Degorram

Degorram dodged a few blows from Tzimfemme and, figuring she had grabbed the wrong ball, immediately turned invisible. Caught off guard, though not at all surprised, Tzimfemme backed away, her fists up to protect herself against any invisi-jabs. None came, however, as Degorram snuck away around the mob, climbed a tree, and assumed the shape of a small, lightly-haired dragon. With a sigh she straightened the scales that had been pushed the wrong way by the unexpected attack, and observed the chaos below. "Not to be a killjoy," she mumbled, "but I think I'll just watch until I get the rules....At least I'm safe up here." Right?

I'm not really one to be up on the top about new releases and all that, but this one is just too good to be true. Plus I have a few interesting facts that most people I have talked to don't seem to know! PREDATORS came out today, July 9. Now most people, specifically people who aren't die-hard fans, will look at this and say "Oh great, another Predator movie..." And from the series of movies that have come out since the original Predator with Arnold Schwarzenegger, even a die-hard fan like myself can admit that the saga seems to be approaching the Land Before Time renowned title of "quit while you're ahead." Why is this? Because after the amazing story, effects, suspense, and gore that the original piece brought to us, the later movies have just failed to deliver. Predator 2 was a disaster, and very often is not spoken of. (Lol) AVP was good, but as many people complained, was most often too dark, too close, and too concentrated on the humans. Plus, the team of heroine and Predator at the very end was a bit cliche. And for those who were paying attention (or maybe this is just for detail freaks like me) when the Predator takes his mask off at the very end, in stead of having the black and yellow ringed eyes that made the original alien so cool, the actor's eyes are left un-lensed, if you will. Blue, is the color. And human eyes look very bad on a creature with the mouth of a mutated lobster, let's be honest. Not only this, but many of the extra Predators who come to claim their fallen comrade's body seem to be about 5'2, with heads FAR too large for their bodies. How tall was the man who played the original predator? That would be Kevin Peter Hall, at 6'5". AVP: Requiem, which I just saw recently, had very similar problems. Kudos to them for adding old Predator musical themes and putting a little more emphasis on the actual hunter aspect of the alien, but once again, too much concentration on the seemingly useless plots of humanity -- such as the eye candy pool scene. So now that I have finished saying all that was wrong with the other movies, let's move on to the POSITIVE! (LOL) Predators is an amazing release because it is the parallel that was meant to come out all those years ago along with Aliens. Predator, Predators; Alien, Aliens...you see the relation! The only problem is that they ran out of funding, and pushed the script aside. Then along came Predator 2, to the disappointment of fans. That abandoned script is the result of the new movie today. It contains amazing actors such as Laurence Fishburne and Adrien Brody, with Derek Mears as the classic Predator. How tall is Mears? 6'5". Now THAT'S a Predator!! SO that's my schpeal. Seeing the movie today, and I shall report back if it is as amazing as it should be. Hooray violence. Hooray gore. Hooray Predators! ***Several Hours Later*** To avoid spoilers, which nobody really likes, my only report is that this movie is everything the Predator fan is looking for, and has been waiting for. Those who know the first movie by heart will enjoy the little references pervading the entire movie. The whole thing was well done, with pointers to the original for completion, new pieces of Predator culture for originality, and plenty of material to ooze and even argue over. With that said, I say Predators is a success! Thank goodness for that.

Degorram stumbled in to her office wearily, ripping a blindfold off her eyes as she dropped into her chair with a sigh. Glancing at the application before her -- which was now covered in sticky notes, having been read by many, many Pennites before her -- she flipped through it and ruffled her hair. "This is very nice work. I do apologize for not having gotten to it sooner. You see I was held hostage by my router, and was unable to come to work. My thanks for your patience." She picked up a green stamp and slammed in on the first sheet in the cluster, handing it back to Corwin (who had begun to grow a bit of facial hair waiting in her office), who took it and left hurriedly, looking vastly relieved. Only an instant later, he popped his head back in and asked, with a slightly crazed look on his face, "Er...where's the bathroom? I haven't left this whole time you see..." "Third door down the hall on your left," Degorram said wearily. ********* OOC: SOOOO SOOORRY! My internet vanished and I was unable to get to this sooner. Thanks so much for your application. And welcome to the Pen! OOC (Part Deux): And upon a further and more intense reading, I have to say that I really really do like it! Your characters are charming, the dialogue witty, the setting easy to grasp without floods of detail -- overall a very good piece! My only suggestions is that occasionally your sentences get a little long, causing the brain (or at least mine) to stumble. And if you have me read your stuff very much here, you'll find me using THAT particular phrase a lot. There are also a couple places that you have more prepositions than are necessary, but nothing that is drastic enough to destroy the flow completely. I also can't wait to see more. <3

