After delivering his children from the Great Flood, the God of the Formicidae did rest for two nights. But lo! Upon awakening that third day, the Lord God did discover that His children did amass a great army to invade the Celestial Apartment. Like a great river, the army did march through the Celestial Door, across the Great Entryway, into the Eternal Kitchen, and did then lay waste to the Great Master's own Mana. Angered by their betrayal, in a great fit of rage, the Lord God did wield the Clorox with Bleach, and He did smite them. After laying waste to the invaders with the Clorox, He then moped up the vengeful liquid with the Sheets of Bounty, and then did unleash his Dark Angel, the Botvac Connected D3, to sweep away the fallen traitors.
Thus, order was restored to the Celestial Apartment.
But then, as the God of the Formicidae went across the Celestial Complex in search of open WiFi, His heart was filled with sorrow at what He had done. But then the Lord observed another army of his Children, which rested at peace at the opening of its own kingdom, and His heart was filled with wonder. The Lord God blessed this army of peace with a Double Stuff Oreo, as a sign that never again would He smite His children in anger. You know, as long as they stayeth out of His sh*t.
The entries have been judged, and out of a very high quality of submissions the three judges have decided on winners for both categories. Well done to everyone who submitted, and a special congratulations to our chosen winners!
Prose
Winner: Mzeusia
In The Grip of the Blizzard
You’re in a field. It is blanketed with snow, undisturbed except for the deep imprints that your boots left. Your beeline to the tree under which you stand is the only thing upsetting the winter scene. If When you came out here, it must have been calm weather. Unfortunately, you join me at a rather inopportune time. As you can tell, the wind is moving across the field with vengeance in its heart. Its speed will only increase and then I will have to stop this chat to focus on survival. I apologise, but that’s how it has to be.
You have never noticed me, but I’ve seen you every time you’ve come here. I’ve watched your distant form traipse over here, growing and growing until you stand where you do now. Last time you brought a child. It looked like you so I assume it’s yours. It was nice to see the young girl’s wonder as she looked up and I was looking forward to seeing her again, but that’s fine. I do hope you’re well today. I hope life hasn’t been too tough for you and that that boss you always complain about has been tamed. I would recommend having some strong words with him, but I’m just a leaf so what do I know. Good luck whatever you decide to do.
Oh my, the wind is really getting strong now. I’ll have to leave you soon but for now, you’re standing on the ground looking at the tree above and I know you might not think too much about the individual leaves. Maybe you are marvelling at the beauty of the isolated tree, thrusting outwards from the snow. Maybe you are wondering how it could keep so calm despite the winds that now rip through the branches, like grape-shot across the deck of a ship. You appear to be staying here and so I welcome you, for it would be impolite not to and your company is always nice.
My name, as I’ve told you every time you have been here, is Oleg and I hang upon the ends of a twisted branch. Usually I am content with a life of calmness, but right now you find me struggling to hold on to the rough bark. It is during these times of turbulence that the path of the future spits into two. I, along with my companions could be hurled away from our mother and cast into a world where we are not cared for and where we have no choice but to perish. You, no doubt, do not realise our plight and you do not realise that I, Oleg, cannot afford to leaf this place. I hope you’ll excuse the pun. Maybe it’s a good thing you can’t hear.
There is a girl you see, and her name is Irina. She is the most beautiful leaf for miles around and she hangs not far away from where I am. Irina is far more graceful than I and better able to cope with harsh conditions like the one we are experiencing now. We are but leaves and to you, we may be insignificant but this is our lives and it is all we have. The other leaves on the tree appear to me like shadows or blurry figures on the periphery, whereas Irina…she is everything to me and I always make time for her.
The day started pleasantly enough, with a gentle, cool breeze but the wind is picking up now. I guess I should focus on trying to stay on here for Irina is everything to me, and if I lose her, I have lost it all.
