April “opens” summer and while you may have thought its on-again off-again weather is the impetus for the April Fool’s Day tradition, the origins are actually so old no one knows where it really started. But if you read the excerpt pictured below, I think I may have found why we call people who are easily fooled “a fish.”
I think it may be appropriate that the entry for April comes after that of Aquarium.
From my Grandparent’s A volume of Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia, 1937 edition:
In Print Professional Writers is a group based in the Rockford area that is affiliated with the Chicago Writers Association, of which I am now a member. They have come up with an interesting idea called Word of Art. Writers submit short stories, poems or non-fiction that is 200 words or less and then artists can look through them and select one to be the inspiration for a work of art.
On September 5 there will be a reception to showcase the art, the stories, and their creators. Art and story/poem will also be compiled in a book which will be sold at the reception.
I am excited to announce that even though the stories just went live a couple of days ago, my story, An Autumn Afternoon, has already been chosen by an artist named Kathy Baker. Kathy has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree with a concentration in photography.
I’ll keep you informed as the event gets closer in the hope that some of you can attend and participate. I know I plan to be there to sign copies and meet and greet. (PLEASE NOTE: The image posted above is NOT the image created for the story. That won’t happen until later this summer.)
Here’s the story that will be transformed into art:
AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON
The orchard smells of apples. I stretch out to grab a red globe that dangles within reach. The stem snaps; leaves float down around me. More apples tempt me just out of range, begging to be picked. Each so smooth and perfect, I wish I were two feet taller.
I shine the fruit to a deep maroon on the thigh of my jeans. Not a flaw in it. My teeth crunch through the red-skinned, white flesh. The juice, sweet and tart, puckers my cheeks. The framework of branches above me stretches like a stairway waiting for an adventurous child. But there is no child to climb today.
Or is there? I step into the crotch of the tree and hoist myself up. Left foot, right foot, then—I stop. What is it about adulthood that makes us so cautious?
I sit on a likely looking limb and take another bite. The aroma of ripening fruit mingles with a whiff of burning leaves. Through the tracing of branches, I glimpse my neighbor in a red and black checked shirt. He leans on his rake, flames rising from a pile of brown and gold and red, looking my way.
via In Print: An Autumn Afternoon
Debra R. Borys 