Sisyphus47's writing blog
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 the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt #109
Some time ago, when I was still convinced I’d win the battle for that first novel, I wrote a scene, on a distant planet, with my hero standing on the shore of a violet sea, as she comes face to face with a human being, as she, but travelling on a stretch of time merely parallel to hers. Writing this was a treat, as otherwise I was struggling in attempting to finish the story. It just flew effortlessly, from a mixture of memories of youth, and ancient reading. Unfathomable mysteries of inspiration…
Image: Fair use, Link – front cover art for the book Andromeda: A Space-Age Tale written by Ivan Yefremov. The book cover art copyright is believed to belong to the publisher, Foreign Language Publishing House, or the cover artist, N. Grishin.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt#108
He kept seeing himself, in his youth, through dreams that did not have the shape of memories, in a role of a quiet spirit, an observer of his past life. Only near dawn, did the spirit at last morphed into himself, an old man lying in pain, aspiring to peace…
Picture: Gaston Xhardez, “Création”, photomontage, 1958 – via les-sources-du-nilles-sources-du-nil.tumblr.com
Inspired by Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt
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!”
He found her story enchanting, and the way she was telling it to him a real treat. The fire in his mind was a mere flicker, for the predator within him had long given up: his life was now just about beauty, art, and good stories. So he would write, what he heard, and what had inspired him.
She, in turn, was playing with his mind, yet another victim of the wicked witch.
Picture: Fisherwoman, Odilon Redon, via fleurdulysfleurdulys.tumblr.com
He dreamed of speeches he may have made, once, as a much younger and more confident man, to audiences he held in awe, of intractable dilemmas he would have resolved, in another age, perhaps another world: what he feared most was his own past. Long forgotten antagonists were reappearing, more menacing, whose names he could not remember, but he knew, how much it had cost him, then, to chase them away.
And, now, they were back, vengeful, demanding, seeking retribution, wanting him to pay for what he had imposed on them, for his treachery, and for being, now, the mere shadow of himself.
It was as if all those distant years were coming back to him, forcing him to replay, to prove, again and again, that he was still able to fend off the Enemy. Like so many tentacles from the depth, voices he did not want to hear, questions he did not want to answer, faces he had thought forever forgotten, all, were surrounding him, insisting, clamouring for his undivided attention, and perhaps, apologies. He was drowning in his own memories.
In the middle of the night he was seeking a lone friendly face, a long lost friend, but only saw the hordes of maleficent creatures from his distorted life. In the morning, grateful for the dawn, he asked himself: is this hell?
Image: The Appearance of the artist’s family via Marc Chagall, via https://artist-chagall.tumblr.com/
Inspired by today’s one word prompt
In any other city I would probably lose him, as his ability to hide behind others, look like them, or simply disappear, is beyond any other’s. But this is the city of Faust. Among the folks of the night, roaming the quiet streets, haunting the silent parks, he is known as the Prince of Deceit, and easily recognised. So I know where and how to find him, follow his putrescent scent, get the demons of the night to corner him.
He tries to pretend to be someone else, a poor vagrant, a homeless, harmless victim of this harsh life. And I laugh. Through the rictus and the sardonic smile, I see the reality of the shaking Devil. Confronted, identified, gone the assurance, gone the lies, the pitiful remnant of a fallen angel is just afraid!
Vade retro Satanas!
Picture: Devil Voodoo Figure, Usulutàn Province, El Salvador (courtesy Tucson Museum of Modern Art)
He trains everyday, like a champ. Each exercise is a proof: that he’s survived, will survive. This régime would sink a younger and bigger man. Yet, from dawn to dusk, he forces his body to comply, counts his heartbeats, listens to his breath.
He’s very ill. He will soon die, but simply refuses to surrender and wait. Stubborn, you may say. Yes, that, and also… knackered.
Image: via http://misterdoor.tumblr.com/
“You have to tell the truth,” she said, serious and mocking at the same time, “the truth about me, the person I am, not the one you would wish me to be!”
I was a little peeved about that statement. I thought I was truthful, without hesitation about her qualities and shortcomings, being a cool and objective observer. Now, in the middle of the night, as she looked at me, I was beginning to doubt. Was I writing about her real self, or someone who did not exist? A doppelgänger of sort?
“But,”she continued in her calm voice, “you should know, if you can’t do it naturally, I’ll do it for you. And I won’t hesitate to show to your readers what the truth is about this great author!”
Then I woke up. Her voice was still ringing in my mind. There was a long time to go before dawn. I wished she’d been here, for real, telling me more about herself. My beloved hero, the perfect woman…
Picture: Joanna Pallaris, via ilpianobis
