Quincunx

Have you ever been wafted away on the melody of the music? Have you ever been scrambled by the volume of the music? Have you ever been flayed with the lyrics of the music? Have you ever kissed a statue? Have you ever seen what crawls out from the water, black and purple, wholly malevolent? Have you ever heard someone make a claim of such mind-wrenching wrongness, you mentally cut them loose from the human race, feeling a flood of the same warm condescension you'd feel for a pet? Have you ever tallied the worth of your life by as many ethical/social/religious frameworks you can find? Have you ever had the name pop into your head without the person to which it ought to be attached? re: Cerulean Not in that exact position, no, but I have done the broad-jump off of the toilet and half-hobbled five-yard dash for the can of insecticide. Ah, Florida. . . re: Zool I laid the trap, but didn't realize that I'd yanked the trigger--still, I count it--twenty-seven lunar months. re: Appy Substances are cheating.

Rydia peered through cascades of translucent, pearlescent green flight feathers. Whatever was sitting in Tzimfemme's head--whatever had subjugated the naked mage, and taken possession of her body--pulled on the jaw muscles again, and Rydia's wings (never completely under her control, even now) fully materialized and cocooned her. She heard Minta scramble away from her, but could no longer see through her wings. Her ears darted forward and parted the feathery curtain, only eartips and eyes peeking out of a shifting, diamond-shaped gap. She didn't waste words, but only threshed her ears at the archangel wings, and failed to part them further. Why are they acting on their own? I haven't been at their mercy since. . .since Tzimfemme brought us to the Pen. Rydia's ears paused in surprise, and the wings slackened their grip. Since Tzimfemme. . .woke up. Minta tripped on the lowest step and banged her knee. "Meanie!" she wailed, sitting at the bottom of the staircase and clutching the bruising spot. "I thought you weren't gonna do that any more!" The gnome threw her best pout back at the skellie-hating archangel but Rydia was too scared to see it. Her wings were protecting her--scared? Minta beamed. Served her right for going all holy! She forgot her bruise in an instant and turned herself to look up the steps. The naked mage's stare moved off of Rydia and tracked the motion, alighting on Minta. The gnome froze in the searchlight. Tzimfemme's fingertips slipped out of her flesh and, as she extended her arm, the fingers curled to point at Minta. Her thumb slipped and rasped over the other fingertips, trying to snap, failing, and shearing off flecks of quincunx power. One, two, three times she tried to change what she saw, and three times Tzimfemme failed, before she whiplashed back into control of the entire body. The arm pointed at Minta began to quiver, the face locked into a lip-biting grin, and the naked mage trailed her right heel backwards until it slid through the open doorway, then shifted her weight. Step by step she slunk out of the house, not turning, not moving more than her legs until she passed the door and slammed it shut. Minta looked back at Rydia and watched her wings slide around her shoulders, back where they belonged, and began to say "What wazzat--" The ceiling quivered from Tzimfemme's impact on the rocks. Rydia's wings whipped upwards and folded over her head like a bandshell, faster than the elf could look up. She set her jaw and marched towards the stairs; Minta wailed and shrank away, hugging herself, as Rydia almost brushed against her. By the time she ascended the stairs, holy power was prickling Rydia's skin into goosebumps. She spread her hands out before herself and laid her palms flat on the door, thumb-tips and index-finger-tips touching, and breathed the archangel's holy attack into that diamond shape. The wood glowed at that spot like heated iron, and if they could have seen the exterior rock, they would have seen the glow burn through to it also. For half a minute Rydia exhaled a steady stream while the glow diffused to all parts of the door, then gasped and let herself relax. "Don't worry, Minta," she said, "she can't get inside again. She's not welcome here."

The satyr looks up from his task when Guerrero plays the intro to one of his songs, squatting and glaring at him until Odéle clears her throat with meaning, then resumes hauling up the crate. Fordforton, meanwhile, interposes himself between Xander and the hatch, with one hand held over his collar microphone. "Can't make your fans wait for more, this early in the evening!" he smiles, then unfastens and holds the microphone. "Xander, if we weren't in the middle of things, what would you do with this free time? You're part of some of your college's clubs, aren't you? Let me guess! Glee club? Young Triumverates debate team? Volunteer referee for the boys' boffer league, 7-to-10 bracket?" He pokes the microphone up towards Xander. OOC: This is the interior of Pomona's Preserve, with the same dimensions: 20-ft. diameter, 60 ft. depth. The sunrod lies in the center of the bottom of the tank, and the mermaid floats 10 ft. above it. You swim at half-speed, so you sink to the bottom of the tank in four rounds by taking 10. Will you go for the sunrod first or try to interact with the mermaid?

