What a great picture!
Picture it & Write is a weekly creative writing prompt. We invite you to join in; continue the story or start your own based on inspiration from the image. Poetry and foreign languages are welcome, but please provide a translation. This photograph will be reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr and added to the Picture it & Write gallery on Facebook and Pinterest.
Please continue to write however you’re inspired, but add a tag to the beginning of your post if there’s mature content in order to keep Picture it & Write an engaging event for all of our followers.
(From: http://ermiliablog.wordpress.com )
The darkness of the room was broken only by the gentle morse-code of velvet wings beating unfathomable thoughts through the evenings’ early light. The wings explored further; navigating their way between the shuttered rays of light that allowed glimpses into a life that used to be part of the darkness: glass, quill, tray… but then, closer, in prominent place, bell, book, candle… These items held sway over the rest in the room, commanding attention not through their physical presence, but by the juxtaposition of their placement to one another. Their trinity was dominated only by one other item, and to that place the wings were inevitably drawn.
The moth alighted onto gray despair and paused in place, folding its wings. Gently, they stopped, beating no more, resting still and complete in the hollow thoughts of the departed, their rhythm replaced by the soft staccato tap of legs and antennae as they explored the texture and depth of the skull.
The exploration of the minds eye continued, with impossibly thin legs tracing time worn cracks, worm casts and wounds. Such was the age of the skull that ragged fragments, microscopic in size but immense in their ancient purpose, crumbled to the table and lay still, as impotent as their former home. The darkness inside beckoned more than the shadow without, and the moth continued forward, stretching its wings briefly in the socket, mocking the life displaced within.
As it crawled in further, taking drier paths than its soil-driven kin, a strange quiver began inside the body and the moth paused to adjust, compensate, for this unusual feeling. Further movement produced more reaction, more shaking, and as it travelled deeper, past the eye sockets and the bridge of the nose, it suddenly ceased to move, wings stretching out into irrevocable rigor.
The darkness inside the skull grew in intensity, solidifying, becoming more present and, as the moth had discovered, was more prescient than anyone could have imagined.
Patience is a virtue, as a thousand years can prove, and the soul that dwelled inside the skull had learned patience oh so well…
Ah, the chance to let out my inner Lovecraft!!