Turrets #writephoto

Turrets

pinnacle

 

When we left – how long ago was it? – it was summer. As we look over the tall trees, disappearing through the dark, icy air, we know that, here, wherever “here” is, it’s winter. But we don’t feel the cold, we just know it is.

Through the foliage covered with snow, the vision of a dream-like castle, its spires and turrets, appears, emerging from the mist. Is it a dream, or a nightmare? Are we lost, have we taken the wrong turn, on whatever road we followed?

Are we elsewhere? When did we leave the warmth and light of our city? This world is grey, and, now, we cannot guess what horrors await us.

Avenue #writephoto

Avenue

avenue

 

Under the bright green canopy we do not feel the heat of the day, nor do we venture in the full light. You and I merely enjoy the peace, the remoteness from the living. Far away, we hear children playing, perhaps even the notes of a violin, invisible, beyond the orchard.

We have lived nearby, in a house full of memories, ours and many others’, who may have forgotten us. For we have escaped time, as we replay those cherished moments in silence, our puzzled, ethereal ghosts haunting this land forever.

Unloaded #fivewords

Weekly Writing Challenge #141

dsc_0705

 

The stage was set long ago, where we have to admit our guilt, the betrayal of all that we believed in, when we were young.

That innocent person, that child, has grown into this: a pretentious liar, a coward, a traitor to what is fair and noble, an unctuous criminal. 

The angel is waiting, the page is blank.

We will have to confess, for once, we will have to tell the truth.

Not only tell, but write it.

It’s that, or the gun, lying on the table.

A clear choice: go to the light, or die the miserable death of the servants of the Enemy.

 

Picture: grave in Invaliden churchyard, near the Hohenzollern Kanal © 2016 Honoré Dupuis

Fallen #writephoto

Fallen

fallen

 

For millennia they stood, tall and proud guardians of the hills. Humans, and smaller animals, sought refuge at their feet. Much later, villagers danced around them, and celebrated sunrise, touching the smooth stone for luck and prosperity. No-one knew what spirits, or forces of nature, had erected them, long, long ago, when the earth was young.

Then the floods came, washing away much of the ancestral soil, and the ground had given under their weight: tired after all, they’d fallen slowly to the ground, as if punished by the gods for their pride.

Now, the sleeping giants lay, silent, surrounded by ferns and the quiet voices of young trees. The earth is again at peace, humans, and smaller animals, still come here to rest at their feet.

Ascent #writephoto

Ascent

spiral

 

Inside was a blissful, cool darkness. As we stepped in, and the heavy door closed behind us without a sound, we admired the immaculate spiral staircase, and wondered. How long would we have to wait, and, perhaps, how far would we have to climb, before meeting the master of the house?

It was so quiet we dared not speak a word. Sun rays filtered through the curtained windows. The sparse furniture was polished to the extreme, the mirrors on the walls seemed to be veiled – or was it our imagination?

There was only one way to go, and this was upstairs. We looked at each other, and smiled: we hadn’t got thus far to abandon our visit. After all we were invited. We were invited, even though we did not know where the invite came from…

We were young, and beautiful, what did we have to fear?

We took the first step, and you took my hand. It seemed that the house had gone a little darker. You went first, I, as ever, following, it was not the first time we’d ignored a warning…

Splash #writephoto

Splash

splash

 

We loved the sound of the big stone falling into the clear water, we loved the endless ripples, afterwards, in the little pool. The light reflected on the sharp green ferns, the fresh grass, as the whole nature spelt: Spring!

We were young, we got wet, we looked at our reflections, as if our future would suddenly appear, as the water surface went back to a calm mirror.

Sometime we saw shadows, behind our smiling faces, as if ghosts awaken by the splash had come up to check who dared disturb the peace…

Angel of the Night #fivewords

Weekly Writing Challenge #138

pexels-photo-208001.jpeg

 

It is one of her recurring dreams: the angel stands, high on the edge of a cliff, at night. Herself, watching the angel, can feel the old scar burning, a real fire, not the sort of fake feeling, and she can still remember it in the morning. That, the burn, and the deep feeling of joy at the presence of the angel.

Image source: Pexels

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