Degorram

TEST BACK. O_O

I can't decide. o.o

Werewolf should be fun. Timing, of course, is key, but if I am able to partake, by all means I shall.

*falls over on the floor and dies*

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT???????????????????????

Oh, I guess it's my own bloody fault. Let it be known, however, that I generally boycott Valentines' Day, but will be celebrating Valentines Day next year. And only because next year I have picked a burning ball of space gases far far away from here as my Valentine.

I'm a Romantic type, you know. You'll get a poem then.

By the way, you might want to see a doctor about that cough of yours. *disinfects the surrounding area*

Darn! Foiled again! But, you are right...there can only be one...

*a mixture of bagpipes and rock music fills the air.....*

Degorram hurried into the room, causing papers to fly up around her and the girl sitting in the chair. "Hope you haven't been waiting long, I was caught up in my studies...." She trailed off as she noticed that the girl had fallen asleep and sat slumped in her chair, chin lying against her chest. Degorram smiled wryly. "Well...I guess you have been waiting too long....."

She sat down at her desk and sighed, snapping a book shut and picking up the submission before her. At the loud noise of the book, the girl started awake and gaped around at her surroundings, one hand at a subtle curve on her belt, the other gripping the chair. "W-what....?"

"Calm down, you're exactly where you fell asleep," Degorram said, putting on a pair of teal rimmed glasses (that absolutely served no point, really, because she didn't need glasses). "It just doesn't look like it -- I've charmed the room to change every few hours."

Freyjis looked around more carefully, her breathing slowing now, and relaxed the grip on her hidden knife. It was true. The room had changed from a simple, boxy office to one that now looked like it was the peak of an attic, with a sloped ceiling and two cramped windows. The pictures and diagrams on the walls, all of animals or the anatomy of animals she did not recognize, had changed as well. The lights, the color scheme, the decorations, all had changed. And yet, it was the same room, for there were the carefully potted venus fly traps, lazily opening and closing their mouths in the sunlight that trickled in through the window. There the two framed photographs, one in which Degorram and a girl who looked exactly like her had draped themselves around a dragon-like man-creature, the other which contained the same two girls, and a man with a lute. Hanging behind Degorram's desk was that same poster that read "I <3 Wyvern Club" and hanging from the ceiling, spinning very slowly in the drafty rafters, was the strange skeleton of some flying creature.

Freyjis at last turned her gaze upon the owner of the office -- a tall, lanky woman with hair that was currently weaving between black and purple, almost like a cuttlefish, with black fox ears and a black, lizard tail curling around the edge of the desk. She was reading the manuscript Freyjis had placed on the desk, tapping the paper now and then, wrinkling her nose, raising her eyebrows, and basically making it impossibly to tell what she thought.

"Well, this is a very nice start, Ms. Hawkfeather," Degorram said, taking off her useless glasses and picking up a stamp from the desk. "I heartily approve," and with a slam and a smile, she placed a huge, green "ACCEPTED" mark on the front page. Handing it back to the girl, Degorram smirked slightly and said, "Sorry for the delay."

OOC: Welcome Freyjis, to the Mighty Pen! A fine start, as I said, to what seem would make a very good full length story. You should post this piece as well as others in the Assembly Room, and don't even hesitate to ask for help should you need it! You'll note also that your rank has been changed from Honored Guest to Initiate. Enjoy the new privileges that this affords you.

Well, my posts aren't new anymore....

Guess that's the point isn't it? Keep posting just in case!!! Very clever....

*Degorram sheepishly shuffles through the folder of new material she had kept meaning to post, but always forgot....*

I wanted a sound-salad,

so I went into the kitchen

with a ladle in my hand.

I beat my pots

and tossed in as well

a drawer-full of silver wear

onto the linoleum floor.

For garnish I turned on all the faucets,

and for bite I left the kettle whistling.

I kicked the cabinets,

let the doors slam,

rattled all the contents

then knocked over a standing glass of wine

so that it shattered and bled,

and its seeping was silent.

I globbed on shouts,

shredded a block of curses.

And my salad of sound was ready

when my throat gave out.

Words

Like children

you avoid me

only when I need you,

twist out of my grip

with a shriek and a laugh,

and I know I’ll never catch you

now that it’s turned into a game.

Can’t you be quiet and lovely?

My sister had a book

that never gave her such trouble

as these few, rambunctious words.

I brought you into this world

and I can take you out of it too.

When I am busy

you crowd,

thrusting your paper frogs

and scribbled coloring books

up against my nose.

You want to hear that one story

over and over again.

When I want to be alone, you are hungry.

You make a mess of the kitchen unsupervised.

When I am tired,

you want to play.

Hide and seek!

Yet I seek,

and you cannot be found.

I reach for the door,

and it is locked.

And I am left

clutching at a tiny, faded dress,

weeping over what I once knew

and lost.

Rain

Rain is a quiet movement

that hides a silver face upon its finger tips;

you see it falsely,

like the reflection in a mirror,

and realize that there was no one really there

but yourself.

You only notice it’s more than just rain

on days like these,

when it falls fast or slow.

On urgent days when the world is sideways

and tiny minnows dart towards the wall

that is the earth

taking refuge in puddles, rivulets, and lakes.

