Disco-neck Ted

Funny! Properly executed, too: "...your portrayal of me was very off mark..." followed by a wink indicating non-seriousness, then joke payload arrives on target. *throws water balloon at Degorram*

When you write your first book, let me know so I can buy it. In hardback.

Dear Pen Diary, (hello? hello? is this thing on?!?) Went to the hockey game Friday. Much yelling and drinking of beer. We won! The other team did not score once. Saturday, went to the opera. Don Giovanni is not a nice person. He scored repeatedly. Sunday, played Call of Chthulu. We did not even use a computer! Pencil, paper and those hard little RNGs that you roll on the table... dice! Monday: head exploded. To Do List 1. See another opera (next year maybe) 2. Be a contestant on The Price is Right 3. Get a new head.

Gregor stared out of the kitchen door at the wreckage strewn about the conservatory, a tray of candied man-eating Venus's-flytrap tonsils in his hands momentarily forgotten. Shadows stretched and swayed in time to Grimmael's oscillations on the chandelier. The changing light sounded like feet shuffling on carpet, felt like being slapped with a shaving brush. The smell of ogre stone soup was a faint orange haze in the air, making it hard to be certain, but... "The Akashans appear to have Kurt," Gregor murmured, averting his gaze from the chaos that was assaulting his senses. So much input was impossible to process all at once. Still, he perceived nothing of the sous-chef in the disarray. Gregor focused on the tray of delicacies before him, rows of tidbits arranged in a perfect, soothing grid. The smell of the candy glaze was warm against his skin. If he took one tonsil from each corner, he mused, the array would still be orderly. It was not as if guests would be after them, not now. Shifting his grip, the food-taster produced a silver case. The clasp pinged like the twinkle of the evening's first star and he hesitated over the array of toothpicks contained within. The baobab, he decided, thumbing out a dark sliver. Definitely the baobab. The exotic wood would be the perfect complement to both the sweet, tingling glaze and the musky, silken taste of flytrap flesh. Shards of broken glassware tinkled to the floor like sprinkles of cinnamon on Gregor's tongue, and an angel-wing shifted from beneath the rack of gorgon ribs. Gregor paused, savoring the moment even more than the thought of the treats in front of him. "The Akashans have Kurt," the food-taster repeated. He looked down at the adamantium-clad figure that was once again lying motionless under a mound of meat and shook his head. "They just don't know that they have him." * * * Jacobson Avalontenium stalked down the corridor of the Mighty Pen Keep, his dominions clanking along behind him in perfect unison. He glanced back at the two enormous winged figures, momentarily puzzled, but uncertain of the source. Finally, he shrugged and resumed striding toward the exit. A credit to dominion training, he thought, it sounded almost as if but a single armored figure kept pace with him.

Nice story. Enjoyed it quite a lot. A capsule of the whole +/- of having someone to spend time with/having to spend time with someone. Not wild about the very last sentence, though. Seems kind of stated and obvious. As for the sound... my lightbulb tells me it was a ring being tossed away?

Huge congrats on the writing stuff, oh fortunate stranger. That's pretty inspirational. As for the slowing of The Pen, I've been tempted to write a paper on the life cycle of internet forums (forums... fora... either is correct). Make a great cure for insomnia, that would. Maybe if it were rum-flavored it would be more popular? Silliness aside, along with the obvious contributing factors, such as people getting busy with life or wandering off to other places, I first stumbled upon this fine, fine place while googling a Bored of The Rings reference. Possibly as a direct result, I think the content of this site can no longer be web-searched, so there aren't a lot of walk-ons adding to the talent pool. Or maybe this is just a brief period of retrograde motion and the place will soon wheel through the sky at speeds faster than e'er before. One can hope.

For something slightly different yet still fantasy, try the Amber series by Roger Zelazny. The first five books are very good and the next five are pretty decent. Nine Princes in Amber is fabulous. Dave Duncan has loads of good stuff. The Man of His Word tetrology is excellent, although the follow-up quad (A Handful of Men) was not as enjoyable. The Seventh Sword Trilogy and Dodec Duology are solid, and some of the King's Blades series are excellent (notably The Gilded Chain which is where you'd want to start with them anyway). Glen Cook has two fine series I'm familiar with. The Black Company tales are mighty fine. He also writes of Garrett, essentially a hard-boiled private eye in a fantasy setting. Fun stuff. He has penned a half-dozen in the Dread Empire series but I haven't read any of them. Steven Brust is extremely good. The stories of Vlad Taltos (Jhereg, Yendi, Issola, Orca etc., ten or so in all) should keep you well entertained for a long time. Brust started out as a member of a Minnesota-based (?) writing group called The Scribblies and most of the other authors in that group have also published good stuff, if not in the same quantities. Look for Emma Bull, Will Shetterly, Teri Windling and a few others, notably tales written of The Borderlands. Finder and Elsewhere are both excellent modern fantasies. The Lions of Al Rassan is one of my favorite books. Guy Gavriel Kay can really put words together. His other books are quite good: The Fionavar Tapestry trilogy, Tigana, others. Barbara Hambly has written many fine novels. While the acclaimed Darwath stories didn't do much for me, the tales of Antryg Windrose and the stories of Sunwolf were pretty good. She has a ton of other stuff I'm less familiar with but she knows how to tell a story, so fingers crossed they are decent. Some of these authors also have extensive representation in science fiction if you ever swing that way. Summing up, almost anything fantasy by the following authors should be good: Roger Zelazny Steven Brust Guy Gavriel Kay Dave Duncan Glen Cook Barbara Hambly And if you like modern fantasy, whatever you can find by Teri Windling, Will Shetterly, Emma Bull and Nina Kiriki Hoffman (not previously mentioned but very gifted). Have fun reading some of these. I sure did. Edit: removed excessive use of the word "also".

