Rainbow

It was only after a string of terrible rainy days that the sun decided to reveal itself. Sol cast its gleaming rays over the village, bringing the much needed taste of hope and joy to all the townsfolk with a beautiful light that happened to blind anyone that was daft enough to look directly into it. The light bounced off the wet streets and buildings and streamed directly into the people's eyes, which surprisingly only made them all the more happier as they squinted and bumped into one another.

It had been a long storm.

However, not everyone in the village was in fact happy. Not happy at all.

Wet droplets of rain still hung about the lush leaves of the maple tree and rhododendron bushes in front of Sir Burrburrish's small brick house. Sir Burrburrish himself could be seen through the front window. His frown was prominently visible from under his flowing mustache; anyone who passed by the window could clearly see the telltale signs of unhappiness. They could also see him lounging in the massive windowsill under several pillows and blankets, never once actually moving.

Inside the house, everything was absolutely silent. Not even the clocks ticked loud enough to hear. "Harrumph!" Burrburrish snorted, yet again for attention. The sunlight poured in through the windows and fell over his dull eyes. He showed no signs of discomfort, blinking periodically. The light also happened to illuminate quite a bit of dust that happened to be floating around in the room. A bit of it collected in his right eye.

"Martisha!" Sir Burrburrish called out. There was no need for a bell, his voice was enough. A young maid slowly made her way in, slogging her feet unhappily to let Burrburrish both know that she was approaching and that she hated her job immensely.

"What is it Master Burrburrish?" she muttered.

Burrburrish looked around the room grumpily and turned his head towards the direction of his maid.

"What has happened to the rain? I cannot hear it anymore."

"That is because the rain has stopped, master." She rolled her eyes. Blind people. The nerve.

"Mmph! Mmph! Well, that is surely a shame," he said, mostly to himself, "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Whatever you wish my lord. It's your house."

He wasn't really a lord. He didn't have to know though.

Burrburrish blinked a few times, absorbing the information he was just given. The collected dust was pushed into two thin lines at the top and bottom of his right eyelid. Martisha winced.

Burrburrish held up a finger.

"I will go out for a stroll then! And stretch my old tired legs!" he declared.

"Marvelous."

"I'll need my Outdoor Coat for this. Get the valet, woman!"

"Yes master." Martisha rolled her eyes for the twenty-first time that day, and began to make loud stomping noises with her feet in place. The master smiled to himself as her stomping became fainter and fainter, until she stopped completely and just stood silent in front of him.

"Good riddance, unhappy wretch," he said to himself.

Martisha almost killed him with her glare.

She then started up again, stomping in place, getting louder and louder until she stopped yet again.

"'Ello masta, going out for a jollie follick today awe we?" she said, this time in a deep scratchy voice.

"Yes, yes I do believe I am, Proobs," Burrburrish told the person that he believed to be the long-dead valet Proobs.

"I will need my walking cane, my top hat, and the Outdoor Jacket."

"Oi! Yo Outdoor Jackeet? 'Aven't seen you use that ol' thing in quite a loong tieme now eh?" It was amazing how much Martisha could get into her role.

"Mm, yes well that is because it has stopped raining after all these weeks, in case you haven't heard."

"Noooo."

"I know. Quite a shame. I enjoyed listening to the water pitter-patter against the glass," he sighed and looked over dramatically at literally nothing. "But we can't have everything we want in life, can we?"

"I s'pose nawt Gov'na- er... Masta. Lemme jus' get yo coat an' yo hat n' cane and I'll send yae on yae weah out." Martisha went over to the closet as she said this and thumbed through the old coats and vests and soiled bathrobes that were contained in it. She pulled out one rather moth-eaten nightgown. In its day it had been a woman's deluxe nightgown with exuberant Japanese patterns and frilly lace around the edges, but in this modern era the lace had rotted down to filthy ruffles and the gown itself had lost all of its designs due to the curse of time and poor clothing care.

From the top of the closet shelf she pulled out an ancient petrified tree branch, as well as a ripped top hat crafted years ago out of construction paper and glue.

"'Ere you awe masta, finest in the town! Ye'll looook like a propa gent." Martisha hurried over with the closet items and set them down next to her employer. Sir Burrburrish held out his hands like a child, and Martisha reluctantly helped him up from his windowsill.

"Oh my, what soft hands you have there for yourself Proobs. What is your secret?" Burrburrish commented.

"Err... Goat's milk, my loord," she replied.

Burrburrish took this in. Everything suddenly became quiet again as the old man paused for quite along time. The clocks were still silent.

Then: "Hmm!"

Martisha quickly draped the nightgown around his shoulders and plopped the paper hat onto his balding head as he continued to think in silence. She handed him the branch. "And yo cane sa."

"Thank you, thank you my good Proobs." The old man sighed. "If it were not for you Proobs, I do not believe I would have held on to my dear life for this long. I simply can not stand that young woman I have employed," he said.

"Ah, me neitha masta... But den again she does do all the cookin' and cleanin' and makes sure yo always comfortable like she proomised 'er dead aunt she would all those years ago for some reason that she's forgotten to be honest..."
She caught herself, but it was too late.

Sir Burrburrish winced after thinking for a bit.

"I suppose."

Without saying another word, Sir Burrburrish felt his way to the front door with his branch, and slowly walked out with a pleasant "Tootle-loo," as he slipped out. The door shut behind him, and after a few seconds Martisha let out a heavy sigh.

In the outer reaches of his front garden, Sir Burrburrish breathed in the crisp petrichor air. The soft wind blew the few remaining clouds out of the clear sky. The rhododendron branches swayed this way and that, releasing several droplets of water onto the nearby grass each time. Burrburrish shivered as it blew through his Outdoor Jacket. A lone butterfly happened to flutter down from the dripping trees, yet another beauty of the world that Burrburrish would never see or hear. The insect flapped around his head a few dozen times without his knowledge, and eventually settled on the tip of his nose. The man panicked at this and promptly crushed it with his free hand while hitting himself in the face.

"Blarst-Fuggles!" he exclaimed.

He quickly hobbled along the soaked stone path with his branch cane, muttering curses under his breath. He would have continued to do so for a matter of minutes if he had not suddenly bumped into another person in the garden that he wasn't aware of. They clashed with an astounding "Oomph!"

"Oomph! I beg your pardon sir! What are you doing in my garden?!" he asked the stranger.

Sir in question happened to be a little girl, a frumpy dress draped over her with designs similar to that of what Burrburrish's Outdoor Jacket had once displayed.

"Sorry mister! I didn't mean to wander into your garden! I was looking up the whole time I was walking! I swear!" the little girl began to sputter out in a panic.

"Hush hush my boy, no need to make excuses. A man does not lie his way out of his faults and misdemeanors, he simply owns up to them with a sense of bravery."

"I... But I..."

"Now good lad," the man hobbled about, shaking his finger in the air, "why do you not tell me of what it was you were looking at in the sky? Is it another raincloud by chance? I would love another storm."

The girl cocked her head to the side, rather confused.

They stood there like that, in the garden amongst the rhododendrons, for a matter of awkward seconds, which felt like minutes. The girl finally found the strength to answer, to own up to her mistake like a well behaved young man.

