"Conurbation" Drabbles
Today's word of the day is "conurbation." As such, today's drabble(s) will have to do with the cities of Valinor and Beleriand.
As always, if you feel inspired to write a "conurbation" drabble about your favorite city, feel free to share!
conurbation \kon-uhr-BAY-shuhn\, noun:
An aggregation or continuous network of urban communities.
Examples
"To live there in that great smoking conurbation rumbling with the constant thunder of locomotives, filled with the moaning of train whistles coming down the Potomac Valley, was beyond my most fevered hopes."
-Russell Baker, "Memoir of a Small-Town Boyhood," New York Times, September 12, 1982
"Indeed the population in the greater London conurbation grew by 125 per cent in the period 1861 to 1911 when the population of England as a whole grew by 80 per cent."
-Terence Brown, The Life of W. B. Yeats
Etymology
Conurbation is from Latin con-, "with, together" + urbs, "city" + the suffix -ation.
This drabble is Olwë, after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë.
A Haven of Lights
They made this for us.
The bitter thought prevails as I look over Alqualondë-built by the Noldor-the pearl and marble halls, the alabaster harbor, pallid in the sudden darkness.
I take a stone from one of the lamps. Pale blue, it glows-ethereal-in my hand, splintering through my fist, insistent, escaping to sully the darkness.
Appropriate, I think.
I want to toss it into the sea, for it is the work of his hands.
I want to toss it into the sea, but I do not. I replace it inside the lamp. I will rebuild my city.
~oOo~
The Ugly City
I am the lord of an ugly city.
Squalid buildings like dingy teeth gnash the sky. Approaching, its ugliness chokes. It makes one want to turn away, to the fairer places behind it. Doriath. Gondolin. Nargothrond.
Himring.
Even the name-a sour wad in the mouth.
Where beauty should flourish into useless excess, my city remains brutally functional. Stunted.
Like the twisted stump where was a once-graceful hand.
Guard towers impede my view of the sky. I don’t mind. I am proud of my ugly, impenetrable city.
It is cold, like the fire in my eyes: So cold, it burns.
~oOo~
Sandcastles
How careful I was, building my city!
I am no craftsman, like bright-eyed Finwë, but I shaped delicate towers and trimmed them with shells found in the detritus at the edge of the water. I set it where the waves would not wash it away. In the pale light, the sandy walls glimmered gently.
Mica, Finwë said, and I snorted. I cared not for his rocks.
I rejoiced and knelt beside city and imagined tiny Quendi walking its streets--
--when a wave came--a vigorous splash-and knocked it away!
I looked up at Finwë, grinning, knee-deep in Cuivienen.
~oOo~
This last one is a double-drabble (drubble?). I would be amiss if I didn't write about the city of my namesake: Nargothrond. So here goes :)
Nargothrond
I close my eyes….
It is warm here, not like being clutched in stone but more akin to lying in the grass on a warm summer evening. The wind wraps me, carrying to me the sound of music….
It does not crash into the walls, where it is wounded and falls screaming to my ears. It entwines with the air, with the wind, with my heartbeat; it embraces me-all is one here.
I smile.
The fountains laugh.
I join them.
There are stars here, brighter than any I have ever seen, strung in the shapes of imagination. I see a bear! I see a maiden standing beneath a waterfall! Eager fingers prod the sky, tracing the dark spaces between pebbles of light. My hand lifts to hers; they converge, pale fingers entwining against the spangled-silk sky, as her lips press my neck.
In Valinor…?
Nay. Nargothrond.
I open my eyes.
The passages before me are raw and dark. Water plunks somewhere, a harsh rhythm that makes me want to cringe and stop my ears.
She is in Valinor. I am here.
I should despair. I would despair: But for the potential I see.
The wind whispers, behind me: Nargothrond.
As always, if you feel inspired to write a "conurbation" drabble about your favorite city, feel free to share!
conurbation \kon-uhr-BAY-shuhn\, noun:
An aggregation or continuous network of urban communities.
Examples
"To live there in that great smoking conurbation rumbling with the constant thunder of locomotives, filled with the moaning of train whistles coming down the Potomac Valley, was beyond my most fevered hopes."
-Russell Baker, "Memoir of a Small-Town Boyhood," New York Times, September 12, 1982
"Indeed the population in the greater London conurbation grew by 125 per cent in the period 1861 to 1911 when the population of England as a whole grew by 80 per cent."
-Terence Brown, The Life of W. B. Yeats
Etymology
Conurbation is from Latin con-, "with, together" + urbs, "city" + the suffix -ation.
This drabble is Olwë, after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë.
A Haven of Lights
They made this for us.
The bitter thought prevails as I look over Alqualondë-built by the Noldor-the pearl and marble halls, the alabaster harbor, pallid in the sudden darkness.
I take a stone from one of the lamps. Pale blue, it glows-ethereal-in my hand, splintering through my fist, insistent, escaping to sully the darkness.
Appropriate, I think.
I want to toss it into the sea, for it is the work of his hands.
I want to toss it into the sea, but I do not. I replace it inside the lamp. I will rebuild my city.
~oOo~
The Ugly City
I am the lord of an ugly city.
Squalid buildings like dingy teeth gnash the sky. Approaching, its ugliness chokes. It makes one want to turn away, to the fairer places behind it. Doriath. Gondolin. Nargothrond.
Himring.
Even the name-a sour wad in the mouth.
Where beauty should flourish into useless excess, my city remains brutally functional. Stunted.
Like the twisted stump where was a once-graceful hand.
Guard towers impede my view of the sky. I don’t mind. I am proud of my ugly, impenetrable city.
It is cold, like the fire in my eyes: So cold, it burns.
~oOo~
Sandcastles
How careful I was, building my city!
I am no craftsman, like bright-eyed Finwë, but I shaped delicate towers and trimmed them with shells found in the detritus at the edge of the water. I set it where the waves would not wash it away. In the pale light, the sandy walls glimmered gently.
Mica, Finwë said, and I snorted. I cared not for his rocks.
I rejoiced and knelt beside city and imagined tiny Quendi walking its streets--
--when a wave came--a vigorous splash-and knocked it away!
I looked up at Finwë, grinning, knee-deep in Cuivienen.
~oOo~
This last one is a double-drabble (drubble?). I would be amiss if I didn't write about the city of my namesake: Nargothrond. So here goes :)
Nargothrond
I close my eyes….
It is warm here, not like being clutched in stone but more akin to lying in the grass on a warm summer evening. The wind wraps me, carrying to me the sound of music….
It does not crash into the walls, where it is wounded and falls screaming to my ears. It entwines with the air, with the wind, with my heartbeat; it embraces me-all is one here.
I smile.
The fountains laugh.
I join them.
There are stars here, brighter than any I have ever seen, strung in the shapes of imagination. I see a bear! I see a maiden standing beneath a waterfall! Eager fingers prod the sky, tracing the dark spaces between pebbles of light. My hand lifts to hers; they converge, pale fingers entwining against the spangled-silk sky, as her lips press my neck.
In Valinor…?
Nay. Nargothrond.
I open my eyes.
The passages before me are raw and dark. Water plunks somewhere, a harsh rhythm that makes me want to cringe and stop my ears.
She is in Valinor. I am here.
I should despair. I would despair: But for the potential I see.
The wind whispers, behind me: Nargothrond.