The wind snatches at my body, thrashing me about like a toy in the mouth of a dog. I slam into the bark of the branch holding me down and almost black out from the impact. For a moment, the pain does not come and I am limp in the grasp of the elements. Then, I hear her screams, grit my teeth and I fight my way into consciousness again. “Oleg!” she yells, her voice just barely rising above the howling of the sharp air that ruthlessly buffets us. “I’m, fine Irina.” I reassure her, despite the stars that dance in my head and the growing, throbbing pain. I see the desperation in her eyes and the colour draining from her face as the situation gets worse. “Don’t worry,” I scream, but she doesn’t hear me. I take a breath of the frigid air and grip the branch next to me, using it to manoeuvre into a better position. I have come close enough now to see the tears in Irina’s eyes and she reaches desperately for my hand. I clutch it and bring her close, our body’s pressing together in an effort to stave off or at least outlast the beast of winter.
“Thank you, Oleg, you saved me. I love you.”
“I love you too. I’ll never let you go. You cannot fall.” I whisper into her ear. Her head falls against my chest and a tear trickles down her gentle cheek.
Another leaf falls by us, screaming as he is swirled away into the white abyss below. I stifle a cry but there is nothing to be done about him now. I don’t know how many others will fall but my only concern now is Irina.
We stay like this, Irina and I, huddled in each other’s warmth and security. The wind fights back of course. It never gives up easily and today it appears particularly furious. A small chunk of wood flies like an arrow towards us. I see its malevolent stare as I gaze above Irina’s shoulder. If I don’t do anything, it will hit her, but moving now, in so perilous a situation might well be fatal for us both.
I steel myself, anticipate the pain in order to prepare my body, and sharply twist around on the branch. I wobble and we shout out; our cries being lost to all but the closest of our siblings. They themselves are locked in the struggle to survive and can do nothing. The surprise movement had caught Irina, my love, off guard and she stumbles. My arms snap out towards her at lightning speed and I battle to stabilise her.
She looks into my eyes, confusion and gratitude flickering over the surface. Suddenly, the sharpest pain exploded into the middle of my back. The piece of wood has impacted. It is whipped onwards by the terrible winds but a splinter remains, and that is all that is needed. My back straightens in agony and my grip clenches, fingers digging into Irina’s shoulders. She knows now what has happened and fights to keep us together and on the branch. I on the other hand, only make things worse as my arms go limp and I cry out, in shock, anger and pain.
She screams as I begin to tumble backwards. Her face is a sea of disbelief and devastation, the raw emotion creeping into her eyes as she realises what might happen. My limbs flail as, as though in slow motion, I am being sucked away by the winds, unable to hold on any longer. Her hand shoots out to reach mine and our hands grip in tense hope. We hold each other like these in the midst of the ruin around us. Then, our hands slip. Our fingertips touch for the briefest of moments but she can go no further lest she fall away herself, and I can do nothing to anchor my body to the branch.
We both know what will happen, and so I stare. I stare at her face with the burning intensity of a forest fire. I will not see Irina again, and so I commit every detail to memory. Her eyes filled with the knowledge of imminent loss and yet the wild, untameable, impossible hope of somehow reuniting with me. Her face, as beautiful as anything could be. It is my fire in the blistering cold and I memorise each crease and smooth surface. Her hair whips around her as if possessed and her lips, red and shining appear to me like a lighthouse to a half-drowned sailor. Her lips, from which the most heart-wrenching pain now bolts, I sear into my mind.
The world takes me in a deadly grasp. It seizes me and hurls my frail body away from the one I love. The last thing I see is Irina screaming into the elements. It is a helpless, hopeless gesture, a futile sound and yet I am determined to remember it. I see her mouth moving but hear no words. They have been taken from us by the cruel wind and I can only watch and stretch out to her, even as I am caught in the middle of the blizzard. I am still stretching when she disappears from sight, looking so pitiful there on that branch. As I am swept along by snow, rain and piercing cold, my eyes bore into the place where last I saw her as if I can bring her to me or me to her. I think not of myself, and only of her as I am taken far, far away from all that I have known. My eyes close, and I see her image there. Her frozen visage engraved into my consciousness and even as I slam into the packed snow, even as my very breath is flung from me in one brutal movement, even as the light fades, I remember her face. I remember her embrace, her warmth, her voice and I know, that I will never forget her. Irina, the leaf, the love of my life.
