Painted #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

painted

 

He painted on the large canvasses we now see in the Orangery Museum. A quiet man, who took the time to look at the light, the pale greens, the tender colours of the young plants. His garden is a spot for dreaming, thinking back to a time of peace. And then there is the gateway, the little painted bridge, an enigma, a sign, a parabole perhaps?

Where does it lead? Could it lead to you, wherever you are, surely painting, deep in thoughts, wondering. Yes, I see you now, in a secret part of your garden, where even ghosts tread carefully.

Claude Monet by himself

 

Bridge #Writephoto

Thursday Photoprompt

beneath-the-bridge

 

From her hideout she could see that the water had receded: the shadow of the bridge was playing in the morning sunshine, the world was silent. Did the horror come from the sea, as in a Lovecraft story? Or did it wait for the high tide to reach its victims?

She knew she could not stay where she was, for it had been safe just for one night, but soon she would have to leave, and resume her journey. Was she on her own, or was there any other survivor? The walk from the wreckage had taken the whole previous day, till late in the night. She’d seen no-one, just heard the horror, the shrieks of agony.

Then the hideous shadow appeared, reflected by the water, approaching slowly, across the bridge…

#Valleys: the Runner #Fifty

LandwehrkanalShe runs along the path, admiring the green edge of the canal: this is her territory, austere and silent, in the morning light.

On the bank, the tall trees observe her, recognising her sombre and exquisite beauty.

Soon she reaches the small bridge, where she seduces and kills her victims.

Saturday morning

 As I sit at the keyboard I hear your footsteps: you’re standing behind me, and I can feel the warmth of your smile. Turning towards you I see you are already wearing your running gear, the knee-length black leggings, the light blue t-shirt – o my. “C’mon jarhead, time to shake your bulk!” The sun is out, a little breeze waves through the long grass, as we warm up on the path that follows the railway line. I am following you, dreaming, my eyes riveted on those lovely oscillating buttocks and legs. Of course, I miss a step, trip and nearly flatten my “bulk” in deep mud. I hear the crystal bells of your laugh, now well ahead of me: catching you up, my love, is no easy challenge, but I try. Now we approach the motorway bridge, which flies over the railway, leaving just enough space for the path to pull underneath to the other side, then there is a gate and a little hill. Running up the hill you clearly show the advantage of lightness: at half my weight there is no way I can compete with you – but you don’t expect me to, you slow down and blow me a kiss: the sunlight plays in your hair, slowly I catch up, and we run now next to each other, over the footbridge, now above the motorway, through the sports fields, following the road back to our house.

After showering we stand naked in our room, you applying some cream on your beloved face… and I suggest: “I have a plan for the day…” But you have another priority… looking at me in the mirror: ”Just behind you, is where you start Dupuis!” Behind me is the bed. Funny thing, it has been in my head all the time.