Sounds #fivewords

Weekly Writing Challenge #168

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I am a light sleeper. Maybe I have become one. Not that I wake up for no reason, not at all. I just hear sounds, sounds, not noises. In my sleep I try to identify them, like what was that rapping at the window? Or, was that stones falling in the courtyard?

I listen to the rain, I hear creatures moving. Also, I see marks, on mysterious old walls, and I try to decipher them, still asleep. Then I wake up, or near enough, and I can’t see them anymore. This makes me think, as I go back to sleep, that I may be inventing things.

The floors shake, the ground vibrates. Is this a dream, or is there an earthquake coming? The night is a long adventure, with short intervals. No ground to worry, it’s age. Or that is what I keep telling myself.

Old memories, the little demons amusing themselves to annoy me. This is it: they can’t unsettle me during the day, so they take their revenge at night, or try to. Bar a failure of imagination, I still have plenty of ideas of what they may be up to next, that is tonight. And the night after.

Image source: le grand homme de la nuit

I know his tricks… #fivewords

Weekly Writing Prompt #155

Notre Dame Blick nach Westen - Wasserspeier

 

I know his tricks, and I can recognise the face, his, or of one of his “staff“, as he likes to call his minions. I have seen him a few times, in the old city, never in the same guise, even as an attractive person, disappearing at will in the crowd. Always, I heed his moves, his looks, for, sometime, he betrays his goal, his intentions, and reveals who will be his next prey.

Photo: Noter-Dame de Paris, collection privée, Paris in the 30’s.

The Man Who Feared His Past #WritersWednesday

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He dreamed of speeches he may have made, once, as a much younger and more confident man, to audiences he held in awe, of intractable dilemmas he would have resolved, in another age, perhaps another world: what he feared most was his own past. Long forgotten antagonists were reappearing, more menacing, whose names he could not remember, but he knew, how much it had cost him, then, to chase them away.

And, now, they were back, vengeful, demanding, seeking retribution, wanting him to pay for what he had imposed on them, for his treachery, and for being, now, the mere shadow of himself.

It was as if all those distant years were coming back to him, forcing him to replay, to prove, again and again, that he was still able to fend off the Enemy. Like so many tentacles from the depth, voices he did not want to hear, questions he did not want to answer, faces he had thought forever forgotten, all, were surrounding him, insisting, clamouring for his undivided attention, and perhaps, apologies. He was drowning in his own memories.

In the middle of the night he was seeking a lone friendly face, a long lost friend, but only saw the hordes of maleficent creatures from his distorted life. In the morning, grateful for the dawn, he asked himself: is this hell?

 

Image: The Appearance of the artist’s family via Marc Chagall, via https://artist-chagall.tumblr.com/

#FiveSentenceFiction: Darkness

Antonioni short film “Superstizione”The low growl of the city, and this feeble light that does not mean dawn: sleep has evaded me.

For I think of you: the multitude, you, who used to count for nothing, but now you do, and they know it.

The future belongs to you, a future full of light, full of hope.

The darkness, still to be defeated, grows weaker, and its cruelty more vicious, but you have much experience of that.

And so morning will come, chasing away the clouds, and the demons.