Quincunx

Betty Garble She towers between the first and third people in line, and you get the impression you've seen her kind before--no, two impressions. One impression points towards a tailgate party, and the other draws from the canned vegetable aisle. Green + peroxide does not equal blonde. "Four Oh Seven Pee Em and Thirty Seconds!" she exclaims after consulting her watch--hey, that's the voice of the airport PA system. "DaVinci's knows that I come in here after Patina services, seven days a week! Why haven't they restocked the muffins yet?" Betty looks over the head of the first person in line, at the glassed-in countertop and display case.

The six fell heroes have been gathered together by mystic forces beyond comprehension to A prophecy rings out through the land, of six great warriors who will free the people You are sitting one night in a tavern, when You're waiting in line at DaVinci's Experimental Bakery. The store clerk went into the back, and has been gone a long time. Go.

3d6 (11) + Dexterity (1) + Knowledge (PA Systems) (1) = 13 Betty opened the manual to the bookmarked page, which was, by divine coincedence, the beginning pages of Chapter XIV: Improvised Repair Tools. The bookmark's motto You're cutting this aw-ful-ly close, my dear glowed briefly, then faded as she knelt down and jabbed the pen into the service panel again. A breaker closed, the speakers whined like a baby that just dropped its lollipop, and Betty snatched up both the microphone and the watch: The time is Three Fifty Nine Pee Em. Meet me at Four Oh Five Pee Em for tea and pie at DaVinci's Experimental Bakery. Hurry hurry! ***** Character signup will not close!

The time is Three Fifty (speakers CRACK!, then emit a low electrical hum). Inside the PA booth, on the other side of the airport chapel, Betty opens up the back of the PA system and pokes around with a ball-point pen. If this wasn't important to the plot, it could just be roleplayed out. However, I need that PA system working in order to start the game, so it's an attempt to advance the plot, so I need to roll the dice. Twiddling around expensive electronics with a blunt ball-point pen is probably an act of dexterity Dexterity: Good +1 and Betty knows her PA systems well Knowledge (PA systems): Good +1 and then luck, in the form of three six-sided dice (a.k.a 3d6), is added. I used this online dice roller since I haven't found the physical dice yet. 3d6: 1 + 1 + 3 = 5 So 3d6 + Stat Mod + Skill Mod becomes 5 + 1 + 1 = 7. ***** Betty yelped and dropped the pen, then pulled it out a few seconds later, held it up, and looked at the electrical burns on the barrel. She tested the pen on the back of a Corsair Air voucher, looked at the blotched result, and lay down pen and paper on the busted PA system. Betty then added the cracked timepiece (3:56 PM) atop the voucher, threatened to tear out her hair with both hands, and screeched, "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" 3d6: (13) + Wisdom (0) + Prayer to Patina (2) = 15 ***** The pile quivered and straightened. Betty untangled her fingers from her hair and picked up each item. The pen was as good as new, with an unchewed cap. The watch crystal was still broken but the display underneath had a new field for the date. Instead of one defaced Corsair Air voucher, there were now six, with four already completed and ready to submit. Underneath the vouchers was a spotless manual for the PA system, with a bookmark peeking out of the top. ***** Wyvern: You're good to go. Welcome to the monkeyh airport.

