Thursday, May 18, 2006


writing suggestion: Pat Corrigan --fearless leader-- brought pages from art books of various photographs and works of art. Pick one and write the story.

I chose a Rembrandt's

Rembrandt and Saskia in the Scene of the Prodigal Son in the Tavern

In the courtyard, surrounded by the Knights of Jubilation, Sir Runcstant Bragforwelth read the pronouncement held tightly by the King’s page. The village would celebrate tonight, to be sure, for battle had been won. The Knights of Jubilation threw their feathered hats into the air and paraded into the Spinning Wheelhouse for a night of festivity.

I’d watched them from the window and felt them before I actually saw their faces duck under the timbered doorway. Their heavy footsteps rattled the walls and shook the flames a top the candles. Before I could step back and hide near the darkness of the hearth, he grabbed me and sat me upon his knee.

“Ah, lassy, I’ve not seen the beauty of your eyes since the moon was last full.” He held up his glass stein and called, “Brothers, we cannot be defeated in battle and we will not be defeated by this sour mead that flows from our honorable host’s kegs tonight. Drink until the sun rises over the firmaments, I say.”

Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the brothers stand and each one drank clean the goblets and steins in their hands. Lesnel hastened to the keg to refill the pitcher, and another, and another. The mead would not last long in this thirsty crowd, I wagered silently.

Nor would I, without a doubt, unless I found a way to distract my Dutch friend and extricate myself from his merry knee. The hen sat quietly beside me, but I knew her fear of flame and reached toward the candle on the table.

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