The prayer-stone had felt cool and smooth under the travelling tips of his fingers, but now a faint dampness from Lorias' palms made the jade sticky and warm. Unpleasant. Trust, the ranger had said, and offered the woman gold. But trust ran both ways. Could you pay a thief not to steal? He might have enjoyed letting that question have its way with his thoughts for a time if not for the Knight pledging his honor (in the name of the king!) into the bargain. Something important remained unsaid when an officer of the crown forwent his duty to arrest a criminal and instead offered his aegis. One explanation presented itself, but Lorias suppressed the thought. Now was neither the time nor the place for such questions. He shifted the staff from the crook of his left arm to his right shoulder and rubbed the bit of jade on his robe with both hands, drying them in the process. "Of course the skills of the rangers are known, Sliver. I meant no disrespect. And no doubt your horse is also talented at hiding its trail. Mine..." Lorias faltered. "She has no such skill, I'm afraid. And rumor has it that Huntsmen, and worse, run with the main force of the bandits." The monk gestured at the pack animals and mounts, the steeds taken from Drouk and his thugs. A double handful in all. Behind them stretched an avenue of hoofprints, broken or nibbled plants, and more than one mound of fresh droppings; a glaring trail leading straight from Kiart. He looked from the ranger to the thief and back. "Guide us in this matter as you see best." ((OOC: Darwin is the Ashter I was referring to, not Kaito. The snake man surprises and interests Lorias as much as the Ancient does. As for Sliver, I was only suggesting that he finds the winged woman fascinating, which can happen even to smitten people. His profile says he "goes absolutely crazy around females", and crazier still around Roxxia (as opposed to being singlemindedly oblivious), so merely staring seems quite subdued, methinks, and was in no way intended as a breach of faith between him and his besottedness beloved. ))

As the outskirts of Kiart fell away behind them, Lorias walked with reins in one hand and a staff in the other. Ahead, the knight sat an enormous piebald charger and led a roan packhorse. Beside him, the ranger rode a spirited dun gelding that kicked up dust as it pranced and snorted, clearly ready to run. The two conversed in low tones or pointed to the occasional landmark. Leading his buttermilk-colored mare, the monk brooded openly. A bad habit to get into, showing emotion, yet he knew the pinch of his brow gave him a meditative look that others could mistake for serenity. If only his thoughts were as calm as his face. An Ashter. He had supposed that race had vanished into myth, yet one travelled with them now. And that was not the biggest surprise. The winged one had watched events unfold from above the stable, yet he had not been aware of her presence until... Until she had worked some kind of magic. From beneath his hood, Lorias moved his eyes slightly at the flash of silver hair as Kaito took a short flight past the riders ahead. He wondered if the village crone was less the charlatan than she had appeared. He might not have been the only one to note the quick ripple of forces. It was well done that Iverron had taken charge and then gotten them quickly away. The iron-clad warrior had restored the smith's coins and horse and paid for the burials with the bandits' own funds. The rest of their goods he had confiscated in the name of the church to be redistributed to their former owners where possible, or to feed the poor when not. Lorias grinned despite himself, remembering the look on the knight's face when the mayor, who doubled as the undertaker in Kiart, had asked how many days of mourning were to be paid for. The memory lightened his mood. Rousing himself, he called out to the riders ahead. "Good knight," he said, "there is a low meadow to the West, ringed round with brush and bush. Not so favorable a place as the one our archer friend has mentioned, but safer." The riders reined in their horses. Lorias moved forward and then paused for Karinne and Darwin to catch up. The Ashter had volunteered to lead Gil's horse with the bandit slung across the saddle, still unconscious. The ranger looked as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it. Both riders had waited until all were in easy speaking range. Good. "According to Sliver, the North holds high ground with good visibility," the knight said. He adjusted the scarf at his neck, then looked down and brushed absently at his belt. "Defensible," he continued. "To the South I know of a roofless stone cottage with a clear well. Also defensible. What leads you to favor the West?" Sliver's eyes twinkled. "Our holy companion fears something. Perhaps an attack from the townspeople? They heard your declaration for the South and mine to the counter, so perhaps West is the wisest course of action if we wish to remain hidden." Lorias nodded solemnly. "It is even so. Many heard our travel plans. And I believe a large contingent of raiders may be in the area." "Sssurely they would not tell?" Darwin looked from one face to another. "The smith? The child? Do they not know gratitude for your ressscue?" Kaita was looking into the distance in the direction of vanished Kiart. A half-smile played on her face. "Not willingly," she said. "But they would tell." Odd, Lorias thought. Her features were almost human, but struck in fine lines and angles that marked her with an alien beauty. She had seemed almost happy at the idea that the townsfolk could be coerced. Or else she paid attention to something none of the others could see. Sliver also looked at the winged one. If he had shown uncertainty anywhere, it would be in his dealings with Kaita, but she had accepted his offer to carry her bag with his own gear. Not your average tavern girl, Lorias thought, but a cat may look on a queen, so may a ranger dream. "Hide?" Iverron pierced Lorias with his gaze. He snorted. "Not if they have trackers of any worth. Better to know they are coming and meet them with steel in hand than to be ridden down in our bedrolls. Kaita seemed oblivious to the ranger's stare, yet her chin dropped a fraction when he broke off his attention and spoke to the monk. "Indeed," he said, "it would be difficult to disguise our passage." "I think..." Lorias trailed off, looking at his hands. He rubbed a jade prayer-stone between his fingers and studied the men without appearing to do so. Iverron travelled in light armor and his saddle was chased with silver. Blue and gold ribbons had been twined in the charger's mane and tale. The ranger sat plain leather tack and wore a brown cloak over green tunic with faun-colored breeks. It was to him that Lorias finally looked when he continued. "Perhaps one who leaves no footprints could successfully confuse our back-trail?" All eyes turned to the winged woman, even Karinne's. The ranger nodded thoughtfully. "That could work. To the West!" ((OOC: Woo-hoo! We've made it out of Kiart alive! If I've mishandled anyone's character, say something.))

