Ozymandias

...accidentally built a dustpan? ...had to do the 'sniff test' on your dishes? ...eaten an MRE?

Degorram Trees cascade to the forest floor by the dozens in a spreading fan They rustle only slightly as they fall, making a sound like a family of bears moving in a great hurry somewhere nearby until the ground is met with a succession of thunderous bass blows Stone fingers, impossibly large close just a little further, closing slowly, dragging through the ancient dying plants in deep thought or quiet frustration. The hand opens once more, lifting into the sky from whence it came once more closing into a fist absently. There is no word, no sound, until the rush of winds heralds its next move, one that is staright down into the land, smashing dozens more members of the elder wood to splinters with a blow so violent the whole land shakes, and the volcano is split, belching forth fire and liquid and smoke as buildings break loose of the assailant's skin and tumble to the ground, more unrecognizable debris. Kikuyu Black Paws Whiteness is crossed by black is crossed by red is crossed by vengeance never vengeance is split by the awl that is kept in a black sheath Tears flow, shadows caress, sun sings, the ocean laps at your feet, and always the music calls, it calls, they call, the points of death and the points of infinity Where will you go with complete invisibility? What will you do with incomplete invincibility? Misdirection is useful for favors too Troubled Sleep Caged birds sing of being more than this crude matter In our pilgrim's progress we stumble as often as we stand under the weight of our heavy burdens that we never look back to see and never see that it is wings Arms of hate and arms of love surround us every day whether we know where to look, whether or not we even try It is a war of Id and ego versus grace that will ever be on Earth long after it is our time to die (my thanks, ladies, for being so inspirational)

(Rhyme?? ) The raven, I think runs black as ink under the bright and daylight sky The paper drinks the strokes and whorls that trace hunger and portent from his wing and cry He comes for meal cleaning bones and sockets whether in the road or hidden in the lawn The quills of Poe's herald do prove after all both good for writing with and for writing on

Perhaps an orc of the world such as yourself can tell me; truly, why is a raven like a writing desk?

My shoulder tweaks The crickets chirp in time with the ceiling fan A car rolls by and I here I lie feigning sleep again

*heaves his jacks at you*

Funny thing is, that's almost exactly what went through my head in the writing. So I'm glad. :>)

I lie in the dark, trying to sleep the smell of my pillow tinged with sweat Twisting my hips one way, then the other still that stiff spot in my back remains The crickets chirp steadily at me through the open windows Sleep does not come easily instead my thoughts wander again Tearing through the screen bounding across and off the roof Into the grass, off into the tallest parts then into the tress, perhaps to hunt Always to smell, to taste, to run, to look and eventually to sleep

Ringed round by a coffee mug long empty hampers of clothes, a chair of books, some stacks of comics, piles of dirty clothes, (oh, there are books down there too) Alton Brown is teaching again, while my computer hums and stares I take it all in as my mind wanders back again instead to the soft warmth of my bed, to the smiles I shall see tomorrow, to the phone I can pick up, the chat window that will chirp merrily at me no matter when I open it I am happy.

*claps slowly* No...not junk.

(todays' episode brought to you by wardrobe malfunctions. ) ...mistaken your necklace for heart problems? ...worn yourself as a mask? ..forgotten your pants?

The more natural the grain, the more like concrete any leftover cereal flakes will be. Food Network is porno for hungry people. Organizing is good malaise therapy. So is hot coffee.

Hwould rather not be on the receiving end of that smile.... Awesome use of belts and buckles on a costume- that is *such* an overplayed touch, but you actually got them to look good, and original.

Use it or not, I love that line! The poem as is, is good, but the mixture of glass ceiling and spider metaphors flows a bit awekwardly for me. I'd be more speciifc, but can't for the moment. I'll keep thinking. In the meantime, awesome to have ya back, Arashi. :>)

(I've seen them ever since childhood; but they're much less clear now than they were then.) ...rinsed out your nose? ...found illness to be quite handy in remodelling? ...been able to imagine surgery so vividly you could feel it?

Oh, and yes to the supervillan. :>)

Danke, Sir! Ah, that's supposed to be "area". *fixes*

In the beginning was the Pen. The pen was pointy Then there was ninja. Ninja was pointy too. In the beginning, there was also Shifter. but no-one had noticed Shifter because she looked like a Pen. So she was also pointy. Then she looked like herself, who hasn't any point. So she was the only one allowed into the balloon factory. And so it was that, fifteen minutes after the time he had asked them to meet him at his rooms, Kikuyu and Degorram found Ozymandias sitting at his desk, buried up to his waist in crumpled balls of parchment, planted in front of truly staggering towers of empty sake cups, empty coffee cups, and empty mugs of hot choclate, and underneath a cloud of smoke that was almost too thick to see through (a wisp of which was just then slithering stealthily out of a still-lit pipe to join its extended family), clutching the above manuscript protectively in one hand, and quill in the other, as he snored softly. The fact that he was running in his sleep they politely decided to keep to themselves. The End*. My Ladies, I wish I could write as well as you, or had a heart big as each of you do. It's an honor to be here with you. Congratulations again on a terrific QQ, and on moving up in the world. *No Ozymandiases were harmed in the making of this promotion post.** **Wyvern, however, caught fire. Twice. He's healing nicely.

