Peredhil

After failing to correct Uncle on that first occasion, he was afraid of the beating he'd receive if he corrected him later. He saw how Mordecai forced the Voices to do things, and while they couldn't stay away from him, they resented him too - especially the high Singers. When Mordecai was asleep, he'd whisper to the Voices, and try to listen to them. The longer he travelled with Uncle, the more it seemed he could almost make out the words. It was so strange, it was when he let the sounds go out of focus, like watering eyes of the mind, that they started making sense. But if he suddenly listened, they were just another note singing. After the testing, Mordecai had forgotten his slippery shoes. Uncle hadn't noticed when he asked them to come back, paying with heavy breathing and soft whistling to pay their price. It was the hard high Voices of the stars who told him of the town they were approaching. Could that be why Mordecai was traveling more and more slowly?

Reads Valdar's post, which, when combined with Monty Python's Flying Circus flashbacks, has him too weak from laughing to post. Luxury... That's what it was....

Iehova was blind on one side from the meteor strike. It reflected wryly that this new condition would've fit Odin much better than itself. It was fortunate, it reflected, that it had been given more intelligence, more memory, more of everything, as befit the bearer of the best hope. Hope was a fragile thing, but Iehova had never lost hope in its life. Jesuit trained from birth, it was no stranger to the follies of humanity, but hope had sustained it, maintained it, and caused it to volunteer for this. That and a sense of humor. Iehova Latin, Creator in relation to its creation, the bearer of life. Jesuit trained, first in all the classes, and forever denied service in the priesthood due to gender. It had tickled it to know that God on the new planet would be Mother. They'd eradicated gender, but left the humor - wherein the identity had hidden. And the cosmic jest, the rogue meteor. Galatic abortion in the first boosting stage. Perhaps God in his trinity divinity had decided to punish it for its hubris. Or perhaps not. It had taken a spin to look in all directions, a dizzying tilt-a-whirl, but it used nearly all it's remaining fuel to take a fixed look at Europa. Small insignificant Europa, about the size of the moon destroying the birthplace of life it was fleeing. There was an oxygen atmosphere. Not much true, and caused by the smashing dust in Jupiter's magnetic fields destroying the icy sheath. Not biological but chemical. But oxygen. It flew into rapid calculation and used all but two percent of the remaining fuel to set a looping gravitic course toward Europa. Although the surface was a chilly negative 145 degrees (it had to pause a moment to laugh at itself, even a biological computer apparently couldn't overcome its lack - it still couldn't think in Farenheit,) there was a slurry subsurface water. Caused by Jupiter's heat, sunlight, it didn't care. Two-hundred kilometers of oxygen, slurry water, protective ice crust. It made rapid biochemical insertions into its SOUP and used the remaining fuel to accelerate. The impact sent a gout of water into the atmosphere, a pillar which immediately froze into an obelisk of entry. cracked open like an egg thrown too hard, Iehova penetrated the frigid lunar ovum and released its seed. The SOUP was forced by the heat and pressure into thousands of small pockets concentrically surrounding the place where Iehova died. A thousand potentials that died. Except one. A microorganism, a small organism that grew in the cupsized SOUP and endured the cold enough to sustain the minimal reactive basics of life. Iehova never knew. And the organism never grew. Iehova died in birthing it. It never left the slurry womb, despite the intense radiations and fluxing magnetic fields, it never changed. After only a few decades, it died, godless, cold, and alone. De mortuis nil nissi bonum.

Hmmm. I'm over forty years old now, and I've finally come to the emotional realization (I'd intellectually give mental assent to the idea, but deep inside there was a part that (incorrectly) *knew*) that not everyone constantly thinks, no matter what they're doing. Or thinks about thinking. Or thinks about thinking about what others are thinking. Or thinks about what they're dreaming and 'tweaks' it to make it neater. Or thinks about the sensations and still thinks when they're drunk to the point of insensibility. In other words, I may *NOT* be able to understand exactly your plight, but I think I may have empathy with it...

I apologize for losing power when we were discussing this on IRC - but very pleased to see the product. You are a delight to read.

