Writing, v. 2006.2

Talk about writing, or post things you’ve written and see what other Musers think.

Date: March 15, 2006

Author: Robert Coontz (Administrator)

Categories: Fiction, poetry, and fanfiction

Comments RSS TrackBack 125 comments

1

Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:35

First post!!!!!

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Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:36

*First post dance* Okay, my stories are all on the other thing, but ill post my next one here.

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flying circus

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:34

sooooo here are my two paragraphs that it took me an entire day to writeâ€¦ went adjective crazyâ€¦

Muted sunlight danced along short ripples in the basin, running streaks of gold across the blood colored liquid. Beneath the shimmering surface a dark mass rocked gently, soaking up the deep hue. Scarred fingers curled around bronze handles on either side of the porcelain tub, lifting it off of soggy ground and toting the stained vessel across muddy flooded grass towards the swollen river. Crimson spilled into the diamond curls of the flowing torrent as ruby fluid cascaded from the brink of the vat. After the last of the various bits of attire had plummeted wetly onto splashed boulders scattered along the banks, chapped hands manipulated scarlet textile to unfurl in the subdued glow of the heavens. Slicing through damp silence, a reedy melody sprang from the flushed lips of a slight maiden as she peeled apart layers of newly carmine fabric. Flashing beads of maroon flitted through the air while she twisted and crushed the cloth, landing on the unadorned olive shift that covered her form. As the tune plunged and soared, her dull garment acquired what seemed to be bloody blemishes. With a closing blow, the cherry smeared stones were left shrouded by the moist clothing, and the anthem drifted across the plain.

Her smeared feet wandered along a worn path and into the frigid shadow of a worn stone wall. Smoothing the rough material of her apron, she rapped on the grizzled and bruised oaken door that sank into the rock face. Rusty iron hinges resisted use as the portal was inched sluggishly ajar. One gnarled hand wrapped around the edge of the timber while the other clutched a tarnished lantern with a shining pool of wax within. Gaunt eyes hidden under thick brows gazed through the gap and cracked lips split to reveal a grin of ramshackle and decaying teeth that twisted over hollow spaces and each other. With a mighty heave, the dilapidated servant shoved the solid doorway until the breach was spacious enough for the girl to pass through. With a faint smile at the doorkeeper, she crossed from the muddy path onto dusty unyielding earth. As the oak slab creaked back along its gouge in the turf, another figure drew out of the darkness in the depths of the kitchen and into the pool of candlelight at the door.

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4

flying circus

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:39

yay amazing GAPA you guys rock

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5

Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:40

Cooooooool i like it robert!! Its good! Thugh i don think the “plummeted wetly onto splashed boulders scattered along the banks” sentence make sence… Maybe if it was “plummeting down wetly, splashing onto boulders scattered along the banks” it would make more sence.

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Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:41

NOOOOOOOO I totaly had the first post!!! When that first apeared on my screen it said (:37 and mine said9:35! No fair. But, fine. *second post dance*

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7

Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:42

Whoa did i say robert? I think i wanted to thank him for the thred, and congradulate flying circus on the story. Whoops.

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8

Pentatonikk

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:43

I’ll post what I have of Itholianam here later, and possibly a few fanfictions that I deem worthy. But I’m just soooo lazy….

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Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:44

Flying Circus wrote the passage. My name just appeared on it briefly while I moved it from another part of the blog.

You dance beautifully.

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10

Pentatonikk

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:45

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: This whole first post obsession thing is really getting annoying.

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11

flying circus

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:46

#5 yea, my vision for that sentence is kinda out there. so here’s what i got: in the basin thing are like, clothes in red dye. so when it gets poured out, the clothes fall onto rocks that have been splashed by the river… the clothes are’s slpashing… they’re plummeting… i dunno.

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12

Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:47

So mine was really first post untill you moved it?

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13

Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:52

Yes, yes. Now get on with it, please.

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14

Jadestone

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:54

You know, you might want to mention that they were clothes. It was sorta creepy untill i reallized what they were.

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15

Zallie

in March 15th, 2006 @ 21:54

Pentatonikk (10), I couldn’t agree more. Really, you rock.

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16

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 15th, 2006 @ 22:19

I agree, pentatonikk. Though I have gotten a few first posts, and I addmit, I did the same thing. But I still agree.

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King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 15th, 2006 @ 22:30

Here’s the first chapter of my book, sorry for longness. Expect to se it published some day!
The Healer Revised
June 13, 3010

Rob Smith was desperate for money. He looked at his partner. It was almost comical, his partner, in a black suit with a mask on, on top of a jewelry store in Phoenix, Arizona, where anyone could see them. However, the comedy of the situation was forgotten as Rob set out two sticks of explosives, and his partner laid out the fuse. rob looked up at the blue sky. One mistake and the building would be his grave, leaving the sky to be viewed by more fortunate people. But there was no time to think about what he would miss if the explosive did not cooperate.
â€œAll set, Rob,â€ his partner said. Rob stood back on the corner of the roof. â€œReady?â€
â€œYes. On the count of three.â€ Rob got ready, with his hand hovering over the button to deploy the bomb. â€œOne,.. two,…THREE!â€
BANG, and the air was filled with smoke. A gaping hole let out screams of terror. Rob felt dizzy. What had he done. It was to late now. Either escape without money, get caught, or escape with the money. Rob thought the last one would be best.
With a rope that had been secured to a fire escape that led from the roof, the two robbers slowly rappelled down to their destiny. Only one would escape the chaos that ravaged the shop below.

Jim Shane was a real-estate agent for Berkley Homes. His wife had just received a job offer for the CEO for News Break, a famous magazine company. He was buying her a gold bracelet for celebration when the explosion occurred. He was thrown to the groan buy the sound. A few shots were fired, piercing his ears, and he was stunned to see, the nice lady at the counter fall with a bullet in her head. He was also stunned when a robber punched him in the mouth and kicked him in the stomach, then grabbed the cash register, and threw it on the ground. The cheap plastic broke and money flew like leaves on an autumn day. Jim saw a man next to him grab for some money, and watched in horror as he was shot. Pandemonium was loose, and screams could be heard for miles. But no one came. Not a single soul. It all ended as soon as it started. Though moans and whimpers, and crying and sobbing, and screaming and creaking, it was over, the robbers gone, running out of the building and onto the street, to disappear forever. No revenge would be taken, though no mercy was shown.
Jim slowly opened his hand. There still lay the last remaining trinket of the shop. Still shaking, he got up and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a hundred dollar bill, he placed it next to the dead body of the nice lady, said thank you, and walked out. He would pay for his gold bracelet.
He couldnâ€™t help the people. He couldnâ€™t try to help. If he did, he to would be killed, not buy any robbers, but buy the government. Why? He had no clue. with the dust still clearing, he saw a figure walk into the the wreckage. â€œYou know,â€ Jim warned, â€œyou cannot help… Itâ€™s not allowed… Iâ€™m telling you, itâ€™s not…,â€ he gave up. The man stooped over the body of a wounded woman.
â€œ…allowed. I know. But Iâ€™m not afraid. I need not to be told. I have pain in my heart that will not rest. I am the Healer.â€
Jim looked quizzically at the man, and for a second, thought of him as a psycho. But when he left, his heart was pounding with joy, happiness filling his lungs, and he had to stop to cry in an alleyway before he could turn around. He was going to help, no matter what the cost. He would help that healer. And he did.

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18

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 15th, 2006 @ 22:31

The Healer is the title, teh healer revised is what addition it is (two out of two)

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19

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 15th, 2006 @ 22:32

Sorry if it’s grusome. Don’t read it if you don’t like grusome. SORRY!

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20

vincent

in March 16th, 2006 @ 07:15

it’s not really that gruesome…
but then again, i watch bones and house all the time and they’re analyzing human remains and poking people with needles all the time.

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21

MontgomeryGurl

in March 16th, 2006 @ 11:42

I have nothing to say.

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22

The Great Masticator

in March 16th, 2006 @ 11:57

Here’s a poem I made–thinking about sending it to a children’s mag or something.
Snow and winter,
winter and snow,
wind is a-blowin’,
whistling low.
Steaming hot cocoa–
drink it up slow!–
presents are under the tree.
Sledding and tumbling,
giggily fun,
tinsely trees
under a cold sun,
Shivering, back
to the house we will run,
winter’s for you and for me.

Maybe a less stupid last line? I use commas a lot, just for line clarification. Are the rhymes accurate? I hate half-rhymes.

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23

Violetfire

in March 16th, 2006 @ 15:28

Very accurate they are.
Yes, they are, they are.
I’m rhyming are with are,
And making a very stupid little poem-are.
Haha!

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24

vincent

in March 16th, 2006 @ 15:40

ooh i am not a fan of rhyming poems.
but that’s just me being weird.

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25

Darth Yoda

in March 16th, 2006 @ 16:01

Darth Yoda hates you all (10, 15, 16).
First posties be half the fun of this site.

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26

Queen Julietaini; (Queenie J) with Alternate Selves Rhonda, Stig, and Ikol

in March 16th, 2006 @ 17:31

Mr. Yoda, sometimes I frankly don’t understand you. But I have no doubt I never make sense to you, so there you go. King George, I really liked your story. It sounds a lot like Max Barry to me. All of you Musers are really phenomenal writers. And Flying Circus, your writing sounds beautiful. Read it aloud while you’re alone in the shower-it reminds me of how beautiful the English language can be.

I am in the middle of a fantasy epic called The Frangarshion. I have posted some tiny bits on the site before, but not a lot, as I am extremely cautious, shall we say, about putting large bits of my stories, books, etc. on show and especially on the Internet, which is as open as Britney Spears’ clothing. Anyway, my problem is that my fantasy epic started out as a send-up, but is still a send-up and now more serious, and that I don’t like the main character. I just don’t. If Madeline Bassett and John Selwyn Gummer had a love child, it would turn out to be extraordinarily like Astatine (the main character, who is in fact a chemist. Don’t ask.) in many ways, shapes, and forms. So stands the situation. I will think about posting some of the story when my GI tract doesn’t reel at the thought.

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27

emogrl

in March 16th, 2006 @ 18:37

i wish i still had time to write. i hav @ least 3 short stories started. i like to write sci fi/ fantasy mostly. well, they hav to be action too, b/c i relly hate it when a writer will take one event + drag it out for like half of the book… example: old man + the sea. hope i nvr have to read that one again.

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28

dark lord of darkness

in March 16th, 2006 @ 20:14

i’m horrid at witing anythng interesting. i like reading interesting things though!

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29

100% cotton

in March 16th, 2006 @ 21:38

yay for writing stories that you never finish! vincent- i totally agree with you about rhyming poems!!! i think when you ryme you have to choose words which don’t always mean the right thing so they have the right sound. sorry. that doesn’t make much sense does it?

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30

Mattathias of Modin

in March 16th, 2006 @ 23:12

Anyone read The Homeward Bounders? It’s good.
I’m working on an idea based in wanderer mythology, and remembered it. Mine is very different, but it’s got the same legendary background. No obvious villains though. I’ll post it soon as i’ve got enough to be worth reading.

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31

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 16th, 2006 @ 23:53

Q.J.–how in the world did you get a piece of paper into the shower so you could read it there. Just wondering.

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32

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 16th, 2006 @ 23:57

Here’s the plot of a ghost story I’m thinking of writing. Kay…
this guy hates himself, and so one day he’s walking along. And then a thing, who turns out to be his hate, kills him. ut the police can’t figure it out. I’ll post a paragraph or too later when it’s not almost !!:00 o’clock.