From across the street, Degorram had been eyeing very seriously a statue of a thirteen headed dragon reading thirteen different classics when her ears caught the crunch of bone and flesh and distinctive whoosh of a NIMBALL. Her head turned around on its stem (completely around) and as the game-rage filled her eyes, she felt her body flying through the air, her skull reorienting itself, and her mouth opening to scream out a long and slow-motion effected "CHAAAAAAAARGE!!!!" The Nimball was in her grasp. She actually had it! Between her very own fingers! A demonic sense of covetousness overtook her usually pleasant if not grumpy disposition, and she hugged the ball to her chest, staring around insanely for attackers and interceptors. "MINE!" she hissed, and promptly started running away with the ball. ********************************************************************************************************************************** OOC: I think I'll be needing an aphinstistcal narphnel.

OOOGLEDYBOOOGLEDYBOOOGLEDY!

This is just a short intro piece that I wrote as the introduction, if you will, of a short story I've been playing around with. I am a cloud, and I carry flame. I am Orion, but you do not know my name. I have wings, yet you wonder how I fly. I come from afar, yet I am close by. I am strength, but against my will. I am a dance, that wants to lie still. I am alone, yet I protect you all. I am life, and I too shall fall.

Actually, this is a common misconception. Poems do not 'typically' begin with capital letters at every line; it is entirely up to the poet to decide. In fact, it's practically grammatically incorrect to do so. Imagine a sentence Written with a capital letter In every place There is supposed to be A break. Looks silly, doesn't it? Same with poetry. It's all personal taste. I used to capitalize every first letter in my poetry, until this was pointed out to me ages and ages ago. Then I realized, yes, it does look silly. So I changed my style. No wish to correct it here.

*A poem on a struggle that pretty much every girl goes through at least once. Some struggle with it their entire lives.* You don't believe me, you think I lie. How can you trust your own lying eyes? All of these years you see something that cannot be. Why won't you listen? Yet I always will turn to my darker voice. I can't believe I have a choice. I will not tell you what is not true. Open your eyes and begin anew. Always you run from this, choosing the angry hiss of your confusion. But how can I believe in what I cannot perceive? I cannot take you at your word; not for something so absurd. To think that I am beautiful when I look in the mirror and see myself.

'Course you already know how often I'm here... But I'll post anyway! I'm on the Pen at least once a day, more often than not multiple times based on my schedule, but I don't always feel the desire to post. I'm a pretty lazy writer, to be honest, and don't necessarily write unless I'm specifically inspired. Occasionally I post something that I have done, but since my output is so low these days, that isn't often at all. I'm perpetually logged in, and only log in when I have to because my connection timed out from day to day! My interest would be in more Pen based role play adventures. I love interacting with our characters within and without the Pen complex, and am always spurred to better my writing through such things. It would be cool to have a forum based solely in the comings and goings of Pen characters.

*Degorram remembers fondly all the times she has fallen out of chairs laughing...*

