The Death of Rats

Mon Mar 2021OcT Today. Sarpen sythe meet famly of mice under basent stars get ridng cat take bath praktise with spraypaint (find smaller cans)

/crawls out of Snypiuer's cloak and onto his houlder. With a bloodcurdling SQUEAK, leaps scythefirst into thje group of grouper.

A very, very well laid breakdown of the fear, anguish and anger that's felt as it still gives way to the realization that though he is missed, he died sticking to his virtues, not flaws- thus implying a great deal of respectful memory for that act, as well as his life. In all seriousness, I think Aesop woiuld've been impressed.

Barry puffed hard as he ran, pelting his little six year old's legs into one depth of snow after another. Each time, he sunk up past his hips before he tensed his other leg and launched himself out and forward again. He felt tired already, but he knew he couldn't stop. The animal he'd seen grazing by that strange man who suddenly ran into both of their views and started flinging himself into the snow was obviously some kind of extra special magic reindeer...or moose, maybe it was a small moose (he wasn't quite sure)...Why else would it be made out of plants? Maybe it was a member of a special team of commando reindeer that Santa kept in reserve for very difficult missions. One thing was for sure. He'd only know if he asked it. And to ask it, he had to catch it. He leapt along as fast as he could. His socks were getting soaked with icy cold water. His sneakers weren't doing a very good job of keeping out the snow.

*looks at the commotion* *leaves* *returns with eyeballs* *inserts them into its sockets* *gouges them out* SQUEAK...

(many thanks to Mynx, Peredhil, Silver Wind, Nyarlathotep, Quincunx, Salinye, Zool, Walnut, Vlad, Lady Celes, Kikuyu, and Mithrandin for doing the hard part and coming up with al the words. )

First Recruitment Post Signup/OOC-WW XXXVIII:The Matr... The Manor's purposes Help! Manha submersa M (Malleus Maleficarum) Quick Guide to Quill Quests Diary of an Assassin What Happened To The Pen?? Rose Heart Silver Wind Community The Almost News Report is killing me. and the sensual situation is SOOOO appropriate for Wrenwind's bedroom.. *snirk* His blood didn't let him sleep for weeks... The End

*offers you a dead rat* SQUEAK?

Best suspense/spy/crime thingy I've read in a long time. You worked in *everything*! Even horseshoes and hand grenades!! Potatoes and gravy was actually quite moving, I must say. *doffs hat*

The small orc felt an itch on his back, almost as if something was laboriously clambering up it. Someone was, he realized, as a pair of ivory-white feet (which were, in fact bone, and naught else) were draped unceremoniously over the brim of his hat. ...shortly followed by a tiny fishing rod snapped into view next, casting off its bait into the millign kittens. Tied to the line was a simple ten ounce wad of catnip. The feet seemed to wait expectantly.

following will be the end of a story.the challenge is to write a story to lead up to it.there may be as many different stories as participants wish.there may be as many participants as want to contribute, contributing any input they want to give for the finished story(-ies).if the finished product(s) are less than fifteen pages in length for a single story, or a combined fifteen pages for multiple stories, this will be considered a failure.don't wait for me to add more story after this post- I won't, and am quite content to let this thread sit for months without touching it.there is no time limit.that's your mission, if you choose to accept it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I took another shot of whiskey and smirked at the sunset. Horseshoes and hand grenades. Potatoes and gravy. Black and white. That's about how we worked, despite everything, worked. We liked it that way too. I still might pay him back for my thumb.

the cake is a lie

Despite himself, Bartleby gives a small yelp when he sees a balde glint next to him. Spinning round as he cries out, the balde reveals itself to be attache dto the scythe of the rat-like individual who seems to have abandoned his tangerine weapon on the barstool in favor of the much more suitably striking scythe (six inches long though it may be). SQUEAK, it comments hollowly. Its bony whiskers twitch once in...amusement? Comradeship? Before, just as suddenly, the creature is gone. Nearby, Ozymandias, oblivious to the proceedings by his right leg, ventures a cautious look across the tabletop. The first thing to catch his eye is a small, red light blinking quietly on the side of the tangerine gun. Eyeing it quizaclly, the old king hoists himself to his feet with a grunt (and a hastily offered apology as he nearly brings his forehead into Tanucahn's chin by doing so). The light begins to flash a bit more quickly. A tiny wisp of smoke is still curling from the hot barrel. Ozymandias' eyebrows shoot up again, this time in alarm. "Ah- er, ah..." saith the once and former pahraoh. Quoth the strange metal object, deet deet deet deet DEET DEET...

An apparently bipedal rat skeleton in a black cloak hops noiselessly to the top of a barstool, wobbling a bit under the precarious weight of the human-proportioned metal cylinder it is wielding, bones of its paws calsped tightly aroubnd the handle and...triggger. The cylinder, further to attentive onlooker's wonder, has an impressive belt-feeding apparatus attached to it. It is loaded with tangerines. The newcomer weaves, wobbles more, weaves again, nearlty topples, then finally manages to draw a bead on Wyvern, then the man in the lab coat, then Wyvern, then the man in the lab coat , as if unsure who the target is. With a grim nod of it's ivory smile, it finally settles on a spot that encompasses both.

