Today’s prompt: kangaroo, light bulb, taco
It was one of these mornings! But don’t ask me why… The kitchen light bulb popped out, the crazy poster of the kangaroo seducing the dormouse fell on the floor… and she, who must be obeyed, got up in a foul mood…
Hence me, writing this nonsense, drinking beer, and avoiding low-flying bombers tacos!
Today’s prompt: filter, keepsake, salad
The apartment is so empty, the sky so low, the morning so quiet. Near the coffee machine, behind the filter box, I have hidden a keepsake of her presence, here, one summer night.
I look at that bit of silk, black, introvert, provocative. Tender was that night, and I made her such a lovely salad!
Winter is not over, still plenty of time to dream…
Image: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_wzBJE0rOk
Letter found at the gate, pinned on a mysterious (dead) body…
Dear Miss Marples, I wish to let you know of circumstances that, hopefully, may attract your attention. You should know first of all that I am the sole successor of a once extremely wealthy Yorkshire family. My ancestors were land owners, industrialists, sea captains, officers, and our roots go back, at least, to the War of the Roses. My parents died of a tragic accident at sea when I was still in infancy. I was educated by my aunt, the last owner of the family manor called “The Invitation”. Indeed the property was the last asset left in the family after a succession of poor investments. After my aunt’s departure from this world, a few decades back, The Invitation was left closed and unoccupied for some time, and I was recently astonished to receive a letter from a very old notary in Skipton, asking me to contact him for a matter of extreme importance related to the said property.
It turned out that some unknown and apparently extremely rich foreigner had enquired about the property owners, and wished to make an offer for it. To tell you the truth I never considered the property of being of particular interest to me personally, as my business is mainly conducted overseas, and I have only rare opportunities to visit the beautiful county. Still the notary insisted in letting me know the particulars of the query, since I was, am, the only inheritor of the family’s once great fortune. To be precise, and according to the notary, The Invitation’s value is probably close to ten million Sterling, due to the extent of the land adjacent to the manor, and, I was told, the surprisingly good conditions of the manor itself. And here is a mystery. The notary told me that the opening offer from the rich foreigner, was about ten times as much, which for him did not make sense. He had very little other information, but had a postal box address in Hong Kong for contacting the said foreigner. I hesitated but finally made up my mind, and wrote to the man (assuming it is a man) suggesting a meeting to discuss the business. To be honest this was as much motivated by curiosity, than by appetite for profit. I am myself reasonably wealthy now, having gained from various speculative activities over the years.
I heard nothing for nearly two months, then I received a proposal from the would-be buyer, to meet me at the gate of The Invitation. Hence this letter to you. I have attached a computer file containing all the information communicated by the notary, and what I have drawn from my own research. I am somewhat concerned about the identity of the would be buyer and the reasons for the interest shown. The proposed meeting is in three weeks time, in the evening. I must say that the would be buyer has warned me, as you can see for the recent communication, not to contact anyone about a deal, including the Skipton notary, who denies any personal knowledge. Can you please advise me on what to do. The secrecy surrounding this worries me, but I cannot find any reason why it should.
Yours faithfully…
The Yorkshire police is still trying to identify the victim, and has engaged Miss Marples’ services to assist them.
Inspired by an evening, roaming through the second floor of the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin
In the morning I went to the gym and trained as usual, carefully. I felt relaxed, the dizziness was gone. Back home, the most important person had gone to her own class. We would meet later, and I had time to prepare breakfast. First I sorted the gym clothes, making sure the wet towel and T-shirt were hung out to dry. The air was still cold but the sun was shining. The clear new bright sun of February. I closed the door of the balcony. Suddenly the dizziness had come back, like a small cloud out of nowhere. I laid out the breakfast table, poured a cup of coffee. The pain in my left arm was now sharper. I was used to it. The price for keeping fit was to be in permanent pain, or so I had told myself, long ago. I sat down, breathed deeply. The apartment was silent, I could only hear the deep growl of traffic, down on the avenue, and the crows exchanging gossips, up there on the roof. I had time. The most important person would not be back for another hour. I decided to write a short note: “Feeling a little tired, if I am asleep when you come back, just wake me up, softly! Xx”
I decided to lie down on the sofa, pulled the light blanket over the pain, smiling. The crows had gone silent. The traffic noise seemed to recede. The pain had moved from the arm to somewhere between the shoulder and the middle of the chest. All at once it grew even sharper. There was no surprise, I had long expected this: not a question of if, merely when. My vision had gone vague, all sounds had receded. I felt a great calm, just the pain, invasive, and I knew I was going. Soon it was dark. A last thought was how simple this was.
The separation came later. How much time had gone by then, I could not even imagine. The pain had gone, only remained utter lightness. The light was dimmed. The room and the surface where I had rested were gone. Moving felt easy. Was it really moving? Exploring without motion, rather. Was this still me? These questions felt unimportant. I sensed, rather than looked, around. There was a shore, an expanse of water. No sound.
Then I saw him. I knew immediately who he was, although he looked much younger than I had expected. Charon’s eyes betrayed his apparent youthfulness. He was deaf, but his benevolent words came clear to my mind. “I was expecting you earlier, and I am pleased to see you.” Then a little later – but what did that mean now? – “Take place when you are ready, there is plenty of time.”