"This is a mistake," shrilled professor Wagner as the headsman walked him towards the chopping block. "Neither lewd nor lascivious, I was simply studying your culture." "Quite the pocket feudality," the executioner agreed, showing unexpected eruditeness. He rubbed his grubby upper lip and wiped fingers on a black cloth tucked into his studded leather belt. "Nearly unchanged since the Medieval days. The astute anthropologist will note the zealous adherence to strict chastity laws." Wagner stumbled at this and nearly fell, weak with dysentary, but the iron grip on his upper arm kept him upright. More, it kept him moving forward. Straining against his bonds, the academic turned and stared at the balding giant at his side. "Isolated incidences of cross-cultural contamination have occurred," the other continued. "For example, in the charge against you the word 'lecher' has been combined with the Spanish word for milk, leading to amusing, and in your case dire, anatomical associations that extend beyond the mere act of, hrm, observing as it were." He clucked. "At least you kept it above the waist this time. Punishment for cultural studies of a more in-depth nature is much starker here than what you encountered amongst the Tak Islanders." Wagner continued to peer at the other. "Costers?" He hissed. "Is that you? Dammit!" The last was a curse as the hard wood of the block banged his knee. The pain was blinding and his other leg gave way in sympathy, leaving him kneeling with his chin resting in a shallow groove running the width of the block. Several deep cuts furrowed the grain. They were black with old blood, and the professor quickly looked up and forward at the crowd. Serfs in crudespun, brightly-robed merchants, and the occasional armored knight or bejewelled noble had all gathered. Jeers arose amidst laughs and crude pantomimes. The friendliest expression he could see was boredom. A scene he had illiminated in many a paper, it was gratifying to note the myriad details he had gotten right. With a start, he recalled that they were not here out of academic interest. "Costers," he said, speaking quickly, "Everyone thought you had died. You disappeared and none of your crew returned. We came to find you. We're here to help!" The headsman stepped into the professor's line of sight. A black hood now obscured his face, but the sneer was obvious in his voice. "Help?" He nodded. Forearms bulged and relaxed as he worked snug leather gloves onto his fingers. "Yes, you must have shooed the little co-eds off your lap and hastened to help just as soon as you could have me legally declared dead and transfer my grants into your name." The axe was a piece of timber with a slab of iron for a blade. Costers hoisted it like a baton and moved to one side. Wagner's eyes followed until the executioner was a blur in his peripheral vision. My God, he thought, the man has put on forty pounds here and most of that is muscle! He tried to speak, to argue, to break his bonds and fly away. But the other's realness held him still. "You never were much of a field man," Costers said. "Not much of an explorer. But think of this as a research fellowship. Think of it as your chance to go beyond what you could learn merely from being alive. " It remains uncertain whether Wagner's mind benefited when the axe swung, but his body was enlightened by a good ten pounds. Sting Hard Acorn Rune

Most pennites are probably unaffected, but this seemed worth mentioning: Mars bars get veggie status back Mars has abandoned plans to use animal products in its chocolate, and has apologised to "upset" vegetarians. The firm had said it would change the whey used in some of its products from a vegetarian source to one with traces of the animal enzyme, rennet. The Vegetarian Society organised a campaign against the move, asking members to voice their concerns to parent company Masterfoods. Mars said it became "very clear, very quickly" that it had made a mistake. In just one week, more than 6,000 people bombarded the company, which produces the Mars, Snickers, Maltesers and Galaxy brands, with phone and e-mail complaints. Forty MPs also signed a petition to voice their opposition. Fiona Dawson, managing director of Mars UK, said the company had listened to customers and decided to reverse its decision. Full article here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/6673549.stm