It is hard to pull of a story using second person narrator without the concept feeling forced, so Mzeusia deserves this recognition for doing so. While in some areas the author resorts to a few cliches, this does not detract from the quality of the piece or its clever construction.
Plato and the sycamore leaves Philosophy has long been preoccupied with the question of identity. What makes two sycamore trees in some sense the same despite the obvious fact that they are different? For the ancient Athenian writer Plato the answer lay in an immaterial world of Forms or Ideas. Though his works are far from being a systematic exposition, he appears to have believed that the physical world we see around us is a pale and imperfect copy of a greater reality that consists of perfect Forms. In this realm will be the Form or Idea of a sycamore tree, and two sycamores here on earth are related because they share to some extent in that perfect Form, while different because they share in it only imperfectly. Similarly, there are many things in the world that are more or less round, but only one perfect circle out there in the realm of the Forms. For Plato, the successful sculptor would be one who understood the Form of sculpture and was able to realise it, while the successful judge would be one who understood the Form of justice. In his book The Republic, Plato set out how an ideal society would be governed by philosopher kings painstakingly educated to access the ultimate Form of the Good.
To a modern audience this sounds nonsensical, so it can be surprising to realise the extent to which it has influenced our world. Most strikingly, Plato is arguably the inventor of Christianity. The medieval concept of God as perfect, immaterial, omniscient and all powerful, the God who may or may not be able to create a rock so heavy he can’t lift it, owes much more to Plato than to the Hebrew God who spoke from a burning bush and went out before his people as a pillar of fire. St Paul, author of much of the New Testament, was steeped in Platonic philosophy and when he said that we see now through a glass darkly (1 Corinthians 13:12) he was actually quoting Plato’s Phaedrus. The belief that this world is fallen and fleeting while eternal perfection lies beyond is Plato’s creation. So too is the corollary that matter is inferior to spirit, work inferior to thought and the body subservient to the mind. When we divide school children into jocks and nerds, jobs into white and blue collar and health into physical and mental we are still trapped in Plato’s legacy.
Sitting under a sycamore tree as the autumn leaves fall it’s obvious how different each individual one is. It would never for a moment occur to me that two of them might be identical, or like any leaf anywhere in the forest. I wonder what Plato would have made of it. Would he have thought this difference a sign of imperfection? Is there somewhere out there a perfect tree which these ones are failing to be like? The idea is ridiculous. The beautiful colours of autumn are the shades of death and decay, transient in the last degree. My thoughts on the matter are part of my squishy, physical, embodied brain. Everything is here. Now.
This is the only piece of prose that was written as non-fiction. An engaging and interesting introduction into philosophical concepts ably communicated using allegory and example.
Special mentions:
Gnejs – Some really interesting ideas here and it's nice to see magic realism getting some love. With a little more polishing I think this could have been in the top 2.
Leaving through the lake
Upon leaving the bar, I went straight to a nearby supermarket, picked up a bottle of Pennypacker Bourbon, and headed towards the lake. That area was so very picturesque. A small peninsula, stretching out in the water, covered in trees whose leaves were in that striking state between absolute prime and imminent decay. This led to their colours balancing between being intense and restrained at the same time, like they on the one hand wanted the whole world to experience a detonation of affect, but on the other hand they were too exhausted to completely carry it out, leaving them lingering somewhere in between. Even at that hour, when darkness descended on my new hometown, this rich battle between fatigue and energy dominated the scene. I walked to the very end of the peninsula and sat down by the water. It smelled of autumn, and the prospect of one day crossing this big black entity of a lake all of a sudden seemed intoxicating. If I left my eyes lingering on the horizon for long enough, I could swear I saw something halo-like scuffling for space at the end of my world of vision.
