The fires are dyingly low. Few watch in the darkness, the embers glowing their last lives. They watch the horizon, the skies, they can't see anything in the darkness. But it's out there, watching... waiting. There is nothing they can do. They are helpless in the darkness. It's out there, formulating in its own way. It's out there, peering at them with dead eyes. The few around the fires pray to their gods and godesses, some finding answers, others resigning to their fate. A call fills the air, the women and children scream, the men steel their hearts and minds, their hands falling to their swords. Another call and their hearts quicken. Minds run rampant with the last thoughts of the dead. There is no turning back. Luck, War, Fortune; a few of the gods that still remain with them in their hearts. Another call and swords are drawn. A few grunts roam through the silent crowd. Nothing could ever prepare them. Yet they remain, the last hold of humanity making its last stand. A few warriors have fled; in the wilds or the encampment, they cannot escape what their fates have decreed. Another call, an eerie glow in the distance. It comes for them. Another call, the frontline guards scream, some running back into the lines, their bodies afire, skin melting, the smell of human flesh, and the smell of the dead wafting in all distorted reality further. Another glow, orangish-red, the distant mountains aflame with devastating fury. They seem to melt before the warriors eyes. Some run away, others drop their swords. Few stay, those that do are statues of flesh against the raging flame. Another glow, the heat of the flame above their heads. Some go flat to the ground, others prostrate themselves to the unseen and unknown. Others look above, finding rivers of fire gorging through the sky. These that stand laugh, they've lost their minds. They still laugh when the flame becomes vertical. They laugh and laugh until what remains of their bodies disintegrate. The last shards of humanity are out there, and only it knows when the end will come.
Tim Munn
Copyright 6.3.2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Odd Little Writing Blog...
From:
Oh, The Places You Will Go by Dr. Seuss
'You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly, they're darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And if you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused
that you'll start to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place'
**************
Of all that I've both written and read-- when in the course of conjuring up this blog-- this I feel, is the most accurate description of my writng and its effects on you, the readers. The effect of having read and contemplated something... not completely odd or fanciful, yet something that is still within the grasp of an even mild reader. That, too, is a common theme on this blog and these writings-- grasping at a knowledge that, long hidden, reveals itself through story and in ones own life.
These three stanzas of the larger poem are a part of the journey on this road. A map; a guidepost if you will, along the road of the real and surreal. Really, there is no wrong turn on this road; no need to become 'lost' along the way, there's a rest stop or two or three; and perhaps the only things needed are drinks and snacks depending on how far along you'll be travelling. In a few minutes, we'll find out together how well the journey went, or if worse comes to worst, how badly it went.
A little piece of mind goes a long way. This road is an experimental one; an artistic one; a wide open road that, as we've discovered already, leads every where. It's the road you've decided to navigate, and as that chief navigator, you become challenged to discover what the stories mean to you. Hours, days, weeks, months or years-- this is your road to travel on, taking in all that information. The little bits and pieces of information coming in will make your mind thank you.
For a writer-- or any other artist for that matter-- it's better in some ways to have an impact now than importance later. What use was the writing if it didn't immediately change one's thoughts and feelings towards some subject matter or another? Impact first, hopefully without totally jarring ones senses entirely, maybe just a strong tremor in that 'weirdish wild space'. The goal ultimately is not to cause a confusion, but an understanding of the world we live in and the world deep inside the imagination. So very far away, though, from that most far and useless place, wouldn't you say?
Oh, The Places You Will Go by Dr. Seuss
'You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly, they're darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And if you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused
that you'll start to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place'
**************
Of all that I've both written and read-- when in the course of conjuring up this blog-- this I feel, is the most accurate description of my writng and its effects on you, the readers. The effect of having read and contemplated something... not completely odd or fanciful, yet something that is still within the grasp of an even mild reader. That, too, is a common theme on this blog and these writings-- grasping at a knowledge that, long hidden, reveals itself through story and in ones own life.
These three stanzas of the larger poem are a part of the journey on this road. A map; a guidepost if you will, along the road of the real and surreal. Really, there is no wrong turn on this road; no need to become 'lost' along the way, there's a rest stop or two or three; and perhaps the only things needed are drinks and snacks depending on how far along you'll be travelling. In a few minutes, we'll find out together how well the journey went, or if worse comes to worst, how badly it went.
A little piece of mind goes a long way. This road is an experimental one; an artistic one; a wide open road that, as we've discovered already, leads every where. It's the road you've decided to navigate, and as that chief navigator, you become challenged to discover what the stories mean to you. Hours, days, weeks, months or years-- this is your road to travel on, taking in all that information. The little bits and pieces of information coming in will make your mind thank you.
For a writer-- or any other artist for that matter-- it's better in some ways to have an impact now than importance later. What use was the writing if it didn't immediately change one's thoughts and feelings towards some subject matter or another? Impact first, hopefully without totally jarring ones senses entirely, maybe just a strong tremor in that 'weirdish wild space'. The goal ultimately is not to cause a confusion, but an understanding of the world we live in and the world deep inside the imagination. So very far away, though, from that most far and useless place, wouldn't you say?
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