Today I shall attempt to entertain you with another short excerpt from my writing project. I hope you enjoy:
Excerpt from "Tales of the Golden Monkeys Fist" by G.A. Daniels
The night will drift along if you let it. If you wish to dream and find yourself swaddled in folds of earth and sweet darkness. Surround yourself with the burbling, babbling din, the soft, inviting hum of the dew drop chorus, a grand magnanimous altruistic blither-blather like rain drops falling upwards played out on distant leafs yet drawing near.
Sail through the haze and thick cerebral fog as the light of life dims and the sacred hues of dreamscapes are painted before your mind’s eye, stretching outward to forever. There are rolling hills you climbed as a child and a lazy brook you once dappled your feet in, teasing toy boats with long sticks. There is a hamlet, rustic and quiet with columns of hearth smoke towering over head like grey banners, a place you once called home. But this is no dream.
The stem of the pipe is shorter than most. It’s hollowed tip taste bitter as green bark. The bowl is a corn cob, dried, cut and hollowed out, its core black with resin, half-burnt leaves and a burning coal. The tobacco is nearly finished but the smoke still drifts lazily up to the sky.
A sense of lethargy hangs over the watch-camp. It seems too much strain to form a sentence, too much work to care enough to break the silence. Perhaps the night sky keeps them entranced. Perhaps the night’s siren song lulls them into a slumbering daze on the edge of the waking world and the dream world. Perhaps it is the intoxicating campfire smoke that covers them like a morning fog.