Low Tide

“Another few hours and the sea will reach the beach: a small drop of time, the beat of an eyelid… Yet we have to wait, and even then we will not know much more, about us, about life, not even about death…”

“My dear, you are philosophical this morning. I know how to cure this! And we will wait for the tide together, afterwards.”

Her smile lits her suntanned face: they walk slowly up the hill, find the right spot. They could be alone in the entire universe. By now, they might be.

Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Adamsfjord,_low_tide.jpg,

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Gnomes 2

I am now certain “they” are out there, and getting closer. Can their intentions be good? All day, unless I play, I hear muted shuffling noises, little sardonic giggles, low whistles. They are mocking me, taking advantage of my present confusion. The terrace may be swept clean for now, for how long?

I could try to trap them, but would it be wise? What I really want is them to go away, to leave me in peace, to let me recover my mental health. And then this: I fear they are acting on orders. I dare not imagine on whose orders, horror. Today the rain stopped, the air is clean and colder. I savour an instant of silence. Perhaps they fear cold. Perhaps they are busy tormenting another poor soul. I have wondered if they feel threatened by beautiful sounds, by music. Or is it just that, when I play, my mind is off the hideous creatures? This is it: I must try harder not to be obsessed by them.

… Last night I saw her, the red-dress temptress. I recalled, vaguely, our first encounter, although I don’t remember where that was, other than it wasn’t here, but in the city. The temptation was pointless, for I am too tired, too overwhelmed by all the changes, the fear, the pain, to be interested in anything, or anyone. Only the music, and the clouds can now move me. But I tried, foolishly, to find out. About them. She pretended not to understand, and she disappeared quickly. Of course, they may well be her creatures. And this was a bad omen. I have been found, located, “they”, and their mistress or master, know where I am hiding.

But I won’t give in. I have weapons, and reliable friends. I am not finished.

Gnomes

What wakes me up at five every morning? Is it light? Unlikely. Is it a noise? Maybe, but then it is very faint. Is it a dream? Possible.

But this morning I had another thought. Are “they” trying to tell me something? Are “they” telling me to go away? Have I disturbed them? Did they follow me? There are sure signs of disruption in the garden. I know, this is not unusual at this time of the year, squirrels bury things, flower pots get vandalised, foxes fool around, foul up the well swept terrace etc.

I sense a malificent presence. Are “they” observing me? Are “they” messing with my mind? Is old age, senility creeping?

Are they evil gnomes in the rampage around this place?

Image source: https://www.garden4less.co.uk/product/Gnome-with-Hammer-Stone

Home #75Words

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They have room, at least just enough to sleep, dine and read. Green is the garden, as the rain falls. They have time: to plan, to work, to love. They have plenty of memories, to edit, reshape, immortalise. They have books, some read, some to read, plenty of them.

The furniture may be in pieces, the rooms strangely expecting the new. They smile, they laugh, they love. They have friends, and peace.

They are home.

Botch

Six Sentence Story

person holding a green plant

He would not botch this job, his pride was invested in this. In fact he was a perfectionnist. Obstacles, for him, were more reasons to do this well, to craft the work as was done in older times. I always saw him as the human being, capable, reflective, seeking improvements, around him and in him.

But us, we were different, design to perfection, no soul, no personal feeling. Or, at least, this was what we believed, until we met him.

Inspired by The Wednesday Prompt #21

Photo by Akil Mazumder on Pexels.com

Clouded #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

low-cloud

 

“It was written: now they are coming…”

Her voice was calm, and her friend understood she was merely stating a fact. She too had thought of the omen in the last nights, as they both laid, enlaced, on the soft land, under the moon.

They looked at each other, in silence. Evolution is about that, she thought: we live, we prosper, we ruin the land, and then we have to accept: someone cleverer than us will take our place. In a cloud, without a word. Gaia is always right, in the end.

Moi, Gabrielle, historienne #WritersWednesday

I wrote this back in 2014 as I was working on the beginning of the novel still titled “The Page”. This work carried on over the following five years, and should have been completed here in Berlin, but was not. Some 40,000 words later, it lays still, unfinished and unedited. Should I take another look? There are so many inconsistencies, and plenty of confusion about characters. In this post, one of them, the historian Gabrielle, who, at the time, was central to the story, accuses the author, and other character, Julian, of being an amiable fool, and a fraud. Indeed it felt like a personal accusation.

I then moved on to write “Viktoria Park”, inspired by Berlin, and events further East that are still unravelling today. “Francis’ story” should have followed but was abandoned quickly, as I found myself under increasing pressure from a variety of sources of inspiration. The bulk of my production has been, from then on, short stories, and even flash fiction. I am pondering now what my writing priorities should be.

Sisyphe sur le Rivage

A la fenêtreJ’ai donc choisi ces colonnes pour m’exprimer, plutôt que le blogue de notre auteur. Ce n’est pas que je me méfie de cet homme charmant, mais, ici, je me sens plus libre. Mais, d’abord, permettez-moi de me présenter.

Je m’appelle Gabrielle, qui est le nom qui, je crois, autant qu’on puisse s’assurer d’une ressemblance à telles distances, est le plus proche de mon vrai nom, dans une langue encore peu parlée dans votre monde. Je suis historienne, enfin, l’une de plusieurs spécialistes, dans cette partie de votre galaxie. Mon secteur particulier, ou, comme il est peut-être plus précis, mon intérêt propre, c’est l’histoire du vingtième siècle. À ce titre je suis restée dans votre voisinage, disons, pendant quelques années. Mais, me direz-vous, pourquoi ne pas nous dire les faits tels quels sont? Eh bien voilà: je suis arrivée chez vous un peu avant la guerre de 1870 entre la France…

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Fantasy #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

fantasy

 

As they prepared to leave and go home – a long way away – they started fantasising… There would be an island, a secret garden, a view over the old church, new colours and space for dreaming and loving. Perhaps even a shortcut to the lake from their porch?

They would have to invent a way to travel easily to the island, and there build a shelter. But would a shelter be needed? Wasn’t their place already basking in an eternal summer?

Worn #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

worn-steps

 

“Those worn steps,” she said as they stood in front of their door, “speak of our story…”

She was right, but he was pleased there was then no-one to hear, or see them. How could they explain? They were coming home, after so many years. Years? Ney, decades, or worse. This house his ancestors had built. When? He smiled, took her hand, and they walked up to the door. Their door.

Behind that door was their life, their secrets. And her, his lady, his immortal love. On the doorstep they kissed. He was already enabriated by her scent, the touch of her tongue.

The small entrance was dark. She shut the door, and led him to the back, to their room.

“And now, let’s celebrate!” she said, pushing him on the bed. This was worn too. As he felt the delight of her teeth on his throat, he knew they were really back home.

Glisten #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

shimmer

 

Is this you, running toward me, in the dying light of our star? Is it you, or your double, or your servant? I know it cannot be you, how much I wished it were. But I know: I lost you, eons ago, far away. Tonight I remember, the long voyage, the hopes, the battles. And you, your beauty, your strength, the knight this girl dreamed of. I see you, slaying the devils, archangel in a shiny armour. I see the broken sword.

And now this: a dying star, a dead sea. All hopes lost, so few of us left, waiting for the end, on the glistening sand.