Author's Note: This one was begun by request from a friend. You'll notice it isn't finished. That's because I've since lost contact with her, quite likely for a long time, but I consider this to be *hers*, so I am waiting until we tlka again to complete it. In the meantime, I wanted to make sure it was as saved as I could make it, so it's on my hard drive, npw the Pen, and next comes floppy. Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there lived a young man who had an inn. It was not a very prosperous one, or very poor. It did exactly as well as he needed it to do. This made the young man very happy. For he was not so concerned with the money to be made, as much as he was with all of the people he could meet. He'd met priests, thieves, Mothers, murderers, Daughters, butchers, sons, nuns, governors, and judges. But someday, he hoped, he would meet his wife. He'd met many women, he'd seen them all: old and small, youngand tall, dark and sensuous, innocent and fair, mad, bad, good, fat, thin, skinny, strong, but still he wondered when he would meet she who he would wed, all day long. This summer had been particularly dull. It was so dry, there was drought across the land. No one wanted to travel with no water, so the young man was barely making enough money to keep the inn going. The day was one of the quietest and loneliest it had been though all the hot summer weeks. The young man had been awake since three hours before dawn, as was his custom, to prepare himself and the inn for the day, and it had now been fifteen hours without receiving any business. Breakfast passed with only the songbirds for company. Lunch had passed with only the lazy gnats coming in. As dinnertime fast approached, and even the sun was taking its leave, nothing so much as a farmer's wife on her way to markey had driven past. The young man was unaccustomed to worry, he always made just as much as he needed to survive, and to keep his inn as it should be, but today, with so much time with no companionship whatsoever, his heart slowly began to fill with gloom. "I beg your pardon, Sir Sunshine," he said to the sun through the window, "for you have long been a reliable source of warmth and cheer, but it seems as though your cheer can only stand when there are others to enjoy it with." He mopped his brow, and decided to go to the pump for water. "I have to ask -Is the reason you've come so much closer than is your wont, that you are lonely like me? If so, I can hardly hold ill will toward you. I too suffer the lack of the joy that human talk and human laughter brings." He pumped and pumped and pumped and pumped, until the bucket was full. Lifting the bucket with a grunt, he turned back to the inn. "If it does not overstep my bounds, Sir-it would seem that your search for neighbors is what causes this calamity in our hearts, for your face is the most attentive and the brightest of us all, but your warmth is so greater than ours, I fear we begin to burn. So," he continued through window once more, as he brought the water behind the bar and began filling jugs with it, "Your lack of friend and mine is largely due to everyone fleeing your well-meaning but hot gaze" He filled the last jug, and looked outside. "Alas, you cannot hear me, can you Sir Sun? So intent are you in your search for your playmates. Ah well", he sighed. "I still may not hold this against you, good Sir. For I know much the same lies in my breast as well." The young man raised a glass of water to his lone neighbor. "May you succeed more swiftly than I." The sun had slipped lower now, and the young man heaved a sigh of relief as he felt the air begin to cool. "Perhaps you heard me after all!", he smiled. "Sleep well this eve, old man, and tomorrow we shall begin our searches anew together." A knock came at the door, and a light, airy voice called in. "Hello? Is anyone there?" The young man started from his reverie. "Yes! Please, come right in!" The door swung open, and a young woman with long, curling hair and a white cotton dress swept in. Her hair was flaxen, her cheeks rosy, her figure tall and slender. Her hair, too was knotted and scattered with leaves. A twig she seemed unaware of jutted out of a particularly thick knot at an antlerlike angle. Her white cotton dress, he realized was not so white, either. She was splattered and smeared with mud everywhere. There was one streak of red over her left elbow that looked like blood. He realized, with further shock, that she carried neither purse, nor belt. She was smiling at him in incongruous merriment. He finally realized too, that he had been staring. The young man stammered out an apology and hurried to help her to a seat in the common area. "Are you all right, Miss? You look as though you've had a terrible time", he soothed as he set a fire to boil water. The young woman stretched her legs with a small grimace before turning that same cheerful smile to the young man again. "Oh, I'll be quite alright, thank you. I've just been robbed." "Robbed!" the Young Man exclaimed, nearly dropping the kettle as he tried to set it on its hooks. The Young Woman laughed merrily. "I've had quite worse as a small girl with my brothers, I assure you!" "But have they taken everything? Are you hurt?", said he, now kneeling by her side in concern. She waved a hand dismissively. "A woman my age, travelling alone with naught but a walking stick and summer clothes to protect her? Of course. They took my whole belt, took my stick, threw that away. and threw me down on the side of the road. I scraped my knee something fierce", said she with a gesture. "And I quite imagine that by now they've thrown away my bag as well." She looked thoughtful. "They didn't look hungry enough" The Young Woman looked every bit as though she was contemplating a butterfly, and not recollecting her assault and robbery.

