#DailyPrompt: Buyers, Beware?

Dora Maar, Double Portrait, 1930I saw her eyes probing the object, a black square with no apparent feature. Behind the long eyelashes the green globes turned to me:

– “And may I ask what the content of this thing might be, if any?”

– “I cannot be absolutely sure… You see, like so many, I died in 2084, a while back…” smiling at the very beautiful young goddess in front of me… “and I lost track of all this. But what I can tell you is what it contained back then, before the fall…”

Hesitantly she said, as I remained silent: “and so… what was it, if this is not intruding?”

“Not at all, this old technology held millions of pictures, everything I could catch, wherever I went, in the days I could still roam this world… Pictures of people, trees, buildings, animals, objects…”

– “This must be worth a fortune… How can I be sure that those pictures are still there though?”

– “Well, this might be pricey, you see no-one is left today who really understands how this sort of thing works. I’d need to search for other items, cables, power boxes, that sort of thing…”

But I knew this was meaningless to her. The amazons had only very primitive technology, and their main weapons were all psychic. Still she was so attractive, for an old fleshless ghost like me.

– “I’ll tell you what. I propose a deal: I get this working and open the content for you, if you allow me in your village. How does that sound?”

I could see she hesitated, deep in thoughts. Of course she would have to consult with her coven. But I had plenty of time.

After a few hours of silence, she finally said: “We have a deal, I had to take responsibility for you… Will you find the other things you need?”

– “Sure,” I replied, “in my days I would have climbed mountains for you…”

Image: Dora Maar, Double Portrait, 1930

#FiveSentenceFiction: Confusion (for Pâris)

René JaquesAs ever, she was pleased to see him, and could sense how much her visit meant to him.

She delighted in the stories he was telling her, followed the spell of his voice, watching his lips intently: she knew of her power over him, and she knew how much she was at his mercy, without him knowing.

Now, in his presence, she forgot the long nights of regret and fear: here she belonged, both mistress and slave, at his side, at the side of this human being, who did not know who she was.

Her eyes on his mouth she was caressing the back of the beloved head: she could feel his body relaxing, getting closer and warmer.

For the power of Aphrodite is beyond mere human understanding.

“he says, you’re beautiful…”

Where laughter lives…

Life Through Blue Eyes

he says

he says,
“you’re beautiful”
I smile, letting it reach my eyes
but I don’t believe him
not for a minute
I think, his eyes are blind
from lust
from a euphoric fog
of satiety
from anything that prevents
him seeing what my eyes do…
no svelte lines here,
no smooth and unmarred visage
only renaissance flesh
and a face with lines
where laughter lives
he can’t be right
he’s high
or the wine
has clouded his judgement
he repeats, “you’re beautiful”
and I wonder if my mirror, mirror
on the wall
has been lying to me
all along

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#FiveSentenceFiction: Fenced

BushidoShe expected obstacles, ditches and walls, even hideous traps.

As she came closer she realised it would be worse: they’d hung their tortured victims on posts, making clear what fate awaited her.

How little did they know that she was well acquainted with evil, and against evil she had the ultimate weapon: her pure heart.

For the angels would come, in their shining armour, invincible, pitiless.

As she stormed the fortress, surrounded by legions, the Enemy begged for mercy: there was none.

#VisDare 64: Awash

AwashThe small boat rested on the sand bank, shallow waters rippled by the light wind. She thought of the days spent aboard, alone, the hopes the journey had raised.

She was there now, standing immobile as a statue. In a few hours they would be reunited: her hero, his mermaid, as he used to call her.

Till then, she would watch the sunset.


#FWF Free Write Friday: The Circle of Life

Aphrodite Space ants, no light, no atmosphere, ersatz of everything, no longer human, dogs of war… In his sleep he remembers…

In the immensity of space, in the cruiser armed to the core, he remembers: a clear stream flowing from high above in the icy air of an alpine Spring, snow still powdering the valleys, and her smile, her lips in the thrall of happiness.

He remembers the glory of the shore in the Summer: the waves licking the golden sand, her body, tanned, naked, the beauty of Aphrodite.