Lily sprinted through the field, muddy to the hips and not caring one bit, swerving between squat brown grease-paper tents, laughing aloud. She ducked a friendly handful of ammunition and squatted behind the nearest tent, then ripped it open and tugged one of the rifles free from the loam. The tent wavered, then collapsed on the plant underneath it; unripe bullets clinked together, fell from the vine, and tumbled softly to earth. She propped up the remaining rifles and lifted the flap of grease-paper to check the damage-- "Hey!" she squealed when Adam took the opportunity to drop another handful of bullets on her back. "You're wicked!" "You shouldn't've taken your eyes off the target," Adam retorted, leaning over her and the tent, grinning. "You take your eyes off the target, you're dead, dead, dead!" "Ok, ok, I'm dead, now help me fix this." Adam knelt on the other side of the tents and held up the remaining rifles while Lily adjusted their balance and pulled the grease-paper back in place, then folded it over with sharp creases. When she released the paper, the ends tried to unwrap from their supports, but one crease hooked into another and held the tent in place. "Do you think it'll still keep out the frost?" she asked. He stood up and brushed clumps of dirt from the knees of his jeans. "I hope so, but they're not that great even without frostburn. Not as bad as lima beans, but--" Lily whacked his shins with a two-handed stroke, hands just above the rifle's sights. "Gotcha! Took your eyes off the target!" He stuck his tongue out at her and kept on brushing at his jeans. "I'm winning the crusade again! So there!" she beamed, before turning and running through the remainder of the field. Adam had almost caught up with her before she gained the cover of the orchard, but soon all the tracks he could find were half-footprints in fallen and rotting apples.

Rydia had been following a series of thuds, but they had faded out; instead she came across a very heavy-handed attempt to sweep out clawed footprints. The claws weren't unique, but the clumsy cover-up screamed Wyvern. She held a glowing shiny close to the ground, determined the proper direction, and hurried after him with the limp ninja-suit arms flapping over her arm. Down a nearby corridor, ninjas suspended themselves from the ceiling, each with a fake gorilla foot attached to a stick, and added some more tracks for zest. ***** Tzimfemme lolled on a couch in Orlan's antechamber, opposite Rapier who was not lolling. While Orlan's mere presence in the next room had molded both of them to nearly identical nekkid glory, Tzimfemme was an independent mage whereas Rapier was Orlan's subordinate. Her wings would also have interfered with any lolling of the sort the naked mage was presently doing--ankles crossed on the headrest, torso sprawled out along two cushions, head flopped over the edge of the couch, one arm and a few of the thinner braids dangling down to the floor. Tzimfemme's other hand gestured while she spoke, short explosive motions: "Three years in advance I had to schedule this appointment, and still Orlan runs overtime--" "The appointments are being booked five years in advance," countered the fallen dominion. She traced one perfect fingernail along the palm of her hand. "Orlan did you a favor." "Against your advice, right? And quit fingerspelling, I know what Corruption does, and I know that Orlan already knows I'm out here." The identical sensations in Orlan's palm faded away when Rapier spread her hands. "These blocks get thrown in our way so I stay appreciative--" She broke off and her eyes moved towards the doorway. "--and whoever's out there is another one. Hercules' dinner!" Tzimfemme swore, kicking herself upright and sliding towards a harder-muscled mien, then striding to the door and yanking it open. Two by two, the naked women stared at the girls. Tzimfemme leveled with Degorram, and came to half a truce when each noticed the inconstant flesh around the other's eyes. Kikuyu watched Rapier's fingers alight on one another, drew the right conclusion for the wrong reason, and took her eyes off of Orlan's lieutenant. Instead, she started to talk to the shorter one in front: "Wyvern sent us here. . ." Tzimfemme's expression slipped a notch off of neutral. ". . .to defend your clothes. . ." Another slip, in the same direction. ". . .Orlan." The gears in her jaw gave way. Tzimfemme gaped at them while her eyes lit up and her hand folded up into a pointing index finger, jabbing at the air, desperately seeking a spot to stand on. Rapier slipped into the breach with only the notification of one black feather sliding across another. "The Sexy Sexy Man's time is booked five years in advance," she advised. Her fingertips ceased dancing and her wrists curled her hands outwards, indicating the naked mage. "This is his current appointment."