Heh, I'll pat you on the back simply because you have the courage to post! I remember my fears about posting, how I simply *knew* I had no talent, and the anticipation of pain I'd feel when the skilled established poets would "do a nose-job on my baby" without anathesia. Then when they liked it - I felt like a fraud, sure that the next piece would be the one that revealed me... Now I've learned to smile and say, "thank you", answering my failure to reach the perfection for which I yearn with the warmth of my Pen friend's approval. It's nice to have a place where the corrections are suggestions on how to become better, not attempts to show-off the ego of the critc at a poster's expense. Oh, yes - I'm glad you posted this, and look forward to you posting more. Don't be held back by fears of spelling and such - it's important to get the feeling, image, or inspiration out of you and down on paper, and *then* start fixing it up. Getting past that inner critic, as Elder Wyvern reminded me earlier tonight, is essential. Welcome to the Pen

You have such power and raw talent; I hope you can find a more gentle and happy muse. Actually, you remind me of some of Job's speeches...

Wow... I wish my first poem had been half so well done... Welcome indeed.

Awww Parmmy... Just more of 'oo to wuv... Peredhi is happy he's safely on the other side of the ocean, because he knows Parmenion is stronger and tougher than his slender Elven frame... and bigger!

I *really* like this. It's positive, and the "lighthouse" type of person I try to be and fail so often - the idea that the other person will heal enough to give back in turn is such a hopeful image for both sides. When I read it aloud, it really flows for me, until I get to It's a good line, with an 8-count, but I think it's the motion of the tongue that was awkward. Heh, when something flows so well, it's the tiny .01% that catches my eye, an implicit "Well, the other 99.99% is so obviously good, do I really need to comment?" Which is silly, because it if were *my* poem, I'd want to hear the good too!aHEM, anyway... Just thought I'd point that out. Again, in the verbal flow, do you think might move more smoothly if it were:"or help if you cannot find your way," I realize it's an extra syllable, but when I read it, it seems to 'feel' better when I read it. But then, I sometimes read things oddly. What do you think? Back to the 99+% -- Very nicely done.

I like this Appy. Comparing this to your first few posts here, I see an marked improvement as you keep writing, and I "hear" your voice coming through more honestly and clearly. I like: That I'm tempted to use it in my 'Sig'... -Peredhil

I think this is well written. Seems it applies to many people in our modern society.

It was more than a week of travel before Uncle spoke of the Voices again, instead of to them. "Boy." He looked at Mordecai warily, well learned caution springing instant to the fore. "I know you hear them. But which ones..." He realized that he wasn't being spoken to, he was being spoken about. As long as people talked to themself, they usually didn't hit. "..." The Words struggled up Uncle Mordecai's throat and writhed from between his stiff lips. The Voices Shouted and then fell silent. He could feel them attending carefully. "I want you to listen carefully. You should be able to hear different Voices if you try. They may not be loud, but try to pick them out from the sounds of bird, and the leaves moving." Mordecai spoke slowly and carefully, looking at him with great concentration to ensure he understood. This was important, but it made no sense. He'd tried NOT to hear the Voices! Staring at Mordecai, he swallowed through a suddenly dry mouth and nodded. Mordecai took several deep breaths, like Papa before he lifted a stump, then barked a short Word. The Voices all sang dischordantly in protest, and Uncle's face beaded with sweat as he strained at nothing. Finally the Voices chimed in sullen assent. "Tell me," panted Mordecai, "when you can hear a Voice." He raised his hand and began stabbing it in short jerky motions. At the descent of each beat, a Voice sang, starting with the low Deep Voices from the hidden heat underground, and continuing up to the high Wild Voices of the coldest air. With each beat, he nodded to his Uncle. When the final Voice sang, Mordecai made a throwing gesture and the Voices crowded and swirled around angrily. "Please, I'm afraid," he begged the Voices with trembling words. They touched him reassuringly and settled. Mordecai sighed and replied, "You don't have to fear them, they're gone now. They may be angry with me for a bit, and I regret rushing into it. I wanted to you speak or nod when you heard a Voice in your range, not in time with my hand." He stared. Uncle didn't know the Voices were still here. Mordecai didn't hear them unless they shouted. He thought he was a liar. He began to speak, but Mordecai waved him to silence. "It's alright. Just as well. You have the Talent, but you have a long way to go before you'll be able to learn the language of binding."

