| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Nada the Lily by H. Rider Haggard: the tongue of the child. Now this drug has the power to make the
tongue it touches dumb for awhile. Then I wrapped up the child in my
medicines and again bound the mat about the bundle. But round the
throat of the still-born babe I tied a string of fibre as though I had
strangled it, and wrapped it loosely in a piece of matting.
Now for the first time I spoke to Baleka: "Woman," I said, "and thou
also, Mother of the Heavens, I have done your wish, but know that
before all is finished this deed shall bring about the death of many.
Be secret as the grave, for the grave yawns for you both."
I went again, bearing the mat containing the dead child in my right
hand. But the bundle of medicines that held the living one I fastened
Nada the Lily |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Goodness of St. Rocque and Other Stories by Alice Dunbar: tugging at their ropes, alike showed white and flaming, as though
the sea and all it touched were afire.
Annette and Philip paused midway the pier to watch two fishermen
casting their nets. With heads bared to the breeze, they stood
in clear silhouette against the white background of sea.
"See how he uses his teeth," almost whispered Annette.
Drawing himself up to his full height, with one end of the huge
seine between his teeth, and the cord in his left hand, the
taller fisherman of the two paused a half instant, his right arm
extended, grasping the folds of the net. There was a swishing
rush through the air, and it settled with a sort of sob as it cut
The Goodness of St. Rocque and Other Stories |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Allan Quatermain by H. Rider Haggard: stood ready on the table, for the half-light began to grow dreary,
as it is apt to do when one has a short week ago buried the hope
of one's life. Next, I opened a cupboard in the wainscoting
and got a bottle of whisky and some tumblers and water. I always
like to do these things for myself: it is irritating to me to
have somebody continually at my elbow, as though I were an
eighteen-month-old baby. All this while Curtis and Good had
been silent, feeling, I suppose, that they had nothing to say
that could do me any good, and content to give me the comfort
of their presence and unspoken sympathy; for it was only their
second visit since the funeral. And it is, by the way, from
Allan Quatermain |