Odéle sprints to the top of the tree which has the red-furred satyr's body at its base and gestures, while the cameras all lock on the victorious Hometown Heroes ascending the preserve. Xander has the head start on his companions, the female gnome reaching out her hand to assist him, but Guerrero overtakes him in the final few feet and leaps onto solid ground. "Welcome Guerrero, the lead singer of Miknemi!" cries Fordforton; the sections of the bleachers seated in front of his close-up take up the chant of Guerrero! Guerrero! Nabeshin's bleachers pick up the idea a few seconds later, and Xander's cut in as the female gnome helps them across the flat semicircle of roller coaster track, through the leaves, and onto the platform itself. Fordforton lets the crowd wear itself out as the black satyr rises, unhooks the flask from his belt, and tosses it in Xander's direction as the tree's leaves begin to glow all around him. "Fordforton!" Odéle shouts, while the verdant light races along the roller coaster's track and transforms each wooden support into a new tree, "what've you done?!" "Nothing, applecake," he replies, turning to watch the light complete its circuit, and strolling over to one of the platform's trees as the glow dwindles. "The fellas were right, Pomona is pleased," he says into the microphone, and reaches out for one of the fruits which is still illuminated. "She's given us some goodberries. Fine things, goodberries. Squeeze the juice from one and give it to an unconscious man, and he won't bleed to death. Why, it might even bring him back to consciousness." He picks the fruit, which ceases to glow the instant its stem snaps, and tosses it to Nabeshin. The gnome looks down at the end of the motion and catches sight of the pipes; he removes them and proffers them to Guerrero. "Believe these are yours by right. . ." "Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Tonight's festivities have been blessed by Pomona and sponsored by Gnomeskin™ Denim Company, who have generously provided us with several pairs of Bayou Blue Adventurer's Pants for tonight's heroes." A spotlight alights on Odéle, who strikes a pose to show off her own pair of cargo pants, and the satyr in the shadows hauls a crate up to the top of the platform. "Bayou Blues are the #1 brand for North and South America monster trappers, with their +1 riveted construction and many handy pockets," Fordforton continues, and gazes at Odéle as she unsnaps, unzips, and un-velcros a legion of pockets, "and the Rio Grande Trappers' Association has donated a special item for tonight's festivities as well as a Young Trapper's Knapsack for each of our heroes--what's this, my sweet almond?" he asks, unclipping his microphone and holding it out to her. Odéle pulls a foot-long iron rod out of a long pocket on her left pants leg, hand-over-hand. "Ah believe it's a sunrod, Fordie. There's a note wrapped around it," she drawls, and uncoils the paper like a scroll. "It says. . .says you'd better read this instead," recites the female gnome, after releasing the note and letting it coil itself. She hands the sunrod to Fordforton horizontally and pulls the scroll open again, tapping the paper and explaining, "It's a magical note, just read this line right here, but take that microphone back first." He obeys, and the speakers echo the message which recites itself, "Burning y'all's lamp oil is not always the best solution. Semper pear-rattis and best of luck, Rio Granday Trappers' Association." " 'Semper paratis', always be prepared, good advice for our hometown heroes," Fordforton echoes. "Rio Grande Trappers' Association has sponsored the next event, and they have told me that it is going to be a solo challenge!" He waves the sunrod for silence after giving the crowd some time to vent. "Will our hometown heroes decide which one will be accepting the challenge while I share some details with our audience?" He and Odéle kneel on the platform while the spotlights glide horizontally downwards, throwing their lights in between the tree trunks. Odéle lifts a hatch in the center of the platform while Fordforton strikes the sunrod against the hatch, igniting it. The crowd gasps as the spotlights duck under the platform, revealing a glittering fish-tailed gnomish mermaid as she snatches the sunrod. The spotlights array themselves around the tank to illuminate all the water while the mermaid sinks down to the bottom of the tank with hardly a flicker of her tail. "It's a simple challenge, just swim down and retrieve the sunrod in order to claim the knapsacks for your entire team." OOC: 400xp for conquering Pomona's Preserve.

A few people chuckle when Nabeshin loses his jaw-grip on the nunchaku, but they cut off as soon as he grabs them again and sweeps them into the red-furred satyr's lower ankle. Instead the crowd roars for first blood as the satyr loses its footing and dangles by its harness ropes (Xander, surprised by the noise, nearly does the same, as his backpack tries its best to jump off of his back), and before the first wave of noise dies out, jumps up and yells as Guerrero's guitar lands squarely between the satyr's horns. Its eyes roll back in its head, its entire body goes slack, and the ropes play out quietly as it sinks to the ground. [Placeholder. Restarting computer...]

This is a purportedly true exchange that even Monty Python would be proud of. Here's the background: Ian works in a coffee, bagels, and sandwiches trailer on the campus of UNH. (The University of New Hampshire, for those not from the East Coast of the U.S.) Vinnie is his boss and the owner of the truck, and yes, according to Ian, this actually happened. Ian is telling the story. Her: Yes, I'd like a milk with some coffee in it. Me: So, that's just a splash of coffee in a milk? Her: No, a regular amount of milk, but not coffee. Me: Is there more milk or coffee? Her: Oh, definitely more coffee. Me: So that's a coffee with some extra milk. Her: Just the usual amount of milk. Me: A coffee with milk. Her: Yes. Me: Anything else? Her: A little extra milk and do you have coffee with no caffeine? Me: We do have decaf. Her: No, I don't want decaf, just some coffee without the caffeine. Me: Ma'am, that's what decaf means, no caffeine. Her: Oh, then do you have milk with no caffeine? Me: Milk doesn't come with caffeine. Her: Yes it does. Me: Not that I know of, where do you get your milk? Her: It doesn't say caffeine free on the milk so it must have caffeine. Me: Oh, you're right, my mistake, I forgot that we only get the decaf milk. No problem, we have only decaf milk. Anything else? Her: Do you have any bagels? Vinnie (who has been listening all along): I'm sorry, ma'am, we're all out of decaf bagels. Her: Well, what are those? (pointing at sesame bagels) Vinnie: Those are sesame donuts with extra caffeine added. Her: I guess I'll just have the coffee. Her: Do you take credit cards? Me: No ma'am, cash only. Her: What about visa? Me: Is that a credit card? Her: Well, yes. Vinnie: Is it cash? Her: No. Vinnie: Then no, we can't take it. Her: What about checks? Me: Cash ma'am, nothing else. Her: O.K. Her: How much is that? Vinnie: Eleven dollars and 45 cents. Her: Really? Vinnie: New war in Alaska is ruining the coffee business, plus you wanted the coffee with no caffeine, that's hard to find now, had to grow it myself. Her: O.K. (proceeds to write a check) Vinnie: Please leave. Her: Why? Vinnie: You're raising my blood pressure, leave now. Her: But what about my coffee? Vinnie: Leave and never return. She leaves, but pays the $11.45 first. Seriously.

