Thursday photo prompt
They were back, still in a daze, amazed at the colours, the air, the clouds. She took his hand, in silence, knowing he could not be reached, yet. Was this real? Or was it a dream, another dream? If it was, then she did not want to wake him up, or herself. Not now.
If it was a dream, was there a purpose? Were they expected to go back, abort the mission, or go forward, further still into the future? Was this land their world, was it now, or was it down the tunnel of time? Then who was treading the sand under their feet?
Thursday photo prompt
We walk this path, distant but together, like shadows: our steps leave no mark on the wet sand, no-one is there to notice our shimmering shapes.
Silent we drink the light, our ethereal bodies need no other food; once, we were flesh and blood, perhaps, or is that a dream too?
Soon it will be dark, somewhere the star will rest, or shine over other wandering souls.
Weekly Writing Challenge #163
Who will defend the fragile stem, the green line that rises from the sand, in the desert so close, and yet so far away?
Picture: Wikimedia, “Adenium obesum” also known by the names “Sabi Star, Kudu, Mock Azalea, Impala Lily & Desert-rose” – – Own work, 5 April 2010
The free fall was the same, every night. There was the sheer terror of destruction, of being shredded on the sharp rocks, so far down, down… But he knew that this was a dream: as dawn came, he would see the light, inhale the scent of the ocean, for there was no fall, and the shore he remembered well: the sound of waves, her smile, their fading steps in the wet sand…
Then the nurse would come, and asked him how he had slept. As ever, he would smile and reply: “I was again on the beach”.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s Weekly Writing Challenge #124
He felt her insistent stare on him, as he held the precious tablet, still covered by a thin film of blond sand. The text looked like a list, but he guessed that it might also be a poem, perhaps both. Was there a rhyme? His knowledge of the language was not advanced enough for him to know. He turned to the goddess, and met the emerald eyes, still fixed on him.
A long time passed, he knew she would speak, and so waited, in the silence of the sacred valley. At long last, he heard her voice, melodious, as if coming through a long tunnel: “It’s no poem, it is an ancient spell, and who casts his sight on it, shall be turned into stone.”
Image: A Roman-era version of the Knot of Isis worn by the Goddess or Her priestess, via https://isiopolis.com
Weekly writing prompt #104
Long ago, the ice withdrew, leaving behind deep lakes, the river and magic white sand… Today the village stands, as though the city wanted to hide, where the fairy made sure people had a fine view of the ancient valley.
In my journal I noted: “Lübars und das Tegeler Fließ”.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s prompt, five words, and a visit to the commune of Lübars, in the Berlin borough of Reinickendorf.
Photo: the parish church, Lübars
I love sand: I crawl around the dunes, from time to time coming up to the surface, looking for preys.
The birds know about me, and keep well away, of course, for I am no flyer, the others, well, good luck to them, I am so fast.
Mostly, I keep still, basking in the warmth of the sand, and at night, dug in deep below the surface (some of you know how cold it gets at night in the desert…)
Humans are funny, they mess around in their big boots, oblivious of life teeming around them, moronic bulls in the middle of marvels of nature.
Take me, for example, how could they ignore a three foot deadly scorpion not even well camouflaged, in ambush in the sunshine?