Sisley and writing prompt

What does the painting by Sisley conjure in your soul?

I was walking next to the city wall carrying what I'd managed to glean from the abandoned house down the lane when the snow began. The village disappeared in a flurry of white, my headscarf disappearing with it. In front of me I could barely make out the orange gate that opened into the village proper. I was alone and afraid.

The past year had been a struggle to survive, everything gone in the flash that bore down on us that early evening. Since then we'd lost so many people to disease and starvation. We, the survivors, had buried them as best we could and then dispersed into groups of two or three, some heading out of town to find a way out, others, like myself, finding a hideyhole where I could be safe. Mine was in the basement of an old building that had once housed a family of four--all of them gone now. 

When I saw a figure hurrying my way I backed up against the wall hoping they would simply pass me by, but this time I was not so lucky. Before I could cry out they'd ripped the meagre hunks of stale bread from my hands and thrown me to the gound. I lay there like dead, watching the blood from the cuts on my hands and arms from the rough stone beneath my body pool red against the white. I knew if I didn't rouse myself I would be dead by morning.

What do you see in this picture? Can you begin a story that leads you into the world of your imagination? Go for it! And if you want to post it into the comments, please do so!

Thanks for reading.

#writing prompt/nanowrimo

One of my favorite exercises in English class was when the teacher/professor gave us a sentence and said: 'write for twenty minutes'. What I want to do here is somewhat the same, especially since November is nearly upon us and Nanowrimo! What better way to prepare? But instead of a sentence I'm going to be using photos or pictures to stimulate the creative part of your brain. So here we go:

When I saw the wooden door I knew--it had to be the one. It was old, older than anything I'd seen around these parts. And the color was exactly as she had described, a shade between turquoise and cerulean. It was set deep into the hand chiseled stone surrounding it, as if guarding something secret. I stood there for at least twenty minutes staring at the cracked paint, the rusted handle, thinking about what she'd said. 

"When you find the door all you have to do is step through and everything will be different."

"How different?" I'd asked, my skin prickling.

She'd smiled then, her eyes crinkling, her lovely mouth moving up at the corners, making me want to kiss her. But when I took a step toward her she backed away, her sweet smile turning into a frown. 

"If you trust me you'll do it," she'd said before turning her back and walking into the dusk and shadows. 

"Wait!" I called out. "How will I know it's the right one?"

But she was gone and I was left only with the  echo of my words. 

I put my hand on the rusted latch, apprehension moving through my body. Was I ready for this? How did I know she'd been telling the truth? After all we'd only been friends for a little over six months. What did I really know about her? I pictured her triangular face, the pale amber eyes that seemed to see straight into me. She looked like a pixie or a sprite, as though she might sprout gossamer wings and fly away.

I breathed in and out, picturing her waiting for me on the other side. My heart was racing. At first the latch resisted when I pressed down, as though it wasn't sure I had a right to be here. I pushed inward with my shoulder, feeling the stickiness of age and disuse, hearing the groan of rusty hinges, and then it swung open.

So you get the picture--(no pun intended) Now go for it!