Wyvern

Jack's eyes dart from the pool of blood, to the distasteful ratty hide armor, to the spear, to the ratty hide armor, to the pie, to the ratty hide armor, to the fangs, to the ratty hide armor. He ducks his head in a brief bow, then steps back out of the room and lets the doors swing shut. He raises his hands to the people standing in line. "Terribly sorry, fellow pie lovers. My quest is postponed until the orc has finished changing in there. Normally, I would ask him to make way, but I'm afraid his outfit situation is rather desperate." Jack clasps his hands together. "Senna, please take pity on this poor soul, and let the bakery clerk's clothes fit his orcish figure..."

I think that the title of this poem is very interesting, but I didn't feel that the contents of the poem reflected it much. Structure-wise, the repetition of lines and colors struck me as similar to your "Rain" poem, though the spacing and connection to rain in that one was a little more appealing to the eye. I'm not quite certain what this poem is trying to say at the moment, as on one hand the narrator is asking for a dare while on the other he's asking to not be let down. I'm sure that there's a very complex and interesting set of emotions behind this piece, as powerful and ambivalence emotions have become a trademark of your recent poems, but you may want to draw them out a bit more here with some elaboration. Out of curiousity, what element do letters play in this poem? Thanks for sharing this here. :-) It's always nice to see you posting, and I appreciate you posting these works and channeling your hardships into poetry,

Jack of All Trades steps out from the shampoo and cooking conditioner aisle of DaVinci's with a bottle of DaVinci's famous "Mona Lisa Smile" shaving cream tucked under one arm. The deep green of Jack's traditional elven dancing outfit seems to blend with the veggie pie aisle as he passes through it, but he backtracks his steps when he finds a potted vase of Purple Cone Flowers standing between him and the counter. He reemerges from the green-glaze Stoccoto cake aisle, and politely weaves past people in line towards a mailbox set up next to the counter bell. He reaches a hand into the box and pulls out a special "Club" issue of "Ogre Theatrics," then frowns. "The clerks of DaVinci's are missing?" Jack turns to Betty and twists his nose at the similar color of her attire. He stomps a foot on the ground and grabs a Sin-a-Bun on display on the counter, raising it like a Shakespearian skull. "There's treachery afoot, an evil that threatens to ruin the artistic culture of baking. An adventure is at hand! I must change!" Jack drops the Bun and rushes to his parked wardrobe in the crust portrait aisle of the bakery. He shuffles through the hangers within until he comes across a fancy sparkling bard's chainmail. He lets out a triumphant whistle and plucks the outfit from the wardrobe, then rushes past the line again and jumps over the counter, knocking over a container of free Sin-a-Bun samples in the process. Jack turns to the annoyed expressions of the people standing in line and performs a sweeping bow. "I shall return in a few moments to embark on an epic quest, with the goal of saving you many minutes of waiting time. Patience be with you, fair pastry affectionados!" With that, Jack races to the door located behind the counter to change...

Tonight, I went to see People Under the Stairs, Time Machine, and Psalm One at the Independent in San Francisco. Psalm One is one of the more talented female M.Cs to emerge from the hip hop underground, and was the first M.C to take the stage. She has an interesting background and history, as she's a certified chemist a spunky b-girl from Chicago's immensely talented hip hop scene. I enjoy her recorded material, and her talent as an M.C was apparent on stage, but her set felt a bit lacking as she only performed her tracks in sequence and didn't move around a lot or go out of her way to impress people. She's a very good M.C and I'm looking forward to her new album, but her live performance felt very average to me. Time Machine definitely picked the pace up several notches after Psalm finished her set. Jaysonic, Comel, and DJ Mekalek showed and proved with a very well planned-out and energetic set. One thing that really struck me about the group was how excellent the coordination was between Jaysonic and Comel, as they performed entire songs together in sync and broke out into several syncopated dance moves with ease. One highlight of their set was a song about a spelling bee where they both pulled out chairs and took seats to spell out their words over the beat, shifting their leg positions with every passing turn. Another great moment was a song about somebody hitting a panic button, where DJ Mekalek pulled out a flashing siren and placed on top of his turntables. Time Machine definitely rocked the crowd with a very entertaining set. People Under the Stairs closed out the evening as the headline act, and put on an excellent set. They were dressed in construction worker clothes and had a flashing rainbow disco-type light with them on stage. Their set didn't rely as much on planning as Time Machine's set, but was better than Time Machine's set on the quality of their M.Cing live alone. Thes One and Double K both really poured their hearts into their mics over the course of the set, and really got the crowd hyped up with their jumping and movements on stage. Thes One also played a some MPC drums while Double K scratched on the turntables, and they both gave me love during their set for getting live in the front row. They performed two of their most famous tracks: "San Francisco Knights" and "Acid Raindrops." Unfortunately, they didn't perform their classic track "We'll Be There," which I requested. Still, it was an excellent show. On a side note, I once again got the sense that girls were hinting that I should make a move by rubbing up against me in dancing and making excuses to talk to me while waiting in line around merch tables, but I once again have absolutely no idea how to function in these sorts of social situations. >_

