Shadows #writephoto

Shadows

 

“I am not sure where to start,” said the old man, looking at me with a smile. “This is an ancient site, and it’s full of memories… of shadows too…” I was intrigued, but waited for him to continue. “A great poet once lived here, and also, later, people I don’t really want to say much about.”

From the edge of the little cave we could see the shadows moving fast across the dry ground. “There are several layers of old masonry below us, but this was never excavated other than just below the surface. You see, the present owners know: there are remains there that are best left, deep, undisturbed, forgotten…”

We moved out in the open, there was no-one around. Finally I asked: “But you are from here, I understand you are the best informed of our local historians here. This place is often visited, and photographed. What shadows are you talking about?”

There was a pause. “I will tell you, but not here. This place is haunted, and they can hear us. We must respect the past, whatever it was, and it is best to discuss these things away from them.”

 

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By the riverside #writephoto

Calm

autumn-018-2

 

We walk hand in hand in the peace of the morning. The river flows and reminds us of times past. We haven’t forgotten, but we have forgiven. For us, forgiveness has long been our way to give thanks. After all, the monsters are dead and we are alive, at least alive enough to admire the blue sky reflected in the calm water.

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Glimmer #writephoto

Glimmer

distant-lights

 

“Beyond those hills is our home”, he said softly to her ear, as they looked down the valley, toward the estuary. There the town was cradled, a thin glimmer of light against the darkness.

She shivered a little, but not from cold. She thought again of the place, the wild garden, the old walls. No-one had been there for ages. She could already hear the front door creak. Who would notice their return?

“I will look on as you fall asleep, I will wait for as long as it takes.” His voice so low only her could hear his words. She smiled, of course he will look after her, as he had done for all those years, as they roamed the world, away, so far away from home.

“We haven’t been near humans for a while…” she said, as she leaned against him.

“I know,” he replied softly, “we just hear them, they ignore us and will continue to ignore us. For them we are a flutter of fine dust, a tiny vortex in the air…”

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Bone #writephoto

Bone

skull

 

This can’t be real… No, of course not, this is a game… That object there, yes, that skull, they think, it may be a gate, you know, some kind of key, to get somewhere else? This is a  game, of course. But it may also be a trap, something really nasty, that blows up in your face, you know…

I observe the fools from my observatory on the low hill, the sniper rifle comfortably cradled against my shoulder. I see all three of them, hideous trolls. I know what they are saying, in their vernacular. “This must be a game…” Idiots.

The first one, one disgusting character, approaches the skull. The bullet takes him right in the eye as he’s about to touch the bone. One down.

The other two look around, there is no escape, nowhere to hide, they don’t even run. I take my time. No unnecessary cruelty. A quick and neat death. Job done.

And it’s not even a real bone!

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