Paintings of the West

In our last session, the prompt was to generate a book title and for you to write about it. The title I generated was “Paintings of the West,” and this is what I came up with, Hope you enjoy!

I wander through the sprawling hallways of my father’s castle and am entranced by the paintings lining the walls. My father has a long lineage dating back thousands of years and every grandfather, father and son who had ever had the duty of the Western throne stares down upon me. Their gazes are steely, eternally frowning and judging me as I walk though the halls, they are my past, and I their future. The faces all blur into a mess of colours, nothing more than vain attempts to preserve their legacy, a long line of imitators and frauds descended from Akron, naming every new suckling babe after him, as if that changed the greed in their hearts or the disaster they had brought the kingdom. Men of my family, they are all the same. Wine drinkers, and deer hunters. Gluttons and unlawful fornicators. They are the reason the Western kingdom yearns for the golden age of Akron, the real Akron while the pretenders all defile his name, claiming to finally be Akron reincarnate. The Lord’s servant come to bring the rains back. And every time the fools listen. The masses swarm to the coronation and pray that maybe for once, this King will be worthy of Akron’s name. Seventy six times their hopes have been crushed, and they return to their fields, praying the next King will be the one. Tomorrow, my brother will become King. He is Akron the Seventy seventh. King of the Western Kingdom and Lord of the West. Long may he reign.

There are no paintings of women, we do not have that honour. We are inferior to the male sex, and therefore unworthy of having our image preserved. That’s what my father always told me, and I had believed him. How could my father, Akron the Seventy Sixth, the one who was prophesied, be a liar? He protected me from the cruel peasants outside, and always gave me food to eat even in our Kingdom’s famine; my father was a provider and a righteous King. I still look back at that naive girl and wince, no wonder she has no painting on the walls. The walls which show every failed king and ruler. They are the paintings of the West.

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TitlePrompt: London Fields

The vast expanses of the fields melted into the horizon, green hills indisingushible from themselves, their shadows unseen.

London was beautiful, compared to what it had been a thousand years ago. The sky hung green in the heavens, and the ice that used to hold the area at mercy during this time of year no longer dared come this far south- or anywhere at all.

January was a merry month, but the overwhelmingly green grass hid a bitter past, an ancient civilization.

Root of Fire

Sometimes I wish I had stayed awake that night
Now all the sleep I get can’t wipe the memory of that night from my mind.

That night
As I settled in for the night shift I sipped my coffee
The frigid winds
Blankets sweeping across the harsh mountainous land
And winter’s frosty arrows
Pierced the inky darkness outside

A confetti of snow and hail
Buffeted against the doors of the cabin
But inside
Darkness gave way
To warm
Soft
Fuzzy light

A shadow appeared
Walking closer
It was Jen

“Have we done the survey yet? We need to start drilling, and we’ll have to start soon, otherwise we’ll never meet the quota in time.”

Too tired, maybe the coffee was too weak
Sleepy eyelids, with leaden weights hanging

Glancing down at the excavation below

Fiery red,
Vents of yellow-red Lava, bits of a Phoenix
Strewn everywhere

Miners, workers, builders
Hm. It looks like they completed surveying, I thought.
I forgot that survey equipment was broken.

“Cleared. Begin drilling.”

Thus done. Slipping off into sleep
Borne along ceaselessly by the magnetic current
Of fatigue
Carrying me to places
Where the grass is greener

BOOM

A big sound.
Out of nowhere,
It was a Titan of old
It was Atlas or Hercules
Shaking the very pillars of the world

A bright light
Blinding
Slapping the dark in the face
Kicking my eyes in the nuts

The walls shook and the roof shook
And everything shook
And the cabin
Suddenly flipped over

Knocked my head
Got up,
Blood dripping everywhere

Staggering to the entrance
Wounded, limping,
Somehow
Lady Luck
Saved me that day

Sometimes I wish I had stayed awake that night
Now all the sleep I get can’t bring those dead workers

Five Card Flickr

WritingPromptFiveFlickrToday’s writing prompt was five card flickr.

Google it.

