The Cosmic Weavers – Thursday photo prompt: Turrets #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

It took me a while to get my offering together for Sue’s Thursday Prompt. A strange tale of Cosmic wars, of forces of Anti-Life and Life sparring for all eternity, and hidden truths.

The turrets of this Order of Light shine with a luminous glow, sending out a message to the rest of the cluster of planets in this sector. As long as the light is present all know they are safe. Cycles of cosmic battles have rendered numerous systems vulnerable, dead and dying, and billions weary and fearful of further war.

The inhabitants of this place hold knowledge that is sacrosanct and eagerly sought by many but never found. It is spoken of in hushed tones and desired by envious minds. This secretive order works for the most part in silence, for these Cosmic Weavers create the fabric of universes. They also cut the threads of their creations to start Life anew. This place is one of a vast number of way stations stretched across galaxies and unknown regions of space.

The One that is the Many created these sentinels before time existed and creation was enacted. They were to guard against the brooding multitudes that gazed across the Abyss and sought dominion over the living and awakened. Beings of Anti-Life seek Life, in order to dismember and scatter it across the heavens. Chaos is necessary to break down all that is unnecessary and past their life-cycle. When the equilibrium is unequal, Cosmic balance is shattered and the long Night overshadows all. The same applies to the concept of Order.

There is perfection in symmetry, for the art of the Cosmic Weavers is to create blueprints encapsulating harmony of number, geometry, sound and light waves. As for the Cosmic Weavers, they are beyond Light and Dark, Chaos and Order, Good and Evil. Their true essence is unknown and cannot be known. The words of their Order are emblazoned across the portal to the monastery and hints at what could be:

“I have seen the face of the One that is the Many and partaken of their Light. I am the Weaver of Life and its Executioner, I am the Truth hidden within the Lie, I am the Light hidden within Darkness, I am the Hope that flows unending, I am the Parent to the Child, and I AM all that is and will ever BE.”

The turrets are incandescent on this occasion, for the Light of one Order member has returned from a mission deep in the heart of the desert wastes to the south of the monastery.

“I have seen the face of the Sleepers arisen from the Abyss and the sum of their hatred and envy” so speaks the scout.

The gathered intelligence is scrutinised in minute detail, and appropriate action taken by the Council. The news is of a disturbing incursion into the star system next to theirs. The Sleepers in the Abyss had awakened and captured a planet, laying it to waste, all light had been consumed as well as sentient life. The planet now exists as something not of this reality. It whispers of a craving hunger that can never be satisfied. Light and Dark are not in themselves either good or evil, intent in their use is everything.

The ancient evil has arisen, vengeful in nature and cunning in operation. They feel its essence drip into a vast ocean of darkness that is not darkness. Some call it a black hole but that would be an incorrect description of what it constitutes. The Council makes the sign of protection and bars the image from all sight, then the Cosmic Weavers step forward and unravel the fabric of reality piece by piece. The Light of the turrets becomes brighter, expands outwards and engulfs everything in its path. The inhabitants of each planet in their star system and others hide within their homes, the cleansing is approaching and it would be fatal to get caught in its path.

The Light approaches the planet that is the stronghold of the Sleepers, and enfolds it in a net of infinite strength and power. It is done, the threads have been cut and the beings of Anti-Life are withdrawn from existence and memory. For now.

The one who is the scout opens their eyes and surveys the scene in the Mirror of Being. Their work is unfinished as vigilance must be maintained at all times. Some may wonder why this duality exists, Life and Anti-Life existing at opposite poles. Without this tension the multiverses would be barren receptacles, silent and forever clothed in blindness. They clear the visions in the Mirror and gaze into the heavens.

“I have seen the face of the One that is the Many and partaken of their Light. I am the Weaver of Life and its Executioner, I am the Truth hidden within the Lie, I am the Light hidden within Darkness, I am the Hope that flows unending, I am the Parent to the Child, and I AM all that is and will ever BE.”

The words vanish into infinity and the Cosmic Weavers return to their silent work.



The Doors – Twittering Tales #82 – 1 May 2018



My restrained offering for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales: 

“Choose two doors, but be very sure of your decision.” His voice was soft.

She felt it cut her soul, quick, with no hesitation.

“One leads to immortality, the other to total annihilation, as if you never existed.” He sighed.

Memory and Forgetfulness. What a choice!

Azrael smiled.

