Wednesday's Words on a Friday

On Wednesdays, assorted people have been taking monthly turns at putting up a selection of words which is called “Words for Wednesday”.

We have taken over this meme from Delores, who had been having computer problems.

This month the meme continues here, at Hannah’s blog.

Essentially the aim is to encourage us to write.   

Each week we are given a choice of prompts: which can be words, phrases, music or images.   What we do with those prompts is up to us:  a short story, prose, a song, a poem, or treating them with ignore...

Some of us put our creation in comments on the post, and others post on their own blog.  We would really like it if as many people as possible joined in with this fun meme.

If you are posting on your own blog - let us know so that we can come along and read your masterpiece.

I’m hopeless at poetry so I always do a story.

It’s a fun challenge…why not join in?

This week's words are:

1. crocus

2. fount

3. shawl

4. torch

5. knife

6. narrative

There is also an image of ruins which I have not used. 

Here is my story:

Marian tucked the soft fleecy shawl a little tighter around the tiny body that no longer had any need of warmth.
She held the baby gently as she gathered her torch and a small knife used for gathering cuttings to increase her garden.
Making her way along the path to the fountain, Marian let the tears flow freely. 

Grandma had always said it didn't do to bottle up sorrow, to do so could make you a bitter person. "Cry it out," Grandma always said, "and talk it out too. Even if there is no one around, say the words you need to, it will help." 

Marian gently laid the baby in the grave she had dug earlier, in the soft earth of the flower bed surrounding the fountain. Covering baby Thomas was the hardest thing she had ever had to do; the tears flowed harder as Marian sobbed out loud. 

She marked the grave with a large flat rock, then used the knife to carefully dig up two of the crocus bulbs that were just beginning to show spears of green above the dirt.
These she replanted on the tiny grave, to bloom in spring, as she'd hoped her baby would. Sitting back on her heels, wiping the tears from her face, Marian began her narrative. 

"You were born on a stormy night, fragile, weak, and far too soon. I breathed life into your tiny lungs until you cried with the indignity of it. I held you close day and night, but you just weren't ready. You should have waited for the spring. I didn't know how else to help you, Grandma and your daddy were taken early in the winter with the flu; Mr Johnson from over yonder took them to the hospital in town and they never came home. I miss them so much. And now you are gone too. Only five days old."