Patrick

An owl in wolf's clothing...nope A villager in owl's clothing...nope A wolf in owl's clothing...maybe... I guess I'll figure it out eventually.

The page is no longer blank, Your words not simply a prank. Your muse seems to whisper still, Begging you to pick up your quill. So, pick up the feather! Dust off the pot! And hope the ink won't make...too big a blot!

Between the Buried and Me - Parallax

Bilocate - Summoning the Bygones www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbG59KwMKj0 Those who know my musical tastes know that they are warned.

Steven Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series. Forests have been destroyed for this one. Currently 8.8 books of the 10 book series have been read. After that I'll read the last Wheel of Time, another deforestation champion candidate series.

I was just behind the guy making the video.

He had stood here, his footprints still showing in the windswept sand. A hero, a real one. He gave his life on this ever moving dune of sand, his bones destined to serve as a landmark for travelers of a future he made possible. A future that he would have no part in. Pera wiped sandblown tears from her eyes. She had never really liked the man who died here less than a bell past, but even she had to admit grudging respect for what he had accomplished in the face of adversity. Her knife still glistened with his blood, a reminder she did not need. As her town had not needed heroes. The man had done what he'd been hired for, nothing more. His death ensured that...

I think you're right about the repetitions. Draft the second, let me know what you think: The torch flickered. A lazy dance, close to death. The desperate flame longed for more, but it slowly sputtered out, plunging the cavern into darkness. A desperate, lonely darkness, that almost felt alive, barely visible shadows creeping along walls that the last embers could no longer pierce. And then silence. A silence that was shattered by a hacking cough, that should not have been, that came from a throat that had lived through more than should have been possible. A cough that begged for death, that wanted no more, descending into an almost comical hacking sound, that one could have almost laughed at. Had anyone been around. But no one was there in the bestial darkness, no one heard the series of coughs slowly sputter out as the dying flames of the torch had but moments earlier. A foot scraped along a floor, an almost lazy motion, that obliterated the already fragile silence, followed by another cough, stirring invisible dust in the subterranean chamber. And then came silence again. The silence lasted for dozens of heartbeats, slow shudders that could barely be lived through, the tension almost palpable, a precursor to an explosion of violence that never came. And then hundreds of heartbeats. A silence that took so long that the young boy hiding behind a rock was ready to move, to brave the dark, to face the monster who had a vile cough. He was ready to brave his worst fears, and even felt prepared to die. And die he did.

No! I don't need you! No! You don't notice me! No...

"Tell us another story grandpa! One with big dragons!" "Pah! Dragons! What do you young ones know about dragons?" "They breathe fire!" "And they fly!" "Dragons..." he spat out the tobacco he had been chewing for the past hour, "dragons are the reason we cower in our houses and hovels, the reason we have so many dogs guarding our pastures and flocks, to warn us of the approach of one. The reason we keep subterranean reservoirs to extinguish fires once they grow bored of torching all that we've labored for...don't' ask me about dragons..." "But grandpa! What about the Dragonslayer?" "No," he said with a finality that the children knew not to challenge. "I shall not tell you of dragons." With slow, deliberate movements the old man gathered a glowing ember from the fireplace and lifted it to his pipe, pausing for a moment. "I shall tell you about my own grandfather." He touched the ember to the tobacco, and drew on the pipe. "He never met any dragons, nor did he want to, but adventures he had aplenty. Now, run along, get your grandpa some ale, this is a long story and my throat is already parched just from listening to you lot clamoring for a story." The ruby glow from the pipe was all that lit up the old man's face as he gathered his thoughts and started the tale the only way he know how, at the beginning. "My gramps was a big hulk of a man, twice as big at the shoulders as me, a mass of muscle and brawn me ma used to call him. He could lift me, even grown, with just a hand, and not even breaking a sweat. He was the best farmer the village had, easily able to pull his plow through the fields even when it was not his turn to have Ol' Toby." "But grampa, Old Toby is barely a grown horse, how could he have known your grampa?" asked the oldest girl. "Ol' Toby...ah a fine beast, but another story. Now, don't interrupt me again," he said, followed by a long pause as he reignited his pipe. "t'is a long tale and the hour already late, if you want to hear more then ye'll have to listen." "Da," came the soft voice from the kitchen. "Let the children go to bed, it's late as you've said. The farmer's tale can wait till the morrow." A long puff on the pipe lit up great bushy eyebrows that covered barely open eyes. "You heard your mother." He said no more that night.

Something completely random, no context, no characters, no dialogue, no story, but I still like it, for some reason it feels complete, not to be continued. A single scene, but I feel that adding to it would only take away from it. Comments as always are appreciated.