“Beautiful” The voice came from behind me and I was startled, spilled bourbon on the ground, and turned my head around sharply. Standing right behind me was a woman dressed in blurry colours. She looked like a human extension of the surrounding woodlands, and ironically, she too seemed to exist in a state between prime and decay. I asked her, in a stumbling attempt at mastering the native tongue, how she knew I was a foreigner, and she answered in English:
“No local folk look at it the way you do anymore”. She sat down next to me and hinted at my Pennypacker. Bewildered I handed her the bottle and she proceeded to take one long gulp, emptying 1/3 of what was still left in the bottle. She wiped of the bottle with her shirtsleeve and proceeded
“No one cares about the lake anymore, it’s just the place that carries your boat and increases the value of your house. It’s only you kids, who come here from the outside, that appreciate the lake and who the lake appreciates. When you drink and jump off the bridge, fighting the currents, you see her for what she truly is." I tried to come up with something fitting to say, but ended up asking her if she was a native of the area. She said she had been born right there, pointing towards the woods, many years before the beginning of the Great War, her eyes fixated at the non-intelligible lakeshore in the distant.
“You can’t possibly be that old,” I said. “Machines were the invaders, the men who pushed buttons only pawns. Today we are all pawns.” She took another big mouthful of my 2€ bourbon and looked at the horizon. I couldn’t tell if her eyes reflected sadness or anger, so I settled on that it was probably both. At last, she handed the bottle back to me, and I took an equally big mouthful. She continued.
“You must look for what is now in the margin, but what was once in the centre, what might seem wrong, but when you look at it for long enough, you will see that it is right.” “You need a little perspective, Unabomber-style, is that it?” “Perspectives are for fools.” After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the woman stood up and looked down upon me. The anger in her eyes was gone, but the sadness lingered as she smiled and said:
“You are a fool. But it was the opposite of fools that took us down this path. Maybe we need fools to find our way back. Go, drink, jump from the bridge, survive the current and play with your perspectives.” She patted me on my head and started walking towards the old town. I turned my whole body around and shouted,
“Hey, what’s your name?” “If you are the Fool, then you can call me the Juggler.” She started laughing, and before I knew it, she was past the lake promenade and had disappeared into an underground passage.
Sitting by the lake on a dazzling first night, filled with all too many impressions, her words left me feeling empowered, rather than sad. I stood up, closed up the bottle, and started walking in the direction the Juggler had pointed when talking about the bridge. I walked off the peninsula, and headed through the woods. The darkness was engulfing.
Moving closer, the dividing line materialized, and I was able to differentiate between land and water, preventing me from stepping too far. Following what seemed to be a lakeside path, I started running. I ran, not sure why, and in moving faster everything around me lost whatever form it had possessed before. It wasn’t darkness as the absence of light anymore, but instead something otherwise. As if light had never been, and an opposite was not needed to define blackness itself. I reached another peninsula, and after having made my way to its peak, I saw the lights.
I felt like I was watching and experiencing something completely unknown. Everything around me was pitch-black, the water and the woods, and the roads leading up to the bridge on either side were nowhere to be seen. In the middle of an all-encompassing lack of illumination, there were five symmetrically positioned beacons of light. As I moved closer to this gate of stars, the illusion slowly began to fade, from a mysterious bridge of dimensions into a prosaic means of transportation. The transformation didn’t affect my resolve, or my intoxication at the thought of contributing to a long and proud line of tradition; I was going to be a jumper, no mere pawn in a great and ongoing war, but the Fool who turned its tide.
I started walking up the stairs from the ground level and finally set foot on the bridge. It was a lot higher than I had imagined, and a few cars passed me by as I made my way to the middle of it. After a few minutes, I was standing on a ledge at the pinnacle, and it made me shiver. I saw leaves of many colours dancing gracefully on gusts of wind. They twirled on their way downwards, merging at last with the black of the lake.
