Exerpt from The Diamond Towers
See other images stacked in the cupboard in Poetry Jars
11/01/2014 | Categories: Books, Desert, Dreams, Fantasy, fiction, Journeys, Science Fiction | Tags: Desert, Fantasy, indie writing, Journeys, science fiction, Short Stories, writers, writing | Leave a comment
The Sand Swimmer
Photo credit: tony7 from morguefile.com
Yesterday as I slept between two giant black granite boulders, I dreamt that my left hand had turned into a spider, fingers walking on the ground next to me. My right hand was a huge claw decorated in fine precious metals and stones. I saw countless worlds, jungles, seas, mountains. I swam in the growing deserts and chased the animals from their homes. I felt the hunger. When I woke, the fingers on my left hand were fused together and I had to bite the thin webbed skin between the fingers on the right. Every step of the change makes my heart race with fear. Only immersion in the sand will calm me now. I have vowed only to sleep in its embrace as it continues to take me further away from home.
I had been struggling to recall my name every morning for the last week. Nothing seems important when you are carried in the white dust of oblivion. First Transition had inspected me, its single eye scanning my changing eye colours. I felt none of the fear my father had instilled in me. I brought it fish from the drying pans and it sang to me of certainty. Over the days that followed I knew that I would be alone. No others approached. I was to travel north along the new flow. There were forests beyond the mountains and the sand hungered for them. It promised my doubts would ease as my body became new. All of this was certain; it had happened before and would happen again.
This morning with horror I found I no longer knew my name. I swam around in circles for a time, searching for it but not really aware of what I should be searching for. The sand could not help me; it had removed something and discarded it like the bones of the fish my mother tossed into the flow. All I can picture of her is a hand running through the hair that used to grow on my head. My nose smells the pine forests and pushes me forwards. The sand senses a need for me and makes me sleep. I cannot resist this change. I will become the hunter. Too much is gone. Father had whispered to resist, staying me and when I reached the solid ground to run and keep running and warn others. Father was wrong. The only hope is sand. The only truth is sand. It turns chaos to order. My duty is to hunt and end the chaos.
I am the sand swimmer of the north. I am the first and when the hunting is done, I will become Second Transition. That is all the truth I need.
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10/06/2013 | Categories: Desert, Dreams, Fantasy | Tags: Desert, Dreams, Fantasy, Short Stories | Leave a comment
Words of Sand
02/04/2013 | Categories: Desert, Nature, Poetry | Tags: Desert, images, indie writing, Nature, Poems, poetry, writers, writing | Leave a comment
Another story from the archives. Transformation story.
Already there are missing parts. I share the knowledge of the First Transition which the sands pour into my mind every day. It becomes clearer, the connection between us all. Now I have only a few images of them. I see my mother sweeping all of the sand out of the house to…
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29/03/2013 | Categories: Desert, Dreams, Journeys, Nature, Reality, Shorts | Tags: Desert, Dreams, Fantasy, indie writing, Journeys, Nature, reality, writers, writing | Leave a comment
Ode to Fustat.
21/03/2013 | Categories: Decay, Desert, History, Maps, Nature, quotes, Science | Tags: Desert, Detective, entropy, History, impermanence, indie writing, Maps, Nature, quote, Science, writers, writing | Leave a comment
What Value is the Earth?
Return to the Signal Images.
Read the full story here.
return to Image Gallery.
04/03/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Death, Decay, Desert, History, Nature, Poetry, Political | Tags: Death, Desert, entropy, History, impermanence, indie writing, mujo, Nature, Poems, Political, Question, writers, writing | Leave a comment
The Sand Swimmer
Already there are missing parts. I share the knowledge of the First Transition which the sands pour into my mind every day. It becomes clearer, the connection between us all. Now I have only a few images of them. I see my mother sweeping all of the sand out of the house to stop us all from drifting; my Father in his protective clothing guiding it out of the sea and onto the drying pans; my brother waving goodbye to us when he drifted towards the First Transition. I still see them, hollow eyed; mother crying into fathers shoulder, she was expecting again which allowed them to remain unchanged. It was the way of Portside. I see it clearly even now. Only the houses with children remained untaken by the sand.
Yesterday as I slept between two giant black granite boulders, I dreamt that my left hand had turned into a spider, fingers walking on the ground next to me. My right hand was a huge claw decorated in fine precious metals and stones. I saw countless worlds, jungles, seas, mountains. I swam in the growing deserts and chased the animals from their homes. I felt the hunger. When I woke, the fingers on my left hand were fused together and I had to bite the thin webbed skin between the fingers on the right. Every step of the change makes my heart race with fear. Only immersion in the sand will calm me now. I have vowed only to sleep in its embrace as it continues to take me further away from home.