Night fell early, and the tall torches speared all over the Tarquin compound had nearly burnt out. A few children still ran and shrieked underfoot with the dogs, wearing eye-masks with their empty jewel sockets, but many of the revellers sat or lay in a stupor, piled four to a couch. The only chair in the place was one of a pair, with an opened barrel sitting between them and Dame Fortunata overflowing the other seat, facing the flat-topped and empty marble coffin, the Tomb of Tarquin. "It's just not right!" wailed the Dame of Tarquin, dipping her two-handled cup into the barrel and draining it; her hand was stained to the wrist with wine. "None of them have come! Not one! Don't they understand? Cid's gone!" Her emerald-encrusted half-mask clanked also as she collapsed onto the top of the tomb, sobbing, "The Duke doesn't even care," and sloshing wine in his direction. Duke Malvolio lay on one of his favorite fainting-couches, under a spreading shade tree, but not alone. A fine-featured but spotty girl sat by the crook of his body, feeding him spoonfuls of gelato from a silver bowl. Malvolio wore crimson embroidered with gold, the girl wore a dusky rose dress with cream-colored slashings, and the gelato was tinted pink with strawberry juice. The girl unfolded a lace-edged handkerchief—also creamy—from her sleeve and leaned forward, trembling. “No, no, Polina,” he murmured, unfolding her fingers from around the handkerchief, “you also have some on your lips.” She brought up her other hand in alarm, but he caught that one also, leaned forward, and pressed his lips onto hers. Polina flushed to a deeper hue than her dress, throwing her spots into sharp relief, and dropped the bowl of gelato onto the lawn as she fled. On the opposite side of the tomb, Gaia was sandwiched between the Grandduke and Granddame, with a nursemaid standing behind her and holding little Lavinia, until the baby started to fuss and the nurse carried her away. The Weeping Tarquins prevented speech, but the shiny trails on Grandduke Luciano's jawline might have been tears--or sweat. Gaia wore a partial mask also, the rarely used ivory Lonely Tarquin that left her lips and eyes visible and usable, but no one had expected her to speak. "No one liked Cid."

The time is Three Fifty Five Pee Em. Errata nailed to the door of the airport chapel (speaker feedback, several seconds' worth) in the nearest waste disposal bin. Have a nice day. Magic: should be part of the Rules. Skill Specialization: Skill specialization costs only decrease the cost of magic skills. Sweetcherrie: Your Craft (egg-warmers) Superb would cost five points. I'd recommend just lowering it to Great, because your sheet is otherwise balanced. Falcon: Your skills are tabbed up correctly. I got an amendment that starting characters aren't supposed to have more than four Superbs at character generation, but I won't ask for a retroactive change. That applies to any new characters after this post, though! P.S. Does His Prettiness have facial hair? And, although it's not as important, what race is he?

System borrowed wholesale from TamerBill of Giant in the Playground forums. After this experiment runs its course, I'll link back to the campaign which he runs on those boards. Could've linked now but ran out of skill points for Crush Metagaming: Superb +3, so we're on the honor system for now. Welcome to Play-by-Post International Airport, Concourse A. Do not leave the rules unattended. Unattended rules will be confiscated and impounded. Thank you for your cooperation. (speakers whine) The time is Three Fifty Two Pee Em. The airport chapel is located in Concourse B, next to DaVinci's Experimental Bakery. (feedback) Enter your character sheets into the chapel raffle for a chance to win two extra skill points. Hurry hurry! Play-by-Post International Airport is pleased to announce that the new Concourse A will be summoned into existence in two weeks, one day, and eighteen hours precisely. The existing Concourse A and everyone within it will be returned to the primordial chaos. Play-by-Post International Airport will not be held liable for anyone without a spare character sheet. Thank you for your cooperation. Betty Garble Half-Orc PA-System Operator Strength: Fair Dexterity: Good (1 point) Constitution: Fair Wisdom: Fair Intelligence: Great (2 points) Charisma: Fair Betty has failed six Cheerleader of Patina tryouts in the last ten years (she was barred for four years after failing to set her clock forward for daylight savings time, and showing up one hour ahead of her scheduled slot), and really is getting too old for that sort of thing. Not that they'd ever let a half-orc in the squad, as the county doesn't issue citizen cards to half-orcs. In between tryouts, she maintains half of the family business: she fulfills demands for clear communication, while her brother Gurgle creates that demand... Craft (Makeup Application): Mediocre -1 (1 point) Craft (Pompons): Mediocre -1 (1 point) Ignore Tumbling Damage and Other Blunt Trauma: Superb +3 (5 points) Innate Sense of Time: Mediocre -1 (1 point) Innate Sense of Snacktime: Great +2 (4 points) Illusion (Noises into Other Noises): Great +2 (3 points with specialization) Knowledge (Plot): Great +2 (4 points) Knowledge (PA Systems): Good +1 (3 points) Knowledge (Tax Law Loopholes): Good +1 (3 points) Lift Heavy Things Like PA Speakers and Other Cheerleaders: Great +2 (4 points) Perky yet Soothing Voice: Good +1 (3 points) Profession (Airport Nurse): Good +1 (3 points) Prayer to Patina: Great +2 (4 points) Transmutation (Speaker Squawks into Intelligible Speech): Great +2 (3 points with specialization) Tumble in a Short Pleated Skirt: Fair 0 (2 points) Owns: neat coils of speaker wire, digital watch with cracked face (but it still works, why throw it away?), makeup kit, makeup paddle, airport med kit, cheerleading manual, portable PA system, five blank long-form Form 1040s*, vouchers for travel on Corsair Air, black ballpoint pens. *the standard U.S. tax form. We're not THAT international yet at Play-by-Post International Airport.

