Copyright PsychopeteÓ 2003
Carniverousity -
Turmoil uprooted the ground, retching from the depths of the earth's bowels.
Spewing rubble in every direction the turmoil twisted with no evident course or direction.
Flashing to growth as in an instant, it lunged forward - north from south - as a powered tower possessed, sweeping the ground.
As the tornado grew, a full funnel twisted ominously, engulfing the late autumn sky of orange and red.
It was powerfully black, spewing land, riches, dreams, and all that is of this world.
Facing the womb of the south stood two peaks. Pinnacles of thick black earth and rock, with the funnel lurching between them - seeming to hover over me, for I am standing there.
The turmoil stopped and retched forward upon reaching the near center of the peaks, as if to vomit, but was held back against it's will.
Wildly, the funnel struggled to move northward, but to no avail.
The path of destruction was thus modified and then halted.
From the peaks, the foreground of the hill slanted and sloped downward as to the depths of hell.
The turmoil, when released, it an all of the worldly treasures it holds, as well as the rubble, will slide down to the environs below.
As a cat's tail, jerking and twitching with the anxiety of cornered prey, the turmoil remains stationary between the mounts, crying to be released, but unable to move forward.
The turmoil knows that when released, the funnel will slide along the foreground slope with the force of a waterfall, crashing, swirling, proudly devouring all that it in it's path.
Spray of the Sea
Showing it's age in it's graying surface, a country hillside holds an unusual old lane, parting it up the middle.
On the road ahead, bordering the scenes where the hilltop and the sky meet, are particularly leafed maple trees.
Backed by a late autumn sky of orange and red, they display their browns and golds proudly. To the east is a bright orange sun.
A great blue wave crashes down from the sea and swallows half of the hillside. The road is cut in two to the horizon. The road becomes the shoreline, the bulkhead of the sea, with waves lapping at its banks.
All becomes calm.
The great Mediterranean is as glass.
The eastern row of maples border the old lane. The calm blue glass froze, as if ice. It is puzzling, for we are there.
The hills suddenly are a black background to the sea.
The spray of the sea, the force of it slicing the hillside, the warmth of the sun and the smell of the flowers and grasses, the calm of calm disappears.
We remain, but the spray does not, except in the sweat traveling slowly down our backs and the hairs that stand on the nape of my neck.
Block of Stone
In the distance stands a hill, flat-topped with an immense block of stone on the eastern perimeter.
The southern face sits in the shadow of two peaks, pinnacles of thick black earth and rock. The womb of the south.
The scene to the north is crystal clear.
Suddenly, a great cloud appears stopping to cast it's shadow on the pit below.
The pit, the bowels of the earth.
The autumn sun of orange is not blotted out, but freezes, as if in a context from ions before.
Seemingly awaiting a signal, the cloud seems hunched, ready to pounce upon the countryside below.
It is ice cold.
Fear is felt to the depths of the soul.
Freezing wind and power engulf us for we are there.
I remain, but the block of stone does not, except in the sweat traveling slowly down my back and the hairs that stand on the nape of my neck.
The Center of the Scenes
A white picket fence stretches as far as the eye can see, from north to south, around the ranch house, engulfed in a forest of fir trees of uneven height and scarce tops.
Soft green grass covers the foreground as a thick carpet.
The orange and red sky of late autumn seem so thick as to ooze.
In the midst of this tranquillity a westbound storm, black and menacing, engulfs the fullness of the autumn sky.
A wind, not imaginable in voracity, bends the fir trees to the breaking point, laying them flat.
The crushed and broken fence blows a lint amid the rubble of the home and the driving rain.
The grass is pressed flat.
We are frightened, for we are there.
Slowly, a full picture comes into view, our vantage now Aerial.
Gazing downward the orange sun of late autumn warms our backs.
High above the scene is thick, blue sky.
Below is the sea bordering the road.
To the left is an ominous cloud peaking anxiously over the corner of the plateau.
In front we see a devastated home and forest with a storm manipulating the weakened land.
To the right is a cat tail funnel, lurking anxiously, fighting to be released.
In the center of the four scenes, which surround the pit, are all of the last things of the world, and all of the good things that have now been taken.
Now the forces shall be let loose.
They will collide, destroy, and devastate all of the last of this world.
They will so do unencumbered, unrestrained and uncontrolled, as never since the beginning of time.
