There are obviously two front runners in this round, so the two of you need to start thinking of your words, should you manage to make it without falling on your ass like Miss U.S.A.
But be ye advised, ladies....
There be changes coming to WitToI.
Next round, all those wishing to participate will draw a writing style from a virtual hat and will then draw a short list of pop culture references that have to be worked into the story from another virtual hat. Along with The Words.
Sound fun??
Stop! Don't run screaming!! It'll be fun! Really! We're going to be challenged as writers - just like on the show So You Think You Can Dance, where the contestants have to draw each week for a different dance style so they're challenged as dancers. Except we're budding writers, not dancers. (The only dancing I can do with any proficiency is clogging and that talent has yet to help me writing whatsoever.)
Annnnnnyhoo....I fully expect all of you who have been writing here regularly to particpate. No begging out. You're not THAT busy. Tate, the baby is no excuse, either.
(Any pop culture references that you might want to throw in the hat, send to me in an email. i.e. Paris Hilton, American Idol, TB outbreak on a plane, etc.)
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Enter the Chamber of Voting
Voting is now open in 36 Chambers of Tate, otherwise known as Round 4.
Check out all the submissions, vote once, tell your friends and stay tuned for the results!
Voting will be open until 10pm, June 2nd.
Check out all the submissions, vote once, tell your friends and stay tuned for the results!
Voting will be open until 10pm, June 2nd.
Sad, Sad Sadie
by Jusdealem
Sadie couldn't find her keys, she was running late again. As she rummaged through her beige Coach bag, for the third time in ten minutes, she softly cursed, gave up and headed for the liquor cabinet. Pouring herself a Stoli rocks, she caught her image in the mirror above the wet bar. Her $800 highlights framed her pretty, slightly botoxed face and she declared Marco, her metrosexual stylist, a genius. She was rather enamored of Marco, having once even gone so far as to invite him home with her for the afternoon. "Only if I can bring along a friend." he'd teased.
She'd been so lonely the past year. Ever since her husband had been murdered in their upscale suburban driveway, Sadie had been simply lost. The local police had thought Dan's death to be a random gang initiation or a botched robbery attempt. There weren't any clues and not a suspect, nor murder weapon had ever been found. Sadie knew, though. She knew why her husband of fifteen years was dead and more importantly, she knew who was responsible for the single bullet that had pierced his heart, his lifeless body crumpled beside her beloved Daffodil.
In their early years, Dan and Sadie had been inseperatable. Two energetic, highly motivated success seekers. Both had come from dirt poor families and they were determined to break the chain, so to speak, by emassing an empire. Their intricate business plan was two years in the making, but was instantly and hugely successful. With their dreams realized, Sadie looked forward to her husband being able to relax and spend more time with her. That was not to be the case, however. The success seemed to distance Dan even more and he began drinking excessively, which made him increasingly pugnacious. She didn't give up on their marriage, though, instead she tried even harder to gain her husband's attention. It worked occasionally, enough to keep her challenged, if not exactly in love.
It was right after their fifth anniversary that Dan decided to take up politics, as well as a new assistant, who Sadie swore was a stripper. Over the years, he'd become quite erudite in the workings of the local political scene and this knowledge set in motion a series of byzantine plots and plans that he hoped would eventually see him elected as mayor of this small, but growing community.
Of course, the new assistant soon became a nightly argument between them. Sadie demanded Dan fire her and insisted that she, more than anyone else, should be his assistant. He grew so irritated with his wife's arguments that instead of coming home late as he usually did, he began not coming home at all. This only served to exacerbate Sadie's anger and she found herself contemplating killing the man. Unable to find enough hatred to do so, she decided to try another approach; she would confront the assistant.
The assistant, Tammy, agreed to meet Sadie downtown at a coffee shop called The Brew Guru. As Tammy walked through the door, Sadie felt an overwhelming desire to rid this woman from her husband's life, the pain was simply ineffable. Tammy would not be swayed, though, even openly admitting her love for Dan. Upon leaving their meeting, she remembered a distant cousin of hers who would know exactly how to handle this situation.
Jimmy was a small time con artist and all-around scofflaw with connections in the criminal world. He'd served a few years in a federal prison for money laundering, as well as other shady shenanigans, but he had been able to beat the murder rap that he was facing. They met in the park on a breezy Sunday afternoon, by Thursday, Tammy had disappeared. She was never seen again.
Afterwards, Dan seemed almost relieved and their relationship returned to the normalcy of the pre-Tammy days and stayed that way for the next few years. Inevitably, though, Dan returned to his old ways and more affairs arose. Finally, Sadie could take it no longer; last year, she made one last call to her cousin Jimmy.
As she sat there, sipping her Stoli, she noticed her keys were on the bar, next to a picture of her and Dan at Cape Cod. "To Hell with this blind date", she said to her dead husband, "I'm not going." Then she drained the last of her drink and took the picture in the silver frame with her to bed.
Sadie couldn't find her keys, she was running late again. As she rummaged through her beige Coach bag, for the third time in ten minutes, she softly cursed, gave up and headed for the liquor cabinet. Pouring herself a Stoli rocks, she caught her image in the mirror above the wet bar. Her $800 highlights framed her pretty, slightly botoxed face and she declared Marco, her metrosexual stylist, a genius. She was rather enamored of Marco, having once even gone so far as to invite him home with her for the afternoon. "Only if I can bring along a friend." he'd teased.
She'd been so lonely the past year. Ever since her husband had been murdered in their upscale suburban driveway, Sadie had been simply lost. The local police had thought Dan's death to be a random gang initiation or a botched robbery attempt. There weren't any clues and not a suspect, nor murder weapon had ever been found. Sadie knew, though. She knew why her husband of fifteen years was dead and more importantly, she knew who was responsible for the single bullet that had pierced his heart, his lifeless body crumpled beside her beloved Daffodil.
In their early years, Dan and Sadie had been inseperatable. Two energetic, highly motivated success seekers. Both had come from dirt poor families and they were determined to break the chain, so to speak, by emassing an empire. Their intricate business plan was two years in the making, but was instantly and hugely successful. With their dreams realized, Sadie looked forward to her husband being able to relax and spend more time with her. That was not to be the case, however. The success seemed to distance Dan even more and he began drinking excessively, which made him increasingly pugnacious. She didn't give up on their marriage, though, instead she tried even harder to gain her husband's attention. It worked occasionally, enough to keep her challenged, if not exactly in love.
It was right after their fifth anniversary that Dan decided to take up politics, as well as a new assistant, who Sadie swore was a stripper. Over the years, he'd become quite erudite in the workings of the local political scene and this knowledge set in motion a series of byzantine plots and plans that he hoped would eventually see him elected as mayor of this small, but growing community.
Of course, the new assistant soon became a nightly argument between them. Sadie demanded Dan fire her and insisted that she, more than anyone else, should be his assistant. He grew so irritated with his wife's arguments that instead of coming home late as he usually did, he began not coming home at all. This only served to exacerbate Sadie's anger and she found herself contemplating killing the man. Unable to find enough hatred to do so, she decided to try another approach; she would confront the assistant.
The assistant, Tammy, agreed to meet Sadie downtown at a coffee shop called The Brew Guru. As Tammy walked through the door, Sadie felt an overwhelming desire to rid this woman from her husband's life, the pain was simply ineffable. Tammy would not be swayed, though, even openly admitting her love for Dan. Upon leaving their meeting, she remembered a distant cousin of hers who would know exactly how to handle this situation.
Jimmy was a small time con artist and all-around scofflaw with connections in the criminal world. He'd served a few years in a federal prison for money laundering, as well as other shady shenanigans, but he had been able to beat the murder rap that he was facing. They met in the park on a breezy Sunday afternoon, by Thursday, Tammy had disappeared. She was never seen again.
Afterwards, Dan seemed almost relieved and their relationship returned to the normalcy of the pre-Tammy days and stayed that way for the next few years. Inevitably, though, Dan returned to his old ways and more affairs arose. Finally, Sadie could take it no longer; last year, she made one last call to her cousin Jimmy.
As she sat there, sipping her Stoli, she noticed her keys were on the bar, next to a picture of her and Dan at Cape Cod. "To Hell with this blind date", she said to her dead husband, "I'm not going." Then she drained the last of her drink and took the picture in the silver frame with her to bed.
The Famous Botanist
by Cazzie!!!
Tomas Ohalleran was a great studious man. He was an erudite botanist, most famous at least in the Western World. At the ripe age of 27, this fine man had been to Oxford, Cambridge, travelled the seas to Australia and studied at Melbourne University. He went on to become a lecturer to many a student.
In his later years, he became known as a scofflaw creating his own set of rules, against traditional classes of other lecturers. One time, a rucous was coming from Tomas' lecture room.. The next few classes in the University block that Tomas was teaching in came to see what was going on.... Tomas had every student there dressed as their favourite plant. One student, aptly named Fern, was dressed as a Daffodil. In fits of laughter Tomas began his teachings of the day, himself dressed as an Orchid. One other student was dressed as a Fungi.... he had a label on the front of him saying, "Ï am a fun guy", well Pete was ever the larrikan.!
The director of the University, a most pugnacious man, came to Tomas' lecture room after having heard word of some shenanigans going on. He ended up sitting in on the class just to make sure the students did not get out of hand. Indeed, his presence only served to exacerbate any laughter.
A field trip for the class was undertaken in first term. The students took a train to the Emerald Forest. There, they alighted, and Fern looked around her and pointed to a tree of such ineffable beauty, even her best friend Sotcha was speachless with what lay before them. The only student who could not give a rats ass about the excursion was Scott Pervis, he who could only ever be seen to be listening to his Ipod, Byzantine playing at 1000 decibels, enough to make him deaf by the time he was 25 years for sure. Oh well, who said botanists needed hearing to be able to retain any knowledge hey?
In his late years, Tomas returned to England from whence he came, living out the rest of his life in The Secret Garden of Smallville. Who knows the reasons why he called it that, it was, afterall, common knowledge of the location of the place. Ever the illusionist was he.
Tomas Ohalleran was a great studious man. He was an erudite botanist, most famous at least in the Western World. At the ripe age of 27, this fine man had been to Oxford, Cambridge, travelled the seas to Australia and studied at Melbourne University. He went on to become a lecturer to many a student.
In his later years, he became known as a scofflaw creating his own set of rules, against traditional classes of other lecturers. One time, a rucous was coming from Tomas' lecture room.. The next few classes in the University block that Tomas was teaching in came to see what was going on.... Tomas had every student there dressed as their favourite plant. One student, aptly named Fern, was dressed as a Daffodil. In fits of laughter Tomas began his teachings of the day, himself dressed as an Orchid. One other student was dressed as a Fungi.... he had a label on the front of him saying, "Ï am a fun guy", well Pete was ever the larrikan.!
The director of the University, a most pugnacious man, came to Tomas' lecture room after having heard word of some shenanigans going on. He ended up sitting in on the class just to make sure the students did not get out of hand. Indeed, his presence only served to exacerbate any laughter.
A field trip for the class was undertaken in first term. The students took a train to the Emerald Forest. There, they alighted, and Fern looked around her and pointed to a tree of such ineffable beauty, even her best friend Sotcha was speachless with what lay before them. The only student who could not give a rats ass about the excursion was Scott Pervis, he who could only ever be seen to be listening to his Ipod, Byzantine playing at 1000 decibels, enough to make him deaf by the time he was 25 years for sure. Oh well, who said botanists needed hearing to be able to retain any knowledge hey?
In his late years, Tomas returned to England from whence he came, living out the rest of his life in The Secret Garden of Smallville. Who knows the reasons why he called it that, it was, afterall, common knowledge of the location of the place. Ever the illusionist was he.
Peep
by Hilbilly Mom
Once upon a time, there lived a troll under a rickety wooden bridge just outside the village. He was not considered attractive, as trolls go, with his lime-green flesh, tall tuft of lemon-yellow hair, and a shape like the Tasmanian devil of future cartoon fame. The similarity ended with the shape. This troll did not whirl like a tornado. He was bothered by an inner-ear disturbance, and tried not to spin or make sudden head movements. Though he had not been formally christened, the troll adopted the name of Peep.
Peep trolled his days away picking daffodils, arranging them in attractive floral displays under the bridge where he had established residence. Nobody ever came to visit, but Peep liked nice things. What he didn’t like was people. People pissed Peep off. They thumped willy-nilly over his bridge at all hours of the day, causing dirt and sand to sift down in a rain of grit into Peep’s home. To exacerbate the matter, children often stopped on the bridge and taunted Peep. They didn’t know if he truly existed, or was just a legend their parents had made up to keep them off the bridge. They jumped and stomped and hooted and hollered, bringing down grain upon grain of despair into Peep’s peaceful existence.
Peep did not retaliate against the children. He regarded them as merely ignorant, and would not seek revenge for their childish shenanigans . Peep was not of a pugnacious nature. All he wanted was to sit peacefully in his underbridge lair, and gaze upon the beauty of his daffodils. And while the people pissed Peep off, Peep preferred to internalize his anger. It wouldn’t do to lose one’s temper, charge out from under the bridge, and eat someone. The local scofflaws would take matters into their own hands, and Peep would pick daffodils no more.
So each day, Peep arose with the sun, and gathered his beloved daffodils. He licked the fresh dew from their stems, and wove them into the most Byzantine patterns no one had ever seen. He made walls of woven daffodil mats, and rugs, and blankets, and rich tapestries. Peep’s ineffable attention to detail created exquisite treasures the likes of which the townspeople would never encounter.
One sunny day, amidst the shuffle of the shouting children, a tiny tot was bumped over the edge of the bridge, and was saved from a nasty head-knock by one of Peep’s hanging daffodil curtains. The other children saw one of their own disappear under the bridge, and took off for the village. They were too afraid to tell the true tale of what had happened, having been forbidden to play on the bridge. They feigned surprise when one of their number was noted missing, and joined the crowd in beating the bushes for their fallen comrade until sunset. None of them slept well that night. They dreamed of the wee one being mauled and devoured by that ugly old troll under the bridge.
Peep had been much surprised by the chortling child who tumbled down his daffodil drape. At first, he stared as the child blinked in wonder at Peep’s colorful countenance. Then the tot crawled to him and clambered into Peep’s lap. Peep dandled the toddler on his knee all afternoon, and played pat-a-cake, and got-your-nose, and this-is-the-church-this-is-the-steeple. When night fell solidly, Peep picked up the sleeping child, and climbed out from under the bridge.
He plodded down the road toward the village, the slumbering tot in his arms, the moon at his back. Peep did not know where the child belonged, but deemed he would find the proper home before first light. The erudite daffodil-weaver knew he would never see his home sweet-daffodil home again if he was discovered with the young one in his arms.
Peep traipsed from house to house, peeping in each window. His eyes, long accustomed to dark nights under the bridge, had no trouble discerning beds full of sleeping children. Unfortunately, they turned into beds full of screaming children each time Peep looked in. Some sixth sense of child-preservation, or perhaps the nightmare of breaking the bridge rules, caused each child to awaken, and scream, “It’s PEEP! It’s PEEP! There! In the window! He’s going to eat me! EEEEEEE!”
Each time this happened, Peep quickly ducked and headed for the next house, sticking to the shadows. At the last house, he spied an empty cradle. The mother lay on the bed beside it, dangling her hand over the side of the crib. Peep took a deep breath, and slipped silently through the door. He laid the gently-snoring babe into the cradle, a lone daffodil clutched tightly in its chubby fist, and backed out as quietly as he had come.
Still in the shadows, Peep tiptoed through the village toward his daffodil-dappled lair. At each house he passed, he heard the stern voices of parents scolding their screaming offspring: “That’s enough of this foolishness! Trolls are not real. Now get back to sleep. I mean it. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!”
Once upon a time, there lived a troll under a rickety wooden bridge just outside the village. He was not considered attractive, as trolls go, with his lime-green flesh, tall tuft of lemon-yellow hair, and a shape like the Tasmanian devil of future cartoon fame. The similarity ended with the shape. This troll did not whirl like a tornado. He was bothered by an inner-ear disturbance, and tried not to spin or make sudden head movements. Though he had not been formally christened, the troll adopted the name of Peep.
Peep trolled his days away picking daffodils, arranging them in attractive floral displays under the bridge where he had established residence. Nobody ever came to visit, but Peep liked nice things. What he didn’t like was people. People pissed Peep off. They thumped willy-nilly over his bridge at all hours of the day, causing dirt and sand to sift down in a rain of grit into Peep’s home. To exacerbate the matter, children often stopped on the bridge and taunted Peep. They didn’t know if he truly existed, or was just a legend their parents had made up to keep them off the bridge. They jumped and stomped and hooted and hollered, bringing down grain upon grain of despair into Peep’s peaceful existence.
Peep did not retaliate against the children. He regarded them as merely ignorant, and would not seek revenge for their childish shenanigans . Peep was not of a pugnacious nature. All he wanted was to sit peacefully in his underbridge lair, and gaze upon the beauty of his daffodils. And while the people pissed Peep off, Peep preferred to internalize his anger. It wouldn’t do to lose one’s temper, charge out from under the bridge, and eat someone. The local scofflaws would take matters into their own hands, and Peep would pick daffodils no more.
So each day, Peep arose with the sun, and gathered his beloved daffodils. He licked the fresh dew from their stems, and wove them into the most Byzantine patterns no one had ever seen. He made walls of woven daffodil mats, and rugs, and blankets, and rich tapestries. Peep’s ineffable attention to detail created exquisite treasures the likes of which the townspeople would never encounter.
