1000 Days

Sadly, it’s taken me two days to write the following and three to post. I’ve taken that as a sign to let it simmer—or die—rather than to push it further.

A single voice intoned the chant.

Other voices joined the first in staggering succession as if each new singer required a sense more substantial than mere hearing to recognize the invitation. [expand here] As the number of singers grew others joined more quickly until the swell of the chant could not be ignored by the remaining few—save one, the chant’s initiator.

Thima, toak-Slay ceased chanting after several others took up the song. It waited silently but not unmovingly for the remaining Imbuers to join. Thima maneuvered the crowded dais to the edge and signaled for the next hoop to be lowered into place.

The unseen audience hushed to silence when they heard the

Word count: 115
Day 216 and 217

0 views

(No Ratings Yet)

Not that you can tell but I’m using Buzzword to compose this post. Check it out if you’re into collecting logins or online document creation and maybe collaboration tools.

Gentle wood smoke permeated the chill air. Its dissipated pungency and indistinct origin made Genevieve think coals smoldered over the hillock rather than that flames raged [replace with better fire cliché]. More than anything, the near rotten odor reminded her of remembering.

Word count: 71
Day 213

0 views

(No Ratings Yet)

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.

0 views

(No Ratings Yet)