Tora awoke with a gasp and a prickly feeling as a large mass hit the cave floor only a few feet from his own, curled up body. In shock his eyes adjusted quickly to the light cast by a brand new fire, crackling eerily in the center of the floor, and he beheld the glazed eyes of a young deer, nose and mouth bloodied. Its wet fur stunk of death and was already beginning to steam in the warmth of the cave. Two of its legs had been ripped off, and its chest seemed askew...Tora dry heaved, coughing sporadically into his hand as the cold eyes of his servant observed him. "You do not approve?" she asked, and Tora noted that she was genuinely curious, as well as completely dry despite her expedition into the wild storm. She picked up the carcass with one hand and shook it a little. "This does not appeal to your hunger?" "N-not quite," Tora said, trying not to look at the poor creature. "You need to skin it and de-bone the meat that's good for eating, and it needs to be cooked." He picked up one of his scattered pots and, standing shakily, walked to the front of the cave. The rain had lessened while he had been asleep, but there was still enough of a cascade that he filled the pot with water. Turning, he set up his hook-stand and hung the pot over the fire, eyes widening in surprise as the water began to instantly boil. He glanced up at the demon, but did not ask her about her handy work, and instead began cutting up potatoes. The demon watched him for a moment, then began to rip the skin off the deer slowly. Tora flinched at the terrible sound, but did not admonish her, for he did not have an extra knife and her fingernails were doing an adequate job. His stomach turned again, and he prayed that he would find the strength to eat this meal when it was at last finished. "What do I call you?" he finally asked as he dropped the potato pieces into the pot. Immediately their smell began to fill the cave. "Whatever you like," she replied. "Do you prefer this in chunks, or strips?" and she turned her hungry gaze upon him, a thin smile curling around the tip of her tongue, which was poking out at him as she waited for his answer. "....strips," Tora said, cringing as she began to rip the flesh into thin pieces. "But you don't have a name where you come from?" "I do," she said shortly, absorbed in her work. "Once the contract is signed, however, it is no more a part of me than this form that I choose to take to suit my master." Tora sighed. So he was really stuck with her. "Then there's no going back, is there?" he asked anyway, and the demon laughed at the hopelessness in his voice. "Don't sound so depressed! You don't understand what power you now have at your disposal. I will do anything to serve my master, until death. The world is at your fingertips, master, so I suggest you explore it." She tossed the meat into the pot as well, and the smell became heavenly. "And my soul?" Tora questioned, miserable. "Bother, you're worried about that? Let me tell you something about souls. They're delicious." She winked. "And completely useless. What do you need a soul for? Not much. You can keep it while you're alive, and when you die, it becomes my next bon-appetite. You won't notice it's gone, believe me." Tora didn't believe her at all. He pulled out a couple of bowls and a ladle, and began spooning the now thick soup (where had that gravy come from?) into one, which he held out to the demon. She gave him a skeptical look, and he put the other bowl away. "So I call you whatever I want." "Try to make it something I'll enjoy answering to, at least." "How about...Sophie?" A silent snarl touched the demon's lips, and Tora filled his mouth with soup to keep from answering. "Umm...ok...well...I knew a girl once named Iily." He glanced up and, seeing no disgust in her face, set his bowl on the floor. "That's it then. Your name is Iily." "And what is my master's first request?" she said, her eyes glittering maliciously. "Put on some clothes!" Iily laughed and stood, looking down at him. "Oh, you don't like this look? Of course." And she turned on her heel. When she had completed her turn and faced him again, she was wearing bound hunting pants and boots, and a length of cloth was tied around her neck and chest. She picked up the knife Tora had cut potatoes with and, lifting it to her neck, gripped her hair in one hand and cut it off at the back of her head. Small strips fell to the floor to sizzle away as they hit stone, and the rest she tossed into the fire where it snapped and crackled with an intense heat. The angle of the cut caused her hair to stand up slightly in the back. She winked again and placed a hand on her hip. "Better, my lord?" Tora cringed. "Yes, but don't call me that. Just call me Tora." "As you wish."

**Degorram pulled out a Megaphone, cleared her throat loudly into it, and pulled on a floppy, knit hat. The price tag still hung from the tip of the hat, which hung down past her ears, but the numbers had been scratched out, replaced by "The Thinking Cap." Feet spread apart defiantly, she put a hand on her hip and began to bellow into the Megaphone, blowing several picture frames off the walls around her in the process** In order to spur some activity, as well as test out a game that I've been DYING to play recently, I bring forth a Revival! This topic will be the official opening of an interactive tale. It's kind of like a "Campfire Story" except not as lame -- I will start with a story intro. The rules are: have fun and stretch your creative abilities! Go into the danger zone! Write in a way you've never done before! You can do anything you like with a character once it is introduced, however you are not allowed to kill them all off and say "The End" and you are not allowed to drastically alter the ideals of any given character; plot twists are all well and good, but if Sally Mae is a vegetarian, that's that. It's the job of every writer to respect and appreciate the work that goes into the creation and introduction of a character, so pay attention to who is who! With everyone working together, we can create something truly intriguing as well as actually get those pens moving! **She paused to push the brim of her thinking cap out of her eyes, and picked up a mop and bucket that had been sitting nearby. The bucket was filled with red ink, and with a few pushes of the mop she began writing in large, crimson letters across the top of what appeared to be a bed sheet made of parchment paper. Meanwhile, her tail, curled around a black pen, began to scribble tiny cartoons and rude comments on the margins.** With that, I release you and your muses into this new world! ----------------- Tora sat up in his blanket to the sound of thunder outside. He marveled momentarily at how loud it was without any sort of walls to shield him from the elements. The stone at the mouth of his cave was wet and little rivulets of rain water were trickling towards him, results of the torrential downpour that was assaulting the mountain. His fire, so painstakingly built and tended to, had been blown out by the wind, and the water seeping into the cave had dampened his tinder. With a sigh, Tora pulled himself up to lean against the cave wall, wrapping his only wool blanket even tighter around his shoulders. It would be a long, miserable night without the fire, but he was simply too tired to even attempt rebuilding it, much less spending precious magical energy in order to light it. He had no flint, and it had sent him right to sleep getting it started in the first place. What had at first been an exciting and childish discover, this cave, was now just another paltry shelter compared to the warm, cozy cabin he had left behind him. Grimacing, the young mage-in-training banished all thoughts of home from his mind. Hadn't he made an oath? Hadn't he promised himself, and others, that he would not fail? To be beaten now by the mere trials of the weather...that would be truly embarrassing, and then all the mockery the other mages had made of him would be true. He distracted himself as the thunder crashed like cymbals around him by gazing into the meditation ring on his finger. He didn't like to use it much, because of the warnings he had read about them in ancient scrolls, but when he just couldn't concentrate or relax, losing himself in the depths of that swirling, blue stone was very beneficial. Anyone who didn't know what the ring was would have considered it an ugly trinket, with its slightly bent metal band and stone attached roughly with practically rusted wire. But the stone itself, gently oval in shape and spiraling forever down into the depths that Tora found so comforting...it was the stone that could buy the whole of the Eastern forest; if the Eastern forest were for sale, that is. Tora chuckled at the thought, and the hypnosis was broken. The stone lay dull on his finger. "That's odd..." he thought to himself, looking deeper down into the pattern of the rock. "What happened?" Lightning flashed suddenly, and Tora was aware of a shadow falling across his legs. He jumped sharply, pulling back, and knocked over his knapsack in his fright. The ensuing clatter of pans and scatter of supplies was enough to distract Tora long enough for the stranger to move to the other side of the cave, out of the light caused by the noblemen of the storm. Tora, tangled in his own blanket and struggling not to squash any of his precious few potatoes, looked over to where the figure had moved. From what he could tell in the darkness, it was a tall, thin person, possibly naked from the color of the shadow's surface. It was shivering violently, curled into a crouch against the stone wall. "A-are you alright?" Tora asked quietly, sitting up slightly. Lightning flashed again, and the figure turned to look at Tora sharply, eyes wide with alarm. Eyes wide, and blue, and swirling. And immensely cold. And all Tora knew was blackness.

