Stranger

She thought she was alone in the office. She was supposed to be alone.

Outside

When he was huddled in the darkness, unable to see the creatures that made the sounds around him, unable to breath the putrid stench of a cell unwashed, he'd survived, remained sane by imagining being able to see the outside world.

When they had moved him, shackled and blind folded, prodded into a stumbling gait, He'd silently thanked the gods.

From his cell he could see outside, feel the cold fresh air, raise his face to the wind. From his cell he enjoyed the rain as it splashed on the steel and concrete, washed himself as a stream flowed over the low wall, tumbling to his feet. From his cell he could hear the freedom of the brids as they sang as day broke.

In his cell there was no lull as the wind tore through, wrapping itself around his body, ignoring the rags he wore. In his cell the stream became a river, a torrent that threatened to take him beyond the wires, if it could, dicing him into pieces. In his cell the birds mocked him, waking him in the cold darkness, leaving him to shiver, awake and despairing before dawn appear and bought new torments to him. Allowing him to see freedom, to taste freedom, to smell and feel it. But never reach freedom.

He longed for the darkness of his old home.

Left Behind

It is a dream of mine and my hubby's, to travel the country side, even the towns, and discover buildings like this one.

Buildings left behind as the people moved on.

What happened? Why was the land abandoned? For financial reason, no money left to keep the land useful? Or because the land was worth more redeveloped?

We would take the photos, talk to the people and write about the places Left Behind.

Fire in the Sky

Myla clutched her father's fingers, her eyes wide, her breath still within her throat. Yet her tummy rummbled.

It was true what they said. About the dragon in the sky.

A the sun fell below the hills, the dragon came out. And he breathed fire into the sky.

Decay

There wasn't much left of the farm; a couple of buildings, more down that up, the remains of a fence. Knee high weeds, most of which were poisonous to livestock. But the thrill within Karen, the feeling in her stomach that wouldn't stay down, swept over all the decay. Wiped the harsh reality away with the excitement.

The land was hers. Not her father's, not her husband's, nor her brothers'. Not even her uncle's. But hers.

CitySunset

The camera doesn't see what the eye sees, doesn't capture the colors. It also doesn't capture the smells and sounds that acompany a scene, that make a scene more than just a flat picture.

I hope that in my writings I can transfer the sights, sounds and smells with only words.

FriarBird/Skeksis

If you've ever seen the movie Dark Crystal (1982 directed by Jim Henson and Frank Oz) you would know that these birds, friar birds, MUST have been the inspiration for the Skeksis.

Just wish I'd been able to get a better photo.

FireBirds

The tinkling music, punctuated by a sharp high pitched yelp, startled Kinay into looking up. Not just one, but two of them sat in the branches of the Gymtri. They stopped thier conversation and looked down at her, the red of thier eye patch so obvious in the sunlight. Then they took flight.

As Kinay spun to race back home she tried to remember the verse.

One FireBird for sorrow, Two rejoice, Three is a disaster

or was it one for rejoicing and two for sorrow.

She could never remember.

Poison?

He was desperate. The witch had given him the recipe; one thimble full of snow lichen, boiled for five hours in waters gathered from the Pool of Licarni. Then after he had cooled the liquid and kept it cold for five nights, stirring constantly, and if he could persuade Mylin to drink it, the witch had said it was possible she would consider him as a mate.

But as he walked out away from the witch, his coins rattling in her hand, she asked him if he knew snow lichen. He had nodded and kept walking. He had been certain he knew.

But now, starting at the one growth of litchen he'd found, he wasn't so sure.

Snow lichen crept outwards in ever growing circles, the newest always being white. If he looked carefully he could see rings of whites and greys, each ring a year's growth. Snow lichen was black where the roots clung to the rock.

But so was spring lichen.

The difference was the grey was faintly green.

And spring lichen was poisonous.

Agave

The agave; ugly green plant that is all spikes and angles. Some hate them. Some love them, but only because they require little watering.

Has anyone looked at the subtle greens and silver-green streaks on the young leaves? has anyone noticed the symmetry of the leaf prongs, jutting out from the base?

Beauty is to be found.

Please scratch me.

Usually Puppy's demands for a scratch involve biting, mostly gently. Slowly she is getting the idea that a nudge and a paw gets better results.

Paintings in oil

If I took a canvas and some oils and splashed these colours onto a background, I'd probably be able to sell it for some substantial amount of money. To someone rich.

Instead those rich have created this artwork themselves.

On the waters where thier boats are moored.

Polkadotted cow

He waded into the murky water, barely keeping his balance as his feet slipped on hidden rocks. The slime encircled his jeans, creeping upwards as he struggled to reach the toy.

The cold floodwaters gripped his chest as he knelt, not touching the polkadotted cow. It bobbed in the waves he caused, it's bright pink nose trying to reach the air. Had his daughter been like that, as the river's waters stripped her from her mother's arms?

As tears filled his eyes, before the cow floated from his reach he grabbed it, clung to it, hugged it to his chest. They were still searching, but he didn't really want them to. She was gone. So was her mother. This was all he had left.

It wasn't enough.

Reflection

When I came to rotate this almost perfect reflextion to publish I decided not to. I kinda like it this way.

Puppy

My Puppy stretched out on the pool deck, soaking in as much warmth as she can on a cold winter's days.

Bromelia

One of my Bromelia. I love them; no watering (a big bonus in a drought striken region), flowers that last for weeks, self propagating and very forgiving of conditions, except full sun every day.

Sunset

No words. I just liked the play of the light on the clouds as the sun started to set. Turning white clouds dark by contrast, making the blue sky insignificant, silhouetting the trees into blackness.