One sunny day, amidst the shuffle of the shouting children, a tiny tot was bumped over the edge of the bridge, and was saved from a nasty head-knock by one of Peep’s hanging daffodil curtains. The other children saw one of their own disappear under the bridge, and took off for the village. They were too afraid to tell the true tale of what had happened, having been forbidden to play on the bridge. They feigned surprise when one of their number was noted missing, and joined the crowd in beating the bushes for their fallen comrade until sunset. None of them slept well that night. They dreamed of the wee one being mauled and devoured by that ugly old troll under the bridge.
Peep had been much surprised by the chortling child who tumbled down his daffodil drape. At first, he stared as the child blinked in wonder at Peep’s colorful countenance. Then the tot crawled to him and clambered into Peep’s lap. Peep dandled the toddler on his knee all afternoon, and played pat-a-cake, and got-your-nose, and this-is-the-church-this-is-the-steeple. When night fell solidly, Peep picked up the sleeping child, and climbed out from under the bridge.
He plodded down the road toward the village, the slumbering tot in his arms, the moon at his back. Peep did not know where the child belonged, but deemed he would find the proper home before first light. The erudite daffodil-weaver knew he would never see his home sweet-daffodil home again if he was discovered with the young one in his arms.
Peep traipsed from house to house, peeping in each window. His eyes, long accustomed to dark nights under the bridge, had no trouble discerning beds full of sleeping children. Unfortunately, they turned into beds full of screaming children each time Peep looked in. Some sixth sense of child-preservation, or perhaps the nightmare of breaking the bridge rules, caused each child to awaken, and scream, “It’s PEEP! It’s PEEP! There! In the window! He’s going to eat me! EEEEEEE!”
Each time this happened, Peep quickly ducked and headed for the next house, sticking to the shadows. At the last house, he spied an empty cradle. The mother lay on the bed beside it, dangling her hand over the side of the crib. Peep took a deep breath, and slipped silently through the door. He laid the gently-snoring babe into the cradle, a lone daffodil clutched tightly in its chubby fist, and backed out as quietly as he had come.
Still in the shadows, Peep tiptoed through the village toward his daffodil-dappled lair. At each house he passed, he heard the stern voices of parents scolding their screaming offspring: “That’s enough of this foolishness! Trolls are not real. Now get back to sleep. I mean it. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!”
Dr. Avel B’hadgai & The Primeval Magus
in Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!
Part Four: Exposition…of EVIL!
by Bubblegum Tate
Dr. Avel B’hadgai lays ate the center of a large, dark room in a circle of light and nearly prone in a chair of his own invention. Thousands of wires, conduits and cables spread from the chair and hook, plug or tap into a variety of machines and computers. Each device is either a source of information or assists in the collation, sifting and processing of the titanic amount of data flowing into the doctor’s brain. The chair itself was created for maximum comfort and to tend to the doctor’s every need. The doctor seems to twitch in the chair, but this is due to electrodes attached to major muscle groups, keeping them from succumbing to atrophy during the hours, days and sometimes months the evil genius spends in the chair. The headrest of the chair interfaces directly with the part of B’hadgai’s head that is no longer human; the section of his brain that was cruelly destroyed adolescence by Ajax Stewart.
The unblinking electronic eye pulses as information flows into B’hadgai’s mind and his still human eye lies closed, but flashes back and forth beneath the lid. One could say the doctor was dreaming, but B’hadgai would claim concepts such as the subconscious have been left behind by a mind as advanced as his own. His brain is constantly at work; scheming, conspiring, plotting, and each byzantine and nefarious plan pointed directly at Ajax Stewart. If it can be said that Dr. B’hadgai dreams, then he dreams only of the destruction and humiliation of this hated adversary.
From the shadows, a wheezy voice echoes from a reedy frame; a weak vessel that belies the authority with which the figure intones, “Even I, who have communed with the spirits for a moon-cycle, am astonished at your lethargy, Doctor.” A chuff chuff of laughter escapes the lips of the ancient shaman men call the Primeval Magus, amused by his own joke.
The fluttering human eye snaps open and a frown tugs at B’hadgai’s mouth as it creases the half-flesh of his forehead. “Don’t presume to speak down to me as though I were some hubcap stealing scofflaw, Magus,” B’hadgai said with a sneer. “I am the greatest criminal mind the world has ever known!” Smiling evilly, the doctor continued, “And, I might add, the key to defeating your enemy… a woman in an animal skin bikini.”
The Primeval Magus stepped into the ring of illumination surrounding the chair. Once again, Dr. B’hadgai had to marvel at the interesting and striking figure. The Magus was rail thin, but covered in wiry, sinewy muscle. Wrapped in tattered robes, much of his exposed skin from the top of his bald pate to the leathery soles of his bare feet was covered in runic tattoos. He wore several circles of bone and wood at both ankles, each wrist and surrounding the left bicep. He leaned on a staff that was as brown and knotted as his own skin. His eyes, though sunk deep into the sockets, were penetrating and cold. The Primeval Magus was old and looked it. Not just old, but ancient. As ancient as mankind. As ancient as the Enigma Isles. Ancient…and powerful.
For, as loathe as B’hadgai was to admit it, the Magus radiated power. Even as a deposed dictator, he was a man used to being feared and had a voice used to being obeyed. Men, women, even the elements themselves, all obeyed the voice of the Primeval Magus. Dr. B’hadgai believed that there were no ineffable forces in the universe, only forces that had yet to be catalogued by science, but that belief was shaken to its core each and every time he stood in the presence of this most ancient of sorcerers.
It was this voice that intoned, “Tell me, doctor, what progress is Stewart making in collecting the items we require?”
B’hadgai, seeing that the Magus was the first to break off their banter, replied, “Believe it or not, my nemesis has done two things that surprise me; a feat he hasn’t managed in quite some time. First, he simply asked for the Papyrus of Ani and, even more shocking, the British Museum gave it to him. Second, the supposed paragon of virtue cheated.”
The hairless brows of the Magus knitted together in consternation, “Cheated?”
“Yes,” B’hadgai nodded, “Although my instructions didn’t specifically instruct Ajax to work alone, I assumed his natural tendencies would lead him to mount so important a rescue mission on his own. Instead, however, he sent Tiger Jack Hwang to collect Kwan Yin’s Sapphire from Hwang’s old master.”
“Does this aid or hinder us?” the Magus demanded. Even when he asked simple questions, he demanded.
“In the short term, Ajax’s shenanigans mean nothing. In the long term, I will miss Yu Zhi Shou as he was a most cruel and clever collaborator and the Wudan a very useful organization. Still,” the doctor turned with an evil grin towards the Magus, “what need have we of simple criminal organizations when we seek to bend all of reality to our will?”
The Magus shook his head as he answered, “Though you have had far less time to master the disciplines of science than I have had to master the occult, you have demonstrated that you are no less puissant than I. If any two men can combine the powers of sorcery and science, it will be men such as us. Tell me again how you plan to do it.”
“Magus, how have you managed to live so long?” B’hadgai asked, now all business.
“The earliest forms of what men would call magic were sympathetic,” the Magus began to explain, “a man who wished to hunt as a wolf would take a wolf as his totem, wearing its skin, trying to see the world as a wolf would see it. Over time, and with much practice, the man would take on wolfish characteristics. A more pugnacious demeanor, heightened senses, a love of the hunt. In a similar fashion, I was able to form a sympathetic bond with those islands that men call the Enigma Isles.”
Nodding along with him, B’hadgai asked, “And this affected you how?”
“As I told you before, the Enigma Isles are a convergence of powerful forces, a storehouse of occult energies. They are untouched by time because time is a lesser force than the amalgam of forces that have taken root in the Enigma Isles. As I tuned myself to the Isles, the Isles attuned themselves to me. They showed me secrets, mysteries and shared their life force with me. As they stand outside of time, so do I. I have told you all this many times, Doctor!”
“Yes, I know, but tell me again how this made you the ruler of the Isles,” B’hadgai said.
“The Isles seemed to love me as a favored son, they…,” the Magus paused, obviously struggling with concepts no other human could comprehend, “every thing from the lowest daffodil to the largest beast seemed to worship me. Vicious animals refused to attack me, vegetation moved to shade me from the sun, geographical areas to which I wished to travel seemed to move closer together simply because I idly wished my walk to be shorter. The people of the Isles have become attuned to the energies and sensed the support the Isles gave me. I was their natural ruler and the Isles gave them to me as my playthings.”
“Until Shiarra led your playthings in revolt.” Dr. B’hadgai couldn’t help but say this in a mocking tone.
“Be careful speaking of that which you cannot possibly understand!” the Magus thundered. “After MILLENIA of my mastery over the Isles, they seemed to throw me over in favor of another. I was left, a jilted lover, as it wrapped another in its charms. Shiarra had no knowledge of occult power, but her father loved the Enigma Isles enough to die for them and when I took his life to stop his expedition, the Isles saw this as a betrayal. It was the Isles themselves that sent a Dire Wolf with a new litter to find the toddler. It was the Isles that made her able to understand the wolf pack that was her new family and live as one of them. And make no mistake, Scientist, the Isles themselves sought to exacerbate my misery by causing her to lead the Islanders in revolt against me. Though my knowledge of magic was ancient and vast, with the Isles against me I never stood a chance. And I will hate her until the end of time for that.”
“Hatred like that is something I can…sympathize with,” said B’hadgai laughing at his erudite turn of phrase. “And you can create this sympathy magic with any item of power, correct?”
“Given time, no item of occult power can withstand the will of the Primeval Magus,” intoned the ancient warlock, “even the items of great mystical power you have instructed Stewart to gather to ‘save’ the life of his betrothed.”
“Even as you seek to bend those items to your will, augmenting your already amazing strength, I will seek to unravel the mysteries of the Celestial Stele. Though it is so far removed from modern science as to appear like sorcery, it is a technological marvel lost from the far future in the rushing headwaters of Time itself!” Despite how he hated the “mad scientist” stereotype, Dr. B’hadgai couldn’t help but dissolve into mad cackles that reverberated throughout the chamber.
“And you believe that combining my mastery of occult energies and your newfound mastery of time will allow us to bend all reality to our will,” the Magus said with a firm nod. “Apart, Dr. B’hadgai, we could never undo the evil perpetrated on us by the Engineer and his She Wolf. Together, we will bring all creation to its knees and FINALLY there will be a reckoning!”
“You speak the truth, my ancient ally. Now, if you will excuse me, Ajax is on his way to collect the final piece of our vengeance puzzle and I must monitor the proceedings.” Dr. B’hadgai lay back in the chair, allowing his cybernetic mind to meld with the machines surrounding him. The Magus stepped back into the shadows, leaving his maniacal collaborator to his machinations. Both men were content that soon they would ascend to their rightful places in the cosmos.
Part Four: Exposition…of EVIL!
by Bubblegum Tate
Dr. Avel B’hadgai lays ate the center of a large, dark room in a circle of light and nearly prone in a chair of his own invention. Thousands of wires, conduits and cables spread from the chair and hook, plug or tap into a variety of machines and computers. Each device is either a source of information or assists in the collation, sifting and processing of the titanic amount of data flowing into the doctor’s brain. The chair itself was created for maximum comfort and to tend to the doctor’s every need. The doctor seems to twitch in the chair, but this is due to electrodes attached to major muscle groups, keeping them from succumbing to atrophy during the hours, days and sometimes months the evil genius spends in the chair. The headrest of the chair interfaces directly with the part of B’hadgai’s head that is no longer human; the section of his brain that was cruelly destroyed adolescence by Ajax Stewart.
The unblinking electronic eye pulses as information flows into B’hadgai’s mind and his still human eye lies closed, but flashes back and forth beneath the lid. One could say the doctor was dreaming, but B’hadgai would claim concepts such as the subconscious have been left behind by a mind as advanced as his own. His brain is constantly at work; scheming, conspiring, plotting, and each byzantine and nefarious plan pointed directly at Ajax Stewart. If it can be said that Dr. B’hadgai dreams, then he dreams only of the destruction and humiliation of this hated adversary.
From the shadows, a wheezy voice echoes from a reedy frame; a weak vessel that belies the authority with which the figure intones, “Even I, who have communed with the spirits for a moon-cycle, am astonished at your lethargy, Doctor.” A chuff chuff of laughter escapes the lips of the ancient shaman men call the Primeval Magus, amused by his own joke.
The fluttering human eye snaps open and a frown tugs at B’hadgai’s mouth as it creases the half-flesh of his forehead. “Don’t presume to speak down to me as though I were some hubcap stealing scofflaw, Magus,” B’hadgai said with a sneer. “I am the greatest criminal mind the world has ever known!” Smiling evilly, the doctor continued, “And, I might add, the key to defeating your enemy… a woman in an animal skin bikini.”
The Primeval Magus stepped into the ring of illumination surrounding the chair. Once again, Dr. B’hadgai had to marvel at the interesting and striking figure. The Magus was rail thin, but covered in wiry, sinewy muscle. Wrapped in tattered robes, much of his exposed skin from the top of his bald pate to the leathery soles of his bare feet was covered in runic tattoos. He wore several circles of bone and wood at both ankles, each wrist and surrounding the left bicep. He leaned on a staff that was as brown and knotted as his own skin. His eyes, though sunk deep into the sockets, were penetrating and cold. The Primeval Magus was old and looked it. Not just old, but ancient. As ancient as mankind. As ancient as the Enigma Isles. Ancient…and powerful.
For, as loathe as B’hadgai was to admit it, the Magus radiated power. Even as a deposed dictator, he was a man used to being feared and had a voice used to being obeyed. Men, women, even the elements themselves, all obeyed the voice of the Primeval Magus. Dr. B’hadgai believed that there were no ineffable forces in the universe, only forces that had yet to be catalogued by science, but that belief was shaken to its core each and every time he stood in the presence of this most ancient of sorcerers.
It was this voice that intoned, “Tell me, doctor, what progress is Stewart making in collecting the items we require?”
B’hadgai, seeing that the Magus was the first to break off their banter, replied, “Believe it or not, my nemesis has done two things that surprise me; a feat he hasn’t managed in quite some time. First, he simply asked for the Papyrus of Ani and, even more shocking, the British Museum gave it to him. Second, the supposed paragon of virtue cheated.”
The hairless brows of the Magus knitted together in consternation, “Cheated?”
“Yes,” B’hadgai nodded, “Although my instructions didn’t specifically instruct Ajax to work alone, I assumed his natural tendencies would lead him to mount so important a rescue mission on his own. Instead, however, he sent Tiger Jack Hwang to collect Kwan Yin’s Sapphire from Hwang’s old master.”
“Does this aid or hinder us?” the Magus demanded. Even when he asked simple questions, he demanded.
“In the short term, Ajax’s shenanigans mean nothing. In the long term, I will miss Yu Zhi Shou as he was a most cruel and clever collaborator and the Wudan a very useful organization. Still,” the doctor turned with an evil grin towards the Magus, “what need have we of simple criminal organizations when we seek to bend all of reality to our will?”
The Magus shook his head as he answered, “Though you have had far less time to master the disciplines of science than I have had to master the occult, you have demonstrated that you are no less puissant than I. If any two men can combine the powers of sorcery and science, it will be men such as us. Tell me again how you plan to do it.”
“Magus, how have you managed to live so long?” B’hadgai asked, now all business.
“The earliest forms of what men would call magic were sympathetic,” the Magus began to explain, “a man who wished to hunt as a wolf would take a wolf as his totem, wearing its skin, trying to see the world as a wolf would see it. Over time, and with much practice, the man would take on wolfish characteristics. A more pugnacious demeanor, heightened senses, a love of the hunt. In a similar fashion, I was able to form a sympathetic bond with those islands that men call the Enigma Isles.”
Nodding along with him, B’hadgai asked, “And this affected you how?”
“As I told you before, the Enigma Isles are a convergence of powerful forces, a storehouse of occult energies. They are untouched by time because time is a lesser force than the amalgam of forces that have taken root in the Enigma Isles. As I tuned myself to the Isles, the Isles attuned themselves to me. They showed me secrets, mysteries and shared their life force with me. As they stand outside of time, so do I. I have told you all this many times, Doctor!”
“Yes, I know, but tell me again how this made you the ruler of the Isles,” B’hadgai said.
“The Isles seemed to love me as a favored son, they…,” the Magus paused, obviously struggling with concepts no other human could comprehend, “every thing from the lowest daffodil to the largest beast seemed to worship me. Vicious animals refused to attack me, vegetation moved to shade me from the sun, geographical areas to which I wished to travel seemed to move closer together simply because I idly wished my walk to be shorter. The people of the Isles have become attuned to the energies and sensed the support the Isles gave me. I was their natural ruler and the Isles gave them to me as my playthings.”
“Until Shiarra led your playthings in revolt.” Dr. B’hadgai couldn’t help but say this in a mocking tone.
“Be careful speaking of that which you cannot possibly understand!” the Magus thundered. “After MILLENIA of my mastery over the Isles, they seemed to throw me over in favor of another. I was left, a jilted lover, as it wrapped another in its charms. Shiarra had no knowledge of occult power, but her father loved the Enigma Isles enough to die for them and when I took his life to stop his expedition, the Isles saw this as a betrayal. It was the Isles themselves that sent a Dire Wolf with a new litter to find the toddler. It was the Isles that made her able to understand the wolf pack that was her new family and live as one of them. And make no mistake, Scientist, the Isles themselves sought to exacerbate my misery by causing her to lead the Islanders in revolt against me. Though my knowledge of magic was ancient and vast, with the Isles against me I never stood a chance. And I will hate her until the end of time for that.”
