smallscale_mind_games

OOC: Hey, kids! It was suggested that I start a Conservatory thread, and I decided to do so and in the process rid myself of my weenie award. If I remember correctly, I roleplay in a slightly different fashion from most here (I could be wrong, though). I am a turn-taker. I play only my characters, and I prefer if my characters' reactions are not written by others. However, aside from this, it's totally freeform and I have no plot in mind, so grab a character and have a blast! I don't know if anyone remembers the two characters from a short story I wrote to gain initiate status, but I've decided to bring them back for this little game. Having not been around since '03, they haven't aged at all! --- Mordekai was immediately suspicious when Cole came home from work with a bag of groceries. The trouble was that his twin wasn't late. He hadn't had time to go to any sort of store at all, and yet here he was, with three white plastic bags full of...stuff. Vaguely discernible were a couple of two-liter soda bottles, a big bag of potato chips, and a large assortment of something pinkish. "Cole?" "Hmm?" "What is...that?" Cole lifted the bag, hefting it with a careless smile. "This? Weenies." Mordekai's eyebrows disappeared into the shaggy fringe of his dark hair. In addition to the unexpectedness of the bag of weenies, Mordekai preferred food in which he could see all the ingredients, and thus he found that hot dogs offended his sensibilities slightly. "And where did you get these...weenies," he inquired, a horrid thought rising in his mind: if they'd come from the break-room fridge, who knew how old they were?! "Oh, some girl." Cole shrugged one shoulder, still entirely unconcerned. "I met her on the bus. Said she had all these weenies, and nothing to do with them, would I like to have them." Mordekai's eyebrows buried themselves in his hairline, perhaps never to return. "And you said yes." "Naturally. Free weenies!" "What will you do with them?" Only then did a note of caution enter into Cole's bearing. He kept his expression carefully neutral, a vague smirk playing around his lips. He looked entirely untroubled, but his fingers clenched around the handles of the plastic bags, betraying his tension. "I was thinking we might have a little get-together. Get to know some people in the neighborhood, you know?" He held his breath, waiting for the response as Mordekai stared at him. "A--a get-together?" Mordekai licked dry lips. Cole nodded. "Right. We have plenty of room right here in the front yard." He paused, thoughtful. "If we cut down the horse topiary, anyway. Just a little outdoor celebration for the end of summer, no big deal. A barbecue." "Who would we invite? We don't know anyone." "And whose fault is that, mister anti-social? I was thinking the people on our street. Oh, and maybe the bigwigs at that...fortressy thing on top of the hill." "I think it's a guild, Cole. You said a little get together." "Okay, a medium-sized one. And they're writers, creative types. Your kind of people! Come on, Mor', pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase?" Cole's eyes were wide and soft, threatening tears. "I'd have so much fun!" Mordekai cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Fine. When is this barbecue?" "Tomorrow night." "Tomorrow night?!" "Weenies don't last forever, you know." *** And so, invitations were sent to the neighbors, separate for each household. The Mighty Pen, however, received one mass invitation--something Mordekai would have never approved, had he been in charge. Which is probably why he was not. The brothers bought decorations, Mordekai arguing for class and subtlety, Cole for a luau theme with coconut-shaped cups. A compromise was reached in the end, with Cole sacrificing grass tableskirts for the privelege of his coconut cups, and giving in to his brother's desire for paper lanterns to be strung up from tree to tree. Finally, the September evening fell, warm and clear. Stars twinkled in the purple twilight sky, and the paper lanterns glowed softly, casting a warm light over the pina-colada-inspired punch, and of course, the weenies. It was a truly glorious array, every kind of weenie one could imagine. Cocktail weenies, polish sausage, kielbasa, all-beef franks, vegetarian corn dogs...it went on and on and on, a fabulous spread, all weenie-themed. Under the lights, Cole already sipping a plastic coconut of punch, the twins waited for the guests to arrive.