Hrhm. There's a thread of mine in the Critics' Corner covering the meanings of "show, don't tell" which I need to apply to this story, but only initiates and up are allowed to view that forum. Anyway, it's a thread about writing style--I see no problems with the flow of the story, the pacing, the grammar, the characterizations--and if posting chapter two, instead of one, was not a typo, I'll give you ten extra brownie points for wisdom. Jumping into the midst of action is good enough to serve as a first chapter, and the existing chapter one can become a prologue, optional reading.

Re: Errors with PMs. SQL error: Can't open file: 'thepen_message_text.MYI'. (errno: 145) SQL error code: has repeated itself in all of the PM error boxes. Wyvern is drafting an email both to Hostrocket (has their physical server become corrupt at the point where this file is stored?) and to Invision (has the board software been stealth-updated and bugged?), since we cannot find a reason in the Admin CP for this failure. Cross your fingers and wait a few days. On personal opinion, I believe that the PM database itself isn't corrupt, just that we can't access the part of the board program which reads that database.

Tarquin servants fanned out into the hallways, dressed in slender unbleached wraps topped with black capelets that reached almost to the elbow, their hair shaved off or pinned up in snoods. They touched their fingers to the sleeves of people important enough to have sleeves, and rasped into their ears: Grandduke Luciano decrees that the family's private wake will end at midnight, and Granddame Maia insists that his friends have a chance to say farewell to him. They have allowed you forty-eight hours in which to pay your respects, and do bring a bottle, the Dame Fortunata is beside herself with grief and wishes to lift a glass with the friends of Cid of Tarquin. One particular landholder--the neighbor of Tarquin--let out a groan upon receiving the invitation. He hadn't gotten any sleep due to the last night's carousing, and it was simply too early in the season to travel to the summer estates; why did those wastrels always have to die in the cool of the year?

So people are going to have to assassinate their supporters in order to win? . . .

Cid threw back his head, raking the air with the plumes from his ridiculous wide-brimmed hat, and laughed. "Ha! Ha! Wouldn't have been much of an assassin if we had seen her!" he boomed, slapping Johann on the shoulder and nearly knocking him into Ciroth, who nodded slightly. "Mark my words, it was some bird who's done it, one minute they're half out of their corsets and the next they've got a dagger point up against you and 'I'll scream if you come one step closer!' when they haven't left half a step between you--" He broke off and turned his jolly mask first towards Ciroth, then to Johann. "You've never even tried Samantha, have you, mates?"

re: second stanza. Three items in a series can be separated by either one or two commas, as the comma before "and" is optional. Both ways are correct. . . .But that caved in temple, Shattered left cheekbone, And broken eye socket. . . OR . . .But that caved in temple, Shattered left cheekbone And broken eye socket. . . Since revery originally used two commas, I'd be inclined to leave it that way.

