Winds of change, maybe - A Poll

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Section VII has been up and running for over two years now, something that makes me both grateful and just a little proud.  Especially proud of the terrific writers who have contributed to the success of a gen writing community that some said would fail.  I'm so happy that both writers and readers alike made sure that didn't happen.  Thank you.
Now it seems like we might want to add or subtract in the area of challenges and events that go on here.  The poll is for everyone, whether you're a regular visitor or not; all input is valuable in some way.

[Poll #1968070]

The Randomness of Life~Chapter 83 "Sailing to Byzantium"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

No April story this week. So am posting a fic from my continuing drabble series, 'The Randomness of Life', based on lines from a randomly selected poem...



                                                             


Prompted by: Sailing to Byzantium~ W.B. Yeats

.

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,

Alexander Waverly sat at his conference table during the early morning hours, fighting the yawns that were tormenting him.

Though his people thought he never slept, he did, but it was only short cat naps that saw him through. He didn't like to sleep,

as it allowed the dreams to return.

.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,

No place for him to retreat for comfort, except to the arms of his beloved Estelle.

Still these dreams plagued him. He saw the faces. Some he'd dispatched himself and those he'd ordered it done.

There was no doubt it had been right, yet still the dead plagued him.

.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.

When it came his time, Alexander knew he would face his Maker for his deeds, though well-intentioned they were.

Taking life was a sin, yet it was a sin he was willing to bear for the sake of the world.

Did that make it Christ-like? No, that would be blasphemous.

.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

For the sake of the world and the good of mankind...yes, mankind so fragile and precious-

like a golden thing of old, hammered out by the great Artisan.

Was its wrong to want to help protect them from evil?

In the end, God would let Alexander Waverly know...

The Randomness of Life Chapter 39~ for A Little Drabble Do Ya, Wednesday drab challenge Section VIIh

[mlaw]

 No April story this week. So am posting a fic from my continuing drabble series, 'The Randomness of Life', based on lines from a randomly selected poem...

   Prompted by: The Last Supper ~Rainer Maria Rilke

The loneliness of old comes over him

There are times that I wonder about Alexander Waverly. The man never sleeps, never misses a trick. He is always the sly one, clever in his plans and strategies.

He's getting up there in years, and I hope that I'll live long enough to be half the man he is.

.

and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)

His is a name that strikes fear into the hearts of our enemies, yet to look at him; he seems the kindest, most gentle spoken of men...a grandfatherly type.

But there are those who know that within beats the heart of a fierce lion waiting to quickly...unmercifully strike.

.

everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.

He watches over us, his agents like a sentinel. And the weight, I know, of sometimes sending people to an untimely death weighs heavily upon his shoulders.

I wonder, will I be able to fill those shoes someday? Will I be deserving of the title,

"The Old Man"

 

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