In all fairness I did look for you in the Piazza of Portraits and, finding nothing, had to improvise. Which, by the way, would be a perfect next project for you to attack, so that we can all better understand your character. You do need to be careful about that word 'everyone'..... ;P

Degorram peered over the sheet of song lyrics at Atadiusti. He stared back, tapping his thigh as he waited for her opinion. His brow furrowed and he blinked: hadn't her hair been black before....? The shapeshifter sighed and placed the lyrics down on the desk in front of her; it was strewn with neat (and not neat) piles of geld, a few print outs of bodacious pennites, and some diagrams and master plans for super-duper Almost-Dragonic-Brand item ideas. She hadn't yet bothered moving out most of the items that had been left within the desk drawers, and had simply shifted them to the top of the desk so that she could observe them more readily. Her hand was hovering between two stamps, one red, the other green. "This is a very interesting piece of work," she said softly. "And I am wondering if it has a tune to go with?" "Erm..." Atadiusti replied unsteadily, "It's kind of a work in progress, but I have an idea of how it should sound..." Degorram hummed a little as she scrolled over the words again with her eyes, her black fox ears twitching in time with the internal beat. "Yes....yes, indeed." "Indeed what?" She looked back up at Atadiusti. "Oh, forgive me. I was just playing around. Indeed, indeed! Very nice work, especially for your application piece. Most definitely, ACCEPTED!" And she picked up the green stamp and slammed it down onto the paper's front. "Do be sure to let me know when you have the tune to this. I'd be most interested in learning it -- you see my most recent group of Anteranian Bypeddlebeasts adore songs, and are always yearning for new things to listen to." Atadiusti leaned forward slightly, mouth hanging open. "Your WHAT?" "You see they memorize music," Degorram said, shuffling the papers on the desk into some sort of organization that made sense only to her. "And they can get...ah...violent without material. So I've been scrambling for new things, and this is just the ticket, I think." "Um, alright then." "Welcome to the Pen," Degorram said, smiling cheerily. --------------------------- Well done Atadiusti, and again, welcome to our ranks! You will have noticed that your state of being has been changed to 'Initiate' and now you are fully ready to begin your merry ascension among us.

Why do I get a sense of Zombie Land in this? I dunno....either way you made my day!

I miss the good old days where HTML was law, and none of this crappy BB code or CCS code or XML was very popular. If it was used widely, it was behind the scenes... All of what Quincunx said will do nicely for your purposes. Another option would be to simply copy the image into Paint, or a Paint-like program, and resize it yourself with ye olde click and drag. You can then reload it to Photobucket and put the properties in your code anew. Best of luck with this most strange turn of events.