Last night, I went to see Blackalicious, Lifesavas, Fatlip, and Pigeon John at the Pauly Ballroom on UC Berkeley Campus. The price of tickets for non-Berkeley-students was steep at 23 dollars a shot, but I decided to go anyway since Blackalicious and Lifesavas have put on consistantly hype shows in my previous experiences seeing them live. I had also heard very good things about Pigeon John's live show and enjoy his recorded material, so that increased my motivation to go. The Pauly Ballroom was a large university venue with plenty of space for crowds, and I got there early to take a spot in the front row before it filled out. Pigeon John was the first to perform, and he more or less lived up to his reputation of being a fun act to see live. He definitely has a distinct personality as a rapper, with a kind of deliberate corniness that's fun to listen to and watch on stage. One of the highlights of his set was a new dance he invented, the "Pigeon John", which consists of flapping your arms back and forth like a bird and clapping your hands while standing in place and pivoting your hips. He also took a moment or two between his reggae-inspired flows to feel people's faces in the front row, mine included (his hand was sweaty too, ecch). The track of his that worked best live was his semi-sung greeting track, "Hello Everybody," which definitely got the crowd amped. Overall, Pigeon John put on a fun set. The next act that took the stage was Omni, who was not announced in the show's line-up but came out to rock a surprise set. I've never been much of a fan of Omni's music, and his set unfortunately lacked the quirky personality of Pigeon John's performance. To his credit, Omni's flow did translate better to the stage than it has to CD, but he still struck me as a very generic M.C, and I was somewhat bored by the end of his set. Things picked up considerably when Fatlip came out to perform, however. As a former member of a legendary rap group the Pharcyde, Fatlip has a very interesting voice and flow... one that's somewhat reminscent of Ol' Dirty Bastard when performed solo. Moreover, the way that Fatlip moved and carried himself on stage seemed to ooze confidence and cool, and he was an instant hit with the crowd. He put on a very entertaining set, which included tracks about fish in glass eyeballs and an improvised performance of the famous Pharcyde track "Passin Me By." Good stuff. Lifesavas were the next to take the stage, and this unfortunately didn't seem to be their best evening. They performed a number of new and exclusive unreleased tracks, but none of them seemed to be quite as hype or well-crafted as their previous material. The sound quality of the set also went downhill with microphone distortion about halfway through, but they fortunatly managed to get it corrected near the end of their set in time to perform two of their best numbers: "HelloHiHey" and "You." After watching them destroy it on stage twice before, though, I felt a little disappointed by their show. It took around 30 minutes to completely change around the set-up of the stage before Blackalicious came out to perform the most memorable show of the evening. Accompanying M.C Gift of Gab and D.J Chief Xcel were two soul singers from Oakland and the keyboardist RV Salters (also known under the monicker of General Elektriks). Gift of Gab kicked some insane displays of breath control and flow, but RV Salters really stole my attention, not only with his excellent keyboard playing, but also with the amazing dance moves that he was able to do while performing. The way he moved his legs and feet were almost like breakdancing, but he managed to combine it with the keyboard playing in a spectacular way. After a while, Gift of Gab began doing some freestyling over Salters keyboard playing, and then Lateef the Truthspeaker came out from backstage as the second surprise guest of the evening. He did several collaborative tracks with Gift of Gab and Chief Excel, and impressed people with his M.Cing (as he always does in concert). The real highlight of the evening for me was when Lateef began performing the extra-funky dance track "Lady Don't Tek No," which is a duet between him and Lyrics Born as the group Latyrx. I was wondering who was going to perform Lyrics Born's verse on the song, when all of a sudden Lyrics Born himself emerges from backstage and begins performing the track with Lateef! Having both members of Latyrx show up as surprise guests drove the crowd into a total frenzy, though they only performed that one track together. Blackalicious closed the evening out by doing a track with Lateef and Pigeon John, and then going into an enormous freestyle cipher that included Fatlip, Omni, and some random Berkeley chick who was good at freestyling. Overall, it was a great performance, and was worth attending for the surprise visit from Latyrx alone. I would also recommend catching RV Salters live, as he's a highly talented keyboardist and a real kick to watch on stage.

Clef heard her breath, so fast, coming out sharp. And then it was gone. Gravel. "Hey!" Clef unfixed his eyes from the uniforms and saw her run. She was swerving through the stable yard, dust raising up behind her. Left and right, escape with no direction. Good as caught. He sprang forward and almost slipped on one of the swords in the dirt, jumping over one of the bodies and kicking up a cloud. He watched her skid in the dirt and slip near the last wagon. Her sobbing caught his ears as he slowed down near her. It was quiet. So quiet, like a child in the middle of a marketplace, some sorta foolish pride draining that choking sound. What in the hell did she have to hide on a night like this? Clef reached down with a hand. She didn't turn around, kept that quiet front facing the dirt. She started to crawl a bit. More of a fidget, far as Clef could see. She wasn't moving anywhere, just getting that pretty dress of hers dirtier and dirtier, as if the hands of that filth hadn't ruined it enough. Clef reached down further, and gripped her arm. She froze up at his touch, and turned her head towards him, her milky eyes wide and bloodshot. Her long brown hair was shifting in every direction in the dirt, and her fingers seemed to be scraping at a rock, trying to dig some kinda safety nest. “Hey.” Clef spoke softly. She lunged over and bit him on the hand, sinking her teeth hard. Clef winced as a tiny line of blood fell under her chin, but he only tightened his grip. He rose his voice a notch and stared at her with as steel a look as he could muster, trying to erase any signs of gray and blue from his thoughts. “You wanna run?” Clef shook his head. She tried to bite his hand again, but he hardly felt it this time. Her pretty thin lips were pursed in something like disbelief, and the spots of blood on her chin looked like rashes in the moonlight. “You can’t. You know who those people are?” Clef blinked some dust from his eye, and when he opened it she was quiet and still. Just staring at him. “Well, that’s mighty reassuring. You got some sense in you. I wanna help.” Clef kept his eyes fixed on those deep greens of hers, speaking slowly to make sure she understood every word. “You chose the wrong night to be walking Weeslar alleys, and now you gotta leave. Ain’t no choice. But I wanna help, c’mon.” Clef tugged at her arm and helped her to her feet. Aside from the blouse missing a top button, the bottom of her dress was torn from the fall. Clef couldn’t tell whether it was a simple white or a hue of silver in the darkness, but he could see that she had skinned her knee through one of the holes in the fabric. “C’mon.” Clef placed a hand around her shoulder and helped her find her balance. The fabric of the dress felt soft and smooth, or maybe it was just thin and that was her flesh. Or maybe it was only soft to his palm after wielding that pitchfork around. His fingers fell from the soft texture as she started walking straight, and he moved them to her hand, gripping it through the darkness. Weeslar still looked deserted at this hour, but Clef picked up the pace of his walk a bit. As he passed through a side-street near the plaza, his eyes caught sight of her ears again. He’d never seen anything like them. The story was that an Anarshin was behind Derg’s eyes. A staring contest, Derg had told him, with a wager. Derg had never been able to look straight again, and he swore that the elf kept staring at him, even as he handed him the money and left. Clef hadn’t even been sure they existed ‘til now. Clef pulled a bit on the girl's hand as he reached the cemetery. She was hesitating, and the pale dirty look of her hair with those ears made her look like a restless spirit in front of those stones. He tugged at her hand twice before she started following again. “C’mon, just a lil’ further now.” Clef directed her through the cemetary with careful steps, until he arrived back at the familiar Weeslar Tailor door. Derg answered after seven knocks. Clef watched his eyes widen and his chubby cheeks fall. “Who is--?” Derg's half-open eyes seemed to drift from the girl, to Clef, to the metal end of the pitchfork. "Clef? What the-- where, hell, what's that on your...?" "Sorry Derg, ain't no time to explain. I gotta leave, now, before sun up. Wonderin' if I could borrow a loaf of bread." Clef raised a hand to his head and stared at Derg with eyes that he could only hope would show how sorry he was. "I uhh, reckon I may need to take you up on that leather boot offer of yours as well."

