Writing Challenge #2 Using a picture

The sun was barely through its morning rise, yet Branka already had the morning bread baking, the aroma filling the small room with the aroma of sustinence. The centuries old house and seen numerous members of Branka's family do the same.
The routine daily cleaning of the stone floors had led her outside into the bright sun, the hand-made broom of wicker, whisked by her knotted hands, stirred small clouds of dust in front of it.
It seemed to her, that as the rest of the world changed around her, she was locked in time to remain in this ancient place, to grow as old as it and rest with those who had passed before her.
The pinging sound gained her focus and in a shuffling hurriedness, pushed the door open and went to the kitchen with as much haste as her frail, withered body could go.
She had no sooner taken the bread from the bread machine, when another chiming caught her attention. Quickly setting the loaf to cool, she moved with as much purpose as she could.
Tapping the space bar on her laptop, the screen brightened to say her on-line lover in Brazil had sent her another letter. Her shaking hand tapped the keys to tell him how hot she was, wishing they could be together.

“They’ll be here soon, Uncle and the kids. I have to get this place swept clean. Oh, this damn dust coats everything! Impossible!”

He had hung the lantern and halter outside the door, and now stood fixed in the center of the room, solemnly watching his wife. There was no reason to stop her. Promises of copious grasses and rich soils had drawn many families west, abandoning the parched homesteads of their fathers to waste into obscurity. He moved past her to the table, dimly lit by the few rays of sunlight streaming through the doorway, and reclined himself to the hardness of the wooden chair.

“What are you doing, Jamison? We can’t leave this place a mess.” Her features were hazy from the swirling dust, but her voice amplified with disdain, slapping the bricks of the adobe walls.

“I’m staying. The government has promised native seed. Rains will fall, crops will grow again.” His coarse facial features a void, were pulled through the doorway by the prosaic song of a motorcar. “You go. All will be fine.”

Her hesitation was but slight, before grabbing up her bag, leaning the broom against the door, and hurrying out into the stale, soiled air.

As the mechanized rumble weakened into the evening air, he mopped the cooling sweat from his brow. Picking up a piece of black walnut from the table top, cradling it in his hand, he resumed the whittling of a ladle.

Helonia woke that day as every other. Alone, tired and now old. Eating her meagre meal, her daily chores checked off in her head, she drifted off to the place in her mind where life was magical and she was forever young and pretty. Shaking her head at herself for thinking such foolish thoughts of a fanciful life, she went about sweeping the ever-present dust that blew through the windowless openings.

Gathering the sweepings together, she opened the door to whisk them back on their journey to other places and other people. She thought of all the places and people the dust had visited since it started. How many other women had done as she and gathered it together and sent it along with some new memories of where it had been.

Sadly, she reflected that the dust had seen more of the world and met more people than she would evr do. Absently, she left the broom at the door, leaving it open as she walked to the old and battered chair to sit. Looking once more at the dust swirling free in the slashing ray of sun, her despair overcame her and she buried her face in her hands to weep.

As she wept in her sorrow, a faint tapping alerted her. Raising her eyes, there stood an old man, his hat in his hand, looking to her with eyes that held a long and seated pain. His weak and saddened smile warmed her, ceasing the tears of self-pitying grief. Slowly she rose and went to him, his smile of hope ever-growing. Forgotten now, her mental list, giving way to welcome this stranger, a soul to break her solitude.

Reaching out, his fraile hand to hers, it struck her soul with a realization that this would be it. The first contact in ages past since another had acknowledged her. In a brief moment of hesitation, almost too hard to believe, her hand touched his and their eyes held each other's soul.

Layers of dust covered every surface in sight, protecting each one from the scorching sun. Weeks without rain left the land parched and gasping for nourishment. Choking back the sobs, Martha worked out her frustration on the lump of dough in front of her.

“You pound that bread any harder and there won’t be anything left to bake.”

Jacob stood by the old stove, pouring himself another cup of coffee. His shirt stuck to his back, the faded material wet with sweat. She noticed his hair curled over his collar, reminding her she had promised to cut it weeks ago.

“I . . . the heat . . .” Dropping her hands to her sides, she turned away.