I stared out into darkness, and brushing away the hesitation, I took the leap. I felt the rush, the sensation of being just Being. Everything around me was compact obscurity, and I a part of it. Then I realized I was falling. Just being Being turned into the recognition of being an object, being rapidly drawn downwards through the laws of gravity. I started thinking that my fall was not graceful, that gusts of wind wouldn’t carry me, that the distance from the bridge to the water was too great. Then I thought that the mere fact that I could articulate this in my head, and then contemplate it, meant that the distance was dangerously great. I hit the water.
At first, there was only darkness, then a rapidly increasing coldness. I opened my eyes, water met eyeball, trying to penetrate and in the process fusing. The current was strong. I remember thinking that had I viewed myself from the outside, my motions of sometimes sideways, sometimes upwards, but mostly downwards, would have resembled those of leaves in the wind on their inevitable descent.
Wild Mustanges – This is a simple story that doesn't engage in melodrama or high concepts – instead it details the specific and everyday in an interesting manner.
"Where are all the leaves?" shouted Samuel. He was going to be in big trouble if they were missing. The big shindig was tonight and they still had a lot to do to get ready. "Which ones?" came the faint reply. Samuel shook his head. It should have been obvious which ones he was referring to. "The ones for the long table." he shouted back. "Did you check the shed?" Samuel sighed. They really shouldn't be stored in the shed. The wood would warp with all the moisture changes. He hoped that they had been protected. If they weren't in perfect condition then they would have to come up with something else. A little searching proved that they hadn't been stored in the shed. There were plenty of bags of yellow and red leaves from the trees, but none of the oak leaves that would extend the table. Samuel stalked back to the house frustrated that he had wasted his time in the shed. Apparently Amelia was thinking he had wanted tree leaves for decoration. This was a thanksgiving party after all, but that wasn't what he was looking for. This was going to be a disaster if he couldn't find the leaves. He had so many other things he need to be overseeing right now, but if Amelia's response was any indication, then he couldn't just leave this to someone else. Samuel entered the house through the kitchen and was immediately stopped by the head chef as he asked which dried herb leaves he should use as garnish and which as flavoring. This wasn't really Samuel's area of expertise, so he told the chef that whichever shape went best with the chicken for the garnish and whichever complemented the potatoes for the flavoring. He was stopped several more times as he crossed the kitchen as was wishing that he had entered somewhere else. All these questions were important, but so was finding the leaves. He found Amelia in the main dining room. "Did you find them?" she asked. "No. They weren't there." "There should be bags of them though." "I'm not looking for leaves to decorate." Samuel said frustratedly. "I'm looking for the leaves for the tables." "oh. Those should be in the attic." The attic was even worse for the leaves than the shed would have been. Samuel hoped that they weren't there, but it seemed likely. Amelia could generally be relied on to know where things were once she knew what you were looking for. Samuel thanked her and then headed up to the attic. Looking around he finally found them. To his relief they seemed to be undamaged, but he wouldn't be able to tell for sure until he put them into the tables. He brought them down and arranged to have them put in while he checked on the other details necessary for the shindig to be a success. When he came back he saw that there was some discoloration, but luckily the leaves weren't warped. Samuel hadn't wanted to have to use table clothes, but that was inevitable now. He couldn't have the leaves a different color than the table. He covered all the tables in a simple white table cloth that had a leaf motif and then put the best leaves from the shed strategically around the table, framing all the dishes. Everyone complemented all the decorations and the shindig went off without a hitch. Afterwards, Samuel was sure to store the leaves in a much more suitable place where they wouldn't be misplaced again.
Shwe Tu Colony – For the sheer depth of worldbuilding here alone. If they had focused on presenting a tighter, smaller piece then they could well have secured first or second place.
Leaves - a sestina Now it has become fall, And the early dawn light Leaves markings on the path Upon which we still tread. Though it may be long, We shall not stop; not on my watch.
