Post by vulcan13 on Feb 10, 2008 19:22:20 GMT -8
I wrote this for the same techer that Ace wrote his "stranded upon the crecent" needless to say we went different directions with it. we are very different. My teacher didn't like it.
I lie on the cold ground and open my eyes one at a time trying to get adjusted to the light. My head is throbbing; I don’t think I could get up if my life depended on it. I am quickly proven wrong as some freezing water comes and licks my ankles. I am on my feet before it gets another taste. It is bitter cold and the wind blows straight through my thin pullover. I wrap my arms around myself and stand, shivering, for a moment watching my white breath float away like smoke on the wind.
I turn out to face the water. It is gray and choppy. The white caps crash against the worn rocks. I might see a vague shadow of land across the water, but as the freezing water laps against my ankles and soaks through my tennis shoes I quickly give up on the idea of swimming.
I turn to face the inland of the island. I can’t tell from where I’m standing how big it is, but it doesn’t look more than three miles across. There are big, old, deciduous trees covering at least the part of the island I can see. As I stand and stare at the forest I realized not only do I not know where this island is, but I don’t remember getting here. I check my watch; it’s still working so that rules out washing ashore.
I turn back to face the water. The sky is gray and covered with a blanket of thick clouds. The chilly water below echoes the same gray color punctuated by the white foam of the rough waves. For a moment the sun comes out from behind the clouds; I turn my numb nose to face it and hold up my icy fingers to be warmed. The respite from the cold lasts only a moment; then the clouds move back over the sun and the wind picks back up.
I squat down and hang my head. My joints ache with that cold and my ears are numb. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I’m afraid to cry lest my eyes freeze shut. As I stare at the ground I notice something. It is round and smaller than my palm. I dig it out of the cold, damp sand with my already frozen fingers.
It is a pendant of some kind, made of a metal I have never seen before. The metal is gray, almost black, and worked into a thin metal disk with tiny grooves cut into it. In the very center is a deep purple stone to size on an acorn. It is warm in my hands despite being pulled from the frozen earth. I stand back up and look out over the ocean.
As I stare out over the water, I get the distinct feeling that I am being watched. I turn slowly around to face the trees, and I spot a gentle rustling of the bushes near the base of one large tree. As I creep slowly forward the movements get quicker and more frantic. I dash toward the disturbance. Someone simultaneously dashes away.
I sprint breathless through the dense forest. The branches whip against my face. As I move away from the shore the smell of saltwater fades and is replaced with the heave scent of rich soil. My damp sneakers sink into the soft loam as I run after my quarry. The tree roots sting as they press against the soles of my frozen feet.
Finally the trees begin to thin and I see a tall, thin man emerge into a clearing a few yards ahead of me. I slow down to catch my breath and carefully approach the clearing myself. As I enter the clearing I see that he has turned to face me.
He looks at me for a moment. His head cocks to the right; his eyes narrow and he studies me if he isn’t sure I’m real. I study him too. He is not as tall as I first thought he was. His hair is a thick, shiny, forest green and pulled back into a loose pony tail at the base of his skull. His skin is deathly pale, and his tunic is black as coal, which only makes his face look paler. He wears tan trousers tucked into his knee high black boots.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me. His voice is horse and dry with an accent that sounds of the misty moors of Scotland. When I don’t answer immediately his obsidian eyes widen. He turns his head to reveal his hawkish profile. He appears to be muttering something to himself. Then he sharply turns back to me and says, “Ciamar a tha sibh?” in a heavy brogue.
I gape, open mouthed, at him for a moment trying to wrap my head around the words coming out of his mouth. Finally after a few seconds I manage to stammer, “No, I mean, I got it the first time. But I can assure you I have no more an idea what I’m doing here than you do.”
He furrows his brow and purses his thin lips. He stares at me in a puzzled way for several seconds, before he finally pronounces, “Follow me, and mind you don’t trip.” He turns sharply on his right heel and walks away.
I marvel for a moment at his poor conversational skills. Then I follow him across the clearing. We walk in silence for several minutes till me reach the tree line on the opposite side. Then we take a sharp turn to the left and approach the largest tree I’ve ever seen. It stands as high as a smallish skyscraper and two or three times as wide, with roots as big as highways radiating from it.
As I stand and gawk up at it, my confederate grabs me by my sleeve and leads me down an old path to a small door between two of the roots. As we climb down the side of one of the enormous roots, the rough, damp bark scrapes my palms. It smells damp and musty; The leaves of the enormous tree keep the area sheltered from the sun, but it also blocks the wind so it isn’t so cold. My compatriot moves spider-like ahead of me over the rough terrain, seemingly unperturbed.
We reach the small door. He pushes it open, and the rusty hinges creak. He walks in to the hollow tree and turns for me to follow.
“Wait a second.” I say, “Who are you?”
