BelchFire

...kitty? After all, you can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'. Feathers Mcgraw pondered this rebuttal for a long moment, his eyes still following the meandering smoke, but then his attention was distracted by...

BelchFire comes in out of the aether, shaking the dust off of his personae and stretching the time out of his absence. "Yeeeeeee... Ah!" "So, Belchfire," asked random bystander #47, "How is it you got the name 'BelchFire'?" "Glad you asked!" he replied with a grin, then setled back in a studious pose, his gaze looking to the horizon of his memory. "You've all seen me tell a story and play my flute through a peaceful evening. Yes, ordinarily I am BelchFire, the gentle and *cough* mild mannered flautist, but when it comes time to cook..." Suddenly a dark cloud rolled in over the Assembly. As the daylight dimmed a hellish red glow pervaded the room, and a thick smoke choked the patrons and squeezed tears from their eyes. "Mesquite!" shouted random Assembly room patron #34¾ as he dove under a table. "MuaHahahahahaha!" laughed Belchfire in a resounding demonic voice. "At cooking time I become the formidable, the fiery, the searing, the Hot! Hot! Hot! BBQ BelchFire!" He waved a BBQ pitchfork in a mittened fist, and in the other he wielded the Tongs of DOOM. His face was black with soot, through which poked his eyes like teriyaki skewers and his learing grin like a cheshire shish-kabob. "And I don't stop until I am well done! HA! HA HA!" "Look at that," shouted random passerby #1, "He's a weenie!" Belchfire looked as though the smoke had suddenly gone out of his sails. "Oh my..." I'll have to do something about that. (Excellent weenie post Snypiuer, a real inspiration to the rest of us! )

Only somewhat disheveled after the 'eviction' incident, BelchFire was gratified to see things return to normal. His heart warmed at the spontaneous Haikus the patron's so eloquently spoke, and sank into the blissful moment of them. Reflecting on that, an old song crept up from his memmory called 'Just for a Moment'. Ordinarily he kept that sort of thing out of the Cafe, but it just seemed appropriate now. He couldn't help but think of the words; We laughed Until we had to cry And we loved Right down to our last good bye We would not fail I think we let it be Just you and me For just a moment We chased That dream we never found And sometimes We let one and other down But the love we made Made everything alright We shone so bright For just a moment Time goes on People touch And they're gone And you and I Will never love again Like we did then Someday when we both reminice We'll both say There wasn't too much to need And through the tears We'll smile when we recall We had it all For just a moment Time goes on People touch And then they're gone But You and I Will never really end We'll never love again Like we did then We laughed Until we had to cry And we loved Right down to our last goodbye Good bye *David Foster-For just a moment*

From:http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=stor...ot_receptionist In the future, writing will be more than simply putting words on paper (though, like film photography, I'm sure it will never go out). Writing will provide scripts and substance behind electronic interactions of all sorts, from matrix style uploading to artificial personalities like the one in the article above. Of course, that in itself would make a good story too. Thoughts?

After poor Sorciere had thoroughly clobbered the bumbling Gwaihir, and the window had been magically restored and the mess cleaned up, peace once again fell upon the Café, due no doubt to the lingering effects of WrenWind’s lovely poem. Patchouli and willow faintly lingered just beyond the attention of the room. Nursing his bruises and his bad luck Gwaihir wandered over to the bar to sit next to SavageDragon, who tried to diplomatically edge away even in his alcohol induced stupor. Noticing his long face, a buxom young maiden, the daughter of the barkeep who usually minded the coffee bar, sat down next to him, then scooted closer. When she had caught his eye and he turned to look at her she layed upon him a fifty megaton smile. Gwaihir took a deep swim in the pools of her eyes. “Let me make you a coffee. It will make you feel better,” she said, insinuating her hand under his. Gwaihir felt better already. Elsewhere in the Café, a lone half-dwarf played idly with a wooden flute. Sitting on a wooden stool along the wall his melancholy was palpable, made only more evident by the lonely haunting tune he began to play. As he played, each somber note following the next, an intense sadness began to grip the room, and a hush fell. Everyone who heard the song began to think of his or her own past pains, turning inward in the embrace of the beautiful sadness wrought by his song. Outside, a lone boom of thunder rolled, long and rumbling. For a moment, it seemed the whole world had turned gray, and then the dwarf put the flute in his lap, and he spoke in a slow, rambling free verse: “All those years, were a labor of love but then I lost what should've been found Shame, shame, shame I'm so ashamed Our lives collided like two trains on the same track, our hearts a single twisted wreck. I knew what I had to do but I held out for you to change Shame, shame, shame I'm so ashamed I thought the trail could lay the mountain as today is tomorrow's yesterday as the night precedes the day. Falling down that hall of many doors I chose the manner of my destruction. Shame, shame, shame, I'm so ashamed. I can't think straight any more If I could only love without fear, and learn to learn without question. Now I watch as we get stranger defined by our independence from each other. Shame, shame, shame I'm so ashamed Now it seems the best thing I can do is grow up, and let you go as I should have... the moment I first loved you.”

