The Portrait of Zool

"I was young..." said the old man simply, quietly, not quite pleading. She did not look up. She said nothing. He didn't know what else to say. It was no longer just a question of 'honesty', it had gone too far for that. After all this time, 'honesty' felt so... profoundly revealing - beyond that even... he felt that to tell the truth would be to throw himself away - to impale himself on the end of a stick, like a scrap of meat to be roasted over a fire. No more yearning, no more resistance, no more caring... no more pride. In an unexpected feeling, every molecule of his body cried out to be with her again - and he also felt every molecule in her body cry out too. He looked at her, finding her eyes upon him, and for an eternal moment their eyes locked in some unfathomable mutual sharing. The feeling left him breathless, carrying him back decades, to when he had felt that once before, when he should have... but his pride had headed him off. Damn you Eldrich! There she stood - radiant, mammalian, open, vulnerable... a goddess - it felt as though she had been sculpted by God within and without just for him (and so it could be), and there she stood again, now as then. Most people don't get a second chance, not even close, yet here they were, even after all this time. Fate can be so doggedly persistent. But the gulf was too wide. He just couldn't do it - couldn't bring himself to make a move. He felt his breath catch, his whole being locked in impasse. The shadow of a smirk crossed Eldrich's face as they stood there. Her face fell, collapsing into disappointment and despair. The old man's heart felt like it was caught in a vise. It was too much. He caught her in his arms as she turned to run.

ROFL! We are an evil bunch.

*Zool quickly withdraws his hand from the matrix* "Unstable ones, you say?" Indeed! Lovely poem!

Heh - I was actually trying to make a joke there - doesn't seem like I did very well. Heh - good thing it wasn't a wit test. Actually, you can mark me down with Zadown - I'm afraid to see what I would score on something like that.

Nothing conclusive.

I took the test, but it came back as "Inconclusive".

He crept to the back of his lab, back where he kept his secrets, carefully feeling his way, as the lights had long since gone dark - had been dark far longer than they had been lit, he felt vaguely. He crept forward just until he felt the hair raise slightly on the back of his outstretched hand. It was still there, still functioning. He wasn't sure just what 'it' was anymore, but he often went back there to make sure it was still there, whatever it was. It gave him a feeling of relief, and distantly, a strange satisfaction. He knew it was dangerous to proceed further, to push into the electric field surrounding it, so did not go further. This time. Turning around, he left as quietly as he had come. 'Soon', he thought to himself with a half-smile. Soon.

"Don't listen to him! He'll *murrfle murfle* as soon as you *murfle*!" Said Zool, artfully dodging from one side of his frame to the other, only for Wyvern's hand to cover his mouth again and again. "Oh, don't listen to my pigmented pal here! He'sss, uh, had too much chromozool coffee! Yess... that's it," said Wyvern with an oily flick of his tongue. Zool kept moving from side to side, up and down, and round and round trying to find an open area from which to get a word out, but in a flurry of scaly arms Wyvern managed to keep one hand or the other covering Zool's mouth. "Relax Zoolio old boy," purred Wyvern into Zool's ear. "Don't make me bring up the paint thinner..." No one noticed as the rubber chicken slipped to the bottom of the picture and popped into the third dimension. (Being as he was made of latex rubber, he was materially between the two and three dimensional states, and able to go between). Bounding stealthily on his elastic legs, he quickly exited the cabaret. "So, Whisk, why don't you and I find more, uh, quiet quarters, where we can discuss all the geld you'll make m.. I mean, just 'make'. And anything else we care to make..." Wyvern added with a significant lear. "Mmmmph! Mm mph MMMph!" said Zool. The longer the scene went on, the more resolute Whisky became in doing things to Wyvern if he ever did get her alone - and emphatically NOT what he by now no doubt had in mind. A dark glower overcame her usual sunny expression and she opened her mouth to speak, but was distracted by an insistant shrill squeaking that was fast approaching the cabaret... From the open cabaret door bounded the rubber chicken, and behind him... hundreds of squeaking rubber ducks! Thinking quickly, the rubber chicken had gone to every bath tub in the Pen and rounded up every rubber duck in the Keep. Pointing a stubby wing at Wyvern, he said, "Puk-Ack!" The wave of squeaking rubber ducks headed straight for Wyvern...

