Katzaniel

Yes, yes, and... sadly, no. I guess I didn't know what #3 looked like, before. *giggles* Dragon addiction... Hey, you should start a carnival thread where you pay geld for pictures of dragons... Or, even better, ask for a bunch of pictures (free) in order to have a contest about writing stories for those pictures.

I don't think this was in here yet: The Smartie Bar (not sure of the proper name) - This is a stick of chocolate smattered with smarties and a bit of a peanut-butter flavour. I've always loved the Reese's peanut-butter combination so that may influence my opinion on this one: *Drooling* I'm addicted! Not quite, but the peanutty-chocolate-shell-crunch is now either my favourite or very close. The White-Chocolate Smartie Bar - Although this is good, it's just not the same as the regular chocolate version. And this from someone who has always preferred white to brown chocolate. I think I just miss the peanut butter that's in the other type.

Hmm, cool. I like these. The first one is smoother than the second, I thought, but both interesting. Welcome the The Pen, exsanguis, and keep 'em coming.

"...And in record time, I bet!" finishes Kasmandre before being hit in the nose with a snowball. He whirls around in time to see Katzaniel, wiping the flakes from a pair of gloves. "Why, in my day -" he begins, stooping to get some snow. "No tagbacks." "Wha..?" "Snow Tag. You're it. You can try to hit me back if you want, but it only counts if you tag someone who hasn't been It yet. And the real catch is, you have to tag them by bringing them within the maze. Do it however you want, by hitting them once and getting them chasing you or by telling them about those great statues, I don't care what your methods are, but you've got to hit them with a snowball within sight of the maze before you can pass on the It." Kasmandre had been trying to speak repeatedly thoughout the speech, but Katzaniel just kept going. Now, before he could get out more than a word or two of protest, Katzaniel shifted into a small cougar and raced into the maze. He stood there for a moment, stammering and grumbling. But the It begins to soak in and along with the desire to get Katzaniel back he also has the overpowering urge both to tag someone new. OOC: I highly encourage continuing on with the maze posts, but additionally this thread is now going to host the Tag game. Please accompany a Tag with a PM to the new It. 5 geld for participating, although you don't choose when you're tagged! (PS, Yes, I got Venefyxatu's permission to do this).

Yeah, go ahead. Either a link or a direct quote of the text should be fine.

A very ordinary-looking woman carrying a briefcase and wearing a feminine suit wandered up to the sign, peering at it for a few moments before shrugging, picking up the pen, and signing. A passing fly did a loop-the-loop before landing on one of the short hornlike protusions in the woman's forehead. Barely noticing it, she reached up and brushed her hand over her hair, shooing the insect away and covering the horns. Horace, for that was the name now written in childish letters on the signup sheet, left the room and promptly forgot about the commitment. OOC: Horace is a demon, but a naive & relatively kindhearted one. She also has the "ability" to modify reality by not realizing that, for example, it's not possible to walk through glass.

Yes, the intention was that you'd use an already-written piece and alter it, although if anyone wants to write two new ones I may consider what sort of geld to award that. You shouldn't need to post the whole text, you can just link it. Unless you're not sure how to link, then go ahead and use the copy & paste method. Am I misunderstanding your question, or does that answer it?

I might post a final paragraph of Katzaniel's reaction, but just so you know Gyr and Death of Rats have both finished their parts.

Soft dirt, fine sand, thin wooden border, Round a playground that's old like the sun. Many have played here, many grown older, But centered here has been the life of one. First as an infant, wrapped in a blanket, Brought to the park in a stroller. Pushed by her mother on the swing set, She'll spend much time here, growing older. Then as a preschooler, full of spirit, Trying to climb up the slide. Frustration, delight, coming just near it, Happier for simply having tried. Older now, she's ready for the bars. Once, twice, she crosses without falling. Then, determined - can't be that hard - She goes two at a time without stalling. On the tire swing, in the sandbox with a boy. Growing older as they run around, Tumbling and tickling and acting coy. Then digging in the sand, 'till an object is found... Already on his knees, he hands her the ring, The proposal can come as no surprise. So happy that he asked her, she could sing, And happy that his choice of spot was wise. This playground is where she's spent her life, In a total sum of months or years. This playground is where their days will be rife, Of laughter and learning and joyful tears. They raise their children in this park, Continue the cycle of time. Swinging on the tire, staying up 'till dark, They'll love this place well past its prime. Kids will age and times will change, Though they age and grow and leave, The parent's home stays in range. This place is part of threads they weave. It's in this park that her husband dies, And though she mourns his going, It comforts somehow, amidst her sighs, He died here, and that she's happy knowing. A few more years and she goes when she can, Feeling some connection with his soul. From girl to lady, from boy to man, When here, the years don't make her old. She sees him then, he's reaching out, Asking if she can let go. Happy with her life, she knows what it's about, She stands and lets the memories flow. Empty Playground