Wyvern jumps out from behind the infirmary's "Sweet Tooth, Sharp Tip" closet wearing a classic mobster villain sneer. The overgrown lizard opens his mouth, then pulls a small sign from under his tongue and raises it for all to see: ---- Ha! Ha! Ha! ---- Wyvern ditches the small sign and snatches a grape lollipop from the closet, then detaches a more substantial sign from his tail and holds it up for people to view. ---- [Trigger Disclaimer] No relation to the Grim Squeaker [/End Disclaimer] Ha! Ha! Ha! While you were all distracted by the invaders, my April promotions masterplan was put into full effect, j'yo. The microchips located under your toilet seats will now animate the porcelain into stingy, money-hungry minions, ushering a new era of porta-potties into the Pen's history. Ha! Ha! Ha! [Trigger Disclaimer] No relation to the Grim Squeaker [/End Disclaimer] ---- Wyvern takes a moment to suck on his grape lollipop, then flicks his wrist to reveal a remote control with a large, yellow button on it. The reptilian Elder slams on the button, then rubs his claws together and waits for the imminent reaction. After ten minutes of waiting, the lizard frowns and searches for a sign to express his discontent. Finding none, the lizard growls and hisses. "That'sss strange, they should be wandering through the Pen by now... unless I forget to instruct the voting pennites to put on those Almost Dragonic Brand Microchip Implant Plaid Overalls™." Wyvern's eyes widen, and he raises a claw to his snout. "Oh God, did I leave them on the--" The pennites resting in the infirmary freeze up as a loud crashing sound echoes from the hall outside. Their jaws drop open when a huge Doctor Evil monument hops past the room, knocking out several segments of floor and ceiling simultaneously. Wyvern stands still for a long moment, then grabs three more lollipops and hisses "congratulationsss" before zipping out of the room. ;-p

Jack of All Trades. Human Half-Time Intermissions Clerk. Strength: Poor (-2) Dexterity: Good (+1) Constitution: Mediocre (-1) Intelligence: Fair Wisdom: Great (+2) Charisma: Superb (+3) Son of Mark of All Trades, a wealthy marketing monopolist whose Stocotto gaming merchandise left a nation of aristocrats stampeding during holiday seasons, Jack of All Trades took to the theatre at an early age--though not to the stage. Jack's ill-befitting name fails to assess his single focussed skill: whistling. Be it sound effects, intermission music, or just good ol' fashioned sound language, Jack of All Trades is your man. Unlike his father, Jack is unabashedly in love with Senna, and has an obsession for costumes. His unwillingness to undress has left more than a few actresses disappointed. Skills: Whistle (intermissions music): Superb +3 (5 points) Whistle (sound effects): Great +2 (4 points) Whistle (bird calls): Good +1 (3 points) Whistle (sleep-inducing lullaby): Fair (2 points) Whistle (high-pitched/deafening): Good +1 (3 points) Whistle (taunt): Good +1 (3 points) Whistle (hypnotic melody): Mediocre -1 (1 point) Whistle (suggestive): Good + 1 (3 points) Whistle (uplifting melody): Great +2 (4 points) Whistle (distracting): Good + 1 (3 points) Whistle (military code): Mediocre -1 (1 point) Prayer (Senna): Superb +3 (5 points) Knowledge (Choreography): Medicore -1 (1 point) Knowledge (Staging): Fair (2 points) Owns: Portable 7 foot tall wardrobe on wheels, with a Senna shrine located within. Numerous costumes, without a touch of purple in sight. Sharp haircomb/letter opener. Subscriptions to five fashion magazines, five theatre magazines, and ten fashionable theatre magazines. A breath freshener. A rolled-up red carpet, which occasionally substitutes as a cape. Various pieces of Senna fandom. A large portrait of Bultar, which he spits on once a day and wields as a blunt object. A mailbox for theatre reps to drop requests in (requesting in person is unfashionable, these days).

