Thursday photo prompt
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?
Exploring a city is like discovering a lover: the unknown sounds, the long avenues, the blind windows so much like eyes shut, the undecipherable scents… Then there are the enticing corridors, the forbidden cellars, the lovely peaceful cafés hidden behind trees, as islands of lust. The city does not yield easily: one has to be patient, one has to enjoy the foreplay, wait for the moment, the right time, observe and love.
The city is full of strangers, as many alive and as many ghosts, like the thoughts and dreams in the mind of the one we seek, as puzzling and provocative. She has its angry, even furious, side: thunder and lightning, when the pavements become hostile, the noise unbearable. She can reject the presumptuous, ignore the fool, she’s sovereign on her territory, she does not forgive.
Although many claim to possess her, she has no master. She has seen murder and rape, she knows much about war, about invaders… In our eyes she’s more alive than ever, risen from the flat sands, slowly stretching her wonderful limbs…
Image: via lightsindarkuniverselightsindarkuniverse.tumblr.com
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
We have waited so long, and now, we are here: this is our playground, the tree-lined streets, the old canal, the lovers on the crumbling benches… Silent, beautiful walls smile at us, radiating a warmth perceptible only to those who have penetrated the city’s secret…
We shall dance in the street, naked, your hair flying in the sunshine, your feet only licking the ground, light as a cloud. We shall drink, and dance, and drink more, and sleep.
The light will flood our room, we will hear the far away tumult of other beings, the faded sounds of machines. Step by step we will walk back in time, everything more luminous, old songs resonating around us.
This is our playground, a place to live, to love, and die.
Photography: Roses bordering the Luisenstadt Canal, Berlin Kreuzberg, © 2016 Honoré Dupuis
It was late, we were alone in the last train. Patiently I watched you as you checked your messages: I admired the way you kept going, as if everything was normal. We were going home, I knew you’d attempt to make peace, perhaps more.
I was a little bemused, hesitant maybe, after all, soon I would leave this silly substitute shape for a human body, and become again the woman I was, always were.
But you, my dear, my sweet sister, could you still be the friend I wanted? Or would you become jealous, envious of the looks of others, the preying eyes? Could you adapt to being what I was now? Of course I would make it as comfortable and cosy as I could…
I would take care of you, keep you dressed, and clean, always close to me.
As we were now, on that lonely train, soon home.
Where shall we go now? I know, along the tree-lined streets of our memories, now full of young people of all ages, the façades of the houses from time to time displaying the scars of the great battle, to ensure we remember…
Slowly, we retrace our steps, all those years past, and the ghosts wonder how the city can shield creatures as old as us within its walls, for we are older than them, as ancient as the forests, far, to the East.
Soon we will watch the crowds on Museums Island, patient actors of antique plays, wearing the masks of joy, we will listen to the troubadours, watch the coloured balloons going up to the skies.
Clouds: my heart longs for your touch, ephemeral, giant reflections of our pain.
Come, my love, the city is ours, and we have all eternity to savour her pleasures, from dawn to dusk.
The ferns have grown around it, without knowing it is there, it must be difficult to find.
In the midst of the forest, our beloved world, where we were blessed by our human love: it is a small monument, to that that could not survive us,
Except once we changed,
Into the ghosts that now haunt those woods:
Forever inseparable, so discrete, so silent, that the most attentive walker would not notice us.
This is our old room, where we used to play,
Our toys are no longer there, lost, sold, gone to alien places,
But the light is there, in the dusty morning, where we looked,
I at you, your eyes, your lips,
You at me, wondering
What you could do with this girl ~
In the magical light of our eternal summer…
He’s away, and I should miss him, and perhaps I do, but I know he’s happy.
He’s happy not because I am not there: he calls me every night, his words are as soft and suggestive as ever; he’s happy because he’s free.
He’s free of the ghosts of the past that haunted him, in Faust’s city he found peace and forgiveness, along her tree-lined streets, among people so much younger than him, and me…
I know he goes to the small park, where he finds solace, sometime love, maybe even poetry and inspiration.
I envy his freedom, but I know soon I will join him, not just for a day, or two, but forever…
We were at the bottom of our garden, just at the fence that separated it from the fields: for us, the wild country. You’d climbed over the wooden fence, and held forth against the barbarians (that was me), daring me to give the assault.
So I thought I would call upon my chief engineer, who knew how to build amazing siege machines, boat bridges, and all sorts of military marvels. He (that’s me) imagined complicated stuff, then decided for a frontal assault: straight to the centre of the enemy’s fortress…
We looked for, and found the long plank, strong enough to support the cavalry charge and its heavy horse (me). Then the assault was given, at the slow rhythm of the war drums: the path was steep, and constantly we were bombarded by arrows and boiling lead, thrown at us by the enemy.
When I got to the top, peace was signed, and we shared an apple.
He was too small, his tiny fists in his pockets, shaking with rage.
They mocked him, he was so young, they kicked him, the way bullies do, knowing there is no way their victim can strike bak, his little face went blue, smeared with tears and their spit.
And, of course, later, he learnt, for months, years, slowly becoming the man he wanted to be.
One day he woke up, looked at himself in the mirror, so composed he was, with all those years of training behind him, all that wisdom, steel and nerves.
And he went back, stood in the square, waiting: and sure enough he saw them, or their siblings, gathering like locusts, so, suddenly, the cool guy disappeared, and in a blue rage he made minced meat of all of them; and the police said “you had a good time here”, and he smiled.