Entrance #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

portal

 

In the depth of the cave lies a long hidden secret, visible only to the initiated: to those who truly love this land, who have ploughed its fields, nurtured its trees and respected all that lives here. The secret tells them where to hide, how to protect their children and how to honour their ancestors.

The initiated know that the invaders will come, again, as they did in the past, hate and fury, rage to destroy. But they will be, again, defeated, as were the others before them and the ones who will come after them.

For deeper still, lies the Magus, who will awake, at the sound of the horn, when the land is violated. Fear his wrath, as he avenges those who were slain by the Evil, and the corpses of the invaders line up the roads all the way back whence they came.

On the streets #Berlin #January

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Still remnants of the past Sylvester

and dead Christmas trees

litter the streets,

grey the walls,

sad the dogs,

only the crows find cause to rejoice.

Sparrows sing, in the cold bushes.

The city, lost in a dream,

lets the clowns speak, 

ignores the lies:

she’s heard many others.

Yet Spring will come,

and the Sun will shine again on Mauerweg.

 

Image source

Keep #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

keep

 

It may surprise you, no doubt, but I am still here. Yes, in this old keep. It has been my home, all these centuries, since the fatal siege that killed most of my people. Well, most of them, not all. You see, below the keep is a long tunnel. Its access could be easily blocked. At the other end is the sea. We had plenty of provisions, all the weapons we could use, we survived for years. As you can see, from here I could look at the traitor, over there, in what was our tower. One clear morning, that was before we collapsed the entrance to our domain, I killed him, one careful shot from my longbow. Ha ha! That was a kick in the ants nest. They tried everything, water, fire, poison… It was too late for them.

So, you may well ask. What did we do all these years? Well, you know your history, or rather what they, and their ‘historians”, told you. The usurpers stayed. We occasionally went out and killed a few of their mercenaries, but this was hopeless. The people were terrified. We lived from fishing, a little hunting, which was more dangerous. My companions died, one by one. I held their funeral at sea, during the night. Finally, I was on my own. More years passed. I am still here. I don’t think anyone can see me, but I have no idea what I look like, now. By the way don’t trust those images of me in museums: I know they made me look awful. As they say, the victors write history, and have pictures made of their victims.

Not that I see myself as a victim any longer.

Ex Machina

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“She’s made of small parts, of metal, and plastic, of things none of them human, do you understand that?”

I do, I know the argument, humans are being phased out, it all started long ago. And, now, it’s difficult to work out the difference, to know who’s “real”, and what isn’t. Our reality has shifted. The others live among us, and who is to say it cannot go on.

Still, she’s there, she’s to stay. There is no-one else.

 

Image source

Presence #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

stones-old

 

They stand, silent, immobile, or so it seems. It looks as if time never flows, as if, for them, there is no beginning, and no end.

But there is. Their role is to bear witness. So they listen, observe, remember. One day, perhaps far into our future, even past us, even after we have gone, they will report, on this evolutionary incident.

They are Gaia’s sentinels.

Offering #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

offering

 

Time has now come. I expect her, I have long expected her, and, now, I know she’s there, close to the gates. She bears the chalice. From it, I will drink, to the last drop.

And so, the prophecy will be fulfilled, the order restored, the gods appeased.

Do I regret anything? I had a long life, known many winters, and so many springs: so much ice, so much sand, I hear the sound of bells.

She’s there, at my door, they tell me.

I know she’s beautiful, their messengers always are. I take a last look, out of the window of my room, at the far away hills, just touched by moonlight.

So many seas, so many mountains.

Time has come.

 

Encounter with an Angel, a pre-Christmas tale

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I stood waiting at the traffic lights with a few other humans, and I noticed her immediately: her posture, the recognisable signs of strength and gentleness. There are some very beautiful beings in this city, but this was enough for me to keep my eyes on her, as the traffic roared past us. She turned her head round toward me, and I saw the light in her blue eyes, and heard the melody of her voice in a concert of crystalline bells:

“You look worried, my friend, and you should not be,” said the Angel with a dazzling smile, “We know that not all is well in this world, but this is no different from all times,” she continued, as I looked at her face in awe. “Besides, there are some very good things happening, even if it is sometime difficult, for you, to recognise them. You should know that every time the Enemy scores one, We win two, sometime even three. So, please relax, and keep your faith in Her, for She won’t abandon you, however stupid you might be, most of the time.”

I was speechless. People walked around me. The lights had changed from red to green and back to red again. The Angel had gone, in a cloud of bells.

She knows

Harvard_Theatre_Collection_-_Brünnhilde,_TS_40.40

 

She knows how much I value her, her role, her character, and she plays hard to get.

“You have to show me, not good enough just to say: ‘she possessed him, he was what her will dictated.’ You have to write it, convincingly, a good two thousand words, at least, showing how much this is true, this is his reality, the truth about my power…”

And, of course, she means her power over me too. I have to admit she’s at the center of this, the lady of the forest, the magician, the witch, she who inspires me. But she wants more. She wants success, fame, she wants to be on the stage. I have to work harder. The plot is too complicated. It’s not, solely, about her. She, is merely interested on how bright she will shine, a heroin for our time.

“And then you have to show what I can do, not fiddling in the bushes, the real me: just look, deep in my eyes!”

She has gorgeous eyes, a deep green, turning grey, when she’s really angry, like now.

So I must reform, understand that this is her book, not mine. That this is her story, not just any story.

Or else.

 

Image: Brünnhilde, By Odilon Redon – Houghton Library, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3721653b

Angel #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

christmas

 

You raised your arms, the dove looks about to fly away. The world is at peace, your smile reassures all of us. The small flame vacillates, one short instant. The warm light plays in your hair. How we admire your face, the beautiful eyes that greet all of us.

For we are afraid, and seek your protection. The donkey looks at you, just to make sure you understood: your people need you.