#allegory — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #allegory, aggregated by home.social.
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✮ To That Potted Plant ✮
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Subscribe #AbandonedHouse #Adventure #Allegory #Ambition #AncientHills #Authenticity #author #BreakingFree #Change #Character #Clutter #Cobwebs #Confidence #ConstantlyEvolving #ContemporaryLiterature #Courage #CrackedWindows #CreakyWheels #CreativeNonfiction #CruelWorld #Curiosity #Determination #Dreams #Dusting #EmotionalGrowth #Empowerment #Erwinism #Evolution #Existentialism #Failure #Forgiveness #ForgottenPlaces #Freedom #FYP #Garden #GrowUp #GrowthMindset #Hope #HopefulWriting #HumanPotential #HumanSpirit #Identity #Independence #Individuality #InnerStrength #Inspiration #InspirationalWriting #Introspection #Ivy #IvyCrept #JadePlant #Journey #KeepLearning #Learning #LettingGo #Liberation #Life #LifeLessons #LiteraryEssay #LongJourney #Love #Meaning #Memories #metaphor #mindset #Motivation #MotivationalWriting #Nature #NewBeginnings #NotGoodEnough #OldHouse #Opportunity #OvercomingDoubt #OvercomingFear #PeelingPaint #Perseverance #PersonalDevelopment #PersonalGrowth #PhilosophicalWriting #photography #PoeticProse #Poetry #Possibility #PottedPlant #Progress #Prose #ProveYourself #Purpose #Rebirth #Reflection #ReflectiveProse #Renewal #Resilience #Rust #RustyTracks #SelfBelief #SelfAcceptance #SelfDiscovery #selfImprovement #SelfWorth #StagnatingTown #SteamTrain #SternFaces #Symbolism #TimeForgot #TrainTracks #Transformation #Travel #TrustYourself #VintageTown #WeepingSun #Wisdom #Withering #writer #Writing -
In Somnia
A Journey Through the Land of Night and Morning
Here is a more narrative version, following the journey through the
#allegory #Anxiety #ClockworkPlains #ContemplativeWriting #dreamscape #Faith #fantasyJourney #ForestOfSpinningThoughts #God #Grace #Healing #Hope #InSomnia #innerChaos #Insomnia #mentalUnrest #Mercy #MirrorLakesOfSelfDoubt #peace #QuietInn #Rest #RiverOfMercy #selfJudgment #sleeplessness #SpiritualReflection #suspensionOfJudgment #ThresholdOfMorning #ValleyOfGrace
In Somnia
A Journey Thr
I entered Somnia through the Border of Yesterday.
I did not know when I crossed it. There was no gate, no guard, no stone marker beside the road. One moment I was lying awake in my room, staring into the darkness, and the next I was walking beneath a sky crowded with stars.
Behind me stood the day that had ended, though it had not released me. Its conversations, mistakes, hopes, and unfinished tasks clung to my clothing like burrs. Ahead, somewhere beyond the hills, lay morning. I could see a faint golden light on the horizon, but it seemed impossibly far away.
A weathered sign leaned beside the road.
SOMNIA
The Land Between Night and Morning, Sleep and Wakefulness.
I had heard of this country, though I had never seen it drawn on any ordinary map. Travelers entered it when the body longed for rest but the mind refused to surrender. Some wandered there only briefly. Others became lost among its winding roads and strange provinces.
I carried no provisions except my hopes for the coming day.
They were heavier than I had expected.
I wanted the day to go well. I wanted to be joyful, caring, gracious, and generous. I wanted to say the right things, notice the people who needed noticing, and allow God to work through me. Every hope had seemed beautiful when I gathered it, but now they crowded upon my shoulders like sacks of stones.
The road curved downward into the Province of Restless Hopes.
The province was filled with unfinished towers.
Everywhere I looked, builders worked by lantern light. They raised arches toward destinations that did not yet exist. They constructed stages for events that had not begun and rehearsed speeches for audiences that had not arrived. Bells rang from every direction, calling people to prepare for possibilities.
A merchant hurried toward me carrying a tray of tiny glass futures.
“Would you like to see how tomorrow may go?” he asked.
Inside each glass sphere was a different version of the coming day. In one, everything unfolded beautifully. In another, I stumbled over my words. In a third, someone misunderstood me. In a fourth, I was too exhausted to be kind.
I leaned closer.
The spheres multiplied.
Soon the merchant’s table stretched farther than I could see, covered with hundreds of possible tomorrows. I tried to examine each one, believing that if I studied them carefully enough I might prevent disappointment.
But the more futures I considered, the less prepared I felt.
At last, I fled the province and followed a narrow road into the Thorn Fields of Worry.
The thorns grew higher than my shoulders. Each branch bent toward me and whispered.
You will be exhausted tomorrow.
