Thursday photo prompt
“This is where he lives, I am sure of that…” she said in a low voice as they observed the silent house from afar. The front grass was freshly cut, and although it was already dusk, no light was to be seen through the windows.
“There are lots of them there, in the deep cellars, but we won’t see any until it is much darker.” They looked at the sky and the dark clouds accumulating above the property.
“How old do you think this place is?” he asked finally. Their presence was the outcome of a long search. The origin of the house, the people who had built it, how it was finally acquired by the Count, the whole history was shrouded in mystery.
“It goes back at least to Tudor times,” she replied, “although there is disagreement about the exact dates. The Count’s ancestors had something to do with silver mines in South America, and we know that today he is rumoured to be the CEO of a secretive private equity firm…”
“Now is the time. Whoever commissioned us must have good reasons. They knew this sort of operation don’t come cheap.” They smiled.
Calmly, methodically, they pulled out the Uzis from their sheaves, loaded the guns and undid the security, then they started walking toward the building. Their instructions were simple: there had to be no survivors.
The ancient oak ponders unfathomable tales; near the bank, the shallow water reflects the evening sky. A little further the small stones shine, enticing: come to us, stranger, we are worth more than gold… Soon the sun will sink, behind the hills. You observe, immobile, waiting. Your steed, warped in your Lord’s colours, is as still as you. Silent dwarves guard your precious luggage. This is your land, and the lake is where lived the mage, he who knew how to read your future.
Weekly Writing Challenge #170
A late dream,
Don’t I know what to expect!
The storm must have woken me,
And you, dear angel,
Are still fast asleep…
Yet I know: the Enemy and his minions strike before dawn,
Hiding their hideous shapes
Behind the windows’ frames…
I wrap myself in your gown,
And swear at them.
Picture: from this fantastic site: http://darkdreams.centerblog.net/1396-les-nagas
This can’t be real… No, of course not, this is a game… That object there, yes, that skull, they think, it may be a gate, you know, some kind of key, to get somewhere else? This is a game, of course. But it may also be a trap, something really nasty, that blows up in your face, you know…
I observe the fools from my observatory on the low hill, the sniper rifle comfortably cradled against my shoulder. I see all three of them, hideous trolls. I know what they are saying, in their vernacular. “This must be a game…” Idiots.
The first one, one disgusting character, approaches the skull. The bullet takes him right in the eye as he’s about to touch the bone. One down.
The other two look around, there is no escape, nowhere to hide, they don’t even run. I take my time. No unnecessary cruelty. A quick and neat death. Job done.
And it’s not even a real bone!
They were six of them, and their leader may have been Galahad. There, they fought, back to back, from one dawn to the next, for days and nights, against the armies of Evil.
There they died, for, then, knights never surrendered. And there, the circle of stones remind us: the battle continues, and they watch us, puzzled, at times amused, more often annoyed. So much effort, for such so small people…
Weekly Writing Prompt #153
Away from this stage,
is another test –
where force plays no role,
but the changing face,
the soft verses,
of an everlasting poem…
Photo: Jardins du Luxembourg, Paris, ©2013 Honoré Dupuis
The tall trees shelter us from the heat, high above the still green leaves. The path is a ruler, one cannot go wrong. But the woods are silent, nothing stirs, and we know we are observed. Someone, somewhere, is counting our steps, deciphering our minds.
Soon, we will know.
Writing Prompt #145
He said it was a hard case, hard to comprehend and, hence, hard to solve. Yet we should not muddle through: we had to keep a clear mind, and we should not assume the assassin was mad.
Picture: der “Tatort” in der ARD, source: web.de
Weekly Writing Prompt #144
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
Weekly Writing Challenge #143
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