Moorland – the Guardian of the Moor

The old wizard stood in front of the Guardian of the Moor and said the secret phrase: Intriguing… Nevermoor. The Guardian opened the gates to the moor and the old wizard came to a junction opening a path to the white, light moor and another one to the black, dark moor. For today he decided to follow the hidden path to the white, light moor.

RSP - Reinhold Staden Photography - Moorland
Hidden Path

Following this path he arrived at a beautiful viewpoint and took out his magic cube. He stole 8 images of the landscape and created a wide overview of the white, light moor.

RSP - Reinhold Staden Photography - Moorland
The white,light moor

After that the light disappeared and the old wizard was a bit tired. Coming back to the junction he decided to steal some images of the black, dark moor tomorrow.

Happy days. Reinhold



Nowhere to go…

A project

of Amy Reese of The Bumble Files and Reinhold Staden Photography.

The idea

An image says more than 500 words? I don’t think so. But if an image and 500 words come together they will create something special.
A few days ago we launched a project to bring a story of Amy’s fiction series and an image of my fiction series together.
I  provided an image taken in the Fintlandsmoor with some “creative additions” and Amy provided an excerpt of a larger story.

The result

I can only write about Amy’s story.
When I read it for the first time I thought: absolutely stunning.
How cool is it if an image of mine is boosted by the words of such a talented writer. I am a “visual” person, that is the reason why I love landscape photography. But I admire Amy’s talent to visualize stories with words.
But you have to find out yourself. I promise you will love her blog and… she is a very kind and friendly person to work with.
I enjoyed it so much.

The future

If you like the idea and result of this project, feel free to contact Amy for other awesome short stories or me for images.

And for now I will leave you with the story and the image. Enjoy!

The town is in an uproar. Out of nowhere, invisible forces are stealing people and taking them into the sky, never to be seen again. Here we find Tory in the forest, trying to face a most unsettling situation.
RSP - Reinhold Staden Photography - Nowhere to go
RSP – Reinhold Staden Photography – Nowhere to go

“You’re not afraid of the big sky, I see. Me neither,” said Tory.

A rabbit froze in the silence, having been alerted to his presence, and scurried away as Tory released his bow and sighed in defeat. When he hunted for fish, he didn’t have to be so quiet.

But it was easier to blame his father for his weak hunting skills, and he cursed him for not having prepared him and then he remembered. His father was gone and he was gone because of him. He had set the fire. Everything that happened after that was an accident. Tears spilled out of his eyes in sync with the rain that now fell in buckets.

He leaned back, the bark of a tree catching him as he wept, and he threw his hands up in the sky and shouted, “Take me, dammit. Take me!”

The sky roared back and the leaves of the trees were swept up around him, encircling him, heating his face with the rush of a flame that doused the top of his head. He watched, unable to move, the heat intensifying. The thought of his melting bones disintegrating into nothingness crossed his mind and that he was being punished in kind for his deed, fire for fire. The sky seemed to know. No one could hide from the sky.

Smothering in heat, he yelled again, “I’m the one you want!”

He jumped, grabbing at the air, and up he went. Snatched. Suspended above the ground, a halo of light warmed him like a soft blanket. He closed his eyes. “I have returned home,” he said and just as he felt his body lift a little higher, and then plummeted to the ground, slamming the side of his face in the cold dirt.

Air tightened around him, swirling him every which way like a rag dusting the forest floor. A spike pummeled his chest, knocking him against a tree and invisible talons jabbed at him from inside out; his heart muscles clamped around the spike, piercing him deeper until he thought he might faint. His skin, bulbous and tight, exploded with the roar of air swooping inside of him like a mask falling off his face.

He thought he saw smoke, but it could have been the mist that grabbed and gripped at his legs anchoring his feet to the ground. Smoke fumed under his shirt, and a fetid smell of decay washed over him and filled him with revulsion. That smell was his skin burning.

There it was on his belly. A mark smoldered and burned, branding him deeper than skin. It blistered and puffed, rose and fell, and burrs appeared, rippling through his skin. He shuddered as he touched them as they were prickly to the touch.

He did the only thing he knew to do. He ran. He ran and he ran, and he kept running. No amount of sweat dripping from his temples down the sides of his neck could tear down his most obvious dilemma. He was running away from himself.

He stopped to catch his breath, and light filtered through the pines above. “Take me. It’s me you want,” Tory shouted.

But even the sky didn’t want him and so he ran with nowhere to go.


According to the last book in the Bible, 666 is the number, or name, of the wild beast with seven heads and ten horns that comes out of the sea. This beast is a symbol of the worldwide political system, which rules over “every tribe and people and tongue and nation.”  The name 666 identifies the political system as a gross failure in God’s sight. – Wikipedia

Do they mean the North Sea? And what happens if 666 is combined with 66 (see beach chair in the background)? Now it is time for you story tellers and fiction writers…

RSP - Reinhold Staden Photography - 666
666 + 66

© RSP – Reinhold Staden Photography
July 2016