You will disappoint someone.
You speak of peace, but look at the chaos within you.
What if you are not as gracious as you wish to be?
What if the day is ruined before it begins?
The thorns caught my clothing. When I tried to pull free, they tightened.
I began answering them.
“I know,” I said.
“Yes, perhaps.”
“I should be better.”
“I should be calmer.”
“I should already be asleep.”
With every answer, the thorns grew stronger.
Soon I was kneeling in the field, unable to move, while the stars stared down like silent witnesses. I felt as though all Somnia had become a courtroom and I was both the accused and the judge.
Then I heard water.
A river flowed not far from the field, silver beneath the moon. I tore myself loose from the thorns and stumbled toward it.
Its name was written upon a stone bridge:
THE RIVER OF MERCY
I knelt at the bank and washed the scratches from my hands. The water was cold, but gentle. It carried no accusation.
An old ferryman waited beneath the bridge.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To morning,” I told him.
“Most travelers say that.”
“I need to get there quickly. I must sleep before the day begins.”
The ferryman looked toward the distant golden horizon.
“The harder you chase morning in Somnia,” he said, “the farther away it often becomes.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Travel honestly.”
He invited me into his boat.
We drifted along the River of Mercy without speaking. As we passed beneath overhanging trees, I saw words reflected in the water.
I am wired, but I am not wicked.
I am unsettled, but I am not lost.
The peace I offer others is also meant for me.
I reached toward the reflections, but the water scattered them into ripples.
“Were those words meant for me?” I asked.
“Mercy is always meant for the one who believes it belongs only to others,” the ferryman replied.
He left me near the Mirror Lakes of Self-Doubt.
Two lakes lay side by side beneath pale trees. Their surfaces were perfectly still. When I looked into the first, I did not see my face. I saw the person I wished to be: peaceful, composed, generous, patient, filled with joy.
When I looked into the second lake, I saw myself as I feared I was: anxious, restless, self-absorbed, exhausted, broadcasting peace while carrying disorder within.
I turned from one lake to the other, unable to decide which reflection was true.
A woman sat between them, mending a torn cloak.
“Which lake should I believe?” I asked.
“Neither tells the whole truth,” she replied.
“But one shows who I should be, and the other shows who I am.”
“No,” she said. “One shows your longing. The other shows your fear.”
“Then where is my true reflection?”
She pointed toward the river behind me.
“Moving water reflects differently than still water. You are not a finished image.”
I remained beside the lakes for a long while. I had always thought grace would show me a better reflection. Instead, it asked me to stop confusing any single reflection with the whole of who I was.
From the lakes, a narrow road wound toward the Forest of Spinning Thoughts.
The trees there grew in circles. Their branches curled back upon themselves, and every path eventually returned to where it began. Owls watched from the shadows as I walked.
I thought about tomorrow.
Then I thought about being tired tomorrow.
Then I thought about how worrying about being tired would make me more tired.
Then I worried that I was wasting the little time remaining for sleep.
Then I thought about the fact that I was thinking too much.
Around and around I went.
At the center of the forest, I discovered an enormous wheel turning between the trees. Hundreds of thoughts were tied to it like ribbons. Each time the wheel revolved, the same thoughts returned.
A small child stood beside the wheel.
“Who keeps it turning?” I asked.
“You do,” the child said.
I placed my hands against the wheel and tried to stop it. It crushed my palms and continued turning.
“You cannot stop it by fighting it,” the child said.
“What else can I do?”
“Step away from it.”
That seemed too simple.
Nevertheless, I stepped back.
The wheel continued to turn, but I no longer turned with it.
For the first time, I understood that a thought could pass before me without becoming a command, a prophecy, or a verdict.
The child led me to the edge of the forest, where a pale road crossed the hills.
A sign named it:
THE PATH OF SUSPENSION OF JUDGMENT
The path was guarded by a robed figure carrying neither weapon nor scales. Behind the figure stood a closed courthouse with no lights in its windows.
“State the charges,” the guardian said.
I began listing them.
“I am not peaceful enough.”
The guardian nodded.
“I am too anxious.”
Another nod.
“I tell others about grace, but I am hard on myself.”
The guardian waited.
“I may be exhausted tomorrow.”
“Is that a crime?” the guardian asked.
“No.”
“Is anxiety a moral failure?”
“No.”
“Is weariness proof of hypocrisy?”
I looked toward the ground.
“No.”
“Then why have you brought yourself here for sentencing?”
I had no answer.
The guardian opened a ledger, dipped a quill into ink, and wrote across the page:
NO VERDICT SHALL BE RENDERED IN THE LIGHTLESS HOUR.
The courthouse doors disappeared.
“Walk on,” the guardian said. “You may reconsider your life after sunrise, food, and rest. Not before.”