"I was looking at that rainbow over there sir, it's very pretty," she pointed up to the sky, to a large rainbow that loomed over the house. Burrburrish's head stayed down.

"Rainbow?"

"Um, yes."

"What, by any chance, is a rainbow my dear child?"

The girl withdrew her hand, now using it to scratch her head. What was a rainbow anyway? She was much too young to know the scientific answer to these sorts of things, but old enough to know that such answers existed.

"Weeeelllllll, a rainbow, is... an arch, in the sky, with... a lot of different types of colors streaming through it... yes," she said.

Sir Burrburrish angrily winced.

"Mmph, colors! I can not see colors boy, I am blind! I don't even know what a color is, and frankly I have had just about enough of people using them to describe things to me," the old man complained.

"Ah! Um... Okay. Colors are... Colors are... Different, looking, things... On things... I don't know how to explain it..." She was having trouble with this.

"Oh hogwash!" Burrburrish retorted, "You're the most unhelpful little boy I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. Go run along before I smack you with my cane!"

"What cane?"

"This cane! The one I am holding in my hand!"

"That tree branch?"

"It is not a tree branch child it is a cane! It was my grandfather's, and his grandfather's before it. It has come down a long line of Burrburrishes, and you dare insult it by calling it a tree branch?!"

Sir Burrburrish, in a fit of fury, lifted the branch over his head, intending to strike. The little girl raised her fists in the air, taking a fighting stance in preparation of defending herself. The old man let out a war cry.

"Aaaaaiiiiiieieieieieieeieieiaaaahh!!!!"

The cane quickly lowered, zooming past Burrburrish's head, towards the intended little girl thought little boy, standing his but really her ground, and was directly caught in someone else's hand.
Burrburrish's eyes went wide in surprise.

Martisha, gripping the branch, glared at him.

"Mister Burrburrish!" she exclaimed.

Burrburrish looked over at the maid, confused.

"What?!" he snapped.

The maid promptly yanked the branch away from him, hiding it behind her back.

"I believe it's time for you to come back into the household, 'Master.' You have caused quite enough trouble for today. As well as traumatizing this young girl."

"I'm not traumatized," the girl reported.

"This is not a young girl! This is an unhelpful brat of a boy!" the man exclaimed, "And bug off! You are not my mother! Not my REAL mother!"

"What are you even talking about?!" yelled Martisha back at him.

"I do not even know anymore!! I just... I just... Hhhrrrrmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!"

Sir Burrburrish hunched over himself, cupping his hands into fists. His body began shaking violently, as his face turned a certain color that he had never had the pleasure of visualizing. His hair suddenly stood up on its own, and his mustache quivered like no other. The two women stood back and stared in disbelief as suddenly, in a flash of smoke and mist, Sir Burrburrish snapped out of existence in a rage of anger and frustration, leaving only a darkened scorch mark in the grass amongst the rhododendrons.

CHALLANGE TWELVE

I WAS ORIGINALLY GOING TO GO WITH SPACE WESTERN.
However, I shall save that for another time.

Challenge 12 is to write a descriptive scene without using any colors.
GO.

TRUE TRUTH HISTORY: THE POPE AND TECHNOLOGY

As all of you might or might not have heard the Pope of Catholicism, Pop Benedict Numero Sixteen (as he's known to his friends) has opened a Twitter account. The world waits in eager anticipation to have their ears filled to bursting with 160 characters of Popely wisdom. Already Dicty has surpassed many other religious leaders in number of followers and he has yet to even make a post. The world waits in agony for the long process to be completed. First the Pope writes out a sermon in Classical Church Latin, from there he hands it down to his Cardinal of Translation who interprets the Latin to mean a number of different things. The Cardinal then hands down his translation to a number of Bishops who then each separately interpret the translation and pass it down to their various underlings. However at this stage in the process the Cardinal of Contention usually steps in. This man's job is to re translate the Pope's initial sermon into a totally different, prettier document that he then passes down to the same Bishops. These Bishops then move diagonally to the lay people of the church who condense these thousands of conflicting interpretations into their own 160 character "Personal Pope Grams" which are then returned to the Pope by doves. The Pope then selects one interpretation, declares it to be God's will and hands it to his great nephew to spice up and post on the internet.
This process has many roots in ancient traditions of Christianity, besides the internet bits, this practice has gone on for thousands of years. I personally just sent in my Pope Gram of King Jame's Leviticus Verse 11-18 this morning. I THINK ITS MOSTLY ABOUT ALIENS.
The addition of the internet to this timeless process deserves some speculation however. Throughout history the Church has always had an aversion to technology. We all remember in 1984 when Bill Gates, the inventor of the internet, made his Pilgirmage to the Vatican to receive the Pope's blessing. The Pope refused to see him and simply requested that Gates "purge his body of the vampiric taint of computers." The Cardinal of Exorcism then showed Gates to his hotel room where Gates found "only a magic circle carved into the carpet. There wasn't even a minibar." THERE WASN'T EVEN A MINIBAR. It is hypothesized that the Pope had given specific orders to exorcise the Demon of Progress from Mr. Gates. Although if the orders really came from his Magnificent Popeishness still remain a mystery. Needless to say Bill Gates was exocommunicated.
This attitude can be traced all the way back to the Vampire Wars of the late Renaissance. Where the Medici and Dracula waged a secret War against the Catholic Church demanding that the Pope begin accepting such true truth's as the printing press science and aliens. The Pope eventually capitulated but only once the vampire's had agreed to only wage outright wars in the style of Underworld one of the Pope's favorite vampire woodcuts.