“Hatred like that is something I can…sympathize with,” said B’hadgai laughing at his erudite turn of phrase. “And you can create this sympathy magic with any item of power, correct?”
“Given time, no item of occult power can withstand the will of the Primeval Magus,” intoned the ancient warlock, “even the items of great mystical power you have instructed Stewart to gather to ‘save’ the life of his betrothed.”
“Even as you seek to bend those items to your will, augmenting your already amazing strength, I will seek to unravel the mysteries of the Celestial Stele. Though it is so far removed from modern science as to appear like sorcery, it is a technological marvel lost from the far future in the rushing headwaters of Time itself!” Despite how he hated the “mad scientist” stereotype, Dr. B’hadgai couldn’t help but dissolve into mad cackles that reverberated throughout the chamber.
“And you believe that combining my mastery of occult energies and your newfound mastery of time will allow us to bend all reality to our will,” the Magus said with a firm nod. “Apart, Dr. B’hadgai, we could never undo the evil perpetrated on us by the Engineer and his She Wolf. Together, we will bring all creation to its knees and FINALLY there will be a reckoning!”
“You speak the truth, my ancient ally. Now, if you will excuse me, Ajax is on his way to collect the final piece of our vengeance puzzle and I must monitor the proceedings.” Dr. B’hadgai lay back in the chair, allowing his cybernetic mind to meld with the machines surrounding him. The Magus stepped back into the shadows, leaving his maniacal collaborator to his machinations. Both men were content that soon they would ascend to their rightful places in the cosmos.
To Exacerbate Exasperation: The Byzantine and Ineffable Shenanigans of the Pugnacious, Yet Erudite Scofflaw, "Daffodil" Dean Weslington
by Cap'n Neurotic
The red-head walked into the corner store, glancing at his list before making a bee-line for the dairy products. After a brief scan of the meager selection, he grabbed a half gallon 2% with an expiration date a little over a week away. "Guess this will have to do," he thought before heading to the counter, paying his money, and walking home, marking off yet one more item on his list as he did so.
THE END?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Oh, wait, yeah, it is. Sorry to get y'all's hopes up.
The End
The red-head walked into the corner store, glancing at his list before making a bee-line for the dairy products. After a brief scan of the meager selection, he grabbed a half gallon 2% with an expiration date a little over a week away. "Guess this will have to do," he thought before heading to the counter, paying his money, and walking home, marking off yet one more item on his list as he did so.
THE END?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Oh, wait, yeah, it is. Sorry to get y'all's hopes up.
The End
College Days
by Redneck Diva
“Dude, you are so stupid!” she screamed at the Polo shirt-clad college boy standing in front of her. She was on her tip toes and in his face in the worst way. He looked like he wanted to fall into the nearest hole in the ground. She looked like she wanted to bury him in that hole.
“Hey, now,” he calmly replied, putting his hands up defensively in front of his chest. He wasn’t sure how the situation ended up like this and he wanted out of it quickly. He’d talk to her calmly if he could just get the pugnacious little shrew to quit screaming at him. He was trying to keep his cool and not exacerbate the situation, but she wasn’t taking any breaths to allow him to get a word in edgewise. The things I get myself into, he thought as he rolled his eyes.
She hadn’t had an angry outburst like this in a long time and it felt pretty good. Her workout schedule didn’t allow for a lot of time with a punching target at the gym to blow off some steam, so screaming at a frat boy on the quad would have to suffice for now.
While she continued her loud rant, he noted her overall appearance. She wore old army fatigue pants that looked like they dated back to the Viet Nam War. Her ponytail was loose at the nape of her neck and the untamable curls were slipping out with every angry shake of her head. Her backpack was OD green, as well, with angry words and byzantine artwork inked all over it. At first glance one automatically pegged her as either a hippie wanna-be, a poor girl on scholarship or a rich girl rebelling and playing scofflaw while mommy and daddy wrote a hefty check each and every month to pay for her unwanted higher education.
She wasn’t any of those things. She had a scholarship of sorts, alright, but she wasn’t poor; she was smart. She had been the most erudite homecoming queen her high school had ever seen. She also was currently working nights as a motel clerk where she was becoming quite acquainted with the hundreds of John Smith’s that checked in with women that were clearly not their wives. Mommy and Daddy didn’t write a check every month because they were too busy trying to convince her that college was just another way she’d end up controlled by some government entity. Hippies (and not the wanna-be kind) and amateur conspiracy theorists were what her parents were. She was just biding her time, but they didn’t know that.
She was still screaming at him when, before she realized what was happening, he grabbed her upper arms, dipped her and kissed her hard on the mouth. She immediately tensed up and the lower parts of her arms that weren’t restrained began flailing in a feeble attempt to make him stop. The crowd that had gathered around them immediately sent up a loud “Oooooooh” and she blushed deeper while his lips were still pressed against hers. When she finally quit trying to smack him senseless - rather ineffectively - he leaned back up, pulled away from her and let go.
“What the HELL was that all about?” she said loudly, but not at the screaming pitch she had been at before the kiss.
“It was the only way I could get you to shut up,” he stated matter-of-factly, hoping he sounded more confident than he actually felt.
“Holy shit, have you been reading Harlequin Romances? Because that sounds exactly like a stupid stunt some muscle-bound hero would pull on the unsuspecting heroine.” And as she spoke she clasped her hands at her chest and batted her eyes. This caused the crowd to chuckle and he looked nervously at the circle of people who had become their impromptu audience.
“Would you please just let me take you somewhere not in the middle of a circle of gawking coeds and we can talk about this?”
“No.”
“Why not? I’m really not enjoying being on stage here…..uh, Ary, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Ary,” she spat, “and we have been in the same PoliSci class for the entire semester AND have been in two discussion groups together. I’m hurt you don’t remember my name,” she said with feigned disappointment, then added venomously, “I’m fairly certain that you remember the tall blonde’s name without having to add ‘Isn’t it?’ afterwards. What’s her name? Ashley? Jennifer? Or is it Muffy? That kind of bimbo always has stupid names.”
Another “Ooooooh” from the crowd.
“And furthermore, I don’t care what you enjoy or you don’t. I’m prepared to discuss this with you all damn day if that’s what it takes.” She crossed her arms across her chest and widened her stance. She was barely five feet tall and knew she didn’t have a commanding presence. She hoped she was pulling this off effectively.
He grabbed her by the upper arms again and she turned her head to the side in anticipation of avoiding another kiss, but instead of kissing her he turned her around and pushed her ahead of him and led her out of the circle of voyeurs. As they parted the crowd, the other students began to clap. She ducked her head in an expression of annoyance, not embarrassment as he insisted on leading her further.
Once they were quite a distance away, well out of earshot from anyone, he let go of her arms, but not before he spun her roughly around to face him again. He dropped his arms and with a sigh said, “There.”
“You ASShole!” she blurted and hit him in the chest with both fists. “What’s the big idea KISSING me in front of all – those – people?” The last three words were punctuated with more punches to the chest. He was just glad she was small and hadn’t had time to go to the gym much. He’d have bruises tomorrow, regardless.
“Agent Sin- Ary. Really. Let me explain.”
“Yes, please. Explain your ineffable and embarrassing shenanigans. Please. Because I’m just dying to hear it.”
“Dying is almost what you did, Agent Singleton,” he said as he moved closer to her and pushed a stray curl behind her ear. “Just as you went into your tirade about ‘ineffective collegiate hogwash’ – which was an interesting choice of words, by the way - and really got yourself wound up nicely, our mark showed up. He had his gun trained on you. I saw him across the quad, but no one else did. If I hadn’t been looking for him, I wouldn’t have seen him either. I didn’t want to see your pretty head splattered on the daffodils underfoot. So I kissed you. I hope I didn’t really make you mad. I’m sorry if I did.” He looked down at his feet, then looked back up at her and grinned.
Unfazed she said, “Shit. I’ve got an Algebra test at 3 – think we’ll be done?” she asked as she pulled her errant ponytail back into submission.
“Should. He’s allergic to peanuts. Shouldn’t take long for the anaphylactic shock to take care of him. You won’t miss your test.”
“Cool.” She adjusted her backpack and reached up to kiss him softly on the cheek.
“Please promise me you’ll kiss me better than that soon, okay?”
“You got it, Agent Singleton. You got it.”
“Dude, you are so stupid!” she screamed at the Polo shirt-clad college boy standing in front of her. She was on her tip toes and in his face in the worst way. He looked like he wanted to fall into the nearest hole in the ground. She looked like she wanted to bury him in that hole.
“Hey, now,” he calmly replied, putting his hands up defensively in front of his chest. He wasn’t sure how the situation ended up like this and he wanted out of it quickly. He’d talk to her calmly if he could just get the pugnacious little shrew to quit screaming at him. He was trying to keep his cool and not exacerbate the situation, but she wasn’t taking any breaths to allow him to get a word in edgewise. The things I get myself into, he thought as he rolled his eyes.
She hadn’t had an angry outburst like this in a long time and it felt pretty good. Her workout schedule didn’t allow for a lot of time with a punching target at the gym to blow off some steam, so screaming at a frat boy on the quad would have to suffice for now.
While she continued her loud rant, he noted her overall appearance. She wore old army fatigue pants that looked like they dated back to the Viet Nam War. Her ponytail was loose at the nape of her neck and the untamable curls were slipping out with every angry shake of her head. Her backpack was OD green, as well, with angry words and byzantine artwork inked all over it. At first glance one automatically pegged her as either a hippie wanna-be, a poor girl on scholarship or a rich girl rebelling and playing scofflaw while mommy and daddy wrote a hefty check each and every month to pay for her unwanted higher education.
She wasn’t any of those things. She had a scholarship of sorts, alright, but she wasn’t poor; she was smart. She had been the most erudite homecoming queen her high school had ever seen. She also was currently working nights as a motel clerk where she was becoming quite acquainted with the hundreds of John Smith’s that checked in with women that were clearly not their wives. Mommy and Daddy didn’t write a check every month because they were too busy trying to convince her that college was just another way she’d end up controlled by some government entity. Hippies (and not the wanna-be kind) and amateur conspiracy theorists were what her parents were. She was just biding her time, but they didn’t know that.
She was still screaming at him when, before she realized what was happening, he grabbed her upper arms, dipped her and kissed her hard on the mouth. She immediately tensed up and the lower parts of her arms that weren’t restrained began flailing in a feeble attempt to make him stop. The crowd that had gathered around them immediately sent up a loud “Oooooooh” and she blushed deeper while his lips were still pressed against hers. When she finally quit trying to smack him senseless - rather ineffectively - he leaned back up, pulled away from her and let go.
“What the HELL was that all about?” she said loudly, but not at the screaming pitch she had been at before the kiss.
“It was the only way I could get you to shut up,” he stated matter-of-factly, hoping he sounded more confident than he actually felt.
“Holy shit, have you been reading Harlequin Romances? Because that sounds exactly like a stupid stunt some muscle-bound hero would pull on the unsuspecting heroine.” And as she spoke she clasped her hands at her chest and batted her eyes. This caused the crowd to chuckle and he looked nervously at the circle of people who had become their impromptu audience.
“Would you please just let me take you somewhere not in the middle of a circle of gawking coeds and we can talk about this?”
“No.”
“Why not? I’m really not enjoying being on stage here…..uh, Ary, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Ary,” she spat, “and we have been in the same PoliSci class for the entire semester AND have been in two discussion groups together. I’m hurt you don’t remember my name,” she said with feigned disappointment, then added venomously, “I’m fairly certain that you remember the tall blonde’s name without having to add ‘Isn’t it?’ afterwards. What’s her name? Ashley? Jennifer? Or is it Muffy? That kind of bimbo always has stupid names.”
Another “Ooooooh” from the crowd.
“And furthermore, I don’t care what you enjoy or you don’t. I’m prepared to discuss this with you all damn day if that’s what it takes.” She crossed her arms across her chest and widened her stance. She was barely five feet tall and knew she didn’t have a commanding presence. She hoped she was pulling this off effectively.
He grabbed her by the upper arms again and she turned her head to the side in anticipation of avoiding another kiss, but instead of kissing her he turned her around and pushed her ahead of him and led her out of the circle of voyeurs. As they parted the crowd, the other students began to clap. She ducked her head in an expression of annoyance, not embarrassment as he insisted on leading her further.
Once they were quite a distance away, well out of earshot from anyone, he let go of her arms, but not before he spun her roughly around to face him again. He dropped his arms and with a sigh said, “There.”
“You ASShole!” she blurted and hit him in the chest with both fists. “What’s the big idea KISSING me in front of all – those – people?” The last three words were punctuated with more punches to the chest. He was just glad she was small and hadn’t had time to go to the gym much. He’d have bruises tomorrow, regardless.
“Agent Sin- Ary. Really. Let me explain.”
“Yes, please. Explain your ineffable and embarrassing shenanigans. Please. Because I’m just dying to hear it.”
“Dying is almost what you did, Agent Singleton,” he said as he moved closer to her and pushed a stray curl behind her ear. “Just as you went into your tirade about ‘ineffective collegiate hogwash’ – which was an interesting choice of words, by the way - and really got yourself wound up nicely, our mark showed up. He had his gun trained on you. I saw him across the quad, but no one else did. If I hadn’t been looking for him, I wouldn’t have seen him either. I didn’t want to see your pretty head splattered on the daffodils underfoot. So I kissed you. I hope I didn’t really make you mad. I’m sorry if I did.” He looked down at his feet, then looked back up at her and grinned.
Unfazed she said, “Shit. I’ve got an Algebra test at 3 – think we’ll be done?” she asked as she pulled her errant ponytail back into submission.
“Should. He’s allergic to peanuts. Shouldn’t take long for the anaphylactic shock to take care of him. You won’t miss your test.”
“Cool.” She adjusted her backpack and reached up to kiss him softly on the cheek.
“Please promise me you’ll kiss me better than that soon, okay?”
“You got it, Agent Singleton. You got it.”
Monday, May 21, 2007
Extension, extension! We want an extension!
Wait. Why am I hollering for an extension - I'm the one that is in charge of that.
Okay, so because we're all a bunch of non-inspired, unimaginative geeks this week, I'm extending the deadline for 36 Chambers of Tate until Friday, the 25th. If it turns out there is only one submission, well, that'll make voting easy, now won't it?
Okay, so because we're all a bunch of non-inspired, unimaginative geeks this week, I'm extending the deadline for 36 Chambers of Tate until Friday, the 25th. If it turns out there is only one submission, well, that'll make voting easy, now won't it?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Block
Anyone else having trouble finding inspiration for this round??
The Cap'n has mentioned his lack of inspiration as well. Are he and I the only two with serious cases of writer's block?
I don't want to make it a habit, but if everyone is having trouble getting stories written, I'd be open to extending the deadline a few days.
Leave a comment and let me know how things are going.
The Cap'n has mentioned his lack of inspiration as well. Are he and I the only two with serious cases of writer's block?
I don't want to make it a habit, but if everyone is having trouble getting stories written, I'd be open to extending the deadline a few days.
Leave a comment and let me know how things are going.
Friday, May 11, 2007
May I have your attention please?
Due to some technical difficulties of the graphics kind, two business proposals were not posted yesterday. Seems the pictures themselves were posessed by demons from Hell. So one has sent me her pictures separately and the other has sadly announced that she might file Chapter 13 on her store. I leave in the morning for a trip to Branson, MO, with my kids, but the hotel has wi-fi and if we're not too worn out from walking the endless hills of the Ozarks in 85' temps with 4000% humidity, eating funnel cakes and fried things on sticks, watching clog dancing and listening to bluegrass, jumping on the hotel beds and shopping, I'll work on those last two business proposals. Vacations rock.
But here's something that'll make your day:
Tate has sent his list of The Words for Round 4, otherwise known, from here on out as:
36 Chambers of Tate
(Is it just me or does anyone else feel the urge to do that dramatic "dum dum DUMMMMM" after you say it? No? Just me then. Hmh.)
And here are The Words (Thankfully there are not 36 of them - I, The Walking Dictionary, may have to break out the ol' Websters on a few of these):
Shenanigans
Scofflaw
Erudite
Daffodil
Pugnacious
Byzantine
Ineffable
Exacerbate
Story submissions are due by May 21st at 10:00pm Central. Voting will begin on Tuesday the 22nd.
The Force, be with you it may.
But here's something that'll make your day:
Tate has sent his list of The Words for Round 4, otherwise known, from here on out as:
36 Chambers of Tate
(Is it just me or does anyone else feel the urge to do that dramatic "dum dum DUMMMMM" after you say it? No? Just me then. Hmh.)
And here are The Words (Thankfully there are not 36 of them - I, The Walking Dictionary, may have to break out the ol' Websters on a few of these):
Shenanigans
Scofflaw
Erudite
Daffodil
Pugnacious
Byzantine
Ineffable
Exacerbate
Story submissions are due by May 21st at 10:00pm Central. Voting will begin on Tuesday the 22nd.
The Force, be with you it may.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
After careful consid'ration
Ol' Joe Billy Bob has looked over all 'em bus'ness proposals and applications that ended up on his big ol' desk and after carefully consid'ring 'em all, well, it looks like that there mall's gonna have to be built onta! Some of the stores are asking for 5000 square foot!! Hooooodoggies!! Them's some big ol' stores, lemme tell ya!