Every single day, I watch The green leaves turn red and fall Off the tree’s branches, into a long Descent, for they were too light To find their own road to tread, And thus, descended upon the path.
How clear is the beaten path. It leaves nothing to imagination— but watch! Lightly must we tread, Lest we lose balance and fall. Now, we are not so light; The recovery will be long.
Further down the road, I long To leave it all, to forego what the path Promises ahead, shunning the light Through which we once could watch Our numbers grow, as those numbers now fall With every next step we tread.
In my frustration, I know only to tread Upon the insects, crushing them into a long, Eternal silence. How tragically I fall From that glorious, idealistic path. Already, the ticking of my watch No longer corresponds to the light
And the dark. How giddy and light My head feels, yet onward I tread, Though others turn back as I watch Helplessly… But as I face the long Road ahead, in eremitical fashion, this path Has become mine alone- and I will not fall,
Though these little streaks of light, these intense lines of komorebi, reach long And far beyond where I may tread, beyond the ends of my lonely path. I shall persevere yet, and watch— as the red leaves fall.
Leaves - a haiku
I’ve left it behind, As youths leave old toys, Only to find them again.
Leaves - a Fibonacci poem
Leaves Falling, In autumn, Before the threshold, Knocking gently on the door, Bestowing me with the bounties of the harvest, But also taking from me The green trees, Now barren, Leaves Fallen.
The judges decided to view all three collectively as this was the only fair way to judge. The consensus was that the Haiku was subtly crafted and engaging. The Sestina was also an interesting choice, showing a real ability to get across meanings through quite restrictive formats.
Runner up:The church of satan
Renewed
We have a complex relationship, leaves and I Springing to life with an early march Greeting me with natural green dye Towering above as a natural green arch
Then you summer wherever I go You're so vibrant at every turn In full bloom now we watched each other grow In hindsight I had so much more to learn
You've fallen now so I must use past participle You've left me now and all too late I speak of you with wordy words Filled with memories I cannot get a gripple They echo in my head like gurdy-gurds
Wintering without you is a lonely one Buried in a snowman's chance of hope for you Despite the fact that we are without the sun The end of year just makes me feel so blue
This new year I thought I'd spring without I thought you had taken your final leave and met your end Yet here you are leaves with all your green and my shattered doubt I hope you rested well now hello again my dear and valued friend
The past participle grammar joke was certainly not lost on the judging panel of issue editors! Aside from clever wordplay and rhyme scheme, this entry received praise for its thematic thread involving the passage of time.
Special Mentions
Utzzy
AUTUMNUS FUGIT Natura viget, tempus mutatur frigus viget, mundus auratum. Autumnus fugit, relinquit ruinam tempus fugit, lux ruinam.
Est principios principios ad finis. Anni terminos et initios novis.
Relinquit corruisset, ut patet in. Relinquit corruisset, ut patet in.
Era advenit Novum id est de incipiere. Nova et plus bonum quod non est finis.
Hiems advenit, Autumnus concidit. Nix et advenit, gelu non concidit. Relinquit albare, redit nebula est. Tunc tempus albare, calidi focis est.
TRANSLATION
Nature prospers, time changes the cold prospers, the World is golden. Autumn goes away, leaves fall time goes away, light decreases.
This is the start the starting of the end. The year is finishing and a new is rising.
Leaves fall, it is well known. Leaves fall, it is well known.
A New Era is coming It is going to start. New and very good it is not the end.
Winter is coming, Autumn is ending. Darkness is coming, ice isn't going away. Leaves are palid, fog is coming. Time is palid out there, but fireplace is warm.
Producing a poem in Latin and providing a translation. While we felt that something might have been lost in translation, constructing poetry in a dead language was a very interesting choice.
First Presidential Nominations Announced -- The National Observer -- 12/7/2018
With the next federal election coming in March 2019, some presidential and vice presidential candidates have been announced by their parties. The Kannapian Nationalist Party hasn't changed the historic tradition of voting for the President and Vice President separately, meaning that there will be two races and the two positions can potentially be won by two different parties.
