Soar #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

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“They are already on the move? They are geese, I think, perhaps a vanguard, it would mean a very early winter…”

“Or they are tourists, having a look around. Besides, a storm is bubbling up above us, they could be looking for shelter.”

“Or they are spirits, warning us to leave, while we have a chance. It may not be winter that’s coming. It could be locusts, or a big earthquake…”

“Are you trying to cheer me up?”

 

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: Words

『忍びの者』Raizo IchikawaShe knew the signs: his knuckles slowly getting whiter, his steps a little slower, his eyes narrowing to the pitiless concentration of the street fighter.

But he was so young, and yet always ready, his fists tight in his pockets: how could she not admire him, her virgin champion…

He, had only eyes for her, and otherwise his work, the training, his ambition for the ring, but this was a time when he would have to fight, for her.

Slowly he turned round and faced the man who had just insulted her: a massive guy probably used to have his way: now he was calm, fearless, weighing where the first blow would fall…

So she spoke the words, her voice smoothing the dense mist of his anger, she sensed him collect himself, and then hit, a single blow, on his lips the smile of the victorious samurai…