12-14-2014, 10:36 AM
Audio of me reading this:
http://soundcloud.com/christopher-youngb...n-prologue
--This is the opening for a book I've finally decided to write. Thoughts?
Prologue. The Final Passage.
Yellow petals started from involucels at off angles. It looked for all the world like some rat-snake-headed hydra was getting fat on a dozen canaries.
The bracts struck dumbly against the door, if that's what it was. From time to time they would, in concert, beat one against the others like some absurd game of Duck-Duck-Goose.
One Daisy would burst open, releasing a cloud of some peculiar substance or a mist of acid. The others would freeze, then unfreeze, and then the process would start again, some new bud popping open with a useless idea.
I was in a dawdling mood. I'd earned it, by rights. And so I pondered there for a long hour, just pondering. The deadliest things going, and they looked like vegetal Stooges, or Oliver Twist knocking at a rich man's door.
Their only hope was that some fool might open the door for them carelessly and that they'd win out in a rush. Seemed utterly unlikely, that.
I stepped forward mildly, serene as a ghost in the Vatican, and presented myself for inspection. The vines began to probe me wildly for any chink, absolutely mad with aggression.
Before my eyes was opened a whorling blossom. It's anthers crashed against me, exploding and incinerating its own petals with what I'm sure was whitey pete. Dewy cones matured in seconds and excreted Delacroix Meade. (I'm sure if I'd been able, I would've drunk the stuff and gone mad. Captivating notion, that.)
Then these cherubic little strawberries wreathed about one another and breathed mercury gas in little smokey arrows, right at my nose. As I watched, all manner of other wildly fatal weapons were tried--hogged beans popped pink, cambered cherries bled some noxious hazel goo, silica needles rippled and rattled and broke themselves on my skin.
The Daisies themselves stayed back, and I admired their humility for it. What gods must be for them?
In its way, the assault was the most relaxing experience I'd had in months, and so I began to weep, tears for those I'd used, and abandoned, and loved, and betrayed to death, for myself and my forgotten family, for the growing hope that my soul had not left me entirely, for my uncertain future, and finally in fear of whatever lay beyond that door--even for you, in a way.
After savoring the beauty of the scene, and still a bit lachrymose, I destroyed them, vine, root, and all, and watched them wither. And I was suddenly lonely. Very lonely.
Within me surged the key, and the portal swung open, soft as batwings, quiet as a wish.
This way, too, must you go, and I will guide you. But hush now, and hide me! Soon enough we shall begin!
Chapter 1. Deep, on the Night of First Breaking.
http://soundcloud.com/christopher-youngb...n-prologue
--This is the opening for a book I've finally decided to write. Thoughts?
Prologue. The Final Passage.
Yellow petals started from involucels at off angles. It looked for all the world like some rat-snake-headed hydra was getting fat on a dozen canaries.
The bracts struck dumbly against the door, if that's what it was. From time to time they would, in concert, beat one against the others like some absurd game of Duck-Duck-Goose.
One Daisy would burst open, releasing a cloud of some peculiar substance or a mist of acid. The others would freeze, then unfreeze, and then the process would start again, some new bud popping open with a useless idea.
I was in a dawdling mood. I'd earned it, by rights. And so I pondered there for a long hour, just pondering. The deadliest things going, and they looked like vegetal Stooges, or Oliver Twist knocking at a rich man's door.
Their only hope was that some fool might open the door for them carelessly and that they'd win out in a rush. Seemed utterly unlikely, that.
I stepped forward mildly, serene as a ghost in the Vatican, and presented myself for inspection. The vines began to probe me wildly for any chink, absolutely mad with aggression.
Before my eyes was opened a whorling blossom. It's anthers crashed against me, exploding and incinerating its own petals with what I'm sure was whitey pete. Dewy cones matured in seconds and excreted Delacroix Meade. (I'm sure if I'd been able, I would've drunk the stuff and gone mad. Captivating notion, that.)
Then these cherubic little strawberries wreathed about one another and breathed mercury gas in little smokey arrows, right at my nose. As I watched, all manner of other wildly fatal weapons were tried--hogged beans popped pink, cambered cherries bled some noxious hazel goo, silica needles rippled and rattled and broke themselves on my skin.
The Daisies themselves stayed back, and I admired their humility for it. What gods must be for them?
In its way, the assault was the most relaxing experience I'd had in months, and so I began to weep, tears for those I'd used, and abandoned, and loved, and betrayed to death, for myself and my forgotten family, for the growing hope that my soul had not left me entirely, for my uncertain future, and finally in fear of whatever lay beyond that door--even for you, in a way.
After savoring the beauty of the scene, and still a bit lachrymose, I destroyed them, vine, root, and all, and watched them wither. And I was suddenly lonely. Very lonely.
Within me surged the key, and the portal swung open, soft as batwings, quiet as a wish.
This way, too, must you go, and I will guide you. But hush now, and hide me! Soon enough we shall begin!
Chapter 1. Deep, on the Night of First Breaking.
A yak is normal.