Archibald W. Peregrine pulled out his pocket handkerchief and nervously wiped the glass of his watch. The train was late, leaving him standing awkwardly on the platform in his nicest grey trousers which, he was sure, would smell like a train station for days. At the thought he sniffed nervously and blinked owlishly at his surroundings. There was no one else waiting at this particular platform. The wide open spaces, designed to handle the hustle and bustle of hundreds of people and now ominously empty, gave Archibald the horrid feeling that he was being watched. He tightened his tie. Confound it, the train was late! He polished the glass of his watch a second time and watched as the second hand made a complete circuit. A small, shriveled old lady wearing a black rain coat and orange rubber boots pushed her trolley past him, casting strange looks at his back. Archibald did his best to ignore her, despite her garish boots. As it was, they were a very odd shade of orange, much like the color of a stray tabby cat that had been rolling through alleys too often, and he felt his eyes dragged to look at them closely. The old lady immediately turned his way, as if his gaze had been all the invitation she needed to launch into friendly conversation. “Looks like rain,” she piped through a mouth full of gums and perhaps one spindly tooth. Her grey eyes became hidden behind folds of wrinkles when she grinned. Pulling her trolley up by her side, she stood next to him on the platform. “Does it?” Archibald asked weakly, and he sniffed again, not even bothering to look at the thunderous clouds that were boiling just over their heads. A few threatening rain drops hit the glass paned roof. “Always prepared I am, though,” the little old lady croaked. “Never caught unawares. Have you an umbrella on you?” Archibald straightened his tie and looked at the end of the tracks. “Er….no…no, I’m afraid I…forgot mine.” “Well, don’t you worry about that!” She reached to the bottom of her trolley and pulled out a battered and greasy mauve umbrella. It had at least two holes in it, and a parade of silver cats with ridiculous expressions made their way across its surface, all wearing orange rain boots. “You can have this one. Can’t have that suit of yours get wet!” and she cackled as she thrust the umbrella at him, almost like a sword. Archibald, who was sure the umbrella’s dirty state would do far worse damage to his suit than even the most torrential rain storm, tried his best to politely refuse the umbrella, but before he could stutter his way through half an excuse the little old lady had wrapped his fingers around the handle and shook his hand. “There’s a good lad,” she grinned, her eyes disappearing again, and then she promptly turned about and rolled her trolley up to a different platform. At that moment the train arrived in a flash. It was so sudden that Archibald had barely enough time to check his watch – four and a half minutes late. The doors opened with a crash of steam as the train settled down on the tracks, and Archibald rushed up the steps, fearing the little old lady would be back with a pair of rain boots to match the umbrella. It was a handsome train, to be sure. Once inside, Archibald felt safe enough to slow down and admire the mahogany and brass furnishings, the comfy red seats that lined both sides of the compartment, the huge windows that gave the occupants a full view of passing scenery. The lights that were placed intermittently throughout the compartment resembled little lamp posts, and they glowed warmly as if filled with real fire. The train was rather empty, just as the platform had been. In the seat directly behind the conductor sat the only other two occupants that Archibald could see: a pair of rather nervous looking twin girls, who sat facing straight forward as if they were avoiding talking to anyone. As the conductor stood to take Archibald’s ticket, their eyes examined him, from grey suit to mauve umbrella, and then just as quickly looked back to the front window of the train. Archibald was just about to give the conductor his ticket when he noticed a plaque hanging from the ceiling that read The Vanishing Train. “I daresay,” Archibald said, blinking at the sign and pointing as he handed his ticket to the conductor. “What does that mean? A Vanishing Train? See here, it doesn’t really vanish now does it?” “Every now an’ again,” the conductor said with a smile. “Can’ ever really be sure, can ‘ee? Sometimes she gets through one trip all right, an’ then the next…poof! Gone like a flash, can’ never tell where we’ll pop up.” At the look of alarm on Archibald’s face the conductor became very serious. “But she vanished just las’ trip she did, between Oxford an’ Swindon. Sure to make this round all right. An’ ye get free tea an’ crumpets on the hour, ev’y hour, as much as ye like. Just make sure ye hang on tight, an’ you’ll be right as rain.” Archibald, encouraged at the prospect of tea and crumpets but still a bit nervous, picked a seat somewhere in the middle of the compartment and gripped the edge of his seat tightly. A few moments later and the train had set off, chugging handsomely as it pulled out of the station. As soon as the glass dome that covered the tracks was behind them, several fat drops of rain began pelting the windows of the train, and in no time a torrential downpour had engulfed them. The green country side, fields that soon turned into a vast forest, became blurred and indistinct as water ran down the glass in tiny waves. One of the girls at the front whispered something in her sister’s ear, but the response was drowned out by an earsplitting crash of thunder. They continued on for at least an hour in this fashion, rain pouring down on them as they made their way through the countryside. It was getting to be about time for tea, Archibald reckoned, when something truly astounding happened. There was a pop. The train jumped about a bit, seemed to rock, and the next moment Archibald didn’t know which way was up or down, and the landscape outside had turned into a multicolored twist. The lights flickered and dimmed, there was a howling noise prevailing over everything, his fingers were digging into the edge of his seat in fright, he could hear the cackling of the little old lady filling up his ears, and suddenly the silver cats were running up and down the aisles in their hideous orange boots, meowing and screeching wildly, and he thought he was surely going mad, and oh how his suit was going to be rumpled terribly and…!! And it stopped. The lights came back on. The cats disappeared. The conductor brought the train to a shuddering halt and, panting, looked about at their surroundings. “Well it appears we’re right about somewhere near Ipswich,” he said casually. “Ah that’s not so bad, las’ time it took us strai’ to Hiddlesbrough it did…” “What, we’re in Ipswich?!?” Archibald cried, quite out of breath. “You told me it wasn’t going to vanish!!” “I made no guarantees,” the conductor said a little guiltily. “I on’y said she might’nt vanish……” Archibald was about ready to let the conductor have a piece of his mind, driving a vanishing train and not even keeping his promise about tea and crumpets punctually, when suddenly he noticed that they were the only ones left on the train. The twins had disappeared. “I say!” he cried in alarm. “Where have they gone?” And he pointed to the empty seat. “Ah,” the conductor said with a touch of dismay. “I might ‘ave forgotten to warn ‘em about hangin’ on. That’s a rub.” He leaned down into their seat and picked up two pairs of sneakers. “Seems their shoes got the message though,” and he burst out laughing. Archibald didn’t find this funny at all, and seeing as how they were apparently near a train station, he suggested to the conductor that he finish his job and get them safely into Ipswich. Moments later, as the station came blessedly into view, Archibald realized that the rain had stopped, leaving the sky dark and cloudy. He glanced at the mauve monstrosity at his side and, standing to leave, gently slid it under the seat as quietly as he could. He clambered shakily off the train and onto the platform, brushing himself off and breathing a sigh of relief that he was safe, in one piece, and his suit completely unsmudged (though definitely rumpled). Then the conductor called after him, “Oy, ye forgot your umbrelly!”

