After writing my "paragraph written in the style of the Water Genie from Haroun and The Sea of Stories," I realized that though it sounded, in parts, like the Genie, it also sounds a lot like me (no surprise there). I realized that the point of this exercise may be just that--to emphasize that the act of storytelling is a balancing, transforming act. We respond to the influence of stories, even as we frame them in our own words. The oral story telling tradition may still be very much alive. Perhaps it is simply hiding within the written word...
Anyway, here it is: =)
It was late at night....past the time when most...sane or rational, even-keeled, and conventional citizens have tucked themselves into the covers, ready for sleep. But we refuse to part with consciousness. This was the time when silence hits the streets, and all the places with no magic during the day become transformed by the encroaching darkness, these murky waters of the unknown. Sleds in hand, we took to the hill. Hidden in the heart of residential pleasantries, deep within the suburban stronghold, there stood a hill, really a mound of dirt, but something as yet untouched by the civilization around it. It was here, beneath a darkened sky, that we flung ourselves into that inky void. We flew, we whooshed, we zoomed, and none but the stars were witness to our madness. After hours of needless, heedless, adventuring, we returned to our hideouts, our homes away from home, our humble abodes, our castles, our fortresses, our kingdoms, somewhat reluctantly abandoned in exchange for a night's worth of...sublime...experience. Retreating to those safer places, we could not shake the taste of air that freezes on contact nor the feel of ice crystals hidden in collars and melting slowly...agonizingly. The feeling is addictive. You see, darkness has a magic too...
Anyway, here it is: =)
It was late at night....past the time when most...sane or rational, even-keeled, and conventional citizens have tucked themselves into the covers, ready for sleep. But we refuse to part with consciousness. This was the time when silence hits the streets, and all the places with no magic during the day become transformed by the encroaching darkness, these murky waters of the unknown. Sleds in hand, we took to the hill. Hidden in the heart of residential pleasantries, deep within the suburban stronghold, there stood a hill, really a mound of dirt, but something as yet untouched by the civilization around it. It was here, beneath a darkened sky, that we flung ourselves into that inky void. We flew, we whooshed, we zoomed, and none but the stars were witness to our madness. After hours of needless, heedless, adventuring, we returned to our hideouts, our homes away from home, our humble abodes, our castles, our fortresses, our kingdoms, somewhat reluctantly abandoned in exchange for a night's worth of...sublime...experience. Retreating to those safer places, we could not shake the taste of air that freezes on contact nor the feel of ice crystals hidden in collars and melting slowly...agonizingly. The feeling is addictive. You see, darkness has a magic too...
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