Today I had a conversation with a woman I'd barely met before. She came up to me to ask a question about a computer program, but before long we were discussing language barriers, prejudice, boyfriends, and more. We left having decided to do a major programming project together in our spare time. She comes from Asia and I've lived my whole life in Canada so you might not think we would have much in common, but during that conversation I felt a distinct connection of the souls. We understood each other completely and both of us felt entirely comfortable talking about the stories of our lives. I thought about that conversation the whole way home. Yesterday I had a conversation with a woman I might never meet. She came to me, timid-seeming, but we ended up discussing some things quite frankly and I felt like this is someone I would really like to spend the time to know more about. Many think that the internet as a medium is cold and distant, but chatting with this woman, so many miles away, so many years older, so many cultures apart, felt almost like chatting with another aspect of myself. The other day I had a conversation with a woman I didn't know. At the time I didn't know her, that is, but now she is, as the others, a good friend of mine. I might never see her again, but I hope that's not the case. I hope we keep in touch. These people are, I can't help feeling, in some way a mirror of myself. There are many different points of view coexisting in me, and each of them represents some major part of that. It's like we're but different shades of the same colour, or different hues of the same rainbow. Or both at the same time, which is probably truer, since the analogy leaves room for our diversity and our similarities at the same time. I wonder if every stranger I pass on the street has some shard of the same mirror within their soul. Full-Length Mirror

Have you ever had an idea and wondered whether it would be better as a poem or as prose? Well, I have, and it gave me the idea for an event. Either take a poem and convert it to a short-story format, or take a short-story and convert it to poetry. The elements that get reused are entirely up to you; if you assure me that the vital idea remains the same, I'll trust you. The logistics: 20 geld for one poem and 20 geld for one story. You may earn 40 geld by doing one of each but two or more of either is still only worth 20. Please post Poetry-turned-Story in this thread and Stories-turned-Poetry in the thread in the banquet room. Include a link to the original. I'll post an example in each, soon. Edit: After having actually competed this exercise, I'm upping the geld amount! 20 is much more appropriate to the effort involved. I may ask around and up it again actually, I'm pretty indecisive...

Have you ever had an idea and wondered whether it would be better as a poem or as prose? Well, I have, and it gave me the idea for an event. Either take a poem and convert it to a short-story format, or take a short-story and convert it to poetry. The elements that get reused are entirely up to you; if you assure me that the vital idea remains the same, I'll trust you. The logistics: 20 geld for one poem and 20 geld for one story. You may earn 40 geld by doing one of each but two or more of either is still only worth 20. Please post Stories-turned-Poetry in this thread and Poetry-turned-Story in the thread in the assembly room. Include a link to the original. I'll post an example in each, soon. Edit: After having actually competed this exercise, I'm upping the geld amount! 20 is much more appropriate to the effort involved. I may ask around and up it again actually, I'm pretty indecisive...

Sniff, whiff! Twitching nose! Fur, whir! Running, wiggling bum! Nut, what? Off again!

Zariah: You did indeed. It was my own eyes playing tricks on me... sorry for the confusion.