The torch flickered. A lazy dance, close to death. The desperate flame longed for more, but it slowly sputtered out, plunging the cavern into darkness. A desperate, lonely darkness. A darkness that almost felt alive, barely visible shadows creeping along walls that the last embers could no longer pierce. And then silence. A silence that was shattered by a hacking cough, a cough that should not have been. A cough that came from a throat that had lived through more than should have been possible. A cough that begged for death, that wanted no more. A cough that descended into an almost comical hacking sound, that one could have almost laughed at. Had anyone been around. But no one was there in the bestial darkness, no one heard the series of coughs slowly sputter out as the dying flames of the torch had but moments earlier. A foot scraped along a floor, an almost lazy motion, that obliterated the already fragile silence, followed by another cough, stirring invisible dust in the subterranean chamber. And then came silence again. A silence that lasted for dozens of heartbeats, heartbeats that could barely be lived through, the tension almost palpable, a precursor to an explosion of violence that never came. A silence that lasted hundreds of heartbeats. A silence that lasted so long that the young boy hiding behind a rock was ready to move, was ready to brave the dark, to brave the monster who had a vile cough, was ready to brave his worst fears, was ready to die. And die he did...

It's too hot - just some fun with freeform Baking Thoughts Scattered In the heat Scorched Melting Melting... Melt-

Thank you for taking care of things Snyp. IPS fixed the default skin which had gotten messed up beyond all recognition. I reactivated the chatbox on the default skin. If you want to activate on other skins, you need to add this code: <!-- BEGIN CBOX --><center><iframe frameborder="0" width="95%" height="175" src="http://www3.cbox.ws/box/?boxid=2325864&boxtag=4035&sec=main" marginheight="2" marginwidth="2" scrolling="auto" allowtransparency="yes" name="cboxmain" style="border: #1E1B17 1px solid;" id="cboxmain"></iframe><iframe frameborder="0" width="95%" height="70" src="http://www3.cbox.ws/box/?boxid=2325864&boxtag=4035&sec=form" marginheight="1" marginwidth="1" scrolling="no" allowtransparency="yes" name="cboxform" style="border: #1E1B17 1px solid; border-top: 0px;" id="cboxform"></iframe></center><!-- END CBOX --> For future reference, in times when the chatbox doesn't appear on the site, it can also be reached at: http://cbox.ws/?n=3-2325864-4035

When you use the full reply form, you have an option to attach files. Alternatively you can host a picture with any of the free photo hosts out there (imageshack, photobucket,...) and then show it on the board with the following code: [img=address of the image]

The piece feels complete to me and I didn't plan to take it any further.

Author's note: I can't clame credit for the title, it's lifted directly from the last sentence of this article: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-20272649 Children once played in this square. I once played here a long time ago... You can still vaguely see the outline of a swing, once painted bright red. Rust has laid a claim on what little metal remains, two posts standing on either side of the bomb crater, solitary witnesses to what once was. I still remember the laughter of children turning into screams of death as the bombs and shells had started falling. That had been a lifetime...three months ago. I turn my one good eye on our prisoner. A soldier, one of them. Doesn't look any older than my eldest had been. He died when the University District was overrun in the first week. One of the lucky ones. It's easier to think that you're already dead. Each morning you live is a pleasant surprise then, each enemy soldier you kill is one more you expected to outlive you. Each life you save...but no, I don't save lives any more. My days of operating are gone as surely as my eye and three fingers. Luckily you only need one finger to pull the trigger, they haven't taken that away from me yet. I take one last, hasty puff from my cigarette, a newly developed habit. Yet again fighting down the urge to scratch the itch of my missing eye underneath the cloth, I lift up the rifle and before the boy soldier has the time to say anything I send him to hell. The silence shatters as blood comes gushing out his forehead. "Forgive us," I whisper, not really meaning it, but putting on a regretful air for the benefit of my men. The patrols will come now, they always do. We'll be long gone, leaving the usual grisly souvenir for them.

She's a bit fickle And doesn't tickle Very often

Just a short part of a poem that came to me while at work, which I wanted to get written down before it was forgotten. There is a character (of an unwritten story) associated with it, but nothing much else to go with it yet... The thrill of the kill That familiar chill Down your spine Edit: Hmmmm and an alternative, not sure which one is stronger: The thrill of the kill That sends a chill Down your spine

The Writer jumbled thoughts jotted down fragments of a perfect vision shaking hands unfaithful transcribers of something perfect second hand retelling of a vivid imagination unfaithful story imperfect

Calendar is now fixed.

Logo is back.

Forgotten password/registrations corrected.

<p>Two other issues:</p> <p> </p> <p>Recaptcha needs to be reconfigured (registrations and forgotten password forms don't work)</p> <p>Calendar is broken.</p>

We have moved webhosts to cut down on costs. The move should be transparent to everyone, but in case you're wondering, the website is now hosted at yours truly: http://patrickdurham.net/themightypen The old URL still works and redirects to the new address so both can be used. The redirect is still propagating over the internet (works for me at home, but not yet from here at work), it can take up to 72 hours for all changes to be effective. If you can see this post then you're on the new website, if you get an offline message when going to www.themightypen.net then you're on the old website. There might be a few issues that will need ironing out. I know of two so far: - the logo is broken on the new site - everyone has been moved to the default skin so that they can use everything on the new site. I do plan on moving the skins it'll just take a while...