Author's Note: I had begun this for a contest in another forum before I realized that I have no idea if the contest sponsor was reputable, so I decided to finish it for the Pen instead. :>) Timothy Fergus was eight years old, and very alone and very, very scared. The camping trip had been going so well. He'd gotten to catch his first fish with his father, and his mother had been letting them roast s'mores for dessert every night. Then he had woken before either of his parents two days ago, and made the fateful decision to explore the caves he'd seen on the hike in. Timothy had wandered far into those dark places before deciding it was too black to see, and that he did not want to be alone here any more. It was too late. He was lost. The family had used the path that led past these caves, this was true. But there were four distinct paths leading to this camp ground, and Harold and Denise Fergus had been using only whichever one struck their fancy for years, even before Timothy had been born. In their fear for their child's safety, both had forgotten which path they had used until it was too late, and police and park ranger joint efforts found Timothy's shoe, and blood in the caves two weeks later. The little boy had not been attacked, then eaten, as the authorities had surmised. sadly for the poor boy, and many other parents, he was not even dead. It was at the end of the fourth day, and little Timmy had had no water, no food, and little sleep. Exhausted, ravenous, thirsty, and terrified, his weakened mind found the idea that his parents didn't love him; how could they? He disobeyed, shouted, broke things, said bad words...of course they weren't looking for him. The didn't love him. They had left. So he believed, there on the edge of death. That was all they needed. The rabbits found him first, luring Timothy with promises of companionship. That was all it took- they had him almost immediately, and set to work digging their own place in his nearly broken spirit. It was an area quite regularly used to 'set free' rabbits that inattentive parents bought for their children as easter gifts, which were in turn neglected, and taken to these woods by frustrated parents who yet again displaying their short-sightedness decided to "return" these utterly tame and so defenseless creatures to the wild. Every year, it happened, every time, the rabbits died in days, whether they were killed, died of poisoning, or starved. Once the rabbits had a foothold, more and more animals were drawn to the pure, vitriolic rage that only a child can muster; for they all sensed a kindred spirit in abandonment; one who could help them get fair repayment for their death and torment. Fish who were flushed into poison sewers alive, dogs that were deliberately left in parks, cats who were drowned, dogs that were run over, then lied about, reptiles and rodents of nearly every species that had sickened and died from inattentive owners...the new "room-mates" in Timothy's soul became legion. He is now a thing, neither human, nor animal, neither alive, nor dead. He has gills and lungs both, but it is unclear if he needs to breathe at all. He can swim faster than any Olympic athlete. The thumbs on each of his hands are gone; all that is left are chewed scars. His fingers end not in fingertips with fingernails, but long, wicked claws tha can rip flesh as efficiently as a grizzly's. His eyes are too large a human head, giving him a goggle-eyed appearance. They are slitted of pupil, golden in color, and allow him perfect vision in the dark. His ears are longer than they once were, but only by centimeters. His hearing, sense of smell, sight, and taste are hundreds of times stronger than a normal human's. His reflexes are fast enough to corral two adult humans with little to no difficulty. The thing that used to be Timothy can also detect his prey by feeling vibrations through his feet, or the air blowing through his hair from up to one hundred feet away. The thing's more unnatural features are rabbit-like claws at the end of each finger, gills in each side of his neck. a riot of mismatched patches of scales and fur all across his body, and short, razor sharp teeth that can sever a living tendon or digits in one bite, and so strong that they can be used to chew through wood, even concrete. His prehensile tail and his arms and legs are deceptively fast for limbs as short as they are; they can also be shed and regrown. The thing that the papers have dubbed 'The Abandoned Killer' can bypass any lock, swim through any size sewer pipe, and seemingly cannot be harmed; stabbing, cutting, suffocation, drowning, bludgeoning do not seem to harm him in any way. Even as a result of long falls, or being run over by something as large as a tractor trailer truck. Bullets have yet to successfully connect. What used tyo be an unknown number of family pets, and one child of grieving, still childless parents, now appears, along with all of his new amimalistic features, a gaunt humanoid thing, with a human ribcage clearly showing just under the skin, and nearly all vertebrae in human spine visible. What is worse, the chimeric flesh seems to be in a constant state of decay without ever falling off. Timothy has been driven entirely insane by this possession, and is now feral, with one notable exception; all of his victims, unless they fight back, are savaged only into unconsciousness, then taken into the middle of the wilderness, with no possessions and left to die. Every one of his kidnapping victims also have always either committed criminal neglect of a pet, and/or a child. 'The Abandoned Killer' is responsible for an estimated 11% of all kidnappings in the United States.