There is a child in me. She is there, lying in my heart. Curled up, eyes closed. No – not a child, For she is more ancient than the sea. She existed when the stars were spoken into being. When at a shout the light poured over the earth and the expansion of the universe began. There is a child in me. I call her a child For she is small but strong, her hands no bigger than snowflakes, her hair longer than the sky and wrapped around her like ribbon. Her voice a smooth melody, and I ache to hear her silence. She rests inside a corner of my heart and fills me with a dying glow. There is a child in me. But she fades Every time a star dies. A little more each winter, a little more each new moon. I stand. I rise. I walk among the stars, those angels who remember her name when no one else can. They sing haunting echoes that catch in the corner of my heart. I feel her light within me. And I release the muse that haunts my spirit. Nearby a star collapses and pulls ancients to its core; those mourning bodies that humans watch in awe swallowed whole now no more. Where is my perspective? The solar wind furies, tears the flesh of this particle of dust. But I hold on for the sake of the child. She stirs inside me, sensing the dance of the comets, sensing the swirl of color that we humans have never seen, can only imagine, can only dream. I open my heart, the child escapes. She, now released, turns to face me. There in the gush of celestial music, I see myself, a muse of vast proportions, clothed in fire, gilded in storm, sister of the stars, cousin of the wind, my life, my heart, my imagination.

When I first joined the Pen, I was a weak writer at best, with literally no idea who Degorram even was. I entered that office with no expectations or ideas and was even partially surprised when Wyvern stamped me approved. Four years have gone by. For four years, Degorram has had more adventures than I had though possible. For four years, Degorram has become a part of something we call the Mighty Pen, has become a part of a community. After four years, Degorram has become my main muse; Degorram has become the constant in my mind. Degorram has turned from just another vague, partially me character, to entirely me. In short, Wyvern, you and your presence here at the Pen Keep have helped me to discover myself in a way that is so prevalent that I occasionally look in the mirror expecting to see short, color changing hair and black fox-like ears. My writing skills have blossomed here, yes -- but so has my personality. And for that, I thank you. I hope you can come back to us every now and again. Do keep in touch.

