Based on Picture One:

By SilentXcolourS

The walls had crumbled years ago; years before her father had been born, more years before her mother had breathed her first breath. They felt so old, so new, so fragile in the piled ruins around her feet. She sat upon a mold inflected pillar, drawing her legs close in and wrapping her arms tightly beneath her knees. The leaves have started their yearly descent from branch to briar, falling silently against the winds of time. The winds have blown her off-course, and now she travels an unfamiliar path in a place she wishes she knew like home. As she watches the leaves twirl in the soft swirl of autumn’s breath, she notices that she is much like the aging, dying vegetation. Her supple skin does not hold as well any longer, signs of wrinkles crease on her brow. Her stem, the core of her being, has hardened, turned to a rusty brown and threatens to fall off. Something in the air has changed, and she feels that within her bones.
At first she thought she loved him, but knew too late that life was full of lies, and his soft words spoken at dusk were no exception. She had been trusting when young, but he had shown her a side of the world she’d been too naive to notice. After the first three whores she’d spotted against his skin, rubbing along his buttocks, giggling sweet words melting into oblivion, she knew better than to interrupt. Oft times she wondered if she herself would have the audacity to sleep with a courtesan . . .to no avail, of course, for a lady would never disgrace herself, not, especially, while so highly involved with the court. Though she had her eyes on one man in particular, she could not bring herself to make the proper advances. She had but to say one word, she knew, and he would be hers. But that was, perhaps, the reason she needed to escape into these woods. To sit and think about all the possibilities. The odds and ends of actions taken.
Life back home was much simpler, as life on a small island tends to be. Everyone knew each other and was familiar with the wares each person had to offer. The fish were abundant and the shells adorned each woman’s neck with a sense of pride and prominence. No one was as presumptuous or as pompous. The people wore simple clothing, gowns of soft silky material that clung to the body and made the feminine features look rather sumptuous. There were gatherings for the holidays that would last well past the middle of the night, stretching until the first light of dawn sparked in the sky. Fires would keep the brisk wind at bay, and they would dance beneath the moonlight, celebrating and laughing . . . the festivities growing like bellies filled with ale.
But this land was different. The holidays lasted longer, but there was no glee. Instead church sermons rang within her ears, boring her to the point of exhaustion as she clung to the man she thought she had once loved, but had now realized that she had been filled with dreams. There were no shells gleaming from the necks of women, no, nothing but gorgeous gems costing all the earth to place about their bodies. Fake smiles plastered onto painted faces, decaying under the layers of beauty they adorned themselves with. She gagged at the mere thought, praying to the Lord above for a day when she would be valued as herself, as the girl with the ripped dresses running across the sandy shores of her home. No, that’d never be. She’d come to terms with that. Oft times home crossed her mind, but this was the land where she’d stay.
And there he was. She’d not said the word. She’d not wanted him to cross along her thoughts, dancing along the fine web of insecurity she’d built up. She, of course, was a Queen. The highest of all the women in the land. Higher than the woman overseas, too, as her King so oft reminded her. She dressed the part, smiled the part, spoke the part, but felt so apart of it all that tears stung her eyes as he approached. He lifted her chin into his cupped hand. Traced the fine, delicate bone of her chin. Kissed her forehead gently. Grazing the skin with the scent of man. She ached to give in, to smell more than the musk the breeze brought to her nose. To be immersed in Lancelot, the apple of her eye, the Knight in shining armor she’d craved all along. And she caved, for what is life without your love? What is royalty if you can’t have simplicity. Carnal needs and desires fulfilled. Resting was easier that night, though she was in the arms of another.

Based on Picture Two:

By SilentXcolourS

She is one of the most beautiful gypsies I have ever laid eyes on. Her dance is like a delicate flower flowing in the soft breeze of summer’s onset. Her arms undulate like spiders crawling and falling from gossamer webs, laiden with intricate patterns, designs, wonders. Flowing chestnut locks falling in curls and waves down her back, lightly dancing on her shoulders, playing, always, with the wind. Clothing wrapped around her body so tightly it’s hard to look away. Tantalizing she is. And as I sit and play these drums for her, I cannot imagine bedding another.
Her name flows off the tongue like honey. Sweet to taste, it never gets bitter. She’s answered me only once, falling into the tent like lovers oft do on nights when the moon is out, and the juices of life run free. No regrets. Only sadness as she looks upon other travelers for her favor. I thought I could be the one and only. I thought wrong.
She is a queen, and she is too good for me. This I know, but it is far too tempting to let go of the dream. I can feel the curls wrapping around my shoulders, tickling, so gently. Not the tickle that makes you laugh. Oh no. The shiver. I shiver to think on it, actually. She’s got some secret spell placed about my eyes. Some sort of magic dust turning me to mush over her lustful body. I’d sigh, but it wouldn’t bring her closer to me. If only I pulled the reigns. But she’s got them carefully twisted about my neck. I await her call.