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33

vincent

in March 17th, 2006 @ 14:27

#32 that sounds really interesting…

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34

The Great Masticator

in March 17th, 2006 @ 14:53

There’s one story idea I’ve planned out, but haven’t written yet. I actually made it up from a dream I had, and some parts are pretty arcane. As soon as I get part of the first draft done, I’ll post it so you all can murder it (supposedly called “constructive criticism”) as you see fit.
Hahahaha.

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35

100% cotton

in March 17th, 2006 @ 15:33

#32 DOES sound interesting. what do you mean by “a thing who turns out to be his hate?” i suppose i shld just wait until you post it, then read it.

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36

groundhog22

in March 17th, 2006 @ 15:59

i like your poems.
and your stories.
if only i could add to the wonderful literature here.
but sadly i cannot think of a/t off the top of my head.

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37

Queen Julietaini the F. of K. ; Queenie; WDNT

in March 17th, 2006 @ 16:01

I put it in my plastic sleeve-thingie. It’s supposed to hold my schedule so I never use it. I know. I know. George, that story sounds extremely froody. Do Roman numerals have other forms? In English you can have “three”, as in “three musketers” but inside that is “third” and the “third musketeer”. But in Latin is it just the numerals? I apologize if this strikes you as a mind-bogglingly stupid question, such as the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal might ask.

Does anyone else like Wuntvor and Ebenezum stories? I do. I think they’re wonderful. I am posting my Team Emu story up here, so hold on to your spacebelts.

TEAM EMU HAS A SNACK

Team Emu slowly circled around the small blue-and-green planet they had come to protect. Around them were Team Eagle, Team Jaguar, Team Lion, Team Ocelot, Team Puma and Team Raven. Team Dodo had perished some time before in an interstellar accident involving a muffin, an ivory tusk, and a paper clip careening into Aberdeen.
Aberdeen, however, was the farthest thing from Kennyâ€™s mind. Kenny was half of Team Emuâ€™s crew and currently engaged in trying to open a bag of chocolate macaroons sealed up with enough glue to drown several solar systems. So it seemed to Kenny, who, after a last attempt with his teeth and a ball of string next to him, took the bag in one blue four-fingered hand and wheeled off to seek out the other half of the crew, Mark. Mark had always gotten full marks in the Nirflatooâ€™s training program. Hence the â€œMarkâ€, which was an odd name for a nice Vartavodlian boy, but you canâ€™t have everything.
Mark was, at the moment, suspended from the ceiling trying to replace a broken fusillator. Team Emu was infamous for being the hardest-working, least-funded and least-assisted fleet of the Nirflatoo. The Nirflatoo was an organization dedicated to saving those few planets that hadnâ€™t been conquered by a major galactic power. Team Emu was not even properly a fleet, as it consisted of only one spaceship, the infamous Emu. However, this was an academic point and therefore irrelevant, as the Nirflatooâ€™s headquarters never tired of explaining when faced with yet another request for funding.
The Nirflatooâ€™s headquarters were currently in communication with Team Emu. â€œSalamander to Emu. Can you hear me now?â€
â€œThy sweet voice is loud and clear. Salamander, what can I do for you?â€
â€œGoodbye, Team Emu. Eagle, Jaguar, Puma and Raven have pulled out of Operation Earth at the last minute. Ocelot is heading toward your ship and will impact in approximately 5 minutes. Emu, youâ€™re out on your own. Itâ€™s been great knowing you.â€ This optimistic, cheerful message did no good to the morale of Team Emu. The message popped, crackled, and then faded away like the end of a Procol Harum song, lingering in the eardrum and then taking off like a jet rocket.
Kenny tossed his packet of macaroons aside and leapt to the control panels. The next two minutes were frantic, featuring the crew scrabbling at the control panels like a flock of starving vultures on a lion carcass. Markâ€™s tentacles whipped, flew, and sliced through the air like a neurotic fighter pilot trying to shake off some gazelles attached to the wings. It was a last ditch attempt to save something that any sane being would have left for dead.
The Ocelot hit the Emu with a ray gun, making a noise that would have made a soundtrack editorâ€™s career in a heartbeat (bump, bump). The Ocelot was the shiniest, fastest, most equipped, most expensive ship now in battle around Earth. It made the Emu look like a tricycle in the Indiana 500 race. The Ocelot crashing into the shipâ€™s hull made Kenny and Mark lose their aquamarine hue and take on a shade that was whiter than Swiss edelweiss and would have looked best on a model in a toothpaste commercial. Mark slipped a tentacle in Kennyâ€™s hand and shook it. Kenny looked up at him, lumps rising in his throats. â€œWeâ€™ve had nice lives, Mark, right? At least we died for our-â€
Kenny was cut off by the arrival of a dozen troopers. It is a common misconception that trooper robots are white. The only white things in the Emu were Kenny and Mark. Troopers are an excruciating shade of puce, part of the new field of aesthetics torture.
This shade made Kenny and Mark leap behind a desk and survey the situation. They stood, unarmed, with five troopers carrying death-ray lasers, lighters, and an assortment of weapons that could feature anything from pocketknives to magic swords. Team Emu was unarmed, excepting a packet of chocolate macaroons and a ball of string. An idea hit Kennyâ€™s brain like a dyslexic fly hitting the windshield of a parked car. In a moment, he had grabbed the ball of string, bit off a length, burst open the packet with a terrific four-arm, sixteen-finger effort, and formed a sling with his remaining two arms. It was a crazy chance. It was, however, substantially better than nothing. This fortifying bit of information steeled Kennyâ€™s nerves, which were about to burst with tension, adrenaline, and unadulterated strife. They were, however, honed to this sort of abject abuse from Kennyâ€™s unbelievably harrowing years of experience as Team Emuâ€™s greener half.
The first macaroon, by a chance that would leave mathematicians staggering and breathless, hit the trooper in his contol boards. The machine malfunctioned with a beeping noise so perfect as to make the entire lineup of Devo weep. The robot swung around wildly, flailing. Its gun went off. It hit its fellow robots. Then the entire thing melted into a puddle on the floor.
Mark grabbed a table with a turquoise-blue tentacle and flipped it over, making their stronghold unassailable, if cramped. Kennyâ€™s right head peered over this and witnessed the melted trooper wrecking two of its fellows. He began to grin. However dangerous this was, and however certain he was that he was going to be killed along with Mark, it was also the sort of madly exciting thing he liked best. This, however long it went, was going to be fun.
The second macaroon whizzed past the head of a robotic trooper aiming his gun at the desk. It didnâ€™t actually hit the robot, but the mechanical head went so fast to follow it the neck mechanics couldnâ€™t stop. In short order, it had twisted itself off and dropped limply off to bounce on the linoleum-esque texture of the spaceshipâ€™s floor. The body crumpled over its ray gun, accidentally shooting itself in the foot. All right. Kenny felt pleased with himself, some of the hysteria and terror subsiding. Four down, one to go.
The last trooper might have taxed the limits of a lesser life form. Kenny and Mark were made of sterner stuff. So were the macaroons, one of which jammed the robotâ€™s ray gun. The trooper craned over it to see what had gone wrong, pressed the trigger, and promptly shot himself in the head.
Kenny threw back his left head and laughed. The whole thing reminded him of a schoolboy squirting himself in the eye with a trick buttonhole. His relief was short-lived. Coming down into the ship were two life-forms-Voonquarxzases, Kenny suspected, hai ry crimson guys with seven arms each and four legs. One head though, which would make shooting easy. Death-earl blasters, though, which would make the most seasoned Nirflatooian throw up his pseupodia in abject despair and go out for a drink. Our heroes, however, were not the most seasoned Nirflatooians, but were, at any rate, probably the most inventive Nirflatooians in the entire company.
â€œThereâ€™s guys here,â€ the Voonquarxzase on the left said. â€œAnd they took out our last troopers.â€
â€œWe only heard one shot, though. So how could they kill the troopers?â€ Both were silent a minute, digesting this problem. Kenny looked at Mark and winked with one eye. The bigger alien winked back. With a grin, Kenny settled in to wait.
â€œRight,â€ one said.
â€œRight,â€ the other one said. Way off in another dimension of which Earth knows worryingly little, Noel Coward shuddered, a look of indescribable, acute pain on his face. Oscar Wilde patted him on the back sympathetically.
â€œTeam Emu, huh? Weird name,â€ the first one said, casually shooting part of the navigator off. Both Nirflatooians winced, gritting their teeth.
â€œYeah. Smart guys, though. I wonder how many there are?â€ The second one burnt the chair next to Mark, who bit a tentacle to stop a whimper. Kenny patted him sympathetically. Now was the time to act. He was a pretty lenient guy who would stand a lot of things, but not hurting his ship or Mark.
The aim was true. The cookie swooped-and in it flew. Into the first Voonquarxzaseâ€™s life support, that is. The machine sputtered, sparked, and made the Voonquarkzase change colors and asphyxiate on the floor. Kenny felt a stab of remorse. He didnâ€™t want to hurt them, but it was those two or him and Mark. Not to mention the ship.
â€œOy!â€ They had succeeded in getting the survivor angrier than angry. â€œJust you come out of there, you galactic nuisances of beings, you! Iâ€™m all alone on the ship now!â€
â€œFabulous,â€ Kenny called back, concentrating on aiming the sling. Mark crossed the suckers on his tentacles. He hoped Kenny would use his heads.
The macaroon zinged straight, true and beautifully. It choked the enemy soldier, who fell next to his friend on the floor, dead as a dormuffin. Kenny and Mark crawled out of the shelter with all the tenacity of an Englishman crawling out of his bomb shelter on April 1, 1943. â€œPoor man,â€ Kenny muttered sympathetically. Mark patted him with a fraternal tentacle. They stood for a few minutes looking at the wreckage.
â€œNice fight,â€ Kenny said finally, popping the last macaroon into his left mouth.
————

Do with me what you will, I liked it quite a lot.

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38

emogrl

in March 17th, 2006 @ 19:58

ooh, this mystery tune just started playing in my head! maybe i do have the composing gift! ill try to plunk it out on my keyboard later…

anyways, i thought of another short story the other day. very hard to explain. basically, the story itself is something that seems like it could take place in the future, but could relly take place in the present. or maybe it will seem impossible, but relly not be…its hard to explain

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39

emogrl

in March 17th, 2006 @ 20:04

…then i hav an outline for this other story about a young witch in medieval england, and yet another outline for a story about a totalitarian empire (this is set in the distant future).

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40

Jadestone

in March 17th, 2006 @ 22:18

37- Fuuuuuuun i liked it. Sortta like HGttG.

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41

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 18th, 2006 @ 01:17

What’s totalitarian mean?

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Queen Julietaini the F. of K. ; Queenie; WDNT

in March 18th, 2006 @ 09:32

Totalitarian is having one person have supreme power over everything. Unlike the US, which is supposed to have checks and balances. Supposedly. Don’t let me get started on this one. Or the American Dream.

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43

Axa

in March 18th, 2006 @ 10:16

A totalitarian government is one based around a dictator type.

I find most of my writing happens in RPGs, so if anyone’s deathly intrested in that, just let me know. And that was excellent Queenie, v. nice.

