“It wasn’t long before they stumbled across a great path outlined in little pebbles and shells, which stretched on for as far as the eye could see. The little path lead up a large green mountainside, once at the top they discovered the path spilt into six different directions.
In the center of this intersection lie a large old stone with the strange carvings of an ancient face dug into it. On the ground around the stone face there were old writings in a language Missy could not recognize, she had only just started learning algebra in school, and could swear the carved letters looked an awful like what Mrs. Matthews was teaching in classes. She said as much to Thomas as he had taken to running his hands along the inscriptions to gain a better look.
Thomas laughed at this, “Don’t be silly Missy,” he giggled. “These writings look indigenous in some way, perhaps tribal to this area or some other eastern place,” Thomas ran his hands over the markings once more, “Still, if I had to guess I’d say these markings would tell us where each of these paths could take us.-excerpt from Christina Long’s Missy Adventures, an Unoveled Novel
For indeed it was an odd world these two had fallen into. Black fantastic shapes of gleaming goldless forms, unknown boberries and troubleries, eloquiries and other things. It had me guessing more a fortnight what they should soon discover here.
would that dreams could be real but then, perhaps they already are. to have said a better nature tone towards whats unsaid in trolling times of need. children know so much these days, are grown to 30 not long before 6 and 7- have jobs to do, plans to lay out-charms to decipher .
there is a flatness to my world which causes much gray, but i hope they learn to see through it- an evil genius i may be in the old tongue, playing to a new song, for contemporaries who cannot see the world they knew is no longer as free as free should be on different scales of antiquities. obscurity is the spice of this moment in which over the hills we shall discover the shortest form of backwards walkings, talkings and writings, in riddles and without, in time and without, in mis-spelling but without a distant sort of dream, i could but hope to see in the eyes of two fair children in an unfair situation. these are my thoughts tonight which stand without a night behind them, into thinking a sunlit way and without, not without but for not withstanding and withholding.