Ayshela: I didn't reply at first because I was so bloody flattered. Thank you. Sam: Yes, far too long. Take off your sunglasses and stay a while.

NOTE: What's this?! More weird poetry from Merry? That's right! I hope you like it. Critique is accepted and welcomed, as I think it could use, perhaps, a bit of help. There's a fire in my mouth There's a fire on my tongue And I'm fighting with your insides In a war I know I've won There's a fire in the market There's a fire in the street And my hands are grasping flames When I think I've got you beat There's a fire on the curtains There's a fire on the stairs I'll subdue the lying smile That everybody wears There's a fire in your insides There's a fire in your smile If I tie you tight enough You'll stay here for a while They're screaming "Fire!" in the market And "Fire!" in the street They're choking on the smoke And blistering with heat "Fire on the curtains!" And "Fire on the stairs!" I've shut down the lying smile That everybody wears

Hi, Damon. Your use of dialects never ceases to...completely bewilder me. you should get rid of your Weenie Award too. Hi, Ayshela! I was worried you wouldn't remember me. I'm so glad to be back. *big hugs*

All right, here's a little story. I wrote it a while ago, and I hope it's still as decent as it was then. Hope it's good enough! Without further ado: The Conviction “Guilty as charged,” the judge intoned, his voice wooden. Perhaps the most infuriating thing about that calm old voice was the absolute lack of malice. We’re being sentenced to death, Surgeon thought dully, it would be a bit more tolerable if he at least hated us... Sentenced to death…the thought washed over him like cold water, but he didn’t move. He remained still, his eyes lowered to look at his reflection in the glass of water. Blue-green eyes, almost bored-looking, stared back at him through a translucent curtain of dusty blonde bangs. “Hanged until dead,” a childish whisper rang across the long table, causing the six people seated there to jump, their handcuffs rattling. “How barbaric,” young Elizabeth continued, her tone morbidly cheerful. Surgeon shuddered…what a frightening child! It was as if she felt no fear. He chanced a quick sideways glance at his companions, and saw that their faces were blank…fearless. He locked his eyes back on his water glass. Alone in cowardice; he knew that he, at least, was frightened of the death that awaited in the morning. The balding man seated at the far end of the table sighed, rather sadly…but with no more importance to the sound than if he’d stopped at a convenience shop and found them out of donuts. “Amazingman, are you okay?” the dark-haired, pale-eyed boy to his left nudged the aging superhero in his well-padded ribs. The guards rustled suspiciously at the noises, their mechanical gun-arms clicking in unison as they switched off the safety. Surgeon shuddered again—Elizabeth was at least human! But these…these things! They were what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. For the first time in his life, he’d made the mistake of feeling strongly about something. What he felt strongly about was that man should never be mated with machine…and also, as a side-issue, that King Thormond was a cruel and totalitarian ruler. They all had their own reasons for joining in this mad crusade, but Surgeon’s were probably the worst of all. He’d simply gotten involved out of boredom, whereas Amazingman was doing it for one last stab at fighting crime. Valeria, who sat to Surgeon’s right was doing it because she’d seen her husband killed out of hand…and his murderers gone unpunished because of a technicality so obviously false that the killing had to have been government-sanctioned. Elizabeth was in because it was better than prostitution. Johnny, the pale-eyed boy next to Amazingman had gotten involved for revenge: he came from a poor family, and Thormond’s Parliament had funded a program offering large amounts of money for test subjects…Johnny’s parents couldn’t pass it up, and as a result, were now something far less than human. And then there was Mikhail. Mikhail who was dead. Oh yes, there were no doubts that he was dead, in spite of the fact that he sat between Valeria and Elizabeth, his breathing even and calm…there was nothing in his body. A large white bandage wrapped around his head covered most of his long, straight black hair, and also the grievous head wound that had taken his mind. Mikhail had