#VisDare130 Possibility

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You came, in this infinite solitude, on the edge of the lake. Last night I fetched you from the small town: you were dead tired, I had to carry you to your room.

And this morning, early, I saw you, standing in the silence, the calm, icy water half way to  your knees, the black shawl over your shoulder. For long minutes we were immobile, taking in the immaculate beauty of these shores.

No words are needed. It has been so long: I know now that you will stay. All these years I hoped, alone. Perhaps you did, too.

You are here. The world is reborn, the trees are alive, and black is the water at your feet.

Soon, Spring will come, and we’ll walk through forests so old we will have to relearn their tongue – but maybe, you, will remember.

I look into your eyes, deeper than the lake.

 

 

Nerve #TheDailyPost #WritersWednesday

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

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We have known each other for many years. Perhaps we don’t see as much of each other as we’d like to, but every time is sheer pleasure. Her sense of humour is overwhelming, I never laugh as much as during our face to face chats.

Like me, she’s now older, but her beauty is beyond age: it reflects the superior soul behind the grey eyes and the still voluptuous lips. Yes, I used to be madly in love, I may still be.

We were in Paris, she meeting her publisher, I visiting relations. We took an hour to reconnect, Rive Gauche, in a café that evoked to us cherished, and ancient, memories.

“So, you have made up your mind,” she said, smiling: “You are going, breaking off with old Europe…”

“I don’t think I am breaking off, rather I am being rejected!” I replied, laughing.

“I see, now, let’s think: you dislike the politics, perhaps the economics, so… you pull your money out, and disappear… Where exactly?” – as her eyes scrutinised my face, looking for confirmation, and even an answer.

“Well, I admit the politics discourages me, but still, the main thing is the climate, and geography. I like my snow dry, like my vodka… and I like space…”

“Let’s drink to that,” she said, suddenly serious,”I can imagine you, with your four by four, in the deep forests, living in a log house, in the frozen Siberian winter, your hunting rifle above the chimney, writing. How does that sound?”

“Close to what I am going to do, dear friend, and by the way, there is a little airport nearby, and the eastern shore is not so far away either!”

“Aw,” she said seizing my hand, “Is this an invitation, lover?”

Image: Peter Allert – Those Days, via tauchner

Envy #TheDailyPost

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

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The fools, if only they knew! As we run along the path, near the canal, early in our morning routine, I see them, their eyes on you, on the golden girl, sometime on me… I can read their puzzled minds, jealous, tortured to see what must be a very happy, if odd, couple. Their imagination must run wild.

Our routine takes us all the way to the river. There we undo our running shoes, store them safely in our rucksacks, and we swim to the other side. Then we follow the time honoured path we have for so many years. Back along Unter den Linden, across the Tiergarten, and then down toward Kreuzberg and our small home, our shelter.

The first time we did this we were much younger, if this could make any sense. All around us were ruins. The conquering soldiers could not see us then. We hadn’t yet taken our present forms. Just ghosts, the pitiful remains of two lovers, victims of absolute war.

Why did we stay? Well, it’s our city, we have nowhere else to go. Here are our memories, our friends, hidden, deep in the ground, unlike us, who keep passersby intrigued by the sight of an athletic pair in old fashioned 30’s sport gear.

Object #TheDailyPost

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

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Passers-by in the rain

in a mist of thoughts, faces forlorn

no-one knows how long,

how long waiting for you to vanish

never to see your beloved face again.

Image: Little Penthouse, 1931. Martin Lewis. Drypoint, via kafkasapartment

Devious #VisDare 128

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It’s a long story, a kind of one hundred years war, that cannot be won, and yet we keep on fighting… You were already there, in the old class room, in the heart of winter, as our teacher was telling us about the Middle Ages, and, about you, the ever present, maleficent fallen angel. You were then a mere dark shadow, near the old coal fire.