Nice poem, Jareena. :-) I thought that the parallel rhythm and structure of the stanzas worked well, and that the religious overtones were well-incorporated. The comparison of society to moths getting caught in flame, though fairly common as a metaphor, was given a fresh twist to me with the notion of being reborn as a butterfly. I also loved the use of the word "kamikaze" in the second stanza, and liked the hopeless note that you ended it on. One line you might consider revising for rhythm is the final line of the first stanza, which reads with 8 syllables while the other two stanzas end in 7. I initially didn't like the repetition of "moths to flame" in the two lines preceding the last line of each stanza, perhaps because of the use of "Yes" in those lines, which felt more informal to me than the rest of the piece... but the repetition does add a certain lingering rhythm to the rhyme scheme in the last lines. Well done, once again.

I once again like the magical details of this story, silentangel. :-) The baby dragon radiating Marina at night is an example of one such a detail that stood out to me. Just like the first chapter, I like how you drew a connection from the fantasy realm to Marina's normal life, with Marina's relating to the baby dragon as an outcast and her indecisiveness in naming him. One thing you might consider sharpening is Marina's emotions in the text, as the chapter currently reads to me like a series of factual events. You do provide Marina's feelings at certain points, but they feel distant in the narrative, and you might want to draw us closer to her by showing us more of her impressions. Also, on a lesser note, you may want to italicize the words that appear in Marina's magical book to make the text of the book clear to the reader. On an organizational side-note: this story might be easier for Pen readers to follow if it were converted to one thread, rather than seperated into different threads for different chapters. If you'd like, I'd be happy to shift this thread and its responses into your first "expositus foris" thread, and you could continue the story by adding new chapters as responses to that thread. Thanks for sharing this. :-)

Broccoli vengeance: health the soil rescinds. Grown to cook, gives Zool and others winds. Pack your bags when earth transcends to gas, for noxious fumes shall every pennite pass. Topic: Rhyme Time 2

Wyvern rides into the Cabaret Room in a beat up truck that's been painted a shade of limousine-black. A long wooden board rattles around in the rickety rear of the Pick Up, almost catapaulting its way out at every carpet speed bump. Wyvern slams a foot on the brake as the truck nears the center of the room, and the vehicle skids over the length of the floor and comes to a narrow halt in front of the far wall. A cloud of smoke billows from the truck's engine as Wyvern opens the door, and he coughs as the airbag and tires fizzle out simultaneously. The overgrown lizard hops out of the driver's seat and grumbles to himself, ignoring the snide comments of the pennites inspecting the yacht deck doodles on the long wooden board. He follows the mud tracks of the truck over the carpet until he arrives a few feet away from Mira. "A Happy Belated to ya Mira, I gotcha an Almost Dragonic Brand Emergency Yatch™... perfect for those stranded-on-a-desert-island situations, and it doubles as a seesaw! Keep pluggin' out those inspired poemsss of yours." The lizard grins in Mira's direction, then scratches his chin and adds: "A Happy Belated to Kasmandre as well, he's made quite a few contributions in his day. And the heck, I'll twirl a noisemaker for DL_Snake's B-day today as well... reptilian comradery and what have you." ;-p

I watched "The Aviator" and "The Leopard" recently, on wide-channel television and DVD respectively. I had low expectations for "The Aviator," not only because it was one of those big budget Hollywood movies that stressed its aim at making an "end of the year" impression, but also because Leonardo Dicaprio played the lead role in it. I was actually very surprised at how enjoyable the movie was. It does flaunt its Hollywood-ness excessively, but it has its fair share of very enjoyable scenes, and Dicaprio is shockingly good in it. His best piece of acting, hands down. It plays out with a similar formula to "A Beautiful Mind," only with more comedy. Good film. I had reasonable expectations for "The Leopard," since it's been hailed by many movie critics as an old classic, and is regarded as having one of the best set pieces in movie history. I have to say, I thought it was three hours (literally three hours) of moldy cheese. There are certain old classic films that have really stood the test of time and which still resonate well today (see: "Casablanca"), but this is definitely not one of them in my opinion. Sitting through this, I couldn't help but notice how badly it's aged, with corny dialogue and cliches that really drag it under. The bad American dubbing of the original Italian dialogue didn't help much, of course... Perhaps the most baffling bit about it is that it documents the life of a family of Italian aristocrats during the period of the unification of Italy, but no tragedy or significant event ever seems to befall them. Over the course of three hours, it's all political banter and ballroom dancing, and I felt like I was waiting for something more that never happened. If you like to watch dancing, I'd say get yourself some ballet tickets and leave this one alone.

Wyvern smacked his booze-parched lips together when Katzaniel finished explaining the task. His beady eyes went dull as he stared at the instructions page, and he resisted the urge to grunt or guffaw or grab the nearest portable crystal ball to call Cyril for assistance. Instead, he stared at Katzaniel with a hint of a grin, not wondering what to edit so much as how to twist it to suit his every need. His seedy brain had already come up with an outline to fit the basic instructions: it had to start at the beginning, involve a red pen, include only a short segment of text, and add adjustments that made the story better. Well. He had just the thing. "There once was a girl named Sanda, She had this rabbit. who was known far and wide for her D-cups, her nightgowns that showed off her curves, and her arousal towards lizard scales. Oh yeah, and she owned a million dollar bunny. Its name was Whiskers Frisky, the Retarded yet Loveable Hare. One day, she was cleaning Whiskers' cage Frisky's Almost Dragonic Brand Lettuce Wall Bunny Playpen™ [now available in three shades of money green!], and she had just finished, and she turned around and he was gone airing out the aphids that nested in the Playpen with Almost Dragonic Brand Insect Distractor Spray™ [now available in three bug scents!]. Now, Sanda was really very attached to her rabbit Wyvern. She loved him dearly. So she knew she had to do anything she could to get him back fit into that extra-tight leather of hers and seek him out." It was actually very difficult for Wyvern to not go into longer details about Sanda's arousal towards him. But he wanted the excerise open to other pennites to praise Almost Dragonic Products™ with as well. And he couldn't afford to take the editing much further. Nor could he afford to plunge forward. He couldn't afford anything, really. "She hurried to put away the cage and then rushed out of the house. She looked every which way. Finally she saw some footprints Almost Dragonic Inc. Billboards. She hurried off after them, knowing in her heart D-cups that this was the way that Whiskers had gone to Wyvern's classy motel suite."

