I was never allowed anywhere near my grandfather’s Desk when he was alive. I can still see him hunched over, writing hours on end, fountain pen gliding over paper. Even now the faint hint of pipe tobacco calms me.
His portrait placed in honor, constant reminder of devotion to the craft. The poems he wrote to my grandmother during WWI, “Dearest Elizabeth” taught me about love and devotion.
Opening the center drawer I found a secret compartment towards the back. Pulling out letters written in his hand, they began “My Beloved Julia”…
“Dad, who’s Julia?
“Your Great Aunt. Why Honey?”
Welcome to Friday Fictioneers! As per usual, our esteemed host Rochelle posts a photo with the challenge of writing a 100 words.
This weeks photo prompt freaked me out a wee bit. I have been house sitting for my parents. I think they have a near identical painting of the Hunt. And there is a picture of my Great Great Great Grandmother hunched over her old writing desk an ancestors portrait behind her. It felt like Déjà vu.
Oh, And please make sure to check out the other writers creations.