Wyvern

Pennites browsing the Cabaret quarters hear the huffing and wheezing several minutes before the central doors of the chamber creak open, raising their ears to the familiar sounds of prolonged hisses and a stinger dragging across the carpet. Wyvern grunts and grits his teeth as he gives the tray in front of him another shove, putting significantly less care into the manner that the platter and triangular lid on the cart stay in place than he had six hours ago. The overgrown lizard gives the tray a final push with a hiss of exhaustion, then moves his wings away from the Cabaret entrance and lets the doors swing shut.

 

"Ssssorry I'm a 'lil late." Wyvern's scales glisten a bit in the light of the Cabaret, still slightly wet from his recent Draken fiasco. The strong stench of tadpole that drifts from the lizard's claws only reinforces the image of Wyvern treading knee deep in muck and mire. "Ya wouldn't believe how long this pastry took to push.. If Cake Cart Placement was counted as an Olympic event, let'sss just say that I'd qualify for Mighty Pen sports month. Ugh..."

 

Wyvern grabs the triangular lid of the platter and removes it, revealing a tall tan pyramid cake. Candy-coated scarub bits dot the frosting of the cake like egyption heiroglyphs, and a chocolate-molded pharoahe's hat crowns its tip. The words "Happy Birthday Ozymandias" are engraved in the frosting of one side of the cake, with the phrase "give wyvern a raise" written in a smaller and less legible print underneath it. Wyvern raises the steel triangular lid to his snout and speaks through it like a megaphone.

 

"Happy Birthday Ozy! Only way thisss pyramid cake could possibly be made more genuine is if it had been built by slaves from the flour on up." Wyvern sticks his forked tongue out, then pulls a shovel from under the cake tray and begins slicing the pastry with it. "Was thinkin' of having a surprise rat mummy pop out of the top, but was low on bandages after making a different gift thisss week... I figure the scarub bits make this thing appetizing enough as it is anyways. Feel free to help yerssselves!"

 

;-)

 

OOC: A belated Happy Birthday to you, Ozymandias. :-)

I like this poem, Appy. :-) The stanza structure stands out to me in particular, as the way that you position a single word at the center of each stanza to form two different sentences is very well done. Reading the stanzas under this structure gives the lines a very transient feel to me, and also adds to the overall rhythm and flow of the piece. The repetition of "silence" and "you" as the central words also adds to the thematic elements of the piece, and I like how the stanzas alternate betweem a first/second person perspective and a first person plural perspective with each stanza. The positive connotations of "silence" in the last stanza are intriguing as well.

 

Very nicely done, overall. :-) Thanks for sharing this Appy.

Draken's illusion wavered for only a moment as he stretched his wings a bit and stared out across the lake, not even spotting the tiniest tip of a tail stinger surfacing on the horizon. The flames that previously covered the water had almost faded in Wyvern's extended downtime, and the death-defying challenges that had made the endurance test seem so appealing had faded along with them. Draken breathed a sigh of boredom and mustered the best of his "sleeping hord dragon" patience. The exceptional ability made Draken stick around for another five minutes before he decided that the game was a lost cause, and followed his belly's instinct back towards the tavern and the promise of food. Wyvern and his Draken-demeaning trinkets could wait...

 

Several hours later...

 

A rough spot of congealed mud slowly took shape as Wyvern floated from the depths of the lake, passing several frogs on lillipads and one homeless prince as he surfaced at an animal drinking hole around the far end of the forest. The overgrown lizard's tail twitched as a skunk lifted its head from the water and turned in disgust, and a series of air bubbles began circling his head as a small bird landed on one of his protuding horns. The filthy lizard clawed at the mud and pulled himself an inch forward, turning his snout skyward with a long gasp and a gurgling wheeze. The lizard gagged and coughed up an entire spectrum of small colored fish, then slowly wobbled to his feet like a crimson cousin of the Loch Ness monster. He had passed out the moment that Draken had grabbed him to take him for a joyflight, and it was only by the tide currents that Draken's tailwinds had produced that his unconscious body had managed to reach the shore. He shivered, drenched and miserable, alone, his hydrophobia only heightened by the experience.

 

"Lassst time I ever do business with any dragon who's name even rhymes with 'Kraken.'" Wyvern wiped some wet ash from his snout and took a deep breath of skunk-scented air. "Should've known as much from a *cough* near-aquatic. Uuuggghhh."

 

With that, Wyvern slowly set about searching for his sack of products, one gang of lillipads at a time...

Very interesting poem, Nyarlathotep. :-) This piece is filled to the brim with inside references like "Alan" and "makoshift," as well as the Dragonball(?) reference of "Tenkaichi" in the title and it's interesting placement next to "Cigarettes." I don't think that there's any real means for a reader to draw a specific meaning from any particular passage of this or from the poem as a whole, but that can often be a very good thing in my opinion. I didn't really get a sense of cohesion between the various lines and references of the poem, but I did feel a certain undertone of youthful rebellion in lines like "Trash your speakers." The arrangement of words in this also struck me as very intriguing at times, with "Tesla lies overture," "Trust fund hippie taser" and "Alienation substation" all standing out to me for their sound and unusual arrangement. One thing that bugs me about the piece is that the final stanza feels like all of the other stanzas, and doesn't seem to offer any sense of closure or tie any other aspect of the piece together... I seem to always still be waiting for the poem to end after "Right/left objectivity."

 

Anyway, thanks for sharing this unconventional piece of work with us Nyarlathotep. :-) I really appreciate poetry that doesn't simplify itself to the reader for the sake of conveying a message, and this piece definitely avoids doing that!

Congratulations on your wedding-to-be, MinimondoT! :-) I know that you two have been fiancées for a while now, but I'm guessing that the presence of this poem here means that a formal wedding is imminent? I think that this is a very nice poem that will go over well with your wedding guests in particular, as I can definitely feel your happiness in the tone of your words. My only suggestion might be to remove any of the poetic language that you might not use in regular conversation, such as "Mine" and "alas"... I realize the wedding is meant to be Rennaisance-based and definitely appreciate the way that you've incorporated an older tongue to fit this mold, but at the same time I feel like this poem is not something to be acted, as it's based on genuine vows of love and real occurences. The more it sounds like you, the better... the formal poetic language used in it runs the risk of making it sound slightly artificial, in my opinion.