On special days when the rain falls

like paper glass; slow and gentle

with plenty of time on its way down

to catch the light,

whatever light

that can make it through the snow pillow clouds.

When the air is thick enough

to support the floating shards,

I look away from the rain

surprised the world has not stopped,

and count,

just to be sure,

the sixty seconds that pass inside a minute.

But today is an urgent day,

and the cold makes the rain fall faster.

The minnows have fled,

and siege towers butt against the wall instead

as ranks of liquid soldiers

break themselves upon a castle

in which nobody lives.

Path to Heaven

A cathedral does not know

of the peasants entering its gates

to learn of grace

from its sunlit windows;

nor does it understand

the hushed awe

filling its great expanses.

Centuries old,

it still does not recognize

as one more human

gazes,

open mouthed,

at its reverent grandeur.

In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum.

A silent prayer whispers through the eaves,

and I treasure these things in my heart.

Running

Pulling for my freedom,

I’m like an almost broken horse,

trying to get away

but kept in by the unmarked barrier

where your property ends

and the world begins.

Charge out screaming,

raging to get out –

this time!

this time! –

and plunge to a stop,

jerked back by a chain of who-knows-what

because God knows,

and I know

it isn’t fear.

Seven hours of road

is the feeling when I run

and leave behind the scars in my neck

where the chain became embedded.

Time cut it out and washed my wounds

and you didn’t try to stop him

except for once

when you told me to never grow up,

and I, too young to obey, did.

Because the spot will always ache

when you grab me by the scruff.

For the Boy with a Thing about Hats

I call you that,

but by all rights

you’re a man.

Man enough to hold a tan fedora loosely in your hands,

twirl it like it doesn’t matter,

like a glass of scotch,

or whiskey,

whichever suits your face.

Man enough to wear a full beard

and you wear it well;

not like those boys in grade school

who wear theirs whether they have them or not.

You’re older than me.

Old enough to drink,

old enough to go to war

without anyone asking

if you’re ready to die or not.

Drafted

like the first page of a poem

with forces moved where they are needed,

in some areas

completely scratched out

and left behind in ruined scribbles.

I call you a boy,

but by all rights

you are a man.

The real world has a way of doing terrible things to writers -- hence the communities in which they reside often suffer absence when the world gets tough. But we always come back with new things to say because of it.

Jealous Dego-face-of-raaaage!!!! D:<

Haha...just kidding! Congratulations Hjolnai! Wear it with pride as you berserk your way through the enemy ranks. *thumps chest* I hope we will see pictures of our favorite Orc wearing it.

Hmmm, well, some simple ideas for skins would be elemental color schemes, like earth tones, water tones, etc. You could also make a castle skin with grays and blacks and maybe some stone worked in. Or, you could also do a paper and ink skin, mostly black, cream, and white with the image background being parchment with words all over it.

Looked at the Halloween skin and was all like -- WOAH. I also like it, but it's a bit too eye-breaky for me to actually use. Good job though!!

Hmmm, you might just have the key there Mardrax. I'd been dissatisfied with that small bit there for a while, but didn't know how to fix it. I'll play around with it!

I am a witch.

But I deal not

with potions or spells.

Ancient demons

are not my masters

and I take no council

with druidic gods.

I am a witch.

But my wand

is not of wood:

of aspen or ash,

sturdy oak or cherry.

I am a witch.

You see me

not as I am

but as what I do.

Stirring, Stirring, Stirring.

What bubbles in my cauldron?

Only lies,

I sing,

only foolish lies.

But if I could stir your emotions

as I stir this conglomeration

of ink and words,

I would be such a witch

that I could spell the world.

I am a witch

with foolish dreams

and a typewriter

that constantly jams.

A cathedral does not know

of the peasants entering its gates

to learn of grace

from its sunlit windows;

nor does it understand

the hushed awe

filling its great expanses.

Centuries old,

it still does not recognize

as one more human

gazes,

open mouthed,

at its reverent grandeur.

In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum.

A silent prayer whispers through the eaves,

and I treasure these things in my heart.

You words.

You frustrate me.

I find you…

annoying.

Like children

you avoid me

only when I need you.

But when I am busy

you crowd,

thrusting your paper frogs

and scribbled coloring books

up against my nose.

When I want to be alone,

you are hungry.

You make a mess of the kitchen

unsupervised.

When I am tired,

you want to play.

Hide and seek!

Yet I seek,

and you cannot be found.

I reach for the door,

and it is locked.

And I am left

clutching at a tiny, faded dress,

weeping over what I once knew

and lost

too soon.

Hopefully I'll have some material soon that will be Pen worthy. Degorram does not a poet make, I think....*sigh*

You know what...that story makes me love your mom too. <3

Degorram dodged a few blows from Tzimfemme and, figuring she had grabbed the wrong ball, immediately turned invisible. Caught off guard, though not at all surprised, Tzimfemme backed away, her fists up to protect herself against any invisi-jabs. None came, however, as Degorram snuck away around the mob, climbed a tree, and assumed the shape of a small, lightly-haired dragon. With a sigh she straightened the scales that had been pushed the wrong way by the unexpected attack, and observed the chaos below.

"Not to be a killjoy," she mumbled, "but I think I'll just watch until I get the rules....At least I'm safe up here."

Right?