegant, confessional musing. Cheers!
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That is quite deep, Liz.
Thank you.
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Quite poignant, CE. A lovely, touching tale.
I believe we all have that one constant in our lives.
Wonderfully read and perfect musical choice of “Vincent”.
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Thanks, Nancy.
Yes, great song.
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It’s good to have something constant in an ever-changing life. Nice.
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Even we nomads need something to hold onto, Keith.
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Excellent in several ways. Good story, CE.
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Thanks, Chris, I’m happy that it worked for you.
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I have moved 3 times in the past 15 years. Each time needing to decide what to toss out. There are some things that always go in the moving box that are worthless to anyone but me. The pleasures they bring are mine alone. I do not display them but keep them in a drawer beneath the unmentionables where I can touch the memories.
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Ahem.
I think you are not supposed to mention the unmentionables, and yet, for reasons unexplained, you did indeed just mention the unmentionables.
Why mention the unmentionables when they’re clearly, by definition, not meant to be mentioned?
Did I mention…
Oh never mind.
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I once told my first ex-daughter-in-law that when I go she was to take a big garbage bag and dump everything in my top drawer in it and put it all in the garbage. I honestly didn’t care if anyone read the memories, it was the raggedy UM that I didn’t want anyone to see. lol
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‘my first ex-daughter-in-law’ – is nothing in your world ever simple?
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“I’d like to say I was inspired by the poignant tale of the artist, but I’ve no recollection if that is so.“
The above is: a) a compliment on a story well told and, 2) a sentence with an internal rhythm as irresistible as a smile from the other pillow in the dark of night
fun stuff, this Challenge
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‘as irresistible as a smile from the other pillow in the dark of night’
Comment of the week, Clark.
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A beautiful story, quietly told, and all the more impactful for that.
I suspect many of us have our version of this ‘old battered print in a cheap wooden frame’, whose place in our lives you describe so tellingly through the details of your own story.
Details like ‘ a cobwebbed corner awaiting summer sunshine.’ – so much in so few words.
Excellent story accompanied by an equally excellent reading.
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Thanks, Jenne
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This is beautiful. There’s a real sense of nostalgia here, and a gently melancholic undertone – with your narrator’s heart ‘painfully fragmented’. I like the idea of that picture as a symbol, or marker of ‘home’, and Van Gogh as a guardian of the narrator’s wellbeing – the irony of this notion, as you say.
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Thank you, Margaret, I’m happy that it communicated everything I tried to say.
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Delightful reflection, CE. I have a not very well executed painting of a Superb Fairywren that travels with me everywhere since they alighted on my very first attempt to make a garden.
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Love that self-portrait of Van Gogh. I guess home is where your Van Gogh is!? Lovely story.
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That’s it, Rosemary.
And thank you.
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