The Plagues of Milton Falls

Molly Brandon was the daughter Lilith Brandon, a waspish and vaguely unattractive woman with prematurely white hair. She worked for Milton Falls' single elementary school, not as a teacher, but an office assistant and the children, as children tend to do, spread stories of her sinister mastery of magic, possibly based on an overheard conversation by their parents on the topic of Lilith's previous career as a "no-good pagan hippy." In truth, Lilith held not a magical bone in her body, and her most pagan tendencies since her early twenties happened to be a propensity for soy products and a large amber stone she sometimes wore around her neck.
Molly, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. And the stories spread across the play ground held with them a kernel of truth dismissed by Milton Falls adult population. The occasional strange occurence around the girl was written off as happenstance: Children's sudden sickness after refusing her a turn on the swings, Jasper Williams ending up in the top of the oak tree by the school yard when the boy could barely climb a staircase without falling... all dismissed. Her teachers, however, all noted her strange, focused green eyes and found themselves uneasy in punishing her frequent misdeeds.
So when Molly Brandon lost the school beauty pageant and swore a plague upon the houses of Milton Falls. only the children took heed.
The next day was Friday, and people across the small town awoke to find their fish tanks recently vacated, not even a stray scale left behind. Lies were consoled to howling children, and stories were swapped and found to be uneasily similar.
Late Friday night, though it had been clear all weak, a loud, heavy rain berated the towns rooftops.
Saturday began like its fellow days except for the preponderance of frogs in the tall grass, and the children had contests of who could catch the most.
At Sunday church, there was an increase of squirming and scratching amoung the pews, even more then then usually provoked by Reverend Tannessy's drawling sermon.
On Monday, the children sat in the school house, still squirming and watching 20 or so fat, blue flies buzz just above their heads. The windows were opened in an attempt to draw them outside, but only succeeded in drawing more in. 
Tuesday, Mr. Landing's old dairy cow dropped dead of seemingly natural causes. The children were diagnosed with a lice outbreak, each one's hair laboriously tested positive by the school nurse and sent home with an instruction sheet directing them to buy certain shampoo's and avoid sharing hats. All of them, that is, save Molly Brandon whose black hair was curiously lose-free. The school nurse send her home with the instruction sheet anyway for good measure.
Wednesday, what had at first appeared to be a strangely simultaneous outbreak of chicken-pox was found to be an inexplicable outbreak of boils. The boils were confined to several members of Molly Brandon's second grade class, though Molly Brandon herself was untouched. The rumors now leaked into the adult community. The newly busied pediatrician prescribed anti-itch cream.
Thursday, despite the mild April weather, a hail storm struck the town. It hailed from 4 am in the morning until 11 that night, and school was cancelled, more out of the shock of the staff than any actual danger to the children. 
Friday, Molly Brandon did not attend class. Not many of the children attended class, and those that did were sent home, as an infestation of locusts had come upon the school during the night and it had been condemned. The pest control men found it odd that locusts had chosen to infest a building, a very out-of-character behavior for them.
That afternoon, a troop of boil-free children headed up to the Brandon's cottage. They pleaded that Molly come out to face them, and, failing to call her out, threw rocks at the windows only to be chased away by Lillith. Lillith, who was not particularly concerned about attending work, but more so about the safety of her daughter and her windows, decided to ground Molly for a month if she refused to fix whatever havoc she had wrecked upon the children of Milton Falls. Molly was despondent. Only when Lillith threatened to repeal her dessert, television and library privileges did Molly give in, and stomp off to her room.
Saturday was quiet. The children not dare emerge from their houses.
Sunday, it was found that nothing had happened the previous day. A scant congregation attended church. The children played carefully.
Monday, the school reopened, to both the relief and sorrow of its attendees.

I wrote a thing.

 He stood perfectly still, a paper cut out against the window. His sharp shouldered suit coat edged like a shadow puppet. The light of day creating an illusion of dimensionlessness to his figure his legs dashed like angry brush strokes against the white blue back drop of the metropolis skyline he faced. As I watched he took a slim black phone from an inner pocket of his suit. I held the imagine of a man of shadow, reaching into himself and withdrawing some strange black souvenir for the pleasure of us normal people burdened to exist in all three dimensions.
 I chastised myself for letting my mind wander, I was already spinning tales of shadow realm creatures and villains. This was a time for focus. One of the most important encounters of my life was about to take place. Reflecting, I had no idea that so much could change so quickly. But I will come to that later.
His conversation finished he snapped the phone closed with a decisive snick. The sound cut the air of the still room and I realized that for the minutes I had stood there I had neither moved nor spoken. I had simply listened to his voice make pleasantries with who I could only assume was a business colleague. It struck me too that I had not paid any mind to the words spoken. Only that a conversation had been held and similarly resolved while I looked on. Like a screen had been brought between me and this man in black, a screen that muffled experience beyond it.
I had answered an ad. Most people don't put any stock in classified ads anymore but I had been paging through looking for a couch when I had seen a small advert cramped into the bottom left corner of the last page that simply said "You are needed." I expected some sort of charity case or religious motivations even a suicide group. But all there was beneath it was a number. It was a Saturday and I had been nursing my third cup of coffee idly planning the rest of my empty day. I would watch television, read, warm up some chili I had in the fridge... (and then a thought came unbidden into my head) I could call that number.
"Please sit." The man had turned. His dark, sharp shoes made a soft click, not unlike his phone, against the marble tile. He made a large sweeping gesture that finished to indicate a pair of white sofas in the right corner of the large dimly lit office. His voice was frightening. I can't explain precisely why but deep in my core something thrilled against those two words. Yet at the same time another part of my, dictated I'm sure by human social consciousness, murmured some variation of "thanks and took a seat."
"Would you like something to drink?" He asked and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. His voice was sonorous, deep and with an almost too careful attention to tone. But something still frightened me about it. Some small voice in my head that could scream nothing but "run." crushed out by the larger more reasonable ones. "No thank you I'm fine."
He made his way over to a cabinet of fine coffee brown wood and poured himself a finger of some amber liquor. As he walked away from the window his features took on sharper focus. He was tall, I could see now. Slim, with slicked dirty yellow hair, flat against his head. He wore a black tie against a starched white shirt.
I had called the number, sitting there at my small kitchen table. And the voice at the other end had belonged to that of a cheery secretary who identified herself as "Sandi" and before I knew it I had set up an interview for that Tuesday evening for a job. The three interviewers had all been very impressed with my previous jobs, the smattering of volunteer work I had done, my degree. I hadn't know anyone could be impressed with a Comparative Communications degree and not sound patronizing. But what these three were really interested in were my stories. I've been to more job interviews than I'd care to admit but no one had ever asked anything like they had. "Tell us exactly how you felt when your first pet died." "What do you remember most about the year you were thirteen and describe it to us." "What is your favorite sound and how often do you use it." I'm not ashamed to admit that more than once I asked them to repeat themselves. It seemed more like a therapy session than a job interview and even more like a bizarre personality test than that.
"Are you sure?" He made his way over to me and sat down on the sofa opposite me. "Its a very good cognac, recommended to me personally by a friend in the business."
"No thank you. I don't drink." saying no to him was like subduing a dangerous animal. Even such a trivial denial felt like a brush with death.
"Really? Now why is that?" He leaned forward, his pale green eyes looking into mine. "Is it personal? Family perhaps? Religion? Or something more bizarre? Go on I'm interested now." A small smile crept up his face.
I thought of lions, of snakes, of the cold calculating predator that humanity has reviled in myth for hundreds of years. My mind flowed like a river into recollections and modifications of Rudyard Kipling, the Bible and Tang Dynasty poetry.
"Nothing like that. I simply feel that anything that could impair my judgement would not be wise now."
"And right you are. But Richard you and I need to get right to it. I think both of us have fairly limited time. Do you have any idea why you're here? What this is even about?"
As soon as the first interview ended they had immediately began talk of scheduling a second. They gave me a  small card, thick paper, embossed, with a signature, a time and an address written on it. No name, no company. Just a scrawl in the corner that could only have been a name.
"I have no idea." I said and I folded my hands in my lap, leaning back against the upholstery.
"Before I explain. I'd like to ask you something. Because once we get underway I can't say you'll feel as you do now."
The unconscious fear that tinged his voice had ebbed to a low growl, a small discomfort.
"Every man draws a line in the sand and says 'beyond this I will not go.'" This strange, dark business man, whose name I didn't even know extended a hand to me.
"Do you ever plan on crossing your line?"
I took his hand. And we shook. Knowing what I do now I can't say I would have done things differently. But he was completely right. Nothing is the same.
"Yes." I said.

Sentence Challenge Jonah is Sorry Also it Won't Let Me Indent Fuck You Blogger Why Didn't We Make This a Tumblr?

"I have recently become infinitely more available," I muttered as I looked into my eyes. I puckered my lips in the most suggestive way I knew. The cap of the lipstick made a popping noise as I tore it off; it felt like velvet cake as I ran it across my mouth, slowly, like how you would see the movie stars do it on tv. Well, not that I regularly ran cake across my lips anyway, but... Um...

