He worked night and day. He made a coat that would transform him; he would be more than a man; a winged creature, beautiful as light. All the birds brought him feathers. Even the eagle. Even the swan.
Catherine FisherRix stroked the Glove. "There was a garden and a tree grew there with golden apples and if you ate one of them, you knew everything. And then Sapphique climbed over the fense and killed the many-headed monster and picked the apple, because he wanted to know, you see. He wanted to know how to Escape."
"Right." She had wriggled back. She was close to his pocked face.
"And a snake came out of the grass and it said, 'Oh go on, eat the apple. I dare you.' And he stopped then with it to his mouth because he knew the snake was Incarceron."
Keiro groaned. "Let me..."
"Put the Glove away, Rix. Or give it to me."
His fingers caressed its dark scales. "And because if he ate it he would know how small he was. How much of a nothing he was. He would see himself as a speck in the vastness of the Prison."
"So he didn't eat it, right?
Finn smiled ruefully. "I'm a Prisoner, old man. Just like you.
Catherine FisherHe sang his last song. And the words of that have never been written down. But it was sweet and of great beauty, and those that heard it were changed utterly.
Some say it was the song that moves the stars.
Even across the dark, even across the loss, even across the emptiness, soul will speak to soul
Catherine FisherIn the Sapient tongue he said softly, ‘Tell
me, Master, did you know Incarceron was tiny?’
‘Is it?’ Sapphique replied in the same language, his green
eyes as he looked up lit by deep points of flame. ‘To you,
perhaps. Not to its Prisoners. Every prison is a universe for
its inmates. And think, Jared Sapiens. Might not the Realm
also be tiny, swinging from the watchchain of some being in
a world even vaster?
We are chained hand and foot by protocol, enslaved to a static, empty world where men and women can’t read, where the scientific advances of the ages are the preserve of the rich, where artists and poets are doomed to endless repetitions and sterile reworking of past masterpieces. Nothing is new. New does not exist. Nothing changes, nothing grows, evolves, develops. Time has stopped. Progress is forbidden
Catherine FisherAll my life I have dreamed of you.
Catherine FisherBecause sometime, somehow, the god spoke your name. You took a step too far and here you are. None of us can ever go back. Even if we wanted to.
Catherine FisherWhen you draw, you copy the world don't you? You remake it on paper, but it isn't the same. It's yours. No one else could have created it just like that. When I make poems, I use the words we all use, but the order and the sound create a new power. This wood is someone's creation. We stumble through it's tendrils, as if we're crawling through the synapses of his mind.
Catherine FisherTags: imagination words poems create woods drawing
« first previous
Page 3 of 5.
next last »
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.