Glow #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

frosty-dawn

 

“He said he would come this morning, so have no worries!”

“Without him we are lost, we won’t ever go back home…”

“Just watch the light, soon you will se him, coming down from the top of that hill!”

The valley was still in darkness, but soon it would be dawn. Soon, the leader would be back with his flock. He would guide them to the gate, he would open the gate for them.

After so many months of searching and waiting, they would see it, in all its glory.

They would see the glowing spaceship that would take them home.

 

writephoto

Chartreuse Glow

Ombre et lumière…

Marousia

A chartreuse glow in a disused store,
crystalline shards of torchlight
caught on dust motes make
cubist ghosts; silent witnesses
filter the remnants of a scene.

He was tied to a chair,
two men blew smoke rings
as a flyspecked light bulb
swayed to the rumba strains
of a thirsty wind, he hoped
he’d have the courage to evade
the questions, the inevitable
probing of his marrow,
palpating a point of penetration,
offering salvation through betrayal …
A Mesphisto bargain, tell us all,
and we shall set you free,

tell us all, knowledge shall be yours,
tell us all, we shan’t harm you…

whispers in his ears

and then the blindfold
and a single shot.

He slumped, thudding
to the concrete floor,
the chartreuse glow
gleamed redly
spreading in a slick.

 

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#FiveSentenceFiction: Business

Swordmaker His shop is in one of the oldest streets in the city: uneven, ancient pebbles cover the ground, for him a difficult feat to negotiate every morning, as, in the small hours, he walks from his house to his work.

He too is very old, almost as old as one of the stones in the ancient buildings of the neighbourhood: and his craft is centuries – some say millennia – old: he makes the most beautiful and deadly swords, an art he’s received, as he was taught patiently over the years by his parents, as all his forebears.

They say the products of his labour have a soul: and they possess their owners, the few who are deemed worthy of such weapons, after all, it takes years of skilled craft to make one sword.

Today his latest customer is with him, standing tall, admiring his work: the katana he is now polishing reflects the light of this winter morning, and the flames of the furnace: the layers of fine steel glow in the semi darkness.

He knows this will be his ultimate masterpiece: the cycle of his years is coming to an end, but as she turns towards him, her smiling eyes penetrating deep into his soul, her red hair a halo, he knows the angel will be pleased with the result: a blade fit for a knight immortal.

Snake Eyes Katana