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44

Queen Julietaini; Queenie; WDNT

in March 18th, 2006 @ 12:46

Thank you, Jadestone, Axa. I would like to hear some of your RPG writing-it sounds v. interesting. And I just noticed that your name is a palindrome. Froody.

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45

Darth Yoda

in March 18th, 2006 @ 13:02

I don’t what to be rude, but, theres a typo in the title: it should say what others think.

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46

Darth Yoda

in March 18th, 2006 @ 15:16

either you changed that, or i’m being extremly stupid, probably the later

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47

Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in March 18th, 2006 @ 15:29

Certainly NOT the latter, O eagle-eyed DY.

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48

Violetfire

in March 18th, 2006 @ 18:16

Huh?
Loved the story. Only I don’t like macaroons, so if it was me then they’d probably be Girl Scout Lemon Cremes.

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49

Jadestone

in March 18th, 2006 @ 18:48

No, itsays what other museres think. Museres is plural, so if it said others it would be wrong.

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50

Pentatonikk

in March 18th, 2006 @ 23:18

But shouldn’t it be Musers? Whither the extra ‘e?’*

*Pardon the atrocious Elizabethan/Shakesperian/Whatever.

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51

King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 18th, 2006 @ 23:46

There was a rabit.

It lived.

It ate.

It died.

Think I can get that published?

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52

MJ

in March 19th, 2006 @ 01:02

ok i know this sucks but its seriously the best i can do. im only 11 after all (now that ive said that you guys will probably all turn out to be 8-year-olds)
The Caves
Turn right off of Hagelbarger, drive three miles past the Tackle Box Inn, and turn off at 14 Mile Hot Springs, and youâ€™ll be there. At The Caves. My mom says that the government dumped a bunch of toxic waste there, back in the Reagan era. My dad says that the whole place could avalanche at any moment. My brother says that the caves are infested with rabid vampire bats (but donâ€™t believe a thing he says). Everyone has a reason not to visit it, to avoid exploring its gloomy depths. The Caves are a dark spot against the Milkoot Mountains and a dark spot in the hearts of all the sane inhabitants of Abbington. Too bad most of my friends donâ€™t qualify as sane.
â€œHey Rachel, I dare you to go around the first corner,â€ taunted Brandon, â€œOr are you too scared?â€
â€œIâ€™m a lot less scared than you, Mr. â€˜oh-look-at-me-Iâ€™m-two-feet-in,â€™ thank you very much,â€ replied Rachel, my best friend forever.
â€œHa, youâ€™re more cowardly than Christina,â€ laughed Brandon. I winced at the mention of my name. It was a reference to the fact that I had fainted a few steps from the cave entrance the first time I dared to set foot in it. Itâ€™s not my fault that I get scared sometimes, unlike Mr. and Ms. SuperMan. Since then I have been constantly struggling to get my courage, and some face back.
â€œI already told you guys,â€ I began, â€œI passed out because of lack of oxygen. As you know I have a condition called â€˜asthmaâ€™ which in certain circumstances . . .â€
â€œOh, now youâ€™re going to play the â€˜asthmaâ€™ card on us, are you,â€ sighed Rachel, with a weariness I resented.
â€œLook guys, if youâ€™re just going to stand here and fight, Iâ€™m going in,â€ said Colin. Ah, Colin. Where do I begin? The soft chocolate brown hair, the dark brown eyes, the all-too-perfect freckle on his left cheek. Colin. A pillar of sanity amongst my daredevil friends . . . wait a secondâ€”he was going around the corner! Scratch the sanity part.
â€œOmigod, youâ€™re going around the CORNER,â€ I shrieked, â€œYou wonâ€™t be able to see the entrance . . .or anything! What if you get hurt?â€ Presently the record was going four feet inside the cave, set by Rachel. And that was scary enough.
â€œCalm, down, donâ€™t have a heart attack for me,â€ Colin laughed, â€œIâ€™ll go in there, break Rachelâ€™s record into a million pieces, and come back out, none the worse for wear.â€
â€œBut, but, we donâ€™t know what could be around the corner and you, well . . .â€ my voice trailed off. Colin had passed through the entrance, a curiously arched hole in the rock of the mountain, and was fast disappearing around the corner. I caught one last glimpse of his back as he carefully made his way along the stalagmited tunnel, and then he was gone.
A minute went by. And another. We stood stalk-still, listening to the drip-drip of water sliding down the sides of the cave. Another minute. Ten more. Why was he taking this long? All he had to do was go in, turn the corner, and come back.
â€œSomething must have happened to him,â€ I said, grabbing Rachelâ€™s arm for support.
â€œHe must have decided to go farther,â€ said Brandon. I detected a note of fear in his voice.
â€œLetâ€™s go home,â€ said Rachel. â€œItâ€™s starting to rain. Heâ€™ll come back in his own good time.â€
But as I headed home, rain soaked and scared, I knew Colin was not coming back. He was trapped somewhere in that cave, that horrible cave, and no one could save him.
Late at night I awoke, my decision made. I tiptoed downstairs in my pajamas, pulled on a coat and stuffed some food into my backpack. Then I headed to Rachelâ€™s house, without leaving a note. It wasnâ€™t a long walk, just a block, and soon I was in her yard. I walked around back, and knocked on her bedroom window. She was there in a second, looking sleepy and glum in her bright pink Hello-Kitty PJ set. I cut straight to the point, without commenting on her sleepwear choices. This was a time for action.
â€œRachel, Colin is in the caves, trapped, maybe hurt. We have to go in after him.â€

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53

MJ

in March 19th, 2006 @ 01:09

its not finished

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54

Sir Penguin

in March 19th, 2006 @ 07:30

hey maybe we could have a thread for poems, if we have stories

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55

Sir Penguin

in March 19th, 2006 @ 07:30

Oh wait never mind!!

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56

Queen Julietaini; Queenie; WDNT

in March 19th, 2006 @ 10:38

MJ, how dare you leave me hanging like that? Go back to your document and type up the next part! Bad Muser! *pies MJ* It’s very good. Now finish it!

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57

Violetfire

in March 19th, 2006 @ 12:52

IlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepieIlovepie! Yay for pie!

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58

Kororra

in March 19th, 2006 @ 14:38

#54 excelent idea. That way if someone was looking for a poem they could look ther and if they wanted to read a story they would not have to hunt through poems (blah blah blah…)

wanders off, still talking

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59

Queen Julietaini; Queenie; WDNT

in March 19th, 2006 @ 16:26

51-Only if you put an extra ‘b’ in “rabit”. But otherwise, yet. Stark. Spare. Economical. Compressed. Very cool.

Violetfire, did you have to do that? It’s annoying. Now there’s an unaesthetic scroll bar at the bottom of my screen, which messes up the feng shui but utterly. Fie!

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60

Jadestone

in March 19th, 2006 @ 17:05

59- “Fie?” Dont you mean “pie?”

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61

Nobodydude

in March 20th, 2006 @ 06:43

Does anyone have a sonnet (4 quartettes and a couplet ) to post?

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62

Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in March 20th, 2006 @ 07:23

Do you mean “quatrains”? Here’s a Shakespeare pastiche I wrote when I was 14 or 15. It’s not completely embarrassing:

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s night?
Thou art more lowering and tempestuous.
Compounded clouds can block the bravest light,
Leaving despair and dark distress to us.
They fear the lightning who might well be struck;
Not so the one for whom the bolt performs.
Clouds may be omens to those ruled by luck,
But I have striven with the god of storms.
Thy withering winter-blasts I wish to slay,
Thy clouds to clear away, perchance to find
The subtle glint of dawning, and the day
That lay, deaf to my beckoning, behind.
Upon the stars we mariners depend,
And we would have the heavens as a friend.

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63

Pentatonikk

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:02

Very Shakesperean, in that I but barely understood it and probably completely misinterpreted it anyway. But that’s Penty the Brilliant for you.

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64

Pentatonikk

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:19

Here is the full and complete prologue to Itholianam, all twelve pages of it. I might just turn it into a separate book.
——-

Once, west of the great river Merren, there were four
continuously squabbling countries. In the north, bordering on the huge mountain range of the High Places, there was Itherun, a large country with an experienced king sitting at Diherun. South of Itherun lay Makkan, by the sea, and Olor, by the waters of Merren. Olor was home to some of the most accomplished assassins in the West, and at their peak, in the world. The assassins lived in an elusive city somewhere in the south of the country, called Yelvin. In legend, they served the king of Olor only, but at the time of Lanekâ€™s rise Olorâ€™s eldest princess, a blind woman who may have had powers of prophecy, commanded them.

Lanek, of course, was the last nation west of Merren. In their capital city of Vak Erak, the intelligent king and his sons led an army that could make even the assassins of Olor tremble in their stronghold at Yelvin.

In the year 2931 after the retreat of the Aelfeni into the High Places, a marriage was proposed between the second princess of Olor and the crown prince of Itherun. They were to first see each otherâ€™s faces and be wed at Iavinu, the last place a human ever saw an Aelfen. Iavinu was at the foothills of the High Places, and many weeksâ€™ journey from Iraku, the capital of Olor. As a result, the princess and her entourage had never been there or even seen the mountains of the High Places.

Meanwhile, the crown prince of Makkan was angry that the king of Olor had not arranged for his only marriageable daughter to wed him. As the king was currently staying in Diherun, the prince undertook a diplomatic mission to protest the match. To be polite, he agreed to visit Iavrel, the Place of Peace, where a great war had been resolved long ago. Diplomats visiting Itherun often came to Iavrel as a symbol of their wishes for peace and to view the beautiful mountains to the north. These were not the sharply rising peaks of the High Places, but rather much older mountains that had been worn and cloaked by the slow passage of time.

It was here that princess of Olor stopped, not at Iavinu, but Iavrel. Mistaking the mountains of Iavrel for the High Places and recognizing the feeling of holiness around the place, she declared that she and her procession had reached Iavinu. If any of them doubted her, they did not give voice to those doubts. It is likely that the princess wished for her journey to be over, and so jumped to the conclusion that she had reached her destination out of hopeful unlikelihood.

And there, at Iavrel, was the prince of Makkan. He and the princess fell in love. It is not known if the prince knew of his loveâ€™s royalty, but it seems unlikely that he didnâ€™t guess.

However, the pair rounded up priests they were travelling with, and they were married. The prince withdrew his complaint and brought his bride back to Makkan.

The princess was no doubt surprised that she was being taken to Makkan City rather than Diherun, but she didnâ€™t resist. When the prince of Itherun learned of this, however, he was furious. He challenged the prince of Makkan to single combat for the hand of his new wife. The prince of Makkan refused, saying that the marriage contract was legally binding. Within a few weeks, Makkan and Itherun were at war.

Olor remained neutral, knowing that war would be devastating to them. But when an assassin killed the king of Itherun, Olor was under heavy suspicion. Itherunâ€™s hot-blooded new kingâ€™s first action in power was to declare war on Olor. The West was at war, all but Lanek. Lanekâ€™s famed army was trained, but they would not attack. Not yet. Lanek waited.