That was mighty fine! The type of poem that sweeps you along with it and takes you exciting places. As Parmenion noted, 'whispers' does trip one up and stop the eye from wandering the page. I also found the third stanza to be very 'they' heavy. The repetition of 'They know...' is good and strong, but my feeling is that if you could remove the usage in lines one and two, perhaps by substituting 'and', then the last two lines of the stanza would have even more impact. But really, the whole thing is so cool that is seems like ingratitude to nitpick. Thanks for the nice read... nice ride? Either way, I'm still smacking my lips after that poetic goodness.

Lorias was cautiously pleased with his luck so far. Chance had placed him in Kiart, where he had found a bed free of insects at an otherwise unremarkable inn. That alone was cause for thanks after a fortnight of wandering, and he had said his morning prayer with enthusiasm. The day had continued to grow brighter when the innkeeper's wife had placed a sticky-roll the size of his head in front of him at the breakfast table. He had not had the opportunity to taste her cooking the night before, but it was bound to be good: the host-wife was near as wide as she was tall, and judging from the way her dress was straining, the roll was not the only thing the size of his head. Casting his eyes towards the heavens and safely away from her bosom, Lorias murmured a blessing in the old tongue, beseeching a bounty from merciful gods on the lady's behalf. Words often had two meanings, and if the quickly-contrived chant also translated to ample fortune for an ample woman, could Lorias be blamed? As if she knew what he was saying, the goodwife blushed and returned to the kitchen. Lorias watched her go. He would rather eat toadstools than sup at an inn with a skinny hostess, he thought, then turned his full attention to his breakfast. The roll was nearly gone when he heard raised voices from outside. "...your king shall hear of this, and you'll hang!" "Ayldon isn't my king..." Licking the stickiness from his fingers, Lorias stepped out in time to see four men face a challenge from a knight in full armor. The bow in the man's hands stayed level as he manoeuvered the horse with his knees. His opponents were obviously bandits, wearing what looked to be good but mismatched bits of armor, rich cloaks and more jewelry than men of their station should be able to afford. This could be a good contest, Lorias thought. There would be a song here whether the knight lived or died. Somewhere deep in his mind, words and tunes began to fit themselves together but he shook off the nascent ballad and focused on the scene at hand. Too bad it couldn't be allowed to happen like that. "Drouk," the biggest of the bandits said. He nudged the leader and pointed behind them. Even as Lorias was considing what to do, another man appeared, also with a bow. Despite being on foot, he was well positioned and would be hard for the others to ride down before he could do a great deal of damage. And there was another... Lorias held himself still as the presence he had sensed stepped out from the shadows and added a long sword of foreign design to the forces marshalled against the robbers. Oh, dear. In a minute, the whole town would be in arms and there would be blood. Dead bandits, certainly, and how many others, tripping over themselves in hopes of striking a blow? That boy would be ridden over and his parents were already in range of a naked sword. This must end before it went any further. A shame, really, that he needed at least one of the bandits alive. His gaze travelled over the four, men with faces marked by the brutality of their lives. The leader, the giant of a man behind him, and a third, reaching cautiously for a dagger, they were beasts on two legs. The small one, though, there was something different about him. His armor was plain, yet the vest matched the bracers and his cloak was a serviceable brown. A gold ring on one hand and a bright scarf around his bicep were the only bits of color, the only trophies from his rides. The bandit's attention shifted here, then there, assessing the opposition, noting that he and his fellows were, in essence, surrounded. Even as Lorias marked this one for saving, the man's eyes rolled up in his head and he fell from his horse. One of the robbers barked a laugh that sounded like a grunt of pain. "Damn that faintheart! Three against three, then." "Damn Gil faintheart indeed," said a voice. The man had moved so quickly that none could have prevented it. The fall from the horse had become a roll and now he stood with his knife to the boy's throat. "We'll be going now. If you follow, we'll leave a trail of fingers to mark our path." The bandit leader howled with laughter. "He means it," Drouk cried. "He gutted that little girl outside of Meren town because she touched his horse." Lorias could hear the lie in that. The leader wasn't certain what the other might do and was covering with bravado. But even Gil didn't seem sure of what he would do next, and the boy's father was working himself into a rage even as his wife sagged against his shoulder. The time for waiting was over. "You'll be dropping those weapons now," Drouk said, smirking. His own sword was still out and the other bandits filled their hands as well. Lorias moved into the street, pulling a length of wood from beneath his robe. He twisted the mouthpiece on his flute sharply to the right, then raised it to his lips, pointing straight out in front of him. Covering all the holes, he blew a sharp blast. All heads turned in his direction. "The boy is innocent," he began, "and protected by the gods. You hold no advantage here. Surrender to these men or it will go hard for you." Drouk gaped in astonishment. Then he laughed. "Bring your gods then, monk, and I will fight them as well." He surveyed the scene. The knight and the ranger had lowered their bows but had not dropped them. More people were coming out of their homes or peering from the common room of the inn. He spat. "Are you as sick of this place as I am, Illim? Yarl, take the whelp. Your horse won't notice the extra weight. Gil, mount up--" He turned to the smaller bandit. Gil's face was pale and he was staring at his arm as if it no longer belonged to him. The dagger dropped from his hand. For the second time that day, Gil's eyes rolled back in his head, but this was no mummery. Free of the bandit's grasp, the boy stared at the fallen knife for a moment, then ran to his parents. "You hold no advantage here," Lorias repeated. He paused. The couple had fled to the safety of the smithy with their child and the remaining townsfolk were well clear. This Drouk had denied the king in the presence of an ordained knight. A careful choice of words now, Lorias thought. "I implore you, drop your weapons. Blood need not be shed this day. Throw yourselves on the mercy of the crown." That should do it. Steel glinted in sunlight and a horse screamed. The world was all shadows and motion, dust, the smell of blood and cries of rage and pain. Lorias drifted through it all like a spirit, unheeding, untouched. He made his way to where Gil lay and began a prayer over the fallen raider. His hands moved ritualistically over the outstretched form, the wide sleeve of his robe concealing nimble fingers as they retrieved a tiny dart from the man's arm. Gil would live, Lorias would see to that. As for the others... He watched the battle until it was done. There would be no song. Not today.

