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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword
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Nerves and the art of talking to ones self.

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She shifted her feet for the dozenth time, trying to remember all that she had meant to say before approaching the door. Palms clenching with a squelch before she looked down with a disgusted sigh; shaking the hands out with a mutter.


"You are a calm and secure person with a lot to offer, you make a good carrot cake and can fold laundry without wrinkles, no worries!"


The last of that motivational speech came out slightly cracked and raised, an eyebrow joined it as she shook her head at her own folly.


"Just knock on the door, what is the worst that could happen?"

"Uh, uh, laughter and looks that ask why I've bought a scrap of ink dotted paper to a place of such importance?"

"I need to stop talking to myself, what if someone is in there, hears this and adds crazy to the list, just drop it and go Fluke!"


Heeding her own perhaps slightly over reactive advice she placed the paper with all the squiggles and ink blots carefully on the floor in front of the door. Perhaps with luck, the wind might blow it away and now one need ever know she had ventured here. She turned and started away with stealthy little steps better suited to a skulk.



Below are the sum of the marks on the paper in full.




Applicant: Fluke

Age: Does that still apply these days? I don't know, Botox has changed things and women old enough to be my grandmother look thirty. When did everyone younger than me start looking like they're prepubescent and definitely not old enough to be driving by themselves? 30.

Writing form of Choice: Do I have to choose just one? I mean I would choose poetry but to be honest I would miss telling stories and being involved in them, there's a great deal to miss out on in this world.

Description: Over exuberant with a dash of terror? Or do they mean my looks? A strange lady with odd clothing and brightly coloured hair? Or my brain... foggy and caffeine fueled run by a Squirrel and a Cat.


Applicational Submitted Writing:


Lift thine eyes to the tumbling heavens

Drink ye cup of darkened spirits

For tonight I shall tell ye of magical wonders

And show ye all I have seen


Blood crusted Jewels

Stone cold, uncaring

A sweet lovers caress

Softly warm and heartfelt


Keep an eye on the path for it is rocky and hard fought

And listen to all of the words you've been taught

But remember of all the ones of love

The sweet bewitchment that comes from above.


I'm naught but a wanderer and though my passion flies

My pen is held with wooden hand that captures but a guise

Of silken thoughts that float across a space that does not understand time

My head is filled with imagery that cannot be described

My soul longs to give voice to what I see but it hunkers deep inside

Please accept this humble offering, I'm sorry if it slights

My poetry is what I do when I cannot sleep at nights.


The Teal Poet


Edited by Fluke
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You say "Crazy" as if it were a bad thing. :)



Really, go back a few pages in the cbox

Then tell me if you think being "sane"

is a requirement for hanging out around here.



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The door opened with a *woosh* that ruffled the ink-dotted paper, its wilted edges fluttering nervously as a pair of golden eyes scrutinized the squiggly handwriting. Degorram, official Recruitment Officer, leaned her head around the door frame. The hall was empty, except for perhaps a muttering shadow of doubt that was just creeping away down the passageway.


Thought I heard someone out here...


With a sniff, Degorram plucked the paper off the door, which wheezed like an old woman in complaint. "No sympathy for you," she growled, cracking the knuckles of her left hand absently. "I have just as many creaks and groans as you these days." Her long ears twitched and she glanced down the corridor one last time. Had someone peeked down the hall just now?


The shape shifter's lips crimped inwards, eyes flashing crimson along with her hair before settling back to the tried and true golden hue. She had been feeling gilded of late, abandoning her decades old purple for something a bit more reflective of her age. She was getting on...well never mind. Ageless as the stones themselves. Tired nonetheless.


Degorram sighed and collapsed into the chair at her desk, smoothing out the parchment and scanning down the lines. "Only right that someone dust me off now and again," she said, rummaging through a drawer for the tried and true, over-large stamp. She traced a finger over the final four scribbles, eyes hooded in lost thought. My head is filled with imagery that cannot be described...quite. "No stranger here," she purred, slamming the stamp down on the paper and leaving an enormous ACCEPTED in red ink. The noise echoed around the room like breaking glass, and she bared her sharp teeth, blowing on the ink to dry it.


"Welcome welcome Fluke. I look forward to meeting your Squirrel and Cat someday." Her eyebrows wiggled as she tucked the paper away in her files. "You are now an official Initiate of the Pen."

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Some time later, Tzimfemme came in, perched on the edge of the desk, and--


--alright, Starlight may have strong-armed her back into clothing, but she kept the letter of the law only. This outfit appeared to literally be made of tissue paper, origami-folded into a wasp-waisted jumpsuit circa a 1948 pulp novel, another twisted cone of the stuff making her braids into a dreads-like waterfall behind her skull--


--read some of the stack of applications, and paused on that 'age' field also. She grabbed the paper in both hands and twirled it up and over and around like a length of rope, crinkling like a stack of newsprint as her arms wove around one another, but not finding whatever she sought on either side.


"Degorram?..." she chirruped, looking up. "Why don't we just read the answer off of the writing? The choice of words, the formatting, just how far away from universal the third-person limited perspective is focused? Does it tick people off the way reading their gender does?"


Tzimfemme twisted her face, and briefly the naked mage was back in full imperious force. "Mind you, I did just make the decade's mistake there. A male, this time. I hardly believe it." Then she smoothed out her expression. "He should sell lessons. What can be done can be copied. He'll never need to work again. Not otherwise."

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