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amanda 10-04-2002 10:46 PM

Where am I?
Sumatra hunts for his prey.

Once the lone tiger, he is accompanied by another, across the distance. Tiger prints. Small and distinctly shaped, it could only belong to a female. Slinking in and out of the swirling mists of mauve, burgundy and chocolate brown, the yearning for daily offerings of sustenance have abated; consumed by the need to feed another hunger.

The woods here are a rare, eclectic mix- teak, mahogany, birch, Formica. The local monks hide in their respective boxes; awake, in Zen, keeping to their own distinctions. Music plays on from above, faint, rhythmical, alive. Singing, drumming of lost souls, well-intended attempts to save kinships that will be forever disappear without the help of outside influences. Truth speaks that it is the same outside influences that constructs their demise. Common ground will never be reached.

Crescents of gold mingle with vanilla bubbles of sweetness. Here is where a mermaid is Queen. Her servants are loyal to the monarchy, her power is mild, sweet, addictive. Mind in hand, warm control belongs to her once each individual enters her domain. They seek a common purpose- to progress. It is of no consequence. The progress each seeks is at the expense of the other. Each will grow corpulent and lethargic if patronized too often.

Hers is only one of many empires. Bodies of power, headless, seeking only domination of resources for the pure sake of domination. Among these powers, Sumatra is born. Moving silently among the dedicated servants, pumping the blood, keeping the faith alive for one more sunrise.

Arif-ul Haq 10-18-2002 08:52 PM


amanda 10-24-2002 01:07 AM

As she walked, tiny beads of falling humidity brushed against her exposed skin. Darkness had it's own kind of wetness, cool, dreamlike...

dream, dream...the tiger...

She wasn't the type to look for meanings in her dream- new age celestine crystal prophecies are just another escape route, like so many other faiths- a cigar is just a cigar. That is, until you light it and it becomes the tounge of Lucifer.

Pre-dawn walks to the Church weren't for seeking salvation. No, rather there was something pure in the hearts of those who created her, constructed her, breathed her into being- a kind of ethereal sacredness, washing over everyone, despite their faith, as they crossed her threshold.

Arif-ul Haq 10-24-2002 10:29 PM


infrared 10-28-2002 11:29 PM

Disgusted her because she knew that escape was a dream she couldn't afford unless she staked out her place on the next bench. Myra wanted more. She didn't feel it was at the expense of others. Others just wanted(or didn't want in the case of Rip Van Winkle there) different things.

Myra was figuring out what she wanted. Looking at the others gathered at the Church she could discerne how much she was willing to give to get what she wanted; how much strength it would take to mantain "it" after she got it. She figured it took a lot less moxy to live under a paper rather than in it, but that was her choice.

amanda 11-04-2002 11:54 PM

The early morning light started to seep through the rose window. Silhouettes of faint blues, sharp reds and dusty yellows from the halos of saints, converged on the altar.

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