The stones crunched beneath my feet, the ocean rushing up beside me. The odd shell dotted the brown assortment of stones, and the seagulls cawed loudly. I walk up through the brush back to the town, spiky bushes which somehow have more shells in them than the beach, but the spikes still stop me from reaching out and finding out what had truly happened there.

Now I am in the town. This is not my hometown, but it almost is- nearly two full decades of beachside holidays in this idyllic place. To my left is a box full of maps, for the growing tourist population. I smile to myself, and take one.

Hilarious. The map shows only a skelton of the streets, a tourist attraction.

Windfall Detainment Camp

Martin yawned as he stared out, over the sickening drop and the gentle, rocky slope that transitioned into a stony beach. He stared at the set of staircases that led down to the beach, and marvelled at the thorny plants that, unlike all other beach flora, flourished during the harsh winters that beset Stornoway and the Outer Hebrides.

Just thinking about the winter made him cold. He wished he could get out of the asylum and that his guard duty was over. Good thing the shift was only three months. Then he could return to Elise and the children, and the warm, hazy, content Somerset countryside where his home, heart and family belonged.

Unfortunately, he was stuck here, sleeping in a hammock that was barely big enough for him, eating food that honestly should have been fed to pigs, and guarding his fellow countrymen, at least, those who were brave enough to speak up against Philip Snowden and his Federationist cronies. He didn’t like the government either; a Syndicalist Trade Union Congress and its bullies had stormed into his village and rounded up about a quarter of the villagers, including his elderly mother, for apparently “counter-revolutionary” activities. Fortunately for him, since he already worked at the Windfall Detainment Camp, he was able to secure his mother’s safety.

Other villagers, however, were not so lucky.

He made sure his rifle was hoisted securely around his shoulder, tightened his trenchcoat and shrugged his shoulders to ward off the cold. He peered at the prisoners, who were doing their morning exercises. Other guards were walking around the perimeter, and he could see a young prisoner being berated by a guard for dropping some tools. As he watched, the guard smashed the butt of his rifle into the prisoner’s jaw, who collapsed to the ground.

As Martin passed by the main entrance, he collected the map that detailed the camp

Only three months, he thought.

*Based off of the Kaiserreich mod for Hearts of Iron IV

-I do not own Philip Snowden, the Federationists, or Trade Union Congresses. Martin is a product of my own work.

Jian

Survival

Diary Entry
Date: 30th May 2020

Any chance of the world restoring peace is ludicrous in a world where all nations pitted against each other in a desperate plea for survival. We’ve been growing and harvesting food wherever we can, but plants rarely grow in the open. Most of the soil is contaminated beyond any level of restoration, and the rest can’t grow under Project Famine, a series of man-made bombs which sent acids and synthetic materials that inhibit the growth of all life across the globe.

Today we discovered something about our underground farms; it seems as if our fruit is evolving. The apples have grown are noticeably larger, have much tougher skin which hopefully means they contain more fructose. For now, we will cope. Even though we are a group of only 120 or so people, we will survive.

Kristian

A Comprehensive History of Harmony: Volume 4 (The Emerald Isles), Chapter 13 (Early Medieval Era)

The art of cloudmaking is ancient, unimaginably old. The knowledge of the art was first introduced to the Free Peoples of The Emerald Isles by the Monks of the 14th Chapter of the Way of Harmony. The Popularist School of Harmony was instrumental in their teachings as they preached that anyone, not just those who had reached Enlightenment through the accumulation of karma.

By the end of the last aftershocks of Great Plague, during the reign of the 44th Lord Provost, only one Abbot remained to teach this art; all other monks had fled the Isles for the New World.

The Last Abbot’s name was Han Storgen, and his last apprentice, the one responsible for the revival of the Way in the Isles was known as Thorgen. Here follow some poems composed by the Abbot in his last year of Abbothood, in the year 420.

“Higher than the peaks

Fly the clouds

One must learn

To live in harmony with all things

Learn the ways of Cloudmaking.”

“To bend and make the clouds

Is to bring serenity and tranquility to one’s heart.”