Sound #DailyPrompt #WritersWednesday

The Prompt

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For some days I have been deep in Neal Stephenson’s Seveneves, perhaps one of the most daunting reads of the past decade. I intend to review the novel on my Goodreads page, but for now, suffice to say that sounds have a role in that astounding saga of the end, and rebirth, of mankind. Space is silent, but not those tiny cramped tins, where survivors hide waiting for death… And then…

The source of the dappled light, as she now saw, was sunlight sparkling from waves on the lake below, shooting rays through the branches of trees, perhaps a hundred meters down the slope from her, that were beginning to stir in the morning breeze, making soft noises, as when a sleeping lover exhales.

The light of the sun, the sound of waves, violin notes in the evening air… The symphony of Peace.

Image: “Seveneves: the end and beginning of life on Earth”, The Seattle Times

Earth #TheDailyPost

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Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

“We’ll be fine here,” she says, looking to the horizon and the melting ochres of the desert. I acquiesce: not only this is a blessed land, but we also know the people here, they are our friends, they have adopted us, and they will bury us according to the rites.

“And you see, this little house, this is so much better than the stupid apartments we spent fortunes on in the city!” The house is simple, thick natural walls, a little nest against the cliff, invisible from the ground…

And far away from the noxious fumes and radioactive dust of what is left of civilisation…

Photo: Walnut Canyon cliffs and ancient Pueblo dwellings, Arizona © Honoré Dupuis 2016

Daily Prompt: Landscape

When you gaze out your window — real or figurative — do you see the forest first, or the trees?

František Vobecký- melancholický den (Melancholy Day) 1936 I see the world reflected in your eyes

For what I see you have seen first

A long time before I was born ~

And now the colours are the colours you see

The shapes, the stones, the skies, the flowers

And the trees you have taught me to love

O Mother, Mistress of this world

Mother, lover, Gaia

Our Soul…

Image: František Vobecký- melancholický den (Melancholy Day) 1936

Mother Earth

Do not insult Her, for She may not forgive ~ and then we will die in the blackness and silence of space…

 

Wings Over Waters


She is vast, beautiful like a constellation.
She and I are made up of the same stars.

If you could search her eyes
you would see a whole universe swirling there.

Being a part of her is like riding on a spaceship,
watching as the moon shines like a disco light.

Don’t try to harm her. She’ll become destructive.
Her storms are wild and restless.
Inside she is a fragile chemistry set.

I wish to hug her to me, keep her safe,
but she’s too big to wrap my arms across.

Her seas are endless. She holds life in a pulsating fist.
Her secrets carry on the wind. Her breath is my breath.

 

©2013 Louise Hastings

A belated Earth Day poem 🙂

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Andromeda

Andromeda

The ancient tale came back to his mind, one morning. He was working at his desk, surrounded by the quiet notes of Mozart, as usual the best time for his inspiration and enjoying dawn coffee. The story had been written eons ago, in an empire now defunct, by a long dead author, whose name he could not recall. He must have been very young then, a child still, when he read it. The book cover was a beautiful drawing of a woman, bathed in dark orange light, standing near a violet sea. High up in the sky were two red moons. The artist had imparted a classical face to the woman, an almost antique greek profile, and she was wearing a short toga. What had fascinated him then was the sadness of the story, the fate of the central hero. To his young mind that fate was enviable: a mixture of scientific achievement, the realisation of a dream, the encounter with the ineffable on a world so far away that light would not reach his own world before the death of their star…

The hero was an engineer and space traveller, at a time when mankind had finally overcome the rivalries and greed that had polluted its history. The planets of our system  were colonised and mined for the materials necessary to the conquest of other worlds and the preservation of that small paradise: Earth. The most amenable planets were now inhabited by communities of scientists and artists, living in the harsh conditions of enclosed colonies, comfortable within but still perilous without. 

The hero was unsatisfied. He dreamt of far more distant worlds, in remote galaxies that the best human instruments were only then beginning to guess at, across unfathomable distances from Earth. Space travel was still confined to the vicinity of his world. Despite the breakthrough of Hyper Relativity, shortcuts through space had proven lethal and, in the end, unworkable: too much initial energy was needed and the human mind, even surrounded by the technological marvels of his age, could not summon the strength to survive the shock unharmed. Yet he was hoping. In successive dreams he had seen that world, the violet sea, the red moons, the black star. He was convinced that those dreams had been messages. Messages from a being, on that world. The absurdity of the thought did not bother him. His scientific mind was not held in rigid conventions. A graduate of the elite astronauts school of Mars he had absorbed, in Kuhn, the principles of scientific revolutions: sooner or later received wisdoms are subsumed in a greater “truth”.

So it had been for Newton mechanics, Relativity, Quantum theory… and so it will be for the physics of his age. One day he would overcome the limitations that now crippled his aspiration to see and meet that being. In his dreams he’d seen her: a red-skin human, silvered-hair, a creature of a different galaxy, yet so similar to him. Inevitably she was extraordinarily beautiful.

In the book the hero succeeds.

Exploiting the resources of a a small moon of Jupiter, he conducts his own research, assisted by a group of fanatical students. Over several years they build the machine: a massive drive that will tunnel through space-time, deconstructing and reassembling the traveller instantaneously across light millennia. The odds of success are so small, the mathematics so complex, but they persist. The machine is built. In-between he had many more dreams, and he knows where he will arrive: on that shore, those small waves bathing his feet… The day comes, and he of course is the one who will test the drive.

It’s a disaster, the drive is destroyed, several of his followers are dead. He disappears, considered a victim of his misplaced ambitions. 

For a few seconds, on a far way shore, a tall red-skin woman, taking a morning stride, sees that strange human-like creature materialising in front of her. She smiles, recognising the being of her dreams, that traveller from an unknown galaxy: admiration fills her eyes.

His wife is talking to him: he will never complete his novel at that pace, too often distracted by idle thoughts…

Ivan Yefremov page on Wikipedia