 

Anyway, I hope that you and your fiancée have a fabulous wedding when it does occur! :-) You'll be in our thoughts (well... maybe not Parmenion's thoughts, but most of our thoughts)!

 

With that, Wyvern sighs wistfully and decides that he needs to develope an Almost Dragonic Brand Bouquet Vine-Magnet™ specifically for this type of event. The overgrown lizard treads out of the Banquet Hall with a blueprint in one claw and a thorny wreath in the other...

A large shuriken-shaped frisbee soars through the air of the cramped pirate broadcasting basement. The cameras swerve to the right as the pointy projectile flies off-screen, narrowly missing the same troglyodyte camerman that had fallen from the rafters in an earlier episode of the Report. The troglyodyte lets out a string of foreign curses and shakes a bandaged arm towards the camera, only to have his ranting cut short as the cameras move back towards the central skull-and-crossbones table of the basement. Two shaky flashlights are turned on for lighting effects as Wyvern dashes into the room wearing a "#-1" jersey. The overgrown lizard raises his claws in the air and headbangs as a sports center-style guitar melody plays in the background, ignoring the wrong chords that are hit and the static distortion that follows.

 

"Greetingssssss writing fans!" Wyvern bangs his claws on the table in an excited manner, forming ugly nicks on its surface in the process. He reaches under his chair and pulls out a plush CheerMynx sports mascot doll, which has a tiny scythe in one hand and a pompom in the other. "Almost Report of the week: jussst look outside. The sun, the fresh air, the short skirts, the exploitable concept of exercise... it all adds up to a strong month for Pen sporting events! We here at the Almost Report personally recommend Almost Dragonic Brand Jumping Chain Flail™, Almost Dragonic Brand Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Gorgon™, and of course Almost Dragonic Brand Champion Razor Frisbee™ (suitable for men, women, and samurai sheep of all ages). We'll be reporting any sporting eventsss that pop up over the courssse of the month with some extra special coverage and ad slotsss, so be on the lookout for a physical activity near you!"

 

Wyvern raises a claw to the cameras for a moment, then hops out of his seat and quickly strides off-stage. The cameras once again swerve to the right, revealing Wyvern as he plucks his shuriken-shaped frisbee from the news basement wall. The cameras briefly catch sight of the bandaged troglyodyte, who had been knocked over in Wyvern's wake, and swerve back towards the skull-and-crossbones table as Wyvern seats himself with a smile.

 

"In further newsss, I'd like to officially welcome Whisky Hotshot Malone as the Almost Report's really hot intern gal. I'd also like to thank Ms. Malone for her diligent reporting on wannabe has-been ultra-boring so-called reporters last week, which shed interesting light on the future of the Mighty Pen'sss restroom facilities. Here's hoping that the lavatory's remaining crocodile population is not affected by the new management ... Save the reptiles (for things like coats and purses)!"

 

Wyvern snickers and nods, then strikes a sly grin and begins rubbing his claws together.

 

"Oh, and ssspeaking of sports: those viewers who enjoyed the ssspectator sport of observing Whisky Hotshot Malone's little boat dress last week should be in for another treat thisss week. Don't wanna spoil the surprise, but let's just say that the wardrobe package that I left'er was marked 'two piece cheerleader outfit.'" Wyvern winks to the cameras and sneers. "Here'sss hoping she knows a couple eye-catching poses to go along with them catchy words of hers. Ssstay tuned to this channel and you just might find out!"

 

;-)

I read through the prologue that's been posted for this story so far and found it nicely written Nyyark. :-) I love the way that you start it with the mage winning an artifact off of e-bay and bidding through magic, as it struck me as a very original approach and immediately piqued my curiousity. Given the death of Ked, I'm guessing that this narrative will either progress into a story about Ked's assassin or a story about Ked's journey through the afterlife, both of which would be intriguing tales to follow. On the critical side of things, the transition between the second and third paragraphs felt a little awkward to me in this initial post... I think that visualizing the process of bidding through magic a bit might improve this, as it could give a better sense of how Ked manages to bid in flight. Telepathy? Or a blurring magical bidding screen of clairvoyance perhaps? Just a few possible suggestions.

 

Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing how this story developes Nyyark. :-) Thanks for sharing what you have of it so far.

Today, I went and saw Murs, the Attic, Rebel Diaz, Radio Active, and Jern Eye perform at People's Park in Berkeley.

 

The show lineup was actually larger than this, but the only person who I really came to see was Murs, so I figured I could arrive kinda late and catch whoever happened to still be performing before he came on. The event took place outdoors in People's Park under a blazing sun, and was free and very well-attended.

 

I arrived and made my way to the front near the end of Jern Eye's set. I was surprised that Jern Eye was placed so early in the lineup, since he's the only act I'd heard of aside from Murs and has at least one widely-distributed CD out. I'd seen him perform solid sets before with his group Lunar Heights at previous concerts, and this one seemed no different... in fact, he even had Sezwe of Lunar Height backing him up on vocals and kicking verses. Good performances from both of them, with some nice energy and well-produced beats. Might as well have been a Lunar Heights set, which is not a bad thing.

 

Radio Active came on next, son in hand, with no DJ or backing beats of any sort. He did a very brief set of acapellas as well as some fresh beatboxing, and impressed me a little more than he did the last time I saw him about a year ago. One of his young daughters also handed me a free mix CD of his stuff, which is always a nice bonus.

 

Rebel Diaz, a Chicano hip hop group who flew in from Brooklyn, were the next to take the stage. The group consisted of two guys (an emcee and a hypeman) and two gals (an emcee and a DJ), and the four of them put on a fairly good set. The highlight of the group was definitely the female rapper, who had an excellent flow and energized the crowd with every one of her verses. On the downside of things, not all of their beats were very well-made and the group seemed a little too political for its own good at times... I'm all for political tracks, but if you're going to preach to me about how the world needs to organize a political movement in every song then you better do it in an interesting and entertaining manner. Decent set overall.

