Weekly Writing Challenge #140
She could tell from his footsteps, along the stream.
There he’d stopped, listening to the water, and to the birds.
He may even have spotted a kingfisher.
At a slow pace she followed his journey, up to the cliff.
There, she knew, the show was over.
Weekly Writing Challenge #138
It is one of her recurring dreams: the angel stands, high on the edge of a cliff, at night. Herself, watching the angel, can feel the old scar burning, a real fire, not the sort of fake feeling, and she can still remember it in the morning. That, the burn, and the deep feeling of joy at the presence of the angel.
Image source: Pexels
As we begin our descent, stepping over the larger stones, observing the path ahead of us, I feel your presence, nestled, inside me…
For you are my companion, my lover in life and death, the protective spirit of this valley.
For when I died it was for you, with you, to be with you for eternity, your human lover rendered immortal.
Do you remember the view that day, the snow, the clouds?
Do you remember us on that day, my love, on the grey cliff, enlaced, kissing, falling, falling…?
Have you ever truly felt déjà vu, the sensation that you’ve already had the experience you’re currently having?
I asked my pupils to wait for me in the little crag as I wanted to explore the path down the cliff. After all I was leading this junior group of the Alpine Club, and it was my responsibility to ensure they were safe. The evening was bright, lit by the full moon, the air was clear and cool. The path led down to a narrow terrace after a near vertical descent of about fifteen meters. I was strapped and knew the ground quite well, so I climbed down.
As I turned round to check how far I was, I saw her: her camera lens was aimed at me, as she was lying on the flat rock, her blond hair held tight by a small beret. And there on that cliff I knew I had been at this spot before, long ago… The girl got up, smiled and, pushing a few blond locks under her beret, said in a lovely Austrian accent: “I took a good shot of you coming down, you can take a copy if you want!” But I was away, there, in the djebel, under another full moon, held in the frame of a sniper’s rifle, back in time. I smiled and said I would be pleased to have the pic: did she want me to take one of her?
The declining sunlight casts long shadows on the meadows, trees and rocks magically elongated over the sensual curves of the valley.
The little cross is hidden from view, not far from our path, but few walkers know it is there.
It’s almost our secret, a tiny haven nestled at the foot of the magic mountain, a special place: we belong there.
We can hear the small stream, running through the pine trees, as you turn your beloved face towards me, the green eyes I worship, deep into my lost soul, as images of our fall flash through my mind, and yours.
There, high above the valley, is the vertical cliff where you last kissed me, before our death: we haunt this place, and only the spirits will ever know.