Peredhil

Awww Parmmy... Just more of 'oo to wuv... Peredhi is happy he's safely on the other side of the ocean, because he knows Parmenion is stronger and tougher than his slender Elven frame... and bigger!

I *really* like this. It's positive, and the "lighthouse" type of person I try to be and fail so often - the idea that the other person will heal enough to give back in turn is such a hopeful image for both sides. When I read it aloud, it really flows for me, until I get to It's a good line, with an 8-count, but I think it's the motion of the tongue that was awkward. Heh, when something flows so well, it's the tiny .01% that catches my eye, an implicit "Well, the other 99.99% is so obviously good, do I really need to comment?" Which is silly, because it if were *my* poem, I'd want to hear the good too!aHEM, anyway... Just thought I'd point that out. Again, in the verbal flow, do you think might move more smoothly if it were:"or help if you cannot find your way," I realize it's an extra syllable, but when I read it, it seems to 'feel' better when I read it. But then, I sometimes read things oddly. What do you think? Back to the 99+% -- Very nicely done.

I like this Appy. Comparing this to your first few posts here, I see an marked improvement as you keep writing, and I "hear" your voice coming through more honestly and clearly. I like: That I'm tempted to use it in my 'Sig'... -Peredhil

I think this is well written. Seems it applies to many people in our modern society.

It was more than a week of travel before Uncle spoke of the Voices again, instead of to them. "Boy." He looked at Mordecai warily, well learned caution springing instant to the fore. "I know you hear them. But which ones..." He realized that he wasn't being spoken to, he was being spoken about. As long as people talked to themself, they usually didn't hit. "..." The Words struggled up Uncle Mordecai's throat and writhed from between his stiff lips. The Voices Shouted and then fell silent. He could feel them attending carefully. "I want you to listen carefully. You should be able to hear different Voices if you try. They may not be loud, but try to pick them out from the sounds of bird, and the leaves moving." Mordecai spoke slowly and carefully, looking at him with great concentration to ensure he understood. This was important, but it made no sense. He'd tried NOT to hear the Voices! Staring at Mordecai, he swallowed through a suddenly dry mouth and nodded. Mordecai took several deep breaths, like Papa before he lifted a stump, then barked a short Word. The Voices all sang dischordantly in protest, and Uncle's face beaded with sweat as he strained at nothing. Finally the Voices chimed in sullen assent. "Tell me," panted Mordecai, "when you can hear a Voice." He raised his hand and began stabbing it in short jerky motions. At the descent of each beat, a Voice sang, starting with the low Deep Voices from the hidden heat underground, and continuing up to the high Wild Voices of the coldest air. With each beat, he nodded to his Uncle. When the final Voice sang, Mordecai made a throwing gesture and the Voices crowded and swirled around angrily. "Please, I'm afraid," he begged the Voices with trembling words. They touched him reassuringly and settled. Mordecai sighed and replied, "You don't have to fear them, they're gone now. They may be angry with me for a bit, and I regret rushing into it. I wanted to you speak or nod when you heard a Voice in your range, not in time with my hand." He stared. Uncle didn't know the Voices were still here. Mordecai didn't hear them unless they shouted. He thought he was a liar. He began to speak, but Mordecai waved him to silence. "It's alright. Just as well. You have the Talent, but you have a long way to go before you'll be able to learn the language of binding."

Peredhil trotted into the Cabaret and to the cleared table. On it he placed a special gift for the birthday guy - A genuine Princess-carried frying pan from the Mario Universe. Humming happy birthday tune under his breath, he moved off again. Behind him, his Bodyguards began hanging birthday things - Nuncio setting out balloon bouquets, while Guido happily stapled "Happy Birthday" banners - upside down...

This will make a great Quill-Bearer Quest in my opinion. If I can get the time, I think I'll give the assignment a whirl myself.

Worked for me... Very gritty, dark, and seductively real... write *more*

Peredhil sneaks in and takes a seat to listen, amazed at the effortless way the tiny details conjure the story up in his mind's eye.

For some reason, I found this appropriate.

Hurrah! Go Blue Voices of the world! Break the old mirrors, turn and see the present realities!

Hon', It's okay. We all go through that at times. Your presence is welcome whether you are able to access creativity or not. When in doubt, read other people's stuff, and if you can find a comment for them, share it. Hugs I hope you find your Muse again soonest.

It feels like that sometimes... As long as you write it out instead of acting on it. Big Hugs, 'cause I'd miss your voice if it fell silent.