Grandame Lavinia's funeral wake was THE party of five seasons ago--a fortnight of continuous masquerading and excess at the Tarquin family compound, beloved of everyone but their neighbors in a ten-mile radius. At the frenzied end of the wake, the guests lifted the chief mourners above the crowd, those who were wearing the masks of the Weeping Tarquins, handed them up the staircases to the Grandduke's and Granddame's quarters, crowned them with diamonds and pulled off their sapphire-studded masks. Grandduke Luciano and Granddame Maia (pity the people that had to carry her!) threw the Weeping Tarquins from the balcony, into the waiting hands of Malvolio and Fortunata, now Duke and Dame; they, in turn, pulled off their ruby wedding rings and tossed them into the youngest generation of Tarquins, who fought to catch them. The Laughing Tarquins were the key to attending court. . . Cid of Tarquin: The new Grandduke and Grandame Tarquin are idiots, a peasant couple in rich regalia with fourteen children running around barefoot. The Duke and Dame were competent enough to survive at court, but have no head for their new duties of maintaining the Tarquin household, except keeping the family nursery full of "gifts from the gods". Lavinia would not have lived long past the coronation of Merlin's successor, and House Tarquin would have been torn apart from outside if they had changed generations in a stable time. Therefore Cid suffocated the reigning Grandame. He suspects that she understood his reasons. Unlike the past two generations, Cid is keeping his 'gifts' to himself; his pants stay buttoned and his demonic advisers imperceptible. Only with reluctance does he play cards at court, as all Tarquins have done, and hates it even more when he must play to lose. He was the first Tarquin shadowwalker since the time of his great-grandmothers to capture the beasts beyond and command them; this has caused a change or two in his appearance that he covers with a heavily bearded full mask, which also hides his youth. Cid travels with a small collapsing telescope, which he uses during the night-time for astrology, and during the daytime to snoop on conversations on the other side of the hall--a lip-reader benefits from people who do not wear a mask. Ridiculous to wear a heavy plate of porcelain with hair glued onto it and swagger around like a pirate? Maybe so, but the Tarquins are all a bit ridiculous, aren't they, har har! The Mask of Cid Shaved head with red-gold stubble; a high-cheeked mask with a full, flowing beard; wide-cut silk garments to hide his reedy limbs, in gaudy colors; a small telescope and basket-hilt rapier--the Mask of Cid looks like an expensive pirate costume. The mask is a theatrical mask which gives his voice a slight booming quality and while he keeps the phrases to a minimum, sailor jargon does slip in. Cid the Human Cid is seventeen years old, 5'10 without a pirate hat, thin and without muscle mass--much like Fortunata in her prime, as she was his mother. Summoning demons has altered his eyes to slitted red-gold and put additional mats of hair on his torso. Cid the Summoner When Cid channels the demon-spirit Marduk, from the chest upwards he transmutes into a lion, a lion's tail forms (and usually gets trapped in one pant leg), and his extremities end in appropriately sized paws. This form is both biped and quadruped, and although Cid could control the transformation enough to retain hands and fight with weapons, the pounce and bite of a lion-man has better shock value. Gaia of Tarquin (NPC): Cid's cousin-wife is fourteen years old, and as wordless and bug-eyed and curly-haired as her suspected father Grandduke Luciano. Cid lifted her above the mob of Tarquin hopefuls to catch the rings and didn't put her down until they reached the nuptial bed; she was barred from court while pregnant due to Tarquin customs, and Cid expected that she'd die while trying to give birth. She didn't. Once baby Lavinia is weaned, Gaia will be free to join her cousin-husband at court and there will be blood spilled--but whose? OOC: Darnit, I enjoyed the decadent pair. Had some delicious dialogue set up for Fortunata and Malvolio. Ah well. The house of Tarquin sprawls out over many generations. (If anyone wonders, it began in the Final Fantasy world, and I assume that Cid is shadowwalking back to some of those worlds to get his 'demons'.) And I'll be playing this with a swagger that'd make Lord Flashheart sick to his stomach.

English capitalization, even in the cap-happy 1700s, was confined to important and/or abstract nouns. Snypiuer has got them slung over almost every part of speech, which has dragged them from emphatic, down past arrogant, and into mockery. Maybe mockery was intended.

I flip through the poems rapidly on the first pass, and on this one, the final couplet jumped out, not just for its strength but for the unusually short line above it which isolates it visually. That's probably a coincedence, but keep it handy! On the second, more thoughtful read: "She had cracked a smile She thought she wouldn't catch. . ." This is the only confusing couplet, so ambiguous that I hesitate to post alternative, more distinct options. The words "the other" featured in some of them, and one just added a comma to the end of the first line and pointed both beginning "She"s back at the subject of the poem. "And beat her reflection" This line's meter clashes with the rest of the poem. Knowing that it must end with "reflection", you could try to weight the rest of the line properly, with a strong starting syllable--yes, it's contrary to the ending lines of the other verses, but the ending lines of the other verses end on a strong syllable where this one cannot. Perhaps "She beat her own reflection"?

