“No it’s not,” I snapped.
We were trekking through my mind, for crying out loud.
It was not empty.
“The transporter’s faulty,” I grumbled. “It probably sent us into your mind instead. That’s always been empty.”
Continue reading here: Empty #writephoto
The dancers moved intuitively to the sound of their hearts as the music swelled and sobbed. It finally paused, waiting for the lovers to catch their breath. This was more than an interlude in a cafe that had seen glory and laughter in a bygone age. Few tourists ventured into the old quarter of the city, much less enter through the portal of this place. The ones that did manage to find this near mythical establishment were fated to come. Their souls were infused with the elixir of passion and pathos. Forever rising on the swell of the rhythm and then slumbering in the arms of the silence that followed.
A woman sitting at a table in the corner of the room stared intently at the dancers. They presented a magnificent picture; gentleness, poetic beauty in the lines of their faces and a certain melancholy in the embrace. Her dark eyes glittered, mirroring the luminosity of the stars and moon. They mirrored hope in a world that appeared to have embraced shadow and pain. The spirit and soul of humanity was being sorely tested, falling prey to the excesses of materialism and naked cynicism. Was she being naive now? A laugh escaped her blood red lips. She was present in this space set apart from time, present during day and night.
Continue reading: Passion and Pathos: Spirit of the Dance
There wasn’t much left of Darcy’s old fishing shack after the storm. The shack had sat on the edge of the beachhead for as long as I could remember and Darcy was just a name my father told me about.
He recalled Darcy as an old man who spent his days fishing at the water’s edge and was forever happy to tell tales of his seafaring days.
A few times over the years I had ventured into Darcy’s old place. There wasn’t much to say that it was a home or anything, more a shelter from the storms and weather was how I looked at it.
Continue reading: Empty #writephoto – Darcy’s Shack.
Image by Darren MS
There is a single thread,
That runs through every life,
And binds us at the heart.
A web of life so intricate and fine,
A spider silk of spirit
With tensile strength to carry any grief
And share all joy.
Holding us with love
As we journey…
Together and alone,
Woven and interweaving
Many and One
In a single dance.
It wasn’t often that she got to the beach ahead of the rest of the crowds, but today was one of those days. The morning mists were just clearing, and the sun was starting to shine.
Looking at the empty run of golden sand, with the tufts of green grass inviting her to sit, she took a step forward.
Glancing to her right, she expected to see other standing there. Drat, she wasn’t the first after all.
Continue reading here