A stream of conciousness exercise

In he midst of the dark heat, the mangrove moves into the boiling rocks. The rocks intrude into his ripples, muscles tensing and sweat wrung from pores aright. In the dark heat no water quenches, the pulls and prods of mad rails increases as the mangrove progresses. The images of past souls intrude in his mind and give strength to the mangrove as he reaches the valley and begins his climax. The place of the dark night is the place of testing, of crucibles and fire untainted. The mangrove sweats toxins and bleeds passion.  The place of the heat is the place nearest to his Lord. The breath of the lord makes the hills melt and the presence is so near that all else is obscured, the brightness of the Lord making the eyes see naught in the blaze.  The mangrove presses on, the hot wind scours his skin and removes layer after layer of growth, until from the mangrove appears a man, with skin like an infant and tender as the dawn.

Wailing cat heights.

In the beginning there was no way to determine how the place would respond to the harmonic disturbance caused by the wailing cats. Wailing cat was the nickname given to the sonic emitter designed by Doctor Bryson’s son’s uncle’s dog. Fido had taken a four in copper tube and wrapped it in wire, attaching the motor from an electric mouse play toy and a nine-volt battery. The wailing started small but it got him thinking. Soon he had attached his contraption to the empty plumbing of the vacant house next door. When he powered it on the vibrations created waves in the hardwood floors. Giddy, he created more emitters tying in the faulty wiring and ventilation systems of the old house.

Now here he was, wearing some old brass goggles he found at the junkyard, and his ears stuffed with the contents of three pillows, standing nervously shaking over the ignition switch. “One small step for dog…” he thought as he turned the crank and the vibrations began to crank up. The house became jello. The liquid convulsions of the structure made him want very badly to go for walkies. As he ran out of the house the substance of things seemed to be changing. The wood, while it looked like wood was rippling like water. The concrete blocks seemed to be melting and like sand dunes were piling in strange serpentine waves.

Fido made it out on to the street in time to see the very air making a run for it, tearing leaves from trees and leaving behind a sepia void. On the wave of destruction ran, and Fido ran barely ahead of it. He felt the hair on the tip of his tail flung from its place and he tucked it between his legs as he quickened his pace.

Suddenly he realized that the expanding bubble behind him had stopped. He spun around on the bank of a river to see the results of his handiwork. There behind him the neighborhood had become a large jello salad incased in a round jiggling mold. Creatures far and wide came to eat his hometown. The end.