Messenger #WritePhoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt

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I know he will come, one day, or, better, one beautiful evening, a calm, unhurried flight punctuated, at dusk, by the black birds’ song, and, even, if I am lucky a nightingale’s.

They know me, they know I admire them, and they keep looking down at that fragile, elderly silhouette, on my walks. Time is soon, of that I have no doubt, for I have seen the signs. So, one of them, I am sure, will be the Messenger.

When time comes I will welcome the Messenger, if not the message. After all, I had a long life.

The Man Who Feared His Past #WritersWednesday

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He dreamed of speeches he may have made, once, as a much younger and more confident man, to audiences he held in awe, of intractable dilemmas he would have resolved, in another age, perhaps another world: what he feared most was his own past. Long forgotten antagonists were reappearing, more menacing, whose names he could not remember, but he knew, how much it had cost him, then, to chase them away.

And, now, they were back, vengeful, demanding, seeking retribution, wanting him to pay for what he had imposed on them, for his treachery, and for being, now, the mere shadow of himself.

It was as if all those distant years were coming back to him, forcing him to replay, to prove, again and again, that he was still able to fend off the Enemy. Like so many tentacles from the depth, voices he did not want to hear, questions he did not want to answer, faces he had thought forever forgotten, all, were surrounding him, insisting, clamouring for his undivided attention, and perhaps, apologies. He was drowning in his own memories.

In the middle of the night he was seeking a lone friendly face, a long lost friend, but only saw the hordes of maleficent creatures from his distorted life. In the morning, grateful for the dawn, he asked himself: is this hell?

 

Image: The Appearance of the artist’s family via Marc Chagall, via https://artist-chagall.tumblr.com/

Tether #TheDailyPost

Today’s prompt

redcrossnursen

The place is hers, she’s on her own ground. She knows what to do, who else is there, who does what. She’s all powerful. But sometimes, we don’t have a choice, submission is the safest bet. Her manners are gentle, evidently, she’s an expert.

So, for a few hours, captivity feels sweet. Later, it may be different, later, when the pain comes. Tethered, unable to move, utterly vulnerable. The thought that this is for my own sake does not alter the fact.

Picture: a recruiting poster for Australian nurses from World War I (source: Wikipedia)

Au Luxembourg #5Words

Weekly Writing Prompt #96

 

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She appears lost in thoughts,

Perhaps about the poor poet,

He who immortalised her…

We do not know where

She now lies, in peace.

Here, the card says “Laure”,

But he knew her as Laura,

So that there is a doubt,

As to whether she was the one

Who inspired him.

Here, in a press of children, of tourists,

She dreams among the queens,

And the senators,

Until her fall

 

Photo: statue de Laure de Sade, dite de Noves, par Auguste Ottin, Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris (Honoré Dupuis)

Flight #Writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s photo prompt

flight

 

His dreams were vivid, and the characters he met, often several nights on a row, as enigmatic as the stories they told. Of course, he could fly, walk lightly over the roofs of the city, silent and (almost) invulnerable. Early on, he had taken to follow several well used itineraries, snaking their way over the ancient buildings, some of them being the mere memories of places that may have existed there, in a distant past. He liked the blend of old and present, places he could retrace in his awaken life, and those that no longer existed, except in his dreams and in those of the mysterious beings who shared their secrets.

Only he had to watch out for the birds, whose dreams he could not share, and whose flights he had to carefully avoid: for, if there was contact, then suddenly he would come out of the dream, from whatever place he was at that instant, in the air or on the ground. He knew of several dreamers who had thus failed to respect the real masters of the skies, and found their fate in free fall.

NB – I have always been intrigued by the frontier between dream and wakefulness. As I looked at this week’s prompt, I was reading this article of The Places Journal, about Lovecraft and Ballard, who knew a thing or two about dreamers and their “corners”…

 

The tunnel #writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photoprompt

apparition

 

At first his vision was not clear, as if the world around him was out of focus. Minutes passed, then, step by step, he started making sense of what he was looking at. He was in some sort of cave, and far, far away in front of him, he could see light of day. He must have been lying down on a slab of rock, perhaps flat on his belly, but he could not feel the hard surface under him.

He tried to move, and sensed some motion, at the periphery of his vision. He wanted to touch, move his limbs, scratch his body. His body? He had wide angle vision, could look down at the floor of the cave down below, or up its ceiling, left and right.

Some oblong objects appeared, sideway of him. It took him some effort to recognise what they were: the pincers of some crustacean creature – was he in the claws of a giant spider?

He tried to move again, got some feeling in his right front limb, the claw had moved. Could he lift his head? Yes he could. It was so simple, the powerful limbs could lift his body up, shell and all.

The shell was his, he was the creature, the large sea spider, whose armour was scraping the floor of the tunnel, as he moved forward toward the light.

Loop #WritersWednesday #DailyPost

Inspired by today’s Prompt

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The shed stands in a little hollow, surrounded by trees and bushes. The bushes are of a climbing sort, maybe  roses, or jasmin. This place is old, but not decrepit, although as we approach it, I notice someone has removed the small inside lock on the door. It was a kind of light latch, just to allow the occupier to get privacy. My friend has disappeared inside, and I keep watch, to ensure she is not disturbed. I look around the shed, and notice some tools against its walls. My neighbour is working nearby. I mention to him the broken, or vandalised, latch. He’s aware of it, and says he will fix it. Then I remember I have that urgent phone call to give. It seems that all the public phones nearby are either not working, or of a type I cannot use. Is it that I have no change? Yet I have several cards, of a type that looks old and way past their usefulness date.

I quit the shed, with much regret, and walk toward the town hall. I never knew it was so close. I must talk to that councillor. Now there is a puzzle, what councillor, and why? Is this a throwback from that silly TV program we watched last night, where the mayor wants to buy the priory in order to build a casino? The one with the sexy nun who looks like my sister in law…

I take the familiar steps and enter the main hall. I am aware of people around, I hear them talking but cannot see them. I am worried about the friend left behind, a sweet worry tainted of lust. I try to use the hall’s telephone, but of course, do not know the extension. I am afraid of attracting attention: how could I justify my presence here? I recall that my neighbour said I could use his phone at home. I walk there, and follow a well kept path through the woods. His wife welcomes me, explains she’s now much better, and indeed looks even younger than I recall. We chat amiably, and when I try to give this call, I have forgotten what it was about, and to whom. I am now back, walking toward the shed, and found that my friend has gone. There is now, somehow, more light around, I keep looking at those useless bank cards in my wallet: a waste of space. Sometime, finding people we love, in this world, is nigh impossible. One moment they are there, just so close, and the next they are gone, and we cannot reach them.

I know this is dawn, and I have a choice, carry on the search, or pause. I know it may be prudent to pause now.

Image: Magritte Museum, Brussels

Escape

Weekly Writing Prompt #94

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On the map, the thin ruby line shows the road snakes its way from the center of the city – this immense space where children, and adults, play, and where the birds sing all day, all the way down south. We lose our way several times before reaching the city’s limits, and it does not matter, for this is a wonderful summer day. The trees are lush from the rain of the last shower, as we follow the trace of the old wall. We will take the escape route again, later, all the way to the old city.

Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing challenge, June 19, and a Sunday ride on the Berlin-Leipzig long distance cycling route.

Image: http://gruen-berlin.de/projekt/flaschenhalspark

 

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