Olor and Makkan united against Itherun. But when the king of Makkan died of a fever, along with his daughter-in-law, Makkan, the stronger of the allies, demanded a new wife for the new king. Olor refused. It had but two princesses left. One was crippled, the other blind. Both were powerful mages, thanks to their quantity of Aelfeni blood, and to lose their power would be a blow, especially as Amaraya, the elder, blind, woman, commanded the assassins in Yelvin. Amarayaâ€™s name is the one of the only ones passed through the centuries. It means â€˜sight without.â€™

For this slight, Makkan declared war on Olor. Makkan, Olor, and Itherun were all enemies. The saying â€œThe enemy of my enemy is my friendâ€ died along with hundreds of people in the great battles of 2932, the Year of Blood, when the armies of three countries all fought for days or weeks on end, officers falling along with common foot soldiers. These were the battles where the carnage didnâ€™t stop, where the white flag of peace was stained red with blood and even the Merrenâ€™s mighty waters flowed with a tinge of crimson.

And Lanek waited.

In the last days of the Year of Blood, a plague surfaced in Makkan that decimated its population. Old women, babies, and even those in the prime of life were struck down. Almost none that were taken ill survived.

Olor and Itherun, sensing Makkanâ€™s weakness, joined together for its defeat. The rulersâ€™ quick change in friendship alarmed the common people of both countries. Rumours circulated that both kings had gone mad, and they were not all false. The kings were mad, mad with the lust for power and glory in war, mad with the desire for more land. An assassin, so driven in his patriotism that he murdered an infant, killed the newly crowned baby king of Makkan.

Olorâ€™s government dismissed him as a fanatic, but he was representative of what was now happening in both Olor and Itherun. The desire and madness of the rulers had spread down to the people. Whispers circulated in the streets of a new dawn, where one country would rule all DevÃ©an.

Princess Amaraya saw the cords of tension, unrest, and fear threatening to choke her people and all the people of the West. And she Saw, with her powers of prophecy, what would happen to them. So she left Iraku, riding swiftly and guiding her horse by sound to the encampment of the bedraggled army of Olor. When her horse saw the army, Amaraya Saw them as they would be in ten years, dead and rotting slowly into the ground until all that remained of them was dust and armour.

And she shone with the power of the gods, as Amadelen, god of sight and prophecy, took Amarayaâ€™s soul and filled it with his power. Amadelen, through Amaraya, spoke, and his voice underneath Amarayaâ€™s made every soldier standing there turn, look, and listen.

â€œWe stand here, above a desperate nation in a world that is almost broken. We will rise, but with a rise comes an even greater fall. As Fate lifts us up, so it will bring us down, into the mists of history. And as it brings us down, so we may rise, if those who come after make it so. We are the ifenorak, the mythic bird that is destroyed only to be reborn. But the ifenorak passes out of myth now. Go and rise, but do not be too proud.â€

And with those words, Amadelen left Amaraya. Her mortal soul, after a god had possessed it, could no longer live on in a human body. But Amadelen gifted Amaraya, his chosen in DevÃ©an, with one final blessing. He changed her arms into wings of fire, her mouth into a beak of gold, and cloaked her in feathers made of flame. The ifenorak flew among mortals, and then ascended to the clouds with the god.

The legend of the passing of Amaraya spread throughout DevÃ©an. Though many said Amarayaâ€™s prophecy meant compassion would save them, many others interpreted it to mean their nations would rise in battle. The armies of Itherun and Olor marched on Makkanâ€™s largest cities. Itherun besieged Twel, while Olor attacked Vethir.

Makkan sent reinforcements to the cities, but it needed soldiers to defend Makkan City. Before the war, this would not have been a problem, but thanks to the deadly battles of the Year of Blood two years ago, the armies of all the countries were severely depleted.

All, that is, except for Lanek. Lanek waited still. It was to prove a mistake.

2934 passed into 2935, and the sieges of Twel and Vethir continued. In the initial battles for the cities, many lives were lost, but now the armies didnâ€™t fight much, but rather waited for the surrender of the huge walled fortresses. It was only a matter of time before the people ran out of food, and then they would call for surrender. And they did, first Twel in August of 2935, then Vethir in October.

The armies of Itherun and Olor swooped down in a two-pronged attack on Makkan City. They knew that Makkan had lost the strength to resist. The last scraps of Makkanâ€™s army were defeated in January of 2936, and the walls breached barely into February.

Meanwhile, a silent force was moving on Lanek. As the walls of Makkan City fell, the force reached Vak Erak, the country’s capital.

It was an assassin. The king of Lanek was dead.

Again, as in Makkan, the killer was a rogue, not controlled by Olorâ€™s remaining princess. But Lanek suddenly found itself without a ruler, south of the battleground that was Makkan. No fuss was made, so as not to alert Lanekâ€™s violent neighbours to its weakness. The old king was buried quietly, and his eldest son succeeded him just as quietly.

Lanek knew its time was almost there. It had but to wait a little longer.

In March of 2937, the newest king of Makkan, cousin of the one the Olorin princess had married six years ago, committed suicide. His eighteen-year-old son, the next heir, surrendered four days after his coronation. The last king of Makkan fled soon after, taking a few of his most loyal subjects with him.

It was a wise choice to escape Makkan, because the former allies, Olor and Itherun, turned on each other. Each wanted control of the newly defeated country, and their beleaguered armies were sent to battle each other when only a few weeks ago they had fought together for the downfall of Makkan.
Lanek, sitting, poised to spring, like a tiger, drilled its army for a march north.

On May 1, 2937, on the Plain of Makkaro east of Makkan City, what was left of the armies of Olor and Itherun began to fight in the devastating Battle of Makkaro. One Olorin survivor wrote:

â€œWhen the wave of Itherunâ€™s soldiers hit us, we unsheathed our swords, ready to die in the service of our country, even if it meant killing those we had once counted friends. All around me, men were dying. The red mist of blood in the air and the constant rain of arrows obstructed whose side they were on.

â€œNext to me, a man of Itherun and one of my countrymen were locked in battle, attacking and parrying, paying no attention to their wounds. An arrow flew through the air, piercing both their bodies and pinning them together in death. They were young, maybe fourteen. With the coating of blood on their clothes, it was hard to tell which was which, only that they were two boys who could have been friends in a different world. Maybe they had been friends when we were allies.

â€œAt that moment, I didnâ€™t want to fight anymore. I wanted to go home and cry. Home was six years ago, when I was a boy working on the farm. I didnâ€™t belong here, on this plain of death. I wanted to cry for all those men I had killed just to live this long, not kill more. But I had to. To stay alive, to go home, I had to. But I knew that I could never really go home again.â€

Nobody won the Battle of Makkaro, which ended after both sides, having lost more than a third of their soldiers, called a temporary truce. The Plain of Makkaro, formerly green with grass, was now stained red and brown with blood. Grass no longer grew there, just trampled ground with arrows poking out of it, tussocks of death. And on top of it all, bodies lay there. Itheruni and Olorin alike, old and young, officer and foot soldier lay on the plain among the blood and arrows.

Neither army bothered sorting out its dead from the others. They were indistinguishable. Armour and uniforms no longer served as anything but annoying deterrents to vultures and crows. The bodies were all laid out in rows, then sprinkled with holy water and oil, then burned. It was said that some living men threw themselves into the flames instead of live to see the havoc they had wreaked upon their own people and so many others.

It was time for the tiger to spring. It was time for Lanek to march.

The Olorin army retreated to Vethir after Makkaro, the Itheruni to Twel. Although no formal peace agreement had been drawn up, everyone in the armies knew that they would not be fighting each other again for a very long time. Makkan was left neutral territory, with its neighbours holding the cities they had conquered.

But the Laneki army swept up to Vethir, its best strategists drawing up plans for defeating the diminished Olorin troops.
In mid-June, they struck, every plan working as smoothly as they possibly could have. Within six days, Lanek had taken Vethir. The defeated general of Olorâ€™s last act was to send a messenger to Twel so that the Itheruni would not be unwarned of Lanekâ€™s attack.

Lanekâ€™s generals expected this. They had planned for it in their plots to take Twel. After sending the pitiful remains of Olorâ€™s army home, the forces marched north.

The men of Itherunâ€™s army worked at rebuilding some of the defences of Twel that they had destroyed only a few months ago. They drilled and practiced endlessly for the upcoming fight with Lanek, although they knew they had slim chance of winning. Many of their soldiers were wounded, and Lanek had the larger army to begin with. But all they could do was wait and pray to the gods that not too many of them would die in the collision.

Lanek hit Twel at the end of June. They outnumbered Itherunâ€™s troops three to one, but the Itheruni held on for a week before even wounded men were getting up from their stretchers and beds to fight. But finally, the general of Itherun, too, surrendered to Lanek. On July 3, 2937, Lanek ruled Makkan.

Both Olor and Itherun now prepared for war. They knew of the brilliance of Lanekâ€™s generals and strategists, and those generals would not hesitate to wipe their weaker neighbours off the face of the map. They built up their armies once more, stockpiled food in their cities, and in Olorâ€™s case, began to train new assassins.

The sole remaining princess of Olor, Maerana, sent out assassins to the camps of Lanek in Twel and Vethir. Several officers were killed, and many men came down with food poisoning after the assassins had reached the camp. But this wouldnâ€™t delay Lanekâ€™s strike long, and everyone knew that, even Maerana.

As August began, Lanek marched into Olor. In one battle, near Iavama, where Amaraya became the ifenorak, most of the Olorin army was killed or wounded. When Lanek came to Iraku, Olor was powerless to resist. After a short battle at the beginning of September, Iraku was taken. On September 16, Olor surrendered. The king was put to death, but most of the rest of Irakuâ€™s people managed to escape to Itherun, where they joined the army. Itherun, the last country west of Merren free of Lanek, would need all the help it could get.

Itherunâ€™s king, while rash and mad for glory, cared for the safety of his people when they were under attack. While they still had time, the people of Itherun fortified the walls of Diherun and stockpiled food from the harvest. None doubted that a siege was coming, and if Itherun wanted to survive, they had to prepare.

It was then, when the Itheruni still clung to hope, that Maerana Saw and understood her sisterâ€™s gift. She Saw Diherun burning, Iavrel burning, the all-consuming flame even reaching to remote Iavinu by the High Places. She Saw the destruction of her world as she knew it, the Merren flowing with blood once more. Yelvin, home of the assassins, would not be spared for the difficulty to reach it. Lanekâ€™s forces would only see it as another obstacle to their domination. Maerana Saw, and she knew what she had to do.

One could not hold assassins to an oath. Even Maerana could not. They were free to do as they pleased, barring only betraying Olor. It had been so ever since Yelvin existed, ever since a princess could speak to assassins in their city.

Maerana spoke to them now in this manner, though she was far away in Diherun. Her voice rang through Yelvin, echoing and calling until it sounded as if Amadelen possessed her as he had her sister.

â€œAssassins of Yelvin, I call on you to throw down your old oaths. You have always valued survival; now survival will be more dangerous than at any time you have known before. To stay alive a few months longer, you will have to bend. If you wish, serve Lanek. Lanek can give you life now, while I cannot. All I ask is that you remember who you were, assassins of Olor. The only thing you must not do is harm any Olorin, even if it means betraying Lanek. You must not kill your first people. Goodbye, people of Yelvin. I will not meet you again.â€

And then flames covered the rooftops of Yelvin, lighting them in dancing blue and orange, whirling madly, furiously until they had burned themselves away. The city returned to normal once more, the only sign of Maerana or the fire the faint scent of smoke in the air.

The winter between 2937 and 2938 was bitter, the few unharvested crops freezing in the ground. Itheruni peasants and nobles alike huddled in Diherun, grateful for the weather that was also keeping Lanek in its tents.

