Encounter with an Angel, a pre-Christmas tale

B794C487-A507-44C2-B891-5127BF026882

 

I stood waiting at the traffic lights with a few other humans, and I noticed her immediately: her posture, the recognisable signs of strength and gentleness. There are some very beautiful beings in this city, but this was enough for me to keep my eyes on her, as the traffic roared past us. She turned her head round toward me, and I saw the light in her blue eyes, and heard the melody of her voice in a concert of crystalline bells:

“You look worried, my friend, and you should not be,” said the Angel with a dazzling smile, “We know that not all is well in this world, but this is no different from all times,” she continued, as I looked at her face in awe. “Besides, there are some very good things happening, even if it is sometime difficult, for you, to recognise them. You should know that every time the Enemy scores one, We win two, sometime even three. So, please relax, and keep your faith in Her, for She won’t abandon you, however stupid you might be, most of the time.”

I was speechless. People walked around me. The lights had changed from red to green and back to red again. The Angel had gone, in a cloud of bells.

She knows

Harvard_Theatre_Collection_-_Brünnhilde,_TS_40.40

 

She knows how much I value her, her role, her character, and she plays hard to get.

“You have to show me, not good enough just to say: ‘she possessed him, he was what her will dictated.’ You have to write it, convincingly, a good two thousand words, at least, showing how much this is true, this is his reality, the truth about my power…”

And, of course, she means her power over me too. I have to admit she’s at the center of this, the lady of the forest, the magician, the witch, she who inspires me. But she wants more. She wants success, fame, she wants to be on the stage. I have to work harder. The plot is too complicated. It’s not, solely, about her. She, is merely interested on how bright she will shine, a heroin for our time.

“And then you have to show what I can do, not fiddling in the bushes, the real me: just look, deep in my eyes!”

She has gorgeous eyes, a deep green, turning grey, when she’s really angry, like now.

So I must reform, understand that this is her book, not mine. That this is her story, not just any story.

Or else.

 

Image: Brünnhilde, By Odilon Redon – Houghton Library, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3721653b

Angel #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

christmas

 

You raised your arms, the dove looks about to fly away. The world is at peace, your smile reassures all of us. The small flame vacillates, one short instant. The warm light plays in your hair. How we admire your face, the beautiful eyes that greet all of us.

For we are afraid, and seek your protection. The donkey looks at you, just to make sure you understood: your people need you.

Light #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

snowy-dawn-ivinhoe-and-ashridge-111

 

In this blinding light, on such a bright morning, I seek your smile, a sign, even a shard of memory.

Where are you, in this, or another world?

Do the rays of our star still caress your skin?

Or are you now so far beyond, perhaps on an alien shore, watching another sun rise?

I have lost your trace, your scent, the feeling of your existence.

Night will come.

Fallen leaves

photography of trees near river during fall

Photo by Alexandra Shchelkunova on Pexels.com

This year it may have arrived late, but now, it is here. The time of the year when shadows play tricks, shallow shapes appear, as if conjured up by a malicious genie, and then disappear, erased. This lovely vision may not be real, those blond hair, flying in the light wind, are not what they seem: as I got nearer, anxious to see the face, it’s nowhere, it’s just me, and some hidden gnome, invisible, yet present, and I think, laughing silently. The light is low, diffused, under the trees one does not recognise anything, cannot see through the light mist: I see you, but is it you? Or an ancient witch pretending to be you?

The waters of the canal reflect a deep green that doesn’t not come from the sky, but from an elsewhere, a deep, unfathomable to us, humans. We lost the skill to see this light, but was it ever a skill, or rather, a right? Gold and brown, grey and a colour which is undefined, a wavelength our eyes don’t capture. Dark knights ride in the clouds, bearing runes that may signal our end, our dismissal from what is, still, paradise. I feel small, in a world that, for now, and the next few months, no longer smiles at me. Those ghosts are not my friends, they merely remind me that life is short.

And Winter is coming.

Copper #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

copper

 

It is not so far, where we met for the first time, when we were incredibly young, and so ignorant.

Not so far in distance from here, but in time, we dare not say. We know, much have changed around us, everywhere.

Except us.

Wiser we are, and so much stronger.

We’ve lost tracks of all those years, for we live for the present: ghosts we might be, but the happy sort,

as we have each other, for evermore.

 

Is there still such a thing as a good (Vampire) story?

IMG_0755

I wrote this post as a quick flash response to #writephoto, and then thought I could build a bit more on the story. But this genre, pace Interview, has been flogged so many times that I have my doubts. Nonetheless the follow-up is here, but one word of warning: some adult content! At this point I am not sure how far I can go with this. Part of the inspiration is indeed in the streets of Berlin, and in the forests of Brandenburg, not so far from this city. As for the characters, let’s say that any resemblance to living persons etc…

Picture: Seestraße at dusk (©2019 Honoré Dupuis)

 

Murmur #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

murmuration

 

“They are swarming, soon they will fly away toward those trees…” I said, “And disappear beyond those clouds…” you replied. It was the end of the long day, we would soon pack for the night, fold the tent, get ready for the hunt. Soon we would need to feed, even if soberly. Your green eyes turned to me. I could see the signs on your skin. I drew the sharp blade, it glittered in the dying light.

We heard an owl. The starlings had disappeared, as you predicted. “I am thirsty.” You said.  A small cut would suffice. As you enlaced me, your arms around my neck,  I saw the red of your beloved lips, felt the despair in your embrace. I held you tight, and as you drank, became as one with the monster in you.

Reaching #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

twilight

 

“So we are back”, you said in a tone of voice void of emotions. But I knew better: “back” meant we had failed, together, to adapt to a different life, to create the new, to be reborn. Yet this was our home, the naked ground where we belonged. Even the barren trees were part of us, a befitting reminder of the winter of our souls.

“We’ll find a ruin somewhere, do it up, settle down…” I added, hopeful.

“I love those clouds, and then I am here, still, with you!” You replied with a smile, “I thought we should never regret a failure, the important thing, was to have tried.”

“I knew you would understand,” I said, fixing you, as you were reaching for my hand, “Together we are strong, as strong as ever.”

Destination #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

foggy-morning-019

 

You are now so close: and you know I am waiting.

The certainty to find me, at the end of this road, your destination.

You know, all that time I have been waiting, since the day, that day, when you left.

Many pages I wrote since then. Many books I read. Many cities I travelled to.

Many others I met.

Yet I too was certain: one day you would walk this tree-lined road, to find me.

Alas, much I have changed, as I know you have.

All these years, away, without each other.

And now, the end of the road, our destination.