Swept Away: London Proser

London Proser

or

Mocking How The Prose of Author Jack London Sounds When Read Aloud

     

     My grip tore loose from the hard siding upon the waves' breaking over the deck. The boat tossed to port, and flung me fast overboard.
     Water entered my body and breath and, through a wondrous chemical process, changed into fire. My extremities burned into my core; my heart struggled to find its natural beat.
     In the twisting and turning of the water I found myself not in fire, but in ice. My thoughts took on a glacial quality; their slow passage chiseled fjords though my conscious isle.
     As I sunk into the fathomless black depths I fancied I saw a glow above me -- whether at the surface or no, I knew not; for I knew not where the sea ended and the sweet air existed -- with a broad halo growing larger and larger until I felt I must be swallowed by what seemed to be a harbinger of death.
    The sea must have seethed with foam and crests, but I felt no tossing or swirling; only a still, but a firm hold caught me under the arms and swung me toward the glow.

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