The submitted plans are in the posts below.
AND Tate, his wife and the baby are home now and he's submitted The Words for the next challenge! Look for that post later tonight or early tomorrow.
The submitted plans are in the posts below.
AND Tate, his wife and the baby are home now and he's submitted The Words for the next challenge! Look for that post later tonight or early tomorrow.
The Gettin' Place
by The Shoe Diva
wedding paraphenalia,
BBQ grills,
fine BBQ accessories
Behold, our useful household appliances:
Attention: Joe Billy Bob, Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations
May 9, 2007
After careful reflection, and considerable mourning because those vermin’ stole my scotch tape idea, I present the following for your consideration:
The Gettin’ Place- A Redneck Haven where all of your redneck needs are met, and one-stop shopping for the thrifty shopper on the lookout for that special item.
The Getting’ Place is truly designed to be one-stop shopping and carries everything a red blooded redneck’s little heart could desire. With that in mind, the store is rather large, and will require at least 5,000 square feet of space. In keeping with your eco-friendly design, we propose an entirely recycled décor for our store. Untreated wood recycled from actual Appalachian barns will line both the walls and the floor. It’s a fine use of available products as well as a durable solution for the stampede of feet.
Curtains in the changing room will be hand sewn from scraps of old clothing, and all items sold will be neatly packaged in old Wal-mart shopping bags. They still have plenty of use in em’!
All products are hand crafted by artisans in the local community. We scour the countryside looking for artists with their finger on the pulse of the community, artists who know just what our shoppers are looking for.
Almost as unique as our product line are the employees we hire. Who better to serve the redneck community than fellow rednecks? Who knows the yearnings of a redneck better and who would be more familiar with their needs? We only hire from within the local community, and to provide the best skilled staff possible, we insist each and every one of them be a genuine high school graduate!
I’ve enclosed a brief catalog. Take a gander and you’ll see we’re truly a one of a kind store and a perfect fit for your mall environment.
All merchandise in The Gettin’ Place is indigenous to Redneck Hills. Each item is handcrafted by local artisans with the specific needs of the local redneck squarely in mind.
We maintain a truly unique line of seasonal items:
The one of a kind Christmas tree all-aglow with festiveness.
For the avid deer hunter feeling the Christmas spirit, this gutted deer
Truly unique Gingerbread House
Speaking of décor, we’ve got the snappiest doo-dads this side of the Mason Dixon line.
Most folks don’t know Miss Mona Lisa was a cousin of the Hatfield’s. Yessiree, a distant cousin to be sure, but a right perty one
We also carry a full line of special occasion items.
Birthday cakes,
Birth announcements
Hot tubs
wedding paraphenalia,
BBQ grills,
fine BBQ accessories
Behold, our useful household appliances:
Palm Pilots
Lawn mowers
Tape measures
Survival Kits
Pet supplies
And finally.....
Redneck Apparel
Yes, we have a complete line of redneck apparel for men and women.
Tours R Us
submitted by Lisa
Tours R Us
Come on in.
Get below ground and cool off.
Take a tour of a non-workin' lead and zinc mine.
Totally safe EPA Certified SuperFund Cleanup site awaits your visit.
Wear your hikin' boots - Hard hats provided - unless you've got your own.
Tours start purt' near every hour or as close to as we can get and start from right here in the mall.
Don't forget to visit our gift shop and tailings pile to pick up that souveneir to remember you were here.
Tours R Us
Come on in.
Get below ground and cool off.
Take a tour of a non-workin' lead and zinc mine.
Totally safe EPA Certified SuperFund Cleanup site awaits your visit.
Wear your hikin' boots - Hard hats provided - unless you've got your own.
Tours start purt' near every hour or as close to as we can get and start from right here in the mall.
Don't forget to visit our gift shop and tailings pile to pick up that souveneir to remember you were here.
Origins 'R' Us
submitted by Cap'n Neurotic
TO: Ol’ Joe Billy Bob
Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations
FROM: Cap’n Neurotic
Origins’R’Us Regional Director
RE: Space for rent
Dear sir,
In lieu of your standard “application,” please see the attached copy of our latest promotional material from our corporate offices in Wakanda. We feel that your rustic atmosphere and “green” philosophy fit well with the aesthetic sense of our other branches, housed in abandoned railway stations, ancient castles, labyrinthine caverns, and Whataburgers across the globe; we hope you agree.
ORIGINS’R’US
Paving the way for rouge justice since the dawn of the Galactic Pax Treaty
Are you tired of getting sand kicked in your face by bullies?
Are you sick of seeing the wicked profit from their misdeeds?
Are you borderline psychotic in your need to avenge your parents’ deaths but aren’t quite sure how to do it?
If you answered “yes” to any of these, then what you need is a visit to everyone’s favorite super-power emporium ORIGINS’R’US!
Yes, ORIGINS’R’US offers a wide range of materials to give every would-be crimefighter a leg up in their never-ending battle for truth, justice, and all that jazz.
Ancient words of power?
We got ‘em!
Mystical gemstones with esoteric abilities?
We got ‘em!
Radioactive isotopes and irradiated lab animals?
We got ‘em!
Implausibly powerful bits of alien technology?
We got ‘em!
And, here at ORIGINS’R’US we do more than just hand over these items of incalculable power
Our patented TARDIS technology allows our store to be infinitely larger inside than it appears from without, allowing us to house our mind-staggering amount of merchandise, as well as special genetic-mutation-inducing environments such as:
In addition, our special three-day suspended animation waiting period with full psychic scans insures that only the most stable of vengeance-hungry vigilantes are allowed to roam free with catastrophic powers at their fingertips in order to take the law into their own hands.
ORIGINS’R’US: tracking down items of earth-shattering importance and universe-shaking power so that you don’t have to.
*Actual divinity not implied
TO: Ol’ Joe Billy Bob
Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations
FROM: Cap’n Neurotic
Origins’R’Us Regional Director
RE: Space for rent
Dear sir,
In lieu of your standard “application,” please see the attached copy of our latest promotional material from our corporate offices in Wakanda. We feel that your rustic atmosphere and “green” philosophy fit well with the aesthetic sense of our other branches, housed in abandoned railway stations, ancient castles, labyrinthine caverns, and Whataburgers across the globe; we hope you agree.
ORIGINS’R’US
Paving the way for rouge justice since the dawn of the Galactic Pax Treaty
Are you tired of getting sand kicked in your face by bullies?
Are you sick of seeing the wicked profit from their misdeeds?
Are you borderline psychotic in your need to avenge your parents’ deaths but aren’t quite sure how to do it?
If you answered “yes” to any of these, then what you need is a visit to everyone’s favorite super-power emporium ORIGINS’R’US!
Yes, ORIGINS’R’US offers a wide range of materials to give every would-be crimefighter a leg up in their never-ending battle for truth, justice, and all that jazz.
Ancient words of power?
We got ‘em!
Mystical gemstones with esoteric abilities?
We got ‘em!
Radioactive isotopes and irradiated lab animals?
We got ‘em!
Implausibly powerful bits of alien technology?
We got ‘em!
And, here at ORIGINS’R’US we do more than just hand over these items of incalculable power
willy-nilly. Each member of our highly trained staff is cloned from one of our founding partners and cybernetically implanted with all the knowledge which has not been lost in the mists of time
on each of our items. These custodians of our cosmic culture will not only help you select the life-altering item which best suits your personal needs, but will give you all the assistance you need to activate and access the powers and abilities which will make you so far above us mere mortals that you are like unto a god*!
Our patented TARDIS technology allows our store to be infinitely larger inside than it appears from without, allowing us to house our mind-staggering amount of merchandise, as well as special genetic-mutation-inducing environments such as:
- Gamma testing ranges
- Particle accelerators
- Lazarus Pits
- Rifts in Time and Space
- Terrigen Mist chambers
- Symbiote breeding grounds
- And many more!
In addition, our special three-day suspended animation waiting period with full psychic scans insures that only the most stable of vengeance-hungry vigilantes are allowed to roam free with catastrophic powers at their fingertips in order to take the law into their own hands.
And be sure to visit our sister store, SPANDEX WISHES AND CAPE-&-COWL DREAMS for all of your super-hero apparel needs.
ORIGINS’R’US: tracking down items of earth-shattering importance and universe-shaking power so that you don’t have to.
*Actual divinity not implied
Beck's Tea to Dye For
By Mrs. E.
Women Have I Got A DEAL FOR YOU!!!
I recently decided to do somethin about the grey in my hair which were beginin to show along with some dark roots. So I went to the Walmarts and got what was supposed to be just one shade darker than the last time because I had gone lighter but the grey was showin way too much with that color so I had to go darker. They had a new box with new pictures and this lovely color that would make my grey disappear and my roots too. That gal on that box had used that color and it twere down right beautiful. Well I snatched that baby up and took it home just waitin' to have enough time to use it. This weekend the time were right.
So I did just what it said except I didn't do a color test because heck I'd used this brand for many years and had never had no reaction or nothin just beautiful hair color. Imagine my surprise when I looked in the mirror as I was a dryin my curly locks and noticed the color was redder than the box showed. Matter of fact my hair was orangish. It twere Whore red!!!
Now I got a neice and she gots pretty red hair. Her daughters gots pretty red hair. Their hair is prettier than anything you'll ever see on a box of hair color. Mine was not that color. I don't usually get too bent out of shape over hair color. I mean I've been doing it so long that I have had a few times when the color weren't quite what I had hoped for. Why I've had my hair have geenish tints to it where it kind of glowed like them glow sticks you can get for Halloween so as to see better in the dark but never, never, never, ever have I seen my hair look this bad. I panicked.
I called my friend who later told me that the sound of my voice really had her scared. She thought there was some major disaster. She thought she was a gonna haft to get into her car and drive half way across town just to rescue me from whatever fiend was a tormentin me. When she heard it were just my hair, she tried to reasure me but I was havin' none of that. Bein the good friend that she is, she called her sister who called a friend who wasn't home and I still was freakin out. I washed my hair twice while I was waitin for her call back.
\u003cdiv\> \u003c/div\> \u003cdiv\>Any way she called the girl who does our hair who by the way was in St. Louis at a hair show. This darlin girl called me all the way from St Louis and then went to talk to all those high falootin hair people at the hair show. She called back with a solution. I was willin' to try just about anythin and heck them hair people in St. Louis surely knew somethin about fixin bad hair dolor. So I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, stuffed\n it under a ball cap of Duane's so that none of it was a showin and headed for the Walmarts to see if I could find a remedy.
Well, I had to get something that had Ash in it. I thought I had already made an "ASH" of myself but I was willin to try anything. Whore Red!!! Horrid Whore Red!!! Well, it worked. I still have reddish tints but the color does look more natural and I can go out in public again.
At school on Monday nobody even noticed or at least they never said nothin.
So I said all of that to tell you about a new store that I am openin for women only. Its gonna be a hair colorin place. Now I know they already have these things I've been there but dang those gals charge out the wazoo. I'm thinkin it would just be a place where women could sit around discussin whatever came to mind and then when someone needed a\n hair colorin done we could all look her over real good and then as a committee pick out the right color. We could help one another get it on right. You know like only coverin the roots for awhile and then spreadin it out thru the rest of the hair. We could help time one another and cheer each other on. Heck we'd only have to charge a dollor or two more than what it cost at the Walmarts.
We'd have to call it somethin that don't sound like no beauty shop stuff 'cause you gots to have a license to call it that. I was thinkin of pretendin the shoppe were a fancy tea type place. We'd have a code we used. You'd order green tea and that would be the ash colors. You'd order tomato juice or red soda pop for the redder colors or lemonade for the blonde.
I gots a plan here. I'm workin on a name. We'd have to be exclusive. None of them funny boys a hangin around. I'm thinkin of callin it Beck's Tea to Dye For!!!!! Snappy! Huh!!
Look for it the next time you head out to cruise main street. This is an idee that is way past due. We'll be a lookin for you and have the teapot ready to boil unless your in the mood for some red soda or some lemonade.
Women Have I Got A DEAL FOR YOU!!!
I recently decided to do somethin about the grey in my hair which were beginin to show along with some dark roots. So I went to the Walmarts and got what was supposed to be just one shade darker than the last time because I had gone lighter but the grey was showin way too much with that color so I had to go darker. They had a new box with new pictures and this lovely color that would make my grey disappear and my roots too. That gal on that box had used that color and it twere down right beautiful. Well I snatched that baby up and took it home just waitin' to have enough time to use it. This weekend the time were right.
So I did just what it said except I didn't do a color test because heck I'd used this brand for many years and had never had no reaction or nothin just beautiful hair color. Imagine my surprise when I looked in the mirror as I was a dryin my curly locks and noticed the color was redder than the box showed. Matter of fact my hair was orangish. It twere Whore red!!!
Now I got a neice and she gots pretty red hair. Her daughters gots pretty red hair. Their hair is prettier than anything you'll ever see on a box of hair color. Mine was not that color. I don't usually get too bent out of shape over hair color. I mean I've been doing it so long that I have had a few times when the color weren't quite what I had hoped for. Why I've had my hair have geenish tints to it where it kind of glowed like them glow sticks you can get for Halloween so as to see better in the dark but never, never, never, ever have I seen my hair look this bad. I panicked.
I called my friend who later told me that the sound of my voice really had her scared. She thought there was some major disaster. She thought she was a gonna haft to get into her car and drive half way across town just to rescue me from whatever fiend was a tormentin me. When she heard it were just my hair, she tried to reasure me but I was havin' none of that. Bein the good friend that she is, she called her sister who called a friend who wasn't home and I still was freakin out. I washed my hair twice while I was waitin for her call back.
\u003cdiv\> \u003c/div\> \u003cdiv\>Any way she called the girl who does our hair who by the way was in St. Louis at a hair show. This darlin girl called me all the way from St Louis and then went to talk to all those high falootin hair people at the hair show. She called back with a solution. I was willin' to try just about anythin and heck them hair people in St. Louis surely knew somethin about fixin bad hair dolor. So I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, stuffed\n it under a ball cap of Duane's so that none of it was a showin and headed for the Walmarts to see if I could find a remedy.
Well, I had to get something that had Ash in it. I thought I had already made an "ASH" of myself but I was willin to try anything. Whore Red!!! Horrid Whore Red!!! Well, it worked. I still have reddish tints but the color does look more natural and I can go out in public again.
At school on Monday nobody even noticed or at least they never said nothin.
So I said all of that to tell you about a new store that I am openin for women only. Its gonna be a hair colorin place. Now I know they already have these things I've been there but dang those gals charge out the wazoo. I'm thinkin it would just be a place where women could sit around discussin whatever came to mind and then when someone needed a\n hair colorin done we could all look her over real good and then as a committee pick out the right color. We could help one another get it on right. You know like only coverin the roots for awhile and then spreadin it out thru the rest of the hair. We could help time one another and cheer each other on. Heck we'd only have to charge a dollor or two more than what it cost at the Walmarts.
We'd have to call it somethin that don't sound like no beauty shop stuff 'cause you gots to have a license to call it that. I was thinkin of pretendin the shoppe were a fancy tea type place. We'd have a code we used. You'd order green tea and that would be the ash colors. You'd order tomato juice or red soda pop for the redder colors or lemonade for the blonde.
I gots a plan here. I'm workin on a name. We'd have to be exclusive. None of them funny boys a hangin around. I'm thinkin of callin it Beck's Tea to Dye For!!!!! Snappy! Huh!!
Look for it the next time you head out to cruise main street. This is an idee that is way past due. We'll be a lookin for you and have the teapot ready to boil unless your in the mood for some red soda or some lemonade.
Cazzie's Hats for You
submitted by Cazzie!!!
To Ole' Joe Billy Bob (POA),
My name is Cazzie, I am the proud proprieter of "Cazzie's Hats For You". I am writing of my intention to market my wonderful hats in your Mall. Proposal is as follows: My store needs to be large, 800 square metres of floor space to be exact. My products are displayed in a manner to which no other hat store can top..pardon the punn. One quarter of the floor space will camoflage. Complete with metal shelving and netting from the roof. All types of military hats will be on display here Two of my ex Navy Service people to assist in getting the fitting to the customer's mug..sorry, head, correct.
The next quarter of the store will be set up in a Horse Carnival Scene, complete with statues of horses and models wearing race day gear and my brand of headwear designed for comfort for the race goer. Of couse, if people want to buy a hat for their loved one, or someone who lives abroad, this can be arranged. The sales staff in the Carnival area will be wearing the finest race wear and of course, our very own hats.
The last half, the front half of the store, will be adorned with tuelle and lace and organza. No shelves here but there will be lovely golden hat stands displaying some of the finest head wear going. Staff in this area will be some of the top models from around the Globe, a sure attraction to your Mall. This will be a shop that will attract all the best customers who will just want to go on spending at the other stores your Mall has to offer. At Cazzie's Hats For You, the customer comes first.
To Ole' Joe Billy Bob (POA),
My name is Cazzie, I am the proud proprieter of "Cazzie's Hats For You". I am writing of my intention to market my wonderful hats in your Mall. Proposal is as follows: My store needs to be large, 800 square metres of floor space to be exact. My products are displayed in a manner to which no other hat store can top..pardon the punn. One quarter of the floor space will camoflage. Complete with metal shelving and netting from the roof. All types of military hats will be on display here Two of my ex Navy Service people to assist in getting the fitting to the customer's mug..sorry, head, correct.
