#writephoto: Glade by the river

Back to the WIP for this one. I’m still working out the details, how fact will slip seamlessly into fiction, who knew what and how. Thanks to Sue Vincent for asking questions with her photos and provoking hypotheses that could turn out to be the answer, or at least, the answer I choose.

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She doesn’t know which one she is mourning. The tears that rise in her throat until she thinks (hopes?) she too will drown are for which of them, the child or the husband? The world has shrunk to this glade by a river that she knows is important but not why. They took her husband away to bury him in the cathedral. He lies now beneath a stone effigy that looks nothing like him, because its eyes are stone hard and he had never clutched a sword to his breast like that in life.

They took him away because he was a king and a king has no rights over his own body not even in death. In life he held his title in fief to the king over the water who could order him to his banner whenever he made war, wherever he made war. In death, the king ordered him to lie in stone pomp beneath the vaulted stone of the cathedral in the stone city. But the king has no rights over his infant son. The child at least, she will keep by her.

She brought the small body here, to the leafy glade by the river and placed it in a stone casket like a bullán. His drowned body was surely as full of magic as any spring. She did not see how it happened. The scene had been muddled and misty, Riseárd had cried out, holding his leg and she had run to him, seen Art appear, his face full of wild victorious laughter, the sword drawn. In the spaces between Art’s laughter and her screaming she had heard the child’s terrified struggling to call out when water filled his mouth.

Riseárd fell, crumpled into the shallows, the water too dark to show the blood, and before she could reach Art, wrench the glee from his face with the narrow blade of Damascus steel, the water had stirred and risen. There was mist and spray and a sound like the hissing of waves in a blowhole, and Art had staggered, fallen back, and out of her sight. It was only when the mist had cleared and the spray, and silence fallen that she had seen the bundle of red wool, rocked by the ripples, washed up among the rushes. The red wool of Gileabard’s leine.

Forgive me. He did remember.

The voice, if there had been a voice and not the suggestion of words, the rustle of sedge, wind on the water, is fading now from her memory. The glade is still and hushed. Riseárd will never walk here by her side. Nothing will wake her child again.

#Three Line Tales: Space junk

This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

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This was the kind of photo shoot the public loved, and Scott knew he owed it to them—they were paying billions for this program that allowed him to walk in space.

He pulled himself through the immensity, feeling the eyes of stars as well as millions of earthlings following his beetling movements, to where the foreign bodies were caught up in the heat shields.

The anxiety that had grown to blind terror abated, and in a fury of irritated relief, he cut away the damn bicycle panniers and let them drift away into space.

Hugh’s Weekly Photo Challenge: Week 20- “Solitude”

I’ve posted this pic, not because it’s specially good (it’s not) but because it made me smile. Solitude it is, taken at dawn this morning down on the quays at Bordeaux, with a thick mist on the Garonne. Calm and peaceful. Except, if you look in the middle of the bank of mist, you can see the Horned One making its way up from the sea…

Actually, the horns are all that you can make out of the towers at either side of the new Chaban-Delmas bridge.

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Visit Hugh’s blog for some much better, proper photos of solitude.

Microfiction: After the sunset #writephoto

I threatened to write a sequel to the piece inspired by Sue’s photo prompt, so here it is.

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Vixen stopped and looked back. Dog fox sat and wrapped his brush neatly over his toes. The sky beyond the stones was darkening though not with night; it was dark because the sky was empty. The pale sun had set and no moon would rise. The stars had all fallen and the universe turned its back on the earth. A flock of birds filled the gap between the stones with their swift, soft flight. An owl followed, another. They were the last. The stones leant together, fell and shattered. The doorway had gone. Fox shook himself, vixen yawned and they trotted into the starlit night.

Hugh’s weekly photo challenge: week 17 ‘Calm’

I saw Ali Isaac’s entry for Hugh’s weekly photo challenge and decided to post a couple of pics of one of my favourite places, the Garonne river.

This one was taken at Tonneins, close to where we hope to be moving shortly, looking towards Agen and the hills of the Nérac region.

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The photo below is of the same river Garonne ,taken at Bordeaux last autumn on a particularly placid morning. I walk here every day and find the atmosphere soothing, even though the river runs right through the city and a busy artery isn’t far away. I’m glad that the house we’ve found in the countryside is also close to the Garonne. To move away from the ocean is a wrench, but at least we’ll have kept the river.

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If you want to join in, here’s how.

1. Take or choose a photo that you’ve taken that for you denotes, calm. 
2. Create a new post on your blog entitled “Hugh’s Weekly Photo Challenge: Week 16 – “Calm”
3. Add the photo(s) you have taken to the post and tell us a little about what you are showing.
4. Create a pingback to Hugh’s post or leave a link to your post in the comments section of said post so that other participants can view your post.

Five photos, Five Stories Challenge: Day Two

Second photo, same rules as yesterday (see here—I know, I’m lazy) and today I nominate a blogger, writer, poet etc etc who I only know as KittyKat to take up the challenge.

 

PENTAX Digital Camera

 

 

Dog rose,

Winding,

Tangling, rambling,

Creeping and covering,

Smothering

The links of the fence,

You raise your many faces to the sun,

Dropping stray pearls of beauty,

Pale and suavely scented,

As if all this wilderness,

Verdantly busy and bustling,

Belongs to you.

 
 

And the same subject as Haiku.
 
 

Dog rose claims the fence

the wilderness her domain

sun her creator.