Patrick

Sorry Mynx. Both for not posting for a while, and for not breaking your tie.

John slammed the shovel in the ground, gazing at the grave he had just filled in. Sweat streaming from his naked chest he murmured a silent prayer to the gods that they speed the poor widow on her way. He lifted the small packet his wife had prepared, gently lifting the folds of fabric to reveal the small yellow flower. He made a small hole at the head of the grave and planted the flower, pouring a trickle from his waterskin to set it on its way of growing. The rest of the water he poured on his own head. No one else had come to the burial, they were all too busy accusing each other of having done the deed. No one but than John and his wife had even come out to the large willow tree under which stood a couple dozen headstones in various states of disrepair. The widow's was the best, a large flat stone that John had spent the whole morning to carve. Here lies Katt Thom Beloved Mother He made no mention of her late husband, the bastard beat the poor woman for years before she had taken a knife to his back. John had disposed of the body years earlier, yet no grave marked his passage on this world. Giving his wife a hug and a kiss, John turned towards the town. She indicated that she would stay for a while, the two of them had been friends, and Sue needed to say goodbye in her own way. John skirted around the center of town, heading into the forest with his axe. The village was already tearing itself apart, but he would have no part of it. Ever since that priest had arrived nothing had been the same. Not being able to do the act, for he was not a man driven to murder, he drove his axe into Old Gnarly, a tree he had been looking at a while. With each blow he imagined that he was hitting that blasted priest in the neck. The axe-blows echoed through the forest, but none came to investigate. They knew not to disturb John when he was in one of his moods. OOC: If John would want to vote, he'd vote for the priest, but he doesn't feel the need to add to the calls for blood. So I'll abstain.

That gardener hears the girl crying Tears of joy trickling down her face And he smiles In happiness That gardener hears the girl laughing The sweet innocent laughter of the young And he smiles In reminiscence That gardener sees the girl dancing The dance of one lost in their joy And he smiles In remembrance That girl sees a gardener dying The death of a full life And she smiles And so does he New line: Just one more level...

Jolly little baby mine You dirty prickly swine How I love you so Want to strangle you slow I only want your love You are not my dove I keep pushing away But...please stay! First line: You're just trying to stir trouble

John was not one of those Father Augustine waved to, the priest pointedly ignoring the young man. John did not care, the priest was welcome to his own damn opinion. He circled his arm around his wife's shapely waist and leaned in to give her a kiss. Their mother, sitting in her rocking chair on the porch was already asleep again. She kept doing that a lot lately. John did not think she would make it through the year. Sue would take it especially hard... He gave Sue another kiss accompanied by a squeeze on the behind and lifted his bundle of tools from the ground. He meandered his way through the square towards the church. The priest made no secret of his disapproval, and the loss of divine favour the family's actions throughout the generations had brought on them. But still, John was handy with his tools, and the church did need repairs... It seemed after all that the priest could be a practical man when he wanted to be. John lifted his hat to him as he walked past, then spat out the wad of tobacco he had been chewing on.

In your eyes I see the fires of rage New line: My honour in tattered shreds or if you're picky about your US/UK English, just use honor.

Yes! I have the below three in a single volume book. The Books of the North The Black Company (Main Annalist: Croaker) —May 1984 Shadows Linger (Croaker) —October 1984 The White Rose (Croaker) —April 1985

To clarify, you can interpret the above post as you wish...you can among other things talk about sewer humour on a computer, posted by a trooper who is an abuser of smoother super cuter producers...

Death A beginning A decaying body Life given through rot A cycle that Is Eternal

I've started reading the Black Company. Only fifty or so pages in, but I can already see that I'll most probably enjoy it.

The lights did not come on that night. Nor the next. The riots three weeks later tore down any semblance of peace and order that Mother Nature's fury had kept whole. Of course by then Bill and his whole family were long gone, choosing the long uncertain path to the wilderness, where the only enemy was Mother Nature herself and humanity did not intrude on the natural order. Snow drifts dozens of feet high and howling winds from the north that plucked at your clothes, chilling you to the bone were still better to face than the starving mobs of the great cities. Far from the last vestiges of civilization, far from the dying embers of the food riots, deep in the wilderness the last few survivors held on, desperately clinging to a world they remembered, a world that could no longer be. They passed hundreds and then thousands of frozen remains on the road side and then next to barely used footpaths as they made their way to the northern mountains..and then slowly one by one they joined them until only Bill himself was left. He plodded along, his footfalls becoming heavier and heavier, hope slowly trickling away. And then he lay down, no longer moving, the cold enveloping him, like a mother's embrace. He remembered a time, a lifetime away... And slowly he drifted away, his thoughts in a happy place a long time before his body joined them.

According to http://rhymezone.com/r/rhyme.cgi?Word=future&typeofrhyme=perfect&org1=syl&org2=l&org3=y The below words almost rhyme...so here's a challenge, write a poem including as many as you can fit in. blooper, booster, cooler, cooper, cougar, cuter, fewer, futures, hoosier, huger, humor, junior, looser, looter, loser, luther, mover, neuter, newer, pewter, rooster, ruler, rumor, sewer, shooter, smoother, sooner, soother, suiter, suitor, super, sutured, sutures, trooper, tumor, tutor, user, abuser, computer, producer

Up and up we go It is no longer slow A rapid ascent Energy well spent You're on the right path Let go of your wrath The way ahead is pure Just see the cure You are not so far Don't scratch at the scar Go, go, the path is clear Your goal is near Reach out, touch it The lip of this deep pit Haul yourself out Let go of all doubt Just stop messing around The solution is found Do yourself a favour Don't leave it till... later later later... yes, sleep on it your problems can wait....for a... bit

A single thought A single snarl A single revolt A failed idea A failed rebellion A desperate cry

Rolling rolling roll- Down Down Do- Do... Do... Something

Let's just call him John.

Thinnie still stood where the chicken leg had fallen, shock rooting his legs to the ground, a puddle starting to spread between his legs. His fleeing companions had no thought for him as the beast broke his neck with a single glancing blow and ran on.

Thinnie, formerly cabin boy for that alcoholic who had served as captain of the Minnow, jumped up in surprise, his cooked chicken leg landing neatly in the middle of the flames, sending up a sudden wave of heat as all the juicy fat on it suddenly combusted.

None of the remaining six noticed when their seventh companion suddenly disappeared near the cave entrance while gathering driftwood, nor did they hear his blood-curdling screams from the depths of the cave. They did manage to get a tidy little fire going though...

The way I feel... like a slimy eel The way I move like a sly mongoose The way I walk Makes everyone gawk The way I fly Like a bee who is high The way I fuss about... the animal in all of us New line: Dancing the samba after two bottles of whisky

The captain shouldn't have even been on the ship, taking over for a friend only because he was getting married. *IT* was not his ship, not his curse. Halfhand Harry just sat in his cabin gulping down glass after glass of rum. There was nothing else he could do.

I shall play a young man, son of a a family that has lived in the village for generations, and as his father, grandfather and grandfather's grandfather before him, he married his own sister, because that was the custom.

Wow. Long live zero An unexistant hero He is not the one The battle far from won New line: This incandescent rage

I have fixed the formatting of my own posts in this thread as best I could, didn't touch anyone else's though, feel free to edit your own posts if they're messed up.

Tickle Oh you fickle Muse Me, you amuse