I like this poem, Azuran. :-) I think the metaphorical resonance of the last stanza is strong, with the lightning of inspiration hailing down in the storm. I also find the use of the word "sinister" in describing the clouds intriguing, as it seems to suggest that there's a certain element of darkness associated to inspiration (or at least one surrounding it). The description of the air as "hungry" also stands out to me, though some of the more extreme adjectives such as "Sublime" and "Priceless" strike me as a bit less important to the poem. Very well done, overall. :-) I like the phrasing in this.

Wyvern hums to the tune of "The Green Grass Grows All Around" as he scrapes the last of the Roasted Zucchini and Green Pepper Soufflé onto his plate. The overgrown lizard examines the large brown bowl to make sure he hasn't missed any small specks of green, then grins and glances back at the twenty other dishes he had passed through. The first half of the banquet table was a garden wasteland, with empty pots and plates stacked against each other over a torn tablecloth. Wyvern pauses for a moment to admire the mountain of Greenbean-Coleslaw-Cauliflower-Pea-Artichoke-Carrot-Potatoe-Jalepeneo-Lettuce-Pepper-Zucchini fry/soup/stir/salad/soufflé that rests on his plate. A jalapeneo head crowns the peak of the monstrous platter, nearly extending it to the Cabaret Room ceiling. "Oh!" Wyvern turns from the banquet table for a moment on rings on a spare wine glass with a claw. "Happy Birthday Gwai, and thanksss for the good eats. I gotcha an Almost Dragonic Brand Anti-Pesticider Spray™... it's that crumpled giftwrap in the shape of a lady bug, over there in the corner. Works on farmers, gardners, and health inspectors by ssscenting plants with the alluring perfume of almost dragonic armpits. Carry on." Wyvern turns back to the remainder of the platters on the banquet table, only to notice that several other party guests are beginning to approach it. The reptilian Elder frowns and steps in front of his mountain of food. "Back off." Wyvern scowls and takes out a balloon interpretation of a poodle, which has been tied down in balloon string. He points a claw at the "poodle"'s long balloon head. "One step closer, and the dog gets it." Wyvern glances left and right, not noticing his mountain of food as it begins to lean over a bit. "That'ssss right, no false moves." Wyvern grins as the food starts to come down behind him. "Now, somebody chain that pheonix's neck and bring it over here. My meal could use a bit of heating." ;-p OOC: Hope you had a good one, Gwaihir. ;-)