Walking down the gravelly path to home, Alaeha paused a moment. There under the oak, nearly hidden by the long grass at its base, was a purple flower. Carefully making her way across the growth, Alaeha gasped in excitement. Its petals were perfectly formed, the delicate shades aesthetically pleasing, and the stalk strong. Gently freeing the roots, the young girl's mind raced forward to the joy she knew it would provoke in her father when he saw it. Their joint garden, so varied in its splendour, had until today lacked any purple living thing. Holding the flower in her trembling hands, Alaeha finished the journey home. Painstakingly she transferred the organism to a single hand so that she could open the door. Then, jumping back in surprise at the sight that met her eyes, Alaeha nearly dropped it. There stood her father, donning his full suit of armour, a grim look on his face. The seven-year old knew immediately what it must be. Her mother had told stories of her father's past exploits, sung beautiful tunes that bards had written of his heroics. But he had not left them for an adventure for a few years, and to Alaeha that was nearly a lifetime. The girl stared at him and without really realizing it, sat down. The hand holding the precious flower sunk to her side and she just looked forward at her father. Surely he couldn't be leaving them. Why would he want to leave them again? The next hour was filled with the same explanation, said by her father with varying gentle tones, and the same confusion, registered by Alaeha through her tears. She heard the words but could not comprehend their implications. As a result, the conversation would ever be blurry in her memory. All she would ever know was that her father had decided he must be noble. He would go out and slay a dragon for the townspeople. He had done it many times in his youth. And he would be back. He would be back. Father had never before left a promise unfulfilled. Of course he would be back, if he said so. Alaeha sat there for a long time, staring at the flower in her hands. She had not even been able to tell him about it. Her mother entered the room and hugged the girl, explaining again why this was necessary. Of course Jolar was skilled and he would return by nightfall, once again a hero for the town. In the meantime, she urged, perhaps the two of them could plant the pretty flower that Alaeha was holding, and surprise her father in the morning? Aleyn came too, wandering barefoot in the cool mud. Alaeha could almost forgot where her father was gone - tomorrow she would show him the garden's addition and Aleyn would giggle and pretend he'd planted it, and her mother would disappear to the back of the room and let Alaeha take the credit. Of course Jolar would know both that Aleyn had not helped and that his wife had, but it would be all right because they would water the flower together and everything would go back to normal. That night her mother sung another song about Jolar. The dark of the room was filled with the intricate tune and for Alaeha the world melted away into a cacophany of images and sound. Yes, she could be so proud of her father. She fell asleep dreaming of his many wonderful deeds, and the calmness with which her mother took it all. Sleep was not hers for long, however. The silence was interupted by the sound of the gate squeaking open. For a moment Alaeha was disoriented; where had her mother gone? Then she her heavy footsteps and she rushed to the window. It was dark, but she could make out a man with a cane, cutting across the garden to get to the front door. She heard her mother going to the door and opening it, and quickly went to listen under the door to their whispered voices. What she caught was not words but a general tone and when the man had gone again, tapping his cane with every step, Alaeha ran out of the room to her mother. Arierdre was crying, and the tears streamed out of Alaeha's eyes as she approached her. They embraced and it was a long time before either spoke. A valiant fight, her mother said, more to comfort herself than the young girl crying in her lap. He'd nearly killed it, she repeated though she suspected the man was lying in order to comfort her, when a freak accident gave the dragon the opportunity it needed. She never said aloud that he was dead, but Alaeha didn't need to ask. She knew. Aleyn tottered out at one point was Arierdre claimed that nothing was wrong and told him to go to bed. He looked at Alaeha who tried to hide her tears and nodded. The boy mumbled something and left. It was a mark of her mother's shock that she did not go to tuck him in again, but he must not have noticed because soon his light breathing could be heard in the unusually silent house. After a while, Alaeha left her mother and returned to bed. She tried to stay awake but her wet eyelids were drooping with exhaustion and she eventually slept. When she did wake, the sun was high and she leapt from bed, frantic that she had failed, and missed being there to help in whatever way her mother needed. Searching the house hurriedly, the young girl finally discovered her mother outside, conferring with yet another man. This one had slick black hair and squinting eyes, but no cane. They stood well back from the garden but something drew Alaeha's eyes there anyway; immediately they picked out the crushed violet petals, victims of the carelessness of last night's visitor. Her mother's call brought her attention back to the current situation. This man, she was told, would within the week bring herself and Aleyn to the Singer's Sanctuary. He knelt and spoke to her, in childish tones that made him sound more moronic than friendly. Alaeha didn't pay much attention anyway. In the back of her mind she was watching her world fall apart, and spinning dangerously fast in the center of the image was her father, the broken stem of a purple flower in one hand.

