“It’s a matter of patience: there is light…”
“I believe you, but it seems so far away, almost beyond the horizon.”
“Have faith. I am here, I will guide you.”
There is a pause. Outside the rain stops. He can only hear her calm breathing, sense her scent, a presence that for him spells peace, love, infinite patience.
“We will go out now,” she says at last.
She takes his leash, push him gently through the doorway.
Outside he blinks, shakes his shoulders, then follows her, as he always does, all the time admiring the lightness of her strides, the elegance of her silhouette.
They have room, at least just enough to sleep, dine and read. Green is the garden, as the rain falls. They have time: to plan, to work, to love. They have plenty of memories, to edit, reshape, immortalise. They have books, some read, some to read, plenty of them.
The furniture may be in pieces, the rooms strangely expecting the new. They smile, they laugh, they love. They have friends, and peace.
They are home.
Was passiert? What’s happening in this city? Smiling faces have disappeared, hoods are on, ugly trolls march in the streets… Some disrespectful punks have pinched my venerable old bike!! The friendly round little diablotins have morphed into ugly scumbags, the air smells of sulphur…
A few days away, and this is a different place, what’s going on? Is someone trying to tell me something? Have I outstretched my welcome? Is time up? Or has there been a shift in space-time, are we in 2019, or in 9102? Have the magnetic poles inverted?
Have I dreamed? Or is the nightmare now, this, this unknown city, which only ressembles the one I once knew?
Image source: http://wallpapers-xs.blogspot.com/2012/04/nightmare-wallpapers.html
Weekly Writing Prompt #175
charcoal, shade, pale, wake, lucid
The rain fell, almost silent, but she could hear the little stream, outside, through the open window. She called the instant the lucid wake: those minutes before the first signs of the pale dawn. Then, everything is clear, the events of the past days in sharp relief, as if lit from inside. His smile, the fire on the beach, the shade under the pine trees, the smell of charcoal. But this wasn’t yesterday, it was years ago, her already distant past. And then it had been Summer…
Then the wine had tasted better, the air cleaner, the waves softer. His skin was like the sun itself. Where was he now? The lucid wake: she was alone, all fires long dead.
She could hear the little stream. Winter would end, another Spring would come.
Image source: https://wallpapersafari.com/winter-beach-scenes-wallpaper/
Weekly Writing Prompt #159
I confess I have never been a sun worshipper. Red meat on a dry rack, sorry, beach, does not inspire me. Perhaps is it a question of name? Summer, Sommer, sommaire, echoes of summary… Execution? I long for Autumn, for the fresh smell of wet ground, for the scent of pine trees, at last drinking the dawn dew. I love the way the temperature drops at night… sweet dreams.
I long for the rain, for the gift of rain, falling on the parched earth, for the sound of rain drops on the lake. Solace.
Photo: Herbst Regen, source
Today a fine rain is settling over the City. Sounds are muted, passersby seek shelter, or hurry to finish their errands. I walk to the store, and as expected, find everything I am looking for.
Slowly I am blending in the greyness of this late autumn: looking around, I feel that, step by step, I am more and more like all the others: alien no more.
Is this rock my last prison on earth, is this solitude my punishment, this rain my future?
The rain won’t stop, as the poet once said: it rains in my heart as it rains on the city, the city where we once lived…
This deluge is not only for me: it is for all those lost souls, those dying of a dying love, the ghosts of paradise, paradise lost…
Where are you? In what part of this glorious world are you now? And which one of us now looks after you? Is the sun bright and warm where you are now? Do you still listen to the chorus, each dawn, as you once did, nestled in my arms, eyes closed?
Pointless questions, I know this grief cannot reach you, my wings are clipped, those poor clothes are drenched, I can no longer pretend
To be anything but a fallen angel.
Lighter than feathers the notes of the piano float through the room, as you play, your gaze from time to time turning to me, radiant.
The evening is perfect: the rain falling on the terrace, now in darkness, can just be heard, and the sound of the fire crackling in the chimney, lighting this room, a perfect setting for the prelude to love.
Your white dress hardly conceals your perfect body, as your flawless hand hangs lightly above the keys, as if time was suspended…
You smile at me, and your smile is that of an angel, as I turn the pages of the book I pretend to be reading.
And for an instant my mind flies into the future, that far away shore where we have become the grey ashes of this glorious present.
- Five Sentence Fiction- Flawed (itsjennythewren.wordpress.com)