Deg- Ozymandias began in her thoughts, then finished aloud in his surprise-"orram! You're back!!!" Wihtout a second thought,he swept her up in a fierce embrace. Degorram, still somewhat befuddled, still allowed herself a small smile and an "Ouch." in reply. Stricken, he immediately lowered her gently to the ground. "I am so sorry!", he cried. She could only blink slowly up at him. Though so much color had drained from his face he looked almost yellow, Ozymandias' brow creased in worry and hope as he looked down at her. "Is it you?", he asked quietly.

His brow creased in worry. "I'll try." Ozymandias reached out to brush errant hair from the shifter girl's face Blood dripped onto her cheek. With a small start, the Loremaster turned his hand palm up. It was coated in red. Frowning more deeply, he closed his fist. In the keep, Ozymandias got to shaking feet. He went to the basin he had prepared, leaving a thing stream of blood across the floor. Fresh wet patches appeared on the front of his robe. Slowly, haltingly, he began to wash his kidney in scented water. Degorram, he thought, and sent from his heart. Degorram. Stay with us. Your sister is worried. The enemy is destroyed. Besides, shifters surely don't die so easily, he sent the last wryly, warmly. "Ki- Kiku. Get a healer. As many- as you can. It'd hel-p," Ozymandiass forced through gritted teeth.. The other Ozymandiases, now still, went limp and vanished entirely.

Ozymandias' eyes glazed as he took all of this in, then focussed again in a flash. He closed the distance between himself and their assailant and time slowed to a molasses-like crawl. Their toes brushed as he stepped forward with his assault, and even as the Shifter of the Pen fell, many things began to happen. The old king went absolutely silent as he brought his knife up in a lazy, powerful arc- supported his both hands as he put his palm to the hilt for support- he slashed neatly over the body of the collapsing Degorram, severing the Necromancer's fist before he had a chance to drop it from its' raised position, Unhindered, he brought the blade now over the dark wizard's head, carving a lazy curve through the air until it came back down again into the other man's neck at that point where the neck meets the trapezius muscle. Blood gouted from that wound too, what seemed (perhaps was) minutes later. Ozymandias let go of his weapon, throwing himself away from his foe, and twisting his body in a strange water ballet through the thick air, arms reaching out until he caught his fallen comrade half with his hands, half with his body before she slammed into the ground. Impossibly, even as his own back connected with the dirt, he was already coiling his legs underneath him, and was on his feet again in an instant, and running away from their perhaps dying, perhaps not, foe with Degorram clutched tightly in his arms. The knife, though only a few inches cut into the flesh of the dark wizard's ruined neck had not slipped an inch. None but the Necromancer saw why, as fingers with a soft, shining power that his mind even now tried to calculate, and had already blanched at the impossibilty of the task held the weapon in place. He felt, more than saw, a face looking at him with utter sadness. It spoke in his ears and heart (which writhed in undulled malice as it felt that voice). "Little one... You are unrepentant of your path, even now. There can be only one outcome to that. I am sorry. We shall miss you." Before the flame leaped down the knife blade, the man who had taken such great pains to erase his own name, and replace it with terror felt a small twinge in his black heart. Even then, he coldy brushed it aside, sneering.

You'rewelcome! :>)

In the keep, Ozymandias is in his room. He silently plunges a dagger into his side, and jerks it backward with all his strength, spilling out a kidney into his outstreched hand. He smiles, even as tears stream down his face, and he has bitten through his tounge without feeling. His knees buckle, then straighten. He looks out the window as a shadow creature rushes forward with a speed impossible for those hampered by friction, bearing thread and a needle. The necromancer gasps as a handful of control is wrested from him by the same brat who had sought to invade his mind. He goggles, perhaps in shock, perhaps in pain, as for two...brief..seconds..all..the undead monsters...stop in their tracks...turn...and watch the defenders converge on him, all standing at stiff attention. In the keep, Ozymandias faints. In the forest, Ozymandias roars.