From #thepen, just now: (Tasslehof) Like when I was suggested to re-write my poem in 3rd person, I didnt understand nor did I understand how too. (Tzimfemme) oh,just ask for an example then. . . (Wyv) first person: "I" second person: "you" third person: "He" (Tzimfemme) Speaking o' which, would a lesson thread on the various Persons work? 3rd person omniscient, 3rd person close, 1st person, etc? (Tzimfemme) because a LOT of Assembly Room lately has suffered from too much 3rd omniscient and I could bang out ten feedbacks just linking back to that lesson :/ (Tasslehof) I understood that part, but from there I was lost.. (Wyv) it might, though there's certainly been a lot of threads about learning things as of late (Tasslehof) It might Tzim, but understand I am a bit... behidn the curve in enlgish.. never liked the class or payed attention.. just passed. lol (Tzimfemme) well, just to start, chop out ALL the "I" and replace with "he" or "she"....then look at what's left and what you should have is a clumsy 3rd person close perspective. . . (Tzimfemme) and from there, retain the lines which still work and twiddle with the ones which sound stilted. (Tzimfemme) I'm on "uncertain preservation" now,a nd since that's 1st person PLURAL ("we"), that one can't be changed that way. * Tzimfemme dips out, in again * Tzimfemme should read mythology more often, it makes her garrulous and idealistic and malcontent (Tasslehof) so many big words. lol (Tzimfemme) and I talk that way also (Tzimfemme) scary, isn't it. (Tasslehof) Such as in Watching Our Night Fade. Twice I was suggested 3rd Person, didnt quite understand & asked for help but it slipped back. Now, no big deal, but left me curious (Tzimfemme) just found it coincedentally (Wyv) yeah, I wish people realized that you can say what you like and don't like about a poem without any prior English knowledge or fancy terms... but the non-English oriented ones still seem to stick with "i like it" (Tzimfemme) I think that shifting the poem to third person isn't going to be its final form--but it will point out what does and does not work more clearly, and maybe get rid of that nagging sense of cliche. (Wyv) the subject's been brought before... maybe it's something we chose to sacrifice when we started giving lengthy feedback (Wyv) brought up (Tasslehof) What do you mean Wyv? (Tzimfemme) Youc an get an "I like it" anywhere. Extended feedback is worth more. (Tzimfemme) or in-depth feedback I should say. (Tasslehof) Ah, understood.. An agreed (Wyv) well, you can give extended feedback without firm grasps of English terminology is what I'm trying to say (Tzimfemme) I'm going to cut and paste snatches from the poem and then try to snip out the first person and see if anything changes. (Wyv) you can say something like "I liked how you used this word over here" or "I sort of didn't like the sound of this line" (Tasslehof) I think one reason, my writing is so *chatoic* as you pointed out, is I normally write when Im in a chaotic part of my life. Why I barely write stuff that might be considered up lifting, & why I often disapear for long periods of time (Tzimfemme) yes, but what can we do to make it better articulate what you feel? (Tzimfemme) that is the question (Wyv) people don't want to do that now because they probably think they'll come across as idiots when compared to others (Tasslehof) Ha.. funny you say that.. I do often feel lost, or out of place due to that.. (Tzimfemme) "I watch as you breathe in & out (Tzimfemme) Laying there like an angel, (Tzimfemme) Your glow puts to rest all doubts, (Tzimfemme) And I clutch to you in hopes you'll be there when I wake (Tzimfemme) " (Tasslehof) An idiot no, cause I imagine there is stuff I could rant about that you would know about (Wyv) that's true that you want to help the poet/author in his direction, but between "I like it" and "I liked this image in it", I'd go with the latter (Wyv) even if it does mean subjectifying it (Tzimfemme) recast to "Watching as you breathe in & out/Your glow puts to rest all doubts/. . .clutching to you, hoping you'll be there. . ." Not all of that verse can be rewritten without first person AHA! (Tzimfemme) It's the bane of us all, showing vs. telling! (Tasslehof) interesting re-wording Tzim.. I like (Tzimfemme) _that's_ what they were trying to say! * Tzimfemme takes a breath (Tzimfemme) well, besides the fact that I SKIPPED the second line entirely--my fault. (Tasslehof) Well yea, but non the less. The rewording takes it more away from *I* and brings it more onto *her*, where the vision should be. (Tzimfemme) the first three lines of that verse show us the lover asleep, the sweet look, with which we can sympathize. Then the fourth line comes in and tells it to us, and since we already saw (read) it, it clashes a bit. * Tzimfemme nods (Tzimfemme) (Btw, I'll clip this all and post it in a few minutes, under that poem's thread)

