Weekly Writing Prompt #119
Startled, he tried to escape
from the depth of the dream.
The loud shriek had been real,
but did he have any right
to jump in this grim reality?
After all, this was not his war…
Soon, he would be back to sleep,
And his inner peace.
Image: Von yumikrum – fingal, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48418772
In the dark corridor she could not see the enemy, only hear her breath: she would have to translate the faint sounds, guess at her position, the distance from her arm, the wrist that held the dagger. Her own move would decide, life or death, victory or defeat.
Image: Dark Corridor
Immobile, his thoughts a long, grey meandering: pain boosts his melancholy – a writer’s block in reverse… For there is much new to express, and so many ways to exercise style!
For sitting is now a torture, slow and methodical, preventing art for art, but still imagining horizons ready for discovery.
Image: Chapel of Saint Barbara, Wengen (La Valle), Alta Badia, South-Tyrol ©Honoré Dupuis
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dictionary, Shmictionary.”
Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect).
I told you, the day we first met. “I don’t believe you” you said in reply, smiling. Of course, I was devastated, what could have I expected, from a beautiful witch?
In those somber days, before I was initiated, before I learned the meaning of those words, I could not see. It was a long journey, in darkness, often close to despair, but you were my constant guide.
Then, one day, the skies cleared, the east wind pushed the clouds away, and I saw the light.
Why did it take me so long? “Often, before you can understand, you need to learn the meaning of its opposite…” Finally I understood the meaning of Love.
We were here, together, not long ago, and you said you liked the place.
Restful and quiet, you said.
And now, watching the fresh grave, my eyes dry, I am wondering if you really left.
And she, silent, black-clad, is already in mourning, perhaps your true widow, unlike me, faithful…
In my mind I see you dancing, fireflies in the cloudy sky.
Who are you: ghosts from a hidden past, forgotten dreams?
In the warm air you climb, perhaps ascending slowly to join the mothership?
Where you come from, I am sure, must be different from here: a secret world…
I try to concentrate on our work: you the model, I, the painter.
Yet what goes through this mind, what dreams are born and destroyed, what illicit fantasies stimulate this imagination?
What pain tortures this body?
For art is the opposite of love.
Art is the dark killer of illusions.
Image: Saori Taira, via Tohjiro
His mind was set long ago: to please her, to make himself the indispensable lover. He knows his way, the meaning of her scent. His, is the gentleness, the patience, the obedience of a true believer. Hers, the certainty of finding the summit, of savouring love in all its glory.
The scenery was breathtaking: the glacier, eons back, had done amazing work.
She looked around the valley: she would apply herself, and try to be worth her inheritance.
Her mind seized a smooth boulder, moved the rock a few meters down the slope…
Smiling, she embraced the stream…
Lust, hunger, delightful pain: waiting, longing, and ultimately, the ecstasy…
She knows the pleasure of waiting, of starving, patiently, never in full daylight.
In the dark valley, around corners full of debris, among the ruins: sooner or later, never too late, a beauty will come, and be devoured, alive, steaming.
A collection of short stories, 50 words long, on the theme of “valleys”.
“Valley” is a geological location, or a spiritual concept: where the spirits meet. It can also be a reflection on the human body, or the geography of the lover, or an abstract symbol for places of death…