Arrgh... fiction and I do _not_ get along well - at least when i have to create it. i was given a picture of a woman looking out a window, here she is:

“…clip-clop-clip-clop…” The horse’s hooves seemed to beat rhythmically with her heart. A million thoughts raced through her head, until the brilliant sun, blazing grasses, and cobblestone streets all blended together into the glimmering reflection of light in the horse’s mane. Her mind was sucked into the blur of her tears – would she ever see him again?

For as long as she could remember, war had seemed to be out to get her, only her. It had taken her father’s last breath before she had taken her first; her uncle, the only man in her life until she was thirteen, was stripped from her in a blaze of bullets and hate. Now she was strong enough to take care of herself – yet she couldn’t hold her brother back from enlistment. Now Peter, poor, beautiful, obstinate Peter – refused to disobey the call of the country.

Soon there was only silence and a small black dot on the horizon. Echoing in her mind was Peter’s strong, soothing voice, “I’ll be back for you soon, my love…” She replayed those words over and over again, as the golden setting sun swallowed everything, splashing prisms of hope through the diamond of her engagement ring onto Peter’s black and white portrait on the mantle.

ah, noding for personal posterity...