One day I was clearing the sports ground of leaves. It was cold, there was no-one else around. As I wiped the sweat off my forehead, I heard a slight stir in the pile of leaves. It wasn’t the wind: there was a small repugnant creature, bigger than a rat, looking at me through a hideous pair of red eyes.

Since then, in so many places, from my back garden to the streets of cities, the seductive face, the ugly gnarl of a thug.

VisDare 128: Devious

#VisDare 127: Snoop

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It was late, we were alone in the last train. Patiently I watched you as you checked your messages: I admired the way you kept going, as if everything was normal. We were going home, I knew you’d attempt to make peace, perhaps more.

I was a little bemused, hesitant maybe, after all, soon I would leave this silly substitute shape for a human body, and become again the woman I was, always were.

But you, my dear, my sweet sister, could you still be the friend I wanted? Or would you become jealous, envious of the looks of others, the preying eyes? Could you adapt to being what I was now? Of course I would make it as comfortable and cosy as I could…

I would take care of you, keep you dressed, and clean, always close to me.

As we were now, on that lonely train, soon home.

Image source

 

#VisDare 125: Candid

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You always like to show me the way, in this luminous, sharp clarity that is the signature of your kind. I have to admit that I would not do without the light, even when, often, what you show me is a little frightening.

I know, as you would say, were you not abiding by your vows of silence, at my age, I should not fear to look at Death in the face.

Of course you are right. I have lived much longer than I will, in this uncertain future you  kindly reveal to me, one candid view at a time. I admire this candour, and the style you have kept, ever since our beginnings, together…

For you are my personal angel of Death, the dark shadow from whom I cannot not hide, nor ignore. The one, I hope, not too soon, to do the journey with, to the quiet island .

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#VisDare 124: Unexpected

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Mum knew you were on duty, and aimed to surprise you. I know how much you must have waited for those short moments, stolen from the tedium of the day, your little girl appearing, playful, so small…

And there you were, my very big daddy, pretending to arrest me. Such laughter! You could never catch me, onlookers wondering why the huge policeman should be running so hard after that little thing, all legs and smile!

Then time seemed to stop, the sky was clearer, I can still see you, Mum, laughing, secretly admiring the big guy in your life, my father.

But this was before he went away, away from that beach, toward other sands, deeper, and then we only had the short, sober, letters.

I am now bigger too, big enough to stand still by his grave. A hero, a big man. And me, on my own.

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Voice Work: #DailyPrompt

Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?

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I always wondered when I could give you an answer, and, after all these years, I can now tell you: yes, there is something you can help me with. Not that I trust you in any way, but I love this voice of yours, you know, the smooth, mellow, calming voice, that promises all the wealth, the hidden pleasures, the forbidden fruit, to the unwary…

How would that help me? Well, I have often spoken, written even, about you, the ultimate liar, the pretentious bigot, the insolent beggar. And, yes, it would be good to have your voice to narrate the tale, almost in your own fashion, if not entirely in your style. I am sure my readers would appreciate the humour of this: the liar tells the lies, and how it always turns to disaster! I don’t need to remind you, of the many times I kicked that backside of yours, and worse! So, there you are, little devil, and I suggest you get on with it smartly – or else!

Photo: Devil Voodoo Figure, Usulután Province, El Salvador, 1958-1962, Tucson Museum of Modern Art, © 2014 Honoré Dupuis

Low Light #HolocaustMemorialDay

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The Atlantic rain hammers the windows, in the grey skies the birds are still, hesitant.

Is it the impossible memory, the fear to forget, to ignore, someday to face the nightmare, in our lives?

Those who deny, wrote Primo Levy, are ready to start again. Is it possible?

But then we know, in our time, not that far from us.

We look at the sky, the fast fleeing clouds, we hear the rumble of the city. We think of the long war, the fight for survival. Is this peace an illusion?

Yesterday we saw snowdrops on the edge of the woods, near the valley we love. The earth lives on.

Despite everything we do.

Photo: Käthe Kollwitz’ Pietà, Berlin Neue Wache, Unter den Linden, © 2014 Honoré Dupuis