Fog

Fog, a photo by Oneshed on Flickr.

Kate groped in a fog so thick that seemed of being immersed in an ocean of milk. Her footsteps echoed in the milky nothing as the anguish gripped her heart like a pincer. She had lingered too that evening unwittingly while the mist enveloped the city taking away shape of everything.
She still had to walk a few hundred meters between her and the station and every step echoed in her a sense of dull anxiety.
Only when he finally found the lights of the station and boarded the train finally the terror of being lost forever in the milk left.

Bethpage Motel

Bethpage Motel, Bethpage, NY, a photo by Robby Virus on Flickr.

It is a night like any other at Bethpage Motel and it is almost full.
Out of room 101, moanings of Jenny the redhead who fucks her clients with erotic ferocity. The creaking of the bed base follows the cadence of her strokes as she wiggles the pelvis savagely on the organ of the lying man. She brings him to orgasm, she feels his semen fill the condom, then she takes off fast.
The flabby and hairy man provokes her disgust and repulsion, yet even this night she has earned a thousand dollars. Smoking a cigarette she dreams less filty rooms.

Fins

Fins, a photo by Rohan Reilly Photography on Flickr.

He crashed on the planet and the cockpit was shattered. They were the seat belts to save him from death, but not from traumas and bruises.
He dragged himself out of the twisted wreckage of his ship, his head aching and fractured ribs. His head pounded relentlessly, his vision almost misty.
The instrumentation was gone, he had no way to contact the base to ask for help. In a daze he recovered survival equipment and he began to trudge in the vast cold desolation.
The first day he knew that night never came on that land and the endless day was an eternal misty haze. The light barely filtered across the thick clouds.
Three days later he had crossed thirty miles of desolation, never encountering anything or anybody. There was nothing but the rough basalt beneath his feet.
Every night he logged the non existent developments to keep his mental sanity. Fever and headache tormented him and thirst was clutching his throat, but he knew he had to ration water.
On the fifth day he realized the folly of abandoning the crash site, the only one that would have been the reference of the rescue team.
On the seventh day his nostrils smelled salty air and in his mind clouded hope began to revive. Already he had lost all sense of rational and he did not realize the uselessness of the salt water in his salvation.
Finally he arrived on the shores of the gray sea, and he sank down on his knees. In front of him stood out the fins on the blurred background. Majestic rock formations that rose from the mist.
He knew that the sea water was poisonous and that his stock was running out.
He died in his sleep on the bank of alien sea.

Escalator

L'escalator..., a photo by LPiH on Flickr.

I met Lisa on escalators, would you believe it?
You know those movie scenes, two staircases run alongside each other in opposite directions, a man going down and a woman going up, two glances meet ... a spark bursts and magic begins!
No, my dear, nothing so cinematic ... I'm afraid it was more prosaic.
We were on the same escalator and we were going up. I had to hurry and I went up running on the steps in motion. One false step, my foot off and I nearly trample everyone behind me.
Luckily she steadied me ... and she never stopped doing it.

a speck

a speck, a photo by alexis mire on Flickr.

I ran at breakneck speed through the streets of Rome. The night had already fallen from a couple of hours and I trudge on ascending roads, anguished of losing the last bus.
The traffic cop made it simple: follow the road, he told me, you can not go wrong.
Yet I was lost, I climbed the streets with the unlikely and unknown morphology who had seen emperors and popes.
And so, without realizing it I found myself in the Vatican. Brightly lit, shining of austere beauty.
Now I knew where I was.
And there, among St. Peter's columns that shadow loomed.

guardian of the old heroes

guardian of the old heros [39], a photo by laura zalenga on Flickr.

Every day she came down from the highest domains to the valley from upholstered with golden heather. In her blue and black robes of a priestess, she watched the peaceful windblown desolation that had once have seen men give fierce battle to unspeakable horrors. This valley was their graves, and she was their solitary guardian.
But now, new heresies came from lower lands, climbing the bare ridges and golden. Denying rumors that the legend was true.
In her heart she wondered, and if I were the only keeper of the empty moorland?
She looked around and the thought made ​​her smile.

The Rustic Life

The Rustic Life........Lost and Found, a photo by pallab seth on Flickr.

He sought peace in the fishing village. Every day he went down to the river and watched the kids fishing with their traps. Not that he was interested in the fishes, or children, simply they were those stolen moments to distract him.
Then he thought of when he was the boy who was fishing with hook and line, on the banks of another river on the other side of the world. He was back to those happy moments, before marriage, before other happiest moments, before the loss and mourning.
Now existed only the river, the kids, the reflections on the water.