Don't forget to subtract the inactive ones from the 187... The Pen doesn't delete accounts. I suspect some people at some point in time have made a "temporary" account to feel us out, and then finally made the account they wish to keep. Plus there are some who for one reason or another only come by once a year, if that. As the Weenie Awards at the last site showed, at any given time we have an average of 30% of the registered accounts active - if we're lucky. So to be fair, of the roughly 67 accounts currently active/semi-active, you've only been ignored by about 59 people.

Peredhil turns a deep brick-red shade that simply doesn't match his clothes. Meep! I am SO sorry! I'd make all sorts of excuses and spin out mitigating circumstances, but the truth is, I was just in too much of a hurry and plain wrong. Identity is an important thing to me, so I'm doubly aghast at twixting yours. But, this does provide an opportunity to show your patience, kindness and understanding. Peredhil hugs REGEL, who unfailingly greets him in any AoA room, in ThePen room, and now in the Cabaret. Oh, your question. If you head down that short Hallway and go through the door (knock gently, it's an intelligent door!) you'll find the outer office in which sits Melba, the Almost Secretary of the Pen. We were looking for an executive assistant for Elder Wyvern, but she arrived first and moved in. I think she might have a crush on Brute. Anyway, If you read the stickies on the walls, and present your application, the Recruiter, that Almost Dragon Elder, Wyvern, will get to you as soon as his schemes allow. With a sigh, Peredhil thanks Regel again for his nearly infinite patience with the Polite Ancient.

Hmmm, I'm going to break one of my cardinal rules and reply to this... Usually, no matter how much I like the piece (as I indeed liked this), I don't reply to it when it's self-labeled "crap" or along those lines: 1) It's too much like a negative plea for reassurance, "Oh no, really, it was wonderful, stroke stroke." I'd rather give my praise as a gift or well earned reward than feel as if I'd been extorted to reassure. You might think that you were being honest of your evaluation and not mean it this way, but still, I've found that not saying anything at all is preferable to slamming your own work. If you aren't fishing, then there is a tendency to accept your own value-added evaluation. 2) If you say it's "crap" and I say it isn't, then I'm forced to be Rude and disagree or argue with you. Or, alternately, if I say I like it, and you say it's "crap", then that implies my taste in literary works is so bad I can't tell the difference between dung and quality, which I take to be an insult. Prolly me in my pride, but there it is. I've notice that nearly every poster here at the Pen has a negatively skewed view of their own works. I do myself. But I've learned that the best way is to just put the work out on its own, accept feedback as a loving attempt to help build a better work, not as an attack on Self, and finally I've learned to just say, "Thank you", no matter how I felt about the work. It's the Polite thing to do, you see... -Peredhil, with more than two cents...

Peredhil smiles happily as he holds the small package wrapped with a big bow. It's not much, but its hand-crafted. It'd been a while since he'd forged a Ring, not since the Guinea Pig's Rings had he forged. He hoped Brute liked it. It wasn't too much, but its power was wrought in consideration of the person - any alcoholic drink held in the hand bearing the Ring would become "Smooth Vintage". He'd tested it on some Maddog 20-20 and it'd tasted like Dom. Romanée Conti. As the Shadow Paths opened, he swept forward with the crowd.

A whirlwind of activity swirls into the Cabaret, waving, hugging, and greeting everyone happily. Peredhil has obviously been out visiting, for he's wearing his travel clothes: Varnet sunglasses, Armani suit, and his azure ring. Trying to keep up with him are his two Bodyguards, Guido and Nuncio, the Giant Guinea Pigs. By the time Peredhil has reached the center of the room, the Bartender has extended a sparking water on ice on one prehensile frond to Peredhil and people have gathered around to get THEIR hugs before he disappears on business again. My! So many people to greet, Brute's birthday to attend, Letters to write and - He breaks off short and smiles with pure joy. A newcomer! Elladan, who's been quietly sitting in a window-ledge alcove drifts up and whispers in his father's ear as Peredhil makes her way over to the new face in the room. Elrohir, Elladan's twin, manages a spell to dry Louveteau's clothes before Peredhil hugs Erik, mindful of the cleaning expenses of the suit Peredhil wears. Erik! Do you mind if I call you Louveteau? I knew someone with a half-a-bee named Erik, and a berserker named Erik, and a singer who went by Derek but became Erik, so it might cause me a bit of confusion. Welcome! I hope you've a room already? He catches Elladan's nod Yes, you do - just get with Elladan there, and he'll show you your room. Our guest, a new audience is alway welcome! The words continue streaming seemingly without need to breathe If you read the sticky signs posted at the entrance to all the chambers, you'll do well, and feel free to wander anywhere that you can gain entrance. If you wish to contribute your own works, we'll be more than happy to listen! Welcome welcome again! Feel free to ask questions of anyone. With a Polite smile, Peredhil vanishes through down the hallway to the left of the bar and is gone again. Elladan gives Louveteau a small diagram and a key.