Whoops... I would have SWORN that someone had posted their four-word story in verse, but obviously not. Apologies for the gaffe. Trying this again with mirror, rejection, ricochet and disconnected. Danny drew a wide swath in the shaving cream on his face and knew immediately that something was wrong. Blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror, eyes without a trace of red despite a sleepless night. The wonders of Visine. Still, despite his alert appearance he felt disconnected from himself. Off balance. Wrong. That sleepless night... amazing. She was still in the next room, living, breathing, occupying his bed. The one. They had talked over dinner while the food went to waste and the wine remained untasted. Invented new constellations in the night sky afterwards, roared back at the crashing waves on the beach, danced without music and laughed until the sun had come up to share in the joke. And here he was, the morning after, nervous suddenly. Fearing rejection that would shatter his joy like skeet. Showering and scouring, cleansing, flensing, scraping, and even re-tinting his eyes, eliminating any mortal imperfection that might mar his chance at bliss. "Oh, dear God," said a voice from the bathroom doorway. She was there, long honey-colored hair cascading over one shoulder, down the front of one of his shirts. It looked fantastic on her, but she was shaking her head pityingly. "You're a morning person... this is never going to work out." Danny couldn't move. His eyes would not focus, nor breath pass from his lungs. Thoughts flashed to the past, to the women he had known, friends or lovers, that rose each day an hour or more before their husbands and boyfriends, making certain the men in their lives never, not once, saw them without their makeup on. This tension, or conflict, this fundamental dishonesty had so appalled him that he had never looked at them the same afterwards and certainly could not ever trust them. Had he crossed that line this morning, become like them? Striving against fear to be something he was not, not quite, was he losing his dream even now as a richochet of what had passed? She smiled then and moved towards him, pressing her body against his and kissing him full on his Barbasol-covered lips. Snuggling against him, she tilted her head back and said, "Did you know you were trying to shave with your toothbrush?" ++++++++++++ Cheers! -DnT spartan wild vine thrush

In the mirror land Rejection is impossible Ever been stood up By a ricochet of light? Faithful silvered friend Socially impeccable Always there to dance Or talk away the night See the looking glass Growing paradoxical Something dark is here And not reflecting right Little looking glass Clearly quite uncomfortable Physics should apply But can't enforce its will In the mirror land Impossible is happening I see my face and yet, I'm disconnected still. -Disco-neck Ted (sorry, couldn't pass that one up) Weevil Sneeze Teleport Mud P.S. Some nice stuff up above. Nyarlathotep, Gwaihir, too many to mention. Good show.

