Hastur
09-20-2002, 08:44 AM
Credited to: Richard Dixon
Maybe yesterday, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, a young dragonfly named Aradnis lived in the cool dark shadows of a myrtle bush. Aradnis loved nothing more than to flitter across the meadows and listen to the trees sing, and he would spend hours talking to the birds about what was above the clouds. He longed to learn the answer himself, but he could not make his tiny wings carry him as high into the sky as the birds could fly.
“There is more sky,” the lark would say, but Aradnis paid him and his jokes no mind.
“There is the mighty wind,” Lord Falcon would say with awe in his voice, “the one who carries us at last to our final roost.” But Aradnis thought Lord Falcon much too serious. And besides, he often looked like he wanted to eat the young dragonfly.
“’What is above the clouds!’” the mockingbird would tease, and laugh at Aradnis. He didn’t like talking to the mockingbird very much – it was too much like talking to an echo.
And yet each day Aradnis would ask the birds, and each day he would find in the answers no comfort to ease the longing within him. He began to wonder if he would ever learn what secrets the sky held within its lofty vaults.
One day Aradnis found himself far from home, with night swiftly closing in. The elms had been singing of Leaf-Fall, when the trees go quiet and winter claims the land. The song, rich with the ancient rhythms of the deepest roots, touched both the sorrow of winter and the hope of spring. Aradnis, so lost in the beauty of the song, lost count of the passing hours, until dusk hushed the trees and broke Aradnis from his trance. He pounded his wings frantically to reach his home in the myrtle bush before Night gripped the meadow, his mind filled with the chilling stories of Night the birds had told him. Yet as he flew, he realized that he would not reach his bush in time, that he would be alone, at the mercy of the spell of Night.
Indeed, he could already hear the chirpings and croakings of the Nightsong rising from the meadow, now nearly cloaked in darkness. Fear grew in Aradnis’s heart, and his wings ached with the desperation of his flight. Suddenly, he sensed a shadow above him, darker than the gathering Night around him. With no strength left within him, he saw only the shadow reach out for him before he slipped into the sleep of exhausted fear.
There you go. Our next offering. What would you suggest, if you were the editor?
Maybe yesterday, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, a young dragonfly named Aradnis lived in the cool dark shadows of a myrtle bush. Aradnis loved nothing more than to flitter across the meadows and listen to the trees sing, and he would spend hours talking to the birds about what was above the clouds. He longed to learn the answer himself, but he could not make his tiny wings carry him as high into the sky as the birds could fly.
“There is more sky,” the lark would say, but Aradnis paid him and his jokes no mind.
“There is the mighty wind,” Lord Falcon would say with awe in his voice, “the one who carries us at last to our final roost.” But Aradnis thought Lord Falcon much too serious. And besides, he often looked like he wanted to eat the young dragonfly.
“’What is above the clouds!’” the mockingbird would tease, and laugh at Aradnis. He didn’t like talking to the mockingbird very much – it was too much like talking to an echo.
And yet each day Aradnis would ask the birds, and each day he would find in the answers no comfort to ease the longing within him. He began to wonder if he would ever learn what secrets the sky held within its lofty vaults.
One day Aradnis found himself far from home, with night swiftly closing in. The elms had been singing of Leaf-Fall, when the trees go quiet and winter claims the land. The song, rich with the ancient rhythms of the deepest roots, touched both the sorrow of winter and the hope of spring. Aradnis, so lost in the beauty of the song, lost count of the passing hours, until dusk hushed the trees and broke Aradnis from his trance. He pounded his wings frantically to reach his home in the myrtle bush before Night gripped the meadow, his mind filled with the chilling stories of Night the birds had told him. Yet as he flew, he realized that he would not reach his bush in time, that he would be alone, at the mercy of the spell of Night.
Indeed, he could already hear the chirpings and croakings of the Nightsong rising from the meadow, now nearly cloaked in darkness. Fear grew in Aradnis’s heart, and his wings ached with the desperation of his flight. Suddenly, he sensed a shadow above him, darker than the gathering Night around him. With no strength left within him, he saw only the shadow reach out for him before he slipped into the sleep of exhausted fear.
There you go. Our next offering. What would you suggest, if you were the editor?