Write a six-word story about what you think the future holds for you, and then expand on it in a post.
The owl flew ahead of me…
A few steps later I could not see him. I could see my shadow, in the moonlight, which made me smile, since I never see my shadow in the light of day.
Around me the saguaros stood tall, for now silent. Yet I knew their voice, as do many other creatures of the desert: I was one of them.
Soon I reached the waterfall, and kneeling I drank from the deep pool. A lizard approached me, acknowledging he did not know what I was… I smiled. Soon the owl flew back, holding a small prey in his huge claws. The snow was coming.
Soon the desert would wear his winter mantle. My future belongs to him.
Image: Clarence John Laughlin – Homage to Paul Klee, 1955
We have to go back to a few million years, when this world was hotter, so hot that there was no ice, anywhere, and no humans nor other animals, like us, a burning inferno…
But now, after only a few short decades, we have succeeded, to ruin our chances, to rob our children and grand children, and grand grand children, for centuries to come, of their life chances: poison in the oceans, in the rivers, filth on the land, more poison in the air…
But greed is good, and look how rich we are now, after all those revolutions: admire our cities, and the clever elites who live within – walled islands of wealth…
Satan laughs, quietly, in his corner, watching human stupidity, working hard, for him!
What will you need sweet angel?
Let me guess, and first of all, what you never leave home without, your faithful AK47: this will take care of imbeciles… I will add the ammos of course, nice and tidy… all carefully packed around that beautiful leather belt we bought together…
Then there is that sharp knife you love, the one that’s all grey and heavy, and the leather sheath you can fix on your o-so-lovely thigh…
The canvas rucksack you take to the mountains, and your bikini, the one you wear when you want me to go crazy…
And of course, those boots, so well worn, but so strong, waterproof and comfortable…
You’ll be all right my darling, and then, I am on my way!
We took the path out of the village and up the wooded hill, and we saw that the landscape was already wearing its early winter coat.
It was not cold, just that early evening coolness that makes one think of wood fire, and cosiness in a warm house.
You looked at the sky, in the direction of the soon setting sun, the pale blue of the horizon now tainted a deep orange.
Then we heard them: an impeccable flight of migrating cranes, the thin V shape of their formation cutting through the evening, dead on the orange globe.
You pressed my hand and said: “You see, they are flying all the way from the Baltic, over this landscape, every year, stopping somewhere in the Ardennes for the night, on their way to Southern Spain, or maybe even Africa, and, you know, our descendants will still see them, after we have long gone.”
We look at the map: in front of us runs the long road, above the shore, bordered by legendary harbours, and wildlife reserves.
Here Saint Laurent O’Toole came from green Ireland, and blessed the town where he now rests.
Here William took his future young bride, fair Mathilde, to the altar, and then, with his men, sailed across the sea to defeat Harold.
In the middle of the forest is the town, built by Gallo Romans traders and soldiers, for, in this country, there is no gap between the splendour of Rome and the new kingdom, between Caesar and Guillaume.
In the wide bay, flows the river Somme: the map shows on its banks the small crosses of the immense military cemeteries, where our grand fathers fell in infernos of fire and steel…
Image: memorial to William and his wife Mathilde, in Eu (Normandy)
© 2014 Honoré Dupuis
I was in gangland, a terrifying quagmire of narrow streets, pretend beggars, and sinister characters lurking at every corner.
The bag I was carrying had enough dope in it to get me killed, and I was scared, more so than at any time in my miserable life of pusher.
They appeared from nowhere, three big thugs with hand guns: I was done, and as I was about to hand over my bag, expecting my end was nigh, I saw them.
They were two of them, in T-shirts and shorts, in any other circumstances I would have said: a sexy pair, but the submachine guns they carried were for real.
“Hands up everyone, nice and calm!” the girls said, adding unnecessarily: “Policia Federales” – I sighed, feeling secure at last.
Image: © Muhammad Mahdi Karim, www.micro2macro.net
The small creature stood still, as frozen in time, as the landscape around her shook in convulsions.
Far, far away in her ancestral memories, buried deep in her cells, she knew: the great meteorite, the explosions that killed the giants, leaving huge craters on the surface of Gaia.
She, and her species, knew the value of sacrifice: they too had enemies, but for them the survival of the species was the only goal.
Around her the megatons rained, killing off the remnants of mankind, and the follies of man.
Gaia would wake again, cleansed of the parasites, the polluters, the usurpers, the greedy assassins, and the small ant would resume her never-ending work.
I love sand: I crawl around the dunes, from time to time coming up to the surface, looking for preys.
The birds know about me, and keep well away, of course, for I am no flyer, the others, well, good luck to them, I am so fast.
Mostly, I keep still, basking in the warmth of the sand, and at night, dug in deep below the surface (some of you know how cold it gets at night in the desert…)
Humans are funny, they mess around in their big boots, oblivious of life teeming around them, moronic bulls in the middle of marvels of nature.
Take me, for example, how could they ignore a three foot deadly scorpion not even well camouflaged, in ambush in the sunshine?