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Dec. 7th, 2001 12:20 amI love ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
in2oblivion's writing dares. They seem so simple, so subtle, yet they can be so challenging. Like the three to ten sentence story starting with "Once upon a time". Or last night's -- a short literary segment of 26 sentences, each one starting with the letters A to Z. For the latter, here's my entry:
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Africa, 1933. Black and white photos will never do the savannah justice. Cracked red mud sends fine powder into the air with every step our horses make. Dusty and dusky, even the faded blue sky looks weary by the end of the day.
Ernest leans over his saddle, scanning the horizon for lion, as he has done every afternoon. For days. Giraffe cluster far away, avoiding the scent of our horses. Hunting in Africa is never a sure bet. I suppose that's why they call it "hunting" and not "shooting." (Just a joke, something my father would say to his clients, when game was shy.)
Kilimanjaro begins to reflect the setting sun; the snowy cap turns pinkish orange. Lion are more active at night, but hunting them after sunset is suicide. My client removes his gaze from the horizon and nods to me, knowing it is time to make camp. No words pass between us; Ernest has always been a silent man, even in triumph. Our dinner consists of vegetable soup heated over the campfire, with crusty bread and dried bacon crumbled over the top.
Peace. Quiet. Relaxation after the heat, and the slow ride in the still air. Stars flood the sky overhead, my Lord, the sheer quantity of stars. They're nothing like any night sky you would ever see in Europe, or even America. Uncountable, unfathomable.
Vicious snarls come from the distance, their origin unknown in the dark of the night. We keep our rifles nearby as we climb into our bags. Xenophobia is instinctive between man and beast. You might say it goes either way.
Zebra, herding just beyond the light of our campfire, bark loudly as they pass.
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in2oblivion's writing dares. They seem so simple, so subtle, yet they can be so challenging. Like the three to ten sentence story starting with "Once upon a time". Or last night's -- a short literary segment of 26 sentences, each one starting with the letters A to Z. For the latter, here's my entry:-------------
Africa, 1933. Black and white photos will never do the savannah justice. Cracked red mud sends fine powder into the air with every step our horses make. Dusty and dusky, even the faded blue sky looks weary by the end of the day.
Ernest leans over his saddle, scanning the horizon for lion, as he has done every afternoon. For days. Giraffe cluster far away, avoiding the scent of our horses. Hunting in Africa is never a sure bet. I suppose that's why they call it "hunting" and not "shooting." (Just a joke, something my father would say to his clients, when game was shy.)
Kilimanjaro begins to reflect the setting sun; the snowy cap turns pinkish orange. Lion are more active at night, but hunting them after sunset is suicide. My client removes his gaze from the horizon and nods to me, knowing it is time to make camp. No words pass between us; Ernest has always been a silent man, even in triumph. Our dinner consists of vegetable soup heated over the campfire, with crusty bread and dried bacon crumbled over the top.
Peace. Quiet. Relaxation after the heat, and the slow ride in the still air. Stars flood the sky overhead, my Lord, the sheer quantity of stars. They're nothing like any night sky you would ever see in Europe, or even America. Uncountable, unfathomable.
Vicious snarls come from the distance, their origin unknown in the dark of the night. We keep our rifles nearby as we climb into our bags. Xenophobia is instinctive between man and beast. You might say it goes either way.
Zebra, herding just beyond the light of our campfire, bark loudly as they pass.
-------------