But with March came a thaw, and the army of Lanek pitched its camp in the mud outside Diherun. There they waited for Itherun to slowly starve into surrender. Maerana said, â€œFor as long as it took, Lanek could wait two days longer.â€

Thanks to the huge stockpile of food, the city was well-fed into late April, when the army went to engage Lanek in battle. On May 1, the first anniversary of Makkaro, the two armies clashed with a cry of metal and blood.

The Battle of Diherun was a disaster for Itherun. While intelligent, their tacticians could not match the brilliance of Lanekâ€™s. Lanek pushed Itherun all the way back to the refortified city walls, cutting through line and line of men. What was left of the Itheruni army ran back into the city, wounded and terrified.

So Itherun fell, although it was not taken until the summer. On July 22 of 2938, the king of Itherun came out of the city, emaciated and waving a white flag for peace. He was shot down by a stray arrow, and Lanek ruled all of the West.

The Laneki army went wild, pillaging and burning Diherun to the ground. Who knows how many of its citisens died by their swords or by the wild flames?

Only a few scattered scraps of those who had taken shelter in the city escaped the destruction. They fled across Merren, destroying the bridge behind them. Maerana led the refugees in seeking a new city, because she knew one was there.

East of the river Merren lay the Seven Cities, ancient lands far older than any country in the West. They were separate countries in all but name, with their own kings and laws. Maerana knew little about them, only that they were strong and not yet under Lanekâ€™s control.

So she led the last free people of the West through the strange new terrain, over green, rolling hills, and into Itholianam.

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65

Pentatonikk

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:20

Ish. That’s loooong…

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66

Queen Julietaini; Queenie; WDNT

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:24

Mr. Coontz, I found your hidden talent! You can write Shakespearean-style! Very Paul Baker, too. And Jadestone, I said “Fie!” and I meant “Fie!”, which was my reason for saying “Fie!”. Or typing it, rather. Penty, dream-rabbit, I have no doubts you understood all Mr. Coontz’s hidden nuances of meaning in his lovely sonnet/pastiche.

At the moment I just got a new idea for a parody. No touchies on this story, OK? It’s set in 1870s London, and it’s about an Elemental Mage whose Element is Surprise, rather than Fire, Air, Water, or Ice. I think it should be fabulous. Uber-faber, as a matter of fact.

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67

Nobodydude

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:30

-62-

Wait, you are right. And the Sonnet, A runnoff of shakspear’s 18?

I will call it Robert’s 1st Sonnet.

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68

Violetfire

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:34

When you say “Uber-faber, do you mean like the Uber that has two little dots above the U in Uber? Isn’t that German?

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69

Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in March 20th, 2006 @ 16:49

ND (67),

That’s right, Sonnet 18, the one that starts “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

I’m not sure it was my first sonnet, but it’s probably the first one that I’d want to post here. I’ve recently found a whole pile of things I wrote when I was Muser-age (alas, no Muse in those days) and will be inflicting them on you poor MuseBloggers soon.

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70

Nobodydude

in March 20th, 2006 @ 17:15

What, NO MUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *screams in agony* What did you do??????

[Well, there wasn’t much time to read anyway, what with walking to and from school 30 miles uphill both ways barefoot through driving snow. It snowed pretty much all the time back in those days, as I’m sure your parents have told you. So we really didn’t know what we were missing. –Robert]

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71

Nobodydude

in March 20th, 2006 @ 17:19

Hey, I just wrote this, what do you think? It is entitled, Ptolomy’s Ring. I want you people to really kill this. Seriously. It is not finished yet. *sets up pie shield* *prepares to answer questions*

â€œAhâ€ The lapwing thought swooping down low, â€œThere he is.â€ The bird could see a young Egyptian boy climb over boulders and jump over small bushes trying to escape his pursuers. Seeing the opportunity to help the bird raised its head and cawed an unearthly screech. Entranced by the birdâ€™s call, a swarm of locusts fell upon the men as they were about to catch up to the boy, eating at their clothes until there was nothing to protect them from the harsh Egyptian sun or the locustâ€™s bites. As the bird flew to land on the boyâ€™s shoulder, it heard â€œYou know I really hate you.â€ Sleepily, the lapwing replied, â€œYour welcome.â€

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72

Nobodydude

in March 21st, 2006 @ 06:34

-70-

Wait, Uphill both ways…

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73

Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in March 21st, 2006 @ 08:34

ND (71),

Very funny and very promising.

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74

Pentatonikk

in March 21st, 2006 @ 14:21

Queenie J- I shall be looking forward to the Element of Surprise story. Uber-faber and uber-funny. Say, how’s work on the Frangasharion going? And did I spell ‘Frangasharion’ right?

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75

Nobodydude

in March 21st, 2006 @ 16:51

Uphill both ways????????????????????????????????
Like this????????????????

/School\
/ \|Walkingto school
/ \|Home
/Homel\
/ \|Walkingto home
/ \|School

????????????????????????

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76

Queen Julietaini; Queenie; WDNT

in March 21st, 2006 @ 17:43

68-Yes, it’s Deutsch, and yes, it has an umlaut. Spreckenzie Deuscht. There I am again, leaving out another umlaut. Mwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Ha!

74-Frangarshion. It goes from parody to serious epic to parody to serious epic and back again and then takes a vacation to East Anglia, so there you have it. Oh yes, and I totally messed up the plot line. You see, I started from the beginning, then cut off there and started at the middle, ended at the end, and now I have to get from the beginning to the middle. Ugh.

I’m Generation 0. And Generation Y. So does that make me Generation 0Y? As in, “0Y, you pathetic excuse for a generation!”? Do I get to sing “My Generation” by the Who?

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77

Nobodydude

in March 21st, 2006 @ 18:51

-75-

Sorry, the spacer messed it up.

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78

What was my name again, mom?:?:

in March 22nd, 2006 @ 14:08

The spacer messes up everything, darn it

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79

What was my name again, mom?

in March 22nd, 2006 @ 14:09

Why don’t smilies work in the name. I put : ? :, and it didn’t work

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The Great Masticator

in March 22nd, 2006 @ 16:31

I always procrastinate if I try to write anything longer than a page-length poem. Boohoo for me, I hate deadlines.

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Pentatonikk

in March 23rd, 2006 @ 07:34

Frangarshion. Pahdon. I liked the little bit you posted once, thoug I had no clue what was going on. *puppy face* Post more, prease?

Oh, and can I have a thred for Itholianam? ‘Tis awfully long, after all. Prease again? *puppy face on second head*

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Zallie

in March 24th, 2006 @ 21:17

So. Are any of you Musers actually serious about this whole ‘getting published’ thing? Be honest now.

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Otzi

in March 24th, 2006 @ 22:39

duh. My goal in life is to be a published author.

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Axa

in March 24th, 2006 @ 23:10

Somewhere along the line I do plan on having a book put out. The whole idea of kids publishing books has always semed like pipe dream- the only instance that comes to mind is Eragon. And I know how some Musers feel about that. Personally, I thought Mr. Paolini did a commendable job. But then again, it’s my opinion.

And here’s the RPG excerpt I promised so time ago. It’s with cats. A “Warriors” RPG, to be specific.
—

She’d been following a perfectly confusing stream of thoughts as she trekked absently through the chilled leaf bare forest. Her light eyes flickered to the leaves one moment, then the sky…

It was rather perturbing- for this was how she could best describe her predicament- that there was…no one to talk to. Of course, this had been an issue since she was quite young, and while it had bothered her some, never so much as today.

Perhaps it was the weather, though of course she knew it was not so. And neither could she blame in on lack of warmth or food- Thunderclan was well fed, as always.

And so it was quite odd, and very troubling. So deep in these muddled thoughts was she that she quite nearly ran straight into Talonclaw.

Of course she knew who he was- though she wasn’t a social butterfly, she knew every cat of ThunderClan, and it was pleasing to her in an odd way that she could know so much of them, and they so little of her. But she was still conscious of herself once again- this sort of social contact wasn’t for her, really now…

And she would have turned tail, but realized how dreadfully rude that would seem. And all this she thought in a matter of seconds. The time was also sufficient to think of what she saw later as a pitiful thing to say.

“Oh!”

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King George the MMMXXLIII

in March 25th, 2006 @ 12:12

if you guys want to publish something, go to the RRR. we need people, cause we aren’t getting anywhere. NO new characters, but you get to write. Plus, you’ll get your name on the book. Your dreams WILL COME TTTTRRRUUUUEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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kricket

in March 25th, 2006 @ 14:01

i mean really get over there right this instant!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Jadestone

in March 25th, 2006 @ 14:05

84- YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY FOR WARRIORS!!!!!!!!I want the next book badly…Ive got it on hold at the library, but still. We should totally have a RPG for a new Wariors series. Sorta. But for those of you who read the books, do you realize that Erin Hunter is going to have to have a new map in the front? For their new home and territories?

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Pentatonikk

in March 25th, 2006 @ 14:57

I plan on getting published, though I don’t know how soon. I have always loved writing and listed ‘author’ as one of the many things I wanted to be when I grow up, simply because I don’t have to grow up to do it. (Although it wouldn’t hurt, certainly.)

Since King George has put in a plug for the new RRR, it is my duty to advertise the old one. We have no dreams of being published currently, but we are still writing, and anybody can join (Not with a new character, though. Sorry.) and write to their heart’s content.
The link: https://musefanpage.com/blog/?p=202

What if you do want to create your own character? May I suggest the Katreh board? It’s based off the old RRR, but is quite different and has its own quirks and perks. You don’t need to read the RRR to join up.
The link: http://www.katreh.proboards78.com

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kricket

in March 25th, 2006 @ 15:26

87- really?

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kricket

in March 25th, 2006 @ 18:29

oooooohhhhh advertising…

my story!
————–

Whispers followed Layna down the hall as she strode hesitantly towards the wating room where her new foster parents would pick her up. Out of all the orphans, Layna had always been the odd one out. She was thoughtful and careful while the others were loud and reckless. Because of this difference, the other orphans kept their distance. Layna was find with that. She had never really like much company anyways. She paused thinking of the last pair of foster parents she had had. And the ones before that and the ones before that. She had been kicked out of all of them. All for the same reasons. “She was too quiet,” or “There’s something strange about her,” the foster parents had said to the orphanage before thrusting her away like someunwanted toy. Layna had wandered the halls of the orphanage for more than 2 years before this new couple had shown up asking for a young girl around the age of 10. Layna had been the only one to qualify.

Gathering her thoughts, Layna walked to the waiting room to pick up her stuff and go to her new home. Her new foster parents were by the door with her luggage. Silently, Layna picked up her luggage. For Layna could not talk. She was a mute. Her foster parents didn’t care that she was a mute.. They were just happy to have gotten such a “sweet little angel” as they called her. Layna walked beside her foster parents as they headed towards the car. As they drove along the highway, Layna laid her head down on her arm and fell asleep.

Two hours later, Layna awoke to the purring of the car engine as the car glided down the street. A few minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of Layna’s new house. A boy and a girl around age 5 ran outside and surounded Layna chatting excessively. Her foster mom shooed them away and lead Layna inside upstairs. Another boy was sitting on the stairs reading. Politely, he introduced himself as Jason and nodded when he found out that Layna couldn’t talk.
—————

will write more later.

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King george

in March 27th, 2006 @ 09:25

Dang, still no recruits for RRR. Well, if you guys are going to be so stuborn, then, oh, then, never mind.

