Thursday photo prompt
“Soon we will be back, walking those hills, and finding ourselves, again.”
It’s true, she thought, life is an eternal come back.
Simply, we change, not the hills, not the sky. Only us grow old.
Or it feels like it.
So, we will have to rewrite the story, or is it stories?
Will the nights be as silent, the vistas as inspiring?
Will we retrace our steps, or lose our way, as if in a foreign land?
How do we rewind time?
Thursday photo prompt
She read the legend under the picture: “the image shows a clouded sky beneath a full moon. There is a wordless sign showing only a pointed hat, of the kind often worn by wizards…”
How strange she thought, how and when had they managed to take this shot? The full moon was there alright, and the sign. But the clouds? There was none in this quiet corner of the Universe. She’d made sure of that. There was rain too, but, as visitors sometime said, it came from nowhere. She was proud of her work, the careful terraforming, the ever blue sky, the manicured landscapes, the small lakes… and, of course, the popular little village, with the delightful green, and the wizard cottage… The picture must have been doctored, edited as the saying went. Still, “they” hadn’t shown much respect, whoever “they” were.
Perhaps she should be more careful now when allowing those space transports to disgorge tourists on her planet. She should set rules, like “no editing of pictures!” Here there was no cloud, and the moon was always full. So she had ordained.
She walks slowly down the wide staircase, the morning sunlight shimmers on the stones of the hall down in front of her.
The house is quiet, luminous, the air is cool, a soft light wind comes through the open front door, outside the sky is a deep blue above the hills.
She now stands under the porch, the young woman working in the garden notices her, waves, smiles and blows a kiss: she’s suddenly aware of a presence behind her.
She turns her head as he seizes both her hands, pulling her gently against him, she senses his strength under the incredibly light touch, as she falls in his arms, in awe, she remembers last night: her scarred naked body shivering, exhausted, the warmth she had felt, lying between them two, brother and sister, protecting her.
Her lips open she yields to his hold, her face upturned, as he says in his deep melodious voice: “You’re home my darling, there is nothing to fear anymore.”
We look at the sky: so soft is blue on blue on this Easter day, how beautiful your beloved face in the morning light…
A crow bomb-dives a sitting heron, ignoring her dignified look: the heron chooses flight.
Now we walk along the well troden path, patches of frost lingering in the early sunshine, you know that I am happy with the change of clock time…
As we cross the meadow we look at the horses, more crows flying by, my lens fixed on the oak tree.
You look at me and in your eyes the fire burns with the energy of this new Spring.
Hesitantly she walked a few yards on the patch of grass where she’d landed. She was on an island, to her left she saw a low building looking like a sea-side café. There were benches and a few wooden tables. To her right was a flight of steps leading down to a paved walkway. She could hear the faint sound of waves in the distance and the cries of seagulls. The sky was deep blue and cloudless. Her movements were awkward, the way of actors in very old films before the digital magic of remastering. Looking at herself on the screen she laughed silently, thinking that her brother would not recognise this small creature with a funny hairdo and ridiculous clothes. Luckily there was no one nearby. Some distance away in the centre of the island she could see a few people, more like shadows. She wished Julien was here with her, to guide and protect her. Gathering her courage she decided to explore.