#writephoto

Rift #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

 

cracked

 

“Once the ice was covering this ground, smooth, unchanging. Then the boulders were round still, and the humans nowhere to be seen. The world was young.”

You were reading my mind, but know better. You walked here, often, you and your tribe. Then there was no human eye to see you. Even now, I know you’re here, but only your voice reassures me that it is not a dream.

But I see you as you once were. Proud, agile, attuned to the ice, the rocks, the flying creatures in the air, the growing trees.

Now, you are waiting. The rift will pass, the ice will return. And we, unscrupulous hooligans, will go.

 

Sign #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

 

sign

 

She read the legend under the picture: “the image shows a clouded sky beneath a full moon. There is a wordless sign showing only a pointed hat, of the kind often worn by wizards…”

How strange she thought, how and when had they managed to take this shot? The full moon was there alright, and the sign. But the clouds? There was none in this quiet corner of the Universe. She’d made sure of that. There was rain too, but, as visitors sometime said, it came from nowhere. She was proud of her work, the careful terraforming, the ever blue sky, the manicured landscapes, the small lakes… and, of course, the popular little village, with the delightful green, and the wizard cottage… The picture must have been doctored, edited as the saying went. Still, “they” hadn’t shown much respect, whoever “they” were.

Perhaps she should be more careful now when allowing those space transports to disgorge tourists on her planet. She should set rules, like “no editing of pictures!” Here there was no cloud, and the moon was always full. So she had ordained.

 

writephoto

Tranquil #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

tranquil

 

“What am I for you?”

I heard the question, almost a whisper, but I thought I was alone. I knew this corner of the lake well, a favourite for poets and lovers in the summer. I looked around, quietness and tranquillity, the surface of the water reflected the foliage…

“I know you heard me, don’t pretend!”

The voice was clear, a little high pitched, the voice, I imagined, of a mermaid, or perhaps of the Lorelei. But for sure that of a woman. It was getting warm, I fancied the coolness of the lake. I dropped my running shoes, shorts and top, no-one would object to nudity at this time in the morning. The sand was warm, the shallow water delicious on my skin. I knew there was a sharp decline and depth in front of me, hundred yards or so from the edge.

Once the water reached my shoulders I swam, it was a delight. I would get closer to the centre of the lake, then turn round. I had set out to run for another hour.

“I love to see you getting closer…”

Indeed this time the voice was close, I thought next to me. So sweet. I could almost see her, her reflection perhaps from an older dream?

“So, tell me now, what am I for you?”

I could not answer her question. The depth of the lake attracted me. I felt as one with the water, the light, her voice. So deep was the lake, so enticing her words…

Invitation #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

portal

 

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.

Timeless #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

 

derbyshire-lambs-hawk-kestrel-crone-stone-tideswell-lillingstone-025

 

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?

 

 

New #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

new-day

 

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.

Blade #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

wales-164

 

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.

Fragrant #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

rose-garden

 

“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.

Snowfall #writephoto

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Snowfall

chatsworth-snow-11

 

“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.

Imagination #writephoto

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Imagination

art

 

“It’s a puzzle,” I said as we looked up the victorian wall. “There was something there, before, and the artist…” But I realised my companion was not listening, rather he was looking closely at the colours, and delicately taking small samples of the paint he carefully saved in an envelop. “I wish I could take a picture…” Holmes said finally. “I am sure this has been copied from somewhere.”

Later, at no 221B, as we lit our pipes after dinner, Holmes suddenly declared:

“You were right, Watson, it’s an allegory, and of course you have recognised the pavots, your “artist” is a drug dealer, who advertises his ware locally, and the allegory is about the Nirvana of the opium smoker…”

I sat back, and reflected.