Looks nothing like 'er...... ;D

Between the fir trees and the fen, in a soft and golden, dewy glen, the blue birds here would often sing. They sang the songs of legends then, and often gave the sons of men the tales of flowing mane and wing: the tales of Aerie Andanen. The first was born beneath a pen; brought to life with magic then. Hooves like bells did ring. Eyes like jewels, liquid blue. Hair blacker than the crows that flew. What name to call this mighty king? The name of fearless Andanen. His mane was longer than the night. And on his back the tools of flight. White feathers among the black. His chest and sides of purest white; his legs and face were just as bright. The sky became his lofty track. Most graceful lord of Andanen. He flew away and called a star, brought her back from night afar. His children were of flame. He filled his nest with shining colts who at an age his light he molts. To be just like his father's name, The name of gloried Andanen. No more we see the wing unfurled. All have passed beyond this world, Those creatures of the glen. We cling to stories and to tales so that his legend never fails. A sad day it would be then to forget the beautiful Andanen.

~written in the style of Rabelais....I think~ When Degorramacles began school, she began as every child of the age naturally began, that is by sitting down at a table and smashing clay into indistinguishable blobs, or scribbling frantically with crayons on a blank sheet of paper, for hours on end. It was very important, said her teachers, for her to express herself creatively, and so Degorramacles followed their every instruction and received top marks on all of her indistinguishable blobs and frantic scribbles, which were frantically indistinguishable from any of the other children’s blobs and scribbles. The teachers loved them anyway. It was very important to create an encouraging environment for young children; the critical loathing was to be held off until at least third grade. By the time she was reading and writing, Degorramacles had graduated to doodles that somewhat resembled animals, and her blobs now began to shape bowls and cups. While her parents were very proud of their daughter’s progress, they did not manage to out-boast Degorramacles’ teacher, Ms. Fergus DeLecompterix, who hailed the girl as a veritable genius. “Van-Gogh was called one of the finest artists of his time,” Ms. Fergus would tell her parents, “and one of his most distinguishing features was his missing ear. Your daughter Degorramacles is such a fine artist that I’m sure she’ll be cutting things off at a much earlier age!” Degorramacles herself never heard such compliments. Perhaps her teacher believed that Degorramacles would not understand the deep and insightful opinions that she reserved only for her parents, for instead the student only ever heard “That’s beautiful, dear” no matter what she created. And Degorramacles, being particularly fond of the clay, created everything, her favorite being elephants. Out of curiosity, however, sometimes she would create things other than elephants, like lizards, or giraffes, or great steaming piles of feces, just to see what Ms. Fergus would say. “That’s beautiful, dear! Keep up the good work!” was always bound to follow. Degorramacles found this most odd and stuck with elephants all the way to fifth grade; and all the way to fifth grade her elephants remained the same, changing only in construction as she discovered better ways to attach the ears to the head, the tail to the rear end, and toenails to the toes, the hairs to the forehead, and so on. Otherwise they improved not a bit, and continued to be round, stubby, and wrinkly. Middle school was a big step for Degorramacles, for they were the years that taught her patience and put a dent in her pencil-bracing finger. Her teachers insisted that they adequately prepare their students for high school, that dangerous and frightening place where students were rumored to fail for having a 456,983 word paper rather than a 456,984 word paper. Adverbs are very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very important you see, for they boost the bulk of all literary work. There was a long list of them, in fact, that hung from every wall, and some of the ceilings, of Degorramacles’ middle school, and at any given time at least three students could be seen huddled around it, memorizing as many adverbs as they could… Terribly Truthfully Lively Simply Jollyly Birdly Angrily Lollypopily Consumptiously Happily Haltingly Happily Swiftly Half-awake-ly Wheezingly Bouncily Playfully Gnomely Quietly Producely Frivolously Geniously Sheeply Crudily Ignorantly Syzygyly Leely Obscenely Provincially Cottonly Featherly Woodly Shakespearly Hippopotamusly Happily Robotically Grandly Numberly Happily Hangingly Explosionly 3rd-Centurily Rutabagaly Wingly Ly Pointily Fartly Teally Rockily Joyfully Rgsdjkleirjeisojresklresfmdsly And so on. In order to ensure that her students were up to the task of facing the dreaded high school (which was called H.S. in code, for the very title itself would often send one of the teachers screaming for cover under a desk) the literature instructor assigned two research papers every year, always a minimum of nine pages, though occasionally, on very special years, she would extend this minimum to twelve. Every paper was to be written by hand, in cursive, with ink, and so Degorramacles, along with her other beleaguered classmates, sat in a cold classroom with an ever growing mountain of crumpled up paper next to her desk, slowly writing her words out until the script curled perfectly across the page in a beautiful ballet of — is that supposed to be an ‘I’? It looks like an ‘L’. You’ll have to start that page over. Yes I’m serious. No, no, please don’t cry. Oh, look, you’ve gone and splattered your other page. That one will have to be redone as well. At last those years passed, and Degorramacles came into H.S., where she spent many years cramming her brain with facts and names and dates and sentence structures and Sudoku solutions. In this time she completed the greatest achievements of all her educative career, feats that would even outdo her mastery of creating identical clay elephants, such as passing calculus. It was this one esteemed subject, in fact, where Degorramacles came to know one of the most esteemed professors of the entire school. His esteemed name was so far above the comprehension of the students that they came to call him simply Winston, and nothing more. One day, as Degorramacles was sitting in her calculus class, she came upon a terribly difficult problem that she did not understand: how many students would fall on a rainy day if thirty four monkeys ate seventy eight bananas and there were sixteen sparrows flying through the sky whilst gripping coconuts? Degorramacles, vastly confused – for the numbers were wrong, the letters upside down, and the ratio of monkeys to bananas absurd – raised her hand boldly and said in a loud voice: “Winston, and nothing more, what does this problem mean? How can it be solved?” Winston, and nothing more, turned at once, sniffing proudly, and asked, “Which problem? Ahem.” “Number Two,” Degorramacles replied. “My question is, why are there—” Here Winston, and nothing more, cut her off excitedly. “Why are there thirty four monkeys instead of twenty seven? Excellent question, what a fine student you are. The answer is that the writer of the mathematical equation, in his great and infinite wisdom, simply wanted there for be thirty four monkeys. Ahem.” He nodded his great head many times, pleased with his excellent ability to answer his student’s complicated questions. Degorramacles blinked. “But Winston, and nothing more, that wasn’t my question. My question was—” “Why the sparrows are carrying coconuts rather than dates? My dear student, how perceptive you are! Ahem. The answer, of course, is—” Degorramacles cut Winston, and nothing more, off irately: “Great Winston, and nothing more, that is not my question!” Winston, and nothing more puffed himself up proudly, slowly turning red in the face. “Degorramacles, DO NOT interrupt! That is very rude. The answer,” he continued, “is that the sparrows can more easily grasp coconuts than dates because of the hairy husk.” He narrowed his eyes at Degorramacles and sniffed. “That is enough curiosity for today. Ahem. Please do your work.” And so Degorramacles’ education went, for many years thereafter, until she was the wisest student in H.S. and was very easily able to figure out after only a few attempts that her teachers were unable to answer her questions, and that it was best to just keep them to herself.