 

A local Berkeley group, The Attic, was the next to perform. I'd never heard of them before, but the person who gave me the flyer to the show highly recommended that I check them out, so I was curious to see them play. The definitely put on the hypest set of the show, with a huge amount of energy and plenty of rapidfire flows in their songs. They got a bunch of folks in the crowd moving with some well-planned routines, including an excellent routine where they split the audience in half and took turns performing for each side, but their choice of beats was a bit annoying at times and there was something about their ultra-hypeness that felt a bit forced to me. Still, they performed some good tracks, including a track where the Bay area group Native Guns came out and performed alongside them. Pretty good set, definitely an act to get a crowd rowdy to.

 

Once the Attic had finished, Murs came out and topped the afternoon off by doing what Murs does best: being himself. And rapping. He was obviously weeded as hell, which is to be expected of any musician rolling down to Berkeley, but the herb had no effect on the quality of his music. He performed a number of his best tracks, and maintained his down to earth humor and casual conversations with the crowd throughout the set. One highlight was his performance of the track "Freak These Tales," where he switched the beat up twice and ended up rhyming over Snoop Dogg's "Ain't No Fun if the Homies Can't Have None." Later on, he had the DJ throw on some Coldplay and did a hilariously perfect lip-syncing job to the track. A good set, definitely the best out of the performers present at the park.

 

Overall, despite the resultant nasty sunburn, it was a very nice free show. Here's a video of Murs performing the track "Murs Day" (please excuse the poor image quality... cameras with video features and bright sunlight apparently don't mix):

Wyvern observes Stick drinking from experimental test tube #792 with a smirk, knowing that any macho pennite would limit themselves to ordering #321 straight no chaser. He strikes a claws up in Stick's direction for picking the under-beverage, then adjusts his crimson labcoat and slinks his way back to the center of the room. He sits on a remaining piece of wooden tube cart and ring an unscientific-looking cowbell to get people's attention.

 

"Ladiessss and gentlemen, thank you for your scientific data." Wyvern shuffles through tattered sheets of paper until he comes upon a stick figure doodle of the pennites at work, which he holds up proudly for all to see. "See? I drew it aaaallllllllll by myself! ... *ahem.* Moving on to the tessst results, the following passage from Kikuyu Black Paws's 'Flying Aces' was used as the standard protocol:

 

The huge steel warplane thrummed as it floated slowly over the dulled cities that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars twinkled coldly around its clock-like face. Two tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the cities below. Large dark wings were folded against their backs, the silky feathers dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black bandanna and stared grimly down at the cities. Her hair was black and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her bandanna. She wore a long-sleeved netted shirt with a loose vest around her chest. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a silver flute was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver loop pierced through one of her ears and turned her dark eyes to the tallest young man. “How much longer, Lieutenant?” she asked in a bell-like voice.

 

This passage then underwent several Almost Dragonic Brand Orc Scythe Surgical Procedures™, until the following experimental base was created:

 

The huge steel [A Vehicle] thrummed as it [Verb, past tense] slowly over the dulled [Plural Noun] that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars [Verb, Past Tense] coldly around its [Adjective ending in ‘-like’] face. [A Number] tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the [same Plural Noun] below. Large dark [Plural Noun] were folded against their backs, the silky [Feature of Previous Plural Noun] dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black [Article of Clothing] and stared [Adverb] down at the cities. Her hair was [Adjective] and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her [A Hair Accessory]. She wore a [Adjective] netted shirt with a loose vest around her [Part of Body]. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a [An Artifact] was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver [Noun] pierced through one of her [Plural Noun] and turned her dark eyes to the [superlative Adjective] young man. “How much longer, [Formal Title for a Person]?” she asked in a [Adjective ending in ‘like’] voice.

 

Having formed the base for mad scientific experimentation, thossse who were kind enough to participate formed the following results:

 

 

Tanuchan’s Deadlib:

 

The huge steel hearse thrummed as it zombified slowly over the dulled tombs that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars haunted coldly around its corpselike face. 666 tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the tombs below. Large dark mausoleums were folded against their backs, the silky gargoyles dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black shroud and stared ghastly down at the cities. Her hair was nethermost and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her bony tiara. She wore a catatonic netted shirt with a loose vest around her amputated hand. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and an orb was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver shadow pierced through one of her sarcophogi and turned her dark eyes to the scariest young man. “How much longer, Master of Nine Hells?” she asked in a ghostlike voice.

 

 

Gwaihir’s Fadlib:

 

The huge steel Cadillac thrummed as it did the time warp slowly over the dulled pet rocks that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars swallowed goldfish coldly around its teeny-bopper-like face. 1975 tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the pet rocks below. Large dark slap bracelets were folded against their backs, their silky annoyance factors dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black halter-top and stared repetitively down at the cities. Her hair was crazy and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her hairspray. She wore a tie die colored netted shirt with a loose vest around her tummy. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a rubik’s cube was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver troll doll pierced through one of her flagpoles and turned her dark eyes to the grooviest young man. “How much longer, Singstar?” she asked in a Ouijalike voice.

 

 

Zadown’s Jihadlib:

 

The huge steel Humvee thrummed as it was slowly blessed by Allah over the dulled swords of faith that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars unjustly oppressed coldly around its Godlike face. Ten tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the swords of faith below. Large dark practices of religion were folded against their backs, their silky pilgrimage dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black, black niqāb and stared painfully down at the cities. Her hair was righteous and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her headband. She wore a desirable netted shirt with a loose vest around her blazing eye. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a silver samovar was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver hand pierced through one of her Paradise-bound warriors and turned her dark eyes to the most holy young man. “How much longer, Grand Mufti?” she asked in a feverlike voice.