Zariah - I read that three or four times before I finally figured out it said "sad" not "glad"! Boy was I confused. Ayshela - *hugs* I'll do the best I can to keep your workload down. Rest when you need to and Get well!

I've talked with Ayshela and we've agreed... for the duration of the carnival (starting immediately after my posts in each one) all the games with announcement posts in the SWG are now worth geld. That is, everything that you'll see on the "updated within 30 days" list. Have at it, and have fun!

In the soft dirt next to the Holiday Traditions spot is a sign. Cracked and wooden, it somehow takes on the appearance of age despite its contents being obviously new. It says: For those of you who can't see the guilds, sorry. Maybe next time the carnival comes to town. (Viewable to pages+). The carnivals are largely meant as a way to advertise for the guilds, so we're going to be putting more stuff in there more often. This event is open to anyone who can post there, but of course if you're a quill-bearer or above I highly recommend checking out the guild while you're there and possibly applying! As for how to play, there are instructions about scoring in the first post. But the general idea is just guess until someone gets the word. No repeating parts of words, like if the password is Snowman (whoever wants to make up a word and provide clues may do so) you can't give "snow" as a clue. You needn't worry too much about how the geld is awarded, I'll do it like the "points" that we weren't bothering with anyway - just know that the sooner you guess it (ie, with fewer clues), the more you get.

This is a neat piece, and I imagine we all know what this is like. So many things to write, if only we had the time, but real life will intrude at the worst times. I like the imagery, speaking of fire first draws a picture very well, especially when you talk of using the fire to draw a picture. Then you speak of words, a waiting space and well, I'm just repeating words from the poem now, but I like the ones you chose. You do very well what you're describing wanting to do. The abrupt change of pace also fits well with your intentions, and the abrupt end with the word "wait" - we almost feel we should be waiting for more. Waiting, perhaps, for you to finish what you're doing. Kudos. Good, simple, expressive piece. PS. How do you get indents like that?

Bam! A closeup of some colourful pasta salad zooms to the right and blurs momentarily as the camera-person regains the focus. A white canvas balanced delicately on a countertop, red paint splattered, round and reminiscent of a tomato. Bam! The canvas now sports blue in the upper corner, and Bam! orange bottom-centre. The screen leisurely moves to the left to show Katzaniel, sporting a ridiculous chef's hat and aiming a paintgun. Bam! Bam! Bam! "Now let's ki-" she is thankfully interupted by a polite cough from behind the camera. "Oh, yeah..." she mutters. Setting down the gun, Katzaniel turns to face the screen. "Welcome to the Katzaniel Craft and Cooking show! Notice how I tastefully refrained from pronouncing those with K's! Anyway, we're going to prepare a carefully designed masterpiece today while the turkey is cooking. First of course we must put the food in the oven, but once that work is done we can begin to have some real fun." For the next ten minutes the camera dutifully follows Katzaniel spicing and stuffing a turkey, setting it in the oven, and indicating the timer, all the while providing descriptive explanation of how to follow along at home. Then she returns to the paintgun. Bam! Bam Bam! Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam! The camera zooming toward the canvas and its colourful array of spots is actually quite aesthetically pleasing. "Now, of course I'll need to describe to the folks at home how to reproduce the effect..." Katzaniel is soon absorbed in artistic details about colours, patterns and style. Occasionally going back to the gun to demonstrate a point, Katzaniel is well into the fine points of using a paintbrush to add texture and emotion to a piece when a beep is heard off to the left. "No, not yet," says the tigertaur, adjusting her hat and motioning for the camera to stay on the canvas. "See this blue circle next to the orange? As I mentioned earlier, they're complimentary colours. But to the discerning eye, it isn't quite right. What we need is to fiddle with the shape and texture... just slightly, like so... and the subconscious will much more readily accept the tones. When working with this type of oily paint, it's also important to remember -" The beeping grows steadily more insistent but Katzaniel manages to ignore it and keep talking. Minutes drag by, and still she is animatedly discussing the artwork. The beeping is increasingly annoying, and the cameraman attempts every so often to interject. "I think that -" "Not now." "Look, Katz -" "We're busy over here!" "That turkey -" "Would you shut up about that already?" Finally, Chef Katzaniel is able to ignore it no longer. A black plume of smoke wafts in front of the camera and suddenly watery spots appear on the lens. A smoke alarm wails loudly enough that Katzaniel's suddenly panicked voice is drowned out. The camera is knocked off its stand and whirs across the floor. Feet (and paws) rush out a door in the commotion. And the image auto-focusses on the oven and the fire burning brightly inside. The image suddenly changes to the colour bars with the message: "Please stand by. We are experiencing technical difficulties. In the meantime, check out this short message by our sponsors: Priorities (Zadown)" Edit: I didn't realize until too late, although I should have, that Appy's post was referring to one of Zadown's poems as well. Oops...

