Welcome to my newest Friday feature. It’s called “Fictography.” The way this works is a reader will supply a photograph, and then I’ll write a piece of Flash Fiction (roughly 500 words) that reflects something about the photograph. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, and I felt it was time. Writing Flash Fiction is a great way to sharpen your skills in both writing and creativity. Fun. Fun. Fun.
This gorgeous photograph is provided courtesy of Rachel Noel Reid, one of my former students, friend, wife, and mother-to-be. I appreciate tremendously her support of my blog—and of this new concept. Thank you, Rachel, and I look forward to more participation as the year progresses.
And now, the story…
THAT WHICH IS MINE
Of course it’s not entirely mine. On many occasions, I share it with the birds, the butterflies, the frogs, the crickets, and the occasional deer that call it home. The dragonflies and the fireflies. The bumble bees and the brimstone moths. But it is mine. It was mine all along. And while it may appear to be greedy of me—I’ve been known to exhibit that unappealing quality on occasion when provoked—and it may seem that two waterfalls can certainly be shared, I’d prefer not to. Because I tell you, it is mine. My haven. My harbor. My haunt. My place of privacy, seclusion, shelter and solitude. My sanctuary.
My place of security. My hiding place. The place where I think best.
Passing through, one may admire its rare beauty, its picturesque quality. As a snapshot, it is one that would be Pinned and shared through technology, one viewer after another looking it at from an image cast into the unknowable realm of social media. Round and round it would go, until, well, who knows who would be the last person to see it. It could be endless, continuing on for all eternity.
But it is my place, my little section on this earth, where I can come and face my troubles and joys, the sanctity of it often bringing me to tears.
The sketchpad is in my right hand. The pencil is in my left hand. I find my rock—not his—and I begin to do what I haven’t done in months…in years. I sketch. I sit and sketch, and my hand begins to take over for my mind. I am drawing. Feeling free—freer than I’ve felt in years. My hand continues to move across the blank page, and things are beginning to form. My eyes are looking, but it’s my hand that’s working, hard, in earnest, failing to falter. I’m here; I’m back.
Just yesterday, I’d attempted the same visit, and I’d left before it began. For he was here, occupying my rock, meditating in my space, listening to my crickets and frogs and bees. He did not see me, nor would I allow him to see me, as I was approaching from the far corner of the sanctum. I darted away before he knew.
And then the impending anger that ensued: he had taken everything I had already—did he need to take more? What was left for him to take? There was nothing left for me to give. I had given it all. I had shared too much. He had forsaken me, my love, my kindness.
And now he is supposing this place to be his. Regret shoots through my veins. Why had I shared it with him? Why did I not keep it to myself?
This place. That which is mine.
I stare down at the paper, and it’s done. I’ve created something, and although it isn’t a Rembrandt or a Dürer, it is.
Mine.
