So, since I’m over par on my nano count again today, I decided I’d try something new. (I’m at 2,884 so far today)
I posted a prompt table here yesterday, well, sort of. It didn’t exactly come out looking like I’d thought that it would. Anyway, I’ve decided to do my own prompts everyday, provided I beat par on my word count. I’m also going to try to post my own fill.
If anyone would like to make a suggestions for a prompt, I’ll be happy to post them too. 🙂
Prompt for 11-10-13: Picture
Kenna dug through the boxes, trying to get the last of her things packed before the morning got to late. Evin and Melody would be here before long to help with the final trip from Baltimore to D.C.
She was digging around in the back of her closet when something stabbed her palm.
Kenna jerked her hand back with a curse, inspecting her hand. There was a cut across her hand. Not deep, but bleeding. She grabbed a tissue from her dresser and pressed it against the cut.
Frowning, Kenna carefully pulled out the last bit of rogue clothes and blankets, trying to figure out what had cut her.
As soon as she’d pulled out the last jacket, something shining caught her eye. A jagged piece of glass. Looking closer, Kenna realized it was the remnants of a picture frame.
Carefully, she pulled removed the glass and put it in the garbage bag she’d pulled out earlier. Then, she turned her attention to the rest of the frame, lifting it up off of the floor.
She stopped as soon as she realized what the picture was.
It was a picture of her Baptism. A picture of her Baptism with a family that she barely remembered.
She was held in her father’s arms over the baptismal font, with Evin standing in front, grinning from ear to ear. And there was her mother, holding the candle, smiling happily.
When was the last time that she’d any of them that happy together?
This might have been the last time it had been that way. By the time for Ainsley’s Baptism had come around, the cracks were already showing.
Things had already been broken.
Maybe there was a metaphor in there somewhere.
She ran index finger along the smiling image of her mother’s face, mindful of the broken glass that still lingered in the frame. She must have thrown the picture in the closet in a fit of anger. She didn’t even remember having the picture.
She stared at it for a moment longer before she turned the frame over and carefully removed the picture. The frame went in the trash.
The picture went, loose, into an album, and then into a box, moving with her to the next chapter.