Thursday photo prompt
We stood silent, and felt the temperature rise a little, as morning light reflected on the monolith. We moved a little closer, you held my hand tighter. Was that a shimmer on the surface of the rock?
“It’s alive, and it has sensed us”, you said very low. “It knows we are here, perhaps even who we are.” The ground was still frozen, except for a circle around the stone. “See the markings: it’s a sentinel…”
More stones were buried deep, all over the moor. Was this an ancient ritual site, or the remnants of an even older battlefield? If this was a sentinel, was it still signalling to anyone? And who were they?
Was it still talking to its masters? And if it were alive, then… was it alone?
They approach slowly, through the landscape of rocks and dust, their steps forever silent.
It is as was written: the crater pocked by the impact of smaller asteroids, through millennia, and the uniform grey dust.
Their leader holds the white torch high, in their radio they have heard:
The slow rumble, punctuated with short burst of sharp notes, the sound of hyperspace messaging…
And the monolith rises in a shower of dust and rocks, dwarfing the scenery around them: the Sentinel has woken.
Forgotten, or the Sentinel
For Arthur C Clarke
Their small group approached the monolith, step by step, grey on grey, in the rocky, icy landscape.
Its surface reflected no light, as each one of them felt the same longing in their heart: they bowed silently, in the solitude of space.
“I appreciate your loyalty”, She said, “few would have undertaken that perilous journey as you have…”
“Mother”, they replied, “Thou are not forgotten, your daughters are here, to worship you”.
Now the monolith was reflecting the light of the distant star: as the intensity grew they felt the irresistible pull, as they started their ascension to their Mother.