Picture it and Write from ermiliablog@wordpress
Write a paragraph of fiction to accompany the image.
Or, it can be a poem
Anyone who wants to join in is welcome.
N’awlins is one hell of a place.
The laughter, jazz, horse-drawn carriages, étouffée and jambalaya, beignets, café au lait, and po’ boys, all do trip me out.
So you can’t blame me for wanting to have a little of it back at home.
I decided against an above ground cemetery in my back yard, although I could spend days (and eventually will, though not of my own accord) in one. I resonate in waves of sepulchers, mystified by stone carved lettering; lost in uncovered crypts and their broken concrete sides. Downed cracked angels and weathered urns press against my heart. I tangle with lithe spirits that float there and about. This is my other home.
But black wrought iron railings are exquisite, and I could have a set around my porch. I envied the railings on the second stories of the buildings in the Vieux Carre. Excited, I begin a design of my own, and slowly red flowers sprouted on the tips of the rails, which in time sprayed an aqua backdrop, and a puff, a soft glow, of white light, filtered just behind and placed an accent on the whole.
And on that page, another side of the city, which was not lost to me, began to grow. Yellow lantana, purple foxgloves and thorny red hibiscus, the cool green of gardens, hazy sunlit mornings, the polished wood on old street cars, the rushing of the Mississippi, the grandeur of its levees, the rough Louisiana roads, and the quiet inns with fragile black-tipped roses left on unbalanced marble tables paired with splintered round wood seats held up by chipped-ebony cast iron legs and backs… and the language of clipped Creole and off-de-boit Brooklyn rolling all around as one.