Beyond the path lay the Clockwork Plains.
Thousands of clocks grew from the earth. Some were as small as flowers. Others towered above villages. Every clock displayed a different time, yet all of them ticked together.
The sound filled the air.
Tick: You have fewer hours left to sleep.
Tick: Tomorrow is coming.
Tick: You should be asleep by now.
Tick: Count how much rest remains.
I covered my ears, but the clocks seemed to tick inside my bones.
At the center of the plains stood a great clock tower. Its keeper leaned from a window.
“Tell me the time,” I called.
“The time for what?”
“For sleep.”
He shrugged.
“There is no such hour here.”
“But surely you know how much of the night remains.”
“I know many travelers have been harmed by that knowledge.”
He descended and placed a cloth over the clock I carried in my pocket.
“In Somnia,” he said, “the clock does not measure rest. It measures fear of not resting.”
He instructed me to leave the covered clock at the foot of the tower.
I did so reluctantly.
Without it, I did not know whether I had hours or minutes before dawn. Yet the sky did not collapse. Morning continued approaching at its own pace.
Past the plains, the road climbed toward Starwatch Ridge.
The air grew colder. At the summit stood an observatory with an open roof. An astronomer looked through a brass instrument at the night sky.
“Are the stars watching me?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “You are watching yourself through them.”
She invited me to look.
Through the instrument I saw not stars but my hopes, scattered across the darkness: the people I wanted to encourage, the peace I hoped to embody, the generosity I wanted to offer, the goodness I hoped the day might contain.
“They are beautiful,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“They are also exhausting.”
“Only because you are trying to hold them all in place.”
She adjusted the instrument.
The stars continued shining without my assistance.
“Hopes do not need to be abandoned,” she said. “But they may be entrusted.”
“To whom?”
She pointed toward the center of the map, where a faint light pulsed beyond the hills.
“The road will show you.”
I descended from Starwatch Ridge into the Valley of Grace.
Nothing dramatic happened there.
No angel appeared. No sudden sleep fell upon me. No voice promised that tomorrow would be easy.
The valley was simply quiet.
People moved slowly through vineyards and gardens. No one hurried. No one appeared to be proving anything. Some worked. Some rested beneath trees. Some sat beside those who were weeping.
A gardener offered me bread.
“I have nothing to give in return,” I said.
“Then receive it,” she replied.
I ate.
It was more difficult than I expected.
I knew how to offer grace as an idea. I knew how to speak of compassion, mercy, and peace. But receiving them without earning them felt almost unbearable.
“I want to be joyful, caring, gracious, and generous,” I told the gardener.
“A worthy longing.”
“I want God to work in spite of me.”
She smiled.
“Why only in spite of you?”
“Because I am full of chaos.”
“God has worked with stranger materials.”
“What must I do?”
“Stop treating yourself as an obstruction God must overcome.”
She handed me a small seed.
“What is it?”
“Grace.”
“It looks ordinary.”
“It often does.”
I planted it beside the road.
Nothing immediately grew.
From the valley, I followed the river until night deepened again. At last I saw a warm light beside the water.
It came from the Quiet Inn.
A lantern hung above the door, and beneath it was written:
REST FOR THE WEARY TRAVELER
The innkeeper welcomed me without asking how far I had come or whether I had traveled well.
“I cannot promise I will sleep,” I said.
“You are not required to.”
“What kind of inn does not require sleeping?”
“One that offers rest.”
Inside stood a long table. I placed my hopes upon it one by one: joy, kindness, grace, generosity, peace, a good day, the wish not to disappoint anyone, the desire to be useful to God.
The innkeeper placed each hope into a wooden bowl.
“Will they be safe here?”
“Safer than upon your shoulders.”
“Will I receive them again?”
“If morning requires them.”
“And if tomorrow goes badly?”
“Then you will meet it imperfectly, as all travelers do.”
I lay down near the fire.
Sleep did not come at once.
But for the first time, I stopped pursuing it.
I listened to the river. I felt the weight of the blankets. I allowed the night to be night without demanding that it become morning.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, I heard bells.
Not the frantic bells of the Province of Restless Hopes, nor the ticking alarms of the Clockwork Plains. These bells were low and gentle.
I rose and discovered a final road leading from the inn toward the center of Somnia.
It brought me to a walled sanctuary.
Above its gate were the words:
THE HEART OF GOD
A Sanctuary of Rest and Perfect Love
I hesitated outside.
“I am not ready,” I said.
The gate opened anyway.
Within the sanctuary, there were no clocks, mirrors, courtrooms, or merchants of possible futures. The hopes I had left at the inn were already there, floating like lamps upon a pool.
A presence met me—not as accusation, demand, or solution, but as welcome.
I began to explain myself.
I spoke of the chaos within me.
