In lieu of a real content rich entry (sorry, my mind is so full with “other things” I only get to compose meaningful entries in my mind and never to post them …) this is via Judy. Even though I don’t think in image maps but linear word structures, this is fascinating.
I really like the fact that it features STUDENTS so prominently. 
The image is courtesy of http://www.wordle.net/
Filed under: Author, creativity, narratives | Tags: story, Wayland's Smithy
I didn’t know about this, and had meant to write about the excellent LICK 08 conference I went to yesterday, but Judy posted a wonderful story from their brilliant book on her blog on National Tell A Story day, and that prompted me to post a wee “story” myself. It might not be as unrelated to Virtual Worlds as you probably think.
Written a few years back, inspired by the Bronze shield found in the river Thames and Wayland’s Smithy near Avebury down in England. Why those two together? Don’t ask me, ask my unruly synapses.
Copyright Nicole Cargill-Kipar, 2005. All Rights Reserved.
Bleak.
Strong winds swept the grey planes of deserted lands. Storm tore into the ring of trees that stood exposed; stubborn amidst unleashed nature. Ancient oaks battled against fierce gale and needle-sharp rain, groans of shrieking wood pitched into the harsh howls of pitiless weather. Storm-hands clawed at desperate leaves, pulling to – and tearing fro – on slippery wet branches, brittle with the dying year.
Grey.
Time tread unchallenged through empty hours of lost days. Winds eased as light receded, merging with the approaching night. Sharp dagger-drops waned to constant drizzle and violent gusts lay down to rest.
Cold and damp land. Mist rose from the ground, reaching upwards to greet the worn-out rain. Haze thickened into fog, settling between the trees. Perfecting the ring-protection by smothering formerly battered branches. Weary wood rest exhausted, awaiting the impending night. Stalled, before the onslaught of another day.
Dead.
No sounds from living creatures. No birds. No four-footed beasts stalking the undergrowth nor seeking the massive stone-slabs in the circle’s centre. No signs of life, unlike the rich months of summer. They were all gone. Curled up in crevices beneath the ground; within the earth; between the stones.
Silent.
When Night touched Day in the monochrome flatness of Dusk, a shadow slid out between stones that sealed the tomb of forgotten past. Wafting, until mist married fog, giving birth to a shape. As in the air, so on the ground.
Patient.