Cockatoo

The raucous noise woke him. Woke him from a dream of the past, the nightmare that invaded his sleep. He thought at first, that the sound was part of the dream, part of the memories he tried to clamp down. Memories he avioded succesfully during the active nights, when survival was the only thought that mattered. But he never managed to keep them at bay during the day, when only sleep was possible, hidden from the brightness, from the intensity of the sun under the blueness of the sky. Then the memories came back; the sights, the smells and now the sounds of the world destroyed.

He crept from his dark hidey hole, as the call of something wild that tugged at his conscious mind and looked up, hand shading his eyes.

There on the lamppost that no longer lit anything, sat the bird. Pure white, head bobbing, it's bright yellow crest raising as each call split the daytime.

A bird. A live bird, healthy by its clean feathers, its loud call.

Maybe survival was possible.

Flying

It didn't matter, as he took the start line, if he came first or last. What mattered was that he was there, that he tried, that he committed 100 percent effort into this race.

It didn't matter, his place at the end of the race.

What matter was that he flew across the finish line.

And he did.

Clouds and Children

When did you look at the clouds and see shapes? When you were a child?

Do children these days spend time lying on thier backs watching the clouds drift by and see shapes? Or do they have thier days filled with sport, homework, T.V., computer games? Do children these days use thier imagination? Do they run around the house or yard playing cowboys and indians or cops and robbers or maybe wizards and warriors, or is it all done sitting in front of a screen?

Ice on the Car

Forgive my wonder at ice on my car, but I live in a subtropical clime and we rarely see frost or frizen dew. Rarely aa in once a year if we are lucky.

Soccer

He knew he wasn't the best soccer player in the team, he still struggled with some of the basics, but he knew he would do his best, that the other players treated him as one of the team. That the coach appreciated that he didn't complain, no matter what position he was played in, even goalie, when their full time goalie couldn't play.

Besides what did all that matter if playing was fun, regardless of the score?

Mind you winning was better.

Praying Mantis

We breed them big over here.

Morning

He loved the mornings; sunlight creeping over the damp grass, shadows forming out of the darkness. Dew drops shining, turning green into whiteness, turning spider webs into jewels the masters only attempted to copy. Mornings when his breath coalesced in front of his face, when his lips tingled, his ears, his nose. Mornings when he felt like he was alone in the silence, when he could think; of the days past, or the days to come. Mornings that were his; alone, silent, still.

He loved the mornings.

Grevilleas

I love my grevillea's. Planted out the front of my house (about 3 metres from the walls) they provide a screen from the road. They are full of flowers twice a year for months on end; it's the middle of our winter and the trees are in full bloom. And the birds love them.

So does my kitty cat, who sits in the shadows under the branches waiting for a birdy to come close enough to pounce on. The birdies are not that stupid.

Abandoned

I walk past this house once in a blue moon, but it always intrigues me.

Who lived here? How long has it been vacant, abandoned? Why does a place, close to the centre of the city, lie derelict? why has someone not taken advantage of the large bock of land and done something here? I'd prefer to see the place restored. Looking past the broken wood, the vines and the scrappy trees struggling to retain life, there once as a house that was elegant, spacious and dignified. What happened to it?

Then I wonder, what if this place isn't abandonded? What if someone still lives here? I have seen no hint of human life, no light creeps through the broken blinds, sneaks from between the cracked walls, but what if someone does live here? Who would the be? What person refuses to leave thier once beautiful home, even as it caves in around them? What person has no one else, no where else that they would have to live here?

What stories could this house tell me, if only I could hear?

Sun Rays

Rosemary loved to walk the streets after a summer storm. Listening to the stillness after the ferocity of the storm, tasting the sweetness of the air, washed clean of the city's dust and grime. The sun rays breaking through the remains of dark clouds.

She could well imagine how the ancients would talk of angles descending on the brilliant rays, chasing the gloomin thier wake.

It was more than a little surprising to watch a being descend on one ray almost infront of her. Especially as he was dressed in black, with wings that looked more like moth's.

TheDoor

Kneeling as tradition dictated, he stared at the dull metal door. A distorted face stared back.

He wondered how long the others before him had lasted before they had damaged the door, how long had they continued before the futility sent them into madness.

His thumb pressed hard against the broken knuckles of his left hand. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breathing quickened into shallow pants.

The pain was a reality he could deal with. The door was not.

Hubby's Mistress

Yes, my darling husband has a Mistress. And I approve.
I know his Mistress well. I know where she lives. I know how much time he spends with her. I know how much money he spends on her (he asks my permission every time).
She's lived with us for the past eighteen years. I haven't really added up how much we've paid her, but Hubby has a tally. He could tell me in an instant if I asked.
She keeps him happy and satisfied. She adds to his frustrations as well
He has a circle of friends that also have Mistresses, some of them have more than one. They all share the same joys and furstrations. They all understand the joys when a Mistress behaves and performs beyond expectations.
They all commiserate when a Mistress behaves badly, but they usually blame themselves
They love their Mistresses. Those with families, like mine, do so with thier wife's indulgence and permission and sometimes even their active participation. I've joined my husband and Mistress once and enjoyed it immensely. Hubby want's me to join him and his Mistress more often. I will, but the extra cost she will charge us makes it difficult.
In a few years we hope our boys will join in too. For now they watch. Under sufference, they would much prefer to participate, but they're just too young, too small. She's just too powerful, too much to handle by young boys. Give them a couple of years, and a bit of experience with more easier to handle mistresses, then maybe. Or maybe they'll want their own.