Thanks for the hug Wyv. It all worked out in the end after all...

I'm sitting here. She's lying on the bed behind me. And I can hear her crying. It's probably the fourth or fifth time today that she has shed tears. today Her eyes are swollen and painful...just like mine are, actually. Except I stopped crying a few hours ago. There's just not enough left in me to give a flip about it. But it does hurt. It hurts badly. And all I want, more than anything in the world, is for someone to hold me, to pretend like they want me, to make sure that I'm ok. I'm not ok. She's not ok. We're not ok. Not that anyone notices. The world is growing cold and dark outside. Depression is one thing -- it just magnifies everything you're feeling. Despair is closer: it takes a hold of you with iron claws and rips the very soul out of your body. But loneliness? There's nothing more dangerous or physically oppressive than true loneliness. I say true loneliness because everyone feels lonely at some point in their lives. People come and go, and we all have times where we wish there was someone by our sides. It's a horrible feeling. But true loneliness grips you. It tears at you. Your heart beats fast and heavy, you can't get your breath, and a huge weight pushes you down wherever you are -- the bed...the chair...the floor. And over all the thought that you're the only person left in the entire world -- the thought that no one would give a crap if you died right then -- the thought that darkness, warm and silent, would be preferable to the maddening loneliness that gnaws at you -- all of these thoughts consume your silent mind until you can't even breath anymore. You force yourself to get up, if you have the will to go on. I do. I very much so do. I know that this will pass, and that I'll laugh in their faces afterward. A week, a month, years, no matther. It's all just a drop in the bucket. But meanwhile...enduring it....that's the hard part. And I have to get away. And I have to find that one person left in the world -- my world -- who still loves me. Who will give me a hug, the best hug in the world, when he sees me. Who will always listen to me, even if what I'm saying is angry, or sad, or makes no sense at all. He'll listen. Because he cares. She's stopped crying now. Audibly, that is. I don't know how we'll get on through the night. We'll push. But it's hard to carry the weight of all that silence. It's hard to get up in the morning and face other people, knowing that as soon as you leave their sight it will be as if you never existed. All shooting stars are beautiful. But who ever remembers them?