Chrysanthemums
I know how to spell chrysanthemums from a spelling bee in 4th grade. I came up with a phonic for it. Chris, and the mum. And now, 8 years later, I can still spell it. I guess that's pretty special.
I'm finally done with the DVD project. I feel drained. I wonder how many people read this I don't know about. I want to write a story. Yes. I think I'll write a story.
My name is Artùr Peterksen, and I'm compiling a vox of what took place in the county of Maris on Winter Solstice, Year 616. I believe it could be helpful to future audiences if I gave a bit of a background to this story. [clears throat. sound of water being drunk] Ok, so...
Once upon a time, there was an oak forest known as Almaden. Digression: I like oaks, because they are strong and they seem to survive, somehow. For example, there's an oak forest in the county outside mine by Gaviota. A fire raged through it, and all the oaks burned. But they were still there, sort of, just charred silhouettes in a hellish, blackened landscape. And still, they were there. The fire had not destroyed them. Well, it had killed them, but they still stood, and I think that's really important. Back to Almaden. This oak forest had been alive for many many centuries, and the trees were very old and strong. It's a strange thing about trees, especially in Almaden. The longer they lived, the stronger they became, and so this forest was built of the strongest oaks about. The local tribe of Eurasians harvested some of the outlying trees for building their ships and houses, and the wood became known to the other peoples as ironwood, because it was as metal compared to other woods. But the Eurasians never ventured inside the forest, for they knew the stories of another world past Almaden's borders. At night, the old ladies whispered, when the moon was shining and the Aurora Occidentis lit the sky, the oaks would glow with unearthly light, and if you looked carefully enough, you could see the faces of another people behind the trees. The faces, they say, were long and thin, with large pale eyes and slender noses. The eyes were the same color as the moon, a soft silvery white, and they had no pupils. But what was most frightening about these faces was the absence of a mouth. And yet, the old ladies say, the faces could talk. They whispered secrets to those who listened, to those who watched them during the Occidentis and the full moon. And their secrets, it was said, could change the world.
There's a town called Almaden there now, but there's no forest. It is only lengths of tract housing, filled with suburban burbanites, and a small city center. In a tribute to the oaken forest, there is a huge oak in the middle of the town where children play. I've researched the legends of the Almaden forest, and it is my belief that none of what I previously told you was true, apart from the existence of a forest. For there was never any Western Aurora, and the idea that there would be another people in the trees is simply folly and not backed up by any anthropological studies whatsoever. Don't get me wrong, I think we should preserve the heritage of Almaden and the culture who used to live here, but the ideas of some people are simply rediculous. They would want us to replant Almaden, over all our suburbs and our city. Some of the radicals in the city believe that this is how we could get back in touch with the "spirits" of the forest. A load of tripe, if you ask me. But that's not what that story is about. Not in the least. Well, maybe it is, partly. [clears throat]
The county of Maris lies on a geographic hotspot, a very thin spot on the Earth's crust. Unlike other hotspots, though, Maris does not feature any geysers, volcanos, or any other sort of volcanic activity. There was a hot spring system a long time ago, but that was paved over when the town of Crysdale was founded. Crysdale's not there anymore, but if I explained that it would be another digression, and I'm running out of light in the voxcorder. So back to my story. Winter's Solstice is a large festival in Maris, celebrating the end of the year and the gradual progression of the lengthening of days. It is also the longest night in the year, which may explain some of the events of the Solstice of 616.
I was at a party with my family and we were watching the sun go down, for it is traditional to wave the sun goodbye when it leaves on its longest trip of the year. The curious events started when the sun hit the horizon, for at that moment the sky faded far too fast to be realistic. The sun quickened its pace and within mere seconds of touching the horizon it had sunk completely. There was no afterglow or anything, and we were left in complete darkness. All the light in our appliances had gone out, as well, so my family and I sat in a sort of terrified silence. [pause]
And then the night lit up. It was as if somebody had flicked a switch, and in moments the sky was filled with the eerie blue light of the moon. Everything stood out in sharp, alien relief as the blue light danced across the sky. Shortly after the moon lit up, there was a sort of rushing noise and an Aurora flooded into view. I guess it was an Aurora, because the signature curtain of lights was unique to those sort of solar storms. Bathed in the dual light of the moon and the Western Aurora, everything looked strange. Shadows were cast where there was nothing, and trees began to look much larger and us much smaller.
The light grew more intense, building to the point of where it was painful to look at either the moon or the Aurora. There was a screaming noise, like a thousand voices screaming, and my daughter was sobbing with her hands over her ears and my wife had fainted. I was panicking, and the light and the voices were reaching a crescendo, and then everything faded to white.
This all seems incredible, I know, and sometimes I wonder if I'm not half mad. But I know this ground and I've walked this land, and I know for a fact that this is Maris county. But the strangest thing... the houses are gone, completely vanished, and all one can see from horizon to horizon is oak. But then I'll find some trinket, like this voxcorder, or a doll, or some remnant of my world, and I'll wonder to myself just where I am. This was all long ago now. I simply haven't gotten around to voxing it. There was something else I wanted to say. Oh, yes. Some days when the sun shines really brightly in the cloudless sky, I see people through the branches of the trees. They're not aware of me, except for an old lady who sits and watches me. It's night in their world, and I can see the Aurora blazing overhead. I wave to her and she waves back, and I tell her of my world. I never think she could hear me, but you never know. And then the sun will sink a bit and the old lady and the people fade like a mirage in the heat, and it's times like that when I wouldn't doubt if I had gone completely off my rocker.
Damn. The vox is nearly out of light. Five... four... three... two... [there is a burst of white noise and the playback ends.]
