Ionic columns overpower me as I wait to enter the great door between the torches. The magnitude of my ceremony looms as I gaze to the roof of the towering temple entrance.
The outer guard fixes my hoodwink and places a cable tow about my neck, then strikes the door three times with heavy blows from his wand.
The door opens and I am dragged by the neck into a place I know not, a dagger pressed against my chest. Someone takes my elbow and bids me kneel. Footsteps approach, wands clash above my head and a prayer is said. An invocation to the Gods.
Led by my guide I travel a bewildering journey through darkness, strange sounds and mystic portals of the four elements which leads at last to the altar where the beauty of the temple is revealed.
Photo credit http://www.scottspeck.com/
Small droplets of dew
shine like crystals on spirals
woven with magic
where faery folk wait and watch
in first sunlight of morning.
Tanka for http://talesthursday.blogspot.com/
Eighty years of emptiness echo in this place.
Untouched by time since that terrible conflict,
incestuous hate and inhumanity to man.
Families spilled blood brother against brother.
A padlocked door, windows shuttered and barred.
Ghostly and grim stands the once beautiful baroque.
Smoke and blood still stain its walls within.
Without it cringes unnoticed in a busy square.
Back then the church too was burned of its baroque.
The priests murdered until there was no one to bury the dead.
Even now no one can speak of the unspeakable.
Will it heal when there is no one left to remember ?
This is the true story of a real house that still stands empty in our town square. Who knows what horrors went on inside during the Spanish Civil War. Even today no one enters there, the terrible past is etched into the tosca stone of the once beautiful building.
For dVerse after reading Beth’s post on Garcia Lorca
At full moon the little church would emerge from the veil. A chapel with a Christian cross yet also a turret that could have been part of some Germanic castle. Light would emanate from the building and strange music would drift into the night as elementals came to dance around the grave stones.
The ghost of a child sobs in the still of the night trapped in the prison of fear. A house in old Amsterdam, four stories high with its winch below the attic’s solitary window. The light of day cannot penetrate the prison’s camouflaged door to the small space between the rafters where she hid and where her spirit is stuck between the worlds, trapped in time and vivid memories.
Footsteps on the stair boards and a secret knock meant food and water had been left under the window along with more paper and a pencil. Safe to venture out now for a brief few hours in the light of the window until the soldiers come again.
Sunset and a retreat to the other side of the door for another long night. . That knock . knock . knock kkk.
A strange sigil with a blue flame burns through the wooden door and an angel passes through surrounded with white light.
‘I am Uriel, Archangel of salvation, I am sent to beseech you to come with me to the light, you must wait here no longer.’
Uriel holds out his hand……. the child takes it and together they fly through the veil to the place of perfect peace.
The picture was found here
Once inside the antique shop Andrew went to the golden clock he had seen in the window.
‘Can I help you?’
‘The clock, how much is it?
‘Ah this clock is priceless, if it is yours take it’
He stretched to lift the clock from its crochet mat and pulled but It would not budge.
Was condensed from this:
The antique shop door opened with a tinkling of the bell as Andrew stepped inside. He made straight for the golden clock in the window and looked for the price tag. Nothing. The door to the back of the shop opened and an old woman approached him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘The clock, how much is it ?’
‘Ah, this clock has no price, it is very special. It is waiting for its owner to claim it.’
‘This clock is mine, I know it. ‘
‘Then take it with you’
Andrew put his hands around the clock to lift it from the crochet mat. The clock would not budge. He heaved and pulled with all his might but the clock remained firmly stuck.
‘This is not your clock young man or the lady would go with you. The spirit guardian of the clock has to approve the new owner and it will not be you.’
For Victoria’s prompt at dVerse to edit previous work
and posted with gman 55 words.
Image from http://leeface.deviantart.com/art/a-clock-35512377
As we gaze at the rising sun we give thanks to the creator and pray for spiritual renewal.
May our crops prosper and nourish us with the minerals of the earth, the water from the rain and the warmth of the sun.
May the blessings of the rays give us health and longevity to complete our life’s lessons before we move on to the sky world.
Link to the picture http://avotius.deviantart.com/art/A-Prayer-for-Her-Spirit-42758785