Weekly Writing Challenge #141
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
Weekly Writing Challenge #140
She could tell from his footsteps, along the stream.
There he’d stopped, listening to the water, and to the birds.
He may even have spotted a kingfisher.
At a slow pace she followed his journey, up to the cliff.
There, she knew, the show was over.
Weekly Writing Challenge #139
The first time she came to this place she knew, there she would make her mark, dream, write, and create him, if she was to never find him. One morning, after she’d moved in, she woke up with a shock, he was there, very close, a few steps away.
Weekly Writing Challenge #138
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
Weekly Writing Challenge #136
As he stood on the threshold, he sensed how brighter the light was, on the other side. There lied all the secrets, the rich treasures of the past. He took one more step.
There was a faint taste of wood smoke in the dry, vibrating air. In his mind one question lingered: would he find his home?
Photo: ancient village in Northern Arizona, © 2015 Honoré Dupuis
Weekly Writing Prompt #132
Francis wanted to capture the dream: for the third night, he had read the name of a place he had known, and, now, wanted to build into the story. There were three, at equal distance from each other, the monk had said. The last day, his stare fixed on some old manuscript he had dug out from the loot of a raid, years back, he’d looked for clues. In the morning, like today, he could not recall the names. Long ago, he had travelled, feverish, and briefly lived there, at the vortices of the triangle, carried away by the rage to discover the truth.
Where he was now, near the small park, in the city he loved, was one of those places, he was certain of it. He tried to lift his arm, and discovered he was almost unable to move: he would have to go back to his therapist. He had to work, look again at the archives.
In the park, he had met the shadow of an old monk, one night. That was before the first dream. The monk had spoken in an old, forgotten, language, and Francis had only understood a few words. Where were the other two places?
Picture source: Monastery Garments
Weekly Writing Prompt#131
In the morning he could sense the imminent thaw, the passing of the artic air, of nature on her guard. His aim, now, was to lose the dark spirit of winter, find the strength to believe, to resume the dream.
For death, he knew, is not the end of life, but the necessary gate to a new one…
Weekly Writing Challenge #128
Waiting for dawn to break,
A sense of loss –
Cannot move to the light:
or tame Morpheus,
or finish the dream…
Photo: Le grand homme de la nuit, Germaine Richier, © 2017 Honoré Dupuis
Weekly Writing Challenge #127
She answered his wish, his urge to spend another year in the City, among the ghosts, in the parks, on the banks of the river: yet he knew she would soon crave the sight of another river, the high cliff, her sister the Mermaid. At night he would listen to the sailor’s scream for the fatal beauty.
As his dream faded, hers would radiate the green colours of the Rhine.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s Weekly Writing Challenge #124
He felt her insistent stare on him, as he held the precious tablet, still covered by a thin film of blond sand. The text looked like a list, but he guessed that it might also be a poem, perhaps both. Was there a rhyme? His knowledge of the language was not advanced enough for him to know. He turned to the goddess, and met the emerald eyes, still fixed on him.
A long time passed, he knew she would speak, and so waited, in the silence of the sacred valley. At long last, he heard her voice, melodious, as if coming through a long tunnel: “It’s no poem, it is an ancient spell, and who casts his sight on it, shall be turned into stone.”
Image: A Roman-era version of the Knot of Isis worn by the Goddess or Her priestess, via https://isiopolis.com