Simple little writing prompt I put before myself. Short version? Manifest an inner world and override reality.
Inner World, (?)EndMy eyes are closed. There is no need to look outward. Or should I say inward? This is not the world that people know. You could say that such a world cannot exist anywhere. The weather is not set. It can change in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, it is an arid desert where nothing can grow, a desiccating wind the sole accompaniment to the immolating sun. Others, it is a blizzard without let that covers everything within this land under the snow, allowing no one the possibility to advance or retreat. The snow will capture, freeze, and slowly...bury.
It is desert now. I sit... I
rule alone in my inner world. I have imposed my will on reality, bending it to the shape of my true vision. True....? I'm not sure. It
is true that I have reshaped everything that falls into my territory into my vision. My territory is endless; it lies beyond the horizon. Even if the true world seeks to reject my inner world, it must bow down so long as my will continues.
I open my eyes. This landscape is very familiar to me. Dotting the landscape like tombstones are familiar shapes. I don't know how many times I've drawn them. They're always there. There's more of them each time I bring forward my inner world. How many broken ideals have been forged into something new here? How many dead dreams have been painfully scrapped?
I wonder how many words I can use to describe the raw materials? Dreams, fancies, fantasies, ideals, hallucinations, delusions, illusions, wraiths. Specters. Fake. All of it is nothing but a dream. False dreams, broken ideals, crushed fancies, murdered fantasies. You can't escape my territory. No matter how you far you run, you'll see nothing but the end result of the raw material.
I slowly stand. To your left is steel with an undulating style. To your right, the simple elegance of a curve belies deadliness. Beyond that, steel of every type imagined and seen exist. My right hand reaches out and draws from the ground my favorite type of sword, the schiavona. If you're here in the desert, I'm sure you understand. The blizzard would have given you a peaceful demise, but here in the desert of my inner world...
You have entered the Field of Blades. Forged from false dreams, broken ideals, crushed fancies, murdered fantasies, each one of these swords is stronger than any mere mortal or his insignificant hope. Few can survive the despair embodied here. Even fewer can continue on with these manifestations of wounds and still feel the pain inside each sword.
That doesn't matter any longer. Here, I am King. The desert is unkind. My swords are forged from that harshness. It is irrelevant if you fight. Come, I will show you kindness.
This
work by
Ronald Mina is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