I raised one shoulder higher than the other, trying to eye-fuck myself in the mirror. My hair running down both sides of my face in curls. Very ugly, unsexy curls.

I stopped the act, and instead of puckering my lips I now pursed them.

"And apparently I have only become fractionally more presentable," I said aloud.

"What?!" Sandra called from the other room. "Did you say something?!"

"No!" I called back.

"Are you sure? Because it sounded like you were trying to seduce yourself with the bathroom mirror but then you gave up because you're a lost cause!"

"No one asked you, Sandi!" I said. She hated it when I called you that.

"You know I hate it when you call me that!" she said from the other side of the door.

I gave up, turning the handle to expose her to my gussied-up face. Her eyes went wide with shock.

"Holy shit," she said.

"Yeah, I know," I replied, rolling my eyes.

"You're..." I waited for it. 

"Absolutely beautiful," her eyes suddenly became alive. Her lips moistened as she looked me over. 

"Is this..." I said, seductively lowering one shoulder, "becoming a smut story?"

"I believe so," she said, sticking out her bosom in my general direction. "It's as if the author of this piece is really tired and has given up all hope for this story to be any good."

I bit my lip, looking down at my shoes, then looked back up at her. 

"I've never been with another woman before," I muttered.

"Yes!" she orgasmically exclaimed, "More! More bad cliches!"

"I don't even know how two woman might... Do something like that!" I said a little louder.

She gripped the frame of the door, pressing herself against its surface.

"Yes! Harder! Stupider! More blonde!"

"I've always been curious though!"

"Yes! More! Appeal to the heterosexual nineteen year old male audience!"

"Maybe you could... Show me how it's done?"

She walked towards me. Slowly. Like a cheetah. Because for some reason when people act like big cats in a seductive manner it's actually really fucking sexy. Don't deny it. There's a little furry in all of us. You'd fuck a panther person if you could. What was I even writing about again?

And then, we embraced, semi-passionately, like lesbians, except we weren't lesbians, hence the semi-passionately part, cuz we were really doing it just for the men reading, which is really just Julian. I doubt Maddie found any of this appealing. Or Julian. Maybe the start of it, when this story had a chance. Now look at it. Good god. If you have read all of this I commend you. No one is benefitting from this. It was a day of hastily dismissed apologies.

Sorry.

Challenge Eeeeleven

Challenge Eleven

Write a story containing any of one of the following phrases:

"I have recently become infinitely more available."

"I am not fit for a quest of kings and stories."

Despite the frivolous direction of the tale Brandon found himself mired in a wood of doubts and nightmares.

It was a day of hastily dismissed apologies.

Saturday began like its fellow days except for the preponderance of frogs in the tall grass.

"Every man draws a line in the sand and says 'beyond this I will not go.'"

"I have become fractionally more presentable."

BETTER CIRCLES BITCH

CIRCLES MOTHERFUCKER

A prompt for Challenge Ten

Circles.

That's it.
GO.

Its was raining which made no difference to the people of the great city. Only if one swam high near the surface, the daring teenagers and lovers, could one see the mosaic of circles rippling the waves. They'd swim, belly up, looking out at the surface and the pulsating, soft blue light. They let the waves pull them and push them along in the currents path. They breathed the strange gamy taste of the upper layers, thick with oxygen and strange, tiny life, waters warm and odd on their clammy skin. Dizzy and giggling, they soon would tumble back down to more familiar depths, squinting flat eyes as the light levels change and they returned, falling deeper and deeper, to the great city.
They kicked heir pale legs, graceful as frogs, back into its alleys, its streets, its crags sticking from the cliff of bed rock like jumbling teeth. Buildings, great and small flushed the landscape with a variance of texture, shape and size, all in the pale green and grey hues of the deep ocean, and predominantly organic: Towering clusters of corals, built off each preceding layer at jutting angles; tiny shacks of cemented rocks topped with thatched kelps and sea grasses; smooth buildings that shimmered like the iridescent insides of oysters; houses striated like clam shells, their interiors smooth and pink.
The city was expansive, and its peoples swam and slid and scuttled around and between its every crack and doorway, day and night when iridescent bulbs lit the undefined streets and those that iridesced walked the darker ones.

Never Forget

So I wrote this a few years ago. Every once in awhile I'll sort through my documents and see the title and think oh what did I forget and then read it and be amazed that I never took this piece of writing anywhere.

“Never forget,” she said to me through cracked bleeding lips and broken teeth. Blood matted her long hair and dripped in a staccato to the cold stone floor below. I held her head in my hands her limp and broken body sprawled against the smooth concrete of the tiny cell. Her wounds no longer bled but oozed blood creating a grisly snow angel around her twisted limbs. I held my ear closer to her lips to catch her last few words. Blood from the fracture in her skull pooled in the palms of my hands as I tried to hold her closer without causing her anymore pain. Her left arm was broken. There were cuts and bruises all across her still saintly face. Her back was twisted and I'm sure even speaking she was in intense agony. “Never forget, today” And there I promised her I would always remember taking her small limp, bloodstained hand in my own I promised her that I would never forget what had happened here today. I whispered empty words of comfort and safety of a warm home and skilled doctors. Her cut lips turned up at the corners, attempting to smile. Tears fell from my eyes onto hers. Tiny rivulets ran down her cheeks. I can only try to imagine the pain she was feeling right now but I couldn't. I could only hope for her recovery. Thinking only on how I would protect her. How I could make her well. “Please remember...” she said. The last ounce of her strength followed those two words. I'd like to think I could see the light leaving her eyes but I know that's not true. I know the lights around us hadn't changed but I could sense in some part of me that she was dead.

“Never forget today,” her last words on this earth were to tell me to always remember what had happened. Not a final poetic declaration of love or a summation of her life. The worst part is I have forgotten. Those last moments with her I will always know as if they had happened yesterday. Awake and asleep I can still see her broken frame and feel the sticky blood in my hands. But I cannot remember. I wake up in the middle of the night hating myself for not remembering. I don't remember what I did afterwards. How she had gotten injured or what my part in it was. I don't know where that cell was or what I was doing there. I have forgotten that day completely. The next thing I remembered was being home sitting in a dining room chair when the light above me flickered twice and died. I have no idea what happened that day. But the good news is: I aim to find out.

Challenge Nine

I went searching in my "writings" file. The creation date is 3/11/11. I don't even remember writing this, it's just a block of dialogue. Wheee!!
Also, I will not be posting Challenge Eight, as it has possibly evolved from a Challenge to a Project.