Milkweed seeds lifted their pale locks in a come-hither to the wind and drifted off from the pod at the slightest gust, or coyly stayed put until a stronger breeze carried them to their fate, each to its nature. Naomi hummed them on their way, or smiled at those still waiting an inch from her nose, a pink bit of tongue showing between little-girl teeth, eyes crossed in concentration on the plant in her hand. She lay on her belly, brown sticks in a yellow sun-dress, stretched out on an enormous ginko root that humped its way out of the leaf-layered earth like a half-buried dinosaur. A still life: "girl with humus", or "dialogue with a seedpod". The sketch came to life beneath the manic twitching of John's fingers, abiogenesis in dark bits of pencil tips scraped across heavy paper. Here smudged, blended, gray shadows; there, lines sharp and clear, an epiphany in black. In a later painting she would be a sea-goddess at play, lying atop a wave and casting fledgling continents across oceanic cobalt. "Do you think they mind, papa?" The hand slowed, the pencils rested. John shook himself and the sound of seabirds faded a little in his mind. "The seeds?" "No, silly," Naomi said. "Words." Beyond the shadow of the ginko, sunlight stung bright green shades from the surrounding grass, grass nibbled by a brown and white bunny. John wondered how long the rabbit had been there, in plain view, and pondered also whether it was simply used to people in the park or if it was unaware that brown did not camouflage well against emerald. And then, bright chlorophyll, bold cottontails (they're crepuscular, you know?) and little girls with questions brought the real world swirling in. The ocean stilled, the goddess held her breath. He compared the mental image to the sketch and found it sufficiently preserved there. Pad and pencils went into the soft brown cloth of his Johnny Appleseed bag and then Naomi was whirling above him, tossed laughing into the air and caught, always caught, kept safe. "What about the words?" He asked, holding her upside down. Long brown hair dangled above the leaves, sweeping the tops of his sneakers. She giggled. "Do they mind? When you hum a song and don't say them?" Eight-year-old logic defeated him. John closed one eye and looked at his daughter sidewise, as if this might help. "Why should they mind?" "Because," she said, "that's when they're free. When you're singing, they can do what they like. Maybe they feel left out when you hum. Cheated." John laughed. "Not when I'm singing. Then they are begging for mercy." He looked to the East. The mountains were there, a wall, sturdy and brown in the afternoon sun, like a wool blanket on an old man's knees. Or like ranks of soldiers, colored all alike. Darkness gathered on their shoulders, purple and umber fortifications building higher and higher, clouds blotting out the horizon, encroaching from the lands beyond. Nothing could keep those out. Some day, the storm would come. He righted Naomi and held her close. "No, child," he said. "Words don't mind if you hum. They love the sound of music, even if they have to dance when it calls." John stroked his daughter's hair and she nestled her head against his neck. He looked again to the East. "Silence," he said softly, almost to himself. "In silence. That's when they are free. When everyone is gone, then the words can say themselves whenever they want." Naomi snuggled closer. "That's nice, papa. The words will like that. I hope it's soon." Plant Narwhal Singe Hope

My guess is that a fair number of people read and enjoyed this, as did I. The time and effort spent here was far from wasted. Very nice, verse and prose both. The underwhelming response may largely be due to a number of minor things, such as the link to the rules being broken (that could put off posters and voters both) and the fact that initiates don't stay at that level very long. So the contest gets logged in memory as one they are not eligible to enter initially, and then aren't allowed to vote in if they should remember to check up later (last minute changes notwithstanding). Also, on the surface, the contest seems a good plan: the rules ensure that the t-shirt will go to a contributing member and not some write-in or newcomer, and the initiates are made to feel less excluded by having the power of the vote. But if you will pardon my saying so, those elements aren't necessarily the most obvious, and that may not be the first interpretation people put on an exercise that has such strong class restrictions, regardless of the original intent. Anyhow, congratulations to the winner, and thanks to Nyyark and the other contributors who made it happen. Good job.

Pretty. Lots of great imagery and word-painting. Also, things happen here, which makes it more appealing to me personally than if it were statically evoking a concept or an emotion. But. I can't, with certainty, decrypt the first line. That's keeping me at a bit of a distance from the piece as a whole. Pretty sure you mean "though" where it is written, especially with "thought" appearing two lines later. However, the misspelling of "lightning" and "wrapped" leaves the door open for "thoughs" being a typo. Treating it as written, "thoughs" seem a lot like "ifs" to me, and therefore powerful, not "watered". This has me puzzling. Lastly, my feeling is that "blood your kill" should be "bleed your kill", unless you are hoping by association to imply that the hunter is "blooded" in this chase. So: strong stuff in general with maybe a bit of proofing and w/c yet to go, in my opinion. Thanks for putting this out to be read.

Smithers

1. Size and color of the headlines and number of exclamation points. Less is more. 2. Shoddy pictures that are eye-catchingly bad, like "WWII BOMBER FOUND IN CRATER ON THE MOON!!!" and the "crater" the plane just nestles into turns out to be the Sea of Tranquility. Bonus points if the curvature of the lunar horizon is visible in the distance. 3. Anything with "Bat Boy". 4. Headlines with a surprise ending set off by a comma or a colon, like: "Man Cuts Off Own Head With Chainsaw, Lives!" (actual headline, no pun intended) 5. Anything with aliens. 6. Anything without aliens. 7. Anything where aliens get an actual by-line. Good luck with it, and 'hi' back.

Have you ever climbed a church? Learned, amidst shifting winds, why no one pees on a brush fire to put it out? Licked a petri dish full of agar and watched weird things grow? Told someone in a fit of ridiculousness that a sheep's cornea will bounce only to discover that, yeah, it will? Turned off your light in the depths of a cave and then sat there in utter darkness, breathing silently? Had cops pointing guns at you? Gone to a botanical garden and laughed because their new hybrid roses smelled just like Froot Loops?