The last concert I saw was in California. We were on blankets, on a hillside opposite the stage. Monteray area I believe. I'm trying to remember the year - sometime between 1989 and 1992. Jimmy Buffet was on his Shark tour, and gave a strong performance, great audience involvement. He was followed by the Grateful Dead - and though Jerry Garcia was near the year of his death, the GD gave an wonderful performance, more of a jam than anything, moving fluidly from song to song and occasionally interweaving and interleaving songs together. The played about two hours past when they were supposed to be finished, with a given reason that they knew many of the audience were military. The only other performer I've seen who gave that level of performance for that reason was Bruce Springstein, in Germany, when he sang until he was so hoarse, he couldn't sing any more - and then ended the umpteenth encore with a blistering guitar instrumental. The next-to-last concert I saw was the Moody Blues, in 1981... It was beyond words for me, because the MB's music resonates on so many levels beyond music in my life. Concert was in Moscow Idaho to a not-so-large crowd, somewhat of a "lay-over" tour between big cities. It was funny - all of them sauntered out, dressed casually in t-shirts and blue jeans, except the newcomer replacing Mike Pinder, Patrick Morez, who was dressed in traditional "rock star" clothing. Nothing really to look out, but when the music began, the listeners rediscovered that looks truly don't matter to this type of rock-n-roll. To be able to sing like Justin Hayward... There were others before that, but the most memorable was a triple concert in 1982 in Knoxville Tennessee, which had a throw-away group named Axe opening, followed by a new-comer named Joan Jett, who gave the best performance of the evening. The final act was Cheap Trick - and they were absolutely horrible, so high on cocaine they could barely get through the songs.

Al-RIGHT! You IRC Idlers might recognize him as RogBard. A good friend to have, in my experience, with insight and wisdom. Welcome indeed. Speaking of Wyvern, finding your way to the Recruitment Hall would be high on your list of priorities, yes?

"You're mother was a lizard!" "Don't look back hero... don't even turn around!" I kinda liked the little people in Willow. On the other hand, I don't know who Buffy or Willow are - must be TV people. About the only TV I watch is Cartoon Network with my youngest.

One of the most frustrating thing about manipulators is that they tell us what we want and need so badly to hear. Then when they've used us and discarded us, they have a hook already deeply set - They can say it was all our fault for being stupid enough to believe their lies. Amazing. It's like a vampire blaming its blood-rape on the victim for having the gall to produce blood.

Mmmm. I have this dark side to my sense of humor that bursts forth at times like these, totally inappropriate. Such as quoting the Eagles' song, "I'd like to find your inner child and -" Well anyway. Seriously, I like this. You really have a knack of smoothly and obliquely touching on very real subjects and considering them without forcing them down the reader's throat. I enjoy reading your works.

Cheers You've made it here! Melba, the Almost Secretary of the Pen, has some of the latest copies of magazines, "Life's a Witch", "How to Nag from actual Mother-in-laws", and some of her other favorites. Now that you're here, it should be less than a month before we find where Elder Wyvern is hiding and force him to- Erm, I mean, it shouldn't be long before the Elder of Recruiting drops by his place of work.

Peredhil, having had one reply to this eaten, tries again. This is a really timely poem. As Parmenion pointed out, the media pushes the image of hyper-skinny through the use of models. Models whose body-type is extremely rare and unattainable by normal people. Also, don't discount the power of a computer to remove any little imperfections. I have to admit, I enjoy looking at a woman who is a bit more substancial than the current models - If, at 15 meters, I can't tell if it is an adolescent teenaged boy, girl, or grown woman, she's not quite my type. I've long had a rough hypothesis about beauty. It's more of a tendency than anything else, and even as I write, I can think of exceptions. Beauty tends to be defined as something only the rich can afford. Looking back through history... When most women were still working the fields, tanned, calloused, always hungry, beauty was pale, smooth, and what would be considered plump. (Reuben's paintings anyone?) The look that took time and money to maintain. When women moved indoors, secretarial to the present computer jobs, beauty became slender, muscularly fit, with a deep even tan. The plump pale woman was now not beautiful, but a cubicle worker. Just a thought, inspired by your excellent poem.