Crow #writephoto




We have known each other for a long time. In the garden of the small house, some distance from here, she used to perch in the old tree, just in the corner, and was able to follow my progress in the morning, making coffee, in the kitchen. Often the Crow and I looked at each other, appreciating each other’s company, and the morning peace.

When we moved here she gave me a recommendation for her jackdaw cousins (large birds with streaks of white on their bellies), who inhabit this neighbourhood, and, to tell the truth, most of the city’s parks and streets.

I think she has a beneficial influence on us, and I have concluded she’s in fact a guardian angel. Her speech is always to the point, sober, if not melodious. I trust her judgement, and whenever she’s unhappy, so am I.

In the little garden we had hilarious moments, for example when she, and her sisters, kept a watch on the local heron… For she’s a good fighter, she looks after her partner and family, and don’t bother her neighbours.

I wish all humans were like her.



Photo: the Crow and the Heron © Honoré Dupuis, 2012

Window #writephoto




The house is still there, and the roses. How happy we were then, how beautiful was our life, the sun was shining everyday…

This is what I want to remember, now, after all those years. Of course, I’d like to travel back, to erase what went on, to start again. I want to see your face, your smile, your invitation, at the little window. I want to be that other me, the good and wise one, which I became, finally, but then, still young, still loved by you.

But years have passed. I am wise, and old, soon I’ll be gone.

Alone, the house will stand, children will look out of the window, to a fresh morning, inhaling the perfume of red roses.

Looking back… #Iamwriting



Last winter, there was ice on the windows… Perhaps, now, we miss that cold edge to the air?

The long walks along the river, the parcs, the lakes. A cold Sekt on a bench, long rides in the vibrating forests, the discovery of ancient sites, the monuments to deep history…

The storm. Each day counted, a boat trip on the lake, an hour in the museum, Luther, Sans Souci… Ruinenberg…

Yes, some short stories, but the novel is still beached, going nowhere. Does it matter?

No, it was a good year. Each day counted, 1937, a look into a recent past, and, wrapped in mist, a further away time: what ghosts roam in those older streets?

Discoveries: characters to make alive, tales to tell, dreams to repeat.

Inspiration: each new dawn, nature fighting back, art… The dark Muse.

Books? Turing, Wittgenstein, The Plot Against America, Silk Roads, Musil…

We are grateful for every morning, in the City of Faust: a Moveable Feast…

Photo: Air-raid shelter in Berlin at the Reinhardtstraße. At the present it is used as a private museum for contemporary art of art collector Christian Boros. On the top of the shelter is a reproduction of the Barcelona-Pavillion.

By Times – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0,


To serve #fivewords

Weekly writing prompt #117



“How wrong this all is…” she said looking at him, “Old people can’t afford their rent, what a great country this is!”

He looked at the sky. It did not serve any purpose to dream. She was right. Fast, the light wing of hope was disappearing…

One day…

Image: Berliner Zeitung


Haven #writephoto




This is the place we have chosen,

The haven of our declining years –

For there we will await the start of

our voyage, beyond the beloved sky of our world.

There we will remember other journeys,

other skies, and celebrate

the enduring treasure

of our love. 




Proxy #thedailypost




She roams the streets, a pale, almost immaterial silhouette, the thin shadow of a woman. Yet the eyes are much alive, piercing blue, observing the passers-by, decrypting the smiles, or the tears. She reads the lives, the stories, the pain, the joy, she does not need to talk with people, they are an open book for her – and the only light in her life.

For without them, she is not really alive, a mere shimmer in the autumn air.

Image: Fantome by 0zhan on DeviantArt

“Suspicious, but still benign…”



When they left the S-Bahn station a thin drizzle was falling on the deserted sidewalks of Wedding. It was about 1:30 in the morning, there was hardly any traffic, dawn was still some hours away. They were tired of carrying their luggage: it had been a long journey, all the way from the other side of the other capital… But home was now very close!

On the plane they had celebrated with a half-bottle of half-cooled champagne, just happy to have made it, through the grid-locked roads, the late and overflowing trains, the idiotic obstacle course through duty-free (!) at the airport.

As usual, they felt happy to be back, under a sky that meant, for them, peace and love.

And then there was that diagnosis: something not right, but not so wrong that they should worry, for now. They were not going to, as they had long learnt that being suspicious was an attribute of free people. And so it went for these cells inside him, and their mysterious behaviour.

As she opened the door, they kissed. This was not their last trip.

Picture: ancient bell, Invaliden Friedhof, Berlin Mitte, ©2017 Honoré Dupuis

Cracked #writephoto

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt




The ground was dry, it would be some days before rain fell again, perhaps longer. As we walked through the field we saw the small shell, among the debris of the last harvest: was it murder, theft or accident?

You looked at me and said: “Just think, if it was ours, our egg, our unborn child?” I looked again, the pale colour of the thin shell, the fragility of the poor abandoned egg.

Life is so fragile, and yet, it perdures.

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