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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
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15 For 15 Entries ~ June 2010 #698272 added June 5, 2010 at 11:27pm
Restrictions: None
Figure ~ June 5
“”Tis only a loan, you understand,” repeated the stranger. “I assured The Historic and Ethnological Society of Greece I’d have it back in one year’s time.”
John Smythe heard him, but his focus was on Pastor Brown. He couldn’t read the cleric’s eyes behind the flames reflecting in his spectacles from the candle on the table, but he thought he saw guarded awe sketched across the pastor’s face.
“What thinks you, Pastor Brown?” Smythe said.
The pastor reached out a finger and ran it down the sculpture’s leg with the lightest of caresses. “It is indeed a magnificent specimen.” He hesitated, and then turned to meet the expectant gaze of the local curator of the small collection of art, created by their community artisans.
“This addition,” Pastor Brown said to Smythe with slow, deliberate words, “would catapult our modest collection to esteemed status; that’s certain. But would the good people of the Massachusetts Bay Colony accept it? That is the question.”
The stranger stroked the well-trimmed triangle of hair on his chin and considered the pastor. Thoughtfully, he asked, “I thought the colonists sought the New World to live a life of freedom. Why, then, should they deny themselves access to a priceless artifact from the ancient world?”
Pastor Brown turned to him. “It isn’t a question of freedom, my good man. The Puritans are God-fearing people. Some may feel this statue could incite lustful thoughts, invite Satan into their lives. We are not Catholics, here. We don’t condone the depiction of unclad men and woman. And this man is, clearly, unclad.”
The stranger locked eyes with the pastor, and several seconds slipped past in silence. With a sigh, he finally stood.
Lifting the statue with ginger arms and placing it in the wooden transportation crate, he said, “I thank you for agreeing to meet me at this late hour. I’m sorry the statue won’t be enjoyed by your community. Perhaps I’ll have better luck in New York. I hear it is a more…open-minded colony.”
And with that, he took his leave of them. |
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