Clef stepped through the cemetary in long strides, using the blunt end of his pitchfork as a walking stick. His eyes carefully avoided the shrunken stones dotting the mounds on the ground. Those familiar stones. His destination was nowhere near that halfling and that queer-looking pipe-puffer, some place lost. They took the air, the town, and Derg's hospitality for granted, and that was fine. But there were some things that you didn't take for granted in this world. Like family. Clef lost his balance as he stepped over a stone without looking. His long legs flailed forward in his dizzy state, but he planted his pitchfork and caught himself on it. He shook his head and stared at the ground before shutting his eyes. When Miima passed, they hadn't been able to etch the stone. He dragged her back home, fast as those long legs could carry him, the blood running down his arm and into her hair. Layed her out near the front deck. Those hoof-markings on her face were like some kinda fancy tattoos 'round a broken mouth, and the dirt imprints on her skirt weren't hiding the bruises. And Lord, he had cried. Miima. Momma's last one. Clef shuffled out of the cemetary and through the deserted streets. A half moon shined its light over the lonesome patches of dirt where the drink tents had once stood, and Clef stumbled through the abandoned town square with a swagger. He came to a halt when he reached the Weeslar stables. They were all locked up and darkened, the pale moonlight barely reaching them. Several wagons lined the dirt in the stable yard, empty and desolate. The kind of cart that not even a spook would want to drive in his last night of haunting. Clef layed his head against a wooden stable wall and breathed a quiet sigh. Not a single oxen. He had to come up with a good excuse for Pops. He knew that wouldn't be enough, but he had to come up with one anyway. That's when he heard the breathing. It was a faint sound, but Clef had heard fainter in his cattle days. It was shakey, desperate. Terrified. Clef stepped against the stable wall and peered through the shadows, into the stable yard. The moonlight only lit two or three of the wagons, but he spotted a faint silhouette around the last cart. It looked like a man casting the shadow. He was standing still, and his head was tilting from one direction to another. "shh-shh-shh-shhh" Clef's eyes darted towards the sixth wagon, sitting there in the shadows. No doubt in his mind now. He crept along the stable walls in the hopes of seeing a bit more with the moon's rays at an angle, but his worries were answered for him when a small light was lit in the back of the wagon. It was dim, at hardly a flicker. But it was enough. A man and a woman were standing next to the back of the cart. Another man was already mounted on it, with a tiny lantern set at his side. Clef knew lanterns like that didn't come cheap. The woman in front of the cart was stark still. Her eyes were shut, and she was trying her damnest to stop that breathing of hers. "be glad you're not in salinsway. would've silenced you, one way or another. shh." The man at the woman's side had one hand working at her blouse. His fingers pinched and snapped off the top button, letting it fall to the dirt. His other hand moved the smooth part of a knife up and down one of the woman's long pointed ears. That was all that it took for Clef. He stepped from the shadows and cleared his throat. "'Scuse me." The man outside of the cart paused and squinted, not taking his hand from the blouse or his knife from the ear. He stared at Clef with a look that bordered on disbelief. "The Hell...?" "I uhm." Clef shifted his feet through the dirt. "Just wanted to load up my wagon here, 'fore the dawn sets in. Wanna stand clear of that mornin' rush." The second man hopped off of the wagon and shook his head in Clef's direction. His shirt was already missing, and his scrawny chest had less hair on it than a sheared sheep. The first man slid the smooth surface of the knife off of the woman's ear, and she breathed in sharply. Clef's eyes met with hers for a moment, and they were wide and milky, with an endless green that was almost hypnotizing. "Get lost, prairy kisser." The first man frowned and twisted the hilt of the knife in his fingers. "There'll be time for your wagon in the morning. You came here way too early." Clef tightened his grip around his pitchfork. "Prairy kisser?" The sound of crunching gravel caused Clef to turn his eyes. The silouhette reaching from the final wagon was gone, and another man was eyeing him at a distance from the cart. Clef glanced at the other two men, and their calm meant that the third stranger was also in on it. Not a second to spare now. "Everything al-" Clef sprung forward, gritting his teeth, both hands clutched around his pitchfork. The man holding the knife barely had time to look back from the watchman as Clef drove the blunt wooden end into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The second man's eyes widened and he reached a hand for his sword, but his pants fumbled loose and Clef swung the wooden length of pitchfork into his face. Clef grunted and turned to strike the gasping first man in the head, knocking him out cold. But the third man was running faster than Clef thought, and he barely had a second to raise his hand as a short sword sliced above his head, taking a few strands of hair. Clef grimaced and drove the sharp metal end of the pitchfork forward in desperation. One of the needles punctured the man's neck and tore across it. Clef watched him clutch at the gash and drop to the ground, his blade clattering in the dirt. The woman's breath was coming faster now. More panicked, just as terrified. A patch of blood was forming under the third man's neck, and he was twitching on the ground. And it was at that moment that Clef noticed the uniforms on the three bodies. The formal blues and greys they wore were more visible when strewn across the dirt, faded in the lamp's dull light. The proper wear of the Confederacy. "Sheeit."

A sweet poem, Wrenwind... I'm sure that Jerry would be flattered by it. :-) The short eight-syllable stanzas read well for the most part, and I liked the sensual feel that "taste" drove across in the fifth stanza. While most of the lines were direct and easy to understand, I was uncertain what was meant in the line "Just feel you start," and you might consider rephrasing it for more clarity. Thanks for sharing this here. :-)

I really like the image of this poem, Lone Shadow. :-) The depiction of the flare creeping below the water definitely held my attention, particularly with the dancing shadows that move away as it descends. Having said this, I'm uncertain if I understood the implications of the final stanza, as it struck me as a bit vague. You might consider expanding the stanza or simply changing "more" to something more concrete to fufill this poem's potential. Nice wording and imagery, once again. :-) Thanks for sharing this, it's nice to see you posting.

Wyvern rushes into the Cabaret Room clutching a shakey platter between his claws. The shiny neon cover-cloth of the dish sparkles as the overgrown lizard skids to a halt and almost topples over. Wyv catches his breath for a moment, then flashes a razor-sharp grin and tosses the cloth into the air, revealing a triple-chocolate jumbled hair cake with pointy ear candles. He doesn't notice the cover-cloth as it floats through the air into Solivagus' face, and ignores the commotion of nearby shiny fanatics as he sets the cake down at Valdar's feet. "Happy Birthday, Valdar." Wyvern strikes another token grin, then flexes his neck for a moment. "I've been practicing the proper ear speak to communicate my best wishes for this day, but am still having a few issues with the obstructing horns. Still, I hope this will sssay more than any hissing can." Valdar steps back as Wyvern jumps in the air and flips, spreading his wings a notch to give his twist a little flexibility. The overgrown lizard attempts to land on his horns, but screws a little too sharp and falls flat on his face. He lies in silence for a long minute, then gradually shuffles to his feet and breaths a dismal sigh. "Well, the thought'sss there anyway." Wyvern grumbles, then snaps a claw. "Almost forgot, gotta light the candles on this thing." Valdar raises a brow as Wyvern cups a claw near his snout. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY AARDVARK." The ear candles spontaneously burst into flame at the sound of Aardvark's name. Valdar's eyes widen as the ear wax (eww) begins to melt at an alarming pace, shifting its way through the chocolate hair conditioner glaze down to the crusty cake scalp. ;-) OOC: Happy Birthday, Valdar, I hope all goes well for you. :-) And a Happy Birthday to you as well, Aardvark... no comment! ;p

Wyvern scans over the entries of the three participants one final time, then decides that the month deadline has passed and that it's time to announce the victor before the next set of tax collectors rolls around. The lizard clears his throat of a few ashes and raises a small announcement card in front of his snout. He goes cross-eyed as he reads the fine print. Thanks to those who chose to participate in this. :-) I really liked the description of the mouth cave in Sweetcherrie's entry as well as the hopeful ending of Patrick's response, but Zool's was by far my favorite for its intricate backstory, creative incorporation of George Alfonso Frederico details, and original twist ending... not to mention its general comedy value (see: off the freakin' meter). Thus, it is with the utmost honor that I pass down this fine prize to The Portrait of Zool. Wyvern hands the Portrait of Zool a statement indicating that he is now responsible for the next "Imagine if you were" subject, along with a document to sign stating that no earwigs were harmed in the making of this thread. The overgrown lizard stifles a snicker and dashes off before the framed fowl-feeder can read the fine print about the lima bean factory bill. ;-)