I spoke of how I proclaimed peace but could not always feel it.
I spoke of my fear that exhaustion would make me less kind.
I spoke of my longing to be gracious.
I spoke until I had no defense left.
Then, in the silence, I understood:
I had not arrived at the Heart of God because I had successfully crossed Somnia.
The Heart of God had accompanied me through every place.
It had been the water in the River of Mercy.
It had been the woman beside the Mirror Lakes.
It had been the child who taught me to step away from the wheel.
It had closed the midnight courtroom.
It had covered the clock.
It had held the stars without my help.
It had offered bread in the Valley of Grace.
It had kept the lamp burning at the Quiet Inn.
God had not waited for me at the end of the journey.
God had traveled through the chaos with me.
Beyond the sanctuary walls, the horizon began to brighten. The Threshold of Morning stood open.
I did not know whether I had slept for hours, minutes, or not at all. I did not know how tired I would be or how the day would unfold.
But the future no longer appeared to be a kingdom I had to conquer.
It was only a road.
Before leaving Somnia, I looked back at the country through which I had traveled: the thorn fields, spinning forest, mirror lakes, clockwork plains, river, valley, and inn.
None of them had vanished.
Perhaps I would visit them again.
But now I knew there were paths between them. I knew there was mercy in the landscape. I knew judgment could be suspended. I knew hopes could be entrusted. I knew that rest might begin before sleep arrived.
At the Threshold of Morning, I found a final inscription carved into the gate:
Do not judge your life by the lightless hour.
Walk gently.
Dream wisely.
Love deeply.
You are still held.
Then I crossed into the day.This version could also serve as the opening chapter of a longer In Somnia allegory, with each region becoming its own chapter. -
✮ The Pop Has Finally Lost Its Fizzle ✮
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Subscribe #Allegory #ArtisticFreedom #Authenticity #author #Authority #books #Bureaucracy #Change #Class #Conformity #ContemporaryLiterature #ContemporaryPhilosophy #CreativeNonfiction #CreativeWriting #CriticalThinking #CulturalCritique #CulturalObservation #CulturalReflection #Dignity #Erwinism #EssayCollection #Ethics #Existentialism #ExperimentalProse #Freedom #FreedomOfSpeech #FreedomOfThought #FYP #Hope #HumanCondition #HumanNature #HumanSpirit #Identity #IdentityPolitics #IndependentThinking #IndependentVoice #Individuality #Inspiration #InstitutionalPower #IntellectualFreedom #Introspection #Irony #Justice #Labels #Language #Learning #Life #LiteraryEssay #LiteraryJournal #LiteraryProse #Literature #Love #metaphor #ModernEssay #ModernLife #Morality #Motivation #Nonconformity #Oppression #OriginalWriting #personalReflection #Perspective #PhilosophicalWriting #Philosophy #Poem #Poems #Poetry #PowerDynamics #Progress #ProsePoetry #Rebellion #ReflectiveWriting #Resilience #Resistance #Satire #SelfExpression #SocialCommentary #SocialCriticism #SocialObservation #SocialPressure #Society #Storytelling #SymbolicWriting #Symbolism #ThoughtProvoking #Tradition #UrbanWriting #Voice #WorkplaceCulture #writer #Writing -
Big Fish Eat Little Fish (1556) by Bruegel the Elder, Pieter van der Heyden.
Source: The Metropolitan Museum
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/f00d6c19-b57a-48fb-98bc-50d07e811d37
#ladders #whales #power #proverbs #fish #injustice #allegory #eating #boats #art #publicdomain
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Big Fish Eat Little Fish (1556) by Bruegel the Elder, Pieter van der Heyden.
Source: The Metropolitan Museum
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/f00d6c19-b57a-48fb-98bc-50d07e811d37
#ladders #whales #power #proverbs #fish #injustice #allegory #eating #boats #art #publicdomain
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Illustration by Wilhelm Dilich, from Historische Beschreibung der Kindtauf des Fräuleins Elisabeth zu Hessen (1598).
Source: @bsbmuenchen
Available to buy as a print.
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/fd5ead32-0b5a-4c3b-a321-a43b1060b09e
#watercolours #royalty #botanical-art #processions #games #allegory #pageantry #parties #flowers #knights #plants #art #publicdomain
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Illustration by Wilhelm Dilich, from Historische Beschreibung der Kindtauf des Fräuleins Elisabeth zu Hessen (1598).
Source: @bsbmuenchen
Available to buy as a print.
