Post by SÀMMIUS McGENNIEN on Jun 18, 2011 16:14:34 GMT -5
This was written a year or so ago, and it was a response to a challenge posed on another writing forum. I can't remember the musical piece, but the challenge was to write something whilst listening to that musical piece. I have done no editing, grammatical, structural, or otherwise; therefore, this is not going into the critique board. This is simply for display. This is not example of my present writing style, given the length of time between now and when it was written . . . but it is a prime example of a developed writing style that I use when inspired and motivated.
The first, italicised part is the meat and potatoes of what I wrote whilst listening to the music once. It is written in first-person because it came most naturally to me. (I have decided that these words are the thoughts being transpired by no one in particular, not even the character in the second part. As I have gone through my share of heartbreak and losing friends, I believe that it is possibly a reflection of what I may have imagined. It is more likely a reflection of an uncreated character, however.) The following part, written in third-person, was something of an expansion of the first part, but I would not consider them one-in-the-same, based upon the analysis I provided in parentheses above.
The first, italicised part is the meat and potatoes of what I wrote whilst listening to the music once. It is written in first-person because it came most naturally to me. (I have decided that these words are the thoughts being transpired by no one in particular, not even the character in the second part. As I have gone through my share of heartbreak and losing friends, I believe that it is possibly a reflection of what I may have imagined. It is more likely a reflection of an uncreated character, however.) The following part, written in third-person, was something of an expansion of the first part, but I would not consider them one-in-the-same, based upon the analysis I provided in parentheses above.
The clock is ticking. The field is desolate, barren, disastrous . . . like a wasteland of war and battle and famine. You reminded me of that time, so very long ago, when the world had seemed so beautiful and wonderful, and then everything was stripped out from me. I can walk this field without woe, however. I can walk this field with a sense of hope and happiness that you had taken away so many years ago. The clock continues to tick, and the barrenness before me begins to breathe life, energy, hope. Voices rise from the ashes. Spirits dance and sing, and all I can do is stand and watch. The clock ticks longer and longer. The world slows its evolution, and life begins a steady descent. You reminded me of happier times, and I see them now again.
The scene laid out before him was not the one he had seen a year ago, before the war had begun. The field from before was full of life, green grass, creatures of all shapes and sizes that flew or pranced through the luscious weeds. Men would laugh and live, children would play and cry, women would breathe and relax. It was a heaven, like Valhalla thrust most beautifully upon the earth. There was no such thing us unhappiness or despair, no such thing as famine or hunger, death or loss.
Now, it was nothing but dead weeds and brown, lifeless decay. There was no sign of life or happiness anywhere among the barren wasteland. It was depressing and woeful. The man proceeded forward, his feet crunching against the dried grass and shattered remnants of what was once a wondrous and divine place. He no longer heard the laughter of children or men or women as they talked, played, took a load off. Valhalla, Heaven, whatever you called it ... no such place existed here any longer. It was as though he had been thrust into the furthest reaches of Hell, minus the eternal flames.
And then he saw it.
Amidst the ruins of the world lay but a single remnant of hope, its petals a glistening red that resembled blood, but it was not. Stretching from the broken wasteland of the earth, causing the world to spin more slowly and for life to again appear more appealing, sprouted a single flower, the last survivor of the penultimate destruction. It was hope, at long last. It was the reminder of a happier time, and it was the beginning of a new life. Though it did not truly sing, its soft, beautiful melody resonated throughout the windless, still air, and life began anew again.