The next quarter of the store will be set up in a Horse Carnival Scene, complete with statues of horses and models wearing race day gear and my brand of headwear designed for comfort for the race goer. Of couse, if people want to buy a hat for their loved one, or someone who lives abroad, this can be arranged. The sales staff in the Carnival area will be wearing the finest race wear and of course, our very own hats.
The last half, the front half of the store, will be adorned with tuelle and lace and organza. No shelves here but there will be lovely golden hat stands displaying some of the finest head wear going. Staff in this area will be some of the top models from around the Globe, a sure attraction to your Mall. This will be a shop that will attract all the best customers who will just want to go on spending at the other stores your Mall has to offer. At Cazzie's Hats For You, the customer comes first.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
And away we go!
That Hillbilly Mom is so durn creative she should be a teacher! After my last post asking for suggestions about a mini-task to complete while we wait on Bubblegum Tate, (And trust me, we are not complaining, dude. Take your time.) she promptly sent me an email just chock full of ideas! I'm telling you, she should teach.
So without further ado, I am announcing Mini-Task #1!
--------------------------------------
Welcome to Redneck Hills Mall! Nestled deep in the flat hills of northeastern Oklahoma, Redneck Hills Mall offers shopping for every taste. Come on in and browse our un-airconditioned shopping haven. Oh, don't worry - the lack of air conditioning isn't a big deal. We've got lots of stand fans and box fans stuck in the windows. Plus, when we have them in stock, we hand out those Jesus fans at the door. (You know, the ones on a popsicle stick.) The floors are luxurious hardwood - if you interpret "hardwood" as 1/2" plywood - and the skylights offer you to see nature in all of its uninhibited beauty because well, there's no glass in them. We do have one of the most comfortable restrooms in the area, according to most rednecks who shop here. Well, just have a look-see for yourself:
The carousel in the entrance is a favorite of the young'uns who come to Redneck Hills Mall. Ordinary horses aren't good enough for us high-falootin' shoppers - we have mules, deer and a few large dogs. The kiddies just go berzerk to ride the thirty-point buck.
The parking lot is large and again, we've kept the nature-lover in mind by leaving weeds and brush in their natural state. We try to be a "green" mall when we can. By "green" we mean "we don't mow."
We have many stores here at Redneck Hills Mall. The Scotch Tape Store and The All Applesauce Store are two area favorites. The Quirky Maladjusted Borderline Sociopath Store went out of business last year because the proprietor kept refusing to open for business and when people would peek in the window he would throw tennis balls at them. But that was one isolated incident and the screening process is a little more stringent now. We do have openings for a stores and are accepting applications and business plans now.
Apply today. Applications will be accepted through Wednesday, May 9th, so don't delay!
In your application/business plan, you need to describe the products sold in your store, how the store is laid out, what kind of employees you will hire to run the store, basic decor, etc. Include pictures, if possible. Be creative because Ol' Joe Billy Bob, Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations, while he can't read past about a first grade level, does like to listen to a creative tale written by prospective proprietors in his mall. If you get a knee-slap outta Ol' Joe Billy Bob, you are in for sure!
Send applications to: theredneckdiva@gmail.com
Friday, May 4, 2007
Daddy blogger
Apparently, our most recent winner, Bubblegum Tate, has just had a baby. Okay, not him personally, but his wife just had a baby and well, he kind of participated.
So because he's off establishing himself among the ranks of daddybloggers everywhere, we're sitting here on our laurels. Not that we're complaining - most of us have kid a or two. They truly are a bit time-consuming, the little boogers. So I'm proposing that we do something in the meantime. School's out and I'm still avoiding housework like the plague. I need something to do!
So what's your pleasure, writers at large? We can dredge up old creative writing assignments from our teen years, we have try a limerick writing challenge, we can try plain ol' poetry (although I might gag, but I'll play along)....we can do all sorts of things.
So tell me ....... throw some things out there and we'll see what we come up with. Hopefully, whatever it is, we can end our sentences with prepositions.
So because he's off establishing himself among the ranks of daddybloggers everywhere, we're sitting here on our laurels. Not that we're complaining - most of us have kid a or two. They truly are a bit time-consuming, the little boogers. So I'm proposing that we do something in the meantime. School's out and I'm still avoiding housework like the plague. I need something to do!
So what's your pleasure, writers at large? We can dredge up old creative writing assignments from our teen years, we have try a limerick writing challenge, we can try plain ol' poetry (although I might gag, but I'll play along)....we can do all sorts of things.
So tell me ....... throw some things out there and we'll see what we come up with. Hopefully, whatever it is, we can end our sentences with prepositions.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
The edge of the sword has delivered a victory
Bubblegum Tate, when he submitted his story, proclaimed "The Nation of Hillmomba is claimed in the name of Tate-ania!"
I guess he has some prophetic qualities in him somewhere.
With 32% of the votes this round, Tate claims his victory and now is faced with the challenge of coming up with a new list of The Words for the next round.
As soon as he gets his title and list to me, the next round will begin!
Congratulations, Bubblegum Tate!
I guess he has some prophetic qualities in him somewhere.
With 32% of the votes this round, Tate claims his victory and now is faced with the challenge of coming up with a new list of The Words for the next round.
As soon as he gets his title and list to me, the next round will begin!
Congratulations, Bubblegum Tate!
Friday, April 27, 2007
(tap tap) Is this thing on?
Because the Cap'n and I are both slightly neurotic, we both check the voting results at Write in the Thick of It quite often and today, during my many checks, I've noticed that the numbers aren't going up. Anybody having issues with the poll? Or are you just not voting?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
"Let the voting begin!" shouted the Hillmombans as they stormed the hillside
Voting in The Writing Challenge - Nation of Hillmomba Edition is now open.
There were a record eleven entries this time! WAHOO! The word is getting out there and I could not be happier. Thank you! Let's keep things going - tell your friends and keep writing.
Voting is open until midnight May 2nd. (My last final is April 30th and I'm giving myself a cushion in case some evil instructor throws something unexpected at us.)
There were a record eleven entries this time! WAHOO! The word is getting out there and I could not be happier. Thank you! Let's keep things going - tell your friends and keep writing.
Voting is open until midnight May 2nd. (My last final is April 30th and I'm giving myself a cushion in case some evil instructor throws something unexpected at us.)
Curses!
It's 1:33am.
I just wrote a 7-page paper on Freud.
I just posted 11 stories to this blog.
I have an overwhelming urge to call my father.
And I can't get the poll to post.
I'm tired. I'll try again in the morning.
In the meantime, start reading this week's entries - we had a record number!
I just wrote a 7-page paper on Freud.
I just posted 11 stories to this blog.
I have an overwhelming urge to call my father.
And I can't get the poll to post.
I'm tired. I'll try again in the morning.
In the meantime, start reading this week's entries - we had a record number!
Jocelyn's Journey
Jocelyn's Journey by PigPen
The sun was in its final stages of clearing the horizon when the queen finally threw open her shutters. Her view was exceptionally beautiful on mornings like this. The sun was basking her realm in early morning beauty. The blue-green waters of Kings Bay, where the Mason’s River ran into the Smugglers Ocean, were alive with yellow fire as the sun glistened and shimmered across it. Her view was the most commanding view in all of the Valley Lands. Looking out to the northwest, away from Kings Bay, ran Garrison’s Way, an enormous road that stretched the entire length of the kingdom, north to south. She could still remember riding down Garrison’s Way and seeing Hammond Hall for the first time -- the largest and grandest castle in all of Duramond, befitting the royal seat and home to the “Largest Fleet.” There was no power at sea with half her might. They had launched a new dromond the day she arrived and it was her honor to name it. She had been dumbfounded when her good father had bestowed that as a wedding gift. When her wits returned, she had naught else but to name it after he betrothed. Henry’s Hammer was the biggest, fastest ship ever to set sail, as her prince had been the best knight in all the kingdom.
She turned around, intending to call her handmaidens and have them fetch up a bath. Her husband was propped up on his elbow and eyeing her lovingly, a small, innocent, yet playful, smile playing at his lips. “You seem very happy with yourself today, my Lord.” She couldn’t help but smile back, knowing how he disliked his wife calling him that. The first time she had made that faux pas had been their wedding night. Now, she only did it when she wanted to get a rise out of him.
“How not?” he replied coolly. “I bedded the most beautiful woman in all my kingdom last night and woke up with her in my arms this morning.” She could feel her cheeks heat up instantly.
She went to him, wrapping her arms around him and placing her head upon his chest. She could feel his heart beating slowly and surely.
As she lay there, her thoughts went back to when she was but fifteen, a maiden freshly flowered. Harold Hammond had arrived at their castle with the biggest retainer of knights, servants, squires, handmaidens, camp followers, and cronies that she had ever seen. Snow Fall was a large castle by any standard but could never hope to hold Harold’s entire host. Most had camped outside the castle walls, which made a city outside the castle. Her heart had begun to pound inside her chest the minute Harold’s outriders had been seen. He had come to see if she was fit for betrothal to his son. Stories had preceded his coming about how scathingly he had judged the first two maidens whose fathers saw them fit to wed the prince. She had met both girls at the last Kingdom Tournament, held every spring. Neither had been exceedingly comely, but neither had they been homely by any means. The girls had been pleasant and been her friends during the tournament. Some of the tales that had reached her claimed King Harold had gone as far as to call one girl a lack-wit and the other a freak. Her sisters had done little to lift her spirits. They had taunted her mercilessly from the day the raven arrived, heralding the coming of the king. She had been on edge from that day until the king claimed her worthy of his son almost a fortnight later.
Now, she couldn’t be happier. She had come to love her betrothed despite thinking she never would. He had been kind with her and generally wanted her to be happy, starting from the first day they met on the steps of Hammer Hall and ridden through the city and out the Kings Gate. They had ridden out to the cheers of all the small folk, a wave of noise that seemed to swell and followed them out through the fields. They had stopped after several hours and eaten a picnic that Prince Henry had packed in a handbasket. They sat and talked till the sun was low in the sky. They talked of childhood memories, friends, secrets that they hadn’t told anyone, and many other things that were of meaning to them. This was one of many quiet times Prince Henry had planned for them in the week prior to their wedding. It was the most magical time of her life. She felt as if she were in some fairy tale, told by wet nurses to young children at bedtime.
The wedding had been no less grand. After a resplendent ceremony in the Most Holy Sept, they had returned to Hammer Hall for the reception. It had been immaculately decorated from floor to ceiling. There had been seating for a thousand wedding guests, but more had packed in along the walls. Singers were all about, as well as jugglers and jesters in motley. They had even brought in dancing bears from the Isles of Veramell. She had not seen anything half so beautiful in all her life. The highlight of the evening for her came as the feast was drawing to a close. The hall was in a rare lull when the heralds began shouting the arrival of a late guest. As the doors parted, the Bard of Bention strode into the hall. The most renowned singer in all the kingdom bowed before the dais. “I am afraid that my tardiness will limit the amount of entertainment I can provide,” he said. “But if you will allow me, I have a new limerick I wish to share with you.”
He looked directly at the future queen, smiled and said, “It’s called ‘Jocelyn’s Journey’.”
The sun was in its final stages of clearing the horizon when the queen finally threw open her shutters. Her view was exceptionally beautiful on mornings like this. The sun was basking her realm in early morning beauty. The blue-green waters of Kings Bay, where the Mason’s River ran into the Smugglers Ocean, were alive with yellow fire as the sun glistened and shimmered across it. Her view was the most commanding view in all of the Valley Lands. Looking out to the northwest, away from Kings Bay, ran Garrison’s Way, an enormous road that stretched the entire length of the kingdom, north to south. She could still remember riding down Garrison’s Way and seeing Hammond Hall for the first time -- the largest and grandest castle in all of Duramond, befitting the royal seat and home to the “Largest Fleet.” There was no power at sea with half her might. They had launched a new dromond the day she arrived and it was her honor to name it. She had been dumbfounded when her good father had bestowed that as a wedding gift. When her wits returned, she had naught else but to name it after he betrothed. Henry’s Hammer was the biggest, fastest ship ever to set sail, as her prince had been the best knight in all the kingdom.
She turned around, intending to call her handmaidens and have them fetch up a bath. Her husband was propped up on his elbow and eyeing her lovingly, a small, innocent, yet playful, smile playing at his lips. “You seem very happy with yourself today, my Lord.” She couldn’t help but smile back, knowing how he disliked his wife calling him that. The first time she had made that faux pas had been their wedding night. Now, she only did it when she wanted to get a rise out of him.
“How not?” he replied coolly. “I bedded the most beautiful woman in all my kingdom last night and woke up with her in my arms this morning.” She could feel her cheeks heat up instantly.
She went to him, wrapping her arms around him and placing her head upon his chest. She could feel his heart beating slowly and surely.
As she lay there, her thoughts went back to when she was but fifteen, a maiden freshly flowered. Harold Hammond had arrived at their castle with the biggest retainer of knights, servants, squires, handmaidens, camp followers, and cronies that she had ever seen. Snow Fall was a large castle by any standard but could never hope to hold Harold’s entire host. Most had camped outside the castle walls, which made a city outside the castle. Her heart had begun to pound inside her chest the minute Harold’s outriders had been seen. He had come to see if she was fit for betrothal to his son. Stories had preceded his coming about how scathingly he had judged the first two maidens whose fathers saw them fit to wed the prince. She had met both girls at the last Kingdom Tournament, held every spring. Neither had been exceedingly comely, but neither had they been homely by any means. The girls had been pleasant and been her friends during the tournament. Some of the tales that had reached her claimed King Harold had gone as far as to call one girl a lack-wit and the other a freak. Her sisters had done little to lift her spirits. They had taunted her mercilessly from the day the raven arrived, heralding the coming of the king. She had been on edge from that day until the king claimed her worthy of his son almost a fortnight later.
Now, she couldn’t be happier. She had come to love her betrothed despite thinking she never would. He had been kind with her and generally wanted her to be happy, starting from the first day they met on the steps of Hammer Hall and ridden through the city and out the Kings Gate. They had ridden out to the cheers of all the small folk, a wave of noise that seemed to swell and followed them out through the fields. They had stopped after several hours and eaten a picnic that Prince Henry had packed in a handbasket. They sat and talked till the sun was low in the sky. They talked of childhood memories, friends, secrets that they hadn’t told anyone, and many other things that were of meaning to them. This was one of many quiet times Prince Henry had planned for them in the week prior to their wedding. It was the most magical time of her life. She felt as if she were in some fairy tale, told by wet nurses to young children at bedtime.
The wedding had been no less grand. After a resplendent ceremony in the Most Holy Sept, they had returned to Hammer Hall for the reception. It had been immaculately decorated from floor to ceiling. There had been seating for a thousand wedding guests, but more had packed in along the walls. Singers were all about, as well as jugglers and jesters in motley. They had even brought in dancing bears from the Isles of Veramell. She had not seen anything half so beautiful in all her life. The highlight of the evening for her came as the feast was drawing to a close. The hall was in a rare lull when the heralds began shouting the arrival of a late guest. As the doors parted, the Bard of Bention strode into the hall. The most renowned singer in all the kingdom bowed before the dais. “I am afraid that my tardiness will limit the amount of entertainment I can provide,” he said. “But if you will allow me, I have a new limerick I wish to share with you.”
He looked directly at the future queen, smiled and said, “It’s called ‘Jocelyn’s Journey’.”
The Potluck
THE POT LUCK by Hillbilly Mom
Mr. Prufrock smoothed the crease of his gray polyester slacks and sighed. This unrequited love business certainly was not so romantic as literature would have you believe. He put the finishing touches on his love letter. Love limerick, as it were. He closed his eyes and imagined how her eyes would light up when she got it. Carla. His inamorata. The mere thought of her set his heart aflutter. Mr. Prufrock slid his calligraphy pens back into their clear plastic case. “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” he said, tucking the pens back into the top right compartment of his antique oak roll-top desk.
Carla was everything he was not. Vivacious, popular, young. “Opposites attract, “ stated Mr. Prufrock in a sing-song manner. He often talked to himself these days. The house was lonely, now that Mother was gone. He smoothed the lace runner on the dining room table as he passed by. The smell of last night’s sauerkraut still lingered a bit in the dim, stuffy air of the living room. He settled back in his La-Z-Boy recliner, the one splurge he’d made with the insurance money. The TV was tuned to the weather channel, but Mr. Prufrock no more knew the forecast than a dog knew how to solve a quadratic equation. He sat, as had become his habit of late, dreaming of his soul mate, Carla.
Carla ripped open the bag of Ruffles and dialed her best friend. “Di. Watcha doin’?” She chugged half a can of Milwaukee’s Best, and emitted a long, rumbling burp.
“Just finishing my Mississippi Mud cake for the Pot Luck. Can you chew with your mouth closed?”
“Why? It’s just you and me. I ain’t tryin’ to impress anyone.”
“It’s kind of hard to understand you with all that crunching.”
“You’ll get over it. What should I take to the Pot Luck?”
“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking about that now?”
“Yeah, well. Call me Susie Homemaker. I was out in the back yard hitting golf balls all afternoon.”
“Don’t your neighbors complain?”
“Not real golf balls, you twit! Wiffle golf balls. So, I thought I might bring corn.”
“How are you making it?”
“Making it? I thought I’d bring a bag of that frozen stuff. If somebody wants some, they can heat it up.”
“I guess that’s no worse than the annual loaf of sandwich bread from the day-old bread outlet.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey, I saw your lovah looking at you during the meeting.”
“Ha ha. That bald little old freak? He told me he thinks you’re attractive.”
