“Why hello there February, aren’t you looking uncharacteristically sunny and pleasant today, what are you up to? WHAT DO YOU HAVE PLANNED YOU GREGORIAN RUNT!? I’M ON TO YOU!”
After the rain yesterday’s rain which could have been described with adjectives like biblical or apocalyptic, the shortest and most excellent of months has begun with a sky of clear and brilliant duck egg blue. A brief respite from the fickle throes of the British winter, or a karmic reward for enduring that which has passed? Who can say? Other than perhaps the Met Office, that is after all, their job. I for one doubt that the rains have deigned to relinquish their grasp on the world, not yet. But for now we can sit back and enjoy what good fortune we have and relish in the knowledge that so far we remain resolutely “not dead.” That day will come, the day where will finally be ensconced behind the Barrow Door.
Ah the tenuous segue, where would any self-respecting Pictonaut Challenge be without one? This month’s image is of, if you hadn’t quite put two and two together yet, a door. A closed door is a mystery, a promise and perhaps an invitation. Doors can be literal or metaphorical, wrought from iron, hewn from stone or cut from wood. Doors are a hallmark of our strange little civilisation. And how could I resist this evocative beauty? An old wooden door built into the side of a hill in a mist shrouded forest. After much digging I am lead to believe that it is a photograph by one Eric Peterson. Getting images from tumblr does have the disadvantage of often not supplying you with a source. But should I be wrong in my attribution, someone feel free to put me right.
Once again I shall outline the basic rules and tenets of this endeavour. We take the above picture, we take a good long look at it. We look at it hard. And then we stick on our thinking caps and then set about writing a short story (or Wordascope) based upon it, aiming to have it all done and dusted by the end of the month.
Just remember that all rules and guidelines are fluid and flexible, just like your warm, pallid flesh-meat.
Best get writing.