Three Things Challenge PL16
Today’s prompt: filter, keepsake, salad
The apartment is so empty, the sky so low, the morning so quiet. Near the coffee machine, behind the filter box, I have hidden a keepsake of her presence, here, one summer night.
I look at that bit of silk, black, introvert, provocative. Tender was that night, and I made her such a lovely salad!
Winter is not over, still plenty of time to dream…
Thursday photo prompt
“Where,” she thought, “where shall I meet you, where for our next date, my dear, so dear love?”
There is no light, darkness reigns, but she knows a place, deep in her memories, the rose garden, in late Spring, the fragrance of the blooms, the humming of the bees. She remembers, she can evoke the place, the time, his face. She sees the colours, feels the warm air on her skin.
She has to be strong, retrace her steps, and his. The monsters are building hell on earth, but she knows where Paradise lies, deep, deep in her heart. Untouchable, safe, as he will be, when they meet again, in the rose garden.
Weekly Writing Prompt #178
rock, joint, inner, sight, sail
Standing on a rock, alone, he lost sight of her shadow.
Gone the tenuous line, the light joint in their inner lives,
dissolved, her face less and less recognisable,
a sail soon disappeared in the
immensity of his despair.
Image: Orpheus, by Pierre Amedee Marcel-Beronneau, source
The small stream is known to local children, and to the occasional wanderers. For us, I know, it has meaning, one of the places where our spirits shall meet, and remember the past. We once ran over those rocks, splashing each other, in the bright light of Spring. Then, we were happy, we were young, and little did we know about the fate that awaited us. I recall your blond hair, flying in the wind, your little blue dress, your bare feet that seemed to fly over the water.
I remember the day I left, for those far away shores, I remember the sand in the desert, death at every step. I – or rather the poor ghost I became – remember the day I died, alone in a narrow street, in a faraway alien city. I remember not finding you, anywhere, until I visited the small churchyard, not too far from our stream. And now, every Spring, I come here and wait for you. I have time, I have all eternity. I know you will not remain hidden forever.
Dedicated to those who left, and never came back.
The moor already wears its autumn veil, and, soon, we will be home. I know what you will say, when we walk up the hill, towards the place we have chosen for our retreat.
“Look! He’s waiting for us, he’s there, can you see him?”
But I know that only you can see him, that he ever appears only for you, through the ancient mist of long gone times.
For you are his beloved, the one he lost, when the Earth was young, and I, poor mortal, was but dust in a distant star.
And, as always, I will say:
“Yes, I can see him, bless our guardian, the watcher over our fragile spirits…”
He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.
Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman. And she, the sombre beauty of his dream, the one he had wanted to write for, was unwilling to belong, to fit in, to submit to his will.
Without her, what remains was a ghost, an empty shell, the faint shadow of what could have been, of what he so wanted to be.
So it was that he had to reignite the fire, and seduce her, again.