The Feminist Short Story Of The Great Beacons

Once upon a long time ago, there was a hero, named Internatus. He was the hero who made history, made a difference in his kingdom. But not for who you think, he spoke for the trees, just like the trees spoke to him. Yes, he could communicate with things in nature, he was isolated, the whole village thought of him as strange and different. But Internatus was a smart young man, he was 17 and had mastered his speaking abilities. Even though he enjoyed speaking with the flowers and the grass, he most enjoyed speaking with the trees. He enjoyed it so much, whenever they requested anything, he would satisfy. One day they gave him a request that changed his life, the trees were tired of staying green. They wanted to be able to change color, Internatus was convinced to do anything for them, because only they accepted him. So Internatus grabbed his satchel, and took off seeking the queen. He knew the queen lived in the east, in a stone barren area, the whole place containing lava. She was a beautiful queen, on the outside, but on the inside she was as nasty and horrid as her surroundings. Internatus began his journey, he began walking, until he noticed someone was trailing him. He began to run, but the person kept chasing him, until the person caught up to him and grabbed him. When Internatus turned around, he flipped the person’s hood, it was an old man. The old man looked at him and said

The stars are bright and radiant-- their numbers are vast beyond all imagination. They shine in the dark sky, like billions of little lights hanging from nonexistent threads. It is a reality that not many people stop to admire. In the city people sink down into their couches at night and drift away, eventually, to the slumber that most people crave. But the stars, shining endlessly, are there night after night, in the rain and even in the snow. If you just stop for a moment, on a night with no clouds, and look up, you will see this magnificent

The women we now call Native Americans were actually natives of Asia who lived and died twenty thousand years ago. (Cott, Nancy F. No Small Courage: A History of Women in the United States. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000. Print.) These rugged women roamed the wilderness and survived by hunting and lived like the Stone Age. As time passed on their lives became transformed, by 500 B.C. Native Americans started to practice farming crops, squash, peppers, and flowers( sunflowers), this continued right up until present day. (pg. 4)

They vainly search for some source of light until they finally discover small dancing lights and go toward them. As they grow closer they discover the lights are the torches and bonfires lit in the center of a festival thrown by Wood Elves. To their surprize every time they step into the circle of light, the torches go out and the fires blacken.

I have heard stories of a light so bright it could light up a world. A light so bright it caused darkness to hide in the shadows, bringing life to a world known as earth. On aged videos, with poor audio, there are the playbacks of streams flowing in crooked banks. The water sparkles, catching the light and playing with the shine, allowing glints and sparks. Ancient animals with black and white stripes, huge mains, or long necks, ruled dry lands where the sun poured throughout. It's beautiful, or it was beautiful.

“I saw an extremely strong, sparkling, fiery light coming from the open heavens. It pierced my brain, my heart and my breasts through and through like a flame which did not burn; however, it warmed me. It heated me up very much like the sun warns an object on which it is pouring out rays.”

The mentality wounded were no longer newsworthy. The smell of human sweat and decay along with feces and vomit permeated the room. A slight breeze from the hole in the roof seemed only to fan the intensity of the stench.

Wind whistling through his helmet-less head, Sir Archibald rode steadily through the forest clearing. He was making very good time, he thought to himself, despite the lack of a formal path through this seldom-travelled area. It was but a half-hour until he arrived, to a less than grand cobblestone tower whose age left it plastered in moss and creepers. Rumors had been spread in hushed tones for centuries of a nondescript tower that held unimaginable treasure. Equally unimaginable was the supposed guardian. Some swore a dragon defended it, others demons or witches. Archibald knew these rumors all too well. Despite the fear twisting a knot in his stomach, he steeled his resolve, donning his helmet.

The room reeks of body odour and a strong metallic smell, which follows more often than not after injuries take place. The familiar smell of blood is now an unpleasant effluvium that I recognise all too well nowadays.

The bed covers were a brown-reddish color and looked like they had been passed through a trash-compactor, the walls were covered in blood, vomit, bile, and various other substances that couldn’t be recognised on sight. But worst of all, was the scene in the middle of the one room hut; the large family consisting of a mother and her six kids huddled around a man who was lying by a fire, eyes glazed over and yellow. As we watched, the man suddenly pitched up and vomited a pool of blood with black specks in it, then lay down and closed his eyes. Oh, my God gasped the surgeon, who was by now retching himself. The family then proceeded to take the man outside, and, without emotion, dumped the body in a nearby river.

“Her long shadow fell to the water’s edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose…”

What stood before me left me in shock. There she was, my baby sister, in the flesh. Her eyes were bloodshot with thick bags under them, as if she hadn’t slept for decades. Her knuckles were ripped raw and bruised, and her fingernails looked to be gnawed off. Her breathing sounded dry and rough.

The Kingdom of the Sun was born when a star of fire fell from the heavens, the heat of the star was so immense that it decimated the valleys and greenery for a radius of 1,000,000

When either sun or moon takes over, the light of consciousness, and thus truth in its entirety, becomes compromised. Scientists and poets make good examples of the two halves of the equation of truth. The clinicians and the scientists, guided by the light of the sun, can attain breath-taking insights and bristling clarity into their areas of study. They are concerned with pure, objective truth, albeit a one-sided truth.

Tales of where the sun is described as scorching, flaming sometimes even as blazing and golden ball in the sky would be the sort of thing her mother would tell her. The old woman would go on and on, voicing out fairy tales she had heard when she was a mere adolescent; stories she had caught during her travels as an adult. Growing up, the only thing that came even close to what she described was a faint, dim honey glow during what she said was daybreak. Even now, the sun right here and now cannot compare to the sun in her stories.