Tower #writephoto

Today’s photo prompt by Sue Vincent

up-north-060

 

She crouched behind a short spiky bush, and waited for a sound. There was none, not even the usual discrete footfall of small creatures in the dark. A hawk could be seen, circling silently around the dark silhouette of the tower.

“So,”she thought,”This is where you died, so long ago even the stones have forgotten your name, the colour of your hair, the strength of your arms…” She relaxed her grip on the sword: there was no-one there, perhaps not even the spirit of the hero, who, in eons past, had died defending her ancestors, in this forsaken and deserted place, alone against multitudes of demons.

But she had to find out. Cautiously she started moving toward the ruin, one step at a time, a fluid and silent motion that only supernatural eyes could have observed.

Yet she sensed some presence, somewhere, closer to the tower, cloaked in darkness. Now she heard the voice of an owl hunting.

First published on May 5, 2016 #writephoto

Glade #writephoto

forest1

 

The air is cool, the ground covered with ferns. The October sun filters through the still dense foliage, the woods are so familiar we are at home here. We know the paths, the old fence that marked the ancient estate, the ruins. We know where to find the long haired cattle, hiding deep, loving winter to come that keeps visitors away. Except us. For we haunt these woods, pale spirits, no longer feeling the winds, nor the icy mornings, shadows of what we once were.

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s today’s photo prompt

Cracked #writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt

 

cracked1

 

The ground was dry, it would be some days before rain fell again, perhaps longer. As we walked through the field we saw the small shell, among the debris of the last harvest: was it murder, theft or accident?

You looked at me and said: “Just think, if it was ours, our egg, our unborn child?” I looked again, the pale colour of the thin shell, the fragility of the poor abandoned egg.

Life is so fragile, and yet, it perdures.

Wisp #writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday’s photo prompt

wisps

 

“There are many universes…” she said, in the voice of a factual statement, “and, sometime, voices filter, from one to another. Then one has to know how to read the signs.”

I waited, hoping for an explanation. The clouds formation, above the rocky landscape, was turning weird. The air was icy cold.

“If you want to learn the way,” she resumed in a lower tone, “then I can show you, but there is a price.”

“Let’s assume I am prepared to pay that price…” I said, wanting to sound confident, and surer of myself than I really was.

“It’s not a matter of assumption,” came her reply, now uncompromising. “Do you want to learn, or not: that is your choice.”

I paused. I’d met the woman during the long hike, through a landscape that felt as if it belonged to another world. We’d talked about the scenery, then about alien worlds. And now, the sky, the wisp. Wasn’t that ice formation, high up, close to the upper atmosphere?

“I do want to learn. What is the price?”

“O, this is very simple, in order to teach you, I have to take you to where I come from…”

Alone #writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt

se-ilkley-2015-saturday-142

 

Mist has invaded the valley below, a diffused light veils the details of the landscape. But where am I? Where is this cliff? Is it day break, or dusk? Should I know this place, how did I get here, and how long have I been here, watching how many sunrises?

Finally, the real question arises from the clouds my mind appears to be surrounded with: where are you? The silence is total, this may not be my world, but what is it? Have I lost you, forever? A deep desperation creeps into my soul…

Close to me something, someone, stirs. So, I may not be alone?

“Another nightmare my darling,” you are saying, in the calm voice that always settles my fear, “You’re too hot, I’ll get you some water, and make coffee. You know it’s these drugs, a side effect, soon you’ll cope without them… And, by the way, I am here, you are not alone!”

Watchers #writephoto

Today’s photo prompt

watchers

 

The fortress once stood here, and trees and brambles have long invaded the deep ancient ditches. Battles were fought in this land, in times when enemies had to face each other, times of violence and courage, times of faith. The ruined mighty walls once protected the inhabitants, but no-one can today hear their voices…

Unless, perhaps, one was to stay here, at dusk, when the crows come home, when the foxes prowl around the crumbling stones…

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s weekly prompt at https://scvincent.com

Messenger #WritePhoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt

p1190688

 

I know he will come, one day, or, better, one beautiful evening, a calm, unhurried flight punctuated, at dusk, by the black birds’ song, and, even, if I am lucky a nightingale’s.

They know me, they know I admire them, and they keep looking down at that fragile, elderly silhouette, on my walks. Time is soon, of that I have no doubt, for I have seen the signs. So, one of them, I am sure, will be the Messenger.

When time comes I will welcome the Messenger, if not the message. After all, I had a long life.

Flight #Writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s photo prompt

flight

 

His dreams were vivid, and the characters he met, often several nights on a row, as enigmatic as the stories they told. Of course, he could fly, walk lightly over the roofs of the city, silent and (almost) invulnerable. Early on, he had taken to follow several well used itineraries, snaking their way over the ancient buildings, some of them being the mere memories of places that may have existed there, in a distant past. He liked the blend of old and present, places he could retrace in his awaken life, and those that no longer existed, except in his dreams and in those of the mysterious beings who shared their secrets.

Only he had to watch out for the birds, whose dreams he could not share, and whose flights he had to carefully avoid: for, if there was contact, then suddenly he would come out of the dream, from whatever place he was at that instant, in the air or on the ground. He knew of several dreamers who had thus failed to respect the real masters of the skies, and found their fate in free fall.

NB – I have always been intrigued by the frontier between dream and wakefulness. As I looked at this week’s prompt, I was reading this article of The Places Journal, about Lovecraft and Ballard, who knew a thing or two about dreamers and their “corners”…

 

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