Painting Time

We are going strong in our writing group, so I thought I’d share my story from the prompt we did today, which was writing a flash story from a painting in our home. I chose this one, a gift from my Mother-in-Law:



Everyone hated the Eiffel Tower except her. She thought it was quaint– if one considered the stigma of being French. It was a new century and the market was vibrant with the hope of new beginnings, or so Tallulah told herself. The Tower loomed over their dreams like a mother shuffling daughters to the millinery–‘Don’t forget to tell them canary for Lent!’–and sons to the docks to bring home packed fish for dinner–‘It’s almost Friday!’ The Seine was still frozen, but the city was warm and alive.

A dog the size of a large cat ran in front of her. He was dirty, and she had brief, noble thoughts about stealing him to an alley for cleaning and taking him home as a surprise for Mother. But Mother hated dogs, and Tallulah hated them more. 

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle, donnez-moi le temps?’ A hurried man glared at her impatiently, but she wasn’t in the mood. 

‘Non, Monsieur, je n’ai pas le temps.’ He glanced at her watch necklace, and she smiled. He snorted at her not unlike a pig and ran tip-toe down Rue Foucault. She hadn’t wanted to be rude, but the brisk March air and wafting smells of the Café L’Hiver were much more enticing than courtesy today.

She was also an ornery girl and had his wallet. 

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