(279 characters)



Writers of the Lost Art – Guest Post by, Annette Rochelle Aben … — Chris The Story Reading Ape’s Blog

When was the last time you received a letter in the mail? No, I don’t mean the ones like I receive, informing me of the great opportunity to settle my final arrangements before my family is burdened with the responsibility. Life can begin at any age but it gets fun once you turn 60. But […]

via Writers of the Lost Art – Guest Post by, Annette Rochelle Aben … — Chris The Story Reading Ape’s Blog

The Beat – Twittering Tales #59 – 21 November 2017


Pexels at

Another inspirational challenge from Kat Myrman at Twittering Tales.  This is my take on the feelings engendered by the image:

The beat flows through fingers, embraces black and white. Kisses keys, demands submission, whispers the heat of love.

The beat drums it’s rhythm, keeping pace with Cosmic breath. It’s the song of life, the song of begetting. Feel it’s kiss, surrender, feel it’s bite, surrender.

(277 characters)


Frozen Life – Mundane Monday Challenge #124: Learn Photography

Image: Glass tumbler, Jan Malique

My entry for this week’s Mundane Monday Challenge. In previous challenges I may not have adhered to the guidelines strictly; hence a change of tactic on this occasion by looking at perspective.

I don’t usually go round peering (short sightedly) at household wares but this item is particularly intriguing. My interest lies in the technique used in its manufacture. The shot taken was of its base. Close up you can see many unusual shapes, almost like crystalline life-forms frozen in ice. I’ve used a phone camera to take the photo as my camera is out of action at the moment.

The subject of my attentions is a textured glass tumbler (see below), but the mat it’s on could well be a suitable subject as well. Both have a sinuous feel.

Image: Glass tumbler, Jan Malique

The tumbler is quite nice to hold as well. It’s textured surface gives better purchase and a sense of interest. Quite tactile.

Heart and Soul: The Power of Dance

Dance was, is a passion of mine. It’s been many years since I gave myself up to the beauty of the rhythm and passion of the emotion associated with this art. Flamenco in particular stirs something visceral and potent within me. Its spirit brings indefinable memories and associations, rather like a haunting perfume carried on the breeze it tantalizes and initiates yearnings. It is infused with sadness, beauty, passion and truth.

You may think me too effusive where Flamenco is concerned but once it has caught you in its embrace there is no going back. Music and dance speak to the Soul on a deep level, and why not? Should our lives not have meaning, not be stirred by things of loveliness and depth? To feel the kiss of each note and gesture is to be enriched, to be made whole and feel loved by powers immense and wondrous.

For your delectation I present Sara Baras, a wonderful example of the art. Enjoy.





Image: Frantisek Kupka, Wikiart

All proceeds from the divine Lotus,

Light issued from the First Womb.

Enfolded within is Child transcendent,

divine blueprint, whisper of dreams

unfolding. Risen Sun.

Night falls, Sun is setting. Light

descends into Darkness, Wisdom

withdraws into Silence.

Passion and Pathos: Spirit of the Dance

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Image: Pixabay

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.


Image: Pixabay

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 were 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.

The dance rose from rather less salubrious origins, in the bars and brothels of the old quarter. It was a magnet for travellers from across the globe and some had hinted, from across hidden worlds. This is not to tarnish its reputation but to explain the soil its soul had taken root in. Its root went deep, deep into the fabric of stone and brick. Deep, deep into hearts and minds of the people moving through the city. The woman closed her eyes and travelled down streets clothed in shade and dappled sunlight. Her ears took in the chatter of thousands of voices, each reflecting sorrow and bittersweet regret, each reflecting joy and exuberance, each reflecting darkness and light, each reflecting boredom and inertia. All found solace in the heartfelt tune that rang out of doorways and windows, a memory of something thought lost but only lying hidden within mystery. This was the spirit of the dance, she was the spirit of the dance.


Image: Pixabay

A voice interrupted this reverie. She opened her eyes and spied a green-eyed god staring down solemnly. He respectfully held out a strong, elegant hand. She grasped it and was gathered gently in his arms. They moved as if one being. Sinuous limbs gave expression to their hearts’ yearning, entered into each nuance and tone of the music washing over the couples gathered in the room. His silence spoke to her of things lain hidden for generations, of perceived shame, of deep regret. She listened and did not judge. She never judged. For that she earned his eternal gratitude. Even gods are inclined to give in to vulnerability now and again. The music soon ended and the radiant god kissed her hand and disappeared into the shadows of the bar. He did not leave empty handed but carried a pearl of the dreams she freely gave to all who were in need. The spirit of the dance returned to her table and carried on gazing at the magical ritual she had created, something filled with awe, passion and pathos.