never revealed his motives, or much of anything for that matter, remaining quiet and withdrawn for the duration of that mad resistance. But in spite of that, or perhaps because of it, Surgeon had found himself drawn to the man, and through patient, gentle prodding had discovered behind those walls a person to whom the world had been very unkind. The six of them had started optimistically, with high hopes of using their programming skills to mess with the cyborgs’ internal coding…but it was a belated effort. It turned from six fierce rebels fighting a war to six disappointed programmers, trying forlornly to hack the brain of just one of the cyborgs. Still, they must have been getting close, for it had been enough to draw Thormond’s attention. It had been a woefully short amount of time before they were captured and put to trial for high treason…but what could they expect? With the exception of Amazingman, none of them were trained fighters, and the aforementioned superhero was in the process of going to seed. The guards led them out, and, in an unexpected display of compassion, their captors allowed them to stay the night in the same cell. Surgeon glared around at his companions, all of whom met him with a dull-eyed stare. He couldn’t stand it. “What’s the matter with all of you?” he shouted, suddenly leaping to his feet. His face reddened, and he was humiliated to feel tears burning in his eyes. “We’re going to die tomorrow, don’t you even care?! Am I the only one who is the least bit troubled by this?! I hate all of you!” he ended with a snarl, and then having nothing better to do, sat down cross-legged with his arms folded. Valeria sighed, turning her hazel eyes toward the ceiling. “There isn’t anything we can do about it,” she said softly. “Why bother getting worked up?” With a resigned sigh, she resumed her earlier examination of her fingernails. Surgeon stared at her, astonished. He opened his mouth to begin another tirade, but was interrupted by Johnny. “Don’t be stupid, we’re all terrified.” He glanced sideways at Valeria. “Even Val. It’s just…too enormous to even feel. Anyway, we should…figure out…who goes first.” “I will!” Elizabeth piped eagerly, her green eyes sparkling in anticipation of a new adventure. “I’ll go first, and I’ll meet the rest of you there. I’ll tell you if it’s nice or not.” Surgeon shook his head mutely, wondering why it would even matter. He refused to take part in the discussion, finding it far too macabre. It was decided without him that first would be Elizabeth, then Johnny, then Valeria, then Amazingman, then Surgeon, and finally Mikhail. “Mikhail…” Surgeon murmured, turning to look at him. Mikhail sat slumped against the wall, his hands limp in his lap. “Don’t be frightened,” Surgeon continued, “everything will be fine.” But Mikhail’s gaze never shifted, and he gave no sign that he had heard. Despite all of Johnny’s assurances that the world would have ended by morning anyway, the dawn came in the most glorious sunrise that Surgeon had ever seen. Last sunrise. He shook his head. It would only be a couple hours before the six of them were led to the gallows. It all went too fast, Surgeon thought numbly as he waited his turn. Little Elizabeth’s body already taken away, and now it was Johnny’s turn. It was all too quick…the boy only had time for a quick wink to his remaining companions before his neck was snapped. Valeria proudly stepped to the platform without help from her executioner, placing the noose around her own neck. Then she was gone too. “Shit,” he whispered, turning to look at blank-faced Mikhail. Amazingman made a speech before he went, probably directed at Surgeon, but the blonde man heard none of it. The closest thing he’d had to family, all these years, and they were all gone now…with the exception of Mikhail, who’d been gone for a week already. And then it was his turn. Surgeon shook off the guard’s arm as he mounted the steps of the gallows, distantly surprised at how he wasn’t shaking at all. The rope was rough around his neck, and it was the most poignant, most there thing he’d ever felt. One last time he turned his head to look at Mikhail, technicolor Mikhail with his long black hair, his brown eyes, his giant fur coat… Mikhail blinked, looked up, meeting Surgeon’s eyes. “Surgeon?” he asked softly. Surgeon had the sickening feeling of the floor dropping from beneath his feet.

*hugs are returned* Thanks you guys! I'll just get to doing that, then.