Nabeshin clambers up the rope the hard way, with the camera zooming in for a closeup of his face; the grimace around the nunchaku is an eloquent expression all of its own. Once his foot slips, stripping off a bit of bark, but he regains his footing and slowly ascends while Xander, on the other side of the preserve, ascends twice as quickly on his twin ropes. The red-furred satyr looks backwards and down at Nabeshin's upwards crawl and grins. He turns to face the pear tree, sets a hoof on the intersection of plastic and tree, feels the vibration, and whirls around again to headbutt Guerrero--but the jaguar-masked man has already impacted with him, and the satyr's rear hoof has no traction on the plastic. He slides across the plate to the next tree trunk, just above and to the right of the monk; while the crowds roar, Nabeshin looks up and judges distance. . . OOC: Climb: 3 Satyr's AoO: 6 Strength: 7 (5 o'clock) Xander 19 (30 ft.) (9 o'clock) Guerrero 13 (20 ft.) (10 o'clock) Red-furred satyr 11 (20 ft.) (-- o'clock) Black-furred satyr 7 (- ft.) [Out] [Round Three, actions taken to here] (11 o'clock) Nabeshin 6 (15 ft.) Stick, you have a possible AoO there. At the moment, I can't get into your sheet, so without knowing your attack bonus, I won't roll for you.

Rydia, with her hair tied up to protect its glossiness, hummed and swished while cleaning the inside of the snug little cave-home. She polished the black leather of Starlight's sexy chair, plumped the purple pillows of Starlight's comfy chair, and applied a grounded vacuum-cleaner nozzle to the air vents of Starlight's high-tech chair. She placed a fresh cat treat in front of the empty, covered cat basket. Portals opened up in its interior sometimes; Carbone had wandered through once, as well as at least three kitten minions. She twinkletoed over to a broom and started sweeping the floorboards, but one ear perked straight up as she heard some out-of-place noise, and the cat treat had disappeared while her back was turned! She froze, then shifted her grip on the broom. Her ears tracked the faint skittering noises, at first spreading apart to triangulate, then locking on a point somewhere behind the elf, and moving forward. . .closer. . .closer. . .Rydia jabbed upwards with the broom, shrieking, "Shoo!" The broom handle met resistance for a moment, but it snapped, and black fabric floated down around the handle as it thumped into the rock ceiling. She shrieked again, wordless surprise this time, dropped the broom, and fled to a far corner. Once the deflated suit had fluttered to the floor, she inched out of the corner and picked it up with her fingernails, and her ears slowly relaxed. "It's not Minta? Thank goodness," she breathed. She turned the fabric inside-out, investigated the weave (double-knit, as it turned out), inspected the seams, checked for care tags, and found nothing useful. Rydia sat in her own shiny green comfy chair and turned the suit over in her hands while musing. There was nothing wrong about ninjas trying to get into the house, that's what ninjas did, but it was still a bit odd after taking the house's wards into consideration. Also you couldn't sweep them onto a piece of paper and put them outside, as you could with spiders. . .could you? She lay the suit across the arm of the chair, retrieved and put away the broom, then picked up the suit again and went upstairs to the door. Rydia needed to find a ninja expert.

Between two heroes, the red-furred satyr looks back and forth before deciding on the moving target, Guerrero. He copies the other satyr's rope loops and leaps off of the orange tree, but does not make a broad jump, and thumps back down to bark at the same point. "You're climbing, not skipping rope!" floats down from the top row of the bleacher seats, along with a shower of laughs. The black-furred satyr tips his head back and laughs. "That's the way!" he shouts, and holds the ropes with a slack grip. He kicks out from the tree and swings clockwise around the preserve, playing out line and dropping to Xander's level-- --but he kicked vigorously, and sails past Xander on the outside as the ropes play out, too far, too fast. Xander's cameras also grab the chance to follow the inglorious descent, and the twin trails of dust his hooves raise when he skids into the ground. Xander's cameras rise up to him again, while the satyr's set point straight upwards, to Fordforton leaning over the edge of the platform. "I told you all, stop fooling around when you hit the ground!" he calls, hands cupped around his mouth, heedless of the microphone and of the renewed jeering from the top bleachers. "Now haul yourself back up here and don't tempt Pomona's temper." OOC: A retroactive change to Xander's climbing height in round one--I forgot to account for his encumbrance. Climb: Black-furred satyr 1, red-furred satyr 3 (5 o'clock) Xander 19 (10 ft.) (6 o'clock) Guerrero 13 (15 ft.) (9 o'clock) Red-furred satyr 11 (20 ft.) (-- o'clock) Black-furred satyr 7 (- ft.) [Out] [Round Two, actions taken to here] (11 o'clock) Nabeshin 6 (0 ft.)