My favorite Lynch film of all time would be Mulholland Drive. Though there are some parts that left me mystified, as a statement of the film industry and the film medium itself I think it is unrivaled. Last night me honey had rented 'The Science of Sleep' and we had an enjoyable evening that included watching it. It was a strange film. The central character is 'Stephanie', pronounced 'ste-fan'. The film opens with him arriving somewhere in metropolitan France to his old boyhood home and a new job. Both had been arranged by his mother, who otherwise doesn't reenter the story until about 3/4 the way through the movie. The main element of the film is his quickly revealed difficulty in separating his dreams from reality, and vice versa. Often throughout the movie, there is no clear delineation between what is reality and when he is dreaming, other than the way people are acting, though most of the dream scenes are packed with surreal scenery. Once, Stephanie even slaps his friend, then has to explain that he was checking to see if he was dreaming. As if that weren't troubling enough, his insular, multiple reality is complicated even further when he meets his quiet neighbor 'Stephaney'. Much more than a cute foreshadowing, the similarity of the two names is important because Stephaney proves to be the only person who can share his dream reality. There are a lot of other supporting details to the movie that are entertaining, and I won't reveal the end, which like Stephanie's dreams must be understood by implication, but I will say I highly recommend this movie. Very imaginative and at the same time realistic in the clash between one's dreams, wishful thinking, darkest fears, and waking reality.

I use Firefox at home. Right clicking the word underlined in dotted red gives an option to add to the dictionary.

lol!

I've been there Z, and that's a pretty accurate description of cold weather cycling. One winter when I lived in the eastern US I found myself in the unenviable situation of needing to cycle in the wee hours of the morning, in the coldest part of the year, in a year that was inordinately cold. One morning was just 3F. One thing, I found I had to make sure the bicycle was in the proper gear the night before. In the morning it was so cold that it wouldn't shift gears. The first and foremost rule, of course, is to minimize exposed skin. Two scarves, thick gloves, long overcoat with hood over heavy clothes, and heavy boots over two pairs of socks was the only reason I made it. In fact, I was just able to reach my destination as my extremities were becoming numb. Thanks for the trip down (the COLD!) memory lane!

Yo Whisky, yo Whisky, yo Whisky - GO! What a wonderful story! I love how it feels very intimate, thoroughly including the reader in the experience through clear narration. One thing that I felt halted the flow was the numerous spelling errors. It would probably be a good idea to run your works through a spell checker before posting them. I do - I'm a terrible speller myself I despise Microsoft Word - too many frustrating 'conveniences', so I use a nice text editor, like TextPad or Open Office's Writer.

Excellent idea rev! That would be a way that Whisky could share the story (which is inspiring!) and at the same time it would be appropriate for every Pennite to share and discuss. Edit: thread continued at http://www.patrickdurham.net/themightypen/index.php?showtopic=15274

It is an inspiring story, though we rarely post stuff like this because it is a creative writing site, and what we would really like to see are are original creative works of yours. EDIT: This thread was removed from Something I wanted to share and Inspiration. What can I say? Lotta topic drift we've made. ~Ozymandias~

As Whisky was looking about the cabaret room orating his 'ellos, he was astonished to see a life sized portrait of a man dressed in black leather trimmed in red with an enormous black pompadour swooping straight up a meter from his head and ending in a flamboyant curl. In one hand was a silver handled walking stick, and there was what looked like a rubber chicken draped over the other arm - but Whisky was outright astounded to see the figure in the painting begin to move! He bowed deep, then straightening back up spoke to him: "Hello, I am the Portrait of Zool. Welcome! If you enjoy painting, then we should get along quite picturesquely! I have enjoyed your posts so far, do keep them coming." Then, as if there was nothing strange about portraits speaking at all, the figure resumed his vigilant watch of the cabaret from above the massive fireplace.

It is indeed good to see you come this way again. Smiling broadly, Zool tips his tankard again, and drinks deep.

I'm not much of a poet, but I know what I like. Excellent work! Thank you for sharing.

Or do you mean escaple? GeldrinHor! Good to see you! Count me in too.

re Tzimfemme: I have had to tell another human being not to drink out of the toilet, which boggles my mind to this day (it was a kid thing).

Have you ever had a dream so painful, that you literally went back while still asleep and intentionally changed the ending? re Ozy: When I was younger, as I left my hometown, I went down and peed in the river, emanating it. When I was older, as I left my Waterloo, I went down and peed on the highway, deriding it.