(Tzimfemme parades through the area, halts, looks around, and walks back into the thread.) I still dread threads like these, but by the gods, if Peredhil hasn't earned a thead of purest praise, who has? It's only one of many monuments to him, and all raised from human warmth, a reflection of the warmth he gave--and never asked to be paid, so what else can we do but raise a monument? A poem, perhaps. A story. A work of website art. The author interacting with the warmth, creation. A tray of lasagna in a foil pan which won't need to be soaked and scrubbed, for when words fail.

It's fine as a play--with all this dialogue, it would be a little awkward reworking it into prose unless you doubled the length of the piece and added in details that the people didn't even notice while they were there. (Prose is easier to read than play form, but that's no fault of yours--all the formatting helped make this easier on the eyes.) The piece doesn't have much plot, and nothing gets resolved, so a director might cut it down to a single scene and/or change some of the boys' one-word replies to stage directions, as they're not getting a word in edgewise in most of those replies. Where Wyvern wants to see all of the characters given greater depth and life, I want to further cut the less-defined characters and focus on the viewpoint of Lauren, the most well-defined character of the bunch. Yet if he hadn't spoken, I would still have thought that the play was perfect as-is. Feedback, ai, double-bladed thing. . .

A quick note--these poems are livelier than the ones you had written with the archaic "thee"s and "thou"s.

