Weekly Writing Prompt #159
I confess I have never been a sun worshipper. Red meat on a dry rack, sorry, beach, does not inspire me. Perhaps is it a question of name? Summer, Sommer, sommaire, echoes of summary… Execution? I long for Autumn, for the fresh smell of wet ground, for the scent of pine trees, at last drinking the dawn dew. I love the way the temperature drops at night… sweet dreams.
I long for the rain, for the gift of rain, falling on the parched earth, for the sound of rain drops on the lake. Solace.
Photo: Herbst Regen, source
Weekly Writing Challenge #141
The stage was set long ago, where we have to admit our guilt, the betrayal of all that we believed in, when we were young.
That innocent person, that child, has grown into this: a pretentious liar, a coward, a traitor to what is fair and noble, an unctuous criminal.
The angel is waiting, the page is blank.
We will have to confess, for once, we will have to tell the truth.
Not only tell, but write it.
It’s that, or the gun, lying on the table.
A clear choice: go to the light, or die the miserable death of the servants of the Enemy.
Picture: grave in Invaliden churchyard, near the Hohenzollern Kanal © 2016 Honoré Dupuis