mist

Dance #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

dance

 

“Those stones don’t belong to our time, they exist here only in our minds…”

I hear the words, I see the mist, I wish I could go back.

“You don’t need to, just wait for this veil to be lifted in the sunshine, then you will see, the true spirits dancing, alive.”

But I know that the circle of stones is there, has been for millennia. Once upon a time, maybe, the spirits inhabited this land, and what I see now is the proof that they left, leaving us wondering, at a loss, longing for their magic world.

Otherworldly #writephoto

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Thursday photo prompt

beyond

 

Over the years I learned to love this place, its calm, the view over the plain, and the mesa. There is a roof above my head, not that I mind the rain, or the snow, mind you. I have no other visitors than birds and small rodents, the occasional fox. Once or twice a year, I guess, an eagle flies over, perhaps to check if anything alive lies here.

I sense the changing seasons here, by the scents in the air, the colour of the rocks, the way the mist lifts as the sun rises.

Silence reigns. Other ghosts prefer small inhabited villages, empty houses. I know the value of solitude, of peace, of the veiled, soft voices of those who, like me, took refuge here, from war, from the plague, for millennia.

Watcher #writephoto

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Watcher

waiting

 

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…”

Turrets #writephoto

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Turrets

pinnacle

 

When we left – how long ago was it? – it was summer. As we look over the tall trees, disappearing through the dark, icy air, we know that, here, wherever “here” is, it’s winter. But we don’t feel the cold, we just know it is.

Through the foliage covered with snow, the vision of a dream-like castle, its spires and turrets, appears, emerging from the mist. Is it a dream, or a nightmare? Are we lost, have we taken the wrong turn, on whatever road we followed?

Are we elsewhere? When did we leave the warmth and light of our city? This world is grey, and, now, we cannot guess what horrors await us.

Clean #amwriting

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The Prompt

dsc_0145-version-2

 

Each day some words appear on the page, tentative, surrounded in mist,  as if those words emerged from a cloudy landscape, as yet unformed. Summoning a clean page let the characters know: they are not alone, more life is being breathed into their world, a genesis.

Their impatience is a testimony to their precarious existence: until the work is complete, they don’t know for sure that they will survive the latest twist, those nightly revisions, the dreaded editing. For words may disappear, and with them, the reasons for those fragile beings to be born.

Each day, for us too, is a clean page, to be written with care, and attention to detail: for the number of pages is finite, and the Book has many characters.

From the mist #WritersWednesday

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dsc_0646

 

They emerge from the mist, slowly, their shapes and faces only taking colours once the first sun rays appear: they look hesitant, perhaps a little shy. They are not alone, small nebulae surround them: their memories, their secrets, their hopes, often encrypted, not yet readable. They don’t speak, they appear to listen, to sounds we cannot hear, to melodies long forgotten, or voices of others, far away.

Sometime, one of them comes into clearer focus, surprised, but determined to find her way. It is then our turn to listen, attentive to the moves and gestures of the newcomer. It is as if she wishes to communicate with us, a few words at a time, often names. Eventually we know her name, and, later, that of people who matter to her. It is then the start of a journey of discovery. Where does she come from? When was she born, and where? Who were her parents? Who was her first love? Or, if there was no mercy, when did she die?

If she’s dead, already, then she may be coming, from that distant past, on behalf of someone else, her living self, or an old lover, or a child she lost, somewhere. She may be here to denounce some falsehood, some slander she was victim of, some lies people told about her life. She wants justice.

When she starts talking, we are surprised, how young she sounds, how present she is, and we want to hear more, of her life, of her story.

If we are lucky, she will tell us enough, about her life, her loves, her world, for us to write about her, to make her live again.

Photo: Christian Daniel Rauch, Danaide mit aufgelöstem Haar (Danaid with dishevelled hair), 1842-1846 – Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin

 

3VisD #1 (NaNo ’14) #WritersWednesday

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The Shining
She had much talent, at imitating people, acting the impossible, in turn the clown and the seductress, her smile an inescapable charm.

How well I remember her, and the hours, the long walks, the mist of the days, the early morning smell of coffee, the magic of love…

The witchMorning mistHow I wish to live those happy years again, the laughter, the games, her steps in the sand, her shadow in the woods…

And now she’s gone, far, so far even I can no longer reach her: so I will ask the witch to make the offer, taking those dreams back to where they belong, the deep and dark forest of the dead, where I shall seek her soul, for eternity.