Ludmila walked out of a room so overcrowded with visual detail that it would not come into focus. "Sperm donor wants to talk to you," she told the younger woman, pointing at a gaunt miniatures painter as he highlighted the edges of a porcelain snuffbox. The painter raised the brush and set it across a bowl before looking up from his work. He looked at Tzimfemme while she stared past him at his crowded desk, set under a western window. She counted twenty-two jars and shallow dishes filled with pigments, a book of gold leaf hanging from a pin pushed into the wall, a gold-backed mirror, and several utensils, every surface covered with minuscule brushstrokes, and wondered what she would have done with all that wasted time. "You are darker than I thought you might be. No, that isn't true. I am ashamed to say it, but I could not think of you," he murmured. She saw a hard candy flicker in and out of sight, between his lips. "We had to take amnesia drops before the Historical committee would let us live here. . .I am Zacariah, child." Tzimfemme glared at him with her arms folded across her chest. "Ludmila has not told you much? Then I must seem over-familiar. I apologize. . ." He picked up a dagger and lay it flat on his palm before showing it to her. On the blade was painted a neoclassical scene, a naked and barely nubile Diana carrying the body of a stag, and the pommel bronze had been cast as a long-limbed hunting dog. "Please take this. I do not know if you know the myth, but I believe that Diana is your goddess, whether you know it or not." Tzimfemme unfolded her arms and stared into his face. He looked like a puppy standing over a puddle in the carpet, with a squeaky toy in its mouth. Unappealing, but the knife was pretty. She snatched it out of his hands as he swallowed, blinked, and looked at her with less curiosity. "You are one of the Dauphin's new toys? A young one. He is a rake; just shut your eyes and it will be over quickly," Zacariah told her, then took up his brush and snuffbox, and averted his eyes from her. Ludmila caught her arm and drew her away; Tzimfemme felt scratchy cloth under her grip. "He finished the anti-amnesia drop before I could give him the vaccine. Idiot. He's going to die before the year's over--his disease doesn't even exist in this Historical," the older woman cursed. "Be grateful for the purestrain fool, but never be sentimental! If I could only take my own advice!" Ludmila let go of Tzimfemme's arm and ground her fist into the palm of her freed hand. The younger woman, meanwhile, tottered--affection? for her sperm donor?--until Ludmila noticed and pushed her off-balance, onto a nearby fainting couch, shook both her shoulders, and shouted, "Never! Never think that! Neither of us need anything from anyone!" "Parthenes forever--" Tzimfemme thought. "--I didn't dirty myself with anything of his. Nor you." Ludmila's voice rasped, her fingernails bit into the younger woman's shoulders, hard as concrete, and her eyes glinted. Tzimfemme looked inwards instead. Outward details faded. "--Forever fem!" The inwards voice pitched upwards, screechy. "Parthenes, come to order! Quiet! Can you please be quiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiet!" Meigan Czalositz, aka Screech, aka Czalfemme, extended the last vowel until the other girls quit chattering. Tzimfemme turned her gaze outwards again, lay back on the steps with her head resting on the sidewalk's edge, steepled her fingers, and looked down over her club. She was a virgin birth; not even Diana herself could have claimed that. Besides, she was older than all these squealing girls. And besides that, she was the most ruthless. Czalfemme could be the nominal president if she wanted, but she could never lead-- "That is so disgusting," remarked Odeafemme, sitting a few steps further down and eyeing Tzimfemme's braids. "How can you put your hair on the street like that? It's filthy!" "Ludmila threw me out three weeks ago," replied the older Parthene, sitting up partway and propping herself up on one elbow. "I've been sleeping out here." Lucia Odea, aka Loony Lucy (to her less kind classmates), covered her mouth with both hands. "Ohmygodno!" She looked over an invisible barrier at Tzimfemme. "Did she mean it? Why didn't you report her to the police or family affairs or the purestrain committee or something? Three weeks?! Have you had any showers since then? Don't people bother you, sleeping out here?" Tzimfemme thumbed the clasp of her high-necked dress; sparks leaped from the flowing hemline into conductive bits of the concrete. "They try and they fry." Odeafemme scrambled away as the older Parthene turned her dress off again. "That's amazing!" she squealed, "and ohmygod I'm being so stupid, did you want to come and live with me? I mean, my family? I'd have to ask them for permission first but how could they possibly say no?. . ." The younger Parthene chattered on while Tzimfemme rolled her head to one side and watched the feet walk by. All at once she held up her hand for silence, seeing a pair of muddy pink sneakers charging towards their stairwell. Their owner caught herself on the railing and hung there, panting for breath; the Parthenes looked up and saw Mirfemme, their newest girl, too young to even be called fem. "Who's the. . .different girl. . ." began the newcomer, waving one hand above her head at the approximate height. "Yrfemme? The Baikal purestrain?" That was Czalfemme, the walking rulebook. "Bride of the Lightning?" That was Tzimfemme. "I saw her. . ." Mirfemme stopped and gasped for breath, "I saw her. . .with a boy. . ." She twisted up her face and spat out the news. "Kissing! Most of the Parthenes shrieked and burst into chatter. Tzimfemme didn't. Instead she stared up at the youngest Parthene, flat-eyed, probing for cootie-hysteria or some other exaggeration. Her gaze hardened and she reached down towards her own ankle, then stopped. No. Not the Diana knife. "You can't!" gasped Czalfemme. Tzimfemme was too furious to react. Yrfemme had not conceived when she had been struck by lightning? Her scars were not the marks of a shaman? She was no virgin, but just another filthy breeder?! Not long afterwards, the oldest Parthene discovered that she had been wrong. Her mind may have been too furious to react, but her body had run itself to the Baikal district, darting from kiosk to lamppost, always keeping cover between itself and Yr's people. No other Parthene was in sight. Tzimfemme pushed her mind back, to Mirfemme's sneakers: how had they gotten muddy in the middle of the city? She dodged down a street that smelled of animals, weaving her way towards the Baikals' open-air paddocks and loosening the cuffs of both sleeves as she ran, reaching inside each sleeve with two fingers, and releasing the safety springs on her forearm sheaths. Yes. On the pavement not far from the parkland stood Yr (no title for her, no longer) and a solicitious, heavyset man-child. The lightning had scarred Yr from her scalp to her thigh, and her left eyelids were pulled almost shut with scar tissue; Tzimfemme circled around to her blind side and behind a row of garbage cans, so that Yr blotted out her view of the boyfriend, pulled her sleeves down halfway over her hands, and dropped the daggers. Only a finger's length of enameled black metal showed, on the palm side of each slightly curled hand, when Tzimfemme stepped out from cover, left foot leading. The oldest Parthene raised her right hand and waved, Yr turned to better see the motion, and Tzimfemme snapped arm and wrist downwards, launching the first dagger--lurching, missing, as someone jerked her left arm backwards and down and she stumbled forward. The attacker grabbed her right wrist also, dragging it behind her and then crushing it in place with his torso while his freed hand clutched the fabric at the front of her neckline. Halfway gagged, Tzimfemme still found breath to swear as the interloper unfastened the electric clasp, deactivating it--Yr was standing alone now, watching the man behind Tzimfemme. She bucked her body and tugged at her own right arm, and he moved his left arm across her front to quell that, only pinning her left arm at the elbow; as he latched onto her right arm with his left hand, she rolled the fingers of her left hand, reversing her knife, but the bodyguard brought his right hand--and a peripheral view of some pistol--up to her temple. "If you're going to shoot me, damn well do it, I haven't got all day," she snarled, and thrust her free fist behind her. Her elbow jammed into his abdomen and the blade punctured to the bone as the gun fired--