“You know, the only reason I bought those polo shirts all those years ago was because I remembered you once said you enjoyed a man in a polo.” “Really?” “Yeah. I never actually wore them though, my sister said I looked horrible in polos.” “You do.” “Hey!” “I’m sorry, I can’t deny the truth. Your sister was right.” “...I guess.” “She’s also been wrong about a lot of things too, like how she says marshmallows are horrible on toast.” “Oh, I actually will have to agree with her on that.” “I suppose that’s one place we differ then.” “Well uh, I guess that they’re not so bad on toast! I mean, uh-” “Look at you, changing your opinion just to appease me. Although I’m flattered, you really don’t have to do that.” “No, it’s just that, now that I’ve thought more about it, I’ve...” “Yes?” “Oh, nevermind.” “...I didn’t actually mean what I said you know.” “What?” “The polo thing. When I said it I wasn't being serious. I was trying to make you jealous of that one guy who wore them all the time.” “Who?” “I dunno, I forgot his name. Started with ‘J’ I think. Can’t be sure though.” “I don’t remember any guy whose name started with ‘J’.” “You can’t even remember two hours ago.” “Yes I can!” “Well, what were we doing then?” “Huh?” “Two hours ago?” “We were, uh... driving, on our way here?” “No, we were eating at that diner you stopped by.” “Oh, you can’t be sure of that.” “But I can. I remember glancing at my watch, and it said 10:32, and right now it’s half past noon.” “Still, that is a bit strange of you, constantly checking the time.” “You think it strange, I think it productive.” “You have no grammar.” “Touché.” “What would you do if I threw that watch out into the ocean right now?” “I’d yell at you, scream at you, and kick you in the groin so hard your privates would shrink... and then I’d make you go out and get it. It’s waterproof.” “Oh, well then.” “Yes, I know. Astounding isn’t it?” “Not really.” “Eh, I tried.” “...You look really beautiful in that dress.” “Thank you, it was my mother's.” “Why don’t you wear dresses more often?” “Why don’t you wear those nice vests I like more often?” “...I see your point.” “Glad you do.” “So, you like nice vests, but not polos?” “Yes.” “Huh.” “...Why huh?” “Oh, I dunno. Just seems weird to me.” “Thank you darling, I always wanted to be called weird.” “No, I didn’t say you were weird, I said your preference of men’s clothing was weird.” “Ah. Nonetheless, I heard the word ‘weird’.” “Is there something wrong with the word ‘weird’.” “Yes, it’s weird.”

Challenge 9!

Since there has been little activity on the blog recently. I propose a simple challenge.
Post any piece of writing you are particularly proud of but have not had a chance to share.

Karielle's New Blog

I believe it would serve us all well to comment on Karielle's Blog

as much as we can.

Maybe get into fake arguments about politics or something.

It will be fun.

THE BLOG I SPEAK OF

Three Parts

Part one is the seed.
The tiny thought in a mind of one man or two or three.
That stretches its roots beyond the mental garden it has aged in. And sends tendrils into memories and concepts. Building itself a bower bird nest of information and justification. Warmed and coaxed by the mind or denied it will grow regardless. Unheedful of the brain it will work and convert. That something must be changed. That something isn't right. That there's something I can fix. That there's something I can make right. More right. Or worse. But better for me.

Part two is the flower.
tenuous or terrible growth. Straining at the bonds of the brain container it has come to call home. Till it bursts forth into a tumult of expression, demonstration, creativity. Its a pamphlet or a book lain spine up on the floor, or a conversation with a friend that suggest something more. Something lurking in the darkness just out of understandings reach but there. And now the seed has been transferred and only more questions to be answered can satisfy the new dreamer carrying his seed to his friends and his family to his allies and foes. And he's spreading this idea everywhere he goes.

Part three is the action.
This flowers been bursting and growing and seeding and breeding and refining and evolving and finally people are starting to talk. To make groups and meetings paint signs or sing. Cause now they all kow that something isn't right and all that they know is that the germ needs to be passed on. Like a baton flying from hundreds of hands. Not from runner to runner but from senses to other men. Other people who might carry some of the same ideals. Who've kept the seed down and denied it water and sunlight and all that it needs. Who just need to see another person believe. To show that there's something that they can do to help. To fix something that before didn't need to be fixed.

MONOLOGUE

THE MONOLOGUE
Blogger is balls and won't let me imbed Vimeo vids, only YOOOTUUUBE MEEEEH.
Also, there is a critique comment at the bottom for both Julian and I, which is cool.
Also also, Maddie: I fleshed out some characters for the three-part story thing, and started writing, but it's all on my iPad, which is currently on loan in Ashland Oregon with my mother. So hold tight!

CHALLENGE 8 ;;;;)

WELCOME TO CHALLENGE 8

Tell a story in three short-ish parts. i.e three pictures, three verses, three scenes.

BIZNASTY

B. What is your first thought when you receive a message on Tumblr, are you excited for the idea of someone from potentially the other side of the world wanting to talk to you or fearful that someone will criticize you? Mostly I am hoping that someone nice will talk to me, or someone new will introduce themselves. However, it is mostly just people I already know asking me things.I. Was the first crush in your life something you had or something someone had on you?If someone had had a crush on me, I wouldn't have known, I am the worst at telling that sort of thing.
Z. Can you understand the mindset and logic used by the opposite spiritual opinion? An atheist understanding the belief in a higher power and vice versa.
Yes indeed, I can see where spirituality could play an important role in someones life/culture/community
N. What was the worst nightmare you ever had?
When I was young, I had one where a lion bit off my hand. And one where I was hiding from an evil witch who would kill me and my animal friends, but I had become her by the end of the dream and it was kind of fun. Haha. Little Sophie.
A. If you could get away with one murder in your lifetime without any legal, social, or emotional repercussions, would you kill someone?
Yes. I kill someone harmful to the community. Rick Santorum or Dan Savage.
S. Would you rather be the only person in the world that can read minds or have everyone else in the world be able to read minds except for your own?
I would read minds. If everyone else could read minds, they would probably just communicate that way, and I wouldn't be able to.
T. If everyone in the world would automatically only know one language, which language would you choose?
Oh man. Arabic or French because they are very pretty.
Y. Do looks mean anything to you? Don't lie, could you fall in love with someone you thought was ugly?
I would most certainly fall in love with someone who was "ugly." Then again, I find most people attractive in some way, sooo....

FUCK WIZARD

F. If you could take on the exact body and form of anyone else on Earth, who would it be?

• James Franco. I don't think this really needs an explanation

U. If you were old enough and not in a situation where it would be inappropriate, would you sleep with one of your (past) school teachers/professors?

• So there are two options here. 1. I was too young to understand the concept of sexual attraction or 2. they're a person I know and respect as a mentor. So no.  And I'm not into older ladies.

C. Have you ever looked down on someone because you thought your religious views were superior?

• HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No....

K. Have you ever watched a full length pornographic movie?

• Has anyone ever? Does anyone ever? I feel like now that pause buttons have been invented we can avoid this sort of thing. I think the only time anyone ever watched a full length porno, rapt with attention at the interesting story and plot line was before we invented a way to shut them off. I imagine early 20th century fops daubing the sweat from their brow with kerchiefs.

W. The men's rights movement, legitimate cause or laughable, and why?

• I had never heard of it and honestly I chuckled a little.

I. Was the first crush in your life something you had or something someone had on you?

• A girl named Brooke had a crush on me in 5th grade. And at that point I didn't even like girls.

Z. Can you understand the mindset and logic used by the opposite spiritual opinion? An atheist understanding the belief in a higher power and vice versa.

• Yes very much so. I believe that faith is a good thing to carry through your life with.

A. If you could get away with one murder in your lifetime without any legal, social, or emotional repercussions, would you kill someone?