He looks at me as if to say he doesn’t have time for this, but then he begins, “I am Crevan, if that means anything to you. I am the last of my people here.” Oh I love those funny R’s. “I keep the library. In here.” He gestures for me to come in, and I do so. It is warm and dry inside, not at all the way you would expect a hollow tree to be.
“Do you hear that?” He asks me as soon as we close the door.
“Hear what?” I ask. I don’t hear anything.
“That whining noise.” He replies, with ears pricked listening intently.
“No.” I say. “So why am I here?”
“I am not absolutely certain, but I suspect that if we find the book I was reading last night we shall be able to remedy the situation.”
“Where would this book be?” I ask.
“On one of the desks.” He says. With a flourish of his hand he indicates to me the inside of the library. There are hundreds of bookshelves and almost as many desks.
“Oh boy,” I mutter and I follow him down one row of desks. Each desk he comes to has a book on it. Crevan carefully closes each on in turn. He lifts his head to hear the whining. I hear it to now.
“It’s the glass.” He says as the realization hits him.
“What glass?” I ask
“The looking glass.” He responds, as if that were any less cryptic. He runs down the isle to the far wall. As he runs he holds his hand out over the books. They all slam shut on cue. I jog after him.
The far wall, huge as it is, is covered by a giant mirror. The mirror is shaking violently. The book on the desks closest to it is also trembling as if it were possessed. Crevan rushes towards that end desk. He stops and picks the book up in his hands. Just as he does that the mirror explodes. Huge shards of silvered glass are thrown out toward me and Crevan. I throw my hands up infront of my face. He is knocked onto his side and slams the book shut amidst the cloud of broken glass. As soon as the book is shut all the glass freezes in place. Crevan stands gently pushing the glash shards away as he does. The small shards tinkle like little crystal bells as he moves them.
He walks toward me through the glass shower. His face and hands are scratched and bleeding. “Alright lass, time to go.” He says kindly. I am too stunned to speak. He takes me by the shoulder and gently guides me to the gaping hole where the mirror used to be. It is pitch black vacuum; I am terrified to step through. I turn to him, and he smiles at me. The small droplets of blood running down his cheeks look almost like tears. I step through the black nothingness.
Next thing I know I am standing in front of the high school. Everyone is disembarking from their various cars. I spot Cianne across the way and run over to her. She waves at me. “Hey Cianne,” I call. “You’ll never guess what happened to me!”
“I hope not too much,” she replies. “That paper for Mrs. Eanes is due today.” I look up at the sky and silently mourn the missed deadline.
I lie on the cold ground and open my eyes one at a time trying to get adjusted to the light. My head is throbbing; I don’t think I could get up if my life depended on it. I am quickly proven wrong as some freezing water comes and licks my ankles. I am on my feet before it gets another taste. It is bitter cold and the wind blows straight through my thin pullover. I wrap my arms around myself and stand, shivering, for a moment watching my white breath float away like smoke on the wind.
I turn out to face the water. It is gray and choppy. The white caps crash against the worn rocks. I might see a vague shadow of land across the water, but as the freezing water laps against my ankles and soaks through my tennis shoes I quickly give up on the idea of swimming.
I turn to face the inland of the island. I can’t tell from where I’m standing how big it is, but it doesn’t look more than three miles across. There are big, old, deciduous trees covering at least the part of the island I can see. As I stand and stare at the forest I realized not only do I not know where this island is, but I don’t remember getting here. I check my watch; it’s still working so that rules out washing ashore.
I turn back to face the water. The sky is gray and covered with a blanket of thick clouds. The chilly water below echoes the same gray color punctuated by the white foam of the rough waves. For a moment the sun comes out from behind the clouds; I turn my numb nose to face it and hold up my icy fingers to be warmed. The respite from the cold lasts only a moment; then the clouds move back over the sun and the wind picks back up.
I squat down and hang my head. My joints ache with that cold and my ears are numb. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I’m afraid to cry lest my eyes freeze shut. As I stare at the ground I notice something. It is round and smaller than my palm. I dig it out of the cold, damp sand with my already frozen fingers.
It is a pendant of some kind, made of a metal I have never seen before. The metal is gray, almost black, and worked into a thin metal disk with tiny grooves cut into it. In the very center is a deep purple stone to size on an acorn. It is warm in my hands despite being pulled from the frozen earth. I stand back up and look out over the ocean.
As I stare out over the water, I get the distinct feeling that I am being watched. I turn slowly around to face the trees, and I spot a gentle rustling of the bushes near the base of one large tree. As I creep slowly forward the movements get quicker and more frantic. I dash toward the disturbance. Someone simultaneously dashes away.
I sprint breathless through the dense forest. The branches whip against my face. As I move away from the shore the smell of saltwater fades and is replaced with the heave scent of rich soil. My damp sneakers sink into the soft loam as I run after my quarry. The tree roots sting as they press against the soles of my frozen feet.
