Exercise #1

There's one exercise that I often do. I have a photo, mine or from others, and I create a story around it. This time, it's one of my photos, taken - I guess - last year in Monsaraz, Portugal. 

@dintamm_ursa

But you don't need to know the background of the picture. What matters is what you see. 

So... let's write!

If you are also a writer, write first, and then read what I have done! There is no rules, besides the photo been the inspiration. So, write what you want to. It doesn't need to be a full story, could be just a scene. Good Luck!

Coming back was the hardest thing that he done in the last century. 

He was home. The place was almost the same. But feeling weren't right. ´Caz when he crossed the gate, guards came out, pointing guns at him. As if he was the enemy. He wasn't. 

My mother hide me behind her long skirt. I don't thing he saw me, but I saw him. He was exactly the same man from my dreams. The one no one talked about. 

But I could hear whispers from ancients citizens. He was the one. The one that should have save them all. But he didn't... 

I could feel echoes of his past, of his power. He was numb. I knew it. Even when looking at him, hidden behind my mother. 

And he did nothing. He stand there, waiting.

And eventually, they did. They told the guards to put down their guns. But they didn't. So he stayed there. 

The villagers step back, went to their homes and closed all the windows. 

My body went with them. 

My mind was with him. In his grey eyes I saw the truth: he was there to save us. Not kill us. 

The scar in his left eye was dividing his eyebrow and continue to his cheek. It was red and echoes of pain and guilt choke me. 

Now he is hundred meters from me. Backs to the city. Facing the world. The future.