 

 

Mynx’s Radlib:

 

The huge steel time traveling telephone box thrummed as it crashed and burned slowly over the dull dudes that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars kicked butt coldly around its awesomelike face. 69 tall young dudes and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the dudes below. Large dark dudettes were folded against their backs, their silky hardbodies dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black band jacket and stared righteously down at the cities. Her hair was bogus and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her backwards baseball cap. She wore a cool netted shirt with a loose vest around her feet. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and an air guitar was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver turtle pierced through one of her ninjas and turned her dark eyes to the most excellent young man. “How much longer, Royal Ugly Dude?” she asked in a ratlike voice.

 

 

Geldrinhor’s Cadlib:

 

The huge steel seatless bicycle thrummed as it swallowed slowly over the dulled “twins” that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars erected coldly around its cone-like face. Two tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the “twins” below. Large dark Barbii Twins were folded against their backs, their silky DDD/EEE cups dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black G-string and stared wholly down at the cities. Her hair was HUMONGOUS and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her aquanet. She wore a perfect netted shirt with a loose vest around her lips. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a brick outhouse was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver harem pierced through one of her missiles and turned her dark eyes to the wettest young man. “How much longer, Porn Queen?” she asked in a goddess-like voice.

 

 

Patrick’s Adlib:

 

The huge steel Toyota thrummed as it googled slowly over the dulled Malboros that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars photoshopped coldly around its Half-Life-like face. 300 tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the Malboros below. Large dark Windows were folded against their backs, the silky Internet Explorer dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black Gucci shoes and stared well down at the cities. Her hair was happy and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her comb. She wore a great netted shirt with a loose vest around her head. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a stone was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver red hat pierced through one of her Wizards of the Coast and turned her dark eyes to the best young man. “How much longer, mister?” she asked in a Doom-like voice.

 

 

Asmadeus’s Myriadlib:

 

The huge steel giant myriadipede thrummed as it duplicated slowly over the dulled pixels that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars reproduced coldly around its Chinese population-like face. 10,000 tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the pixels below. Large dark ants were folded against their backs, their silky legs dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black chainmail and stared exponentially down at the cities. Her hair was numerous and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her comb. She wore an infinite netted shirt with a loose vest around her hair. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and the Cornu Copia was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver universe pierced through one of her bubbles and turned her dark eyes to the most young man. “How much longer, Creator of the Infinity?” she asked in a wheatseed-like voice.

 

 

Canid’s Egad!ib:

 

The huge steel chariot thrummed as it smited slowly over the dulled worshippers that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars feasted coldly around its mountain-like face. One tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the worshippers below. Large dark temples were folded against their backs, the silky sacrifical altars dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black sandal and stared skillfully down at the cities. Her hair was evil and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her wreath. She wore a golden netted shirt with a loose vest around her hand. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a scepter was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver Apollo pierced through one of her frogs and turned her dark eyes to the highest young man. “How much longer, Ceasar?” she asked in a ruby-like voice.

 

 

The Big Pointy One’s Women’s Lib:

 

The huge steel Mighty Couch thrummed as it exploded slowly over the dulled pizzas that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars imploded coldly around its awesome-like face. 2 tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the pizzas below. Large dark ninjas were folded against their backs, the silky shurikens dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black trenchcoat and stared hastily down at the cities. Her hair was huuuuuuge and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her lice. She wore a not so huge netted shirt with a loose vest around her innards. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and the Mighty Couch’s hot fudge dispenser was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver fire pierced through one of her multiple fires and turned her dark eyes to the pointiest young man. “How much longer, Madamoiselle?” she asked in a karate-like voice.

 

 

Inspector I. M Clueless’s Gliblib:

 

The huge steel diamond-encrusted Mercedes found on the “music television” thrummed as it mack daddy-Oed slowly over the dulled unjustly accused police officers that slept below. The moon glowed brightly in the dark night and stars broke danced coldly around its thug-like face. A prison inmate number of tall young men and a young woman stood at an open doorway, surveying the unjustly accused police officers below. Large dark women referred to as “them hos” were folded against their backs, their silky “Fly ass bitch” T-shirts dancing in the breeze.

 

The young woman adjusted her black platinum grill piece for teeth and stared criminally down at the cities. Her hair was hooligan-related and tipped with scarlet, poking out in long strands from beneath her Sherlock Holmes detective hat. She wore a previously incarcerated netted shirt with a loose vest around her seventh bullet wound. Her cargo pants were low on her hips and a platinum record plaque was shoved into one of her belt loops. She played with a small silver corrupted ear of the youth pierced through one of her vigilante graffiti “taggers” and turned her dark eyes to the most ethical young man. “How much longer, Chief?” she asked in a RIAA-like voice.

 

---

 

"Thanksss once again to those who gave this weird one-time-off madlib a shot. Feel free to keep the resultant monstrosities mutant word hybrids ... texts and do with them as you pleassse."

 

;-)

Good poem, Mardrax. :-) I really like the rhythm of the words and the rhyme in the first stanza, and once again think that you demonstrate a knack for incorporating syllables well in your poetry. I also found the juxtaposition of elegant jewelery and composers with the limited resources of plastic and single octave xylophones very interesting and thought-provoking. The one word that really felt out of place to me in the poem was "unproficient" in the very last line, as it felt very technical and somewhat stilted to me in comparison to the rest of the piece.

 

Anyway, I think this is a well done poem Mardrax. :-) Thanks for sharing it.

Wyvern slowly slithers across the surface of the Cabaret rug in Minta's wake, dragging his forked tongue over every carpet fiber in reach. The overgrown lizard comes to a halt and removes the ingredients collected on his tongue, emptying them into a bag labeled Almost Dragonic Brand Second Hand Pizza Cement-o-Bits™. He seals the bag with a cheap rubberband and an exorbitant price tag, then examines the rug surrounding him in the hopes of finding a bit of mushroom or a trail of dough that he'd missed. Wyv kneels down and extends his tongue as he spots what could either be an olive or a dead beetle, but pauses mid-lick as he notices Verileah out the corner of his eye. The reptilian Elder lifts himself to his feet and clears his throat of a few ashes, then approaches the newcomer with an extended claw.