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/fd5ead32-0b5a-4c3b-a321-a43b1060b09e
#watercolours #royalty #botanical-art #processions #games #allegory #pageantry #parties #flowers #knights #plants #art #publicdomain
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Declare Independence from High Prices!
download for free & enjoy the latest novel in the series zone of influence: strike 3!
in this the 'how-to' guide to #apocalypse V unlikely heroes karl & pedro with help from Celie&Mrs. Wilson, death, AIrre the Quantum and some flying monkeys step in front of God's plan hoping to ameliorate the #endtimes
https://peterfisherbooks.com #noadsnotracking #humanauthor #allegory #scify #writing #amwriting -
Declare Independence from High Prices!
download for free & enjoy the latest novel in the series zone of influence: strike 3!
in this the 'how-to' guide to #apocalypse V unlikely heroes karl & pedro with help from Celie&Mrs. Wilson, death, AIrre the Quantum and some flying monkeys step in front of God's plan hoping to ameliorate the #endtimes
https://peterfisherbooks.com #noadsnotracking #humanauthor #allegory #scify #writing #amwriting -
Illustration by Wilhelm Dilich, from Historische Beschreibung der Kindtauf des Fräuleins Elisabeth zu Hessen (1598).
Source: @bsbmuenchen
Available to buy as a print.
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/547354f0-9a51-4241-829b-60ac008909a1
#watercolours #royalty #costumes #botanical-art #processions #landscape #allegory #parties #flowers #castles #plants #art #publicdomain
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Illustration by Wilhelm Dilich, from Historische Beschreibung der Kindtauf des Fräuleins Elisabeth zu Hessen (1598).
Source: @bsbmuenchen
Available to buy as a print.
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/547354f0-9a51-4241-829b-60ac008909a1
#watercolours #royalty #costumes #botanical-art #processions #landscape #allegory #parties #flowers #castles #plants #art #publicdomain
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The Last Exchange: A Mythic Parable
After months of grueling war, the Gavaun leaders welcomed the Oshkin leaders to their tent to entertain conversations of peace. Hearts among the two nations were as hard as could be, and no civilian expected that this would be the moment that would curve things in a better direction.
As the Oshkin leaders approached the entrance, the Gavaun soldiers at the door demanded that they surrender all their belongings. Though insulted by these demands, the Oshkin reluctantly submitted to the rules. They removed their priceless rings and sacred necklaces, emptied their pockets into the hands of the smirking soldiers, and entered the tent. With the Oshkin out of sight, the soldiers chuckled and threw the objects into the trash.
As you can imagine, peace was not found that day.
Months went by, and the tides of war shifted. It was now the Oshkin that welcomed the Gavaun leaders to their tent to discuss the possibilities of peace. As the Gavaun approached the tent door, they were met by Oshkin soldiers demanding that they surrender all of their belongings before entering. The faces of the Gavaun fell. They had heard the stories of what their soldiers had done. At the time, they had even gotten a laugh out of it. But now they knew their retribution had come. They sighed heavily and removed their priceless rings and sacred necklaces, and emptied their pockets into their enemies’ hands.
Hours later, the Gavaun leaders left the tent quickly, their pace fueled by their anger. As they reached the gate, they heard one of the soldiers call out for them. “Sirs! Your belongings?”
The Gavauns stopped in their tracks. Surely this was a trick. Would they not be mocked when they turned around? They whispered to each other for a moment, and then one of them turned around and walked up to the soldier. He quickly grabbed their things from the soldier’s hand, and then they swiftly made their exit.
Peace was not found that day either.
Months went by, and the tides of war shifted once again. As the Oshkin approached the gate, they were surprised to find the Gavaun leaders outside the tent, one of them standing in front of a table holding what appeared to be a wrapped gift.
“You were humane with us when we were inhumane with you,” said the leader. “We cannot recover your priceless rings and your sacred necklaces, nor the items you kept in your pockets. While we do not know if peace will be found today, we would like to offer you this gift to make reparations for our behavior.”
The Gavaun pulled the bow as the box walls fell over to reveal an ornate sand timer.
“The sand timer is one of the greatest symbols among the Gavaun people, and this one was carved by our most acclaimed craftsman. Our most sacred lessons and stories are tied to this symbol, and it carries many meanings. In this case, it represents our desire to turn back time to better honor your first visit. But just as time moves forward no matter how you turn the timer, so can we only do our best to do better with the time ahead of us.”
As you can imagine, hearts began to soften. But peace was not found that day.
As the months went by, the tides of war shifted, and the Gavaun came to discuss peace at the Oshkin tent. The Oshkin leaders were found outside their tent, one of them standing behind a table holding a cylindrical box. The leader confessed that the Gavaun’s previous gift should have softened their hearts more than it did and that peace should have been found sooner. They now wished to reciprocate by giving a gift of their own. As the Oshkin began to slowly pull the tall cylindrical top off the gift, the brightest, golden glow you could ever imagine blinded the eyes of all who looked upon it. The solid orb that was revealed must have been made of the most refined gold in the world.
Peace was found that day.
