#VisDare 100: Reach

At the Gate: ReachYou stand at the gate, no longer a child, and not yet an angel: you see the sign, check on your own palm, it all lines up with the prediction. The years have not altered the meaning, as you recall, when you were last here, eons back, in the mist of a forgotten era, already you knew: you’d come back, and your daughters would follow, for there is no peace, until Gaia is safe, until Mother has reclaimed Her Creation.

For She knows the end, the story written, in the palm of Her hand. And you, sister, you are here to make Her will come true, against the demons, against the war waged in the name of fake deities: Her will be done, as you reach for Heaven, soon your rightful Home.

And so, you cross the threshold, heart beating, your head high, leading the Army of Earth.


#FiveSentenceFiction: Entrance

DSC_0226From the valley we take the well trodden path, the symphony of Spring following us all the way, to the beloved border that marks the start of a steeper climb.

There, the meadow gives way to a rockier ground, and the line of small trees, alpine oaks and pine, becomes visible, just under the cliff.

Many times we have taken this walk, your hand in mine, our steps silent, our slim bodies invisible even to the most attentive of mountain birds.

Always, we end up here, past the old chapel, which vibrates still from ancient pilgrims’ chants: at the crossway we turn towards the smooth rock, to the threshold.

Soon, the gate opens to our most intimate memory: us, enlaced, your eyes on mine, falling forever to our death among the splendour of His creation.

#WritersWednesdays: a Trinity

ND-en-Vaux 01

I know you are looking, searching, questioning. I also know that I must go with you, to the old town, to the place where we found each other, so long ago. It is the place where I died, the place you left behind, for a world that no longer would know me. Perhaps you still have doubts, perhaps you are a little afraid of letting me back in your life. But there is nothing to fear: the one you love protects you, and to tell the truth she is also the threshold to me, if you want to find me, it is easy: she holds the key.

You have understood that the place is special. It was then, because of us, because of our love, it is now, but it was also before you and I were born: it is one of the gates of our world, one of the gates to that other world you are beginning to see. And, yes, I know, this is why you are questioning: you know that it started there.

So, I have now decided, I will go with you, but you must accept that your love must go too, the three of us, for I cannot be with you and not with her, for we are a trinity. You remember the old church. At that time, when we were so young, they were working in the ruins of the cloister. Then we could not see them. Now the cloister is as it was, and there we will find an old medieval statue. They date that statue to the ninth century, but you should know that it is more ancient than that, it predates the Roman invasion. The cloister, and the statue are why Gabrielle visited the town all those years ago.

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#FiveSentenceFiction: Purple

MemorialIn the dead of night I think of you.

The scenery often changes: from the sands of the desert to the snows on the high mountains peaks.

Often the shapes change too, and the sky from time to time: courage knows no colour, courage knows no gender, courage is simple.

Soon is your graduation, my son.

Purple hearts…

#FiveSentenceFiction: Détour

The CliffThe 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.

#FiveSentenceFiction: Harvest

 Their legions had swept through the universe, cruel, invincible, enslaving all humans and other creatures on their path.

The harvest of souls would have continued if it had not been for one of their slaves, One with a power that they could not comprehend, the power of Love.

They crucified Her, as they had done to so many others, pitiless, torturing Her small body as She hung, dying.

But then Her call was heard, Her God responded, because She was Love, and She knew Her Daughter was true.

So the Archangels came, lowering Her fragile remains from the cross, and, in Their turn, harvesting the monsters, burning the atoms of their ashes.

#FiveSentenceFiction: Faeries

 You are in the sky: I can see you, diaphane, silent, moving so fast – unless you want to pause, and observe, or visit…

Yet, you are of flesh and blood: I know, often you come to my place and touch me, a light finger on my lips, your presence I feel, in my dream, but in the morning I see your sign: the little cross with a diamond, and a drop of your blood on my pillow.

So, one day, one night, maybe, when the moon is out, you’ll let me see you, in all your naked beauty, and, even, if I can be forgiven, touch you?

My finger on your lip, light, timid, hesitant, until you seize my hand, and guide it where I can no longer pretend…

My faery, my lover, my life…

[dedicated to Cara, who will laugh]

#BlogMeMaybe: May 21 – May I tell you something about writing?

I am really excited by Gillian’s announcement – so much so that I re-blogged her post! On my one attempt at the genre I sought and receive some comments from that most creative of bloggers… Which decided me to rewrite it, perhaps as a teaser before a submission, he says, pondering. For now, a lady friend, who knows a thing or two on the subject of BDSM/RLV, suggested this… Of course dedicated to @GillianColbert:

The diary

Helena is sitting at her little desk, writing her diary, as Mistress G has instructed her. As she writes, she sees herself in the mirror, just in front of her. She knows how to please Mistress, when she kneels prostrate, naked and chained, downstairs, in the dungeon. Up here, in this large room, lined up with books, large windows opening on one side to the sea, on the other to the lush garden, she knows that, to please, she has to be more sophisticated: not just obedient and supple, but also cultured and amusing. Not that she’s ever vulgar, even when she submits to the ultimate humiliations, being whipped and sodomised on the cross. Mistress G has taught her standards. But Helena is still learning: there is no end to the training of a submissive. Perfection is impossible.

She looks at the perfect oval of her face, the ocean green eyes, the black hair, the greek nose, the delicately shaped lips, the slender neck, her collar. She wears her collar with pride, her name is on it, it’s her distinctive and only wealth, together with the beautiful silver ring that glimmers on her shaven labia. But of course the whole of her belongs to Mistress G.

Todays her diary tells Mistress about her dreams, always related to pleasing and serving, but also, as Mistress instructed, to her progress in her understanding of her role as an obedient yet intelligent sub. She looks now at the sea, grey and foaming under the blue sky. She hears the dragonflies hovering  around the pond, the crystal sound of the cascade, their cascade. Perhaps Mistress will take her to the garden, down to the comfortable couch under the big cypress tree.

But now she hears Mistress’ footsteps: Helena stands up, wearing only a light gown over her naked body. Taking in the sight of her slave, Mistress G smiles: “how is my little girl today?” – Helena is on her knees, kissing Mistress’ feet, then, her eyes upturned adoringly to her Mistress, she says: “This girl is so happy to see her Mistress in the house”. She’s now taken the humble nadu position, palms open, and there is only obedience and devotion on her face. Mistress G has expertly freed her slave from the gown and is admiring her naked property. Helena’s eyes are turned down to the wooden floor: she’s awaiting her Mistress’ instructions.  “Let’s have a look at your diary, my good girl” Mistress G says, cheerfully, playing with the handle of her whip. Helena feels a little anguish in her heart: has she made any grammar mistake?