The Kannapian Nationalist Party, which currently holds the office of President, has announced incumbent Malachi Stevens for re-election. Malachi Stevens has been President of the nation since 2013 and served as Vice President from 2010 to 2013. His odds for re-election are looking good historically since he has only served two terms. His predecessor, President Patariki, served six terms as President and her predecessor, President Clengin, served seven terms as President. The Kannapian Nationalist Party has not yet announced their candidate for the race for vice president.
The Kannapian Unity Party has announced both their candidates, Isaac Diggory for President and Ryan Vanderzee for Vice President. Isaac Diggory became Minister of Justice in 2009, after a long career in the Ministry of Justice. He served as Deputy Minister of Justice from 2004-2009; served as Attorney General of the state of Malenium from 1995-2004; and served as one of the district attorneys for the city of Malenium from 1980-1995. Ryan Vanderzee was appointed Minister of Health in 2009, and became Minister of Health and Human Services when the two ministries merged with each other in 2011. From 2005 to 2009, he served as Deputy Minister of Health and held a position as the Chancellor of the University of Kannapolis from 2000 to 2005.
The Progressive Party has announced Jakob Craddock as their Presidential candidate, having served as the Minister of Education since 2015. They have not announced a candidate for vice president.
The Green Party has announced Sonya Marcus for President and Jazz Dixon for Vice President. Marcus has served as the Minister of Transportation since 2015 and Dixon has served as the Minister of Energy since 2015. Both have pushed brilliant environmentally friendly initiatives in their ministries since their appointments as the heads of their ministries. They hope to continue their work to protect their nation's natural beauty in their potential roles as the President and Vice President of the land.
The Centrist Party and Common Party have both refrained from announcing candidates, though it is believed they won't be announcing candidates for this round of elections.
Ooh su su su su su su! Runner up, that's quite well. I'll admit, I may be getting a bit too impractically with my writing, & the excerpt is intended to be a whole memoir of some length written with a bit too much analytical expectation in mind. Each small leaf, each mention of hands, each mention of the Basajuan was written with the intent to be important for the story, but of course such a choice to focus on such minute details is a bit absurd on my end. Regardless, this memoir, even as an excerpt, is definitely one of the longest pieces I've written, though most of it was written in the week just before the deadline. Not sure if I'd be able to keep up the dragging out in the future events, unless I dedicated several pages to each character's reaction, though they'd more likely be paired up rather than one by one, with the expected exception of Kiyu.
I live close enough to Rocky Mountain National Park to be able to visit there weekly, so it's roughly the equivalent of a local/regional open space. Hiking is definitely the name of the game, though there's something to be said for the simple observance of quiet solitude. And in the snowy winter, there's always a bit more solitude. :)
A lot of people around here don't actually set an intention in the outdoors, so to speak. The beauty is so close and personal that it's developed into an almost cultural appreciation. It's possible that on some level this can be taken for granted, but I've personally been told by multiple visitors (often, for some reason, from Texas) remark at just how different the cultural atmosphere is regarding the outdoors. Perhaps it has to do with proximity, but even people in the most glistening prairie suburbs frequently haul themselves into the thick of the trees.
When there is pure magic easily accessible in the distance, there a constant will among many to take in the source for as long as possible. It's almost less of a conscious activity, and more of a continuous effort never to miss a single moment if at all possible.
I think you may have your finger on something here. I've been pondering since it was posted how to reply to this question, but could never quite pin down my views. I'm a native Pacific Northwesterner, and while I hate hiking, and don't don't like participating in most outdoor sports, I feel an intense personal connection to the wilderness and the forest. I got my Eagle Scout badge, spent a few years doing wilderness search and rescue as a volunteer, and feel notably uncomfortable in cities with insufficient green space.
