An excerpt.

Discussion in 'Original Works' started by JeTSpice, Jul 3, 2013.

  1. JeTSpice

    JeTSpice New Member

    Jul 1, 2013
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    To my Dad
    Who had a dream like this.​

    A masquerade of kindergarteners perched atop a plaid rainbow rug, their bright eyes blinking behind feathers and macaroni, all attention face-forward in expectant awe. Behind them, golden sunlight poured into the classroom like ancient holographic columns. Shiny pine desks stood respectfully in formation. Construction paper cards cascaded the walls like confetti suspended in time.

    Amidst it all, wearing a tuxedo and home-made birthday hat, and leaning forward from a comfortable armchair to engage his audience with a crackling smile and twinkling eyes, was Bob.

    Today he was being celebrated by the whole world. And on the way to his acceptance speech, he found much delight in stopping somewhere unexpected and relating a tale to eager minds.

    The room resonated with his unassuming voice.

    Gather 'round and I will tell you all a fabled story,
    Of ancient days of witches, and of heroes in their glory,
    The origins of evil, and the veritudes of love,
    Of creatures creeping from below, and swooping from above.

    It's best to have a giant, and a mighty minotaur,
    And possibly a seven-headed flying dinosaur,
    And roses, and ponies, and castles made of sand,
    But I assure you, above all it's best we sit and grab hold hands.

    For even now a darkness howls beyond our golden door.
    To taste the final blood in seven thousand years of war.​

    The children inched closer huddling about his chair. With each word, the room grew dimmer and dimmer, until the very walls were lost in emptiness.

    Their guest gestured behind them. Quick as tops, they spun to behold, with uncontainable ooh's and ah's, a stage of dark oak, draped in rich purple which undulated like the serene sea.

    The curtains drew like the tearing of the fabric of reality, revealing stage-center a transparent casket, inside which laid a man whose folded hands held a solitary rose. He was dressed in formal attire, and as the young class peered with those eyes that miss no detail, they thought with serious and furrowed brows that the person in the glass casket looked very much like their special visitor.

    But before they could voice it, Bob was walking upon the stage. And before they could double-take, his captivating introductions resumed.

    Here, a gravely man asleep,
    Dreaming deeply unto deep.
    Between we oceans flow a stream,
    Deep and deep and living dream.

    And like the colors of the sun,
    All for one and seven strong,
    Like three ripples in a pond,
    Three worlds woven into one.

    And yet, with nothing left to love,
    What does it mean? What does it prove?
    For though we do live tranquilly,
    Yet me, myself and I we be.

    Love sleeps.
    Never outside the door my heart's guard keeps.
    Love ponders.
    To shed the blood of love is what it wonders.

    To love, or not to love, that is my question.
    To splay one's heart in hoping to be chosen.
    To chance, ne'er to return to the occasion,
    Or let a slumber settle on the ocean.​

    And with that, winds of brightness overtook them all.

    And from out those winds pierced eye-watering sparkles, waltzing like miniature galaxies in the stratosphere of a solitary planet, which twirled like an ornament on an unseen string.

    A Caribbean blue sea wrapped around a single island continent of lush emerald. From afar, it had all the seeming of an all-seeing eye in a snow globe of diamonds.

    Holding it all together, a sea of glass churned and waved in orbit, and from out that crystalline ozone surfaced a palatial city of gold.

    Majestic birds circled the currents of its hazy hallways. Cobalt fire flowed through the walls like veins of living marble. And light pooled where shadows ought, in ridges of pillars and under ledges.

    Bob walked the length of one such hallway, a comfy white robe hugging his shoulders, and drying his ears with a common cotton towel. His sandals padded a glistening floor of glycerin, which glided gently from under a door's threshold.

    He splished toward the door just as a fiery figure dropped in behind him, landing in a beautifully billowing fireball. As the flames subsided, they revealed in their midst a man constructed entirely of gold. His name was Brilliant, and fire trickled his veins, pulsing through molten organs, and filling the marrow of skeletal pipes. He folded viscous wings behind his back and strolled after Bob atop a pair of stilted legs, a full head taller than his human counterpart. "Bob, a word," he requested. His voice had the sound of a distant chorus, and his words the nobility of a Shakespearean Knight.

    Shooting a glance behind, Bob greeted his visitor. "Ah, Brilliant. How goes the watch?" He worked on drying the other ear.

    "As I was flying, to and fro, in the forest, far below, I saw one like us without wings talking to our animals."

    Bob smiled to himself. "Talking without wings? What shall we say about such things?"

    "Will you pierce his hands with molten feathers, and shod his back with ardent down, light afire our uncompleted brother, and ornament him with a horned crown?"

    The two had reached the door, and Bob turned. "I'm planning to entreat another one make her complete."

    Brilliant contemplated.

    "Will you attend recital?"

    His heart emblazoned brightly within his chest. "With my heart inflamed."

    "Until then."

    "Until then, good friend."

    Bob exited the hallway as Brilliant launched away in lightning-like fire.

    * * *

    This is an excerpt from Mars The Fairygodmother. You can read more at this link
  2. Druid of Lûhn

    Druid of Lûhn The Little Lamb.

    Dec 10, 2009
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    Wow, that's really cool! I love the style which is unusual but works perfectly (I really live the very beginning and the end).

    The style with the rhymes is one I really love and try to write like that sometimes. I think that you capture the little children really well at the beginning.
  3. S.J. Faerlind

    S.J. Faerlind Flashlight Shadowhunter

    May 29, 2012
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    A most unusual style indeed!