The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Nada the Lily by H. Rider Haggard: he was gone she wept also.
Now Umslopogaas and his impi travelled fast and far, hungering and
thirsting, till at length they came to the land of the Umswazi, and
after a while entered the territory of the Halakazi by a high and
narrow pass. The fear of Galazi the Wolf was that they should find
this pass held, for though they had harmed none in the kraals as they
went, and taken only enough cattle to feed themselves, yet he knew
well that messengers had sped by day and night to warn the people of
the Halakazi. But they found no man in the pass, and on the other side
of it they rested, for the night was far spent. At dawn Umslopogaas
looked out over the wide plains beyond, and Galazi showed him a long
Nada the Lily |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from At the Mountains of Madness by H. P. Lovecraft: scattered, and at one corner of which a considerable amount of
gasoline must have been spilled lately enough to leave a strong
odor even at this extreme superplateau altitude. In other words,
it could not be other than a sort of camp - a camp made by questing
beings who, like us, had been turned back by the unexpectedly
choked way to the abyss.
Let me be plain. The scattered objects
were, so far as substance was concerned, all from Lake’s camp;
and consisted of tin cans as queerly opened as those we had seen
at that ravaged place, many spent matches, three illustrated books
more or less curiously smudged, an empty ink bottle with its pictorial
At the Mountains of Madness |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Time Machine by H. G. Wells: momentary stillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to
scrape upon the carpet. I took my eyes off the Time Traveller's
face, and looked round at his audience. They were in the dark,
and little spots of colour swam before them. The Medical Man
seemed absorbed in the contemplation of our host. The Editor was
looking hard at the end of his cigar--the sixth. The Journalist
fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I remember, were
motionless.
The Editor stood up with a sigh. `What a pity it is you're
not a writer of stories!' he said, putting his hand on the Time
Traveller's shoulder.
The Time Machine |