 

"Greetinthsss..." Wyvern goes cross-eyed as he glances down at his filthy tongue, which continues to dangle from his mouth. He untangles a few dust bunnies from its tip, then manually rolls it back into his mouth. "Welcome to the Mighty Pen: where the writing is copius, and the geld is spent just as freely! I'm the resident personal muse-to-muse salesman, Wyvern, and will be here to offer you the finest quality Almost Dragonic Brand products for reasonable prices. But I'll let my credentialsss speak for themselves."

 

Wyvern reaches into a folder labeled "Devil's Advocate" and hands Verileah what appears to be a blank sheet of paper. He rubs a claw on his chest as Verileah examines the sheet from front to back, with not a word to be found.

 

"Anyhow, you shouldn't have any trouble fitting in here, we're a pretty normal bunch." Wyvern's statement is accentuated by a pepperoni pizza-shaped bout of steam that rises from the back of Minta's Pizza Paver. Wyvern lifts a used paper bag tied shut with a rubber band and extends it in Verileah's direction. "Wanna snack? These Almost Dragonic Brand Second Hand Pizza Cement-o-Bits™ go down real easy, and will probably get cooked next time you visit a tanning salon. Carpet-collected, Wyvern tongue approved - 39 geld, cheap!"

 

;-)

An off-key kazoo version of the Mighty News medley plays unsteadily in the background as a shakey camera focuses on a cluttered tabletop. A pile of crumpled paperwork and candywrappers is shoved to the side, revealing a figure wearing a poorly-fabricated Bob Soluberrin mask. The figure adjusts the yeti hair wig that sits on his horns and makes sure that the front of the mask is stable on his snout, then sets his claws on the table and flashes a razor sharp grin towards the cameras.

 

"Good evening. My name'sssss Slob Hissoluboring." The figure raises a claw to his mask and attempts to stifle a snicker. He fails as it turns to a series of snorts that eventually evolve into a bout of laughter. "Top of the evening news: *snort* hairlines. Is mine receding? *snicker* All signsss point to: 'YES'! BWAHAWHAHAHAWHAAAAW!"

 

The mask and wig slip off of Wyvern's face as he tilts his head back and roars with maniacal laughter, his echoes causing a distorted screeching sound in several of the microphone speakers across the chamber. The overgrown lizard claps his claws together as he turns back towards the cameras, rubbing them in a sinister manner.

 

"All Mighty Snooze references aside, the Almost Report isss back with a vengeance! This broadcast is brought to you courteousy of our new undercover agent/really hot intern gal, who'll hopefully be makin' a cameo later." Wyvern glances in both directions, then leans towards one of the camera speakerphones and whispers into it. "Word is that we're gonna get her to wear a different ssskimpy outfit each week. I'm expecting an 80% rise in male Pen viewers, and a 70% rise in hilariousss angry feminissst answering machine messages. Be sure to stay tuned next week for the full scoop."

 

Wyvern winks at the camera, then turns to his messy table and snatches up a tiny scrap of paper.

 

"We'll keep this report brief to give more air time to the series of brilliant commercials that you've been missing in our absence. The central newsss item of this week is actually the lack thereof, as news items at the Pen have dwindled to a record low. Sssome say it's seasonal, while others say it's related to frustration with the series of pseudo-high brow philosophical yammerings hosssted in the Minstrel Hall (which recently came to a late close)... Whatever it's related to, the Almost Report is in need of new events and gossip to lay flames to. Keep in mind that gossip about Pen members needn't be true... we're pretty much a tabloid rumormill 90% of the time anyways! Of courssse, should no news or rumors come in, we'll probably be able to get a substantial viewership off of Ms. Hotshot Malone's impressive bod alone... we'll cccertainly sssee in weeks to come!"

 

Wyvern shreds the paper scrap and tosses it to the side, then flashes an Almost Dragonic Brand Crystal Ball Broadcasting Time Guide™ to the cameras, pointing to the bottom of the cover where it reads "2% Reduction in Ad Incantations.' Screens across the Pen promptly go blank as a more formal series of advertisements commences...

 

;-)

So, I recently watched "Volver" and "Jesus Camp" on DVD.

 

"Volver" is the latest flick by Pedro Almodóvar, an acclaimed director known for his emphasis on women and gender roles in his films. This is the second film I've seen by Almodóvar, the first being the bizarre transvestite-a-thon "Bad Education" which I reviewed in this thread. I think that "Volver" is a more stable and linear film than "Bad Education," but would rank the two at about the same level of quality overall. "Volver" doesn't have the same visual flair or fragmented narrative as "Bad Education," but Penelope Cruz delivers a great performance in her role and is a gorgeous actress to boot. She plays the part of a mother with powerful coping skills, who seems to get one difficult trial after another tossed her way and single-handedly defeats them in an efficient manner. My one complaint about the movie is that it seems to rely a little too heavily on relaying its plot, which is interesting and very well-thought out but not really enough to drive the film on its own. Still, "Volver" has its fair share of interesting and surprising moments, as well as some very good character interactions. I thought it was a good movie overall.

 

"Jesus Camp" is a short documentary detailing evangelical Christians in predominantly rural states of America, and the manner that many of them endoctrinate their children from birth. I'm not a regular documentary viewer and "Jesus Camp" was not without its dull moments, but for the most part it really captured my attention with its depictions of endoctrinated children and the trauma that many of them have to endure. Envision a camp full of 6-12 year olds bawling their eyes out, terrified over a sermon about sin, and you have this documentary in a nutshell. Another frightening moment that comes to mind was a sermon where children had to pick up hammers and take turns smashing glass mugs that signified an anti-life government. A very unsettling look at evangelical traditions, well worth checking out.

 

Thanks for the reviews everyone. I'm glad that you really enjoyed "Pan's Labryinth," Zadown... there hasn't been a negative Pen review of it yet!

Wyvern's eyes widen and twinkle a bit as he watches the last of the fireburp dissipate into the cloudless sky. He droops his scales and sighs in awe of Pheonix's awesome control of nasal flame, then wipes a bit of ash from his snout as tiny flamesparks rain down from the sky. Wyvern turns to see how Pheonix is faring post-chile consumption, only to jump back as he finds her at the Almost Dragonic Brand Dynaminferno X-Tra Blaze Chile™ cauldron dishing herself a mean second-helping in a bowl thrice the size of her previous one.

