In a distant, neglected corner of the Bonnywood Manor gardens, at the end of a long-forgotten path, one can find this sad tableau of decay.
Your writing prompt this week, should you accept the mission, is to help us understand what led to this woeful and sepia-toned vista.
What happened here? (Did everyone get out alive?)
Is this the result of the infamous free cocktails served every afternoon in the faded glory days of the Manor? (Clara, honey, you’ve had twelve. Dial it down a notch before you do something stupid.)
Why do folks no longer visit? (Is it haunted? Do you hear whispering?)
Did young lovers once meet in seclusion, giggling and flirting and wondering? (Will you still love me, tomorrow?)
Did old lovers reunite, fondly recalling their youthful wooing? (Those were the days, my friend.)
Did a maiden sit here, gently rocking, scribbling passionate poetry about a potential suitor who would woo? (My bosom heaved at his touch…)
What famous writers rested here before returning to their typewriters, inspired, driven? (It all began one fine spring, when we conquered the air in a swing…)
If the rocks could talk, what would they say? (Would you believe them?)
What is the symbolism of the young tree-ling breaking through the odd shroud on the back bar? (I will not be denied my manifest destiny.) Will lovers return here once again? (Will you?)
And, perhaps most importantly…
What was the last conversation that took place on the swing before it swung no more?
Go forth and envision.
Additional challenge: This is a current photo of a setting in my backyard, although I fiddled with it a bit (Filters are my friends.) If 20 people provide an interpretive vision in the comments, I will share the true history of the dysfunction. If not, well, the mystery will simply have to deepen into myth…
Categories: Flash Fiction