Peace Day became a holiday, and a new tradition was established. Every year, the Gavauns and the Oshkins would gather for a new kind of war: a “gift-off,” I suppose you might call it. Each nation would present a gift to the other to see whose might be better. It became an intriguing display of craftsmanship and culture, as each nation would explain the significance of what they had offered the other.
This tradition continued for about a century, until one particular exchange between an Oshkin man and a Gavaun woman brought it to a sudden end. The man and the woman unveiled their nation’s gift at the same time, revealing the exact same gift: a large crystal glass with a small amount of gleaming white wine at the bottom. Both the glass and the liquid shone in the sun as all who gathered for the exchange looked at it with mouths agape. Neither nation had to explain the gift, for both realized in that moment that they had the same story. No greater gift could have possibly been given, and for that reason, the tradition no longer needed to continue.
“Do you hear that?” the woman said to the man.
The man looked around, listening closely, but heard nothing. He shook his head.
“It’s as though the beat of every sacred song ever written is contained in that cup.”
#allegory #craftsmanship #enemies #fantasy #fiction #forgiveness #generosity #gifts #grace #hope #hospitality #mythology #parable #peace #reconciliation #redemption #reparations #sacredStories #symbolicStorytelling #worldbuilding -
The Last Exchange: A Mythic Parable
After months of grueling war, the Gavaun leaders welcomed the Oshkin leaders to their tent to entertain conversations of peace. Hearts among the two nations were as hard as could be, and no civilian expected that this would be the moment that would curve things in a better direction.
As the Oshkin leaders approached the entrance, the Gavaun soldiers at the door demanded that they surrender all their belongings. Though insulted by these demands, the Oshkin reluctantly submitted to the rules. They removed their priceless rings and sacred necklaces, emptied their pockets into the hands of the smirking soldiers, and entered the tent. With the Oshkin out of sight, the soldiers chuckled and threw the objects into the trash.
As you can imagine, peace was not found that day.
Months went by, and the tides of war shifted. It was now the Oshkin that welcomed the Gavaun leaders to their tent to discuss the possibilities of peace. As the Gavaun approached the tent door, they were met by Oshkin soldiers demanding that they surrender all of their belongings before entering. The faces of the Gavaun fell. They had heard the stories of what their soldiers had done. At the time, they had even gotten a laugh out of it. But now they knew their retribution had come. They sighed heavily and removed their priceless rings and sacred necklaces, and emptied their pockets into their enemies’ hands.
Hours later, the Gavaun leaders left the tent quickly, their pace fueled by their anger. As they reached the gate, they heard one of the soldiers call out for them. “Sirs! Your belongings?”
The Gavauns stopped in their tracks. Surely this was a trick. Would they not be mocked when they turned around? They whispered to each other for a moment, and then one of them turned around and walked up to the soldier. He quickly grabbed their things from the soldier’s hand, and then they swiftly made their exit.
Peace was not found that day either.
Months went by, and the tides of war shifted once again. As the Oshkin approached the gate, they were surprised to find the Gavaun leaders outside the tent, one of them standing in front of a table holding what appeared to be a wrapped gift.
“You were humane with us when we were inhumane with you,” said the leader. “We cannot recover your priceless rings and your sacred necklaces, nor the items you kept in your pockets. While we do not know if peace will be found today, we would like to offer you this gift to make reparations for our behavior.”
The Gavaun pulled the bow as the box walls fell over to reveal an ornate sand timer.
“The sand timer is one of the greatest symbols among the Gavaun people, and this one was carved by our most acclaimed craftsman. Our most sacred lessons and stories are tied to this symbol, and it carries many meanings. In this case, it represents our desire to turn back time to better honor your first visit. But just as time moves forward no matter how you turn the timer, so can we only do our best to do better with the time ahead of us.”
As you can imagine, hearts began to soften. But peace was not found that day.
As the months went by, the tides of war shifted, and the Gavaun came to discuss peace at the Oshkin tent. The Oshkin leaders were found outside their tent, one of them standing behind a table holding a cylindrical box. The leader confessed that the Gavaun’s previous gift should have softened their hearts more than it did and that peace should have been found sooner. They now wished to reciprocate by giving a gift of their own. As the Oshkin began to slowly pull the tall cylindrical top off the gift, the brightest, golden glow you could ever imagine blinded the eyes of all who looked upon it. The solid orb that was revealed must have been made of the most refined gold in the world.
Peace was found that day.
Peace Day became a holiday, and a new tradition was established. Every year, the Gavauns and the Oshkins would gather for a new kind of war: a “gift-off,” I suppose you might call it. Each nation would present a gift to the other to see whose might be better. It became an intriguing display of craftsmanship and culture, as each nation would explain the significance of what they had offered the other.