“Martha, look at me.”

Not quite a demand, yet not intended to ignore, she did as he said.

“There won’t be a baby this time either, Jacob.”

She couldn’t face him after the dreaded confession. Married three years now, and each month was the same. It hurt her to think she had disappointed her husband. She wanted so much to give him a son and make him proud.

The old broom leaned against the opened door where she had left it. Dust clogged her throat. Heat waves rippled through the air. It was too much. Closing her eyes, she let the darkness take over.

Mrs. Adams

Marcus froze in mid-sweep when he saw Mrs. Adams striding across the muddy ground. She held up her long coat above her ankles and seemed not to care about the mud spoiling the fancy French shoes Mr. Adams had brought her.

She stood at the doorstep of his cottage. "It's Marcus, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mrs. Adams," he said. She was almost too beautiful. "What can I do for you?"

She moved past him, pushed open the thick wooden door, and stepped into the cottage. He left the broom in the doorway and followed after her.

"You take care of the estate's animals. Is that right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Adams," he said, now aware of how dusty the cottage was and how it smelled of sweat, leather, old wood, and the day-old coffee on the stove.

"Including the hunting dogs?"

"Yes, Mrs. Adams." He wondered if any of the animals were sick or injured, or even just didn't look good. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Adams?"

"I've just learned that Mr. Adams has a lover in London."

He had a strong urge to say "What a bloody idiot!", but he held it back. He opted for "I'm sorry, Mrs. Adams." He swallowed. "Mrs. Adams, is there some work I've forgotten?"

"No, but there is something you can do." She let her coat fall to the floor. She was nude underneath, apart from her mud-splashed French shoes. She turned around and bent over his wobbly table. "You can rut me like a hunting dog."

@Flashlight7.5

Flashlight7.5 said:

Marcus froze in mid-sweep when he saw Mrs. Adams striding across the muddy ground. She held up her long coat above her ankles and seemed not to care about the mud spoiling the fancy French shoes Mr. Adams had brought her.

She stood at the doorstep of his cottage. "It's Marcus, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mrs. Adams," he said. She was almost too beautiful. "What can I do for you?"

She moved past him, pushed open the thick wooden door, and stepped into the cottage. He left the broom in the doorway and followed after her.

"You take care of the estate's animals. Is that right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Adams," he said, now aware of how dusty the cottage was and how it smelled of sweat, leather, old wood, and the day-old coffee on the stove.

"Including the hunting dogs?"

"Yes, Mrs. Adams." He wondered if any of the animals were sick or injured, or even just didn't look good. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Adams?"

"I've just learned that Mr. Adams has a lover in London."

He had a strong urge to say "What a bloody idiot!", but he held it back. He opted for "I'm sorry, Mrs. Adams." He swallowed. "Mrs. Adams, is there some work I've forgotten?"

"No, but there is something you can do." She let her coat fall to the floor. She was nude underneath, apart from her mud-splashed French shoes. She turned around and bent over his wobbly table. "You can rut me like a hunting dog."

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wow...i love this!

If there was peace to be found, she would find it in the old barn.

The horses had been sold long ago, to make way for the noisy tractors and belching tailpipes of the farm trucks, but the barn still stood. Her great grandfather had built it to last, out of native stone and hand-ground mortar, with wooden beams so thick Kelly couldn't wrap her thin arms all the way around them.

She swept a little more dust away and went back to sit on an old manger, her hands locked around her drawn-up knees. The stable still held the ghost of the great patient beasts Granddad had loved so well, the air sweet with the fading memories of hay and grain, leather and equine sweat.

She remembered watching his gnarled hands, huge to her very young eyes, reaching up to adjust a bit, gently letting it down and smoothing the leather, patting the Belgium mare's whiskery muzzle in affectionate pride.

"Two soft wrinkles, no more, girl. A good horse needs nothing but a word and touch to know where you want to go." His voice was thin and gravelled, age having stolen much of his strength, but to her five-year-old mind it had been the thundering voice of God, all that was good and safe in the world. "They're like children. Train them right from the beginning, and you'll never need to remind them of what's right."