Finally the trees begin to thin and I see a tall, thin man emerge into a clearing a few yards ahead of me. I slow down to catch my breath and carefully approach the clearing myself. As I enter the clearing I see that he has turned to face me.
He looks at me for a moment. His head cocks to the right; his eyes narrow and he studies me if he isn’t sure I’m real. I study him too. He is not as tall as I first thought he was. His hair is a thick, shiny, forest green and pulled back into a loose pony tail at the base of his skull. His skin is deathly pale, and his tunic is black as coal, which only makes his face look paler. He wears tan trousers tucked into his knee high black boots.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me. His voice is horse and dry with an accent that sounds of the misty moors of Scotland. When I don’t answer immediately his obsidian eyes widen. He turns his head to reveal his hawkish profile. He appears to be muttering something to himself. Then he sharply turns back to me and says, “Ciamar a tha sibh?” in a heavy brogue.
I gape, open mouthed, at him for a moment trying to wrap my head around the words coming out of his mouth. Finally after a few seconds I manage to stammer, “No, I mean, I got it the first time. But I can assure you I have no more an idea what I’m doing here than you do.”
He furrows his brow and purses his thin lips. He stares at me in a puzzled way for several seconds, before he finally pronounces, “Follow me, and mind you don’t trip.” He turns sharply on his right heel and walks away.
I marvel for a moment at his poor conversational skills. Then I follow him across the clearing. We walk in silence for several minutes till me reach the tree line on the opposite side. Then we take a sharp turn to the left and approach the largest tree I’ve ever seen. It stands as high as a smallish skyscraper and two or three times as wide, with roots as big as highways radiating from it.
As I stand and gawk up at it, my confederate grabs me by my sleeve and leads me down an old path to a small door between two of the roots. As we climb down the side of one of the enormous roots, the rough, damp bark scrapes my palms. It smells damp and musty; The leaves of the enormous tree keep the area sheltered from the sun, but it also blocks the wind so it isn’t so cold. My compatriot moves spider-like ahead of me over the rough terrain, seemingly unperturbed.
We reach the small door. He pushes it open, and the rusty hinges creak. He walks in to the hollow tree and turns for me to follow.
“Wait a second.” I say, “Who are you?”
He looks at me as if to say he doesn’t have time for this, but then he begins, “I am Crevan, if that means anything to you. I am the last of my people here.” Oh I love those funny R’s. “I keep the library. In here.” He gestures for me to come in, and I do so. It is warm and dry inside, not at all the way you would expect a hollow tree to be.
“Do you hear that?” He asks me as soon as we close the door.
“Hear what?” I ask. I don’t hear anything.
“That whining noise.” He replies, with ears pricked listening intently.
“No.” I say. “So why am I here?”
“I am not absolutely certain, but I suspect that if we find the book I was reading last night we shall be able to remedy the situation.”
“Where would this book be?” I ask.
“On one of the desks.” He says. With a flourish of his hand he indicates to me the inside of the library. There are hundreds of bookshelves and almost as many desks.
“Oh boy,” I mutter and I follow him down one row of desks. Each desk he comes to has a book on it. Crevan carefully closes each on in turn. He lifts his head to hear the whining. I hear it to now.
“It’s the glass.” He says as the realization hits him.
“What glass?” I ask
“The looking glass.” He responds, as if that were any less cryptic. He runs down the isle to the far wall. As he runs he holds his hand out over the books. They all slam shut on cue. I jog after him.
The far wall, huge as it is, is covered by a giant mirror. The mirror is shaking violently. The book on the desks closest to it is also trembling as if it were possessed. Crevan rushes towards that end desk. He stops and picks the book up in his hands. Just as he does that the mirror explodes. Huge shards of silvered glass are thrown out toward me and Crevan. I throw my hands up infront of my face. He is knocked onto his side and slams the book shut amidst the cloud of broken glass. As soon as the book is shut all the glass freezes in place. Crevan stands gently pushing the glash shards away as he does. The small shards tinkle like little crystal bells as he moves them.
He walks toward me through the glass shower. His face and hands are scratched and bleeding. “Alright lass, time to go.” He says kindly. I am too stunned to speak. He takes me by the shoulder and gently guides me to the gaping hole where the mirror used to be. It is pitch black vacuum; I am terrified to step through. I turn to him, and he smiles at me. The small droplets of blood running down his cheeks look almost like tears. I step through the black nothingness.
Next thing I know I am standing in front of the high school. Everyone is disembarking from their various cars. I spot Cianne across the way and run over to her. She waves at me. “Hey Cianne,” I call. “You’ll never guess what happened to me!”
“I hope not too much,” she replies. “That paper for Mrs. Eanes is due today.” I look up at the sky and silently mourn the missed deadline.