This tradition continued for about a century, until one particular exchange between an Oshkin man and a Gavaun woman brought it to a sudden end. The man and the woman unveiled their nation’s gift at the same time, revealing the exact same gift: a large crystal glass with a small amount of gleaming white wine at the bottom. Both the glass and the liquid shone in the sun as all who gathered for the exchange looked at it with mouths agape. Neither nation had to explain the gift, for both realized in that moment that they had the same story. No greater gift could have possibly been given, and for that reason, the tradition no longer needed to continue.
“Do you hear that?” the woman said to the man.
The man looked around, listening closely, but heard nothing. He shook his head.
“It’s as though the beat of every sacred song ever written is contained in that cup.”
#allegory #craftsmanship #enemies #fantasy #fiction #forgiveness #generosity #gifts #grace #hope #hospitality #mythology #parable #peace #reconciliation #redemption #reparations #sacredStories #symbolicStorytelling #worldbuilding -
in between last post & this one managed to finish editing zoi:strike 3 #freescify. this is an apt title for a thing that's called... zone of influence: strike 3 ep14!
tonites episode...#apocalypse V finally hits its stride as president betsy nukes china, pedro reunites w karl at the paddock @ billingsport range while mrs. wilson gets his near-death body & pedro-3 50/50 tix aboard the NAUticalSEA schooner
https://peterfisherbooks.com #noadsnotracking #humanauthor #allegory #scify #writing #amwriting -
in between last post & this one managed to finish editing zoi:strike 3 #freescify. this is an apt title for a thing that's called... zone of influence: strike 3 ep14!
tonites episode...#apocalypse V finally hits its stride as president betsy nukes china, pedro reunites w karl at the paddock @ billingsport range while mrs. wilson gets his near-death body & pedro-3 50/50 tix aboard the NAUticalSEA schooner
https://peterfisherbooks.com #noadsnotracking #humanauthor #allegory #scify #writing #amwriting -
in between last post & this one managed to boost&reply pithily on mastodon & get a zoi #freescify episode out. this is an apt title for a thing that's called... zone of influence: strike 3 ep13!
tonite's episode...Jesus fires st. peter as #apocalypse V mgt replacing w AIrre the Quantum, racists battle uni studnts, paddock prods & hell's annex release a laser disk, jordie's ghost gets a job managing lucifers campaign
https://peterfisherbooks.com #noadsnotracking #humanauthor #allegory #scify #writing -
in between last post & this one managed to boost&reply pithily on mastodon & get a zoi #freescify episode out. this is an apt title for a thing that's called... zone of influence: strike 3 ep13!
tonite's episode...Jesus fires st. peter as #apocalypse V mgt replacing w AIrre the Quantum, racists battle uni studnts, paddock prods & hell's annex release a laser disk, jordie's ghost gets a job managing lucifers campaign
https://peterfisherbooks.com #noadsnotracking #humanauthor #allegory #scify #writing -
Frontispiece to Athanasius Kircher's *China Illustrata* (1667) by Athanasius Kircher, from China Illustrata
.Source: Library of the University of Seville / Flickr: The Commons
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/0b92de90-0624-4114-b81a-c113fde74383
#buddha #crosses #orientalism #buddhism #allegory #shields #art #publicdomain
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America (ca. 1590) by Maerten de Vos, Adriaen Collaert.
Source: Rijksmuseum
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/9f7e3a1b-2202-46d2-8e90-34dabeed6add
#fauna #conquistadors #america #indigenous #spanish #armadillo #personification #allegory #landscapes #colonialism #indians #art #publicdomain
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America (ca. 1590) by Maerten de Vos, Adriaen Collaert.
Source: Rijksmuseum
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/9f7e3a1b-2202-46d2-8e90-34dabeed6add
#fauna #conquistadors #america #indigenous #spanish #armadillo #personification #allegory #landscapes #colonialism #indians #art #publicdomain
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CW: Artistic nudity
Allegory of water, personified by Venus, part of an album by Adriaen Collaert, after Maerten de Vos, ca. 1580.
Rijksmuseum -- pdimagearchive.org --Public domain
#Art #Venus #Allegory #AdriaenCollaert #MaertenDeVos #Engraving #Print #FlemishArt #16thCenturyArt
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CW: Artistic nudity
Allegory of water, personified by Venus, part of an album by Adriaen Collaert, after Maerten de Vos, ca. 1580.
Rijksmuseum -- pdimagearchive.org --Public domain
#Art #Venus #Allegory #AdriaenCollaert #MaertenDeVos #Engraving #Print #FlemishArt #16thCenturyArt
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The story of the making of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is as odd and confusing as the movie itself.
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The story of the making of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is as odd and confusing as the movie itself.