He remembers the colours of Fall, the sweet scent of burning wood, the horses in the fields showing off their winter coat…

He remembers the dead of Winter, when he, with thousands of others like him, embarked on the spaceships launched to stop the Enemy… The long lines of volunteers, the rockets.

He remembers the war, the horror of war.

It is over now: they have triumphed. One out of one thousand is coming back. To Earth, to the Light, to the Seasons, to their long gone Loves.

For Earth is rotating, and Sol is burning, and they, the survivors, are now old men.

Image: courtesy The Classy Polaroid

Weekly Writing Challenge: Characters that Haunt You

When you possess a creative brain, says Coady, everyday experiences are used as ingredients for the work you hope one day to make.

Haunting I know her names: I’ve have known her since a child, she’s always been there, not far, even if inaccessible.

Imagination, or muse, she’s influential, and, very, very pretty. The more inaccessible the prettier: it is well known…

So, I know, the day she goes, the day she disappears from my life, will be the day I die. She will go and find another host, another malleable soul.

Today I am not ready: I want to live longer, and write, and keep admiring her, the long legs, the heavy breasts, the smile of a young goddess, the lips of Aphrodite…

You will tell me I’m a fool: just write her off in your novel, and you will be free, it is that simple: write and free yourself.

Melissa, Joan, Nina, Elsa: how could I forget you, my heroines, the ones I worship, in the midst of darkness…

When I face my Maker, I will say: I have lived happy, under her gaze, blame me if You wish, she is the one for me.

In Berlin (in five sentences…)

Viktoria ParkI drove carefully along your highways, approaching your centre as one approaches a very beautiful woman, a little tensed, perhaps apprehensive at the thought of your contemptuous stare…

How quiet were your tree-lined streets, how beautiful Viktoria park in the late Summer light, and how radiant your smile when you open your door, my adored lover, my soul, my mistress.

It was so quiet, everywhere, as if the leaves of the trees were silencing the far-away murmur of traffic; but this is not London nor Paris: this is the city of a hard-won peace. Oh Berlin, city of our love, where so long ago, you said we would meet again, here, on the banks of the Spree, unter den Linden.

Memorial to the Berlin Airlift, 1948, TempelhofFor I adore your city, as I adore you, knowing that history never totally disappears, knowing the Topography of the Terror, the martyred bodies on the Wall, the long way back to life after the fall… Eastside Gallery, die Alte National Gallery… Dem Deutschen Volke…

In Tempelhof we ran, my eyes never leaving the golden hair and your sun-tanned legs, the goddess’s steps. And in the evening we walked the calm streets of Kreuzberg, and then you taught me that Aphrodite herself lives here.

The Young Dancer, Alte Nationalgallery

#AtoZChallenge: April 9, 2013 ~ Helen of Troy

Judgementt of Pâris Your face has come to us across three millennia, in a halo of mystery and staggering beauty: you were the daughter of Zeus, king of the gods, and Leda, also known as Nemesis.  In Sanskrit, your name means “the shining one”.  The boy who abducted you, Pâris, mad with admiration and lust, suffered a terrible death, after a long war.  If this is not the stuff of legends what is?

You were born in Sparta, the city of heroes of the Mycenaean Age.  Homer sang your beauty.  You hunted with your divine brothers, Castor and Pollux, your breasts naked, proud of your skills with the bow.  Some say you gave birth to Iphigenia, from your meeting with Theseus, who went through hell to abduct Persephone.  But who knows the truth?

Out of a crowd of suitors from far and near, you married Menelaus of Sparta, your birth place.  He was a jealous man, and for good reasons.  Pâris of Troy, who knew about women – after all he had been appointed to judge of the beauty of Aphrodite – seduced you.  Hence the thousand ships.

The Trojan War was the end of the Age of Heroes, the Fall from grace.  They burnt the city of Troy to ashes – not even Schliemann knew for sure where it was –  and you died in Rhodes, where you are known as Helen of the Tree.

 Helen by Gustave Moreau