Mardrax

The smell of burning paper was strong. Smoke was rising from the entire cardboard town within a few moments after the tavern had caught fire. The wind still howling around and through every nook and cranny, sweeping up the flames and causing the few mock residences (the ones which hadn't fallen over and been crushed by one of the ape's massive feet) in the artificial hamlet to quickly catch fire afterwards. Their collective incinerations had provided an uncomfortable heat for the cut-out inhabitants of the town. The flames whirling up at the sky. Two figures came walking out of the windswept ashes, leaning on eachother, dragging eachother out into the chilly night. "That's the second time today I get hurt. I'll scam myself into a life insurance one of these days." One of the two snarled over the crackling flames and the ape pounding on his chest. He sat down against the cross-section board of a treetrunk on the outskirts of what must have been one of his worst investments ever, two claws rubbing his neck. The second sat down against the tree as well, still coughing as he did so. "I apologised for this morning Sir, I really didn't mean to.." "Yeah, yeah, it's fine" The man coughed violently again, a small cloud of ash flying from his hair as he did so. The tree fell over as he sat back, forming a neat cross when it had landed, the paper foliage folding underneath itself. The ape was now kicking at the piles of ashes, a good stone's throw away from the two refugees. Which is exactly what happened. Mardrax stood up and, after rummaging for a few seconds, pulled the black stone he'd held before out of one of his pockets. He held it for a second or two, then threw it at the ape's backside. The stone flew straight, stretching in its flight, elongating. It grew perfectly cylindrical, a sharp point adorning its tip. The pen halted in mid-air, just before hitting the overgrown simian. It started moving, drawing out long lines, from the ground to just above the ape's head. As it passed before the kaiju's face, the ape first noticed it. It was however, too late. It tried to grab the pen, tried to crush it between its fingers, but the pen was too fast. Before a few seconds had passed, the ape was completely immobilised by the myriad of lines running all around him. All of them unbudging no matter how much of its phenomenal strength it used to try to break them. Its mouth had been securely muzzled, unable to open it an inch. All it could do was growl behind its teeth, and it did so vigorously. The light cast from the orb died down as that too was encapsulated in lines until it's case was completely solid and not a single ray of light peeked through. The ape gradually shrunk back to its normal size, the excessive ammounts of hair drawing back into its skin, the fangs retracting, the eyes settling back into their natural position. HawkWing finally collapsed in his black harness. The pen had rushed in, quickly drawing the man some underwear before he came to. The two figures stood in the quickly dying light cast from the smoldering ruins of what Wyvern once thought of as a very good investment but which had turned out an empty promise. "At least now I can repay you.", Mardrax said. He took the pouch HawkWing had handed him before he threw his little temper tantrum out of one of his pockets, and reached into it. "Now let's see Mister Wyvern... Ten, twenty, thirty, fourty, fifty geld. Take it, it's yours. And I do hope I've paid off my fine with this."

ad infinitum

I stare upon the smiley face two beady eyes awful wry grin This little piece of paper here so crisp, so dry tells me I'll fly Will I lick this stamp? Will I post this letter? I guess I will I have had some better This one tastes quite damp All becoming suddenly clear I'll not just fly I'll taste the sky I stare upon the smiley face it's message clear to me praised be the escapes I get from Alice Dee "A hypochondriac now, walking through the streets at night"

"Dude...."

eclectic

Insanity and logicallity, when do those ever match up to inspiration? To dislocation? To getting lost inside oneself and renouncing every claim to anything approaching being logical or sane, illogical or insane? To move along that stream? Banana-leaf boat carrying a midget. Drops of perspiration and morning-thoughts collecting in its hollow, mingling with the pools of dreams and visions. Threatening to drown its miniature passenger. The big question is: can we keep our heads above the water when we do? And will we need envisioned machettes to cut our way through the jungle if we do wash ashore?