Somewhere off to the side of the raucous Cabaret, in a dim corner, is a narrow hallway leading off to another, lesser known part of the Pen. At the end of the hallway, scarcely needed to conceal the dim flicker of firelight from beyond, is a pair of wooden swinging saloon doors, carved in high relief with quills, the masks of drama, and the nine muses. Above the doorway hangs a small sign in black outlined gold-leaf that says simply: "Belchfire Cafe". Inside you find an intimate nook, which simultaneously has a dark ambience and a warm familiarity. There is a small kitchen window at the end where you can order a quick meal or something to drink, and at the other end is a spacious fireplace in which a low fire eternally burns. There are several outside windows along one wall, covered with heavy curtains through which only an indefinite twilight passes. Instead of the usual tables, scattered around the room are sofas, high back chairs, and even an area of enormous pillows to lay on. The back wall is covered with book shelves, from which any manner of reading may be drawn. More than a place to simply eat or drink, the Belchfire is a place of atmosphere and character, a place to create an entire mood, as well as partake of the full experience of those you share the space with. The weather that seeps through the thick curtains often reflects the mood of the current speaker, the fire has been known to raise and lower with the spirits of the room, and an enchanted calliope stands unobtrusively in a corner, often eerily echoing the emotions of whatever narration is taking place in musical background, with the sounds of everything from a full orchestra to a banjo and a kazoo, or even the trill of evening birds. So feel free to come on in and make yourself comfortable. Feel free to enjoy the words of those around you - and to share your own. This is the place to hear, and to be heard. Welcome.

Belchfire wanders back in and gingerly accepts back his soggy, bloody, burnt, stinking, accepted application with a small nod, half in horror, half in acknowledgement. "Thanks," he quietly rumbled. "I look..." His face went completely blank for a moment. "F-forward," he finally stammered. "...to hanging with you folks." Uncertain what else to add to the previous mayhem he turns to go, but at the door he stops, and says, "Good thing my cousin Pootfire wasn't applying," then, still holding his decorated application, wanders back out apprehensively wondering what he would possibly find himself involved in next. OOC: Thanks Wyvern, Thanks Ayshela, Deantheadaquate, Tanuchan, and Jade. Thank you very much! I think this will be most interesting.

Thanks.

Hello, I would like to submit this in application to your fine site. This is untitled. Perhaps you could help me with that? I saw it in her eyes, that she wasn't really here, but far away her presence was merely an echo of the rushing power there. We danced away our days, in sparkling sun and splashing water, in smoky meals and intoxicating drink. Long gray hours drifted between, but we never minded, always gravitating back to our little planet. She taught me many things, That the mewling of the weakest kitten can have more force than eight hurricanes That our feet are long soft hands, with which we hold the world That our thoughts can cleave atoms, and our tongues can shape the universe And then she looked around her, and took a fancy to what was outside of our happy place, and all was lost. Then the world had no meaning. Then those golden days were gone forever. But still... I think of her always as I carry my days and with my feet I hold the earth my hearing is a lamplight searching for the weakest mewling and my thoughts cleave atoms, while with my tongue I shape my loneliness.