“what really happens is that the story-maker proves a successful ‘sub-creator’. He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is ‘true’: it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it, while you are, as it were, inside. The moment disbelief arises, the spell is broken; the magic, or rather art, has failed. You are then out in the Primary World again, looking at the little abortive Secondary World from outside.” J.R.R. Tolkien

Sometimes I write.


“In his daze he almost didn’t notice, but it appeared the figures were merging closer together. It was ever so slight but he was sure it was not his imagination. Though his perception was off, he was not altogether mistaken. The figures were merely leaning in towards one another, but the act was executed so unnaturally slow and ghostlike that it nearly put him in a trance. It became hard to focus. His eyelids began to droop. Just as he was losing the light in his eyes the figures had bent so far in towards one another that their torches met with a crackling light that sobered him immediately.

Something was happening. The darkness was illuminated. The blaze rose as  the tongues of flame fought one another to lick the night sky, twisting and turning until there was a violent vortex of fire. When it all began it was like the roar of one thousand lions, but then exploded… or imploded into a deafening silence that was very much a sound in it’s self.

There seemed a great wind putting many things in motion.

The vortex tore the cloaks from the figures leaving ten skeletal configurations standing around this inferno, all in different states of disrepair. Ancient they seemed, relics of the past all cracked and craggy. They were aged and weathered to a leathery brown, though their bones seemed to glow to a putrid ocre in the fire light.

Now the blaze became less like flames and more like a white molten mass in constant motion only showing hints of various color here and there. As it rose higher it shown like a crimson column disappearing into the night abyss.

The trees were moving in such a way that it made a creaking sound that seemed a painful moan from the trees themselves. He became aware that the dead leaves that covered the ground were unaffected by the wind and remained motionless. Yet the living trees and he himself were being pulled around by a force he had until now mistaken for the wind. “

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