Xander hauls himself up easily using just one rope, leaving the other for safety, to the slow cheers of the crowd. The black-furred satyr leers down at him, wraps both ropes around his hands another time, and turns towards Xander's tree, but Guerrero's shout gives him pause. "Hey you guys! Yeah! That's right! You, and you. If you to give us a hard time climbing up that platform, you should try stopping me down here!" "That doesn't sound like putting in good, hard work to me," calls the black-furred satyr. He has to raise his voice over Guerrero's shrieking fanbase. "I'd rather work with this guy up here," he adds, and points his horns horizontally. Red laughs, pulls himself vertical, holds out his arms, and lets go of both ropes; they play out between his thumbs and index fingers, and he free-falls for a crowd-stopping moment--or appears to, on the screens--before grabbing hold of the ropes again. Black drums his hooves on the chestnut tree's trunk, then races horizontally across the panels and halts on the apple tree--Xander's! Nabeshin watches the black-furred satyr appear around the edge of Pomona's Preserve and finishes buckling his harness in haste. He grabs hold of one rope, tugs mightily--and it breaks free of his harness and dangles in his hand. The children in the crowd, especially, think this is the best joke they've seen all day. OOC: Someone requested harness details. There are two iron buckles, with open DC 20. The two silk ropes are threaded through pulleys on the harness itself, and anchored to the harness. (well, not on Stick's harness any longer. . .) Initiative: Black-furred satyr 7, red-furred satyr 11 Climb: Black-furred satyr 11, red-furred satyr 5 Diplomacy: Black-furred satyr 20, red-furred satyr 6 (1 o'clock) Xander 19 (15 ft.) (6 o'clock) Guerrero 13 (0 ft.) (9 o'clock) Red-furred satyr 11 (20 ft.) (3 o'clock) Black-furred satyr 7 (30 ft.) (11 o'clock) Nabeshin 6 (0 ft.) [Round One, Actions Taken to Here] (I might not need the initiative list, but I've seen another PbP DM use it to good effect when people with high initiative posted quickly.)

Check the sticky "Show, don't tell" thread in this forum for the post on manipulating third-person perspective. I cannot open Ire itself right now--my connection is timing out half-way down long threads--but if I can later, I'll do an example rewriting. I do remember what Wyvern's talking about, as bland stretches laid in between the descriptive gems, but I hadn't paid enough attention to realize what was causing the unfocused quality. I'll add more, again, once I can get the thread to fully open. [EDIT: Finally! Long threads are loading fully. It was worth the waiting, also. In the second post of 11/26/06, the "Perhaps something should be explained to the reader here. . ." direct address to the reader--that works quite well. You can't use it very often, for fear of cheapening the effect, but that is not what we meant earlier. In fact, yesterday's sequence (11/26/06) doesn't have the problem at all. Hmm. Backtracking to 11/16/06, there's a short paragraph which illustrates what we meant. I'll paste it here, broken up by sentences. "What was that?" Ire asked, awed. It's conversation, and doesn't need to be more elaborate. Leave that alone. She knew magic when she saw it, and she had only seen it once as a girl. This sentence tells the reader instead of showing, and might be reworded to close the narrative distance a bit, but it doesn't break the paragraph as it is. "This, although she'd only seen it once before, was familiar." Show us her level of familiarity before telling the reader that it's not what the reader should expect. "This looked just like the show she'd seen as a girl." Still purely telling the reader, but pulls the reader a little closer to Ire's viewpoint with the simile. A young man had eaten fire in the market place, traveling with a small circus of jugglers and body-weavers. Descriptive and mysterious (a body-weaver?), a good sentence. The review sentence tells what your sentence shows about the performance. Even though it had been long ago, she remembered vividly the magic and how it had entranced her. Telling, pure telling, and it repeats the same information which you give, in a better form, in the next sentence! It should be cut. Her only copper piece had gone to that man. This shows how important the magic show was to her, and explains why she remembered and identified magic later. Keep it! If you feel a need to elaborate upon what she saw (and she can show us through a memory), focus on the magical quality of the fire-eater. Fire-eating is a mundane trick in the readers' world, and I had to re-read the list of performers to realize which one got her sole coin. Am I wrong?]

Rydia looked first at the diorama, and then at the scribbled commentary on the note which had directed her to the Cabaret Room: I thought we said "nooo more Cuckoo Puffs for Ozymandias"--Tzimfemme. She earshrugged (enchanted paper airplanes, in a holding pattern over the airport display, banked to the west-southwest in response) and touched a light green quill to the page. 1. Elwen 2. Solivagus Little Sweet read the names out loud, left a chocolate fingerprint from following along the letters, and asked "Who's that?" Rydia wadded up the note and rubbed away the mark. "They're Pennites: a short-story cyclic writer, and a non-fantasy writer. . .I don't know the proper term. . .They might come back someday." 3. (the) Bestower 4. millet 5. flensing 6. Arwen "She changed names later," Rydia told the little one, "but the family connection is too sweet to forget, even if it was only a family connection here in the Pen." 7. splendid 8. aspiring 9. honey 10. often 11. Heldentime The quill ran dry. Rydia sucked its end, partly to clean it before refilling the nib, partly to hide a blush. 12. vessel 13. warclub 14. earsocks 15. gesture 16. telephone table 17. fusillades 18. eyelashes

