This picture, posted in Authors by Designs (AbD), was a Picture of the Month. All members are welcome to respond and enjoy the responses of others. ABD is where my online critique group, The Pen, posts and critiques our stories. Below shows how this picture inspired me to venture outside my comfort zone and write in a genre foreign to the writer in me.
Andrew tightened his grip as Sara squirmed against his arm. He leaned them back, resting them snug against the huge oak tree. Too late he reached for her hand intending to caress it and ask what troubled her.
Sara moved fast, avoiding his grasp, dusting crumbs from their spotless blanket. She wanted to explain, nodding when words eluded her, and clamped her lips tight. Knowing it would be the last time if she left, she took a long look at the man she loved. He would be her husband in seven days if she stayed, the father of her earthly children.
The choice was hers they said. She knew better.
Without a backward glance, she stood and headed toward the spiral stairs. Through misty-wet vines woven into the staircase, she raised one foot then another, climbing, expecting the stairs to crumble behind her. She gained knowledge as each step fell away. Worlds shimmered and spun round her, guiding her, ascending the spiral, easing the climb. To where? There.
She was there. So was he. Waiting, one arm extended, beckoning her until he could reach out and gather her close. His name was Nineteen. She was Twenty. There to take his place. Not as a wife. She would be the last leader taken up to the new world. To protect them but never again be one of them. And the clock said it was time.