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Dragon Eye

in March 27th, 2006 @ 13:22

90 was really good! But I think you need to go into more detail on everything. Did the car have that new car smell? or was it some old dirty pickup truck. Were the foster parents tall slim people with ash colored skin and whos shoes squeeked when they walked, or were they the chubby, rosy cheeks, bobbing curls type op person who coed over a child and hugged them tight. And describe the house!!!! The first thing I would do is look at the house, see if it was made of wood and had a warm fire crackling inside or if it was a concrete house that smelled of paint and steel. what are the kids like, what is this guy Jason like. And what were his feelings when he found that she was mute. It seams to me like he’s some type of robot that sits in the corner and tells people his nam and that’s it. But other than that, I liked your wod choice a lot!!!!!!

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Dragon Eye

in March 27th, 2006 @ 15:10

My story

No! No! This isn’t right. My mind was screaming, I couldn’t think straight, for lying in front of me was my mother’s dead body. Her usually neat kept hair was tangled and strewn over her face. Her unclosed eyes were glassy and stared far away. The simple green dress she wore was rinkled and torn, and she looked so unlike the Mother I had known. My mind was still screaming, She can’t be dead, not Mother. But deep down within me I knew she was gone, lost to the Farther World. That thought rampaged about my mind, smashing into barriers between love and hatred. Hatred boiled out, hatred for whatever had killed Mother. I flashed back to lasst night, the night I had lost her.
It had been a stormy night, with claps of thunder and bolts of lightning that lit up the sky to show the night’s icy grin. Sleet and hail had hammered down, and the wind had screemed and howled like that of a bloodthirsty wolf. The leak in our roof had filled up more than one bucket of water with it’s steady dripp, dripping. Outside, I had heard our 64 sheep ba-ing in fright.Mother had stood at the doorway, her black braid lashing out in the wind, as she wathched Father wrestle the sheep into the shack. I was huddled in the in an old quilt, shivering. When Father had finished, he had trudged back into the warmth of our hut, dripping, muddy and tired. He would have colapsed on the floor next to me had it not been for Mother’s scream. She had fallen to the ground, alive, but so very close to the Farthest World. By the time Father had gotten to her usually lively eyes had gotten hazy. “Don’t be afraid, Tasha, the lightning won’t hurt you” he said, thinking she had been hit by lightning, as he cradled her in his arms. But I knew she hadn’t been hit by lightning hadn’t hurt her. No, some thing…. something else had hit her that night, something cold and icy. I knew this because I had felt, it there next to her, sucking all but her last fragments of life away in less than a second. I began to sob then, next to her. I stroked her hair and hugged her, but she kept getting farther and farther away. But then in her last few seconds of life, she opened her mouth to whisper,” You were not ment to stay here Amber. You were destined for greater things” then she paused and sucked in her last breath”Amber…”
Those words rang in my mind as I wathched Mother get burried at her funeral. No, I was not ment to stay here. Not with the sheep and the shack and the king’s landlord comeing every month to take what little coin we had.. This place was not for me though it may be Father’s it was not mine. Though this place was where I had grown up, learned to tend shep, to sew, to gallop a horse and let the breeze ripple my hair, I did not belong here. I was destined for greater things, Mother had said so and I believed her. It was the only thing I had left to believe.
After the funeral, I began to pack, though in secret for I knew Father would never let me leave. “Which way will you turn when you reach the road?” He would say.”Where will you sleep when you reach a town? Where will you get enough food to go on? Most importantly, what will I do when your gone? With your mother gone I can hardly manage!” No I could not tell Father. I packed two tunics, which were good for traveling, two blouses, one pair of leggings, four candles, one box of matches, forty gold coins, a loaf of bread, and three strips of dried meat. It wasn’t much, but I figured it would get me to the next town. Then I remembered, What about the dragons that roamed the hills to the east? Or the goblins that flew on starless nights? Or the countless werewolves that roamed the Darkened Forest. I shivered at this last thought.
The Darkened Forest, it was always nighttime, never light. The werewolves that live there are never human, but always bloodthirsty, howling, yellow eyed wolves.
Reluctantly I picked up the dagger Father had given me and put it into my sack. I had no idea how to fight with it, but it may becomen useful.
Knowing Father would get up early to herd the sheep out to the pasture, I decided it would be wise to leave home before dawn. I knew I would need rest for the journey ahead, but I was to reastless to even lie down. I decided to leave when the stars started to fade. Sitting up on my palet, fingers drumming, I looked at father, snorring peacefully beside me, perhaps dreaming of the day the landlord would not come and take our coin. I looked out our hole of a window to ee a white crane gliding peacefully on the wind and beond that a tiny twinkling star. And I began to sing:

Little star, little star please guide me today.
I’m going on a journey please help me all the way.
Little star, little star I’m looking for my home.
Little star, little star I’m off to roam.
Little star, little star be it stick, mud, or stone,
Little star, little star, Just help me find my home.

And at the end of the song I looked out the window and saw that the stars were fading!

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book_addict

in April 1st, 2006 @ 16:33

alright guys heres a poem i wrote. hope y’all like it!

Magic Box

I will put in my box
the whisper of wind in weeping willows
the crunch of chocolate candy
and the ruby red scent of blushing roses

I will put in my box
the green leaves of a new plant
the gurgling of a creek
and the silver warmth of a unicorn’s horn

I will put in my box
smooth buckeyes that fit in the palm of my hand
horse’s tails swishing away flies
and the blue of the Carribean

I will put in my box
silver doves sliding through the sky
crystal clear water closing around my toes
and the laugh of an innocent child

My box is made of
shiny red wood, cut by dwarves
painted with vines and soft pink flowers
the box has no lock
just a clasp of fairy honey
and inside is sprinkled with fairy dust
The inside is lined with
cusions woven with unicorn hair
and whispers of many secrets

I will gallop across mountains in my box
discover every secret corner
water my horse from the gurgling creek
smell the red blushing roses
watching the silver doves
and warming in the unicorn’s horns light

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book_addict

in April 1st, 2006 @ 16:42

heres another poem! i write freestyle, no rhyming for me. and im better at poems than stories. i’ll have to dig up a short story to post on here…. this one doesn’t really suit the spring weather.

Fall Song

A chilly day in November
I sit in a maple tree
watching the pink sun set
over the crashing gray waves
I lean back against
the rough gray tree trunk
watching the green and yellow leaves
dancing wildly in the clutches
of the howling wind
The smell of fish and water
comes swirling over
the rippling green grass
and the fallen brown leaves
to hit me full in the nose
with the smell
some say it stinks
but to me it smells wonderful
it makes me feel alive
alive as a scampering squirrel
in a tree
or the screaming gulls
soaring overhead
like they care not of anything
A strong blow of wind comes whistling
I grab the strong branches of the tree
and sway with him
in the arms of the wind
a dance of Autumn
swirling leaves sing notes low
creaking branches murmur
soft lullaby’s
I taste the wind
full of leaves and smells
on the tip of my tongue
whispering the words of fall

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Copper Bigfoot

in April 1st, 2006 @ 19:26

Here a Septulet, my very first one.

Butterfly
Sucking Nectar
From the Flowers

Net
Moving Quickly
To Catch The Insects

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Violetfire

in April 1st, 2006 @ 20:32

Once, in school, we had this horrid assembly called “It’s My Life” There was this big projector on a wall that said so. It was just your basic thing about drugs and doing the right thing, but as we were going into the gymnasium, my friends and I thought it said “It’s my Knife”. So we made up all this stuff about our “knives” and it got really funny. Like: “My knife can cut through air” “Yeah? So? My knife can fly.” We didn’t really listen to the assembly because they were playing all this “popular” music geared toward teens, but of course that’s not the type of musik we like, so we just had pretend fights with our “knives” instead.

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Axa [ I â™¥ Tetsuya Nomura ]

in April 1st, 2006 @ 23:35

Gather around children, for Axa has a tale of woe, misery, and iFrames.

Once upon a time there was a girl nicknamed Dusk. Yeah. Dusk. You got a problem? Anyway. She liked web design. So naturally she volunteered to make a site for her favorite rpg! Ahaha! The joys of youth!

Axa, erm, Dusk, started out with a template on Freewebs, and gradually worked her way up to the point where she was using all HTML, either generated by her beloved Photoshop, or typed by hand, with or without help from various tutorials, as need be.

SUDDENLY. She decided to make a new layout! Joys! She was on her second on, but it was looking sad and faded, and too green. So she cheerily clicked on her Photoshop button to make a nice graphic base for the layout.

Now, it took a bit longer than expected, but after some textures, it was fine.

But nay, all was not to be easy.

For in the land of HTML, there lies a thing that appears so beautiful, yet is so evil within.

TABLES!

RUN RUN RUN! Screamed the village folk of Dusk’s mind. But alas, they were trampled by a passing plot bunny by the name of â€œThat Axel story you need to write but probably never will.â€ The plot bunny later moved to Twilight Town, where it…never mind.

So Dusk tried tables.

After some time of that. AFTER SOME TIME OF THAT, she decided that it simply wouldn’t work.

Then how about an iFrame?

It was so simple! For Dusk had made her own site with iFrames, so it would be simple!

Ha!

Aha!

AHAHAHA! BUT NO! NO THEY WEREN’T! I SPENT SEVEN HOURS TRYING TO MAKE THAT INFERNAL LAYOUT!

And now I will go weep in that nice spot of shade over there in the corner, I hope you all have a nice day.

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book_addict

in April 2nd, 2006 @ 12:04

wonderful, wonderful story.. *cough*

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Axa

in April 2nd, 2006 @ 18:01

Domo.

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Pentatonikk

in April 3rd, 2006 @ 15:38

Yes, Axa, that tragic tale made me weep with emotion and ruin my keyboard. Thanks a lot, Axa.

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Pentatonikk

in April 3rd, 2006 @ 15:58

I am very sorry if this is a double post. My computer ate the other one.

That tragic tale made me cry and ruin my keyboard. Thanks a lot, Axa.

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Axa

in April 3rd, 2006 @ 23:59

xD

Woe is we.

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104

Gwendolyn of the Eastern Seas

in April 10th, 2006 @ 12:46

Despite popular belief, my mind isn’t a completely chaotic haven. I dedicate approximately 15% of it to an organized creative garden. Here’s a “plant” from the metaphorical garden. Critique at will.

Masquerade

Swish and swirl and pomp and pride
Silk and satin and rare animal hide
The masks do shimmer and glimmer and gleam
But beware! Things aren’t as they seem.

The dashing man asking Ms. Kiyumi to dance
Is married to Mrs. Leron, and taking a chance
The pretty young maid flitting around
Is quietly thieving many a pound

Youthful Orphan Joe isn’t all boyish charm
He’s drinking himself into the way of harm
And the sweet senior lady at the door
Will soon spill the host’s blood on the floor

So beware, good friend, of all around you
Ask the dead host, he now knows that’s true
In the swish and the swirl, the pomp and the pride
Dastardly faces cleverly hide

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Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in April 10th, 2006 @ 13:24

This makes me think of Peter S. Beagle’s magnificent short story “Come, Lady Death”–something every MuseBlogger should seek out and read.

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Gwendolyn of the Eastern Seas

in April 10th, 2006 @ 15:19

Never heard of it, GAPA. Does it sound like I’ve done a bit of plagiarizing? Be honest, please.

