What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Lost Gods - by lillian Morpork

They appeared as black dots against the grey sky,
Dots that swiftly grew, swelled, became two
Huge ravens, Hugninn and Munnin.

The gleaming ebony heads swivelled, as they searched,
Seeking the one they had always served.
Black, shining eyes, farsighted, studied the ground,
The trees, the water, seeking, hoping,
The need to find him strong in their hearts.
Where was he? Where was the Alfather,
He of battle, wisdom, magic and poetry?
No matter how they searched,
They could see no sign.
No sign of their master.
Nor did they see his horse, Huge Sleipnir
Stallion of the eight legs, sired by Loki.
No sign of his wolves, Geri and Freki,
They did not see the deadly sword Gungnir,
Or the severed head of Mimir,
Telling him of the future.
That glint, was that the ring?
Draupnir? Swooping down, Muninn looked,
But no, it was just a gleam from a faceted rock.
On and on they flew, swooping down,
Spiralling up, but no where did they find
A sign of him they sought.
Nor of any of the others,
They did see lightning, but
It seemed to be natural,
Not Thor throwing his bolts.
No sign of Freya, or Baldir. Gone, all gone.
Only they were left. All they could do
Was to find the Rainbow Bridge,
And fly on, across, and enter
Valhalla. So they flew, up,
Over the bridge none but they could see,
And at last, they found him, feasting.
“Welcome!” he roared. “At last you are here,
“My Ravens, my Hugninn and Muninn,
“Memory and Thought, returned at last,
“To me, Odin, Alfather.”

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