Was passiert? What’s happening in this city? Smiling faces have disappeared, hoods are on, ugly trolls march in the streets… Some disrespectful punks have pinched my venerable old bike!! The friendly round little diablotins have morphed into ugly scumbags, the air smells of sulphur…
A few days away, and this is a different place, what’s going on? Is someone trying to tell me something? Have I outstretched my welcome? Is time up? Or has there been a shift in space-time, are we in 2019, or in 9102? Have the magnetic poles inverted?
Have I dreamed? Or is the nightmare now, this, this unknown city, which only ressembles the one I once knew?
Image source: http://wallpapers-xs.blogspot.com/2012/04/nightmare-wallpapers.html
Weekly Writing Challenge #169
The demon bowed low, and attempted to spin his speech, as if it felt a surge of guilt. I had to smile, even as I felt like having a rant at those annoying busy-bodies. I ignored the fellow, and went back to my page, and the story of a city overrun by the Enemy and his creatures.
Weekly Writing Prompt #161
We can no longer tour the City as it was, and yet, in the dawn hour, we can chase its ghosts. For we ourselves change, under its spell, and we too evolve into something of the past, an obscure picture in the dust of Time.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s prompt, and Babylon Berlin
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
For her, the City is the charmed valley, and she is the river, forever flowing, undulating through her tree-lined streets.
She loves the fluid crowds of her boulevards, as she picks up men or women for the evening feast.
For she is a predator, swift and silent beauty without name.
We met by chance, one of those city encounters, that usually lead nowhere.
But it was your dress, the colour matching your smile, the shape of you, suddenly more visible than if you had been naked: I looked at you as a photographer, then as a poet, then – yes of course – as a male who wanted you, who wanted to know and own that beautiful picture of a woman.
But no-one is to own you, for you are free and want to stay that way, you are no object, your beauty is for itself, and if you play, it’s on your terms, dress and all: there is no Pygmalion on your horizon, just you, and, cohorts of people like me – if only I had known.
So we walked, chatting, a close time capsule, oblivious of the crowd, of the trees, of time slipping, your voice as smooth as honey, the colour of your dress still holding me, transfixed.
“So”, you said with a bright scarlet smile, “are you sure you want to know who you have met, Doctor Faust? Then I will show you the other side of me”…
Your dream place
What is your dream place in this world? Perhaps it is where you live already, perhaps a city you have visited, perhaps somewhere you read about? What inspires you there, what is special for you? Are you sharing that place with anyone? And, if you write, have you written about your dream place? Would you want to live there, in a different time in history?