Wishes #writephoto

Wishes

wishing-tree

 

They danced around the old stone, young and old, to the sound of pipes and drums, evoking ancient spirits, and secret deities. Then the elders had let the villagers hang the colours of their wishes, and he had waited a little while.

He wanted the spirits to grant him one favour. As he carefully bound the piece of red and white ribbon to the branch, he thought of Her, of the calm dark eyes that had held him in awe, of the unreal grace of Her face: he was only asking to see Her again, to speak to Her, to beg Her to accept him in Her kingdom.

Crossing #writephoto

Crossing

crossing

 

The shallow, clear water runs lazily between the rocks,

and the little islands of green life.

Oft we crossed the old bridge,

On our many walks, through this blessed land,

Observing, and being observed,

by creatures far more ancient, and wiser, than us.

Oft, we looked at our reflections in the mirror below.

Only, now, we only see the light of the sky,

for our images have been erased.

 

writephoto

Wave #writephoto

Wave

sea-mist

 

The free fall was the same, every night. There was the sheer terror of destruction, of being shredded on the sharp rocks, so far down, down… But he knew that this was a dream: as dawn came, he would see the light, inhale the scent of the ocean, for there was no fall, and the shore he remembered well: the sound of waves, her smile, their fading steps in the wet sand…

Then the nurse would come, and asked him how he had slept. As ever, he would smile and reply: “I was again on the beach”.

Beginnings #writephoto

Beginnings

dawn

 

He knew where they had met, but he was less certain of when that was. He remembered the small town, and the woods, above all the woods, where they walked, kissed, watched the sun rise, the freezing dawns, enlaced, forever at one, with each other, and with the trees.

She was the one, and those were their beginnings. They watched the sun set, the skies on fire. Her grey eyes reflected the light. He had felt so strong then. He was, so they called him. She watched him go, such a breakup in her heart…

Now, after all the death, the sand, the blood, he was back. Alone, at the end, a fallen hero.

 

Remains #writephoto

Remains

remains-3

 

He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.

Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman. And she, the sombre beauty of his dream, the one he had wanted to write for, was unwilling to belong, to fit in, to submit to his will.

Without her, what remains was a ghost, an empty shell, the faint shadow of what could have been, of what he so wanted to be.

So it was that he had to reignite the fire, and seduce her, again.

A Shift in Time #fivewords

Weekly Writing Prompt #144

DSC_0475

They were aware of a change in sounds, of different scents in the air. Though they knew they were still in the same bond with the City, they did not know, now, when now was.

People walked past them, without seeing them, as if they themselves had become invisible, in a magic circle, as if they had survived a Shift in Time.

Picture: Sans Souci, Potsdam, Schlosse Nacht – ©2015 Honoré Dupuis

The Road #fivewords

Weekly Writing Challenge #143

DSC_0358

 

His gaze followed the road, as its silvery line slowly disappeared through the woods. As the sky was getting darker, he thought he would have to walk faster to avoid the storm.

This world was different, the landscape diffused, as if on the brink of disappearance. Was this reality, or only a dream?

Picture: Church in Lübars, Berlin © 2017 HonoréDupuis 

Up ↑