*Please forgive me, but for some odd reason the following stuck in my mind as I read the last few posts.* On the first part of the journey I was looking at all the life There were plants and birds and rocks and things There was sand and hills and rings The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz And the sky with no clouds The heat was hot and the ground was dry But the air was full of sound I've been through the desert on a horse with no name It felt good to be out of the rain In the desert you can remember your name 'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain La, la ... After two days in the desert sun My skin began to turn red After three days in the desert fun I was looking at a river bed And the story it told of a river that flowed Made me sad to think it was dead You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name It felt good to be out of the rain In the desert you can remember your name 'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain La, la ... After nine days I let the horse run free 'Cause the desert had turned to sea There were plants and birds and rocks and things There was sand and hills and rings The ocean is a desert with it's life underground And a perfect disguise above Under the cities lies a heart made of ground But the humans will give no love You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name It felt good to be out of the rain In the desert you can remember your name 'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain La, la ... A Horse with no Name ~ written by Dewey Bunnell, performed by America

"The primordial image, or archetype, is a figure--be it a daemon, a human being, or a process--that constantly recurs in the course of history and appears wherever creative fantasy is freely expressed. Essentially, therefore, it is a mythological figure. . . . In each of these images there is a little piece of human psychology and human fate, a remnant of the joys and sorrows that have been repeated countless times in our ancestral history. . . ." ~Carl Jung~ ("On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry" [_CW_ 15: 127])

ROFL!

As Tanny is leaving a strange sight rounds the corner into the courtyard of the garden gnomes; an enormous sail-like rectangle, appearing to float as it weaves down the trail. Accompanying the entrance is a shrill, agitated voice constantly stammering out directions: "EASY! To-to the right... to the... to the RIGHT - TOO FAR! Look out for the sugar statue!.... LOOK OUT FOR THAT TREE BRANCH!" Finally, after much shouting and contradictory direction, with a groan and tremendous sigh of relief the rectangle settled against the growing pile of garden gadgets, then the cloth is pulled back to reveal The Portrait of Zool, Elder and former Ancient of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword! He is not displaying his usual regal countenance, however, but is sitting in one corner of the giant frame, his face white and covered with a sheen of sweat. He is hyperventilating, his whole body trembling as he holds his head in his hands. "Good GOD I'll be glad when Grimmael comes back from vacation!" he proclaimed. The sack cloth which had been used to cover and protect the full sized standing portrait in transit stirred, and then from underneath came... the rubber chicken. He crawled slowly, haltingly, then collapsed on the grass, his little rubber wings pooped, his little rubber chicken tongue lolling out. "Puk-AAaaaak." After a moments rest, they got to it. The rubber chicken had carried in not only the enormous surly portrait, but also a large and heavy box, which he now opened. Inside the box were a variety of paint brushes of every size, and numerous large paint pots, which the rubber chicken started to unpack. "You sir... Yeah you, gnomie-man! Come and help unpack these paints. Can't you see my friend here is a rubber chicken? Do you expect everything to be done by a rubber chicken?" The garden gnome statue in question looked self consciously from side to side before looking back at Zool, then slowly pointed a chubby finger at himself. "Yes you! Come on and help out! And you three under that brush - I see you - you can help out too!" Slowly the garden gnomes abandoned their defensive positions and began to help out the rubber chicken with the numerous paint pots. "These are wonderful paints," said Gneville Greenleaves, "But we are garden gnomes, not building gnomes or carpenter gnomes. We appreciate it and all, but I'm not quite sure what we will use all this paint for." "Yeah," added Gnadia Mountainwater, "We don't even have as much as a fence to paint - this is a courtyard!" "Nonsense!" replied Zool. "You like these paints precisely because these are the colors of nature. See this green? This will keep the grass a lovely color all year long - you won't even have to water it anymore!" "Are you suggesting we paint the grass green?" asked Gnorbert Deeproots incredulously. "Of course! And look at that pool over there, the water is all sand and clear colored. I have a beautiful blue here that will fix that in a jiff! And then there's the flowers... uh... Hey... What the...?! Where are you taking me? Wait! Rubber Chicken! Help! Heeeelp!" The gnomes had hiked The Portrait of Zool on their shoulders, carried him to the end of the path and unceremoniously threw him out of the courtyard. Zool landed with a portrait-jarring crash and lay inert, face up. The rubber chicken ran up and looked down at him with his best "I told you so" expression. "Oh, shut up," said Zool.