A post that I probably shouldn't have posted. Then again, someone will probably tell me so. I'm just dropping in to say hello again, and that I am returning to the Pen (who could stay away?) and that I WILL buy off this Weenie Award, so long as it isn't too late. I've noticed dozens of people I remember, and also...dozens of people I don't. Feel free to introduce or re-introduce yourselves; I'm friendly, but a little shy. <---my new favorite emoticon.

I like it better than the last one. And that's all I have to say. My head hurts. Ninja!

I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to. I hate it when I do that, never think to check, always feel bad afterward. Sorry, Gwaihir.

'dis here poem sort of popped into my head. Woohoo. \m/ \m/ Errrr...it won't let me post... There's a trademark by your name Life's a Parker Brothers game What you ordered never came And everything is just the same I visited a Silver Diner Later bought a suede recliner A plastic toy, gleaming reminder It's beautiful; they're made in China Things are growing, every day Hear what mass producers say They know you well in every way Buy and it'll be OK Spray to protect from mildew; mold Things are valuable once they are old Synthetic gloves when your hands are cold And everything you love is sold

This is great, indescribably so. I'm completely in love with nonsense, especially cynical nonsense. Woo!

Heeey, that almost made me cry! Good. But you forgot Cole's bloodcurdling scream at the end! The horror!...heh, I only kid, that rocked.

Neeeee, I <3 it! Buuut...I'm still really confuzzled about that first bit and who's talking when. Maybe clarify for me a little bit? Hee, angst *rubs hands together*

I wasn't even sure what I was writing at the time...it is untitled, incomplete, and mildly confused, as am I. I thought I'd share it to take your comments and your suggestions. So here it is: Untitled My pale-cobweb ice spur fingers crackle, luminous chips rattling to the floor, like beads from a broken necklace. The delicate fingertips lift the lilac gossamer spun-sugar veil and drop it over my eyes, making me sigh with longing for a world so bright that it stabs the space inside my head. Through the veil I see glory, a thousand golden locusts, staining mens' hearts with tarnished bronze. I cry out to them to stop, but nothing comes, only a stream of spindly mayflies issuing from my lips, which are red from wanting to scream. When the last creature has exited, my teeth melt together, locking my words away. I realize that I never had any to begin with. I exhale dream-dust through my nose, glittering and dull, the vacuous whispers nauseating me and causing more hallucinatory grains to exit my whirling soul. Dizzy now, I watch the man on the bed as he is caught in some night-terror that I have made but cannot testify against. His body stiffens, his back bows the wrong way, pulling his terror-racked frame up from the sweat-soaked matress. It takes a moment of moonlight before I see his terror becoming real. His eyes open wide, the loveliest eyes I have ever seen, and then they roll back on his head. Bruises are appearing on his face, one by one. One of his eyes begins to swell shut. Foam falls from his lip to glisten on his chin. It seems to last forever, a daytime nightmare that he never dreamed. Sometimes he falls back onto the bed, clutching the sheets about him but never really waking. These respites are always too short, and his exhausted body protests as it is drawn into violent spasms once more. With a sharp crack, his jaw swings slightly off-center, and blood mixes with the foam bubbling from his lips. I sigh nasally. Finally the wretched one's ordeal is over. He opens his eyes and sinks down, head touching the pillow gently. I can see his terror but he is too weak to do anything but cling to the blankets, shaking, and stare wildly around the room, his lovely eyes seeming to glow in the dusk like darkly iridescent pools of blood, no longer quite fresh and beginning to congeal. His gaze pauses on me for a moment, and my breath catches, but there is no flicker in his face. His eyes dance on. I am glad he cannot see me. I stand and watch, as I always do, and the man is swept away from beneath me. Seven worlds of pain, soap bubbles maybe, travel through me and I watch as silk-winged butterflies are folded and given to children, who burn them with a vile green flame. I try to tell them that the smoke is poison, but can only look mutely on as they sink to the ground.

Might that have any relation to the word feces? Gosh, but what a gross thread! But so much fun. ...and look how I make my re-entrance after an absence-by posting about feces. Funny old world, isn't it?

