Choosing #WritePhoto



There was a prophecy.

I didn’t believe it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to or that it was, necessarily, bad, I just didn’t hold with such nonsense. Someone foretold something about someone at some time. Vague, much?

Also, these things always seem to be in riddles. They can never come right out and tell a person that he will die next Thursday or he will inherit ten goats from a long-lost uncle, named Fred, in three years.

Anyway, I heard the prophecy, as one often does, from a seer over a cup of tea that tasted like a mixture of cinnamon, dirt, and confusion.

I was a chosen one.

I scoffed.

Or someone near me. (Near me in bloodline or proximity?) One who would do great and terrible things. (Well, shit, were they great or terrible?) And I, or the person of undisclosed closeness to me, would know the prophecy was to come about on the eve of the day of his birth (now she’s precise) 15 years after the death of a loved one.


Fascinating stuff, eh?

I had questions. She refused to answer them. Said she wouldn’t even if she could. Which led to more questions (which she wouldn’t or couldn’t answer). Ah, such fun we had that day.

As I recall, I left before the tea got cold but not before she grabbed my wrist, imploring me to take this seriously, and telling me to watch for the day the world turned blue.

Delightful tea notwithstanding, I left in a hurry.

And, of course, I saw the blue of twilight (not altogether unusual) as I wrapped my son’s birthday gift. He would be turning 15. Still, I dismissed the old seer’s words as coincidence until he peeked his head in the room and gazed out the window. “Whatever you’re wrapping, I don’t want it. I want this,” he tossed a photo of my late wife in my lap. “It’s been 15 years. Time we bring Mum back, eh, Dad?”



Happy New Year!


My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent




29 thoughts on “Choosing #WritePhoto

  1. Has anyone told you you might make a half decent writer one day? Pretty damn neat that. You take a fantasy construct, pluck it like a live chicken, roll it in fibroids and saute it in a twist of cunning. Bingo; a classic Brentyn. Muchos Readabubble, Senora.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hmm… πŸ€” I guess somewhere, sometime, someone may or may not have said I’d be a half decent writer one day. *shrugs* Could be my imagination.

      Thanks, Geoff. Because, honestly, ‘classic Brentyn’ is a huge compliment from you. Makes me smile. (As does the rest of your comment. It’s awesome.)

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: Choosing – Sarah Brentyn #WritePhoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

  3. Ooooooh. HUGE shivers, here! Wow. I love it, and I love the exact words you used to tell it. This needs to be in one of your collections, for sure. Or maybe expanded on into a longer story? Does Mum get brought back? Is she still “mum” as they knew her? Or is she more like the cat in Pet Sematary? So many possibilities. But even if you leave it right here forevermore, it makes the reader ask questions.

    Going off now, to shiver in the comfy chair, while I contemplate this one. Good job, Sarah.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Now there’s an interesting question. I was wondering, after I’d finished this one, what she’d be like once she was back. (She will be back, if the boy is anywhere near as powerful as the prophecy stated.) And this particular King story did cross my mind. πŸ˜‰

      Thanks, Marcia! ❀

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Pingback: Photo prompt round up – Blue #writephoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

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