• Yes. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=US6eHQ8wFO8

R. Do you have any (secret) feelings of bigotry to any group of people?

• I try my best not to. But I believe that everyone has at least some bigotry simple by virtue of having grown up in American culture. And I catch myself every time I have a thought like that.

D. Would you rather know everything the universe has to offer but in exchange lose all emotions or remain the way you are now?

• Rorschach > Dr. Manhattan.

J O N A H and B

An essay I'm procrastinating on has put me in a slightly bad mood. I somewhat apologize.

J: Could you live without having sex ever (again) in exchange for eternal youth?

Answer: I already answered this one on Tumblr, from the same list of questions that JULIAN STOLE. I will always and forever be Sable Sundew in a parallel universe.

O: Would you rather spend one year with your one true love just to never see them again of the rest of your life with second best?

Answer: This is a stupid question. One true loves don't exist. I think you just groove pretty swell with someone until you two grow apart, which may be never, or which may be in five weeks. But if I did believe in that fairy tale nonsense, I would probably spend the rest of my life with second best, cuz still -- second best out of seven billion people, that ain't too bad. We could joke about how we're stuck together while our one true loves are out there with no one but themselves.

N: What was the worst nightmare you ever had?

Answer: I have no recollection of that. Oh! But last night I was totally dreaming about being in a fist fight with my ex, but it sucked cuz we were both evenly matched, and before one of us overpowered the other we turned into cocker spaniels. So I'll never know what happened.

A: If you could get away with one murder in your lifetime without any repercussions, would you kill someone?

Answer: Yes. God yes. I just wish it could be more than one person. If someone was being annoying at the post office, holding up the line, I could just kill them and soon be on my merry way.

H: If it meant to solve all of the world's problems, would you spend the rest of Eternity in Hell?

Answer: No.

B: What is your first thought when receiving a message on Tumblr?

Answer: "I hope it's one of those people I like."

No No Not Today

I felt this needed to be said

DAVE: (just sittin here whippin up sick lyrical friction) 
DAVE: (if you start smellin smoke you caught a whiff of my diction) 

Pandering Challenge 7

So I've never really done one of these that wasn't stupid. And this one looks really fun. I'm sure you guys have seen it on Tumblr. But I am making it a challenge because I won the sweepstakes this week.

Also feel free to opt out of any question.

 

A. If you could get away with one murder in your lifetime without any legal, social, or emotional repercussions, would you kill someone?

B. What is your first thought when you receive a message on Tumblr, are you excited for the idea of someone from potentially the other side of the world wanting to talk to you or fearful that someone will criticize you?

C. Have you ever looked down on someone because you thought your religious views were superior?

D. Would you rather know everything the universe has to offer but in exchange lose all emotions or remain the way you are now?

E. If you could live and be healthy without sleeping or eating/drinking, which would you cut out of your life?

F. If you could take on the exact body and form of anyone else on Earth, who would it be?

G. Would you rather burn or freeze to death?

H. If it meant it would solve all world hunger, war, disease and bigotry, would you spend the rest of eternity in Hell?

I. Was the first crush in your life something you had or something someone had on you?

J. Could you live without having sex ever (again) in exchange for eternal youth?

K. Have you ever watched a full length pornographic movie?

L. The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?

M. If you could have the ability to manipulate matter or energy, which would you choose?

N. What was the worst nightmare you ever had?

O. Would you rather spend one year with your one true love just to never see them again or the rest of your life with second best?

P. All the sequels/remakes/adaptations/rip-offs in movies nowadays, good or bad?

Q. Would you rather be dirt poor and emotionally fulfilled in life or be rich beyond imagination and emotionally dissatisfied for life?

R. Do you have any (secret) feelings of bigotry to any group of people?

S. Would you rather be the only person in the world that can read minds or have everyone else in the world be able to read minds except for your own?

T. If everyone in the world would automatically only know one language, which language would you choose?

U. If you were old enough and not in a situation where it would be inappropriate, would you sleep with one of your (past) school teachers/professors?

V. A world without religion, good, bad, neutral?

W. The men's rights movement, legitimate cause or laughable, and why?

X. You can eliminate one of your five senses to substantially strengthen the others, which one and would you do it?

Y. Do looks mean anything to you? Don't lie, could you fall in love with someone you thought was ugly?

Z. Can you understand the mindset and logic used by the opposite spiritual opinion? An atheist understanding the belief in a higher power and vice versa.

• 
  

The Tale of Doran Thai

I am Very Proud of This Story Because it Fills Three Purposes. Firstly, It Satisfies The Challenge of the Week. Secondly, its a Lovely Exercise in Atmosphere and Tone. And Thirdly, it is the Origin Story for my Latest Pathfinder Character. He is a Motherfuckin' Bad Ass.

The room was lit with a ruddy warm light. A fireplace threw patches and splashes of warmth and light over the assembled figures, Huddled over drinks and tables like candlewax statues melted to a state of earthward resignation over their various occupations. Two men diced quietly in one corner. Another chatted with the bartender in undertones. More than a few stared down trodden into their cups. Their eyes as bereft of feeling as the wooden stools they sat on. There was a low warm murmur that characterized the atmosphere of the tavern. One man remarked to another how surprised he was that a fight hadn't broken out. It was a Friday  he said and that was typically a fighting day. His friend looked at him with lost eyes and murmured an aye or a maybe or some other noncommittal grunt of assent.

"Its just damn boring tonight." The first man said. More to himself than his disinterested drinking partner.

"Figure, its on account of the snow."

His friend cast his eyes to the window. The snow was piling higher every minute. Already the white drifts had touched the bottom of the window panes and within the hour it would join with the icicles already hanging from the eves.

It was the first hard snow of that winter. And all the men who had assembled for their customary night at the tavern had become trapped much more quickly than usual. Most here had had previous winters like this. Eventually they'd muster the strength to dig themselves out but for now each man was too warm and tired and resigned to do much about it.

"Damn boring." The first man said again draining his cup and casting an eye toward the bartender. "Hobb! Why don't you tell us all a story to pass the time."

Six Finger Hobb snapped to attention. He had been dozing on a bench near the door and at the mention of his name had awoken.

"Daren, what are you going on about." He called back, rising from his chair and making his way over to the bar.

" No. No. No. Not today. And besides that I won't tell a story unless I know three people at the least care enough to listen."

Immediately three men called out that they too wanted to hear one of his stories. Soon a few more had agreed. The whole bar was soon roused, men pushing chairs to form a rough half circle around the bar and around Hobb.

"Fine you louts. You'll get your story tonight. I've got a good one for you too. Its about one of the greatest hunters in all the land. But what he hunts."

Hobb paused for effect. Making sure his audience was listening. But the snow continued to fall and the men were rapt with attention.

"Are people." 

Most of the men laughed. The few who considered themselves clever made blubbering ghost noises as the laughter died.

"You may scoff. But this story is entirely true. I heard it first hand from an old dwarven caravaner who came through a few weeks ago."

Some of the men chuckled. But more scooted their chairs closer in anticipation.

"No one know's this hunters real name. He'll tell you a name but that isn't the name he was born to. Oh no. They call him Doran Thai and I'll tell you exactly why by the end. But first we gotta know where this dwarf came from.

