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Fork #TheDailyPost

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The city is still divided by the river, there was the western enclave, the window shops, the traffic, the benevolent cops – here, on the eastern side, well, was a different world.

The reason why I am here, is precisely to track any clue that may remain, from that other age, any testimony of what it was really like. The wall has gone, but the river is still there, and the treasure island, at the fork. The two worlds now coexist, with boundaries no longer guarded, but not entirely removed either.

There is something in the air, perhaps a different pace of life, a different look in the eyes of the young women I watch, I, old relic of the Cold War…

Image: Alfred Lichtwark, Berlin: Verlag von Bruno Cassirer, 1922. Via the-two-germanys

Dream #TheDailyPost

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The sky was deep blue, the four moons guarded by silver clouds: the waves slowly caressed the black sand… There you stood, wrapped in the red toga of your caste, the two deep wells of your eyes reflecting an amused surprise, looking at me.

What was that alien form, was the creature alive, or a mere machine sent to trouble the peace of the chosen by some jealous minor deity?

I felt humbled by such beauty, on this faraway world: wondering about you, the myths and the science that had created you, perhaps the devils that besieged your soul.

Then you started answering me, wordlessly. Images flashed at great speed: the formation of this planet, the golden sea, the moons, enormous waves, people fleeing the floods, you and your tribe on top of a vertiginous cliff… Thunder, monstrous machines, a temple.

You were closer now, your arm lifted, palm extended…

The waves stood still, you were fading, and the vision fast dissolved in the grey dawn.

Andromeda.

Quick #VisDare 138

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The long chase was over: there he stood, in stupid ignorance that the end was nigh – his end. He was still wearing the silly, but sinister, Jack Rabbit mask. I did not need any mask: he did not know me, just my name.

Soon the train would stop and he would run off. But this time there would be no escape. The vile assassin would scream of despair, and bystanders shriek in terror.

He wouldn’t be arrested, but shot. Shoot to kill they call it, and I was paid to expedite the job.

As I was seeing ahead the well rehearsed scene, a slight noise behind me alerted me. A few feet away, standing tall, holding the rail above its head, was another Jack Rabbit. Annoying: there were now two of them? This was not in the script. Would I have to kill both of them, just to make sure?

Image source: Photo by Benjamin Godard, “Catch Me If You Can” on 500px.com

Flourish #TheDailyPost #WritersWednesday

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Since their land was so inhospitable to foreign eyes, they retained their freedom longer than those tribes whose territory the predators desired, and plundered. Little did the invaders knew that the old prophecy had been tested: they were imposters, their creed a fraud, their ignoble brutality a sign they were of inferior stock to the tribes that knew the Peaceful Way.

So they survived the Castillans and their priests, the Anglo preachers who knew nothing of their culture and kept kidnapping their children, in the futile hope to convert them, and now the flow of tourists, ignorant, sun-burnt and fat, and ever so friendly. Yet they flourish, on the same land, now spared the threat of raiders, with better healthcare, a rewarding trade, and still, their incomparable freedom.

Image: The Medicine Man, John Moyers, 2007, oil on canvas, Tucson Museum of Art

South #TheDailyPost

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Down South is your secret garden, and I hold the key,

Thus, I live in fear, of the jealous gods, of the cruel demons,

For they cannot approach the magic gate:

You can imagine their fury, they cannot suffer

To see this simple mortal, enjoy the

Forbidden fruits, all the way, 

Down South.

 

Image via mennyfox55

Buddy #TheDailyPost #amwriting

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(S)he follows me everywhere: in these pages, at the gym, at the supermarket, on the long walks on the Downs, in airports, in the canyons… His – or her – face has changed a little in time, but not that much. It may have been someone I knew, long ago, or just the sum of many people, met here and there, in crowded stations, at school, on the battlefield: who knows?

(S)he haunts the cities I visit, seeking inspiration. It’s always about her/him. And (s)he knows it, revels in it, who could be more important than her/him, the character at the centre of everything this fool writes?

Survival #TheDailyPost #amwriting

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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April was a blessing, a trip to a far away and remote country we love, meeting fascinating people, and that reflective time that a writer always needs. Of course there was the challenge, but we had planned for it. It was fun.

The truth is that we did not write anything of substance for a year. I say “we”, because the “characters” – I see them as some kind of spirits, the kachinas of this occult art – did not contribute much either, and so it is only fair to include them. There were titbits of flash fiction, the beginning of a plan that led nowhere…

In brief, the rot had set in. But once back to this crowded little island, ideas came to the surface, en masse. And now, there is a structure slowly emerging. The characters are taking shape, their souls are stirring.

Ha! Creation… The old Scrivener has been taken out of mothballs. No longer survival time, but Renaissance!

Gleeful: #VisDare 137

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It was done, all these long years of study, the cold classrooms, the interminable nights of reading, the despair when the results were dismal… We had finished, the world was ours, your hand in mine and his in yours: what was more beautiful than our friendship?

I remember how our laughs resonated in the ancient hall. Outside the sun was shining: a summer day to precede all our summers. Our joyous steps on the stone floor, and outside our friends and parents waiting. We would chose our life, the three of us, inseparable, chose where we would live, this incredible friendship, perhaps this shared love. The world was still young, and we, even younger! We were rushing into our future, innocent, blind, defenceless…

He went first, as he was a bit older, and you and I took him to board his train, already full of youngsters like him, like us. On the platform grim officers were ensuring the train would leave on time. There, in the East, that war had started.

I soon followed, and then it was your turn, for, by now, women were drafted into combat. So now, with you and him gone forever, I remember the day we left school, full of hopes. I have my eyes left to cry.

Inspired by Erich Maria Remark’s immortal novel, Die Kameraden

 

Stroll #TheDailyPost

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

Viktoria Park

I just dreamed about it, we were there, and on the first morning we walked in the park nearby. It’s exactly as we imagined – or remembered – a cool island in the middle of the city, early joggers, people taking in the fresh air, reading on benches, discussing their plan for the day with friends.

And then there is the cascade, and the god at the bottom, near the usually busy street. We walked past it, followed the avenue, at that time of the morning there was yet little traffic. We came back through the quiet street that leads to the “quartier”, and took the stairs.

When I woke up, you were still asleep. I was in a different city, an hour behind the one I’d just left. It was time to make coffee, and look again at the floor plan. We will get there won’t we?

Image: Neptune, Viktoria Park, Berlin Kreuzberg, © Honoré Dupuis

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