Bright #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

bright

 

Often we walked in those woods, you and me, when the bluebells shone, and the sky reminded us that Easter was close by. Today, the air is clear, the ground soft to our feet, as it was then.

“What is the difference?” we could ask. But we don’t. We both know. Our bodies have no shadows, we meet no-one, or rather, no-one meets us. We are invisible, though we still love these woods, the valley below, the old Roman villa nearby, the memories of our lives.

We hear voices too, far, far away: are they people we once knew? Or are they the dreams  of ancient ghosts, like us?

Pillars #writephoto

Pillars

pillars

 

Voices resonate here, voices from the present, but also voices from the past, maybe from a long gone past. Those who erected these pillars knew how to build, to last. Their footsteps, perhaps even the sound of their tools, chiselling the stone, can still be heard.

A little further, the sun shines in the courtyard. Did they hold councils here, did the walls hear judgements, or laughter, or even the sound of water rising? Where did they go? Did they leave their work behind, did they travel far, did they leave our world? Were they time-travellers?

Heard #DailyPrompt

The Prompt

monster-moon

 

“Some of it is noise, even white noise, like a slow motor running empty… But sometime you can hear voices, far away, so it is hard to catch words, or even understand what language is spoken. And then there is the notes, the tunes, the sound of instruments one cannot put a name on…”

I was listening carefully, without seeing the person who was speaking: a melodious and calm woman voice, of an older woman, I thought. The place was one of those small, dark and ancient bars, this one hidden from view in a small courtyard, in a part of the city well off the beaten and touristy tracks.

“You have to be patient, give it time. At first you may not hear much, just a little vibration, like light wind in young leaves in Spring. But then you hear: steps, and again voices. If you are lucky, one of them may notice you, and start talking to you, personally. Of course you have to tune in, and be very patient. Then, all of a sudden, you understand: someone is talking to you, you, across those eons of time, across the immense void that separate their world from yours…”

I tried again to see who was talking. A coal fire was slowly burning in the old chimney, I could not see much through the smoke. I ordered another beer. As the girl brought it to my table, I asked her about the speaker. “You’re talking about old Lucy,” said the youngster, amused, “well, she’s here with the same story most evenings. She used to be an archeologist, she’s talking about one of the sites, somewhere in the Middle-East… She claimed to have heard voices, as she says… The poor lady got herself abducted by bedouins as she worked there, and reappeared here, years later… You know, she’s lost it, somewhere in the desert, all those years back….”

Image: © Nick Stevens

Counting Voices #DailyPrompt

A lively group discussion, an intimate tête-à-tête, an inner monologue — in your view, when it comes to a good conversation, what’s the ideal number of people?

 

tumblr_o359kwvhup1rv6lb6o1_540

 

The room is full, a mass of human beings, a storm of voices and cries. I know you’re there. I let the tumult flow around me, I am the boat, you the island.

Slowly I free myself from the crowd. I know where you are. I would find you in a crowded city. You are speaking to me, the voice of love, the voice of hope. I can hear you, I am guided by you.

And suddenly it is only you and me. It is as if everyone else was muted, pale shadows: I only hear you, and you me.

We resume where we were. Was it last week, or last year? I breath your words. Later we will seek solitude. For now, it does not matter.

Image: author unknown, via lucidum-tenebris

#FiveSentenceFiction: Night

 The street is deserted: you said you would be here, in front of the old gate, but there’s no one.

Blind windows look down at me in the deepening obscurity of the dying day: I recall the laughter, the chatter of young voices after school, I recall your half open lips, ready for the kiss, the bubble of time surrounding us.

It was then, now is darkness, and I know time lost is gone: those young voices muted in the silence of eternity.

Yet I stand still, and hope, memories of you submerging my soul, slowly drowning in the shimmering silhouette that has appeared, just there, at the edge of this tormented mind.

There you are, at last, haunting beauty of my lost love, shrouded in tears, mistress of the night.