He was born to a pair of good harworking parents deep beneath one of the eastern mountains. And when I say deep I do mean deep. You see our young hunter was what the dwarves call "Unguraz" which means without merit. So his mother and his father were forced to live at the very heart of the mountain. It was always unbearable hot and sulfurous. And it was many years before our hero ever saw the true bright burning sun we all know and love."
Some of the more melancholy patrons looked towards the window and sighed heavily. Their fatalistic minds unraveling fantasies where in the sun would never emerge from behind the gray storm clouds that now shrouded it.
"But our Doran was adventurous. And one day. For who knows what reason. He struck off down an old forgotten mining tunnel, hoping he'd find his way out of the mountain. Up he climbed, hand over gnarled hand, up moldy ladders and sheer cliff faces for so long that the meals he had packed had just about run out. When finally he came to an old wooden hatch at the top of a long stone shelf. That slopped upward in the most promising manner. He pushed on the hatch and it wouldn't budge. He pushed again harder and the hatch lifted slightly. And just then Doran smelled something he never had before: Trees and sun and sky and fresh air such that he had never smelled before. So with a mighty heave he shoved the hatch open and climbed out into the noon day sun.
"On the side of the great mountain with the forest stretching far far down and the mountain behind him stretching high, high up. Down, deep in the forest he caught sight of a plume of smoke. Our hunter was delighted and he immediately struck off toward it. 'It can't be too far.' he said aloud to himself.
"But of course it was. And after seven days of nothing to eat and nothing to drink Doran stumbled into an Elven camp. He flopped down in front of the first elf he saw and begged and pleaded for some food and water. But we all know elves. They're fickle, proud, nasty creatures that would sooner starve a man than succor him. And there was something that Doran didn't know. The dwarfs that lived in Doran's mountain had been cutting down trees to make a path through the forest. What the elves considered their forest. So of course they were none to happy to see a dwarf this close to home. Even a starving one.
    "So of course they turned poor Doran away. Three of them grabbed him and chucked him out of the camp like a sack of midden. And so our little hunter, barely even a full fledged dwarf  wandered off into the forest and cried. Now here's where the story gets dodgy. Some people say that Doran was filled with a powerful rage, while some say that what he did next was out of desperation.
"But regardless. He lugged himself back to the elves camp and hid himself away in some bushes. And for the rest of the day he watched. He saw where the food was kept, where the weapons were hid, who led the raids. He watched them and he learned them. And most importantly he learned that while elves can see perfectly in the dusk, dwarves can see perfectly in the blackest night. So that night he found himself a sharp rock. He crept up to the elf doing his rounds, guarding the camp from ruffians or beasts. But anyway he crept up behind him, pulled him into the undergrowth and killed him.
"Now the story goes that Doran took his new bow and knife and roosted himself in a tree. And mind you this is against elves, the so called people of the forest. He concealed himself and he waited. And by that morning the village was empty. Seven days later he made his way out of the woods. His beard was down to his knees and full of acorns and leaves and his hair was matted with ivy and bark. He wore all green and brown though his clothes were a little ill fitting."
Some of the more cunning listeners chuckled. Some of the louder and more obtuse were hushed by their comrades.
"But the man I spoke too, swears that this dwarf loping out of the woods like a wolf was the god of the forest, Obad Thai reborn. He wouldn't tell anyone his name but he sold near twenty elf scalps and turned a tidy profit. The people of the town started calling him Doran, the most common dwarven name and the people he killed could of sworn that Obad Thai himself had shot an arrow into their neck."
The men clapped and whooped. Six Finger Hobb was always the best for a story. The whole atmosphere of the little village tavern had changed. From resigned sorrow to the kind of loud drinking, singing, dancing bar the villagers had come to expect. Six Finger Hobb basked for a moment before joining in the festivities. And outside, unheeded now, the snow stopped.

A Monologue for Mr. Trilobite

I want to tell you a story.  Its a story I've never told anybody.

It isn't very long. And it isn't very meaningful. But I love it. So its really special to me. And its just been in my head for so long and I've kept it so so very secret that its almost hard to bring myself to even discuss this it with you.

He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes, as if about to begin.

No. This doesn't feel right. This is far too rushed. I just figured since I've known you so long that  I could just turn the faucet in my head and the whole story would come pouring out. But I really need to preface this. Its just been in my head for so long that sharing it so quickly would almost rob it of gravity. Like my story would lose weight because you weren't ready for it.

He pauses again, composing the preface in his mind.

Okay. So it started as an idea. A kind of "What if" that I just founded upon one day in the shower. Like a light switch had clicked on.

He laughs at himself

I'm sorry. That was terrible. I hate that cliche but its kind of fitting.  I can do better than that. It was more like I noticed a painting that I had never seen before. That had hung in my house for as long as I can remember but I had never really seen it. Know what I mean? 

But anyway. This "what if" slowly became a premise. You're a writer you know how that happens. And then after a few weeks I had some characters in mind. And from there the whole journey became kind of organic.

Every night I would lie in bed and these men and women would just act in the moments before I went to sleep. I never wrote anything down either. The next night I would always remember just before going shutting my eyes and my actors would keep playing.

And this went on for months. That stretched into years. Its been about three years actually. And I've never even told anyone about it. You're honestly the first.

Okay. 

He sighs

I think I'm ready to start now.

Transcription: Mayor Talbot's Address.. (cont)

Transcription: Mayor Talbot's Address to the Colony of Underton, 12/16/2026

Talbot: Greetings friends and neighbors. I'd like to personally thank you, those who have made it, for attending today's address. I know that morale has certainly dropped recently, and while I do not blame those who are not present, I'll have to admit I'm a little disappointed at the turn out. We are certainly not the biggest colony, which allows us to be the closely knit community we are. Refusing to participate in our government just (clears throat) flies in the face of all we stand for. Just because you may disagree with some of my um, policies in the past.
(Several crowd members speak out of earshot)
Talbot: Uh, this is not what I am hear to talk about. My actions regarding the opening of the latch were in the colonies best interest, I refuse to apologize just because some people are overly sensitive about radiation.
(crowd becomes louder)
Talbot: But this is- But this is not what I am hear to talk about. I am hear to address on of the most important issues plaguing our community: Unhealthy weight gain. It is absolutely key to ones well-being to keep a trim build and a healthy, low-fat diet. Thusly, I have taken it on myself to provide us with a 7-step program to help our entire community beat the scourge of weight gain.
Firstly, everyone must eat more vegetables. Green vegetables are important, you don't have to be a medical man to know that. I know our hydroponics program has not been the most successful, some may say it was "counter-productive" in using up all of our water, but we did yield several potatoes this year, and those are plenty green. Faintly glowing, but green.
Secondly, get some exercise! Digging new tunnels to expand our community is a great way to burn some calories and serve your community.
Thirdly, get some fresh air. One can only take so much of this stuffy ol' place, and I'm sure it had some health benefits to breath fresh, surface air. If you are not one of those people who find radiation offensive, of course.
(angry shouts) 
Talbot: I'm not saying anything against the more, em, sensitive members of our community, and I'm no scientist, but I doubt seeing the sun for a change can do you much harm.
Crowd member: Yes it can!
Talbot: Eh-hem, I mean, the only way to know is to try it out-
Crowd member: No, it isn't!
Crowd member: Get off of the stage!
Talbot: I really think we are over reacting, I had only had the best in mind for our community, we have to make sacrifices if we ever want to-
(Talbot cannot be heard over crowd. Several people begin to throw rocks and he is forced to leave to stage.)

