Friday Fictioneers writing is based on the seemingly simple premise of telling a complete story, based on a photo prompt, in 100 words. Believe me, it’s much more difficult than it appears at first thought. But each week, close to 100 of us blithely give it whirl, with what degree of success you may feel free to determine. My story follows. The link to the stories of the group is found at the very bottom of my post. If you wish to be a part, we welcome you. The rules, such as they are, can be found here each Wednesday, as well as information on how to link your post so others can find it. It’s fun, great practice and so very addicting!
P.S. Yet another travel week coming up, so I won’t get to all the stories and not any posted late Saturday or thereafter. Apologies. Destination? Costa Rica!! Completely new place and experience, mother-daughter time, my Christmas gift from a year or so ago. 🙂
Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Night
Night approached inexorably. Sometime, in the dark next to his wife, tears seeped from the darkening corners of his eyes. He’d have preferred deafness to the malaise that would gradually take all light, stealing the painting that fed and shared his soul. No choice had been offered.
He sought to burn each image into memory’s always-living (though sometimes changing) files, walked through the house eye closed (“training runs”), painted with manic speed, producing images torn from his innermost soul.
One day he returned from the art store armed with clay and began to practice. He vowed he’d not go gentle.
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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~Dylan Thomas
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