I've moved recently, which means a change in the junk food atmosphere--traded access to Marabou (*sob*, oh how I love their creamy textures) for Cadbury, and several other adjustments. Cloetta's "Mums-Mums"* vs Milka's "Melo-Cakes" Same concept: take a wafer about the size of a circled thumb-and-forefinger, ladle a dollop of marshmallow fluff onto it, and cover the whole mound with a semi-sweet chocolate coating. The diffference lies in the base: Cloetta uses a thin, crispy, single-layer wafer while Milka builds off of a thicker cookie-like. . .digestive biscuit, I think? Amazing how that one change makes Mums-mums light and airy while Melo-cakes seem stale and terrible. Ferrero's "Kinder Bueno" Delicious Nutella hazelnut spread inside chocolate. The candy has some air holes in it, since Nutella doesn't really flow like a caramel filling would, but that doesn't diminish the taste. Generalized Cadbury: If I'd eaten it after only having known American chocolates, I would've been more impressed. Now it's just a step and a half down from Marabou. There's a certain not-sweet taste to it that I can't quite identify. While the candy bars disappointed me a little, I can say that Cadbury cocoa makes the best hot chocolate I have ever had. (Maybe there is some correlation here, because the now-second-best cocoa was a Ghiradelli blend at a bookstore, and I will not touch that in bar form.) *roughly "yum-yum!"

Bug? No. Concern? Maybe. Annoyance. . .Heck, yes. . . This board numbers posts in a thread differently than it did before (eight months before). I had links which redirected to a particular post in a thread, and found that they now all displayed the post AFTER the one I wanted. I went through my Piazza links and think I corrected them all, but if you have old links that you want to keep fresh, keep it in mind. Does this affect Walls of the Pen? [EDIT: Even if it did, I can't edit in Walls of the Pen. . .even if I really wanted to *mutter grumble boston.ma.us.galaxynet.org*]

I'd forgotten about the Valentine's paraphernalia. Those chalky message hearts made great ammo, although the chocolate wasn't even worth eating (anyone remember Whitman's chocolate samplers, half-price after the big day? Yuuuuuurgh). As for the cards. . .Later in high school, the friends from which I'd moved away restarted the Valentine's card giving amongst themselves, I think because one of them had gone to vo-tech for printing courses and made her own, or was looking out for her future income. Only one card made it out to me, a Disney valentine with sappy_saying_01, and it was funny, with a remark like "Can you believe how bad this is?" written on the back side. Scouring the shops, competing with your friends to send the worst and sappiest valentines you can find, regardless of whether any of you had dates or not--that would have been fun.

Crap, I knew I was forgetting something this week. When I was younger, Valentine's Day irritated me, but not much more than the simple existence of lovebirds did. The one year I didn't go to school on the day, which should have been the easiest, turned out to be the worst. I found the carnation in my locker the next day before first-period and jammed it at the nose of the defiler after third-period class. (Didn't quite achieve 'up' the nose.) I moved after that year and didn't trouble myself with the day since then.