What you said reminds me of a passage I read in a book talking about each of the fifty states from the perspectives of those born in them. About Washington it included the observation that growing up there was knowing that the wilderness was always just outside the door, and that when you came in to the house and shed your parka and hiking boots, you would always bring the outdoors in with you to share your space. It is a built in part of the regional conscience that we share space with nature, and even if we don't actively seek it, we're just comfortable there.
Google News had an article about a woman who died after using tap water in her neti pot. Apparently amoebas ate her brain. They get in via the olfactory nerves at the top of your nose cave. I told God putting a brain hole right next to the warmest, moistest, most microorganismy place in the body was a stupid fu*king idea, but he's God, so... Anyway, this led to a CDC page about naegleria fowleri, which, in turn, merited a trip to the Wikipedia article for the same. Apparently, this little bugger lives in warm fresh water and un- or insufficiently treated drinking water. This prompted research into how drinking and municipal water supplies are treated, which revealed that the most common method is by adding sodium hypochlorite -- good 'ol fashioned bleach. This prompted a moment of reflection on the idea that my water is made generally safe by being mixed with poison, which actually is kinda nifty.
However, I think I'll be wearing a very strong clothespin on my nose whilst showering from now on.
I've heard of those microscopic nightmare fuel monsters. Apparently there's a lake somewhere that is swarming with them. I forget where (I wanna say South America) but it's thankfully very isolated.
Also tangentally reminds me of a story involving Humphrey Bogart. Apparently when the African Queen was being filmed on location someone made a mistake with the water filtration system and everyone on set got badly ill with the runs.
Everyone apart from Bogart and one cameraman who apparently avoided the illness by not actually drinking water (or anything much whithout an alcohol content) during the filming.
Given he died in his 40's I think, probably not a practical approach to avoiding waterborne parasites.
I just wanted, in my official capacity, to thank Caracasus, Zwangzug and The new bluestocking homeland for running this fantastic event. A really high standard of writing was submitted from a lot of different regions. I was particularly impressed by the winners in the poetry category, and as I never knew Fibonnaci poetry was a thing I've learned something too.
Please can I ask Lord Dominator to update our embassy thread with the results? Caracasus has announced the results on the RMB of each embassy region, but if you are the ambassador to a region with a forum please could you post a link to the dispatch there? Thanks.
Well, I never expected to win, seeing as I’ve only been a casual writer of poetry up till recently, but I must say, this has been a pretty fun and enriching experience, all things considered.
Many thanks to the organisers of this competition. I eagerly look forward to future such events :)
I make it a point to wake up at 6:30AM on Saturday mornings to go cycling in the more rural parts. My apartment is in a less built-up part of the city, so it’s often easy to go on a ~15km round trip to some pretty quiet parts that are rather unmolested by concrete and metal. Now that I’ve finished high school and am waiting for the next phase of my life (which, incidentally, is military service) I’ve begun cycling far more often- once every two or three days.
I can’t fully describe how great cycling into nature makes me feel. It’s true what they say; if the benefits of exercise and nature could be condensed into a single pill, it would be the single most valuable thing in the history of medical science. I used to suffer from pretty severe anxiety in my middle and high school years, and the routine I picked up has really helped calm me down a lot (the combination of nature and exercise, I believe). 10/10 would recommend to anybody looking to improve their overall well-being.
On a side note, I also love birds. People think I’m weird for that, but there’s a trio of zebra doves who like to hang around the grassy patch next to my apartment block, and I’d take their company over a trip to the nightclub any day.
I couldn't agree more. In addition to this, I have a real thing about the sound of running water. Balm for the soul.
I think the Highlands where I live is among the most beautiful places on Earth. We can't rival other countries for sheer scale of wilderness (every point of land in the UK is within 7 miles of a road) but even the 3 mile loop around my local roads I try to walk most days takes in views that would justify a postcard. At this time of year when the weather is wild and I often arrive at and depart from work in darkness I really feel a difference because I can't get out as much as I'd like. I'm not enough of a hiker or climber to take full advantage of the area, and the flip side is having to travel hundreds of miles to get to a hospital or other basic facilities, but it's still fantastic.
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