This is- F*cking Jack. I wipe an insect tendon from my face, but that shit-stain mucous blood clings to my chin like some squad ration. Like vomit, I feel. Vomiting. No time. F*cking Jack, blew himself and- steady the rifle and fire at one of those THINGS in the head. Things- This is- We're not things. And the firebat- might as well be having the time of his f*cking life. Oh look at Chad. Run Chad, maybe you'll light one of the bugs up with your last dance. F*cking ASSHOLE. We're not things. Steady it, steady. These slimey shits are like lightening when shells are- Ethan, where's Eth- This is- My name's, umm, Martelb- NO, no, Marty. Nickname. Steady it. We're not things. Sometimes it's 99%... what? Steady it, fire! Fire! The M-85 jolts around in my hand and I rasp out half a laugh, catching some specks of that sh*tty puss-blood around the corners of my lips. F*ck Chad and his 'let's jump into the Ninth Ring of Hell together' bullsh*t. Nice to know you champ, hope you suck a lotta demon cock down where you're going. Stead- This is- Some still convinced of their Masters maybe. We're not things. Family? No. Where are th- oh he-OH F*CKING SHIT! On my on my on my arm, it can't- I- fall, jam it against, DIE! Yeah, you like the taste of that stone f*cker?! Have some more! Have some more! It's like paste now, green over my clothes. We're not things. Those legs, still sticking up like We're not things. Green splatter rock, two of the eyes still We're not things. Still there. We're not things. Are we? This is- This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong. I stand up, and I couldn't be calmer. Battle's still raging on, and I snipe out two approaching bugs without so much as flinching. We were all sent here to burn in Hell. They made us so that they could throw our lives away for some f*cking corn and potatoes. They could have used nukes and invested in non-organic foods, but they're just some greedy scumbags. Sergeant's probably smoking one of those fat f*cking cigars of his, watching all this from the vehicle monitors, ready to call for backup or move out. Profiting off of our deaths. That son of a bitch. It's very clear to me now, it's never been clearer or calmer. This is one giant death trap. But if the end is near, I'll be damned if I'm not gonna fight off the greater of the two evils. Feed us to the bugs, will you? This is my response. "WE'RE NOT THINGS!" My voice is loud and hoarse, and the cavern walls carry its echo. "You hear me?! WE'RE NOT THINGS!" I gun another approaching bug down, then fire rounds at the ceiling to get some attention. I step past a stalactite that collapses, then raise my voice another notch. "You're being thrown away for cheap dollar bills!" I fire at another bug. My voice is loud and calm. "Our lives are worth less than a patch of land to these military assholes! But we think! We're alive! WE'RE NOT THINGS!" I wipe out another of those bugs, then wave my hand towards the passageway leading out of the cave. The direction we came from. "It's time we showed these military ass-hats that we're more than some expendable scum!" I grit my teeth and charge in the direction of the passageway, away from the bugs, towards the real enemy. "WE'RE NOT THINGS! WE'RE NOT THINGS!" As I charge, my ears catch what could be a chant or an echo.

Clef spent the rest of the Sun's rays sipping on tiny cups of Pixy Meferr and exotic Mushreein wine. He never bothered spitting, letting the mixes settle at the pit of his stomach, like a blanket of forgetfulness over his oxen woes. By the time the light receded, he had drank a cup and a half more than Derg, but his competitive streak had dwindled down to a half-hearted tug. Derg led him by hand, past the Proud Weeslar pub and through a small cemetary of jagged stones. Barely a patch of land, but Clef knew that long as there was a body, no fancy headstone could ever bring that memory back. God, that memory. "Derg Gorramos." Two men stood in front of the Weeslar Tailor. One was tall, almost Clef's height, with a cheap pipe in his mouth and long brown eyebrows. The other was a halfling, well-built and brawny, with half a goatee and an awkward strut in his step. Clef watched Derg come to a halt and slap his forehead. "Aww, guys- I'm sorry, I just- it's been a pretty long-" "That's alright Miracle Tailor." The halfling let out a low chuckle. "It's still the hour. Who's your friend?" "Never told me you worked in front of no graveyard." Clef swayed over and caught his balance. Derg grabbed his shoulder and steadied him. "Clef, an old friend of mine. Just needs a place to sleep for the night. Come on, usual shuffle?" Clef watched Derg fumble through a set of small keys and unlock the door with a creak of rusted metal. Long rows of boots covered the shelves and floor, and a table cluttered with tools and half-finished heels dotted the left corner like some kind of cobbler throne. A bundle of old quilts lay stacked together next to the darkened fireplace, with a single quilt hanging over its aged frame. Clef smiled at the design of the quilt: a horse kneeling with its mouth in a large feeding tin. He still saw it half-finished, with Derg's mother kneeling over in her careful sewing, her deep dimples failing to hide that radiant smile of hers. Back then, he and Derg had run chores together every day, but Clef hadn't been around to witness her illness when those last days rolled around. She had always been an angel to him, that Gurtha. "Grab whichever you like." Derg motioned towards the quilts. He lit a lamp on the cobbler table, and sweeped the projects there to the floor in a clatter. "The boys and I are gonna play some hands. You should rest. Sleep wherever." Clef nodded with a groggy swagger and fumbled his hands over a quilt. The texture felt a bit rough as he passed it through his fingers, but he tried to ignore the prickly feel of the fabric as he settled down with it near the fireplace. He turned his back to the rays of the lamp and drifted in and out of sleep, the thought of pops' face at the word of no oxen haunting him awake. He knew that scowl of his all too well, those blackened tobacco spit teeth. What teeth he had, that is. Still, for all those wrinkles, Clef knew he could still hit like a wild stallion. Strength was just in the Forguun bloodline, he reckoned. "Well, I double your bet, and raise you three Antaen silvers." Clef sat up at the sound of the halfling's voice, his head throbbing and his stomach loosening a bit. He turned and retched towards the old ash of the fireplace for a moment, then shook his dizzy head until the room seemed straight. It was still dark out, and the lamp's dim light covered the jumbles of boots in a homely warmth. Clef's eyes turned to the table, and he watched the tall man look over his hand of cards. "See, my sister, she's lost her head. Wants to marry this Scadrow fellow, and do you know what he works?" The tall man tilted his eyebrows and layed down his card. "Street vending, the worst kind." "I tell you, my little sis can never be satisfied. Twice as bad as that." The halfling layed down the superior card with a wink. "She won't rest till there's a ring on every ear, and two on every toe." Clef lifted himself with a grimace, and took a careful step forward. "But you see, this Scadrow is a wiley blackmarketer. Your sister's greedy, sure, but mine wants to wed a-" "Clef." Clef paused at the sound of Derg's voice. He stood at the door silent, his hand clenched around the wooden handle of his pitchfork. He turned his head for a moment and saw Derg's face staring at him from the table. His eyes looked so uneven in their concern, but Clef already knew that Derg understood why he wanted to go out. "Thought you were resting. Where're you off to?" "Just gonna get some air." Clef gripped the door handle and pushed it open, ignoring the chill of the breeze. "Reckon I'll be back after the last hand has passed."