A choked little sob caught in her throat. Had Granddad lived longer, how different would her life be? Granddad would have raised her up right, slow and patient and steady. Instead, she felt like a filly broken too young, only the hazy memories of her childhood to remind her that something other than hard hands and sharp blows existed. Her soul was riddled with saddle sores, her heart had whipmarks.

Somewhere in the distance she heard her uncle shouting, and pulled herself further into the cool shadows of the stone walls, trying to hold on to the memory of light.

She started sweeping in the morning before the sun got too hot and the wind started to kick up the dust. Her movements were sure and practiced, but slower than they had been when there had been others to care whether the porch was tidy.

Sometimes she thought while she swept. Mostly her thoughts were of cool water. Cool water on her lips, down her throat. Cool water cupped in her young hands. Cool water splashing her clothes, soaking her skin.

She started at the side of the porch closest to the morning sun, starting early enough that it still felt good on her back. She worked her way to the other end, trying to buy time by working in the shadow of the old oak tree, but the shadow moved one way and she the other. She embraced the shadow, but they always left each other behind.

Her old feet shuffled in the dust. Her body was heavy. The heat was heavy. She remembered her father’s forge and its awful heat.

She leaned her broom against the doorframe and went inside thinking of cool water. But all that was left was warm water, and she had no taste for it.

To Quench My Sexual Hunger

It was while she was sweeping the dirt out of the house that a beautiful maid with dark hair heard someone say, "Linda, come in here! I have aanother chore for you to do!"

And when she became so curious about what her latest chore was, Linda had placed the broom next to the door and stepped into the house.

Of course, she was about to close the door.

But that was before the mysterious voice said, "No, Linda. Leave it open. This won't take long."

And then, just as she was about to turn on the lights, a pair of strong hands grabbed her and placed a blindfold over her eyes and a ball gag in her mouth.

And after she got stripped and her wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with bondage cuffs, that same mysterious voice said, "Sorry, Linda. But this is the only way for me to quench my sexual hunger."

And when she felt a man's penis force its way into her asshole, Linda screamed and found herself in her apartment.

That was when she called her boss on the phone and said, "Sorry, Mister Lovelace.But I'm not coming to work today."

I told her this would be the last time. I just couldn't do this any more.

Every Wednesday morning around 10, I would walk past her home. The door ajar, the broom outside. Every Wednesday. Every other day she would be there sweeping, cleaning, the smell of apple pie baking would waft into my path. Wednesday’s were our day.

It had been our day. We had an agreement, she asked no questions and neither did I.

I stepped over the broom and could feel the presence of someone inside, someone begging me to come in. Someone who wanted my body, who wanted me for what I am - A stranger but more than capable of providing her with what she so often needed.

The mind blowing sex that would take place in this very room.
Before I could gather my thoughts and attempt to resist, she pounced. Locking the door behind me – seemingly aware of my doubt.

What happens when doubt rises to the surface? You take it and force it back down. So she took it, in her hand, in her mouth – and forced it down and down and down….

Same time next week then. Next Wednesday.

Slave To A Vampire

It was during the evening hours of May the Thirtieth that a beautiful but lonely young woman with red hair named Christine Schaffner was sweeping the dirt out of her house before she heard a mysterious voice say, "Please come back inside!"

And strangely enough, the power of those words became so strong that it forced a mesmerized Christine to leave the broom next to the open door and slowly walk back into the house and towards the one part of the interior where the light was still dim.

That was where she gazed her hypnotized eyes upon her blond mistress who was looking at the cross before she lifted her black dress and started fucking her vagina with that cross.

That was before she looked at Christine with her fangs showing and said, "Take your clothes off!"

And after she had done that, Christine laid herself down on the bed just in time for her mistress to start fucking her with the cross.

But before the fiendish beauty was about to sink her fangs into her helpless slave and suck her blood, Christine reached under her pillow, grabbed a wooden stake and slammed it into the bitch's heart.

And when the body of her former mistress changed into dust, Christine slammed her fist on the wall, looked at her fallen victim with her own fangs showing and said, "Thanks a lot, Bitch! Now I have to sweep this whole room all over again!"