1000 Days

The lighting, color, and texture sings dramatically so I’m tempted to do a concrete and descriptive info dump on this piece. The subject has a story built right in: bridges and a trail of people approaching nearly natural stone towers, arches, and gates. That would be fun I think—particularly because I’d like to roll back to yesterday’s line about ‘titan fists’.

Instead I’ll try to write about what’s happening here. I’m going to entirely disregard the artist’s text. Not that I don’t think they are fine (or technically correct), but I got a instinctive reaction to the piece before I read his words. I’d like to expand on that instead.

From yesterday and from here.  Specifically the figure highlighted in the picture.

Old hands with pale papery skin griped the worn rail of the bridge’s balustrade. Grainmaster Holan held tight to avoid collapsing onto the walkway not to avoid falling the great distance to the floor. His legs trembled with age. They did not tremble for fear of the height.

“Myan!” A mother’s voice and tone called out. The Grainmaster perked from his drifting thoughts to answer the command of his name. He smiled gently when he realized it was not his mother’s voice, but a coincidence of the vent’s shape that brought the sounds of far below directly to his ear. Myan was a name popular for boys as well as girls these days.

The Grainmaster snorted amusement softly and spoke to an audience of only himself, “No gratitude to you old Myan Holan. No gratitude whatsoever.”

Word count: 248
Day 211

This may not look like much right now, but it’s got legs in my head.

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Tonight’s inspiration comes from: Pilgrimage to the Ancient Halls

The Vorgh Mountains stacked up like [something really descriptive] was then battered down by titan fists. Nothing about the volcanic piles was regular or symmetrical.

In Spring we climbed the mud-slick slopes like newly born lambs hover near their dam. Each of us, wet from the mist with trembling tired legs, clung to the next for balance.

Ok - not gonna screw this up tonight. I like this painting too much to crap on it first go. See you in the morning.

Word count:
Day 211

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Further to last night’s post and in certain consternation to those of your few happy readers patiently waiting to see what I can hack out next, I am compelled to go read. Unstopably compelled.

Though I can be waylaid for a bit to make mention of my compulsion—and to justify. If I can’t write then reading is certainly the closest thing I can do. I wrote less in the winter when I couldn’t tear myself away from some football game, so it wouldn’t be fair to to put up too strong a fight to sit here in the dark with the keyboard and screen.

Just as I decided I ought to get the grammar book out and figure out how badly I’m botching comma splices, dashes, and parentheticals the book has gone missing. From here I can see the slot on the shelf it slid from—between “20 Master Plots” and something about screenplays. This void indicates to me that the form of the book should be on my nightstand or under it or under the bed: no, no, and nope.

Word count: 184
Day 210

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