Fire

Vaeldan stopped. The roar bothered him. It was not inside his head but like the constant, unrelenting buzz of insects. He looked up, past the mix of dried and green blades of grass. The sky should have been blue, the sun should have shone, but a haze of grey hung like a shroud. Sometimes more brown than grey, it filled the sky. Vaeldan turned, saw the shape of the haze wasn't smooth, but rose in tufts that snaked and spread out. He started towards it; drawn by curiosity, by the need that had always driven him to search for answers. The haze thickened, filled his mouth with sweetness as much as bitterness. And the roar became distinct crackles and deep mutterings. As if it was trying to tell him something, warning him of something.

'Harvesters shall rid us of vermin. Fire shall be their tool.'

Fire. The grasses were on fires. And as if to confirm, red and golden flames licked the smoke as Vaeldan watched.

"Harvesters. Fire."

"Harvesters!" He swivelled and started to run, hands flailing at the grass stems. "Fire!" Vaeldan ignored the cuts, ignored that his feet felt like stone. "Fire!" He ran.

Weeping

She leant forward, too afraid to touch the green mass, too afraid to not to. something urged her on, a voice, not to her ears, not in her head, but in her soul. A voice that made her soul ache and sob.

It wasn't slimy as she feared, but soft, wet, warm. And her soul ached even more.

It was as if her soul cried, as if she was gazing at the very rocks weeping.

Who wins?

In the fight of soft shell against hard rock, usually the rock wins. The reason we have sandy beaches.

But in this case, the shell discovered a small flaw in the rock, a soft spot and took full advantage.

The shell win.

Dinner

Spur of the moment photograph by my husband.

Hanging

Only his nostrils and his eyes breached the surface. He hung midwater; relaxed, aware, ready.

Street Art

Street Art; words or paintings or both adorning otherwise blank walls, enhancing the building, brightening the dull cityscape, highlighting the beauty that is already there; is something worthwhile and a valid artform

Grafitti; random scribbles or beautiful paintings, thrown on to buildings and equipment, ignoring the existing, in defiance of authority, showing no respect or considertion; is a crime, against society, and the community.

Can one ever be the other?

Escape?

The cloud of bubbles floated past me, escaping the confines of the water, reaching for the surface and thier own environment. I should have followed, should have kicked and risen with them. Returned to air and salvation.

But I didn't.

The sight below held me.

Twitter

The chatter and twrittering caught my attention before the sight of him did. Then I couldn't take my eyes off him, or rather the camera lens. He seemd to know the lens was there to captue him. Only capture his image, but he acted like the camera would trap him for ever. When I had the camera to my face he was never still, always finding something to hide behind. And never making a noise.

Yet I let the cemera down, my arms aching, my face tired of being squished to the back of it, and he would come closer, stand still for more than a millisecond and twitte and chatter his protests.

Until I moved the camera to my face. and the whole silent, hidden; protesting, visible cycle would begin again.

Sun Reflection

Reclaimed

The sea bought with it mud and creatures, reclaimed Man's futile attempts to place life along its shores. Abandonded the structure of stone and iron borke unti; all that remained were the image of the walls and the occassional spike of rusted, shell encrusted iron.

MudSkipper

Finch

I spent ages in the dying light of the day, attempting to capture this finch in his evening preening., without using a flash.

Blood?

I'd been tracking the man, knowing I'd wounded him, an ever-growing feeling that something about him wasn't right sitting in the pit of my stomach. No man I knew ran after taking a blade though the shoulder. I'd excused it to adrenalin, or that I was mistaken as to the depth of the cut. Something, anything, to push back that uneasy feeling that this man wasn't normal. Wasn't human.

But now, as I squatted; staring, not daring to touch; I couldn't hid the fact any longer.

The black sludge; still warm, still dripping from the leaves; was definately his version of blood. And the heat, if I could judge it using human standard's; indicated he, it was close.

Light play

Crab Delight

I was alone on the beach, alone with my thoughts and the sound of the waves.

At first alone had been a delight, an experience, something I desired and revelled in. But now alone was alone and my desires travelled elsewhere.

I hadn't noticed them in previous wanderings. Maybe the tide was just right, the sun setting at just the correct angle. Maybe I had been to cuaght up in my own mind. Maybe I was just so desperate for another being. But I noticed them this night.

Crabs. Scurrying, busy, dilligent crabs. Crabs that took home in the tiny shells that littered the beach amongst the stones and sands. Crabs that fed on miniscule morsels. crabs that congregated, a dozen of them, on a fallen flower. Crabs so small I could have held and army in the palm of my hand.

I was no longer alone.

Top End Colours

The photo just doesn't do justice to the true colours.

Underwater

It Rains

In the wet, it rains.

Not just a slight drizzle, not just a few drops. but heavy ponderous drops that crash on the ground. Large drops that soak everything the second they hit.

There is no point in trying to stay dry, it is impossible. You stay indoors or carry on.

But the wetness is welcome, a relief from the heat and humdity. A chance to wash the grime that sticks to you, albeit briefly.

In the wet, it rains.

Last night

The damp sand scrunched between her toes, then slipped away as she lifted her foot, like the time they had together. It had slipped away.

At the start of this visit, time had seemed unending, forever. She had wondered if they could fill it.

Now she wondered what they had filled it with.

One last walk along the beach, one last look at the setting sun.

Would it set on them? Would time slip away? Would only memories remain, like the grains that clung to her ankles?