Peredhil trotted into the Cabaret and to the cleared table. On it he placed a special gift for the birthday guy - A genuine Princess-carried frying pan from the Mario Universe. Humming happy birthday tune under his breath, he moved off again. Behind him, his Bodyguards began hanging birthday things - Nuncio setting out balloon bouquets, while Guido happily stapled "Happy Birthday" banners - upside down...

This will make a great Quill-Bearer Quest in my opinion. If I can get the time, I think I'll give the assignment a whirl myself.

Worked for me... Very gritty, dark, and seductively real... write *more*

Peredhil sneaks in and takes a seat to listen, amazed at the effortless way the tiny details conjure the story up in his mind's eye.

For some reason, I found this appropriate.

Hurrah! Go Blue Voices of the world! Break the old mirrors, turn and see the present realities!

Hon', It's okay. We all go through that at times. Your presence is welcome whether you are able to access creativity or not. When in doubt, read other people's stuff, and if you can find a comment for them, share it. Hugs I hope you find your Muse again soonest.

It feels like that sometimes... As long as you write it out instead of acting on it. Big Hugs, 'cause I'd miss your voice if it fell silent.

Don't forget to subtract the inactive ones from the 187... The Pen doesn't delete accounts. I suspect some people at some point in time have made a "temporary" account to feel us out, and then finally made the account they wish to keep. Plus there are some who for one reason or another only come by once a year, if that. As the Weenie Awards at the last site showed, at any given time we have an average of 30% of the registered accounts active - if we're lucky. So to be fair, of the roughly 67 accounts currently active/semi-active, you've only been ignored by about 59 people.

Peredhil turns a deep brick-red shade that simply doesn't match his clothes. Meep! I am SO sorry! I'd make all sorts of excuses and spin out mitigating circumstances, but the truth is, I was just in too much of a hurry and plain wrong. Identity is an important thing to me, so I'm doubly aghast at twixting yours. But, this does provide an opportunity to show your patience, kindness and understanding. Peredhil hugs REGEL, who unfailingly greets him in any AoA room, in ThePen room, and now in the Cabaret. Oh, your question. If you head down that short Hallway and go through the door (knock gently, it's an intelligent door!) you'll find the outer office in which sits Melba, the Almost Secretary of the Pen. We were looking for an executive assistant for Elder Wyvern, but she arrived first and moved in. I think she might have a crush on Brute. Anyway, If you read the stickies on the walls, and present your application, the Recruiter, that Almost Dragon Elder, Wyvern, will get to you as soon as his schemes allow. With a sigh, Peredhil thanks Regel again for his nearly infinite patience with the Polite Ancient.

Hmmm, I'm going to break one of my cardinal rules and reply to this... Usually, no matter how much I like the piece (as I indeed liked this), I don't reply to it when it's self-labeled "crap" or along those lines: 1) It's too much like a negative plea for reassurance, "Oh no, really, it was wonderful, stroke stroke." I'd rather give my praise as a gift or well earned reward than feel as if I'd been extorted to reassure. You might think that you were being honest of your evaluation and not mean it this way, but still, I've found that not saying anything at all is preferable to slamming your own work. If you aren't fishing, then there is a tendency to accept your own value-added evaluation. 2) If you say it's "crap" and I say it isn't, then I'm forced to be Rude and disagree or argue with you. Or, alternately, if I say I like it, and you say it's "crap", then that implies my taste in literary works is so bad I can't tell the difference between dung and quality, which I take to be an insult. Prolly me in my pride, but there it is. I've notice that nearly every poster here at the Pen has a negatively skewed view of their own works. I do myself. But I've learned that the best way is to just put the work out on its own, accept feedback as a loving attempt to help build a better work, not as an attack on Self, and finally I've learned to just say, "Thank you", no matter how I felt about the work. It's the Polite thing to do, you see... -Peredhil, with more than two cents...

Peredhil smiles happily as he holds the small package wrapped with a big bow. It's not much, but its hand-crafted. It'd been a while since he'd forged a Ring, not since the Guinea Pig's Rings had he forged. He hoped Brute liked it. It wasn't too much, but its power was wrought in consideration of the person - any alcoholic drink held in the hand bearing the Ring would become "Smooth Vintage". He'd tested it on some Maddog 20-20 and it'd tasted like Dom. Romanée Conti. As the Shadow Paths opened, he swept forward with the crowd.