 

"Ph-ph-pheonix!" Wyvern slaps a claw on his scaly forehead and snorts a laugh of disbelief. He squints in the hopes of seeing her facial expression through the blur of heat. "I was gonna ask how ya, errrr, but I sssee you, uhhh... isssn't that kinda a large portion for a sssecond helping? We don't want any major firework displays... this isss a social event, after all."

 

"Oh nonsense." Pheonix moves her heat-blurred hand and dips the double metal-welded spoon back into the pot, filling her large metallic bowl with another smoking glob of chile. "It's really quite good, actually."

 

Wyvern raises a claw and opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself at a loss for words. He watches Pheonix carry her big bowl of chile back to her dining area, then turns to his smoking pot with a frown of disappointment.

 

"Hmph... musst've not made this stuff hot enough." Wyvern picks up a black cylinder labeled "Uncle Joe's Extra Hot Blackened Louisiana Cajun Dust®" and sprinkles some more of it over the chile in the pot. He grabs a frank from his tail and dips it into the chile a tiny bit, then pops it into his mouth with haste and chews away. "Hunh, that's not that bad, pretty mild actual-"

 

Wyvern suddenly freezes up and stops speaking, digging his claws into part of the tabletop with a force that splinters wood. His beady eyes start bulging from their sockets as black smoke begins crawling from his nostrils and mouth, and his tail rapidly curls into a knot as he raises his claws to his throat. Wyv turns to dash away from the chile pot area just as flames begin spewing from his maw and snout.

 

"AAAUUUUUURRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Wyvern dashes through the courtyard crowds in a moving cloud of smoke and flames, swerving past bystanders and toppling over near the area where Nyarlathotep sits. He gags and raises a trembling claw. "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOZE! NEEEEEED BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOZE!"

 

;-p

Good poem, Whisky in Babylon. :-) The theme of the dying Earth is nice, and a lot of the imagery that you incorporate is excellent. I particularly like the third stanza, as the line about the plastic knife growing sharper was a very evocative and original image to me. The choice of weapons in the fourth stanza was also great, with the oil rag and the mechanical coil both standing out in a similar way. The only thing that felt a bit off to me in this poem was that the lines felt loaded with words at times, and some of these words felt a bit extraneous. For example, in the excellent weapon stanzas that I mentioned, I felt that "still," "violently," "only," and "upon" (which could be changed to "on") made the lines feel more loaded with language than they needed to be. Less is often more in poetry, so you might consider fine-combing this piece and extracting any unnessecary words if you want to refine it in future revisions.

 

Anyway, this is a very well done poem Whisky in Babylon. :-) Thank you for sharing it.

Wyvern steps into the Cabaret Room with a tilt and a strut, straining a whis(s)tled melody as he drags a large giftwrapped package by his tail. The overgrown lizard kneels down and unties the decorative bow connecting the gift to his stinger, only to pause as Pheonix glances in his direction. He lifts a wing in the hopes of hiding the present for a few seconds longer, then slowly approaches Pheonix, careful to preserve the cheap giftwrap of the package in light of the rising temperature zones.

 

"Happy Birthday, Pheonix." Wyvern grins and starts to extend a claw, only to stop and think better of it as licks of flame spring from the massive bird's body. "I got ya thisss little gift, hope ya like it."

 

Wyvern bows a bit and sets the gift down next to Pheonix. The giftwrap immediately sizzles off., revealing what appears to be a jumbo thermometer with a bunch of holes poked into it.

 

"It'sss an Almost Dragonic Brand Heat Recycling Dumpster™." Wyvern hands Pheonix a blank instruction sheet from his Devil's Advocate folder, only to watch it turn into ash before it manages to reach her talons. Wyv grumbles to himself and wipes the ash on his tunic. "*ahem* Thisss handy tool can take some of the heat energy that you use and recycle it back into the air around you, for up to a 1 C° difference in temperature. The Heat Recycling Dumpster is also a perfect means of providing minor heating to the Pen Keep in the wintertime... for exorborbitant pricesss, after the Pen's main heating sssystem has undergone a claw-related malfunction *HINT HINT.*"

 

Pheonix stares down at the thermometer, her feathery visage somewhat unimpressed.

 

"Hmmm..." Wyvern twiddles his claws. "... did I mention that it looksss kinda like a lava lamp when you turn it upsidedown?"

 

;-)

 

OOC: Happy Birthday, Pheonix! I hope it goes well for you.

I really like this vignette, Nyarlathotep. :-) It definitely paints a bleak picture of the end of humanity, and the dark imagery works very well for the most part. The way that you describe the coming of the plague-bearers makes it sound like it's not too far a stretch from reality, which gives the piece an eery sense of realism that makes it all the more unsettling. I love your choice of words in a number of the descriptive passages here, particularly in the third paragraph when you describe the way we view the plague-bearers "from out of the corner of your eye, through the glazed wall of heat off blacktop, through the fog of a fever, from the imagined spheres behind your eyelids." I found that passage excellently worded, and the "migration of excrement" later in the paragraph was a very nice touch as well. The only aspect of this piece that I didn't care for as much was the ending... While appropriate, the irony of finally understanding everything briefly before death is somewhat overused in "end of humanity" stories in my opinion, and it didn't feel as genuine as the rest of the piece to me for this reason.

 

Anyway, very good stuff Nyarlathotep. :-) Thanks for sharing it.

Wyvern raises a claw to speak as Tzimfemme wanders off with her extra-flavorful sausage, caught somewhere between wanting to ask her for a half a geld in fees or wanting to praise her for her culinary prowess. The lizard twists his snout as he watches the nekkid mage fade into the crowd, then unties his tongue and slowly turns to Whisky in Babylon with a grin.

 

"Of coursssse you're welcome to taste the chile. This contessst is open to everyone, after all." Wyvern slides a habanero chile-shaped bowl full of bubbling red stuff in Whisky's direction. "Pass over a geld, and this chile bowl is yours. Careful though, it'sss a little on the hot side."

