I am starting a weekly series focused on stories built around single photos. I will keep all stories under 100 words. Being concise is a skill, probably one of the most difficult to acquire. Stories can be directly linked to the photo (how it was taken, what was happening) or they can simply use the photo as a writing prompt.
For today, I chose this grainy photo on a windmill in a small nature reserve close to where I live.
I’m sitting close to the ground, among wild flowers. All noises have suddenly stopped as if all creatures, and nature itself, observe a secret curfew. From this standpoint, the windmill is perfectly drawn against the night sky. There’s a small light at the entrance. Is somebody visiting or maybe living in there? Would you live in a windmill, feeding the bats upstairs and listening to the creaking of the large wooden blades?
There’s yellow, black and blue. And just a hint of orange on those low clouds. I am here, well within by body, and at the same time I see myself from the outside, as if I were floating mid-air. I see the whole scene developing in front of me as I would watch a theater play. I am part of it. I look with amazement, waiting to see what happens next.
The night falls on the windmill like a torrent of dark lava.