#writephoto: The rose at the heart

Well, this one obviously follows on from last week’s image. Thanks Sue 🙂

art

A sound breaks the hush of the chapel and Aoife is dragged out of her reverie. Her hand reaches out to the red rose protectively as she feels the air vibrate, murmur, like flowing water. The sun breaks through the cloud and pours through the rose window inundating Riseárd’s image with soft colours. She blinks in the bright light that fills with lilies. She hold her breath and the lilies group, bunch, form a loose bouquet that is at once the face and the flowing hair of a woman.

A tear slides down her cheek and she brushes it away, quickly before the ghost woman sees. She faces her defiantly, her fingers curled around the stem of the rose. Even now, she rages, the woman, if she is truly a woman, dares to impose herself, after all she has done, the intrigue and the deaths. The face turns and Aoife is caught in the blue gaze of her eyes and the shimmer of brimming tears.

Forgive. I loved him too.

The world shatters into sharp, elusive pieces. Nothing will ever be the same, love, children, gone, like thistledown in the wind. Yet Aoife cannot find it in herself to hate the pale woman. The vision blurs, behind a veil of tears, until all that is left, vibrant and glowing is the thorny red rose on Riseárd’s breast.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

28 thoughts on “#writephoto: The rose at the heart”

  1. I love how you describe the visions–and amazing how Sue’s pictures seem to trigger like the Oracle. There must be a connection–perhaps the ghosts and interconnection of so many lives as you and Kerfe discuss above.

    1. It might be pure coincidence, and it might not, but for a while now almost all of Sue’s photos have been a visual accompaniment to what I’ve been writing. The last two are scenes from the end of the story that I haven’t written yet, but I’m saving these bits and will work them in. A trigger as you say, and not to be ignored!

      1. I throw out everything except the words. Partly I’m sure because I have husband who keeps every tiny scrap of string, bent nail, piece of unidentified plastic because one day he might find a use for it. This morning I was putting away the groceries that he’d bought for the week. Underneath the things I’d put on the list (plus a bag of wild bird food) was a fire extinguisher…. No particular reason.

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