Once again, the gnome's voice disappears under a wave of cheers and only meanders back into everyone's attention once he returns to everyone's view, ". . .and you show your gods support, and I support mine. My god isn't too well-known down here. Goddess, I should say. I understand the Lady of the Orchards doesn't have too many sacred places in the middle of the desert, and so. . .well, I bring one of them along with me, wherever I go. Please welcome Pomona, the Lady of the Orchards." The heroes' spotlights ascend the platform's supports. Somehow, in the middle of the dusty fairground where old telephone poles once were, a dozen stout trees have sprung into existence: walnut trees, chestnuts, oranges and apples. Children's clamor takes over the crowd noise, questioning, as the spotlights level off at the top of the platform, sixty feet in the air, illuminating the gnome and just missing three others of roughly the same height. "I'm Fordforton Tnalauss, humble servant of Pomona--just call me Ford--and welcome to tonight's festivities. Oh my, how could I overlook it. Our heroes are at the base of Pomona's Preserve and we're at the top of it. Odéle, sugarplum, could you lower the harnesses down to them?" One of the less visible figures steps into the spotlights: a female gnome laden with ropes and harnesses, who steps off of the platform and into the topmost branches of a chestnut tree before beginning to lower one of the harnesses. The other two bound out of the shadows, each one heading for a different gnome, and a few among the audience scream as the spotlights glint off of horns and hooves! "What's this, eh? Up to the top of Pomona's Preserve just like that?" shouts the satyr nearest to Odéle, snatching the harnesses she holds in her hands. Half of the screens flash away from Fordforton to show a close-up of the satyr, fur on his hands shining black against the pale silk ropes. "She didn't even let Vertumnus in until he'd paid some dues, and he was a good man," adds the other, with his red-furred arm wrapped around Fordforton's upper body, multiplied across alternating screens. "Nothing unreasonable," he continues, as bland as Ford himself, "just good, hard work." "Catch," adds the first satyr, tossing a dagger to the female gnome but leaving his hip flask on his belt. "Nothing unreasonable at all. No weapons. Give us some harnesses, Miz Odéle. We'll play with them a little, let them earn their way to the top. No malice." The second satyr removes his pipes and drapes the neck-cord over Fordforton's head. "Keep those for me, would ya. They're not meant for heroes." He releases the gnome and buckles the harness which the other satyr throws to him, canters to the other edge of the platform and ties both ropes to the trunk of the orange tree, then grasps one rope in either hand and leaps! Fordforton scrambles to the point from which he leaped, but the spotlights overrush him and illuminate the satyr's descent. He lands on his hooves half-way up the tree trunk and, suspended parallel to the ground, takes a bow with ropes in hand. Atop the platform, the gnome fumbles with his collar microphone, "A slight change in the night's festivities, but I think it's suitable, much better than shedding blood right away." A fashionable half-elf stands up in the nearest bleachers and boos, but his girlfriend pulls him down to his seat by his ear. "They're right, you know, Pomona will be pleased. Those harnesses are quite safe. It's impossible for you to fall freely so long as you can hold one of the ropes." Now each set of screens shows the same series of images, left to right: red satyr standing on the orange tree trunk, black satyr rappelling down the chestnut tree, and each earthbound hero as he straps himself into a harness. "If any of you touch the ground again, I want you to stop fooling around immediately!" OOC: The platform is twenty feet in diameter and supported by twelve trees which are sixty feet high, which puts their trunks approximately five feet apart. Each satyr has rappelled to thirty feet above the ground, the black one at three o'clock relative to the platform, the red one at nine o'clock. (Think of the overhead view as a clock-face.) The spaces between the tree trunks have been filled with clear plastic panels, making a giant cylinder. Your harnesses dangle above the ground at one o' clock from an apple tree, six o'clock from a pecan tree, and eleven o'clock from a pear tree. I'll want climb checks every round: one for half-speed vertical climbing, plus an additional one to attempt clambering up at full speed. Horizontal movement is full speed. You can charge horizontally, or up to ten feet up or down from your current elevation. Roll for initiative.

At risk of being thrown out of my own chocolate-loving presence, I haven't acquired a taste for molé poblano either. However, I do like the molé verde, and while hunting for a recipe* for it, think I may also have found revery's forgotten holiday. Does Day of the Dead ring any bells?** *Epazote (one of the recommended spices) is VERY MUCH an acquired taste. Phew! It's a sort of mad cousin to cilantro. **Other than the ones Minta's shaking while she zooms around, right now. For some people, every day is a Day of the Dead. . .

