| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland by Olive Schreiner: ideas. Now, as he looked into the crackling blaze, it seemed to be one of
the fires they had make to burn the natives' grain by, and they were
throwing in all they could not carry away: then, he seemed to see his
mother's fat ducks waddling down the little path with the green grass on
each side. Then, he seemed to see his huts where he lived with the
prospectors, and the native women who used to live with him; and he
wondered where the women were. Then--he saw the skull of an old Mashona
blown off at the top, the hands still moving. He heard the loud cry of the
native women and children as they turned the maxims on to the kraal; and
then he heard the dynamite explode that blew up a cave. Then again he was
working a maxim gun, but it seemed to him it was more like the reaping
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Gods of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs: bearing down directly upon us."
"The thern spies were not in the palace of John Carter
for nothing," said Kantos Kan to me. "Your orders, Prince."
"Dispatch ten battleships to guard the entrance to Omean,
with orders to let no hostile enter or leave the shaft.
That will bottle up the great fleet of the First Born.
"Form the balance of the battleships into a great V with the
apex pointing directly south-south-east. Order the transports,
surrounded by their convoys, to follow closely in the wake of
the battleships until the point of the V has entered the
enemies' line, then the V must open outward at the apex,
The Gods of Mars |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Chita: A Memory of Last Island by Lafcadio Hearn: the low coast boomed. Then my companion began his story; perhaps
the coming of the storm inspired him to speak! And as I listened
to him, listening also to the clamoring of the coast, there
flashed back to me recollection of a singular Breton fancy: that
the Voice of the Sea is never one voice, but a tumult of many
voices--voices of drowned men,--the muttering of multitudinous
dead,--the moaning of innumerable ghosts, all rising, to rage
against the living, at the great Witch call of storms....
IV.
The charm of a single summer day on these island shores is
something impossible to express, never to be forgotten. Rarely,
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