I recently watched "Capote" and "Thank You For Smoking," on DVD and in the theater respectively. "Capote" was very good, with excellent acting on the part of Philip Seymour Hoffman in the main role and a pretty haunting storyline to boot. Witnessing the transformation that Truman Capote undergoes when interacting with the murderers at the heart of his novel In Cold Blood definitely stuck with me after watching it. It's a real downer, so not recommended for cheerful socials. I wouldn't say that the movie's amazing, but it's definitely a quality, thought-provoking flick if you're into that sort of thing. "Thank You for Smoking" was a pretty fun comedy based around a spokesman for the tobacco industry, who defends the rights of people to smoke and makes some pretty good comments about the importance of having the freedom to choose. Despite the curse words and R-rating, this definitely struck me as more of a homely family flick, complete with token sophisticated little kid making wisecracks at every crucial moment. William H. Macy is great in the role of the stern environmentalist governer that he plays. There're some moments of predictable family-oriented cheese (as well as literal cheese), but it's worth a view if you're bored one Sunday afternoon and not strapped for cash. On a side note, I rewatched "Donnie Darko" recently and it once again struck me as an excellent film. I can't help but to think of "The Matrix" when I consider "Donnie Darko"s position on the movie spectrum... a low budget B-movie that's garnered a cult following on the strength of its ideas and originality alone. Very highly recommended, if you haven't seen it.

Wyvern rushes into the Cabaret Room in a frenzy, surrounded by a mob of howling reporters with streaming notepads the size of Sweetcherrie's guild activity resume. Wyvern swerves in a semi-circle and opens his mouth to scream, only to choke as a dirty microphone slams its way around his tongue. "Weivyrn!" One of the newsrats twitches its whiskers and dances around Wyvern in some kind of ritualistic reporter boogie. "Is it true what they say? Another Saint?!" "A new Saint?" A newsrat jumps from a ceiling rafter and lands on Wyvern's head. "Is it true Mr. Wiiveern?! Didn't they stop-" "Religious Travesty Shakes Pen at its Core." A newsrat sitting on Wyvern's tail nods and jots it down on a pad. "What do you think of that for a title, Sir Wavur-" "Enough!" Wyvern coughs and spits as the mic head exits his maw. "Lisssten, there is NO confirmation yet that Bernard is a Saint of any sort, capiche? Yes, we the Elders are aware he's been doing his bit with the bribes, but he needsss to find a better gift than drooling in our slippers. Besides, even if he did slide us some big money, the administration would have it pass through the Tower, Minstrel Hall, Oaktree, Assembly Room, Blackhole, Chatting Catacombs, Land of Lore, Chamber of Torturous Tutorials, Room of the Fiery Hearth, and Double Secret Evil Planning Room of Doom before it'd even begin to be considered official. So get lossst!" The newsrats freeze for a moment as they mull over Wyvern's words, then turn to amscray as Akallabeth the (St.) Bernard peppers their area with menacing barks. Wyvern shakes his head as he watches the rats scurry off, then turns to Tanuchan and grins. "Sssorry I'm late, Tanuchan." Wyvern rolls his eyes and waves a claw in the direction of the departing paparatzi. "Here, I got you this book as a gift, it's part of Almost Dragonic Inc.'s new adaptations of children's classics. I like to call'em: Almost Dragonic Brand Badaptations™." "'Clifford the Fire Dog'...?" Tanuchan frowns and raises a brow at the rectangular picture cover. The artwork depicts a firefighter squad mistaking Clifford for a burning building and trying to put him out. In the background, the actual burning house can be seen. Tanuchan squints at the subtitle. "... or 'Clifford finally gets a bath.'" ;-) OOC: Happy belated, Tanuchan. :-) I hope you had fun.