Recently, I was wandering down the supermarket aisles, looking for a decent chocolate chip cookie: Chocolate Chunk Cookie. . .Biscuit with Chocolate Chips (I winced--British usage). . .TimTams. . .wait, I've heard of those! Our New Zealanders swore by them, several times, in the Shoutbox. Arnott's TimTams, "imported directly from Australia", proclaimed itself as a fine-textured chocolate biscuit (I winced again) with chocolate coating. Thick chocolate coating too, they did not skimp, although they managed to give it the same melting point as butter and a third of it ended up on my fingertips. The inner. . .biscuit. . .was supremely fine and flaky, of the exact same chocolate taste as the coating, and disintegrated the instant it was on my tongue--low melting point seems to be key to this TimTam. It was well-made, balanced between chocolate flavor and sweetness, but I didn't like it. Eating it was like going to a steak restaurant in street clothes: the treat was tender and high-class, but if you're prepared for something sturdy, you're still going to be a shade disappointed.

The bleacher seats creak dangerously, overloaded as they are. It looks like the entire rural population of Rio Grande Province has squeezed itself onto the tiers: prairie families in dust-brown old fashions sharing bottles of cola and picnic food from portable iceboxes; solitary cattlemen dressed in half-cured cowhide, turning the air blue with enthusiastic curses; southern mountain families wearing native dyes, brilliant despite the dust, and cheering with scraps of many languages; townsfolk in trendy clothing without a speck of dust, gazing wide-eyed at the ruckus all around them; even, in the highest tier of seats, a tiny pool of silence around a group of blanket-wrapped, silver- and turquoise-laden strongmen. The segmented oval of bleacher seats encircles the Flight of the Fruitbat roller coaster, facing a blank wall of white plastic sheeting which has been unfurled from the top of the track and pinned to the wooden supports, except for clear plastic sheeting under one of the turns. At sundown, as the fair's local employees shut down their stations and squeeze into their reserved seats, enormous spotlights power up and rise from within the oval; the crowd drops into whispers (but thousands of whispers are not silent) while the spotlights fix themselves onto the white panels. Atop the clear sheeting, eight prismatic lights flare into existence, and the disappointed crowd on that end erupts in screaming and cheering, except for the silent strongmen. That set of bleachers trembles as its load rises to their feet, climbs atop parents' shoulders, strains to watch the lights circle lazily around the top edge and come to rest in the elevated hands of a very short, gray-haired fella in sheepskin hat and Gnomeskin™ denim. His image appears now, projected on every panel: he's dressed more suitably for a northern winter than this venue, dripping with sweat, speaking into his collar microphone, and completely inaudible. The crowd stops cheering one by one as the dancing lights wink out, and the gnome's speech, circling around much like his lights did, rises from hidden loudspeakers: ". . .so enthusiastic, I never hear sound like that back home. My home's a long way north of here, in Alberta province. Lovely place, flat place. Very flat place. People say that if you stand on a chair and stare off into the distance, you can see the back of your own head. It never worked for me, but what do I know, I'm a gnome." He passes his hand over his head, smiles a little. "I couldn't tell you what keeps drawing me back here, year after year, might be the food, or the scenery, or the warmth and devotion of the Rio Grande people. Yes, that's it, the devotion they show their gods and their heroes. Show our heroes how much you support them." Spotlights throw beams at the base of the platform, on the Hometown Heroes, as the screens display each of them in turn.

Short Humor If this humorous lament has so much popular appeal, you ought to submit it to Reader's Digest or a similar magazine! I'll use the high-intensity level five nitpicks, the kind I'd apply to my own work, since it needs to be as polished as it can be for publication. This piece has to be condensed a wee bit to remove the hallmarks of a debate-class position paper ("lastly" leapt out at me and screamed "School Assignment!", and there might be others) and/or to fit a 500-word limit since you're at 564 words right now. If you don't do anything else to alter it before submitting it to a publisher, aim for the word count--they'll have editors there also, if need be--but chopping out words without an eye to the overall piece would be silly. In paragraph one, "experience opportunity" is awkward, delete one or the other (563 words). You refer to other toilets in ". . .this one was not flushing. Some have little buttons, but. . ." while still speaking of your singular experience; it could condense to "this one was not flushing, and it had no little button to press" (562 words). The transition between the sentences ". . .no, not this one. Self flushing toilets are taking over. . .", is a trifle too abrupt. You could insert the phrase 'like this one' after "Self flushing toilets" to join the ideas (565 words). Combine the last two sentences with a semicolon and omit "really", another hallmark of a school assignment (564 words). Another editor may meddle with "to be open" and "face-to-toilet-seat" in the first line of the paragraph, but I will not. In paragraph two, the first sentence's dual subjects and verbs, ". . .laziness and forgetfulness is being both taught and encouraged", is a very awkward structure. Lop out at least one word; I must omit 'and forgetfulness' since its verb form appears in the next two sentences (562 words). ". . .Plus, they don't have lids, so they forget that. . ." is a problem since the repetitions of "they" refer to different subjects; to cut words and remove confusion, I would rephrase it to "They are also forgetting that. . ." (558 words). "Any innocent kitty" may not work with people who don't know your avatar, check it with a proofreader. A "present" brings to mind an object (a floater?) that you're leading into, but not the possibility of going swimming which you just mentioned; try the abstract "surprise" instead. Another editor might meddle with the difference between 'not all toilets flush themselves' and 'not all toilets require no thought' as the focus of the the final line, but I will not. In paragraph three, there's a typo in "The toilet paper is public bathrooms. . ." This paragraph wanders, beginning with that phrase and ending with ". . .in a parking lot": paper as an ineffective solution, kicking the handle as an effective solution, the witty but irrelevant state of the sole of one's shoe. This would be a more cohesive paragraph if it presented only positive steps to reducing germ exposure: paper as an effective solution, kicking the handle as an effective solution, perhaps another solution (using your hand inside a coat sleeve? travel-size hand sanitizer?), and the intact final sentences of the paragraph with hand-washing as the best solution. Leaving out the optional third solution would reduce your word count, if still necessary. In paragraph four, "lastly", as the sign of a school assignment, needs to be cut (557 words). The sentence and fragment ". . .grab it. (Which is where. . ." should be joined and punctuated ". . .grab it (which is where the whole hand washing idea is brilliant)." "But" makes the next sentence into a fragment (also beware of this during the reworking of paragraph three), and should be replaced with "however" or a similar word. "Then" makes the next sentence look like a fragment--I cannot decide whether it truly is or not--and could be replaced with "Oops," or omitted; with your style, I'd suggest the interjection. In the last sentence, make sure to focus your ire back on the proper type of toilet, and add "Self flushing" to the beginning (559 words). Another editor might want all of the adjectives in the final sentence to recap the themes of the piece (forgetfulness is. . .forgotten), but I will not. In paragraph five, "Then when your bracelet or watch decides to go swimming you won't. . ." is missing commas after "Then" and "swimming". You reintroduce the first paragraph's argument against self flushing toilets here after this paragraph's perfect first sentence starts to wrap up the piece; perhaps move that sentence out of the way for awhile, then insert it again once the conclusion properly begins, and write a new opening sentence that complains about the time delay. The first sentence can't be reinserted directly before the final one; there would need to be an intervening sentence recapping your dismay at the new dangers of self flushing toilets, or nostalgia for the reliable old toilets--something to bring you back to the reader's mind. This is a grade A piece as it stands. Not only do I still love its original form even after worrying at it for an hour or two, your voice came through so clearly that I found nothing that could make this more "yours". That's strong writing.