"Well... Like I said before Mister... HawkWing? I can offer you anything you want, you just have to name your desires to the letter... I'm afraid I cannot guarantee your satisfaction otherwise. If all you want is a soft bed to sleep on though, that can easily be arranged." The man stood for a while, seemingly in deep thought. His right hand sank back into his pocket while he combed through his tangled mass of hair with the other hand. Suddenly he seemed to awaken, a look of honest shock on his face as he withdrew his hand from his pocket. In it was a blue stick, with small white hairs sticking at a straight angle out of it on one end. "Oh my, now where did that go?" The hand went back into the pocket, grabbing around while, the other hand unerringly getting caught up in his hair again. "Ah yes! Here it is" The hand came back out, the small white object held firm once again. "Now, what did you desire again? A soft bed... and breakfast... right? Did you have anything specific in mind, or would you like me to just... how do you say that?... Get wild?"

eeeew! And may I be the first to welcome you, Faith?

hurl

door

Fauna, if you're looking for über-long series to pick up, there's one I can really recommend, though it does require a fond appreciation of "non-standard" fantasy, and ofcourse, alot of time Otherland, by Tad Williams. I've just finished reading it for the 2nd time, while being in the middle of the dark tower series and my shakespearean collection 0_o One of the few long series of books I would reread, apart from the Death's Gate cycle perhaps. One of the only prose authors who's managed to impress me just about since I got into high school on top of that As far as my own reading's concerned, I haven't been doing enough of it lately. Apart from the long-term dedications named above, I haven't really read anything lately, apart from web comics and rereading this really odd Dutch book by Gerrit Komrij, of which I'd be surprised if a translated version exists. It's called Hercules, a relative small (200 pages or so) book about a man well into a midlife crisis with some serious imagination problems. As in some scenes (or actually, just about the whole book) had me thinking the author must have been using something seriously hallucinogenic, or otherwise he wanted the main character to give that impression. Outrageous imagination aside (my Dutch teacher two years back tried in her own way to explain that with the words "oh well... he probably always will be more a poet than a writer.")... well... honestly I can't say there really isn't much in it beside that, but I'd say it's well worth the read if only for just that. If it's ever translated into a language some of you (except for the usual suspects ofcourse ) will be able to read and understand, and you see it in a bookstore or online even, don't hesitate to try it if you like weird reads

Gooey marshmallow filling dripping Red and bright yellow tongues whipping Around that fellow's stick Quickly roasting his midnight snack Sitting next to his best friend, beauty in flamed maple: An-Chang. She's bound beside him, never spoke, but clearly sang she would be with him to the end. We sat there for while, looking at the fireworks, faces in flickering smirks, around the stone-bound isle. His attention flared, -expression of dismay- our last sweet reprise'd fared onto the pitch black clay. The remnants boiled blackened on the end of his stick. She was picked up with a shrug, calmly singing us the dirge. A-five, D-two, G-two, B-three. I could just resist the urge to cry over our glucose drug. He played her like a fiddle, knew when to pluck her strings. How bound she is, she still sings. To me she'll always be a riddle. I need a love with keys to press we'd be just a mess otherwise Oh the joys in sugary poetry "Cow, chicken, wheat and sugarcane"

if sweet's organising it? I don't think so... She is... preoccupied for a while it seems

...tenk?

undertow

bicker

dice

Ever painted the lyrics of a song so accurately with your life, then not realise exactly what it is you've painted until you've put your corporeal brush down and it speaks fourteen words to you? Ever sit on top of a person with your hands around his neck, your thumbs just slightly pushing his adam's apple inwards while being in honest doubt about whether you should push through? Ever had that person be your dad?

the path I walk - a cobweb in white tracing across that strange yellow brick road seen by a hawk - i'm stalked by a chalk how our two bodies must seem interlocked it calls in mock diving into its flight - in that split moment we seemed to explode me and my chalk the path that we walk ending now suddenly, in the beak of a hawk now I will talk in midday's full light contemplating this, the words I now wrote how 'bout this end? it seems too ad hoc my mind seems to have run into a block "that delicious caramel filling"

I might not be a member, or know most of you as well as I'd like to, but I'll give it a shot too

Dogwonder! and everything's useable if you want it too

here too spar, nothing but sympathy

guy (strange, the associations english may provoke when a word is spelled exactly the same as in another language )

A drunken haze surrounds her, as she takes up my hand, drags me to an empty patch of floor. Round and round and round she twirls, until she can barely stand. This girl... I adore. She falls over, I catch her; the first of many times? I drag her to her feet, our eyes silently meet. ... She twirls on. I just wish I had more guts sometimes.

junk