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Posted on 07 April 2018 14:33

Moon windows.  Pale light shines onto a face in repose, casting shadows.

Moon windows.  The silver orb hangs suspended.  It watches the world below, impassive yet ever-present.  Pale light shines onto a face in repose, casting one side into shadow.

Moon windows.  Darkness over the world.  The silver orb hangs suspended, as if waiting for the call to action.  It keeps its own counsel; its secrets are its own.  It watches the world below, ever-present and judgmental.  Those walking the streets beneath its gaze remain unaware of their potential fate.  If they were to look up into its face, they would see their own sins reflected back upon them.  Pale light shines onto a face in repose, casting one side into shadow, and insinuating disturbing thoughts into previously peaceful dreams.

Moon windows.  Darkness over the world.  Time ticking on.  The night passes slowly, a myriad lives suspended.  The silver orb hangs lower, straining to hear the call to action.  It keeps its own counsel; its secrets are its own.  It is poised, attentive and awaiting its opportunity to strike.  It watches the world below, ever-present and judgmental, silently making its selection.  It has plenty of targets to choose from, and it regards each in turn, considering their suitability. 

Those walking the streets beneath its implacable gaze remain unaware of their potential fate, continuing on their journeys, oblivious to the danger from above.  They move quickly, eyes down, acknowledging neither their surroundings nor each other.  If they were to look up into the face high in the sky, they would see their own sins reflected back upon them, and perhaps this would make them pause.  They might stop and think for a moment about their lives and how they have lived them.  They might see the city as more than just an obstacle to traverse, a maze that blocks their progress from one place to another.  They might look around them and discover more to appreciate than simply the paving stones immediately in front of their steps; a connection, perhaps, to something, or someone, outside themselves. 

Elsewhere, pale light shines onto a face in repose, a face concealing a mind content up till now with its own significance; and yet the light casts one side of it into shadow, insinuating disturbing thoughts into previously peaceful dreams and causing that mind to question its motives and perhaps see a different path, opening up windows the colour of the moon.

 

Posted on 04 December 2016 15:35

In its heyday, the house stood in substantial grounds, and its nearest neighbour was at least half a mile away.  The family that owned the house could trace their history back generations and were extremely proud of their heritage.  The house hosted many a lavish party and saw hundreds of guests enter through its magnificent oak doors.  Horses and carriages turned on its driveway, depositing merry people, in all their finery, upon the front steps, to be announced to those within.  The ballroom shone first in candlelight, and later with gas lamps, illuminating countless dances.  

It was not all glamour and brightness, however, as the house had a dark side, as well, which those unwary enough to go exploring might discover.  At certain times, dark forces converged and caused fascinating encounters to occur in the dead of night in the house’s environs.  Great Uncle Albert ran a secret cult in the basement, where despicable things took place on a monthly basis - strictly invitation only.  Cousin Gerald was once said to have organised an outrageous bacchanalia where a prostitute lost her life in mysterious circumstances and was never seen again.  There were rumours that her ghost could be heard roaming the grounds on summer evenings, when the sun just tipped past the horizon and the landscaped rock garden slipped into shadow.

But that was all long ago.  Time and civilisation slowly encroached, cutting pieces from the land around the house and giving them over to more modern dwellings.  The family fell into financial difficulties and were unable to maintain the house’s upkeep, forced to sell to an organisation that opened it up to the public.  Its glorious history and sensational tales were reduced to bland text on signs placed throughout its rooms.  The beautiful furniture and sinister passageways alike were roped off and visitors were restricted to a single, proscribed path through the building.  All the grandeur and majesty provided by the house’s sweeping tree-lined driveway was destroyed by the spreading housing estate around it.  Eventually, it stood, forlorn and almost forgotten, with semi-detached family homes practically touching its walls.  The sounds of children playing in gardens and washing machines rumbling in kitchens were all that could be heard where once a string quartet serenaded royal guests.  Inside, the medieval tapestries slowly faded, and the basement of evil deeds was taken over by a shop selling shortbread and tea towels.

The house mourned its past glory, wilting under the footfalls of more and more sporadic tourists.  It tried to entice them away from the official route, to sample the dark corners and provide some small shivers of fear and apprehension.  But those charged with corralling the visitors were sharp of eye and rigid of mind, and would not allow anyone to break the rules.  And so the house became trapped, hemmed in by the passage of time and progress of humanity.  No longer could it enjoy scandals and intrigue; it must instead endure the commercialism and banality of the modern age.

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Photo: I, Raminagrobis