Behind you, Ikuru whispered. Kaikushi whirled and struck, but his opponent faded into the mist. Again! The samurai leaped, evading attack, and swung his weapon without looking. Contact. Kaikushi landed, feather-light, and twirled his stick in a two-handed grip. Stick? He stared at the leafy twig, then at the menacing figures emerging from the mist. At a gesture from one, the air itself held the samurai prisoner while the others closed in. Agony flared in his hand, his leg, his head as they struck again and again. “Wake up!” A voice was shrieking in his ear. The clatter of someone falling clumsily came from Kaikushi’s left. His vision swam into focus, and he realized the healer and two others were holding him to the sick-bed. “Cease, you will injure yourself,” the herbalist said. Behind him, four of his assistants stood well back, two sporting bruises on their faces and one rubbing his elbow. Kaikushi realized then that the men holding him were warriors, not the usual attendants. How long had he been fighting nightmares? His eyes burned fever-hot, and his leg throbbed with pain. Ikuru must feel even worse, he thought. Ikuru? “I must see my horse,” he said, with the urgency born of dreams. “You are in no condition to walk, my friend. And your animal is in even worse shape.” Kaikushi looked at the wrappings on his thigh and the heavy bandages around his ankle. He willed his leg to lift and truly it was made of lead. He shrugged. It would not do for a samurai to crawl but-- “Bring me canes.” As if to belie his determination, his chest shook with coughs. His tongue tasted vile and strange. A strong smell, like hot iron, permeated the room, mingling with the odor of herbs and incense. The healer exchanged a glance with one of the men holding the patient. Then he nodded. “Take him to the stables by the southern gate. I will meet you there after looking in on another patient.” The stables for Ikuru? For years, horse and samurai had travelled together, sharing fine accommodations or sleeping on the ground as fate offered. But why not the stables? In one corner of the room, a fire burned in a small metal oven. Some of the smoke had escaped to collect near the peak of the beamed ceiling. Straw covered the floor of the infirmary, and lanterns cast their yellow light. The horse keepers would also have fire, lanterns and straw. Not so different, then, and the air would be fresher. Shrugging off the help of the two soldiers, the samurai limped through stone passageways that led to a courtyard. The stoneworks were old, and the spells that kept them strong against earthquakes must have been renewed a thousand times: Kaikushi could almost hear them speaking themselves now, out of habit. The chanting was drowned out by a sudden surge of joy. Through the stable window, he could see his great black steed standing motionless. “Ikuru!” “You see?” The healer was at his elbow. “Nothing to worry about.” Kaikushi turned away, his eyes stinging. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. His voice was rough. Eyes closed, he sent his thoughts to Ikuru. Why hadn’t his longtime companion greeted him? Suddenly, he was stricken again with the fact of his unworthiness. He had failed in life, in honor, and even in the moment of death. The horse was no longer his to call friend. The samurai drew himself up and stared straight ahead. The final bushi he could claim would be to face his own shame. He looked through the stable window, staring at his unmoving steed for the last time. “Take me back to my bed.” The healer signaled the guards, and the injured warrior let them half drag, half carry him back to the infirmary. The attendant gave him a drink that smelled as rank as his tongue had tasted earlier. He swallowed it without care. Ikuru was lost to him, but at least the proud animal was being looked after. The vision of his horse standing in the torchlit stable danced in his mind as the drugs he had swallowed began to take effect. The flames had glistened off the dark night of Ikuru’s pelt and glinted from the harness around his neck. Wait. Harness? He had needed none to ride the intelligent horse… and the flames had flickered through the animal’s body. Illusion then, but why? Think! What else was false? It would be impossible to know in this place. Kaikushi took stock of the only thing he could be certain of, his own body. The cut on his hand, the place on his thigh still covered by bandages. So why was his ankle wrapped? The samurai swayed as he leaned towards the foot of the bed where the straps held his leg in traction. The thick bandages swaddled something. Something around his ankle. He felt through the silk wrappings, clumsily tracing out the shape of a manacle. He had been chained! The drugs overcame his consciousness then, and as he passed into sleep he mumbled a single word: “Ikuru!”

