Thursday photo prompt
She read the legend under the picture: “the image shows a clouded sky beneath a full moon. There is a wordless sign showing only a pointed hat, of the kind often worn by wizards…”
How strange she thought, how and when had they managed to take this shot? The full moon was there alright, and the sign. But the clouds? There was none in this quiet corner of the Universe. She’d made sure of that. There was rain too, but, as visitors sometime said, it came from nowhere. She was proud of her work, the careful terraforming, the ever blue sky, the manicured landscapes, the small lakes… and, of course, the popular little village, with the delightful green, and the wizard cottage… The picture must have been doctored, edited as the saying went. Still, “they” hadn’t shown much respect, whoever “they” were.
Perhaps she should be more careful now when allowing those space transports to disgorge tourists on her planet. She should set rules, like “no editing of pictures!” Here there was no cloud, and the moon was always full. So she had ordained.
Weekly Writing Prompt #156
What to ask of the waning Moon?
Where to watch the drifting Sands?
I will pursue You
to the ending Time…
Image: Michael Najjar, Sands of Mars, source: wired.com
A small voice in darkness…
And now, the light through the curtains:
The moon has appeared, clouds gone,
Is it late,
or is it early?
Have we lost the dream?
Or is the moon guiding us
to a new world,
For some days I have been deep in Neal Stephenson’s Seveneves, perhaps one of the most daunting reads of the past decade. I intend to review the novel on my Goodreads page, but for now, suffice to say that sounds have a role in that astounding saga of the end, and rebirth, of mankind. Space is silent, but not those tiny cramped tins, where survivors hide waiting for death… And then…
The source of the dappled light, as she now saw, was sunlight sparkling from waves on the lake below, shooting rays through the branches of trees, perhaps a hundred meters down the slope from her, that were beginning to stir in the morning breeze, making soft noises, as when a sleeping lover exhales.
The light of the sun, the sound of waves, violin notes in the evening air… The symphony of Peace.
Image: “Seveneves: the end and beginning of life on Earth”, The Seattle Times
There is plenty. Of everything: history, people, murders, treacheries, wars, horror and beauty. The world is a lush stage for the writer: a space where subjects abound, where heroes, villains, creators, liars, assassins wear the most amazing camouflages. Over all this, the dream machines reign supreme. The last man on Mars, the destruction of the Moon, deeper still under the oceans. The Space Station, the Ark… No adventure is impossible, for this is not only the society of spectacle, the entire planet is acting, as if Earth knew what is expected of her.
Of course it can go wrong, even, very wrong. The big meteorite may well materialise (do you remember the Death Star, emerging from Hyperspace?), and then what? Assassins do roam the streets, the Devil never gives up…
Do we lack inspiration? Surely not, if anything is missing it is our (collective) inability to make sense of it, and turn all this into great literature…
Photo: The Saturnian moon Mimas, photographed by the Cassini probe in 2005. The large crater in the upper right (Herschel) gives it a resemblance to the Death Star.
Copyright: This file is in the public domain in the United States because it was solely created by NASA. NASA copyright policy states that “NASA material is not protected by copyright unless noted“. (See Template:PD-USGov, NASA copyright policy page or JPL Image Use Policy.)
The clouds came with the giant moon, as if to hide us, humans, from the glare of its pitiless light. At the corner of our street workers rush home, to warmth, love and a well deserved rest. Friday night is for joy, dancing, the smiles of lovers, the hopes of poets, and, later, as ghosts start roaming the quieter streets, the shadow of Faust…
Bless be the City, and be pardoned those, who believe in the right of man to walk alongside the gods.
Image: Dr. Fausto by Jean-Paul Laurens
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.
Language evolves. The meaning of a word can shift over time as we use it differently — think of “cool,” “heavy,” or even “literally.”
Today, give a word an evolutionary push: give a common word a new meaning, explain it to us, and use it in the title of your post.
Yes, I have paged you, and, no, it has nothing to do with those bleeping little boxes of old: you are on my page, pictures, quotes, smiles and all – not only you have been added, but my page has captured “us”, our friendship, our love, the way you look at me and I look at you…
It may be the page of a blog, a facebook page, or a page in my new book: you are now immortal, for this page can travel in space, in time, transported in an aircraft, sent to the Moon or Mars…
You have been paged: we are now public, it’s official, everyone knows we are together.
The orb of the giant moon was disappearing on the cold horizon, soon the icy shadows would fall: they were alone, many parsecs from their kind, on the vast silvery planet.
But for them there would be no rest, their great bodies would continue to work through the long night: they were builders, never to rest, always on alert, till their task was accomplished, then they would die.
One of the two females turned to her companion, admiring the long and strong legs, the formidable mandibles, and she saw the signs of near exhaustion, would they survive another year on the planet?
But the pyramid was almost completed: another block would soon be lifted, with the help of the great machines, and then they would close the secret chamber, where their Mother would rest, for eternity, in the silence of space.
The two great spiders paused, in exalted worship: “Mother, your daughters have accomplished the prophecy.”