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Representation of the Inner State of a Man, Who Is a Servant of Sin, and Suffers the Devil to Reign Within Him. (1851) by Johannes Gossner, from The Heart of Man: Either a Temple of God, or a Habitation of Satan: Represented in Ten Emblematical Figures, Calculated to Awaken and Promote a Christian Disposition.
Source: New York Public Library / Internet Archive
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/ead2fc1f-c68e-4eaf-985e-ed2f638e67c1
#animals #devils #angels #symbolism #emblems #allegory #christianity #art #publicdomain
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Representation of the Inner State of a Man, Who Is a Servant of Sin, and Suffers the Devil to Reign Within Him. (1851) by Johannes Gossner, from The Heart of Man: Either a Temple of God, or a Habitation of Satan: Represented in Ten Emblematical Figures, Calculated to Awaken and Promote a Christian Disposition.
Source: New York Public Library / Internet Archive
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/ead2fc1f-c68e-4eaf-985e-ed2f638e67c1
#animals #devils #angels #symbolism #emblems #allegory #christianity #art #publicdomain
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Illustration by Wilhelm Dilich, from Historische Beschreibung der Kindtauf des Fräuleins Elisabeth zu Hessen (1598).
Source: @bsbmuenchen
Available to buy as a print.
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/61bd4bb7-c012-4385-bf9f-2b4cf8acd1e8
#watercolours #royalty #costumes #botanical-art #processions #allegory #pageantry #parties #horses #flowers #knights #plants #art #publicdomain
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Illustration by Wilhelm Dilich, from Historische Beschreibung der Kindtauf des Fräuleins Elisabeth zu Hessen (1598).
Source: @bsbmuenchen
Available to buy as a print.
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/61bd4bb7-c012-4385-bf9f-2b4cf8acd1e8
#watercolours #royalty #costumes #botanical-art #processions #allegory #pageantry #parties #horses #flowers #knights #plants #art #publicdomain
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"The Sower," Vincent van Gogh, 1888.
Y'all know van Gogh.
In 1888 he was living in Arles and having his breakthrough success as an artist. This scene is a riff on an artist he admired, Jean-Francois Millet, who had done a similar painting of a sower.
Here, we have the man boldly striding across the plowed field, scattering seeds. But in the background, we see the sun rising over fully grown grain. This painting isn't supposed to be a realistic landscape, but a circle-of-life allegory, a religious scene of the sower of divine will planting the seeds of salvation.
Van Gogh's mental health would decline and in a few months he was hospitalized; I wonder if this painting was an expression of a troubled soul seeking some form of salvation or rescue.
From the Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo.
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"The Sower," Vincent van Gogh, 1888.
Y'all know van Gogh.
In 1888 he was living in Arles and having his breakthrough success as an artist. This scene is a riff on an artist he admired, Jean-Francois Millet, who had done a similar painting of a sower.
Here, we have the man boldly striding across the plowed field, scattering seeds. But in the background, we see the sun rising over fully grown grain. This painting isn't supposed to be a realistic landscape, but a circle-of-life allegory, a religious scene of the sower of divine will planting the seeds of salvation.
Van Gogh's mental health would decline and in a few months he was hospitalized; I wonder if this painting was an expression of a troubled soul seeking some form of salvation or rescue.
From the Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo.
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The Seven Stages of the Office Seeker (1852) by Edward Williams Clay.
Source: Library of Congress
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/3995a335-4eea-4a66-885b-a8789bd62dd2
#lebenstreppe #caricatures #aristotle #cartoons #stufenalter #allegory #shakespeare #art #publicdomain
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The Seven Stages of the Office Seeker (1852) by Edward Williams Clay.
Source: Library of Congress
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/3995a335-4eea-4a66-885b-a8789bd62dd2
#lebenstreppe #caricatures #aristotle #cartoons #stufenalter #allegory #shakespeare #art #publicdomain
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https://omdaruliterature.blogspot.com/2026/03/the-diaries-of-evgeny-schwartz-as.html The Diaries of Evgeny Schwartz as a #Spiritual Lesson for 2026: The #Individual and the #State #spirituality #diaries , #Russian , #soviet , #literature, #internalémigré , #allegory, #fairytale, #testimony
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Illustration by Théodore Marcile, from Civitas veri sive morvm (1609).
Source: University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign / Internet Archive
https://pdimagearchive.org/images/a04719fa-8963-4bae-a95c-24cc62228987
#classical #aristotle #dystopia #nature #ethics #emblems #allegory #landscapes #mythology #morals #utopias #architecture #truth #art #publicdomain
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#gamemastersbookclub Explores the Genres! #fables #allegory #fantasy #fableretelling #moraltale #books #graphicnovels
Cinder House - Freya Marske
Fables (graphic novel series) - Bill Willmingham
Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik
The Maid and the Crocodile - Jordan Ifuenko
The God and the Guhimo - Sophie Kim