Based on Picture Three:

By Silentxcolours

The fox is tempting. She is lying in wait. She is no particular rush to catch the onlooker, who does not know this area as well as she. He is hoping to find shelter from the oncoming storm. The clouds are purpled and bruised overhead. It looks mighty sore. The sky could fall at any moment. And she lies, waiting. Quiet as a dead fish floating atop the murky waters below the cliff. Silence. Quiet before the storm. It’s all very natural to her. One quick and easy bound and his neck will be under her power. He will surrender all. She smiles, quietly.
His feet, wrapped only in slivers of leather he could salvage from a trash heap outside of town, crumple the leaves underfoot. He meant to be more quiet, meant to escape from harm with ease, but it seemed fate was against his plan. Although, his plan would have been better received had it not been planned so hastily. His escape from the city was rushed, and he never thought it would turn out this way. Hasty planning leaves the trail open. He cursed. She heard him. He was getting closer. The leaves crisper. The forest quieter.
The mountains in the distance looked quite foreboding. The moon should have risen beyond the apex, and yet it was invisible behind the layers of clotted atmosphere. He trudged forward, his legs barely able to keep up with his feet. He leaned against one of the trees, a young birch, and it groaned grotesquely against his weight. White flakes fell from its trunk, and he moved forward, afraid it would collapse. She watched, eyes like those of cat, ever trained on his beating heart. Every pulse of blood was coursing through her ears as she watched, ever ready.
And then something snapped in her brain and she went charging at him, throwing him to the leafy ground and pointing a dagger at his neck, ready to strike if he made any sort of protest.
“I would not struggle, were I you,” she smiled, licking her teeth.
“I am not, for I know not your business,” he replied, as if he’d not a care in the world.
“Oh, that is all you’ve to say to me?”
“Need I say more? I’ve escaped death. So be it if I came here to die. ‘Twas not in the plans, but you never know what fate’ll decree.”
“You’re quite the nonchalant warrior, you know. I’ve a mind to keep you alive and have you help me. Though you look quite tasty and I’m rather hungry,” said the fox.
“And what, praytell, can I help you with, beautiful fox?”
“We will see about that,” she grinned, devising a plan as she spoke, thinking through and revising along the way.
“Aye, I suppose we will. How about’n you let me go, now? I’m not about to run back t’other way. They don’t quite appreciate my work there, y’know.”
“I do know, for I listen, and the woods tell me the secrets I wish to hear,” she told him, a sly grin crossing her face as confusion clouded his. Droplets of rain began to fall upon their backs as they made way to a small cabin off in the distance. Her humble abode that she had built years ago, when she had first become an exile.
“I wish for you to steal me some fitting clothing,” she told him, as she was naked as the day she was born, with a small garland of fox tails wound about her neck.
“Aye, that I’ll do,” he replied.
Inside the cabin they spoke about their exiles, their trials and tribulations. What they planned to do, and how they planned to do it. Revenge is bittersweet, and together they came up with the most perfect plan. No hasty rush involved, they had all the time in the world to spend in the woods, devising intricate details to infiltrate the enemy with. It made them both smile.

Based on Picture Four:

By silentxcolours

She is waiting for a man who should never have left her. He had naught the choice, however. From the foggy hills filled with beauteous wildflowers he had to retreat, following the long trodden path of the army. She had begged him to stay, but all in the town knew that to stay was to die. All who did not fight for their country certainly died for lack of care. So she tucked the amber strands of hair behind her ear, bit her lip, and cried salty tears as she watched his back until it no longer made a speck on the horizon.

His scent still lingers in the cabin, his rustic, mountaineer smell covering their sheets, their laundry . . .everything she looks upon has his distinct odor to it. Washing and drying outdoors does nothing to erase the fresh scent of his skin upon her own. As much as she wants to wash away his memory, it clings to her mind. She fears he has already died. No word yet, and who knows when the post car will find it’s way along this railroad. It’s been weeks since she last saw the train moving toward the town from the rolling hills that made up her backyard. A sigh falls silent and unheard from her pouting lips. Still she waits, watching, wondering.

They had met in the tavern, for she was working there. Just a summer job to pay the bills, the rent, the small supply of food that she needed for the long winter days. He, too, was working; he was not the sort to waste a day sitting and lounging, sipping a beer. Alcohol was not a necessity, merely a delicacy that was oft wasted on drunken fools. At first she had been shy about speaking to him, but cast flirtatious glances his way, hoping to court his heart without speaking. He seemed to understand, but he, too, was shy, and was not about to swallow his courage and speak to the girl he’d go home and dream of marrying. A sentimental fellow, though just as rough and tough as the next brawny tavern fellow. Yet it seemed they could be quiet no more, for a fellow barmaid spoke to him about the glances and looks, the whispers when no one was looking. And he felt he must speak his mind, for he knew that she must be apt to say something to his liking.