 

Wyvern winks, then reaches under his seat and pulls out an Almost Dragonic Brand Dunce Cap Mini-Megaphone™.

 

"Check check?" Wyvern clears his throat into the Mini-Megaphone. "*Ahem* Greetingsss. I just wanted to let all of you weenie roast afficianados know that there'sss no need to ask my permission for Almost Dragonic Brand Dynaminferno X-tra Blaze Chile™... though if you beg for it, I can probably think of sssome interesting things for you to do behind a red curtain with some prongs. Anyway... jussst step up, drop off a geld, and serve yourself a bowl if you dare."

 

Wyvern pauses for a moment, glancing towards Pheonix and Whisky in Babylon in turn and observing their chile bowls.

 

"To those who are not interested in tasting the chile, but who want front row seats for watching people who do taste it - I'm now taking bids!"

Bob Soluberrin scoots his swiveling chair closer to the tidy news table as the lights of the cameras surrounding him begin flashing on in sequence. He taps his fingers along the shiny tabletop as the pre-recorded Mighty News Medley plays through its regularly-scheduled time slot, then picks up his paperwork from the table and faces the camera with a typically stern expression.

 

"Welcome to another evening of the Mighty News - the #1 source of Mighty Pen news for over 2 years to date." Bob nods and shuffles his news items in an orderly manner. "At the top of this evening's news: the Muse and Quill Café has issued an official roll call, which takes the form of a challenge set in an enchanted Iambic Pentameter zone of the Café. Reports indicate that those who enter within the limit lines of the zone find themselves forced to speak in strange poetic tongues, which can yield interesting results. Officials say that orcish upstart Norman the Runt is responsible for spearheading the event, though we have yet to recieve word of Norman's affiliation to the Café. Members of the Muse and Quill Café will of course wish to sign in, but all Pen members have been welcomed to join into the event."

 

Bob Soluberrin quietly clears his throat and turns to the next page of his news docket.

 

"In further news, rumors of illegal word-altering thematic formulas continue to circle the Pen. Details of these substances are sketchy at best, but should you come across them in the Cabaret Room, we at the Mighty News implore you to contact the appropriate authorities immediately so that these bio-literary weapons can be removed with haste. Loremaster Ozymandias has yet to issue a statement concerning these vocabulary health hazards, but we predict that the Pen will be bumped to 'Security Level Orange' shortly. More on this story as it developes."

 

Bob glances back down at his papers, shuffling through them and pausing as a make-up artist quickly strides across the newsroom towards his seat. The make-up artist raises a hand to the cameras and moves Bob's toupée a quarter of an inch to the left, then rushes back off the screen. Bob Soluberrin's stern expression remains fixed on his face the entire time.

 

"Wrapping up this evening's news on a more positive note: we at the Mighty News were somewhat surprised by the quality of Whisky Hotshot Mallone's reporting last week, which was exceptional for a novice unprofessional reporter such as herself. For those who missed it, Whisky offered a report on the natural habits of Chat Boxes, both when solitary and when in packs. While we won't be recruiting Whisky as a regular reporter on this show, we'd like to extend our thanks to her by offering her free access to our studios, including the newsroom, the soundroom, the cameraroom, the restroom, and the Anti-Almost Dragonic Pirate Broadcasting Crystal Ball enchantingroom. The keys have been sent your way, Whisky, so just let us know if you need any help understanding some of the tricks of the trade. You'll never be as good as we are, sport, but you should never stop striving for lofty goals! Aaah youth."

 

Bob Soluberrin sets down his paperwork and lets off a hint of a smile as the camera lights are turned off in sequence...

Wyvern glances over at Pheonix and her charred sausage, clearly sweating a bit over her constant flame spurts (amongst other things). He sets his chile ladel down next to the witch's pot and digs up a habanero chile-shaped bowl, then clears his throat of a few ashes and flashes Pheonix his best toothy grin.

 

"You and all of your flaming brethren are cccertainly welcome to join, fair Pheonix... though I'm afraid the 'no flames through your nostrils' rule applies to you just as it would to anyone else." Wyvern pauses for a moment and wipes the sweat from his forehead as he watches the way Pheonix nibbles on her sausage. "*Ahem* Of courssse, if there are no other challengers, I'll settle with you tasting the chile and will give you the full pot just for bravery. At the moment, things ssseem to be leaning in that direction."

 

Wyvern tears his eyes away from Pheonix's flaming chest region long enough to grab his ladel and dip it into the witch cauldron. He carefully pours the smoking liquid into the habanero bowl and passes it to Pheonix.

 

"Be sssure to consume it in five minutes, before the bowl meltsss." Wyvern winks, then turns his head as he notices Sora Hikari searching for sausages. The overgrown lizard sticks two claws in his mouth and whistles.

 

"Missss Hikari!" Wyvern grins at Sora and begins rubbing his claws together. "Can I interessst you in a bowl of Almost Dragonic Brand Dynaminferno X-tra Blaze Chile™? It'sss only a geld, and there'sss a chance you might win the whole pot... plus, I hear bratwurst tassstes good under flaming tastebuds."

 

;-)

Wyvern takes a long sip of his purple beverage and sets it down on an unstable measuring scale. He balances out the tilting scale with an extra-large bag of curly onion cheese doodles on the other end, then lifts his goggles and turns to Gwaihir.

 

"Certainly, Mr. gardener." Wyvern nods and digs through a sack of "scientific" documents, pulling out what appears to be a wiggly doodle of a circle of sorts. "A feature of a slap bracelet could refer to any part or element of a ssslap bracelet. For example, slap bracelets are made of stringy metal bands (not to be confused with death metal bands), so that would be one feature of the bracelets. Tightness could also be a feature, as they fit tightly around wrists, and the pre-teen salesss market is of course another feature. The lissst goes on... check out what other folks marked as features of their ressspective plural nouns for more examples."

 

With that, Wyvern grins and lowers his goggles once again, snatching up the bag of curly onion cheese doodles and causing the drink at the other end of the scale to topple over in the process. The reptilian Elder lets his tongue flick out once or twice as he watches some of the purple liquid mingle with a Formula or two, but decides to keep it on the hush in the hopes of drumming up stronger experimental results...