“Nice try. You’re making that up. You’ve never even talked to him, have you?”
“No. But he was watching YOU.”
“Only because I was in his way when he undressed you with his eyes.”
“Yeah, right. You crack me up, Di. He’s a 53-year-old virgin who looks like Montgomery Burns. Only not so attractive.”
“That’s a mean thing to say about your boyfriend.”
“He’s NOT my boyfriend. The day he becomes my boyfriend will be declared National Handbasket Day.“
“Don’t get you panties in a wad. It’s not like he’s even asked you out. He seems content to admire you from afar.”
“And he’d better stay a-far away from me. I heard him talking to Debbie after Open House night. You know how Danny had the flu? Creepy McGeezerson said, ‘I hope your betrothed is on the mend after his bout with the influenza. Perchance it has gone from whence it came.’ Then McPervy asked Stacy, ‘Are you and your cronies off to trip the light fantastic at a local speakeasy? Don’t overindulge, my dear, or you shall pay for it on the morrow.’ What’s THAT all about?”
“Aww…don’t be so hard on him. He’s just an odd duck.”
“Time to play Duck Hunt, I say.”
“It’s been fascinating, chewing the fat about your secret crush, but I still have papers to grade.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. On the morrow, heh heh.”
Mr. Prufrock lay back on his virginal bed, hands clasped behind his head. “I am quite the catch, if I do say so myself. I’ve held a steady job for nigh on 20 years. I have saved my chastity for the marriage bed. Those rowdy fellows who have taunted me all these years shall rue the day, when they spy the fair maiden, Carla, upon my arm. They shall be dumbfounded by the beauty of my bride. And when we retire to the marital chambers for our honeymoon, none of them shall know the measure of our passion. For I shall skillfully wield my battering ram to fill my fair lady with boundless pleasure.” Mr. Prufrock shuddered involuntarily. “Though I must take precautions to ensure that I do not commit a premature, seed-spilling faux pas. That would sorely disappoint m’lady, methinks.” Mr. Prufrock drifted into a pleasant slumber, dreams of his impending nuptials dancing in his head.
The next morning, Mr. Prufrock retrieved his Pot Luck corn casserole from the harvest gold refrigerator. He had prepared it two days ago, using Mother’s special recipe, which included creamed corn, Jiffy cornbread mix, and Eagle brand condensed milk. “I’m off!” he announced, to no one in particular.
Carla and Di filled their Chinet plates from the 20-odd covered dishes at the Pot Luck.
“Thanks for saving me a place in line, Carla. I’d hate to think that all the good stuff was gone before I got here,” Di commented, rolling her eyes like a world-class ocular orbitist.
“That’s what friends are for, Di. What’s that stuff? Mmm…it looks like a cheese casserole. Slop me a big pile of that on my Chinet.”
“No need to be greedy. Other lunch shifts need to eat, too, you know.”
“Yeah, well they can eat what’s left. You snooze, you lose.” Carla looked scathingly toward the end of the line. She did not see Mr. Prufrock, standing in the doorway, unrequited love oozing from every pore.
Di sat down, and Carla followed. “Let’s dig in!” She scooped a large plastic spoonful of the cheese casserole into her mouth. She immediately spat it back onto her Chinet.
“That is the nastiest stuff I ever put in my mouth! I think I’m going to vomit! What IS that shit?
Nobody noticed the single tear that slipped over Mr. Prufrock’s left lower eyelid, and slid silently down his cheek.
Mr. Prufrock smoothed the crease of his gray polyester slacks and sighed. This unrequited love business certainly was not so romantic as literature would have you believe. He put the finishing touches on his love letter. Love limerick, as it were. He closed his eyes and imagined how her eyes would light up when she got it. Carla. His inamorata. The mere thought of her set his heart aflutter. Mr. Prufrock slid his calligraphy pens back into their clear plastic case. “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” he said, tucking the pens back into the top right compartment of his antique oak roll-top desk.
Carla was everything he was not. Vivacious, popular, young. “Opposites attract, “ stated Mr. Prufrock in a sing-song manner. He often talked to himself these days. The house was lonely, now that Mother was gone. He smoothed the lace runner on the dining room table as he passed by. The smell of last night’s sauerkraut still lingered a bit in the dim, stuffy air of the living room. He settled back in his La-Z-Boy recliner, the one splurge he’d made with the insurance money. The TV was tuned to the weather channel, but Mr. Prufrock no more knew the forecast than a dog knew how to solve a quadratic equation. He sat, as had become his habit of late, dreaming of his soul mate, Carla.
Carla ripped open the bag of Ruffles and dialed her best friend. “Di. Watcha doin’?” She chugged half a can of Milwaukee’s Best, and emitted a long, rumbling burp.
“Just finishing my Mississippi Mud cake for the Pot Luck. Can you chew with your mouth closed?”
“Why? It’s just you and me. I ain’t tryin’ to impress anyone.”
“It’s kind of hard to understand you with all that crunching.”
“You’ll get over it. What should I take to the Pot Luck?”
“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking about that now?”
“Yeah, well. Call me Susie Homemaker. I was out in the back yard hitting golf balls all afternoon.”
“Don’t your neighbors complain?”
“Not real golf balls, you twit! Wiffle golf balls. So, I thought I might bring corn.”
“How are you making it?”
“Making it? I thought I’d bring a bag of that frozen stuff. If somebody wants some, they can heat it up.”
“I guess that’s no worse than the annual loaf of sandwich bread from the day-old bread outlet.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey, I saw your lovah looking at you during the meeting.”
“Ha ha. That bald little old freak? He told me he thinks you’re attractive.”
“Nice try. You’re making that up. You’ve never even talked to him, have you?”
“No. But he was watching YOU.”
“Only because I was in his way when he undressed you with his eyes.”
“Yeah, right. You crack me up, Di. He’s a 53-year-old virgin who looks like Montgomery Burns. Only not so attractive.”
“That’s a mean thing to say about your boyfriend.”
“He’s NOT my boyfriend. The day he becomes my boyfriend will be declared National Handbasket Day.“
“Don’t get you panties in a wad. It’s not like he’s even asked you out. He seems content to admire you from afar.”
“And he’d better stay a-far away from me. I heard him talking to Debbie after Open House night. You know how Danny had the flu? Creepy McGeezerson said, ‘I hope your betrothed is on the mend after his bout with the influenza. Perchance it has gone from whence it came.’ Then McPervy asked Stacy, ‘Are you and your cronies off to trip the light fantastic at a local speakeasy? Don’t overindulge, my dear, or you shall pay for it on the morrow.’ What’s THAT all about?”
“Aww…don’t be so hard on him. He’s just an odd duck.”
“Time to play Duck Hunt, I say.”
“It’s been fascinating, chewing the fat about your secret crush, but I still have papers to grade.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. On the morrow, heh heh.”
Mr. Prufrock lay back on his virginal bed, hands clasped behind his head. “I am quite the catch, if I do say so myself. I’ve held a steady job for nigh on 20 years. I have saved my chastity for the marriage bed. Those rowdy fellows who have taunted me all these years shall rue the day, when they spy the fair maiden, Carla, upon my arm. They shall be dumbfounded by the beauty of my bride. And when we retire to the marital chambers for our honeymoon, none of them shall know the measure of our passion. For I shall skillfully wield my battering ram to fill my fair lady with boundless pleasure.” Mr. Prufrock shuddered involuntarily. “Though I must take precautions to ensure that I do not commit a premature, seed-spilling faux pas. That would sorely disappoint m’lady, methinks.” Mr. Prufrock drifted into a pleasant slumber, dreams of his impending nuptials dancing in his head.
The next morning, Mr. Prufrock retrieved his Pot Luck corn casserole from the harvest gold refrigerator. He had prepared it two days ago, using Mother’s special recipe, which included creamed corn, Jiffy cornbread mix, and Eagle brand condensed milk. “I’m off!” he announced, to no one in particular.
Carla and Di filled their Chinet plates from the 20-odd covered dishes at the Pot Luck.
“Thanks for saving me a place in line, Carla. I’d hate to think that all the good stuff was gone before I got here,” Di commented, rolling her eyes like a world-class ocular orbitist.
“That’s what friends are for, Di. What’s that stuff? Mmm…it looks like a cheese casserole. Slop me a big pile of that on my Chinet.”
“No need to be greedy. Other lunch shifts need to eat, too, you know.”
“Yeah, well they can eat what’s left. You snooze, you lose.” Carla looked scathingly toward the end of the line. She did not see Mr. Prufrock, standing in the doorway, unrequited love oozing from every pore.
Di sat down, and Carla followed. “Let’s dig in!” She scooped a large plastic spoonful of the cheese casserole into her mouth. She immediately spat it back onto her Chinet.
“That is the nastiest stuff I ever put in my mouth! I think I’m going to vomit! What IS that shit?
Nobody noticed the single tear that slipped over Mr. Prufrock’s left lower eyelid, and slid silently down his cheek.
Deprecations on the Themed
Deprecations on the Themed by Cap'n Neurotic
Panic fell from the sky.
As he fell, Panic loudly cursed Miitrian’s over-zealous cronies for jumpstarting his powers in mid-air, sending him sidestepping into yet another dimension, sans airship. Or, at least, he would have been cursing loudly if his mouth had been able to act on the signals it was receiving from his higher brain functions. Unfortunately, as was generally true in Panic’s life, all higher brain functions were powerless before his more primal instincts, which, in this case, demonstrated themselves in the form of a continuous incoherent bellow of terror. Never before had his “fight or flight” response wished for a more literal translation of “flight” so powerfully.
He was distracted from his impending doom by a voice faintly calling his name from a distance.
Dumbfounded as to how he could hear the soft voice over the rushing wind roaring in his ears, he suddenly realized that this deadly plummet was taking an awfully long time, with no ground in sight . . .
“You really need to find yourself a new dream cycle to ride; that one’s getting old.”
The young man known as Panic awoke from his dream to find Taps, the source of the mysterious voice, standing above him. “You’re telling me,” he replied, pushing himself upright in the recliner which had lulled him into sleep. He wasn’t in the least surprised that Taps had known that his recurring dream had been playing out yet again; her Talent (although they don’t call it that here he reminded himself) allowed her to “tap” into a wide variety of information, from computers to telepathic hive-minds to the collective unconscious zeitgeist – sometimes whether she wanted to or not. “Was my dream so bad that you had to wake me to get some peace?”
Taps shook her head, her long unkempt hair obscuring her plump features. “I wouldn’t have bothered you for that; your subconscious needs to work that stuff out.” She brushed her hair back out of her face to give him a meaningful look; the infopath (as she had dubbed herself) had been after Panic to confront the root cause of his dreams ever since she had accidentally tapped into one a couple of weeks earlier. After pausing long enough to allow Panic a chance to agree -- a chance he, once again, ignored -- Taps carried on. “No, I just sensed a good old fashioned rant brewing on the horizon and didn’t want you to miss out.” And with that she grabbed the groggy teen by his skinny wrist, pulling him out of the recliner and dragging him down the hallway and into the meeting room populated by figures decked out in costumes straight out of the comic books his friend Burn used to smuggle into the orphanage .
“Superheroes,” he thought, still not quite believing it despite having lived among them for the better part of a month. As a “Traveler-with-a-capital-T” (as his one-time would-be mentor Cutter would say) Panic had visited a wide array of worlds and seen some unusual things – heck, his home world was filled with people displaying Talents ranging from telepathy to telekinesis to Panic’s purview, teleportation -- but even alternate Earths populated by dragons, cyborgs, or sentient slime molds paled in comparison to a world where people willingly slapped on capes and cowls in order to stop crimes - - or commit them, as the case may be. Taps’ fellow team-members were seated in a semi-circle, facing towards their gruff leader, who had apparently finished his diatribe just moments before.
“Oh, darn, did we miss the rant-storm?” Taps asked, crestfallen.
“Afraid so,” the stocky hero known as Heavyweight said, “although we might just be sitting in the eye; you know how easily these things can flare up.”
Taps nodded sagely. “True enough; but I hate that we missed the initial wave. Catching the aftershocks just isn’t the same, is it, Panic?”
Panic, true to his name, froze up at being drawn into the conversation; the others teased their leader about his tendency to rant up a storm constantly, but the grizzled hero had made Panic nervous from the first time they met. He wasn’t sure if joining in the ridicule and alienating the target or staying silent and alienating the rest would be the bigger faux pas in the long run, but then again, long run thinking had never been Panic’s strong suit; for most of his life, short-term survival was all his uncontrollable Talent had allowed for.
A feminine voice rang out, saving him from having to decide. ““Don’t worry, Taps,” the speaker said with an inhuman undertone which always reminded Panic of Theremin music, “I can fill you in.” With that, the slender figure with skin of polished glass pushed past the formerly ranting hero with a wink. Much to Panic’s surprise, the older hero just rolled his eyes and took a seat with no protest. A strange ripple flowed across the body of Mirrorgirl as she transformed herself into a virtual doppelganger of the now seated and mildly scowling leader of Vox Aequitas, Cloudburst.
“Do you know what I hate more than anything in the world?” Mirror-Burst called out stridently in a near perfect imitation of the real Cloudburst’s voice, the imitation marred only by how over-the-top the performance was. “Criminals. Law-breakers. Nasty little vermin. Need to be shipped off to Cloud Cuckoo Land and never heard from again.”
Panic -- who wondered briefly if Cloud Cuckoo Land was a real place in this world or not -- couldn’t help from glancing at the real ‘Burst, whose face was fixed in a purposefully neutral pose.
“But you know the one thing I hate more than criminals?” Mirror-Burst continued, beginning to pace around the room. “Super-villains. Take a two-bit hood, add a death ray or two, and you’ve suddenly gone from having a nuisance to having a deadly nuisance.”
Panic’s unease was gradually dissipating as he was drawn into Mirror-Burst’s performance, although he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the real ‘Burst occasionally. He could almost swear there was the tiniest hint of a smile on the care-worn face.
“And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villains,” Mirror-Burst continued, now gesticulating wildly to emphasize his/her points, “it’s super-villain teams! Bad enough dealing with them one on one, but get two or more of those maniacal pests together, and everything goes to hell in a handbasket. And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villain teams –“
“It’s using clichés like ‘hell in a handbasket?” Heavyweight called out, laughing.
Mirror-Burst met this comment with nothing less than Cloudburst’s patented we’ll-talk-later glare. “No, you sorry excuse for a sorry excuse, it’s super-villain teams . . . with a theme!”
Mirror-Burst’s whole body shuddered in such melodramatic disgust at this last statement that it generated a ripple of laughter among the audience.
Puzzled by the reference, Panic was compelled to ask, “What’s wrong with themed groups?”
“What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with them?” Mirror-Burst bellowed incredulously.
“Why they’re just so . . . so . . . silly!” he/she said scathingly.
“Oh, come on!” Panic flinched at the outburst from the real Cloudburst; if the journey to this world hadn’t temporarily burned out his Talent, that jolt would have been enough to trigger a fight-or-flight teleport jaunt across town. “’Silly’? Seriously, that’s supposed to sum up my argument? That they’re ‘silly’?” He sighed. “Okay, folks, the next time I recommend sending the Lillian Gish of the looking-glass set here out on an infiltration mission, would one of you please remind me of this scenery chewing fiasco?”
“I happen to think that it was a very accurate portrayal,” Mirror-Burst said, shifting back into the form of Mirrorgirl halfway through the sentence. Cloudburst merely snorted a laugh in reply. Although partially transfixed by the fact that ‘Burst was actually demonstrating a sense of humor, Panic’s curiosity got the better of him.
“Sorry, but new-to-your-dimension guy here still wondering what’s the deal?”
Cloudburst turned towards him, a crooked smile playing across his face. “It’s a bit hard for me to articulate,” he began, flashing a dirty look towards Heavyweight to forestall any smartass comment, “but basically there’s something about these groups which form around arbitrarily chosen schema that really chaps my hide. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities are going to help you in your latest scam -- that I can understand. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities relate to chess pieces or playing cards or computer terminology – that’s just a product of unbalanced minds, and it makes me want to punch them even harder than usual.”
“I don’t know,” Mirrorgirl countered, “I find some of them highly entertaining.” Another shimmer ran across her surface as she transformed into a rapid succession of monstrous shapes, some familiar (werewolf, nosferatu), some less so (a being seemingly made of cornstalks; another made of black ooze), and some surreal (a clown and a car?). “Beware, Panic!” the mirror-menagerie called out, its voice shifting with each new form, alternately growling, burbling, and (oddly enough) honking, “for you now face the incomparable power of The Kingsmen, each wielding a power based on the works of Stephen King!”
Panic wasn’t sure which was odder; the fact that there were apparently super-villains who were inspired by Stephen King – an idea that Brother Staple, the headmaster of Panic’s former school at the Order of the Infinite would have gleefully accepted as proof that King’s work was the source of all corruption – or that Stephen King was a common touching stone across dimensions.
“So, seriously – they based themselves on Stephen King novels? It, Christine, ‘Salems Lot, all that?”
“Well, actually,” Taps answered, “their founder wasn’t the most literate villain around, so he mainly recruited based on Stephen King movies and mini-series. So, ‘sleepwalkers,” yes, ‘gunslingers’, no. Luckily, as a team they’re even worse than most of those films were, so they weren’t much of a threat -- outside of giving ‘Burst an aneurism, that is.”
“Too true,” said ‘Burst, “although they were nothing compared to that stupid bunch of doofuses that The Immortal Bard threw at us a while back . . . what were their names . . .”
