When they spoke in year MMXII

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In the peaceful and remote county of Cantal, it is around a large fireplace, situated right underneath the octagonal roof of the now abandoned house of Rouvray, that they gathered once again and as they usually would, once a year, upon the announcement of St Sylvester.
The night was in its zenith and a humongous amount of majestic stars had shown up on this occasion.
And whilst the seven mages were calmly standing on top of a ruby red Persian carpet that still smelled of a rare type of frankincense that similarly reflected the wisdom of the entire room, they all began to chant.
But the song was no particular one for it was a melody they only knew the meaning of and which was ultimately drilling down to tap their ninth consciousness, the source of cosmic life force.
‘The comet is on its way; the comet is on its way and you can see it!’ suddenly said a young boy that dashed in front of the assembly in the same speed as the fireball he described.
The youngster who had ran two miles from the village of Belle Luge where he had been sent from, was out of breath and clearly disturbed by the unusualness of what he had heard and possibly witnessed.
The wise ones stopped, observed him for a seemingly eternal glance and whilst discretely smiling, as if foreseeing what just had happened, they simply carried on with their purpose.
The boy sat near the large chimney and whilst observing the sky from the corner of his eyes, as fate will have it, he would also be able to plainly absorb the scene that followed and which would greatly influence his future path.
As tradition goes, Hamza, the eldest of them all and whom by now accounted to over three hundred and twenty years of age, stood up. And whilst slightly raising his arms, he spoke and said: “Sometimes, let us remember that as many earthy life there are, as many paths there shall be. And even the clearest heart will, at times, see his road diverted to very unusual encounters.
For in truth my old friends, the universe and The Hand above it that knows it all, shall one day take you to unforeseen side-track paths and yet, to guide you but only better”.
Sophie Parou
Novelist

Credit: Pic by Novum1

Les desesperes

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The maestro had lost his way in the Anima Numdi.

And whilst playing jazz on his own in contemplation of what was left of his life and some of the music keys that still sang right, he kept on thinking how empty the journey was.
But simply too tired was he to change things otherwise.
In vain, he had been consumed by the loss of the one he once loved and possibly the only true thing he had ever been determined to have once but could never acquire again in this lifetime.

But most extraordinary and sad of all, in the present tale which I now recall, the man behind the curtain and whom I met by no existing chance, resembled no mere hero but a flamboyant Ares that rightfully possessed the delirium fire within.
He was the image of an impregnated d’Artagnan full of life and ready for combat.
Yet, he was barely but a simple man of our ages, blessed enough with all the required qualities true men of this time need to be able to turn wrong into right; but all of which, in truth, he could never willed so to attain without that which he had once known and lost. For it was, to put it quite simply, “the missing spear” secretly coveted.

And many earthy pleasures had he exhausted within the darkest abyss of life, in an attempt to bring back to remembrance that which he once felt or perhaps forget forever so its name and existence.

But nothing, absolutely nothing could quiet down his insatiable yet magnanimous soul.
Regrets and sorrow had overcome the ‘living of the moment’ long gone…

And of the exactitude of the thing which rendered him so much emptiness and desperation and which he sought for so long, no one knew with certitude what or who it was. Some say it was a woman, whom he once met in the new world. Others will disagree and say the wealth driven and prerogative of what the family wants you to be from birth simply empowered every single little thing he ever wanted to become and more importantly acquire on his own…

On the fourteen year of the second millennium, the maestro, tired of combatting some fake causes he could only care for a while, revered his hat for the last time and decided to leave this plane at last.

And thus came about the story of Tariq, by his birth name, who had indeed given up the train of life and decided to take what he hoped would be another ride, another chance, on the other side…

Sophie Parou
Novelist

Page 359 of the continuous journey

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I am the one with a line that has no beginning on this plane
but little care do i give to this, except for its grand ending !
I am a walker of the path nine …the one that happily precedes the last,
and merry at heart, day after day, i play the cast.
I am the child queen that kept on going despite the blasts, for every dark minute that sinks in the past ultimately represents its equal light !
I am the warrior of heart who was once told to keep quiet but too mighty was i, to ever comply…

Credit: Pic by Carlos Quevedo

A December night

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Ah! what a sublime feeling it is to see the beating of the heart that resides in the sparkles of the eyes of two strangers that first meet and say:
‘I feel again and know everything that you are,
You are my hope, you are my gain, you so near yet you were so far,
You are the everything i have longed to have but strangely have forbidden myself to have !’

Credit: pic by Evaldaz

Farewell of a childhood

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Over there, in the land of the old Sheppard which goes by the name of Beauce; a place that speaks of the flatness of the hand of God more than in any other places and where the long desired gold wheat blessed by its makers grows proud year after year; I once saw beneath the moon, the dance of the windmills winking at me, whilst saying my last farewell to the fields that shall have stamped forever more my childhood…

Credit: pic by Eleva