Fire Life

The fire had roared through the land, devouring everything. Tela had watched from the hilltop, watched the flames soar, the homestead succumb. Her homestead. her heart wanting deperately to go down to save something, anything, but her head had saved her from that.

Now, as the blackened land crunched under her footsteps, the stink of smoke and death invading her senses, Tela wondered whether she regretted listening to her head. until a speck of colour caught her eye.

After Storm

There is something about after a storm. the air is cleaner, the colours brighter. Birds call after their silence, or were their calls drowned out by the storm's noise? The world is renewed.

And I think in there is a story waiting to be born.

Just a grasshopper

Nothing spoils a good nap than being landed on by a grasshopper, but my puppy did her best to try to catch the blighter after being woken.

Didn't succeed, but I managed to get a rough photo or two.

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.