I had been struggling to recall my name every morning for the last week. Nothing seems important when you are carried in the white dust of oblivion. First Transition had inspected me, its single eye scanning my changing eye colours. I felt none of the fear my father had instilled in me. I brought it fish from the drying pans and it sang to me of certainty. Over the days that followed I knew that I would be alone. No others approached. I was to travel north along the new flow. There were forests beyond the mountains and the sand hungered for them. It promised my doubts would ease as my body became new. All of this was certain; it had happened before and would happen again.
This morning with horror I found I no longer knew my name. I swam around in circles for a time, searching for it but not really aware of what I should be searching for. The sand could not help me; it had removed something and discarded it like the bones of the fish my mother tossed into the flow. All I can picture of her is a hand running through the hair that used to grow on my head. My nose smells the pine forests and pushes me forwards. The sand senses a need for me and makes me sleep. I cannot resist this change. I will become the hunter. Too much is gone. Father had whispered to resist, staying me and when I reached the solid ground to run and keep running and warn others. Father was wrong. The only hope is sand. The only truth is sand. It turns chaos to order. My duty is to hunt and end the chaos.
I am the sand swimmer of the north. I am the first and when the hunting is done, I will become Second Transition. That is all the truth I need.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
25/06/2011 | Categories: Desert, Dreams, Fantasy | Tags: Desert, Dreams, Fantasy, Short Stories | 1 Comment
La Zone Grise: A Short History
Any cartographer worth their salt will admit that where roads and trails and coastlines are traced meaningfully from generation to generation, within the interior all lines eventually become broken and dotted until there is nothing but a large vast…
…well nothing. When asking their elders about the space in the maps, they would be told simply that nobody has ever been there.
Extravagance, as seen in some of the royal maps, often adorned these lands with monsters and magic, and elaborate drawings of folk heroes slaying exotic beasts. Others, more practical for merchants and travellers, simply referred to the blank parts as, “La Zone Grise,” and in some cases, “Blanc.” This changed very little over the years. Those who entered the area to explore found nothing but a barren expanse, devoid of life and detail; flat, hot, and dry.
“Not even the wind spends much time this place,” came reports from one eminent Italian explorer who set out to discover, what he described as, “The great forests of our childhood,” with a team of six donkeys and three Abyssinian guides. After two weeks, he was discovered walking on a beach with no trousers, no donkeys, no guides and only a small piece of Salami. The lack of water driving him along the edges of the expanse southwards to the ocean.
After this failure, most proposed exploration was greeted with derision by society and no respectable citizens would raise the subject in public. Instead, a period of rejection descended with many simply referring to the area as, “La Gris,” or in some cases, “La Terne.” With the emergence of industry, attention was turned away from the interior and outward to trade countries beyond the seas. This for some was convenient during state dinners, but caused embarrassment when raised by traders who frequently asked what was on the other side of the lands. Most were dismissed with comments about goat herders and wild men. Ultimately, La Terne became the official title for the area replacing all previous terms and used often in the derogatory sense when criticising things of little interest.
It is surprising this abject place within a land that boasted rising citadels and modern ports along it’s coasts existed until several months ago without so much of a mention in public. That is until someone walked into the capital claiming to have lived his life with a tribe of monks on the far side of La Terne. Speculation grew that now, with advanced technology, and equipment, it was possible to at last explore. Petitions for funding were hastily prepared and put to the banks and investors from other lands. La Terne became the next big thing.
Now there are thousands of pundits and speculators all prepared to entertain the public with articles in magazines and appearances on evening chat shows. Never before has so much interest in La Terne been seen. Traditionalists dismiss all mention of the place as fanciful youthfulness; a fad that will pass. Bureaucrats look to produce policy of governance over La Terne, fearing the creation of a haven for revolution.
La Terne has become the place of children’s bedtime stories; a place that lovers throw casually into hopelessly promiscuous lines of prose. La Terne is the cry of the unions and the oppressed.
“La Terne! La Terne!”
“Ce qui est revele!”
Stocks on the markets have started to rise and fall simply due to the uncertainty. Security is increased to give everyday life the impression of calm, smooth continuity. A Garrison has been posted on the perimeters of La Terne in case an army marches out to disable and crush the machine. Authors have taken up the old names again referring to La Zone Grise. They say that instability and uncertainty has always been, and that people simply chose to ignore it.
There is no certainty of the future except that the uncertainty will continue and get worse. Only one thing can be said for sure…
Until the Cartographers can produce their maps and continue the roads and borderlines into La Zone Grise, there will be no peace here.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
04/02/2011 | Categories: History, Maps, Political, Shorts | Tags: Desert, History, indie writing, Maps, Political, reality, Short Stories, writers, writing | 1 Comment