Destination #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

foggy-morning-019

 

You are now so close: and you know I am waiting.

The certainty to find me, at the end of this road, your destination.

You know, all that time I have been waiting, since the day, that day, when you left.

Many pages I wrote since then. Many books I read. Many cities I travelled to.

Many others I met.

Yet I too was certain: one day you would walk this tree-lined road, to find me.

Alas, much I have changed, as I know you have.

All these years, away, without each other.

And now, the end of the road, our destination.

Wicker #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

p1010046

 

Silent, we wait. Sooner or later you will come round. They all do. And our patience knows no bounds. You will come our way, and find us. Whether you recognise us or not, we don’t care. We will draw no pleasure from your destruction. It is your fate, and it is ours.

We are mere facilitators. We undo knots. We clear the way. We remove the pieces that don’t fit. And you and your kind certainly no longer fit.

Shadows #writephoto

Shadows

 

“I am not sure where to start,” said the old man, looking at me with a smile. “This is an ancient site, and it’s full of memories… of shadows too…” I was intrigued, but waited for him to continue. “A great poet once lived here, and also, later, people I don’t really want to say much about.”

From the edge of the little cave we could see the shadows moving fast across the dry ground. “There are several layers of old masonry below us, but this was never excavated other than just below the surface. You see, the present owners know: there are remains there that are best left, deep, undisturbed, forgotten…”

We moved out in the open, there was no-one around. Finally I asked: “But you are from here, I understand you are the best informed of our local historians here. This place is often visited, and photographed. What shadows are you talking about?”

There was a pause. “I will tell you, but not here. This place is haunted, and they can hear us. We must respect the past, whatever it was, and it is best to discuss these things away from them.”

 

Ascent #writephoto

Ascent

spiral

 

Inside was a blissful, cool darkness. As we stepped in, and the heavy door closed behind us without a sound, we admired the immaculate spiral staircase, and wondered. How long would we have to wait, and, perhaps, how far would we have to climb, before meeting the master of the house?

It was so quiet we dared not speak a word. Sun rays filtered through the curtained windows. The sparse furniture was polished to the extreme, the mirrors on the walls seemed to be veiled – or was it our imagination?

There was only one way to go, and this was upstairs. We looked at each other, and smiled: we hadn’t got thus far to abandon our visit. After all we were invited. We were invited, even though we did not know where the invite came from…

We were young, and beautiful, what did we have to fear?

We took the first step, and you took my hand. It seemed that the house had gone a little darker. You went first, I, as ever, following, it was not the first time we’d ignored a warning…

Waiting #writephoto

Waiting

waiting

 

The walls, the stone floor, the sharp edges of shadow, everything here invites the pilgrim to wait: there is no rush.

This is an antechamber, a place for the soul to reflect, for the mind to accept.

The journey may take a day, or a year, or a thousand years, at the end, time no longer flows: it is just now, forever.

If you have come thus far, friend, leave behind any doubt you may have: in front of you, in these long corridors, is infinity.

#FiveSentenceFiction: Détour

The CliffThe declining sunlight casts long shadows on the meadows, trees and rocks magically elongated over the sensual curves of the valley.

The little cross is hidden from view, not far from our path, but few walkers know it is there.

It’s almost our secret, a tiny haven nestled at the foot of the magic mountain, a special place: we belong there.

We can hear the small stream, running through the pine trees, as you turn your beloved face towards me, the green eyes I worship, deep into my lost soul, as images of our fall flash through my mind, and yours.

There, high above the valley, is the vertical cliff where you last kissed me, before our death: we haunt this place, and only the spirits will ever know.