Second Person Omniscient silliness
Oct. 18th, 2005 06:00 pmI just couldn't help myself after this morning's dream.
This is something I wrote when I was fifteen, modified with a Second Person Omniscient POV.
And
privatemaladict will most likely recognize the character. *laughs*
---
You Own the Clouds
They are yours, yours to control. They are beautiful, wild, dangerous; you puff on them and they scatter to the winds, roaring and tumbling, frothing across the sky in a streak of white and grey. They cry to the wind, bellow Nordic verses; but in the end they are yours, and every night they come back to your waiting palms, outstretched, lightning flashing from your fingertips. They do as you command; you cherish them.
Then one day, you call, and they do not appear; you send them out, they do not come back. You are still and quiet. You know what must be done. You know what will happen.
The land dies. There is no rain.
You stand on the highest mountain. The land spreads out in glorious rapture, a carpet of shimmering color. You summon your voice from the deepest recesses of your great soul and call out. Your cry tears apart granite, shakes the very foundations of heaven and earth. The very sky cringes.
The clouds race towards you, defiant, proud, and it is inexorable. You control them no longer, and will never again. They dash the mountain with lightning, boil themselves into frenzies. You fall to the earth. A huge rainstorm thunders across the land, destroying all. Thunder tears apart trees, ground, hills; there is nothing left, the earth is torn asunder.
You get to your feet. The clouds race on
---
Bad poetry, an old Mary Sue character, and a crazy POV. You know you want to click.
This is something I wrote when I was fifteen, modified with a Second Person Omniscient POV.
And
---
You Own the Clouds
They are yours, yours to control. They are beautiful, wild, dangerous; you puff on them and they scatter to the winds, roaring and tumbling, frothing across the sky in a streak of white and grey. They cry to the wind, bellow Nordic verses; but in the end they are yours, and every night they come back to your waiting palms, outstretched, lightning flashing from your fingertips. They do as you command; you cherish them.
Then one day, you call, and they do not appear; you send them out, they do not come back. You are still and quiet. You know what must be done. You know what will happen.
The land dies. There is no rain.
You stand on the highest mountain. The land spreads out in glorious rapture, a carpet of shimmering color. You summon your voice from the deepest recesses of your great soul and call out. Your cry tears apart granite, shakes the very foundations of heaven and earth. The very sky cringes.
The clouds race towards you, defiant, proud, and it is inexorable. You control them no longer, and will never again. They dash the mountain with lightning, boil themselves into frenzies. You fall to the earth. A huge rainstorm thunders across the land, destroying all. Thunder tears apart trees, ground, hills; there is nothing left, the earth is torn asunder.
You get to your feet. The clouds race on
---
Bad poetry, an old Mary Sue character, and a crazy POV. You know you want to click.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-10-19 01:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-10-19 01:51 am (UTC)It's hard though!