A yellow sticky note has been unobtrusivle y added to Ozymandias' back. ______________________________________________________________ Addendum: Or his head will be eaten. Politely. Sincerely,

A three inch-by-three inch piece of paper flutters down from the ceiling. It is written on in black crayon. ___________________________________________________________ Think I finally found the happy medium. Final (?) version above. Sincerely,

SQUEAK,* is all that can be heard. *poetry is really, REALLY hard for me. If I plan it, it invariably fails. If I wait for the words to come to *me*...well, that'sa different. This one happened while thinking of the chants and songs from "Bedknobs & Broomticks" (Disney movie- old. Tragoona, Macoities, and Tracorum setus dee!) a Saul Williams piece I cannot remember the name of ("riding on a freight train through the frezing rain, my reality went insane, and I think I saw Jesus", or somesuch) all while really having nothing more in mind than ttrying to make up my own monolgue like V has in the movie "V for Vendetta" (no, I own't even attempt it- lot of Vs, though. LOTS of them.) by combining the alliteration of his monlgue with the nonsense, peppy rhymes like thje "Bedknobs" had. This, somehow, was the result of one night and one hour's thinking. I think that's what it was, and that sounds good, so that's what it is.

*drags in the ghostly form of stuffed toy rabbit* *swings it violently at Merelas' lower keg region- it hums harmlessly though* *ties this five more times before giving up with a disgusted toss of the rabbit to the floor* *gets a running start, and with a tiny, mighty leap, latche sonto it sprofile with toot and claw* *Pennities run in horror, flee in terror and take grainy black and white photgraphs as an Internet Exploerer window containg the 'Mighty Tan pen' skin just through exactly nowehere into the keep* *after much frenzied worrying, shkaing and chewing, the profile comes free* *dropping to the floor, profile still gripped tightyl in teeth and paws, the Grim Squeaker winds up and delivers an impressive roundhouse to Merelas' kneecap with it. It sticks.* *retriving its abandoned scythe from the floor, the small form gives a little wave beofre walkign through the walll into the next room*

*give sit a four golden geese, and a shredded raisin- out of five* * *Solid, consistent wintry imagery; part like best is the literally lyrical setup; this practically begs for music. Also, word choice, stanzas, everythign lends mightily (on the Mighty Pen! Comedy!) to me hearing a minstrel singign this one in a quiet, relxed inn or dingin hall maybe, as the fire has just begun to die, so has only slipped down a few inches, and the singer sings and even strums his lute contemplatively as well as wistfully- maybe a trace of melancholy? Indecipherable message (if ther'es one) but lovely referencing of *something* decuded important in the night, in the warmer months, to the speaker/singer.

A six-inch tall skeleton ambles past on its way to elsewhere. It gives a little wave to Appy with the paw that isn't clutching tis' seven-inch tall scythe. It is a rat-rather, it used to be. Abruptly, it stops as it passes Norman, examining him from head to foot with lambent bliue eyesockets. Nodding to itself in approval, it gives him a neighborly kick in the shin before continuing on its way into the drakness.

Verily, the verity can be seen from the apogee; startling the abbess minding artillery in the cannery as we speak of a time wondering at the filigree's constancy in the stratosphere. Pick up where you left off of the train in spain and that coversation with a lovely girl named Lola. There was music playing, the freight cars were swaying with a rhythmic click clack that reminded you of a typewriter; your mothers', as she sat smoking all but the butt of yet another cigarette as she finished another chapter in the great american novel. She was nothing like this woman, this Lola with the stars in her eyes as the cars rumble by with her inside to the wonder of the folk on unmoving seats in the countyryside and cities so great is her beauty; her hair is plain, face unremarkable, voice like that of a thousand others, but what remains, what is is her eyes, that smile, something greater than earth, something greater than human an unearthly radiance that fills you with peace as you speak and she speaks and you listen and you remember a time when you were a child, and it's the very first Christmas it snowed and the tree was decorated just right, there was a roaring fire carrying the promises of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows in it, and you were happy. Thoughts of war, of your departed mother, of works unfinished, of penitence, of the skies above and other lands far away bring you back to what started it all; thoughts of your novel, and what you'd like to say in this chapter.

A tiny, black robed rat skeleton pushes and fumbles a wooden stool many dozens of times larger than itself acroos the floor to Whisky's side. Whisky, watching in baffled amazement does not move as it begins a laborious climb using tooth and claw (a miniature scythe clutched fast in it's left paw the entire time) until finally it reaches the top. It stands upright, primly brushing its robe with tiny peral-white paws and staring fixedly at Whisky from a level with he rhip. Its's eye socket glow weirdly as it contemplates sulently. She begind s to sweat coldly. Slowly, it reaches up, stretching out with blade and pointed claw... and shake sher hand.

Ironically shuffled off the immortal coil from Bubonic plague.

A tiny skeleton in a balack robe wanders in dragging a bulging sack. It stops, considering Anna and he r circle for a long moment. Then abruptly it turns, unties the sack, and climbs in, rummaging. First, a bottle of glue is thrown out. Then, some polaroids. Then some CDs. Then some loosleaf with random scrawling on it. Finally, a small back phone book. After it finishes affixing all of tghese items to Annba's circle, the skekeleton steps back, cocks its head, and from its toothy muzzle utters a satisfied, SQUEAK. It wanders out again. ~ An houir later, it wanders past the egde of the spotlight, methodically rubbing gorund beef on the floor.

SQUEAK, came from Mynx's shoulder as the Grim Squeaker deftly impaled an incoming flea in the air with its tiny scythe. aiieeeee..., it said.