I stood at the front of the boat, exactly as in the painting. Standing, I was aware of the long white robe, of the hood. I felt somehow very dignified, at peace. Charon sat at the back, his muscular arms in evidence under the medieval shirt. Without moving I could see his calm face, the kindness of his eyes, and yet the absence of smile. The boat was now moving effortlessly, or rather gliding on the surface of the water. I could see the rudders cutting through in silence. The light was now brighter, under a cloudless but rather dark sky. I had the feeling we were immobile and that it was the water that was flowing under our boat.
Then the island was there, at first a small icon, and then the cypresses came into view. The sight of them was a sheer pleasure, a feeling of fulfilment. The dark green contrasted with the pale face of the high walls and rocks at the water edge. A faint mist surrounded the vision. “We have arrived,” said Charon without a word, “don’t worry about your luggage, it will be taken care of.” I only then notice the ancient coffer at my feet. I looked up, saw the small windows on the face of the cliff. Scents: the trees, sea water, salt in the air. I knew there was a cell for me, somewhere deep in the immensity of the island. Lightheaded I turned to the sea: Charon and his boat had gone. Small waves were crushing on the narrow shore. Did I hear sea birds in the sky?
…
“Wake up lazy bones!” said the most important person, her crystal laugh resonating in the room. The crows were back, and so was the traffic. Why did those legs feel so heavy?
Photo: Arnold Böcklin, die Toteninsel, Alte Nationalgalerie
Die Toteninsel, in Deutsche Wikipedia
We stood silent, and felt the temperature rise a little, as morning light reflected on the monolith. We moved a little closer, you held my hand tighter. Was that a shimmer on the surface of the rock?
“It’s alive, and it has sensed us”, you said very low. “It knows we are here, perhaps even who we are.” The ground was still frozen, except for a circle around the stone. “See the markings: it’s a sentinel…”
More stones were buried deep, all over the moor. Was this an ancient ritual site, or the remnants of an even older battlefield? If this was a sentinel, was it still signalling to anyone? And who were they?
Was it still talking to its masters? And if it were alive, then… was it alone?
Overwhelmed by sorrow, he called for his guardian angel. She came at once, and took him to the cliff to watch the sunset, just the two of them. All at once calmed, reassured, he looked up to her smiling face: then she said: “I know, you feel lonely, but in truth you are lucky, you had more love than most mortals, and maybe you did not always deserve it…”
“Now is time for you to give grace, for your life, for the children you were given, for this sunrise… And for me to come to you, as I saw your distress.”
He felt on his knees, but she insisted he stood, side by side with her, and he felt her searching his mind, destroying the demons and the false hopes.
“Of course you will die, when your time comes. For now, look at the star rising, feel the warmth, feel my hand on your shoulder, and don’t wallow in self-pity. I will come back when it is your turn…”
He felt her lips on his, her presence, and then she was gone. Alone he watched the dawn of a new day.
He remembered an old science fiction story, set in the Middle Ages of a world in a far-away galaxy. The hero’s weapon is a sword, its blade honed from a single crystal. This was different. The jade colour of the blade, its transparency, made the material uncertain, implausible even. Yet it was there, the celtic hilt, the cross. The elaborate work of the pommel hinted at a late period, perhaps at the Renaissance. But he knew it was much older. He knew when it had been forged, and the name of the sword smith.
But he could not remember where the furnace was.
“Where,” she thought, “where shall I meet you, where for our next date, my dear, so dear love?”
There is no light, darkness reigns, but she knows a place, deep in her memories, the rose garden, in late Spring, the fragrance of the blooms, the humming of the bees. She remembers, she can evoke the place, the time, his face. She sees the colours, feels the warm air on her skin.
She has to be strong, retrace her steps, and his. The monsters are building hell on earth, but she knows where Paradise lies, deep, deep in her heart. Untouchable, safe, as he will be, when they meet again, in the rose garden.
rock, joint, inner, sight, sail
Standing on a rock, alone, he lost sight of her shadow.
Gone the tenuous line, the light joint in their inner lives,
dissolved, her face less and less recognisable,
a sail soon disappeared in the
immensity of his despair.
Image: Orpheus, by Pierre Amedee Marcel-Beronneau, source
“Don’t get too close!”
“What do you mean? Do you think I could wake him up? It’s a rock, just a big ‘un! Relax!”
The snow continues falling, nothing moves, bar the flakes in the light wind. I know it’s not a rock, I know what’s there, and I don’t want to risk it. But this friend of mine is too cheeky. This could turn out pretty bad.
“I’m not leaving without touching it!” She really wants to tease me. “Come on! Let’s pull its tail!”
And she starts walking, toward the trees, toward it. It.
I see her standing there, in her big coat, pretty, rosy cheeks, her blond hair catching the snow.
“Hey! Look! It’s not moving!”
I sigh. She’s not the first one to do this. But now, it is moving, not the big mass, but the ground around it. I can see, I feel the light vibrations, something deep is fluttering, just a small tremor.
“Come back please, I am getting cold…”
“You’re just such a coward, you are!” She laughs.
She looks so young, her clear voice resonates in my ears, soon a murmur, as she slowly disappears in the frozen ground. A soft motion, silent, as I watch, petrified , and the snow continues falling.
