#DailyPrompt: Shape of Your Year

Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: State of your Year…

这@vervol采集到雕塑(274图)_花瓣人文艺术She stopped near the girls’ cave, noticing the sensors were still on. “They are so careful, now they have learned…” she told herself. Soon they would depart, for the long journey…

It had been a good year, at long last she’d cracked the code, and the girls’ language. Of course she’d been lucky. Not only she’d kept alive – not a mean feat being alone with twenty feet high monsters that could split a rock in one blow – but they had started communicating, and quickly understood what she expected.

Yes, there was the solitude, she was after all the only human being in an immensity of millions of parsecs. She sometimes thought of him, her hero, her lover, the one who had protected her with his life, his cherished body now buried in the deep grave near Alph Centauri. She carried his memory, deep, in the secret core of her heart.

The girls emerged, their pleasure in seeing her visible from the tremendous oscillations of their antennae.

“Good morning comrades!” she said. “A good year in front of us, and the ship is well advanced already!” They greeted her in return, the huge bodies mimicking a little dance. Each one of them must have weighed twenty tons. A great help when you deal in high energy metallurgy…

“One year” she thought, and on this vast planet, so rich in the resources she needed, one year was ten Earth years.

#Writing space (Thursday’s Musings) #amwriting

Faraway Looks, René Magritte, 1927The desk is littered:  photographs of the sublime Italian model he worships, another of himself in the Dolomites with two small children – now young adults – a postal card of Paul Klee’s “The Saint of the inner Light”, various requests for donations (well…) and more…

And what about this new work? Stalling, wandering, disrupted and drifting: this cannot continue! But yet, there are so many distractions, take for example that invite to meet xxx in London in June – wow! But work! Writing is a discipline, solitary confinement, self-imposed chastity – what else? O, yes, these pesky characters, both attractive and repellant, they want their way, can’t have it, protest, go on strike…

There is a start, a location, a loose outline, and some collaterals. But not enough to jump. Then those pictures flashing on the screen saver, so many moments of happiness, terror, doubt, pleasure! Writing is of course the best place, for an ageing traveller: revisiting, looking back, rediscovering… In one word: hard work.

Image: Faraway Looks, René Magritte, 1927

The Saint of inner Light

Paul Klee: The Saint of inner Light

#FiveSentenceFiction: Family

For Racheal

Mother and Child, Egon SchieleHe woke up, immersed in the low hum of the ship, secure and relaxed in the familiar cabin he shared with Anna: she was already up, probably busy in the kitchen.

It was his birthday: every earth-year Anna would prepare a surprise for him specially for that day, last year it was the hyperspace astrolabe, a marvel of exquisite art and navigation engineering skill: Anna, ever attentive and watchful, his dedicated and beautiful companion, so human in the small imperfections he’d learnt to admire.

The door opened, silently, and there she stood looking at him, her warm smile on the sensual lips: “Good morning my love, are you ready for a cup of coffee? Happy birthday!”

He paused and took Anna in his arms: then he saw the small boy, standing proudly at the door, holding a steaming pot of coffee: on the boy’s face he saw himself, through eons of time.

“You see, I did not forget what you said last year about not having a son with you on this long voyage… He’s so much like his dad!” said Anna, smiling the eternal woman’s and mother’s tenderness, Anna, the near-perfect human, the elite replicant, his lover in the immense solitude of space.

#VisDare96: Inevitable #WritersWednesday

InevitableAt first, I did not know, whether the water was flowing in, or out.

The door stood ajar, old, framed by ancient ivy and medieval stones, as if it were waiting for a visitor, but not so inviting, perhaps even warning the daring intruder…

Immobile, silent, I waited, for a sound, a sign, maybe even a voice: but there was no sound, even the slow, hesitant, waves at my feet appeared to be muted.

Slowly, approaching the door, a thought: is this water alive, watching, listening, and waiting too? Waiting for something to emerge from the darkness within? Waiting for some creature from the deep, from times long forgotten, to throw a tentacle, searching, sensing, hunting for human life?

Did I come here in search for a lost truth, for a lost identity? Were there so few survivors, and did I come here to surrender, to accept defeat, and to die?

Image: Jerry N. Uelsmann, untitled, 1969, at http://www.all-art.org/art_20th_century/uelsmann1.html, via Angela Goff

#FiveSentenceFiction: Memories #Wupatki National Monument #NativeAmerican

Wupatki PuebloWe stood, silent, our eyes fixed on the painted desert: then you talked to me in the tongue of your ancestors, it was suddenly as if we were transported in time.

Children played on the circular ball ground, parents laughed, you spoke with them.

I saw the house, as it was then, in its splendour, full of happy people.

A joyful little troop came back from the fields, carrying basketfuls of corn cobs and fruits – I remember then what you’d said about those expert astronomers, canal builders and farmers…

I looked up at the cloudless sky, then, you said in English, your hand on my shoulder: “You see, that’s how it was, in the 14th century of your era, and we remember.”

#FiveSentenceFiction: Departure

tearsWe stand on the platform, both silent.

You’re taller than me now, and I would have difficulty in carrying that heavy rucksack, you’re stronger too…

Yet, you are still fragile, I know, and I wish I could communicate, no, better, transfer to you my inner strength.

You smile, we kiss, you stand tall, a young woman walks past, looking at you, your train arrives, we shake hands: farewell my son.

There is no tears as those of a soldier.