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Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in April 10th, 2006 @ 15:34

No, it doesn’t. The only similarity is that both take place at a grand party where the guests have secrets.

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Gwendolyn of the Eastern Seas

in April 10th, 2006 @ 15:35

Oh. Thank you!!

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sweet melpomene

in April 11th, 2006 @ 15:04

https://musefanpage.com/blog/?p=218 poems!

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President Ptolemy

in April 22nd, 2006 @ 08:22

Okay this is just the prologe and Kokopelli#2 a.k.a. Mutt, I am sorry.
1
1
1
Nobodydude was having nightmares again. He hadnâ€™t been able to sleep very well since Frodo replaced him on Museblog. But this time his nightmare was different, because this time it was real. Nobodydude saw a dark room and as his eyes adjusted to the light he could see a chair, he thought that he could see someone in the chair, but his attention was drawn to a person who had come into the room. The person wore fake glasses and braces. As the person bent down on one knee his crown fell off and reaching for it the person said in a low, masculine voice â€œIt has been done Master.â€ As the man stood up, he could see that the teen (for he was a teen) was wearing a tee-shirt that said in bold letters â€œMuse Conventionâ€. Still slightly bent down, Nobodydude couldnâ€™t see much more. Swiveling around in the chair, the person in the chair said â€œGood, number two, good. Now enlist others to our cause. Squinting a little Nobodydude could barely make out the outline of two stick legs and two stick arms. In one of these arms held a flute. â€œNow go.â€ said the thing in the chair. Standing up completely, Nobodydude could see that the teen had on a sticker; it said â€œHi My Name Is Muttâ€ on it. As Mutt walked away Nobodydude started to wake up. If only he had told someone the chaos could have been avoided.
Chapter 1
There was chaos at the Muse Convention…
To Be Cont.

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The AHHH!

in April 27th, 2006 @ 17:11

YES!! This is still alive. Great. My teacher always believed that when you’re in a place full of smart people, you’ll be smart too, because you’re all sharing brain waves.
Anyhow, I need inspiration for a Young Author’s Fair novel. I really love writing about swashbuckling adventures and fantasy/adventure stuffs.

Thank you!

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Copper Bigfoot Yeti Erato Hooray4spinytenrecs!

in May 4th, 2006 @ 13:17

I’m procrastinyayting on writing a comdey noveltte about furries in a hebrew school class. I need to ask my class permission if I base characters off of them before i do it.

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bulletproofmarshmallow

in May 4th, 2006 @ 13:30

are u still there copper bigfoot? i need somebody to chat with

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114

â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:27

loosly inspired with elements from by Uglies by Scott Westerfeld, Inkheart by Cornelia Funke, and The Giver by Lois Lowry– but I stuck that label here and plus, its on Museblog for gods sake, so i didnt plagarize anything. I just altered ideas and wove them together. tell me what you think!!!

Nora’s auburn hair whipped at her face as she sailed through the air in the dark of night. Her feet ached and her stomach felt hollow, but she followed the moonlight and attempted to stay on the path. Iridescent insects littered the tree bark as she flew by the woody thicket surrounding her. The narrow path of dirt lighter than that around her seemed to be made only for her at the perfect width. It diverged into perfect resting spots nestled in the center of various scattered enclosures of brush that blocked out the sun when it rose but let in the moon in the dark of night. One was coming up now, and she slowed down, her feet feeling gritty and tender. When Nora sat down on a large rock at the entrance of the alcove, she saw that all of her constant running had worn a hole through the soles of her light sandals. The leather was faded and ripped, while the ropes on the top of the shoe had long since broken. Long blades of grass were wrapped around her foot. Those, too, had worn down and it was time to make new shoes. Nora hung her head down and noticed the tatters that her clothing had become. Her jeans were brittle from becoming drenched with sweat in the day and then drying at night repeatedly for the last ten days. Her skin was tanned and her eyelids were tired. She realized that she had been running for almost half an hour and collapsed onto the ground. If she died, nobody would find herâ€”that is, not until the Patrol found her. But, Nora realized, the Patrol never had been very fast. As Nora traveled on foot, the Patrol traveled by Undermol to better fly under the radar of other detection agencies. The Policing in Amarya was never coordinated, and one Patrol party always clashed into another. So all of them developed different tactics to better be hidden and undistinguished in attempt to capture lawbreakers. Therefore, what had been meant to make them blend into the environment only singled them out more; each division developed a different nickname amongst the Escapees. Those who fled; those who refused to conform. They all didnâ€™t pay any attention to the tracker rings or the protection gel that â€œeveryoneâ€ wore. It was too cumbersome; Nora would rather ask for a pass in school, and walk right out the back door as a gym class did. She then hung around the brick side of the building as everyone ran out to the track or the field. She snuck behind cars and then strolled to the high school, to appear as if she had business to attend to. Once at the entrance, she would reel around to appear insane, and dash off into the wood. By the time she had gone one mile into the Never-ending Wood, the people of the school actually realized that she had disappeared. Then it took even longer for the notification to reach the entire District 3, City N, and Area NoZ. Search parties were sent out, but they never caused Nora any trouble. Usually three or four Patrol groups took on the job, hoping they would outdo their fellow workers. Everything would be so much better if people coordinated eachother, but someone had spawned an equal hatred amongst the cities in her area and so nothing was as interconnected as it could have been. The Diggers on their Undermols always took too long because they carved different underground paths every time, filling up behind them as they went so as not the weaken the foundation of the city. The Fliers took Jets to cut through the air and attempt speeding to get to criminals fastest, but they often missed. The treetops in the Never-ending Wood were too dense for anyone to detect a small girl of thirteen without any provisions at all. It was different this time, though. She wasnâ€™t going back home in a day to Nessa, Nick, and Nandi. Or to her parents, Naddy and Nina, who scolded her every single time she ran away and wondered what they had done wrong that she fit best with the Escapees. In Elementary School, it had seemed harmless, but by 5th and 6th grade, her parents began to worry about the negative effect on Nora. By age 12 and grade 7, Nora fit perfectly with her best friends and had escaped many times. It was never nearly this far, though, this was definitely the farthest anyone she knew had ever gone. At least, at her age, and having returned.
Nora could barely tell anymore why she wanted to escape permanently in the first place. She loved her family and adored her friends, but it always felt like something was missing. She was the biggest rebel in her grade, popular with most everyone, and had the highest marks in City N. Impressive, especially for an Escapee. But all of her accomplishments had seemed for naught. She felt hollow inside, an empty programmed shell. Nora didnâ€™t want to conform in any way. The murmur of the crickets lulled her to sleep and she wrapped herself in her blanket on the rock and drifted off. Her thoughts wandered, remembering snippets of her old life, and Nora could tell that this would change the course of her life forever. Already, she saw herself getting thinner. Mostly because although she had brought bags full of food, she kept saving most of it, for fear of starving like in the numerous adventure novels she had been sneaking from Storage since she was 7. Nora could remember vividly; Nandi told her about palaces and goblins and Nora stared in awe. Late at night, Nandi tapped on Noraâ€™s bed cabinet and shined a flashlight onto her face. Nora clambered down and noticed Nelly, Nick, and Nessa standing with Nandi. The five of them pushed a serving table out of the way and loosened some wood floorboards. Nick pulled a nail out and Nessa pulled another one at the same time, and suddenly a perfect circle opened up directly under Nelly. He dropped in first, and then Nandi, Nick, and Nessa followed. Nora stood up, backed away, and cannonballed in, hoping to land in something soft. She looked up and saw a dim light flicker off above her. The hole had closed.

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:30

accounts of myself, i guess:

I dunked my medium-sized Crayola brush into the water. One third of the bristles were gone. Iâ€™ve had this brush for about seven years. Five out of those seven lonely years were spent in a dusty, paint-splattered, cobweb-filed corner of the backroom cabinet. I almost thought I had lost it, but once I cleared away the pastels and crayons and other elementary-school art supplies I could see it in clear light: the paintbrush. The first and last years of its life were spent swishing in blobs of Technicolor paints and sloshing onto the paper beneath me in various blob-like patterns.
Watercolors do not work for me. Water dribbles form my paintbrush and lands in unexpected places on the paper. Blotches of colored water fill up the page and bleed into eachother, and not in an abstract beautiful way. The mess that is my attempted art is drying off in the thin, cool, basement air. The dehumidifier is blaring its loud snore.
I think of modern art pieces I recently saw. I swirl my brush in the blue and red color blocks. I can see the tray through the red paint hunk. Iâ€™ve had the paint pallet as long as Iâ€™ve had the brush. I dip the brush into a plastic cup of water and then in a circle on the page. I like the effect. I dunk the brush into more water to clean it out and then into burnt orange. Soon the page is filled with wet, watery, colorful circles, bleeding into eachother and off the page. I wipe the counter around my paper and smile.
Slipping the paper off the table and onto my hand, I put it on my drying table behind me. One of the pieces I did yesterday is done. I lift it up. The paper has become rigid and hard. The watercolors feel gritty where I put too much paint. I take out my measuring grid and trace a thin line around the edge with my pencil. I align the paper on my paper cutter. Chhhe The blade cuts a ragged edge across the paper and trims off the white space left on the edges of the

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:31

ok, if you havent noticed, im posting various fragments and beginnings of stories. please tell me which has the most promise, and i’ll continue that one.

Glue dots and steep cliffs

Norelle felt like her whole life was teetering on the edge of a cliff, where one unbalanced item on either end could either bring her back to stability or have her plunge into a gaping hole to hit the ground on who-knows-what. It was swinging back and fourth for a month now, and today felt like one of those days when it leaned closer to oblivion than safety.
She picked up a stack of paper and hauled it onto her bed. She piled her paper cutter, scissors, glue, markers, and pencil on top of her colored pencil box and dumped the load onto her leaf green down comforter. Norelle swung a leg onto the top of the bed and jumped up onto it. She threw her white daisy pillow at her iHome and flicked the ceiling light on. It didnâ€™t make much of a difference in light because her window was open, but she nevertheless loved the warm glow of her orange-tinted lights.
She aligned her cardstock to the guide ruler on the paper cutter and sliced through the page. She picked a glue dot off its tape with her pink-painted nails and stuck it to the front panel of her small greeting card. She snipped a feather off of her mask from the sixth grade Masquerade dance at her school and lay it over the dot. She picked up a purple jewel and stuck it on to cover up the glue.

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in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:32

oh, yeah, and i like the name Norelle. -this is not a poem.-

She stood up. â€œ I can do it.â€
Okay.
This was going to be interesting.

â€œBoooooo! Booooâ€
The class jeered.
My cheeks flushed
Well, actually they didnâ€™tâ€¦
Brown cheeks canâ€™t flush.
But anywaysâ€¦

I felt so bad.
Bad like I never had before.
I didnâ€™t know
What this feeling was
But I had a feeling
I was doing the right thing.

Maybe not the normal thing,
Maybe not the
Widely accepted thing
But I had made a good decision.

And I was sticking to it.

That day I wondered why Marie stood up
She obviously could not.
I knew her
She couldnâ€™t.

I, on the other hand
Donâ€™t over-estimate myself

I will do only what I know I am awesome at.
And therefore,
In my life,
I do very few things.

I go to school.
I go home.
I make food.
I read novels.

But most importantly, I write.

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:33

another one…comment plz.