What is strength? Fading sunlight turned the glittering edge of the katana into a needle of flame. Kaikushi could hold the weapon thus over his head forever, until the night stars wheeled across the sky, until a forest grew beneath his feet, until an empress once again sat the throne of the forbidden city. Forever. But he had not the strength to let the blade fall. The horse rolled and thrashed, churning the snow to mud. The dying light of day showed the leeches red and glistening, like wounds, or eyes, or deadly kisses. White froth blew from Ikuru’s lips and then he lay still, his sides heaving. In a moment, the sword would travel as it must. It would simply be at its destination, and Ikuru would live no more. His death was already written in the wriggling red forms that dotted the landscape behind them, sated leeches that had dropped away, inching off to breed their filth elsewhere. Enough still clung to the horse that some would go unfulfilled even after the stallion ran dry of blood. They could not be removed without squeezing their venomous bodies, injecting the host with vile, paralytic toxins. The lights of the city mocked Kaikushi from the corner of his eye. With fire, there would be hope. A hot needle to pierce the tiny vampires, to drive them away from their prey. Cleansing flame to keep the wounds from suppurating. But the clammy Akido plains offered nothing. Ototo. Kaikushi stiffened. Oldest tradition said the stroke must be sure, so the fallen did not dishonor themselves by crying out. He would take his own life after this, for failing his friend. I am disgraced, Ikuru said. The enemy has taken my strength without a struggle. The samurai said nothing. Thought was the foe, now. Driving his mind to stillness, to a single point of action that would send his machine-body into motion, Kaikushi closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of his own breathing, the feel of cooling air as night approached, the smell of wet earth. Emptiness approached. If Ikuru spoke further, the message went unheard and there was only the blade whispering through the chill evening air… Cold. A wisp of black mane fell as the katana halted in mid-stroke. Cold. Inwardly, the samurai raged at his own weakness. A lone thought still whispered in his mind. All his energy had been required to push the past aside, the glorious times riding Ikuru into battle, and the sweet still hours of peace in between. The pain of burying those memories, even for an instant, was overwhelming. Beside that, how could the thought of cold have a hope of lingering? And then he saw it. Emotion ebbed, leaving the crystalline construct of logic to lead the way. Not fire. Cold. When the heat left Ikuru’s body, the leeches would move away, seeking shelter in the waters of the swamp, or under leaves and mud until they could find their way home. They could tolerate freezing temperatures for a short time, but would seek warmth whenever possible. Putting thought into motion, Kaikushi sheathed the long sword and quickly heaped handfuls of snow on Ikuru’s legs and flanks. Pulling off his gloves, he knelt next to his friend and scooped a hollow in the mud. Calling to the water in the soil, the moisture melting off the horse, the scant dampness in the air, he offered it a shape, that of a tiny pool. Slowly, the hole filled. Full night fell, and nothing changed. Stars reflected from the minute pond, glittering like a scrap of sky thrown down by a careless god . Ikuru was scarcely breathing now. The leeches ignored the water-filled depression in the soil, and burrowed more closely into the horse’s flesh. Kaikushi cursed and plunged his hands into the basin, willing the water to warm, to become inviting, to be more… watery. There! Had one of the damned bloodsuckers stirred? With a cry, the samurai drew his wakizashi and slashed the blade across his palm. Dribbling his blood, his life, his warmth into the water. Yes! One by one, the leeches dropped away, retreating from the snow-crusted body and seeking the warmer bounty. When the last had joined its brothers, Kaikushi blew out his breath, freezing the bloody water solid. Then, devoid of any sense besides hatred, he methodically ground the ice to slush beneath his heel. There was laughter in his head, and he reeled suddenly. The laughter was not his own. Well done, ototo. “For nothing gained, niisan. The healers are there—“ Kaikushi nodded towards the city lights—“while we are here.” Go. I would live strong or die fast. Make a choice and go. Trust me, the horse had said. Now he was putting his trust in Kaikushi, to find a way to make him strong again, or to— “Yes,” Kaikushi whispered. “I will go.” The pavilion was silk, bright and colorful as befitted a proud warrior going into battle. Disguises were for the shadow men, not samurai. Kaikushi erected the tent over the prone form of his friend. A bright beacon on the plain that would lead him back when he returned. A jewel in the drear Akido expanse that would attract the eye of every passing creature. It could not be helped. He set out towards the city, his steps sure but slow in the darkness. Ikuru lying defenseless and alone was a pain that wrapped itself around the samurai’s heart. The wound in his hand was dressed and bound, but it throbbed in time with his pulse. He ignored it. Discomfort was the bane of the weak. Brightness on the horizon promised a moon to light his way. Good. His mood lifted at the prospect of returning to the horse before the next sunset. But Kaikushi’s chest hurt even worse than before, a pain echoed throughout the whole left half of his body. Deliberately, he flexed his injured hand, driving spikes of agony through the cut. Pain was of no consequence, he insisted to himself. Then the ground rocked and tilted up to strike him in the face. Almost of their own volition, his hands were suddenly scrabbling at his thigh, tearing at a leg that felt nothing. Cloth ripped, and the enormity of his unworthiness shone in the starlight. Leeches.

Wow. Nice stuff. Parts that may have idled along before now really flex some muscle, in keeping with the rest of the poem. I like the alliteration in the new start of stanza 2. Enough for strength but not too much. Good show!

This is very nice. I enjoyed it, the sensations and emotions that were evoked. Some very hard-working usage, too: "...each white tip scratching trails in the night." Vivid. A very minor lapse (in my opinion) in an otherwise excellent piece would be the start of the second line. At first read, the savannah 'opens' the land of your birth, leading me to believe that it is but part of a larger African imagescape, one that might contain other elements such as forests, jungles or mountains. Then it becomes obvious in the rest of the poem that the veldt isn't the entryway to something larger, but the entire vision of the dreamer. I misunderstood. On a second read, the syllables before 'my land of birth' seem like a good place to have another detail or description that furthers the savannah image. Perhaps your intent was to deliberately slow the pace there, but if not, there could be an opportunity for sharper focus, or a stronger personal tie. Also, that line takes away a bit of strength from the start of the next stanza when the phrase is repeated there, but everyone seems to have differing opinions on repetition, so it could just be me. Anyhow, a tasty piece of work!