“Oh, you mean Bad Poetry,” Taps chimed in. “What a bunch of losers: Blank Verse, Poetic Conceit, The Rhyme Schemer, that mouthy punk Limerick.” She scrunched up her nose at the last name, her voice dripping with venom. Panic looked at her quizzically; Taps was strictly behind-the-scenes support, not a field agent, so rarely had enough direct contact with the criminal element to warrant such an obvious personal distaste. “The Immortal Bard kidnapped me as leverage,” she explained, “and that Irish brat taunted me mercilessly while he guarded me.”
The sound of a throat clearing caught their attention, and Taps groaned as she watched Mirrorgirl (who was clearly enjoying her chance to play the cut-up) morph into a short, scrawny, red-headed figured decked out in horribly ugly green pantaloons.
“There once was a techie named Taps
Who used lots of computer apps
But then at her peak
Zorg made her a freak
And now her whole life turns up craps.”
Taps mock-glared at the mock-Limerick. “Horrible little brat, he was; glad to see the end of him. Still don’t know how he knew about Zorg giving me my powers, though . . .” This last sentence she mumbled so that only Panic could hear her.
“Hey, ‘Burst, just thought of something,” said Heavyweight with a wicked grin. “What about super-hero groups with themes? Y’know like – The Weather Front?”
‘Burst glowered at him. “First of all, I think building a team around a common thematic element is just a ludicrous for heroes as it is for villains, although possibly less indicative of insanity . . . possibly. And second of all, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of The Weather Front.”
“That’s not what their by-laws say . . .”
‘Burst sighed. “Look, I got sucked into their first adventure, and when they did the obligatory ‘Gee, everything must happen for a reason, let’s stick together and fight crime with our eerily similar weather based powers’ shtick, I only got out of it by allowing them to browbeat me into being an ‘honorary founding member’.”
“Like Superman and Batman in the Justice Society,” Panic chimed in, earning himself a wall of blank stares that told him that, while Stephen King may be universal (or, more accurately, multiversal), DC comics, apparently, were not.
Panic fell from the sky.
As he fell, Panic loudly cursed Miitrian’s over-zealous cronies for jumpstarting his powers in mid-air, sending him sidestepping into yet another dimension, sans airship. Or, at least, he would have been cursing loudly if his mouth had been able to act on the signals it was receiving from his higher brain functions. Unfortunately, as was generally true in Panic’s life, all higher brain functions were powerless before his more primal instincts, which, in this case, demonstrated themselves in the form of a continuous incoherent bellow of terror. Never before had his “fight or flight” response wished for a more literal translation of “flight” so powerfully.
He was distracted from his impending doom by a voice faintly calling his name from a distance.
Dumbfounded as to how he could hear the soft voice over the rushing wind roaring in his ears, he suddenly realized that this deadly plummet was taking an awfully long time, with no ground in sight . . .
“You really need to find yourself a new dream cycle to ride; that one’s getting old.”
The young man known as Panic awoke from his dream to find Taps, the source of the mysterious voice, standing above him. “You’re telling me,” he replied, pushing himself upright in the recliner which had lulled him into sleep. He wasn’t in the least surprised that Taps had known that his recurring dream had been playing out yet again; her Talent (although they don’t call it that here he reminded himself) allowed her to “tap” into a wide variety of information, from computers to telepathic hive-minds to the collective unconscious zeitgeist – sometimes whether she wanted to or not. “Was my dream so bad that you had to wake me to get some peace?”
Taps shook her head, her long unkempt hair obscuring her plump features. “I wouldn’t have bothered you for that; your subconscious needs to work that stuff out.” She brushed her hair back out of her face to give him a meaningful look; the infopath (as she had dubbed herself) had been after Panic to confront the root cause of his dreams ever since she had accidentally tapped into one a couple of weeks earlier. After pausing long enough to allow Panic a chance to agree -- a chance he, once again, ignored -- Taps carried on. “No, I just sensed a good old fashioned rant brewing on the horizon and didn’t want you to miss out.” And with that she grabbed the groggy teen by his skinny wrist, pulling him out of the recliner and dragging him down the hallway and into the meeting room populated by figures decked out in costumes straight out of the comic books his friend Burn used to smuggle into the orphanage .
“Superheroes,” he thought, still not quite believing it despite having lived among them for the better part of a month. As a “Traveler-with-a-capital-T” (as his one-time would-be mentor Cutter would say) Panic had visited a wide array of worlds and seen some unusual things – heck, his home world was filled with people displaying Talents ranging from telepathy to telekinesis to Panic’s purview, teleportation -- but even alternate Earths populated by dragons, cyborgs, or sentient slime molds paled in comparison to a world where people willingly slapped on capes and cowls in order to stop crimes - - or commit them, as the case may be. Taps’ fellow team-members were seated in a semi-circle, facing towards their gruff leader, who had apparently finished his diatribe just moments before.
“Oh, darn, did we miss the rant-storm?” Taps asked, crestfallen.
“Afraid so,” the stocky hero known as Heavyweight said, “although we might just be sitting in the eye; you know how easily these things can flare up.”
Taps nodded sagely. “True enough; but I hate that we missed the initial wave. Catching the aftershocks just isn’t the same, is it, Panic?”
Panic, true to his name, froze up at being drawn into the conversation; the others teased their leader about his tendency to rant up a storm constantly, but the grizzled hero had made Panic nervous from the first time they met. He wasn’t sure if joining in the ridicule and alienating the target or staying silent and alienating the rest would be the bigger faux pas in the long run, but then again, long run thinking had never been Panic’s strong suit; for most of his life, short-term survival was all his uncontrollable Talent had allowed for.
A feminine voice rang out, saving him from having to decide. ““Don’t worry, Taps,” the speaker said with an inhuman undertone which always reminded Panic of Theremin music, “I can fill you in.” With that, the slender figure with skin of polished glass pushed past the formerly ranting hero with a wink. Much to Panic’s surprise, the older hero just rolled his eyes and took a seat with no protest. A strange ripple flowed across the body of Mirrorgirl as she transformed herself into a virtual doppelganger of the now seated and mildly scowling leader of Vox Aequitas, Cloudburst.
“Do you know what I hate more than anything in the world?” Mirror-Burst called out stridently in a near perfect imitation of the real Cloudburst’s voice, the imitation marred only by how over-the-top the performance was. “Criminals. Law-breakers. Nasty little vermin. Need to be shipped off to Cloud Cuckoo Land and never heard from again.”
Panic -- who wondered briefly if Cloud Cuckoo Land was a real place in this world or not -- couldn’t help from glancing at the real ‘Burst, whose face was fixed in a purposefully neutral pose.
“But you know the one thing I hate more than criminals?” Mirror-Burst continued, beginning to pace around the room. “Super-villains. Take a two-bit hood, add a death ray or two, and you’ve suddenly gone from having a nuisance to having a deadly nuisance.”
Panic’s unease was gradually dissipating as he was drawn into Mirror-Burst’s performance, although he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the real ‘Burst occasionally. He could almost swear there was the tiniest hint of a smile on the care-worn face.
“And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villains,” Mirror-Burst continued, now gesticulating wildly to emphasize his/her points, “it’s super-villain teams! Bad enough dealing with them one on one, but get two or more of those maniacal pests together, and everything goes to hell in a handbasket. And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villain teams –“
“It’s using clichés like ‘hell in a handbasket?” Heavyweight called out, laughing.
Mirror-Burst met this comment with nothing less than Cloudburst’s patented we’ll-talk-later glare. “No, you sorry excuse for a sorry excuse, it’s super-villain teams . . . with a theme!”
Mirror-Burst’s whole body shuddered in such melodramatic disgust at this last statement that it generated a ripple of laughter among the audience.
Puzzled by the reference, Panic was compelled to ask, “What’s wrong with themed groups?”
“What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with them?” Mirror-Burst bellowed incredulously.
“Why they’re just so . . . so . . . silly!” he/she said scathingly.
“Oh, come on!” Panic flinched at the outburst from the real Cloudburst; if the journey to this world hadn’t temporarily burned out his Talent, that jolt would have been enough to trigger a fight-or-flight teleport jaunt across town. “’Silly’? Seriously, that’s supposed to sum up my argument? That they’re ‘silly’?” He sighed. “Okay, folks, the next time I recommend sending the Lillian Gish of the looking-glass set here out on an infiltration mission, would one of you please remind me of this scenery chewing fiasco?”
“I happen to think that it was a very accurate portrayal,” Mirror-Burst said, shifting back into the form of Mirrorgirl halfway through the sentence. Cloudburst merely snorted a laugh in reply. Although partially transfixed by the fact that ‘Burst was actually demonstrating a sense of humor, Panic’s curiosity got the better of him.
“Sorry, but new-to-your-dimension guy here still wondering what’s the deal?”
Cloudburst turned towards him, a crooked smile playing across his face. “It’s a bit hard for me to articulate,” he began, flashing a dirty look towards Heavyweight to forestall any smartass comment, “but basically there’s something about these groups which form around arbitrarily chosen schema that really chaps my hide. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities are going to help you in your latest scam -- that I can understand. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities relate to chess pieces or playing cards or computer terminology – that’s just a product of unbalanced minds, and it makes me want to punch them even harder than usual.”
“I don’t know,” Mirrorgirl countered, “I find some of them highly entertaining.” Another shimmer ran across her surface as she transformed into a rapid succession of monstrous shapes, some familiar (werewolf, nosferatu), some less so (a being seemingly made of cornstalks; another made of black ooze), and some surreal (a clown and a car?). “Beware, Panic!” the mirror-menagerie called out, its voice shifting with each new form, alternately growling, burbling, and (oddly enough) honking, “for you now face the incomparable power of The Kingsmen, each wielding a power based on the works of Stephen King!”
Panic wasn’t sure which was odder; the fact that there were apparently super-villains who were inspired by Stephen King – an idea that Brother Staple, the headmaster of Panic’s former school at the Order of the Infinite would have gleefully accepted as proof that King’s work was the source of all corruption – or that Stephen King was a common touching stone across dimensions.
“So, seriously – they based themselves on Stephen King novels? It, Christine, ‘Salems Lot, all that?”
“Well, actually,” Taps answered, “their founder wasn’t the most literate villain around, so he mainly recruited based on Stephen King movies and mini-series. So, ‘sleepwalkers,” yes, ‘gunslingers’, no. Luckily, as a team they’re even worse than most of those films were, so they weren’t much of a threat -- outside of giving ‘Burst an aneurism, that is.”
“Too true,” said ‘Burst, “although they were nothing compared to that stupid bunch of doofuses that The Immortal Bard threw at us a while back . . . what were their names . . .”
“Oh, you mean Bad Poetry,” Taps chimed in. “What a bunch of losers: Blank Verse, Poetic Conceit, The Rhyme Schemer, that mouthy punk Limerick.” She scrunched up her nose at the last name, her voice dripping with venom. Panic looked at her quizzically; Taps was strictly behind-the-scenes support, not a field agent, so rarely had enough direct contact with the criminal element to warrant such an obvious personal distaste. “The Immortal Bard kidnapped me as leverage,” she explained, “and that Irish brat taunted me mercilessly while he guarded me.”
The sound of a throat clearing caught their attention, and Taps groaned as she watched Mirrorgirl (who was clearly enjoying her chance to play the cut-up) morph into a short, scrawny, red-headed figured decked out in horribly ugly green pantaloons.
“There once was a techie named Taps
Who used lots of computer apps
But then at her peak
Zorg made her a freak
And now her whole life turns up craps.”
Taps mock-glared at the mock-Limerick. “Horrible little brat, he was; glad to see the end of him. Still don’t know how he knew about Zorg giving me my powers, though . . .” This last sentence she mumbled so that only Panic could hear her.
“Hey, ‘Burst, just thought of something,” said Heavyweight with a wicked grin. “What about super-hero groups with themes? Y’know like – The Weather Front?”
‘Burst glowered at him. “First of all, I think building a team around a common thematic element is just a ludicrous for heroes as it is for villains, although possibly less indicative of insanity . . . possibly. And second of all, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of The Weather Front.”
“That’s not what their by-laws say . . .”
‘Burst sighed. “Look, I got sucked into their first adventure, and when they did the obligatory ‘Gee, everything must happen for a reason, let’s stick together and fight crime with our eerily similar weather based powers’ shtick, I only got out of it by allowing them to browbeat me into being an ‘honorary founding member’.”
“Like Superman and Batman in the Justice Society,” Panic chimed in, earning himself a wall of blank stares that told him that, while Stephen King may be universal (or, more accurately, multiversal), DC comics, apparently, were not.
Mercy Comes at the Edge of a Sword!
Tiger Jack Hwang, Shining Blade of the Wudan
In
Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!
Part Three: Mercy Comes at the Edge of a Sword! by Bubblegum Tate
“Tiger Jack” Hwang moved into the cavernous inner chamber of the monastery where he had spent so many years of his childhood and youth. The clean scent of scrubbed wood underneath the powerful aroma of incense, the recently risen sun peeking through the latticework surrounding the great iron doors, the eerie quiet of a monastery first thing in the morning, before the monks begin their day. Each of these things alone would have recalled better days, but together they were almost enough to overwhelm him with nostalgia; days long past when he felt protected and was constantly taught about the great destiny set before him by his teacher, or sifu, the learned Yu Zhi Shou. How Tiger Jack had loved Sifu Zhi. How he hated him now. The truth about Yu Zhi Shou hovering just under these pleasant memories was like the stench of rot barely masked by the scent of your mother’s bread.
High atop the Wudan Mountains in central China, far above the reach of the ChiCom government, sat the monastery. It was the center of a vast criminal web that stretched all over the world. The fat spider that sat at the center of that web was Yu Zhi Shou. Many years ago, he had been a mentor and more to Tiger Jack, but Tiger Jack realized the “great destiny” for which Sifu Zhi Shou had raised him was simply that of a thug, a killer, a weapon to protect the Wudan…a weapon to be wielded by Sifu Zhi Shou himself. The day that this became clear was the day that Tiger Jack became the Shining Blade of the Wudan, the pinnacle of martial mastery for the monastery. Though it dumbfounded him to imagine life outside the monastery, it was also the day that Tiger Jack left, a wake of lesser men broken and suffering behind him. That day, he vowed that when he returned, the Master would be brought low.
Knowing nothing of the world below the mountain, Tiger Jack had wandered the earth looking for a purpose and honing his skills, preparing for the day he would return to battle his master directly. As he traveled, he waged war against the Wudan’s many arms, destroying cartels, gunrunners, opium dealers and whatever other corruption he could find that bore the stamp of Wudan. It was inevitable that he would cross paths with Ajax Stewart. It was destiny that they would become such fast friends. It was legend that was created from their adventures. Today, Tiger Jack would fulfill a vow to an old master as well as a pledge to his best friend. Tiger Jack smiled at the thought, and made his way deeper into the monastery, the only sound the swish swish of his saffron robes.
The silence of the monastery’s morning was suddenly broken by a disembodied voice echoing through the main hall, commanding in tone but paper thin with age, saying “Welcome back to the Wudan, Hwang Ki Chak. Or should I debase myself to name you as the gweilo, Tiger Jack?”
The name was said scathingly and with an unmistakable sneer.
Allowing his body to fall into a comfortable, but ready, stance, Tiger Jack taunted his old master, speaking loudly into the seemingly empty hall, “You can call me whatever you like, old deceiver.
Even my true name is a lie dripped like poison from your viper’s lips.”
An old man’s cackle cut through the hall, twisted and evil, as a reply. “I never told you a lie, little Ki Chak. I always told you how powerful you would be, how special, how important a Shining Blade is to the Wudan. If you turned your back on this, how can one old man be to blame?”
Despite himself, Tiger Jack felt himself leaping to the argument. “The Wudan were once a powerful force for justice in this land, Sifu, and the Shining Blade was their vanguard! You took those who would fight for justice and made them wage war for greed! You took a beautiful poem and turned it into a dirty limerick. Well, the Wudan may no longer be what they once were, but this Shining Blade will continue to be an example of what they ought to be.”
Suddenly dour, the voice replied, “And how do you plan to do this, oh mighty Shining Blade of the Wudan?”
His mouth becoming a grim line and his brows knitting, Tiger Jack Hwang answered with steely resolve, “You taught me the journey of a thousand steps must begin with only one, old Master. My first step is to kill you.”
“So be it,” the voice hissed
Instantly, Tiger Jack was surrounded by similarly dressed young men, blades flashing around him, tassels from the handles of the swords whizzing through the air with blinding speed. Tiger Jack spun, whirled, stepped, leaped, pivoted and moved with the flowing grace of a dancer, managing to avoid all but the shallowest cuts. Summoning his chi, the internal energy that powered his amazing kung fu, Tiger Jack spun on one toe with arms outstretched and a mighty wind seemed to emanate from his open palms, pushing the throng of attackers away and leaving a slowly revolving Tiger Jack alone in the center of the massive room. Many of them stumbled and fell, but the more accomplished students rolled and somersaulted to their feet.
As he came to a stop in a much more aggressive fighting stance, Tiger Jack tore the robe, now tattered from thousands of barely dodged cuts, off his upper body. The early morning sun glinted on the gold-orange ink of the tattoo that surrounded much of his torso and was the source of his fighting name. The great tiger seemed to stalk across Tiger Jack’s back and over his left shoulder with a massive head and swiping paw across his chest and abdomen. Despite themselves, and in the face of the massive punishment Zhi Shou would visit upon them for the faux pas, the men surrounding Tiger Jack gasped at the tattoo that seemed so real you could see individual hairs of the tiger’s fur. Tiger Jack couldn’t help but smile.
