Post by sanna on Aug 3, 2009 5:30:30 GMT -6
As much as it is always noon somewhere, it must be also Friday 
Anyhow, the Fellowship of the Ring was on telly last night, and no matter how many times I see it the fact that Mr Jackson has envisioned Gandalf sitting in a library with naked flame (and, the horror, smoking while reading ancient books) never fails to make me cringe. I also keep waiting for the Uruk-Hai running about holding their swords in hand to trip over a convenient tree root and skewer themselves on the spot. I mean, didn't their mothers teach them anything?
So, with a nervous grin I present to you the longest piece of fiction I've written in almost two decades.
Oh, and if the grammar seems unique in places English is not my native language.
Why Fire Safety Is No Laughing Matter
Among the piles of old books and parchments, Gandalf sucked his pipe and read. Isildur’s tale held him enthralled and his mind was filled with Frodo’s ring and the circumstances surrounding its finding and the powers it seemed to possess. He reached for the rare volume containing the last remaining records of the jewel-smiths of Ost-in-Edhil. There was little hope that the ring was not what he suspected it was but something less dangerous.
His sleeve caught the candlestick on the table. The world seemed to slow down as it fell. The fire leaped like a hungry beast to the old, crumbling and above all very, very dry documents. What followed was nothing short of an explosion. A split second before his body was destroyed Gandalf had time to think that he really should have heeded the head librarian’s warning and brought a safety lantern.
From the library the fire spread quickly to the upper levels of the city. The palace burned to the ground and on a courtyard the white tree went with it. Leaping from roof to roof the fire raged for three whole days until a rain began. Almost as many people were killed by the fire as by getting trampled in the chaotic, frantic stampede to get out of the inferno. Covered in ash and soot the survivors looked in horror at the remains of what had been their home and refuge in this uncertain world.
During these three days Sauron, watching things unfold through the palantir, smiled and smiled until he reached a most unholy point of glee. Orders were given, a few last-minute councils held and a couple of weeks later what was left of the city of Minas Tirith awoke to the sight of Mordor’s armies marching towards it across the Pelennor. Not all the allies of the Black Land had had time to answer Sauron’s call, but then again, there was no need for them now.
In a way the war was over before it had even begun.
Anyhow, the Fellowship of the Ring was on telly last night, and no matter how many times I see it the fact that Mr Jackson has envisioned Gandalf sitting in a library with naked flame (and, the horror, smoking while reading ancient books) never fails to make me cringe. I also keep waiting for the Uruk-Hai running about holding their swords in hand to trip over a convenient tree root and skewer themselves on the spot. I mean, didn't their mothers teach them anything?
So, with a nervous grin I present to you the longest piece of fiction I've written in almost two decades.
Oh, and if the grammar seems unique in places English is not my native language.
Why Fire Safety Is No Laughing Matter
Among the piles of old books and parchments, Gandalf sucked his pipe and read. Isildur’s tale held him enthralled and his mind was filled with Frodo’s ring and the circumstances surrounding its finding and the powers it seemed to possess. He reached for the rare volume containing the last remaining records of the jewel-smiths of Ost-in-Edhil. There was little hope that the ring was not what he suspected it was but something less dangerous.
His sleeve caught the candlestick on the table. The world seemed to slow down as it fell. The fire leaped like a hungry beast to the old, crumbling and above all very, very dry documents. What followed was nothing short of an explosion. A split second before his body was destroyed Gandalf had time to think that he really should have heeded the head librarian’s warning and brought a safety lantern.
From the library the fire spread quickly to the upper levels of the city. The palace burned to the ground and on a courtyard the white tree went with it. Leaping from roof to roof the fire raged for three whole days until a rain began. Almost as many people were killed by the fire as by getting trampled in the chaotic, frantic stampede to get out of the inferno. Covered in ash and soot the survivors looked in horror at the remains of what had been their home and refuge in this uncertain world.
During these three days Sauron, watching things unfold through the palantir, smiled and smiled until he reached a most unholy point of glee. Orders were given, a few last-minute councils held and a couple of weeks later what was left of the city of Minas Tirith awoke to the sight of Mordor’s armies marching towards it across the Pelennor. Not all the allies of the Black Land had had time to answer Sauron’s call, but then again, there was no need for them now.
In a way the war was over before it had even begun.