[EDIT: I've been poked in the head and reminded that we're supposed to be putting intense feedback in the Critic's Corner, so peek in there instead. The feedback post was longer than the original piece. Oh, and Savage Dragon. . .I know you're more of the short-story type, but bits of a "Ballad of the Man in the Dark" sprang to mind, and will not be dislodged. . .pants are on the floor, something something something *click*. Now this means war. . .man will win against machine, bring on the cherry bombs.]

Mole verde (green sauce)? Green food dye in your favorite sugar-based meat marinade? Now that you point it out, I do remember that my preschool dish was less "Green Eggs and Ham" than "Ham and Green Eggs". For the non-Dutch among us, a chocolate letter is exactly what it sounds like--we would call it an initial, and not an ordinary letter.

http://www.patrickdurham.net/themightypen/index.php?showtopic=15035 Single-author short story (heading towards novella). This piece has been polished until it shines: there are no grammatical errors*, there are no inconsistences of style, and the separate postings are cohesive enough to make me wonder if the entire story hasn't been written out in advance. Only the erratic posting dates let me know that this is being written as we read it. Its plot is one-dimensional, too much so for my taste, but just deep enough for the "young adult" market which I think this will enter. The September pieces were slender, but had a mixture of conversation and description--while I craved a bit more, there was still enough to frame the conversation. In the October and November posts, there's not enough description, and I'm wandering blind through the conversation. Whether this can be fixed by sprinkling another few sentences of bare-bones description across the posts, or by reworking the entire story's dry, lab-report style into something a bit more lush, I can't decide; lusher description would make the story more engaging, but I believe that Kikuryu's chosen bare-bones as something easier to polish--or to sell as an abstract, and then to rewrite as a bulkier novel. *I salute your mastery of "-ly" adverbs. I had to search for them specifically to notice that you'd even used them.

Something dropped out of the sky and hit me on the head. Either the pigeons are doing target practice again, or I'm about to agree with Wyvern on a review. You've taken a dingy, worn metaphor and made it fresh and clean again, and that because you didn't succumb to the usual temptation and extend the metaphor too far. This was a rare instance where telling instead of showing was the correct thing to do; it gave the poem a friendly, conversational tone. This poem isn't finished yet--it does fray from sincerity a bit in the first two lines and the final one. I can't make my language simple enough to suggest a fix, and can only say that the 'telling' shows up a little too strongly there; you were too conscious of trying to make a point to the reader instead of the canvas-holder. Whether you change those lines or not, hold onto this poem. It'll stay with you for years--with time, you may rework the metaphor to try out new poetic skills--I believe it'll be a canvas of your poetic history.

The lines already written lie together, almost identical, like the lines of a ledger; the completed poem might take that shape. (A nitpick: "principal" is the financial term.) The fragment you've given us has the form of a common poetic opening, and with the lack of punctuation, I think that's what it was.

This is my favorite of the poems you posted this day. "Vengeance" trips me, although I see where it follows the theme. It's just too long. Two syllables I could have staggered past, on my way from thought to thought, but not three.