I have waited to say anything here because I wanted to roughly quote a card I got that says it very well... "For we desire nothing but to share thy grief, and make it easier to bear." "May every note of support, every hug and flower given by those who care somehow have the power to ease the pain in your heart." I think these both describe how we all feel. Best wishes, Katz

Long and thin, Waits on whim, They say it's better than a sword, But I don't trust it 'gainst a horde, Still I like it, Just can't fight it, It's just right for any caper, Perfect for ideas to paper!

Ven: Actually I was looking more for the language used specifically by the person telling the story. It would be more along my thoughts if either a) Ug was telling some sort of story or Venefyxatu was more a part of the post. What I mean by that is that he's mentioned in the start but the rest of it reads like it's written. If he were telling the story to the crowd, he'd need to say things like, "Then Ug shouted 'I haf yer statsjoo!!'." And if Venefyxatu showed something of his own opinion of the events he's describing. If you don't want to edit it, or don't have time, then it's fine - but if you can edit in some stuff like that, that'd be great.

OOC: I'm putting this first for the Chronologically-Challenged, as I recognize the condition only so well recently. Basically I'm looking for a story as told by some character not yourself. Preferably not a "main" character either though I'll let each of you be the judge of that. Include gestures, voice inflections, accents, et cetera as needed, include the speech as they tell it and more often than not within quotes (as opposed to, "Then he told about such and such.") 5 geld for participating, 10 additional for the top one or two (if very close). Judging will be done on how well the story appears to reflect the character telling it, how well you make the character come across through his or her words, gestures, et cetera, and to some extent how interesting the story is. Focus on dialogue please - what I'd very much like to see is the creation of a whole new story-telling voice through this character, not someone who just sounds like you do. Try to use similes that would come naturally to them, et cetera et cetera. (That's all part of the judging list ) Now for a more interesting introduction which I will attempt to double as an example. IC: The old man hobbled onto the stage, using his cane like a mountain climber might use their tools. To him the tall steps must have loomed just as large, but he made it up and across the lonely trek, standing proud despite meagre height in front of the assembled crowd. "When I was young," he croaked, letting the words settle before continuing, "there were respect for elders! I never thought I'd a' grow old and see that all lain to waste." Someone shuffled in the back and he whipped his cane up and pointed. "See! Silence they demanded in my day, an' I made pains to be silent or there'd be a whippin' later! Now 'ere I am and I ain't got my due." The man made a face, shaking his cane emphatically for a moment more before lowering it once more to the ground. "I killed eight dragons before I were thirty, and do ya think I earned respect fer that? I was too young, I tell ya, fer any respect in those days. And now I'm jest too old. One o' dem dragons, 'e breathed fire right down me back an' that's where I got this here bum leg. Another, he were larger than the king's castle and blacker than the finest soot. I killed 'em though, I kept you all's safe and what thanks do I get!" Someone coughed and the man's eyes were on the crowd in an instant. They narrowed. "No one 'ppreciates all I've done for you's!" He began forward, jumped more nimbly than anyone thought he could manage off the front of the stage, and began fighting through the crowd. Random threats echoed in his creaky voice as he tried to find the offender. "Good, well, now he's done," said an announcer, taking the stage. "We've got many more stories to work through this evening. Number eight?"

Three points for whoever figures out who said this (paraphrased): "I had another birth today, so I'm tired and my brain is fried."