Before dawn #fivewords

Weekly Writing Challenge #170

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A late dream,

Don’t I know what to expect!

The storm must have woken me,

And you, dear angel,

Are still fast asleep…

Yet I know: the Enemy and his minions strike before dawn,

Hiding their hideous shapes 

Behind the windows’ frames

I wrap myself in your gown,

And swear at them. 

 

Picture: from this fantastic site: http://darkdreams.centerblog.net/1396-les-nagas

at: http://darkdreams.centerblog.net

Without reasons…

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He must’ve known those people, sometime, some year, in the distant past. But whose past? The voices sounded far away, in a language he thought he should remember, the faces in semi darkness, when he knew that – somewhere – it was already daylight (but he could not be completely sure).

At last he looked out, from the vanishing dream. There was sunlight. He was alone, the voices had gone, the faces vanished. Everything was there, as it had been the day before. He had just slept longer than was his due.

Earlier, he realised, he’d been out, in the street, in the fog. There was a group of people, talking. It was in the past. Whose past?

Photography: Brassaï (1899-1984), Avenue de l’Observatoire dans le brouillard, c. 1934, courtesy Christie’s Modern Visions

Loop #WritersWednesday #DailyPost

Inspired by today’s Prompt

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The shed stands in a little hollow, surrounded by trees and bushes. The bushes are of a climbing sort, maybe  roses, or jasmin. This place is old, but not decrepit, although as we approach it, I notice someone has removed the small inside lock on the door. It was a kind of light latch, just to allow the occupier to get privacy. My friend has disappeared inside, and I keep watch, to ensure she is not disturbed. I look around the shed, and notice some tools against its walls. My neighbour is working nearby. I mention to him the broken, or vandalised, latch. He’s aware of it, and says he will fix it. Then I remember I have that urgent phone call to give. It seems that all the public phones nearby are either not working, or of a type I cannot use. Is it that I have no change? Yet I have several cards, of a type that looks old and way past their usefulness date.

I quit the shed, with much regret, and walk toward the town hall. I never knew it was so close. I must talk to that councillor. Now there is a puzzle, what councillor, and why? Is this a throwback from that silly TV program we watched last night, where the mayor wants to buy the priory in order to build a casino? The one with the sexy nun who looks like my sister in law…

I take the familiar steps and enter the main hall. I am aware of people around, I hear them talking but cannot see them. I am worried about the friend left behind, a sweet worry tainted of lust. I try to use the hall’s telephone, but of course, do not know the extension. I am afraid of attracting attention: how could I justify my presence here? I recall that my neighbour said I could use his phone at home. I walk there, and follow a well kept path through the woods. His wife welcomes me, explains she’s now much better, and indeed looks even younger than I recall. We chat amiably, and when I try to give this call, I have forgotten what it was about, and to whom. I am now back, walking toward the shed, and found that my friend has gone. There is now, somehow, more light around, I keep looking at those useless bank cards in my wallet: a waste of space. Sometime, finding people we love, in this world, is nigh impossible. One moment they are there, just so close, and the next they are gone, and we cannot reach them.

I know this is dawn, and I have a choice, carry on the search, or pause. I know it may be prudent to pause now.

Image: Magritte Museum, Brussels

Dream #TheDailyPost

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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The sky was deep blue, the four moons guarded by silver clouds: the waves slowly caressed the black sand… There you stood, wrapped in the red toga of your caste, the two deep wells of your eyes reflecting an amused surprise, looking at me.

What was that alien form, was the creature alive, or a mere machine sent to trouble the peace of the chosen by some jealous minor deity?

I felt humbled by such beauty, on this faraway world: wondering about you, the myths and the science that had created you, perhaps the devils that besieged your soul.

Then you started answering me, wordlessly. Images flashed at great speed: the formation of this planet, the golden sea, the moons, enormous waves, people fleeing the floods, you and your tribe on top of a vertiginous cliff… Thunder, monstrous machines, a temple.

You were closer now, your arm lifted, palm extended…

The waves stood still, you were fading, and the vision fast dissolved in the grey dawn.

Andromeda.

#Promptbox: Une Femme Est une Femme

The AdelphiHis dreams often found him, on islands of darkness, trying to reach out, to long lost lovers, to his parents, and, to her, the elusive woman, the shimmering silhouette. Sometime, he woke up, lost, looking for some way to find, an old phone number, an address, a letter. In the paraphernalia of his sleep he found an extraordinary luxury of details, a Proustian vault of forgotten objects, of rooms once visited, of family occasions, inaccessible under the light of day.

And always, she was there, along the streets of his mind, in cities that were once real, no longer inhabited, other than by her ghost. She walked fast, alone, ignoring the shadows. He wanted to call her, to let her know. In the suburbs of his dreams other things crawled, hardly visible, indeed unseen, perhaps nested in the interstices of another universe. She was not aware, he guessed, of even his existence.

Silent, he was searching, feeling his way, blind to the dawn that would come, for her and for him.

Inspired by “The City & the City”, China Miéville.

ImageThe Adelphi by Bill Brandt, 1939

#FiveSentenceFiction: Locked

Vilde Tobiassen: Uncertainty, 2013

The first time your fragile beauty enchanted him, beyond what he could imagine.

Your hair, your thin body, those eyes, he marvelled at how nature could create such a jewel, and through the glass, the dream came alive, independent, obstinate.

You haunted his nights, by day he walked the streets, your image overlaid on all others, the slow torture of his obsession nestled in his heart.

The second time you were all tears and despair: you told him of your failures, your face the glow of a Vermeer, so vulnerable he thought, as he kissed you.

You agreed to meet again, and he knew then he was now locked in your dream.

(Inspired by Carol Ann Duffy’s poem Pygmalion’s Bride, and by you, my model)