It all started with small talk, short conversations about housework, about plans for the coming days and weeks. Chit chat of the war front, wondering when and if it would reach this part of the country. Praying it wouldn’t, of course. He would smile that certain smile he reserved only for the beautiful grace of her face, and she would tuck those unruly strands of golden strawberry locks behind her ears, gleaming rosy cheeks and freckles stretched in her own smile, saved for him. And then the talks expanded, they were serious, they were searching and heartfelt. They were about the future, about plans and dreams. Intimate secrets only lovers share. But he was still afraid to ask, still afraid she would find something unworthy in him and cast him aside. She wanted so terribly for him to ask, for him to speak those few words that would seal their fate together.

And then the war came closer and closer, creeping ever so swiftly toward the mountains that they had always called home. At night the shrill cries of battle could be heard, and she was terrified to sleep alone. He was fearful that some ravaged hungry soldier would claim her for his own, and so slowly he began to make himself more present around her abode. She did not mind his presence, and wished only that she could have reassurance that he would always be there, for she was one who always worried, and thought, perhaps, that he would leave her. It was true she was not the most beautiful, and she had always thought that someday he might notice a far prettier young girl and sweep her off her feet and leave permanently. Sometimes she would cry late into the night, praying with all her might that he’d speak up, say something, anything.

War tore the town in two, the believers and nonbelievers– but all knew it did not matter which belief they held. War was coming and they must be prepared. Young men started training in the fields, firing rifles late into the night, scared to go to sleep and wake up in a different place. Scared to march, to feel sore feet pounding against muddied earth. Terrified that this might be their last night in the town they had grown to love. The last time they might be able to glance upon their sweetheart’s face.

She had a picture made for him, incase he had to leave. She wrapped it up in a journal, one where she had written her love for him. If he had not confessed his own before he left, at least he would die knowing how she truly felt, knowing that she would wait for him until the end of time. No matter how lonely, how cold the winters got. She would be here, waiting for his return; for he would return, she would accept no other thought. She damned the war and prayed God would look upon those she loved with care, and watch over them while she could not.

He began sleeping with her, staying with her through the night. The town frowned upon this behavior, as he had not confessed, had not slipped a ring upon her dainty country finger. But he did not care. He loved her, and that was enough for him. In his heart they had been married from first glance, and sealed eternally with their first kiss. He would make an honest woman of her, though, and slept beside her, holding her, but doing nothing more. She grew impatient, she longed for his touch, she longed to hear the words . . . but would not rob him of his duty, would not speak them for him.

And then time had truly run out. The men of the town gathered early in the morning. She rose, too, for she could not bear to let him go without a parting kiss. She grabbed him, clung to him, cried for him. He would not stay, would not dishonor his name and be shot. No, he had to leave. He could not think. Thoughts flew through his mind, circling above like a kite caught in a tree. He spoke the words, asked her, made her promise that she would wait. Weeping she told him that she had never thought otherwise, that she knew they must be together until the end of time. Knew that he would come back. A tear fell down his cheek. He was afraid, but he would be brave for her. He had no other choice.

She gave him the bound book, the picture. He handed her a picture of himself. They embraced, cried, and he left her standing on the stoop of her home. Their home. He left.

Still she waits, looking off into the distance, up until the sun falls from the sky. When the moon appears in the darkened sky, she wanders through the house by candlelight, looking out the windows, listening for any sounds of footprints falling on the lightly frosted earth. It’s cold outside and she wonders if he’s warm enough. She wonders if he’s out there. Wonders and waits. Waiting until her heart can take the wondering no longer. Wondering when the waiting will end. Waiting for her man.

Based on Picture Five:

By silentxcolours

She was a young queen, and therefore vulnerable. She was not yet married, and not yet interested in the gain her suitors would bring. The constant nagging of her court bothered her, but she brushed it off now as she stepped into the court. She was sorry that she had worn this dress; she knew that it would cause a ruckus, but she had not expected that reaction. The dress had been her mother’s, years ago. She was an outcast. No one wanted her in the court save the king, her father. The colors were too striking, too bright for the somber faces lined amongst the court. She rolled her eyes thinking of all of the disapproving glances made in her direction. And then laughed, knowing she had never promised to be an easy queen to manage.
She was sixteen years old, and confused. War threatened to break loose on the border, and she knew the enemy was formidable. Would an army stand behind an untested queen? Aye, she had to be good, she had to be utterly convincing. She did not know if she could do that, or not.
To her journal she went, dallying among the flowers in the court, stopping to sniff at a beautifully place rose, bending its’ neck to reach the golden drops of sunlight that creep in through the cracks. She wished she could have such a simple life. Bending a little to reach the light, and then dying before the summer came to an abrupt end.
The leather bound journal, dyed red from the purest dyes she’d ever laid her eyes on, was opened. The pages automatically turning to the next fresh page. Bending, as did the flower. She picked up the quill and ink, and set her thoughts to the page, humming a tune that her lyricist had just played the past evening.
It was then she realized how alone she was. Without a friend in the world, ruling a country she did not belong in. She longed, oh did she, for the country in which her mother had grown up. She felt she’d belong there. She had not the blond locks of her people, nor the high chins and pointed noses. Alone, upset, and irritated, she looked along the flowers, and wanted to be one of them.