We couldnâ€™t tell is she was awake or dead.
â€œMoireeâ€ Amma softly pushed the girlâ€™s arm. The girl lay, unmoving, on the contour mat. Amma gave a worried glance at Nilda and Runaj. Mahl came over and knelt on the other side of the mattress.
â€œSheâ€™s breathing,â€ Mahl mumbled to himself as he put his hand to her heart, her neck, and her forehead.
â€œOh, thank the lord.â€

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:34

There is a “chosen one” that is destined to turn up within the decade that this story takes place. Wise old women are searching for who may be the “one”, for there is no clear way to tell, and Alyanna Sinpalla Mourendores is the prime candidate. She is kind, intelligent, pretty, and honest. the only problem is that she is not well. she is deathly sick and has a disease with a similar degree of cure as cancer; can never be totally gone. soon, The One dies. everyone wonders if it is even possible, and isn’t the One supposed to be immortal? that is what ancient scriptures tell when the One showed up in the past. It is recorded that the One only faded away when they had completed their duties as restorer of order in Montago, but Alyanna had died just as any mortal would. and that is where our story begins.

.:|:.

“did you see her?” Aman leaned against the wall of the lobby in the hospital. It smelled like steralizing chemicals. He almost gagged but kept up his spirits in conversation with his friend, Calder. “people say that she’s the One” he continued. Aman walked over to a window, “but I don’t believe them.” “Why not?” Calder looked into Aman’s eyes with child-like curiosity. Aman laughed. Sometimes Calder’s innocence annoyed him. “She couldn’t be! She’s dying!” Aman turned around and played with a bell on his shirt. ping! It made a hollow sound that echoed through the small space between two double doors. “She is?” Calder’s eyes got big. “Psh! Of course!” “…Everyone always cares about something when it’s about to go!” Aman threw his hands up. He folded then across his chest again. “Stupid old farts” he muttered, but just kept his eyes to the ground for the moments of silence that followed his rant. He thought Alyanna was very beautiful, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone that. Aman was the tough guy of town, and he was going to keep it that way.

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in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:35

sunset

She turned to the side
Nobody was there
Who could it be?
The sun was setting slowly.
The sky was a canvas that god had been painting on, it was the lava lamp in the corner oh his bedroom, it was the light that guided the sailors far out at sea so they could come home quickly to their families.
She stretched her hand out and wiggled her fingers. Sand appeared from the sky, fell into her hand, and seeped through her fingers. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth. The sand turned into sugar and fell all over her face and into her mouth.
Nobody saw her turn around in the shower, waving her arms out wildly.

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:39

Waiting.

Say yes.
Say yes.
Say yes.
I let out a deep sigh from inside of me. I look at him, so focused that my gaze burns a hole through his face. He brings his hand to his cheek and scratches casually. I breathe deeply. Thereâ€™s nothing on his face. But that is why he thinks Iâ€™m staring. No. There are no flaws in Mark Lloyd Anderson. He fingers the note again, almost as nervous as I am. No, he could never be as nervous as I am right now. I feel the tension between our bodies. Mrs. Brazie is droning on about Intelligent Design…pupil dilationsâ€¦Moodle workshopsâ€¦who knows what else. But Iâ€™m not listening. Mark isnâ€™t either. I know he doesnâ€™t like me. He doesnâ€™t
He doesnâ€™t.
He doesnâ€™t.
He doesnâ€™t.
And yetâ€¦I have a hope deep within me that he will say yetâ€¦that he does like me. He glances at me, picking up his red mechanical pencil. He grips it loosely and covers the paper with his right hand, writing with his left. He puts his pencil down, looks at the paper. I try to withhold myself and not crane my neck to find out what he wrote before my time. I feel my breakfast coming up my intestines, through my stomach, up my esophagus, andâ€¦he hands me the paper. I expel another bout of air and slap it with my left hand, biting my lip. I open it up and look at the lined paper. I blink.
And I blink again.
And I bring it closer to my eyes.
I bite my lip harder.
I can feel my face redden, though nobody else knows. The color flushes to my cheeks and pulses through my veins, warming my entire body. At this moment, I am thankful for my strong existence, for if I was a mere soul, lost and helpless, I would have faded away.
No.
It says No.
It says nothing else other than my stunningly written note above his handwriting. All that came from that beautiful hand, that pencil, that mind, was the single word;
No.
And that single word has the power to knock out even the strongest of heart.
And thatâ€™s exactly what I did.

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:40

â€œNORELLE MIAKO ANDREA you drag your lazy butt down here this instant!â€ the answering machine blared in Norelleâ€™s face as she adjusted the speaker volume level. She jumped up at the sound of Lolaâ€™s voice.
â€œUn momento Lola,â€ Norelle called down the steps, â€œBueno, Iâ€™m coming nowâ€ Norelle grabbed her Mauve and olive hoodie with cream fur lining and her ivory silk-and-resin chain link necklace and bounded down the shag rug steps of the estate.
â€œYou need to stop pretending you can speak Spanish, Noraâ€ Andie said, tapping her older sisterâ€™s arm with her fork as Norelle ran by Andieâ€™s chair.
â€œItâ€™s not pretending, Andie.â€ Norelle rolled her eyes and ran through the kitchen to the living room, shrugging on her hoodie and tying the necklace around her neck. She stumbled into the modern room with marigold walls and ruby furniture. Deep red roses sat on a clear glass coffee table in a white ceramic vase. A white couch and maroon loveseat crowded around the table facing a small television covered in a plastic shell that looked like an apple. Satiny cream curtains covered 6 ceiling-to-floor windows that spanned the room. A graphic shag rug with cream, maroon, marigold, and leaf green stripes covered the floor.
â€œHola mi hermana!â€ Norelle flopped onto the white buttery leather couch. She hugged a marigold raw silk pillow with an embroidered poppy and smiled.

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â™¥ shriya siolashrwa jeffica â™¥

in May 6th, 2006 @ 19:41

â€œAnd the solution to everything is you. When you die you are born again. We depend on the rights of the reality of you. And nobody can see the truth when the truth is hidden in a small innocent child. Nobody suspects the one who is still learning his or her primary foundation of knowledge. Your fate, chills, is to be immortal. But not in the usual way, no, you instead will die over and over again, but you will know it. You will always die before the age of ten. Death, though, is not the end. You can be another being every decade. You will be born into every place, every person, every pattern of life your wise being can imagine.â€ Ragelli sat on the rough silk floor cover and listened to the prophet. She crossed her right leg over the other and folded them in. The wise old man continued,
â€œYour reincarnation will go on forever more. You will get to see the world and become a wise old soul. When it is long after today, and years have passed that no other human could live through, remember all I tell you, and lead us all along.â€ He smiled at Ragelli and got up out of the wooden chair. Ragelli looked through the screen, through the wall in the other room, through the door, through the very outside of the house. She watched her soul come undone; she was free. It roamed around the outside, looking around, and taking in her life for the very last time. She thought about the future; what would it be like?
The prophet discussed some important matters with her father, but her mind was wandering. She didnâ€™t have the energy to eavesdrop on their conversation. The two men eyed her and walked softly out of the room. Ragelliâ€™s inner eye watched them walk out of the bungalow. She looked spacey to anyone walking by, but she knew for herself that the thoughts that ran through her mind now would be running through for the rest of eternity. Ragelliâ€™s father came back into the room. He nodded.
â€œIs it true, Father?â€ Ragelli inquired. Her father froze. His words came out cautious and slow.
â€œYes.â€ He paused. â€œRagelli, god told your mother and I, when you were born ten years ago, that you would live each reincarnation for only ten years, sometimes less. Your birthday is in two days. Ragelli, I canâ€™tâ€”you shouldnâ€™tâ€”but now . . . Ragelli, you are going to die.â€
At that, both Ragelli and her father burst into tears. He hid his face; it was quite improper for a man to cry, Ragelli didnâ€™t know what dying was. It was not the beginning, now everyone around her was saying it was not the end. It is more significant than the middle, so what could it possibly be? She did not want it to happen. She would now allow it. Ragelli stood up and ran out of the room. Brushing her tears ad she went, she ran down the corridor to her room and pushed the door over. She picked it up, ran into her room. And yanked it into place. She ran to the windows at the far end of the wall and stuck her head out. She screamed and screamed until her voice was hoarse. She tilted her head back and sobbed. Her knees weakened with the rest of her body as the fell to the floor into a crumpled heap.
â€œI am going to die.â€ She whispered. â€œI am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die.â€ Ragelli said it religiously over and over until the words took over her mind, her body, and her spirit was cut in the side. Her feelings poured out. She leaned over the ledge of the window, saying it louder and louder until everyone in the village could hear Ragelli Mandavi Nakracha Chandi Lakatchya yelling out the window.
Her mucus and tears mixed on her face, tangled in her throat, caught on a clump of her sorrow, it stuck in her neck. Ragelli put her hand to her throat, she couldnâ€™t make a sound, she couldnâ€™t breathe, her mind was slipping into her lungs, her stomach was turning inside out, her heart was squishing blood out of the cracks in its form, all of her body was collapsing, caving in, unwinding, untying, changing, morphing, struggling to breathe. She fell to the floor, twisting around, spilling blood, tears, mucus, saliva, and parts of her innards from the depths of her throat. Everything was coming out and a greater force was cleansing her body. Her soul shone with fragmented darkness, and soon became overcome with light, healing the cuts, mending the wounds, and piecing her back together again.
And then,
Everything went blank.

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Gwendolyn of the Eastern Seas

in May 7th, 2006 @ 15:22

Song Yue twiddled her thumbs nervously. What was she to do? She lived in a grand, spacious palace with many wonderful luxuries, but despite how her parents tried to keep it from her, she knew that the world outside the palace was crumbling. Empress Xingla and Emperor Shykongnat were excellent parents, but virtually incapable rulers.
The twelve-year-old had seen the writing on the wall when the Chief Advisor Dohmblai Shimiko had died. At his funeral, her parents had been understandably sad; Dohmblai had brought them together. But there was another thing in their faces. Fear. The Chingonka rebel group had been troubling the Anshiogymna Empire for years. Only Dohmblai and his natural leadership abilities had succeeded in keeping the vast empire together.
The empire was up against a wall. Everyone thought that as long as the Commands of Liang were with the rulers, things would be well. The Commands of Liang had gone missing the day of the Royal Marriage, mysteriously. According to ancient legends, the only thing that would save the empire in a time like this was the rise of a new leader, and the sacrificial death of the incompetent ones. Song Yue was the only heir to the Anshiogymnese Stargazer Lilly Throne. The legend had never said anything of the child of the rulers taking the reins of the empire, but all of the Liang priests said it was most unlikely for any offspring to succeed in ruling after their unfit parents.
Song Yue knew that if her parents were killed, she would most likely be forced to die with them. Or worseâ€¦ she would be made a bride of one of the Chingkongan warrior princes, a Chingkongan rafnut. The people wouldn’t care. They would see her as the devilspawn of the incapables, and devilspawn should be wed to devilspawn. People were already wary of their rulers after the cruel reign of Song Yue’s grandfather. People were dying to no avail in the army in fighting the rebels everyday, which helped not a bit.

I pasted this from the RRR thread (I’m much too lazy to actually re-type it). Jeffica, I like the one with Ragelli. It’s… compelling. What do you think of this one?

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Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in May 8th, 2006 @ 00:53

This thread is continued on version 2006.3. Thanks!

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