I'm very sorry to hear about your friend's passing, Regel. I know that it must be a very hard blow for you to take, especially in light of the other passings in your life, and I hope that you realize that there are people at the Pen who care about your health and well-being and appreciate you posting and sharing your feelings here. Life can really be a test of endurance at times, but I'm confident that you'll pass through all the tragedies it has to offer and emerge with even more acceptance and understanding. I hope that the Pen can provide you with at least a glimmer of sunlight until then... your creative posts are always appreciated, and you should always feel free to vent in the Courtyard.

 

On the poem itself: "A killing sound" was a very powerful line to me, and really resonated throughout the rest of the piece. The fragmented images of mourning all felt appropriate as well. Well done.

Nice poem, mai takekaze. :-) I like the underlying theme of striving to live as one, though the concepts of overcoming the "false" in life and viewing the physical world as "Eternal boredom" admittedly frighten me a bit. I really like the title of the poem as well, as it drew me towards the piece and had me questioning what it was about before I even started reading it (note: "requium" should be spelled "requiem," unless you intentionally used a different spelling for it).

 

One element of this poem that you might consider improving upon in future revisions are the lines that relay common sense, such as "What is understood by one,/Another may not see" and "For what one may see,/ I may miss,/ And what they may miss,/ I might find." I felt that these lines didn't really add anything to the poem, and detracted from the work as the whole as they felt a bit obvious and cheap. You might consider dropping the lines or replacing them with other contemplations of differences in perception or religion.

 

Anyway, nice stuff once again mai. :-) Thanks for sharing this here.

Wyvern sips on a tall glass of something ressembling Madlib Formula #952 Purple as he paces around the Cabaret Room with a measuring stick, examining the portraits and doorways of the chamber to make sure they've been maximized for an efficient experimental environment. The overgrown lizard turns towards those who have gathered in the Cabaret Room and removes his Almost Dragonic Brand Anti-Verbal Radiation Goggles™ for a moment.

 

"Jussst to clear up any confusion, Tanuchan was spot-on in her explanation of how this thing worksss. Great resssponses so far." Wyvern scratches his chin and glances over a scientific set-up sheet, then points a claw towards Gwaihir. "Though I'm afraid I'll still need a feature of your slap bracelets, Mr. gardener."

 

With that, Wyvern settles his goggles back onto his snout and begins documenting the odd mutations of the Formulas used thus far, secretly wondering what the effects of combining several Formulas might yield...

Nyarlathotep flips through a Class B Archaic Protocol Brochure as he awaits the arrival of the Elder of Initiates, smirking at the latest shades of silver space helmet design and pausing at a page that features a half-off coupon for air filtration devices. He places a finger on the page and reaches for his pad and pen, only to notice that the Office window has been opened in the course of his brochure browse. The curious applicant sets down his writing utensil and brochure for a moment and slowly approaches the window, tredding over a significant lump in the thick wads of paperwork covering the floor as he does so. He freezes up at the sound of a reptilian whimper, and manages to catch his balance as the papers under his feet start undergoing a tectonic shift. Nyarlathotep steps to the side just as a stinger surfaces from the pile of paperwork, followed by a set of horns and a scaly red snout.

 

"Ssssorry for the slight delay, got a lil' lost on my way through the window." Wyvern surfaces from the depths of the papers and shakes Nyarlathotep's hand , striking his best salesman grin. "Now, if you'll please be seated, it should jussst take me a moment to read through your app."

 

Wyvern snatches Nyarlathotep's application sheet from his cluttered desktop and scans it over twice. His face goes blank as memories of The Four Horsemen's concert-to-literally-end-all-concerts begin playing back through his mind, and he raises a claw to his chin contemplating the similarities and possible connections that My Final Heaven might have had to the apocolyptic event. Catering, perhaps...?

 

"Aaaaah, space." Wyvern grins and folds the story sheet, turning back towards Nyarlathoteps. "The finally profitable fronti- hey, what's that you're reading?"

 

Nyarlathotep looks up as Wyvern suddenly snatches the Class B Archaic Protocol Brochure from his hands. The reptilian Elder glances through the small booklet and twists his snout at the complicated terms for the various space gizmos found within, then grunts and tosses the brochure aside.

 

"That ssstuff's all way too cheap for you." Wyvern grins, then begins digging through a large stack of crumpled booze-stained brochures. "If you're going to be a pennite, you gotta learn how to order things with class... aside from things affiliated to that 'How to Avoid Wyvern Marketing Gimmicks 101' class, that is. Ah, here we go."

 

Wyvern tugs half a moldy cheese-scented brochure out of its spot at the center of the pile, and tosses it in Nyarlathotep's direction.

 

"Almost Dragonic Brand Asteroid Ring Savings Guide™?" Nyarlathotep glances at the tattered brochure curiously, smirking at the cheap aluminum rocket ship that graces its cover and taking it for a joke. He frowns, however, when he notices that the same aluminum is advertised in the savings guide as Almost Dragonic Brand Shiney Rocket Armor™ ('Shine the Safety Away'), which is adjacent to an add for Almost Dragonic Brand My Pet Asteroid Pebble™. His frown only deepens when he notices what's listed in the remains of the guide's air filtration section. "Leftover Almost Dragonic Brand Canned Perry-Air™?"

 

"Yeah, the two remainings cans are a little out-of-date, but at least you won't have to share'em with others around you!" Wyvern winks, then turns and quickly stamps Nyarlathotep's application ACCEPTED. "By the way, while you're figuring out what to invessst in, here's your application back. Enjoy."

 

;-)

 

OOC: An ACCEPTED application story, Nyarlathotep. Welcome to the Mighty Pen! :-) I'm looking forward to reading more of your stories and to participating with you in various forms of collaborative writing, and hope that you find the Pen a friendly and welcoming community to share your writing with. Your good friend Whisky in Babylon has already been making a very positive impression here, and I hope that you'll find the Pen similarly engaging. Once again, welcome. :-)