The Epic Tales of the Golden Monkey's Fist

So, I have been working on a writing project. The way I write I tend to create sections of the story and then piece them together one at a time and then make corrections during the editing process. Here is the intro to a story I am currently working on. It's fantasy but with more of a classical style of prose (I like to think so anyway). I warn you that this is also a rough draft but it shows where I am trying to go as far as voice, meter and rhythm (I think that in most prose you don't deal with meter and rhythm but then again I have never been one to play by the rules). Hope you all enjoy it. Happy Sunday!

Chapter One:

I will tell you of skies.

Look above and you will see them. They are forest green with purple stars and a violet moon. They dance with swirling belt-shaped auroras of multicolored energy. There in the east you will see the brightest of stars, the Sky Scraper, peering down upon the black earth like a lost love one drifting off to the sea. And in the west is the constellation of Sparkle Wisp, with it’s burning stars, cracking and winking out, a bed of purple coals, snapping and popping. And from somewhere in the strange heavens a small leaf plummets to earth, slowed by the cross currents of the night wind, sailing downward, dancing back and forth and to and fro.

Look how the sky comes to life when the earth grows dark. It is the theater of all living things that choose not to sleep. The grey bear that lies face up outside the den, the Whippwhen bird whose eyes are turned eternally up to the heavens, a cruel joke now realized in the perfection of his view, and the Golden Monkey, puffing away contently on his thigh bone pipe, watching the red smoke drift lazily upwards until it is caught by the falling leaf’s breeze.

I have told you what to see but what do you smell? Honey combs and flowers, fresh salt water from the bubbling salt springs. There is a subtle blanket of mildew lingering in the air that reminds the smeller of wet love forgotten in a dew soaked forest.

And what do you hear? The chirping of the chirpers, the leaf’s breeze tickling the branches of the Stone Wood, the cry of some far away nocturnal unknown fighting his brothers for a scrap of dinner. Perhaps there is silence between the sounds, like water rushing in to fill the holes. Or perhaps it is an orchestra of din and clamor, a blast, a blare, a thousand notes sang in unison without conclusion, the voice of a thousand gods in a godless world.

But what do you feel? Well, that is the Golden Monkey’s tale. The first, at any rate. For his journey is one of discovery. To find himself and to feel something worth feeling. The world around him now seems so perfect, so still and quiet and clamorous all at once he would likely go insane should he have to endure one more night.

I will tell you of skies and the Golden Monkey who dropped his vision of the heavens to walk the earth in search of his happiness.