I'm finally done with the DVD project. I feel drained. I wonder how many people read this I don't know about. I want to write a story. Yes. I think I'll write a story.
My name is Artùr Peterksen, and I'm compiling a vox of what took place in the county of Maris on Winter Solstice, Year 616. I believe it could be helpful to future audiences if I gave a bit of a background to this story. [clears throat. sound of water being drunk] Ok, so...
Once upon a time, there was an oak forest known as Almaden. Digression: I like oaks, because they are strong and they seem to survive, somehow. For example, there's an oak forest in the county outside mine by Gaviota. A fire raged through it, and all the oaks burned. But they were still there, sort of, just charred silhouettes in a hellish, blackened landscape. And still, they were there. The fire had not destroyed them. Well, it had killed them, but they still stood, and I think that's really important. Back to Almaden. This oak forest had been alive for many many centuries, and the trees were very old and strong. It's a strange thing about trees, especially in Almaden. The longer they lived, the stronger they became, and so this forest was built of the strongest oaks about. The local tribe of Eurasians harvested some of the outlying trees for building their ships and houses, and the wood became known to the other peoples as ironwood, because it was as metal compared to other woods. But the Eurasians never ventured inside the forest, for they knew the stories of another world past Almaden's borders. At night, the old ladies whispered, when the moon was shining and the Aurora Occidentis lit the sky, the oaks would glow with unearthly light, and if you looked carefully enough, you could see the faces of another people behind the trees. The faces, they say, were long and thin, with large pale eyes and slender noses. The eyes were the same color as the moon, a soft silvery white, and they had no pupils. But what was most frightening about these faces was the absence of a mouth. And yet, the old ladies say, the faces could talk. They whispered secrets to those who listened, to those who watched them during the Occidentis and the full moon. And their secrets, it was said, could change the world.
There's a town called Almaden there now, but there's no forest. It is only lengths of tract housing, filled with suburban burbanites, and a small city center. In a tribute to the oaken forest, there is a huge oak in the middle of the town where children play. I've researched the legends of the Almaden forest, and it is my belief that none of what I previously told you was true, apart from the existence of a forest. For there was never any Western Aurora, and the idea that there would be another people in the trees is simply folly and not backed up by any anthropological studies whatsoever. Don't get me wrong, I think we should preserve the heritage of Almaden and the culture who used to live here, but the ideas of some people are simply rediculous. They would want us to replant Almaden, over all our suburbs and our city. Some of the radicals in the city believe that this is how we could get back in touch with the "spirits" of the forest. A load of tripe, if you ask me. But that's not what that story is about. Not in the least. Well, maybe it is, partly. [clears throat]
The county of Maris lies on a geographic hotspot, a very thin spot on the Earth's crust. Unlike other hotspots, though, Maris does not feature any geysers, volcanos, or any other sort of volcanic activity. There was a hot spring system a long time ago, but that was paved over when the town of Crysdale was founded. Crysdale's not there anymore, but if I explained that it would be another digression, and I'm running out of light in the voxcorder. So back to my story. Winter's Solstice is a large festival in Maris, celebrating the end of the year and the gradual progression of the lengthening of days. It is also the longest night in the year, which may explain some of the events of the Solstice of 616.
I was at a party with my family and we were watching the sun go down, for it is traditional to wave the sun goodbye when it leaves on its longest trip of the year. The curious events started when the sun hit the horizon, for at that moment the sky faded far too fast to be realistic. The sun quickened its pace and within mere seconds of touching the horizon it had sunk completely. There was no afterglow or anything, and we were left in complete darkness. All the light in our appliances had gone out, as well, so my family and I sat in a sort of terrified silence. [pause]
And then the night lit up. It was as if somebody had flicked a switch, and in moments the sky was filled with the eerie blue light of the moon. Everything stood out in sharp, alien relief as the blue light danced across the sky. Shortly after the moon lit up, there was a sort of rushing noise and an Aurora flooded into view. I guess it was an Aurora, because the signature curtain of lights was unique to those sort of solar storms. Bathed in the dual light of the moon and the Western Aurora, everything looked strange. Shadows were cast where there was nothing, and trees began to look much larger and us much smaller.
The light grew more intense, building to the point of where it was painful to look at either the moon or the Aurora. There was a screaming noise, like a thousand voices screaming, and my daughter was sobbing with her hands over her ears and my wife had fainted. I was panicking, and the light and the voices were reaching a crescendo, and then everything faded to white.
This all seems incredible, I know, and sometimes I wonder if I'm not half mad. But I know this ground and I've walked this land, and I know for a fact that this is Maris county. But the strangest thing... the houses are gone, completely vanished, and all one can see from horizon to horizon is oak. But then I'll find some trinket, like this voxcorder, or a doll, or some remnant of my world, and I'll wonder to myself just where I am. This was all long ago now. I simply haven't gotten around to voxing it. There was something else I wanted to say. Oh, yes. Some days when the sun shines really brightly in the cloudless sky, I see people through the branches of the trees. They're not aware of me, except for an old lady who sits and watches me. It's night in their world, and I can see the Aurora blazing overhead. I wave to her and she waves back, and I tell her of my world. I never think she could hear me, but you never know. And then the sun will sink a bit and the old lady and the people fade like a mirage in the heat, and it's times like that when I wouldn't doubt if I had gone completely off my rocker.
Damn. The vox is nearly out of light. Five... four... three... two... [there is a burst of white noise and the playback ends.]
posted by Aermethys at 11:26 AM
1 Comments:
wow. didn't even consider it like that. and the cool thing about this story is that i had absolutely no idea how it would end. that's why it's so rambling.
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