TUESDAY IS SOYLENT GREEN DAY

CHALLENGE 6

Write a scene containing the words

"No. Not today."

Within The Magisterium

So this is something I wrote while we were in Europe. The challenge will of course come later but I hope you guys enjoy these couple pages I think I wrote on a train.... Not exactly sure. 

Magister Colefax stirred with a practiced relaxed motion. A brazier burned hot beneath what could only be described as his cauldron. The long handle of a metal cut the soupy liquid with slow langurous strokes. Before the magister were a collection of six more cauldrons each tended by a nervous acolyte in the cumin robes of their order, desperately mimicking the magister's gentle wrist movements.
 Colefax peered down his think sallow noes into the white gelatinous mess his ladle was stroking. Large eyes with heavy bags beneath noted the color  texture and consistency. The magister was a severe, exacting man suggested even more so by his skeletal hands and head. The skin stretched taut over his skull, the ears pulled back by the same winching force that seemed to pull all his facial features. His skin itself the color of the bleached bones barely hidden beneath. This same severity manifested too in his sharp, thin nose which pointed contemptuously at underlings and superiors alike. This was why the Council of High Magicians had chosen him for his current teaching position. And specifically for instructing on the delicate process of crafting a mageye.
"Thorpe." He spoke in quick clipped utterances wasting no words. "Your mixture needs more teafly."
"Delagra. Stir in a figure eight motion."
Colefax himself reached into a bell jar by his side and took a measured handful of white meal, tossing it into his cauldron. His mixture changing colour by a nearly imperceptible degree. White as a thigh bone in red desert sun.
The room was small and stuffy. Low ceilings, the braziers and the shelves of  bell jars full of carious herbs and powders trapped the heat in a globe around the seven working magisters. The belljars ranged barely the size of a closed fists to one that three men could scarecely lift. Each filled with a different manner of strange solvent or reagent. Colefax was not one for grand concepts but sometimes the complexity of his work did strike him. A proper mageye was difficult to create and a dependable one even more so.
His own personal mageye stood behind him. Standing taller by a head than the himself its ghost pale gelatinous flesh reflected the light of the fires across its thin chest and down its knee length arms. its head drooped below a pair of sharp shoulders. Its only facial feature the bleeding eye of the Magisterium. Inside its translucent body was an ornately wrought brass skeleton. Heavily runed by Colefax himself. The bones were not those of a human but were crafted specifically for his mageye. The humerus nearly half again as long as a man's and the femur half a man's length. There was no need for a skull or ribs or even a pelvis. The mageye had no organs, no nerves, no sex and no sentience.
Colefax looked down at the carefully drawn cirles before each acolyte's cauldron, chalked black into the freshly cleaned flagstones. Complex instructions ringed the circles. Twisting in arcane knots carefully detailing the commands the mageye would obey, its intelligence, its abilities and its body. Eight small bronze triangles, the size of arrowheads were artfully arranged within the middle circle, the circle that would bind the mageye to its creator and by extension to the Magisterium. In the circle's center was that omnipresent symbol, an inky black eye with seven long spikes jutting down from the bottom like a demon's eye lashes. Each tapering spike representing one of the seven honored branches of magic.
"We are ready." Colefax said sharply eliminating all solemnity and grandiosity from his voice. he extracted his ladle from the cauldron, slowly demonstrating the technique for Delagra's benefit. he tipped the bowl of the ladle in a slashing motion. Covering a swath of his own binding circle with the milky potion. The motion was professional, practiced with the careful economy of motion of a calligrapher if not for the steely cold gaze the magister wore, devoid of all artistic inspiration.
    Trinfic slopped the mixture outside the confines of his outer circle. Delagra's stroke was promising despite his ineptitude for the brewing process.
    Colefax drew another ladleful and painted another line, crossing with his first over the magisterium's eye, forming an x. His students imitated with trepidation.
The third was poured directly into the center of the circle. And one more poured atop the last.
As the thick slop began to ooze from the center it rippled, then bubbled and finally it began to shake violently as the syrupy liquid became defiantly solid. The slightest upward curl touched Colefax's lip as he watched Trinfic, Thorpe and another acolyte step back from the quickly growing mass. The eight bronze triangles were sucked up into the now mounding slop. And an indistinct humming filled the room as the instructions were read and processed by the mageye's new born consciousness.
     Delagra's was nearly formed, the symbol traveling up through the domed body and embossing itself on the front of the creature. The bronze nibs, glittering and sharp,  had already moved down to form a hand of claws at the end of tentacular claws. He watched as his own mageye and most of the students' precisely written symbols caused the same.
    The mass of potion that Trinfic had created was edging toward him with a strange cellular grace. The copper had become a set of gnashing mandibles that clicked fitfully at their creator. Trinfic took a weary step back hypnotized by the animation of the ooze. In a lightning quick lurch the translucent milky gel had hooked his ankle.
 A grin flickered momentarily across the magister's face and malice brimmed in his hard grey eyes. Neither he nor the students made any move. Each was either too absorbed by their own mageye;s transformation or transfixed as only spectators can be by Trinfic's performance.
It took only a matter of seconds. One of the clacking teeth extruded from the thing's maw, reached up with inhuman economy of motion and with emotinless strength cut Trinfic from clavicle to groin. the acolyte strugged briefly, felt the long cut down his body, screamed and died, holding his spilt innards in his hands. Crashing into his cauldrom as he fell, his yellow robes igniting on the coals and spilling the embers behind him.
Colefax looked from the fresh corpse to Delagra. The acolytes mouth was open, dead words of warning on his lips.
Its creator destroyed the spirit departed, leaving behind only the only a mass of cooling gelatin on the boy's sandal. Its purpose accomplished and its revenge exacted.
The magister sent a set of mental instructions to his mageye and the beast shambled forward. Its metallic bones moving to protrude from its skin, one of the runes began to glow and hum softly as it began to disintegrated the bloody mess slowly into ash.
"By Trinfic's example we are all reminded of the danger inherent in binding a spirit to an earthly body. Creating a mageye is dangerous and even a small construct can kill if the mixture is not properly contained inside the binding circle."
Colefax's nostrils flaired as the septic smell of opened guts and the acrid smell of burning flesh mingled in the room.
"The mageye is a delicate and powerful creature. But most of you have succeeded in creating one." His eye's scanned over the six newly assembled creatures. Delagra's straining to hold its shape. Farabun's noticeably dripping. His own textbook. A knee high pile of obedient ooze with two four clawed hands. The eye of the magisterium emblazoned on its trunk.
His personal mageye shuffled back to its place behind him. All evidence of the unfortunate acolyte removed.
"You will all improve in time. Class dismissed." The acolytes scurried out of the room. Colefax ran a hand over his forehead. A habit termed a sign of weakness by himself and so hidden from the rest of the world.
"Only half will survive to receive their tattoos." he though sending another message to his mageye to tidy the classroom. He ran a hand over his immaculately hairless scalp, stopping to stroke that ubiquitous eye inked into his forehead.

I'm thinking of doing something along these lines for NaNoWriMo. Thoughts?