Yep, I disappeared from the Pen in a violent onset of writer's block, camp, school, and other such things. I'm back, hopefully for good. I offer my apologies, especially to: Salinye: I put my name up on the list of those wishing to join your Quill Quest, but then I never followed up. I apologize profusely for wasting your time. Unfortunately I have no good excuse. I'm just a scatterbrain (when my brain is present at all.) That's all really. My brain is currently scrambled and living in a dimension at 22-degree-angles to this one. I'M BACK! Crowd: Booooooo! Shut it you! I'm not leaving!

The amateur shapeshifter sat in the hall, scribbling violently in her notebook, completely oblivious to the recent arrivial of the gypsy seeress. She wondered idly what chance had brought so many of the Pen's members together in this one hall...and chattering so exitedly! Humming with irritation at the interruption, she reshaped her ears into those of a bat...but they went quickly back to normal. Not only was it too loud, but it was quite disconcerting to have a sound-map painted over things that she could actually see. She tried wolf ears this time, and found it much to her preference. She caught bits of conversation "...never wrong..." "Caryon Artificer, Emissary of Yawgmoth, requests a fortune reading" "Delicious..." "Money and destiny" "Hmmm..." she pondered the meaning of this. Fortune readings? That might be fun...gnawing furiously on her pen, she stood up, and...dashed for a trash-can in which to spit a mouthful of ink. She was quite amazed to find it already full of giraffe puke. Turning away from the mess, she trotted over to the crowd, standing patiently in line, and grinning a mad, ink-blackened grin at innocent passers-by. Getting to the paper, she scratched uselessly at it with her pen, unable to get the ink to flow properly because of the recent rupturing of the cartridge. Sighing, she swiped Annael's feather from Orlan, dunked it into the back of her pen, and scrawled her name. Elisa Cavalier She then walked out, grumbling, "That was way too much work..." A wolf-tail twitches behind her.

You know, I wasn't going to comment originally (just to be mean as I told you over the phone) but the cat is howling in the background, and I've gotta do SOMETHING. I like this poem muchly. It's very well-written. Yess! Bash the system!

Merf...I saw this before, but didn't comment, because that's what I do. Ja, I'm pissed at my parents...thank you for thwapping them, Lynne-ish. Nice poetry.

*Sniffles* pertyful...I really like the rhyme-rhythm-y thing... (^.^)~ Expressionless kitty! Fits all your kitty needs!

Note: I haven't the foggiest where this came from...but I kind of stole the idea from Elwen, because her bard characters seem to be playing a depressing ditty called "Silent and Still" constantly. I don't know if it's already a poem/song, but here's what I wrote. Enjoy! Silent and Still Silent and still Silent and still I love you my darling Now do what you will Cold and alone Cold and alone Your chill has sunk through me Through breath blood and bone True love is to kill True love is to kill Your blade has now kissed me I'm silent and still

I am so ashamed of myself for writing this. ^^ Forget-me-not Picking my way about a summer field Plucking up tiny blue flowers Offering them to you, a childlike boquet Forget me not Smiling with innocence, looking in my sewing drawer Cutting a blue thread Watching the ends fray I wind it around your index finger Forget me not Gazing with the kind of love allowed only to the very young I drink in the light of your blue eyes Leaning forward Whispering in your ear "Forget me not."

Oh yeah, and everything Distarius said.

Can you be taught to write? No, you have to do that yourself. But you can be helped. You have to grow, like some kind of insane writing-weed, and people can be your water, your sunshine, your soil, or even the rotten fish heads that are your fertilizer. And eventually you will be all sprawly and creepy-looking. That made little sense... What made me write? I don't know, I have to. At first it was just poetry, and things just kind of snowballed from there. Now I'm an awful Pen-monster, just like you!

Wow...so well-written. You put a helluva lot of emotion in this one... *embarrassed* It actually made me cry