“It sounds like your cronies weren’t properly prepared for the coming of the Shining Blade, Sifu. Also, you may have miscalculated the sheer volume of manpower you needed to throw at this particular problem.” Despite the fact that thirty or forty finely trained martial artists, each one a deadly weapon even before they took up a sword, surrounded Tiger Jack, he couldn’t help but feel smug. His old master must have forgotten his prowess if he expected these men to handle him. They couldn’t even stand up to Kwan Yin’s Hurricane, his most painless technique.
“I engendered that overconfidence in you, my student. Oh, make no mistake, you are formidable, but I led you to believe you were invincible so that you would never question any mission I gave you, suicidal or not. You are NOT invincible, my Shining Blade, not in the face of the entire Wudan Order!” The last words rose to a shriek and robed man after robed man stepped from the shadows or dropped from the ceiling rafters. Suddenly, the room was full of monks, grim and ready to do battle with Tiger Jack. Hell in a handbasket barely did the situation justice.
Tiger Jack made an intricate swooping motion with both arms that loosened his tendons and prepared him mentally for battle. Stepping into a powerful stance created by ancient Wudan masters to minimize the effect of great numbers, Tiger Jack motioned, palm up and with his fingers, for the monks to attack.
With a yell that shook the ancient foundations of the monastery, the small army of Wudan monks attacked in unison. Tiger Jack was instantly a blur of motion, dodging, kicking, punching and striking at sensitive vitals. Several times, he took control of a monk’s body and used him as a shield while forcing the man to use his weapon against his martial brothers. This was a typical tactic that Tiger Jack used against overwhelming odds, but he was both chagrined and impressed to see that these men, despite the singularity of most kung fu styles, had trained together as a unit. They adapted to Tiger Jack’s methods of attack and worked as a single organism with no member getting in the way of the whole. Even as he fought, another part of his brain realized that he had finally met his match. It was taking a small army with precise special training, but Tiger Jack was finally going to be beaten in hand-to-hand combat. There
was only one thing he could do.
Tiger Jack’s moves became faster, too fast for the eye to follow as more than a blur. He began to glow, first lightly and then more and more strongly until he was a man-shaped high wattage bulb smoldering with a baleful, red light. The men attacking him were constantly attacking and receding, like a never ending wave, but they began to realize that, when they were nearer to him, they were feeling nauseous and unwell. Every man that Tiger Jack hit instantly fell down, dead. A glancing blow to a minor area of the body or a direct hit to a vital, it didn’t matter; anyone touched by the glowing body of Tiger Jack dropped lifeless to the floor. The men, knowing what was expected of them, pressed in hoping to overwhelm Tiger Jack before their numbers were depleted. This was just what Tiger Jack wanted from them. As they pressed in, Tiger Jack pressed both palms together and a bright red light exploded silently off his meditative form, spreading out from himself at the epicenter. As the blinding flash moved across the men attacking him, they dropped like so much wheat. After the explosion, there was no one left because Tiger Jack knew Dim Mak, poison hand, the touch of death.
Tiger Jack was left breathing deeply, drenched in sweat. The Dim Mak is very draining, usually shared by a touch and meant to be used on individual foes so that one’s chi would not be so exclusively focused on Yang energy. But Tiger Jack new it was the only way he could have won. A dry, cracked voice broke his reverie as his old Master finally deigned to speak to him “in person.”
“Well done, my student. I didn’t think you would use the Dim Mak, even against the Wudan. I certainly didn’t expect you to survive such a flood of Yang energy,” Zhi Shou clapped lightly, as though at a golf match. “Catch your breath, Ki Chak. If this is to be our final climactic battle, I will have none of your friends claiming I took advantage of you. Would you care to see the garden?”
Nodding, Tiger Jack followed the old man through the room that was now a charnel house and outside to the meditation garden. “Beautiful, is it not,” Zhi Shou said over his shoulder as he gestured at the beautiful garden. “It is likely much as it was when you left, Ki Chak, much as it has been for centuries.”
“It is indeed both the same as when I left and more beautiful for not having seen it in so long,” Tiger Jack agreed, “but it is no longer a picture of the Wudan Order. Even such beauty as this cannot cloak your corruption.”
Zhi Shou turned on Tiger Jack slowly and with a beatific smile on his face. “The West has tainted you, Ki Chak. Where once you knew the meaning of the yin yang, now you only see the black and the white with no part of one touching the other. You will never understand what I had to do to preserve the Wudan, even if what I preserved is different than it once was.”
“Master,” Tiger Jack pleaded, “Listen to yourself! The Wudan of your youth was an Order dedicated to justice! You have preserved a freak mutation of the Wudan, a perversion!”
Zhi Shou waved his hand dismissively, “Despite our love of philosophy, we are men of action, Ki Chak, and this conversation does not become us. You came for battle, though you use the flimsiest of excuses for it. I will give you both of the things you seek, one after the other. I will give you battle, my former student, and, if you defeat me, you will have Kuan Yin’s Sapphire.”
Tiger Jack nodded curtly, “My best friend in the world needs that gem to save his one true love. I fight not only for vengeance, but for friendship and for love. That is why I came to you today, Master, with love in my heart as well as revenge. With vengeance alone as my ally, even in killing you, I would be no better than you.”
“Come then, Shining Blade. I’ll let you try my Wudan style!” Zhi Shou leapt at Tiger Jack in what seemed to be a cloud of silk robe. Not knowing what part of the billowing cloth to block, Tiger Jack leapt deftly out of its way, spinning in the air and landing lightly where Zhi Shou had began.
Only years of fighting the Wudan’s minions could have prepared Tiger Jack for the constant whirling attack that Zhi Shou brought his way from behind his billowing robes. Everywhere he dodged or blocked, the old Master was sending a knuckle, elbow, toe or knee at another vital area of Tiger Jack’s body. Tiger Jack knew that he was the superior fighter on offense, but if he could never get a shot in, the old man would simply outlast him. Despite his age, Tiger Jack was well aware of his old Master’s endurance. When Tiger Jack was young, entire days of his training would be devoted to making constant attacks on Zhi Shou while Zhi Shou blocked every punch and kick and kept up a constant verbal barrage of praise and correction. Tiger Jack had to up the ante of this fight the only way he could. Tiger Jack had to summon the power of the Shining Blade.
Focusing his chi into the edges of his outstretched hands, he felt the subtle change come over his arms from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. Suddenly, the swish thud swish swish thud of the battle between the two men was interrupted by the sound of silk being cut and a short intake of breath as Zhi Shou leapt away from Tiger Jack, blood oozing from one fist.
Sucking his bleeding knuckle, Zhi Shou said, “Behold the glory of the Shining Blade, able to combine the empty handed styles of kung fu with the Wudan’s 8 Divine Swords. Though I have not seen it personally in many years, I am still in awe of it.” The old man, took another step backwards from Tiger Jack and reached into a dense copse of growth in the garden’s landscaping. He pulled out a gold blade, slightly waved down its length, unlike the traditional straight blade of the Wudan style. It was sharp as a razor and seemed to hum in the air even as Zhi Shou held it still, leveled at Tiger Jack’s face.
“I forgot how to fear blades many years ago, Master,” Tiger Jack said with menace in his voice, “even one as beautiful and deadly as yours. Match your blade to the keen edges of my hands and we will finally see who is the best blade of the Wudan.”
Without a word or even a hint of breath, Zhi Shou attacked Tiger Jack. His blade struck high and low, it slashed and attempted to prick, it glinted in the sun and then was hidden in the folds of Zhi Shou’s robe. Zhi Shou’s mastery of the 8 Diving Swords was a miracle, but each time it struck for some vital organ in Tiger Jack’s body, it was met by some portion of his hand or forearm. Fantastically, the sword rang off Tiger Jack’s arms as though it were steel on steel.
And even as Zhi Shou made cut after cut, Tiger Jack began to work in his own offensive. Tiger Jack turned aside Zhi Shou’s strike at his abdomen with his left hand, feeling the ringing shock all the way to his shoulder. Lashing out with a toe quickly, he caught the old man’s kneecap and Zhi Shou stumbled backwards. Tiger Jack brought his right hand around, knife edged and glowing with his chi, the one true Shining Blade of the Wudan, and struck at his master’s face with all his might. On his back, clearly in pain from his wounded knee, Zhi Shou threw his own blade in between his face and the striking hand. Tiger Jack’s hand hit the blade and the sound was like the clear ringing of a perfectly made bell. When the note finally dwindled in the air, Zhi Shou’s blade was split in two and the old Master had finished the earthly part of his journey.
Tiger Jack reached down into the robes at the throat of the now dead old man. Pulling a large, midnight blue sapphire from around Zhi Shou’s neck, he used the Shining Blade technique to cut the chain it dangled from. Staring into the deep, blue center of the gem and standing straight in the early morning sun, Tiger Jack felt the approval of centuries of Wudan monks. Turning his back on the garden and the man who had been his master, Tiger Jack walked back into the monastery. Despite the evidence of the violence done that morning, he felt a surge of pride.
With Zhi Shou gone, Tiger Jack would rebuild the Wudan and see that the 8 Divine Swords served justice instead of vice.
That was for tomorrow. Today, Tiger Jack was prepared to help his best friend rescue the love of his life. “Dr. B’hadgai,” Tiger Jack though with grim resolve, “should be very frightened indeed, though he does not know it. He thinks he knows how to manage the Engineer of the
Impossible, but he has no idea what to do with the Shining Blade of the Wudan.”
In
Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!
Part Three: Mercy Comes at the Edge of a Sword! by Bubblegum Tate
“Tiger Jack” Hwang moved into the cavernous inner chamber of the monastery where he had spent so many years of his childhood and youth. The clean scent of scrubbed wood underneath the powerful aroma of incense, the recently risen sun peeking through the latticework surrounding the great iron doors, the eerie quiet of a monastery first thing in the morning, before the monks begin their day. Each of these things alone would have recalled better days, but together they were almost enough to overwhelm him with nostalgia; days long past when he felt protected and was constantly taught about the great destiny set before him by his teacher, or sifu, the learned Yu Zhi Shou. How Tiger Jack had loved Sifu Zhi. How he hated him now. The truth about Yu Zhi Shou hovering just under these pleasant memories was like the stench of rot barely masked by the scent of your mother’s bread.
High atop the Wudan Mountains in central China, far above the reach of the ChiCom government, sat the monastery. It was the center of a vast criminal web that stretched all over the world. The fat spider that sat at the center of that web was Yu Zhi Shou. Many years ago, he had been a mentor and more to Tiger Jack, but Tiger Jack realized the “great destiny” for which Sifu Zhi Shou had raised him was simply that of a thug, a killer, a weapon to protect the Wudan…a weapon to be wielded by Sifu Zhi Shou himself. The day that this became clear was the day that Tiger Jack became the Shining Blade of the Wudan, the pinnacle of martial mastery for the monastery. Though it dumbfounded him to imagine life outside the monastery, it was also the day that Tiger Jack left, a wake of lesser men broken and suffering behind him. That day, he vowed that when he returned, the Master would be brought low.
Knowing nothing of the world below the mountain, Tiger Jack had wandered the earth looking for a purpose and honing his skills, preparing for the day he would return to battle his master directly. As he traveled, he waged war against the Wudan’s many arms, destroying cartels, gunrunners, opium dealers and whatever other corruption he could find that bore the stamp of Wudan. It was inevitable that he would cross paths with Ajax Stewart. It was destiny that they would become such fast friends. It was legend that was created from their adventures. Today, Tiger Jack would fulfill a vow to an old master as well as a pledge to his best friend. Tiger Jack smiled at the thought, and made his way deeper into the monastery, the only sound the swish swish of his saffron robes.
The silence of the monastery’s morning was suddenly broken by a disembodied voice echoing through the main hall, commanding in tone but paper thin with age, saying “Welcome back to the Wudan, Hwang Ki Chak. Or should I debase myself to name you as the gweilo, Tiger Jack?”
The name was said scathingly and with an unmistakable sneer.
Allowing his body to fall into a comfortable, but ready, stance, Tiger Jack taunted his old master, speaking loudly into the seemingly empty hall, “You can call me whatever you like, old deceiver.
Even my true name is a lie dripped like poison from your viper’s lips.”
An old man’s cackle cut through the hall, twisted and evil, as a reply. “I never told you a lie, little Ki Chak. I always told you how powerful you would be, how special, how important a Shining Blade is to the Wudan. If you turned your back on this, how can one old man be to blame?”
Despite himself, Tiger Jack felt himself leaping to the argument. “The Wudan were once a powerful force for justice in this land, Sifu, and the Shining Blade was their vanguard! You took those who would fight for justice and made them wage war for greed! You took a beautiful poem and turned it into a dirty limerick. Well, the Wudan may no longer be what they once were, but this Shining Blade will continue to be an example of what they ought to be.”
Suddenly dour, the voice replied, “And how do you plan to do this, oh mighty Shining Blade of the Wudan?”
His mouth becoming a grim line and his brows knitting, Tiger Jack Hwang answered with steely resolve, “You taught me the journey of a thousand steps must begin with only one, old Master. My first step is to kill you.”
“So be it,” the voice hissed
Instantly, Tiger Jack was surrounded by similarly dressed young men, blades flashing around him, tassels from the handles of the swords whizzing through the air with blinding speed. Tiger Jack spun, whirled, stepped, leaped, pivoted and moved with the flowing grace of a dancer, managing to avoid all but the shallowest cuts. Summoning his chi, the internal energy that powered his amazing kung fu, Tiger Jack spun on one toe with arms outstretched and a mighty wind seemed to emanate from his open palms, pushing the throng of attackers away and leaving a slowly revolving Tiger Jack alone in the center of the massive room. Many of them stumbled and fell, but the more accomplished students rolled and somersaulted to their feet.
As he came to a stop in a much more aggressive fighting stance, Tiger Jack tore the robe, now tattered from thousands of barely dodged cuts, off his upper body. The early morning sun glinted on the gold-orange ink of the tattoo that surrounded much of his torso and was the source of his fighting name. The great tiger seemed to stalk across Tiger Jack’s back and over his left shoulder with a massive head and swiping paw across his chest and abdomen. Despite themselves, and in the face of the massive punishment Zhi Shou would visit upon them for the faux pas, the men surrounding Tiger Jack gasped at the tattoo that seemed so real you could see individual hairs of the tiger’s fur. Tiger Jack couldn’t help but smile.
“It sounds like your cronies weren’t properly prepared for the coming of the Shining Blade, Sifu. Also, you may have miscalculated the sheer volume of manpower you needed to throw at this particular problem.” Despite the fact that thirty or forty finely trained martial artists, each one a deadly weapon even before they took up a sword, surrounded Tiger Jack, he couldn’t help but feel smug. His old master must have forgotten his prowess if he expected these men to handle him. They couldn’t even stand up to Kwan Yin’s Hurricane, his most painless technique.
“I engendered that overconfidence in you, my student. Oh, make no mistake, you are formidable, but I led you to believe you were invincible so that you would never question any mission I gave you, suicidal or not. You are NOT invincible, my Shining Blade, not in the face of the entire Wudan Order!” The last words rose to a shriek and robed man after robed man stepped from the shadows or dropped from the ceiling rafters. Suddenly, the room was full of monks, grim and ready to do battle with Tiger Jack. Hell in a handbasket barely did the situation justice.
Tiger Jack made an intricate swooping motion with both arms that loosened his tendons and prepared him mentally for battle. Stepping into a powerful stance created by ancient Wudan masters to minimize the effect of great numbers, Tiger Jack motioned, palm up and with his fingers, for the monks to attack.
With a yell that shook the ancient foundations of the monastery, the small army of Wudan monks attacked in unison. Tiger Jack was instantly a blur of motion, dodging, kicking, punching and striking at sensitive vitals. Several times, he took control of a monk’s body and used him as a shield while forcing the man to use his weapon against his martial brothers. This was a typical tactic that Tiger Jack used against overwhelming odds, but he was both chagrined and impressed to see that these men, despite the singularity of most kung fu styles, had trained together as a unit. They adapted to Tiger Jack’s methods of attack and worked as a single organism with no member getting in the way of the whole. Even as he fought, another part of his brain realized that he had finally met his match. It was taking a small army with precise special training, but Tiger Jack was finally going to be beaten in hand-to-hand combat. There
was only one thing he could do.
Tiger Jack’s moves became faster, too fast for the eye to follow as more than a blur. He began to glow, first lightly and then more and more strongly until he was a man-shaped high wattage bulb smoldering with a baleful, red light. The men attacking him were constantly attacking and receding, like a never ending wave, but they began to realize that, when they were nearer to him, they were feeling nauseous and unwell. Every man that Tiger Jack hit instantly fell down, dead. A glancing blow to a minor area of the body or a direct hit to a vital, it didn’t matter; anyone touched by the glowing body of Tiger Jack dropped lifeless to the floor. The men, knowing what was expected of them, pressed in hoping to overwhelm Tiger Jack before their numbers were depleted. This was just what Tiger Jack wanted from them. As they pressed in, Tiger Jack pressed both palms together and a bright red light exploded silently off his meditative form, spreading out from himself at the epicenter. As the blinding flash moved across the men attacking him, they dropped like so much wheat. After the explosion, there was no one left because Tiger Jack knew Dim Mak, poison hand, the touch of death.
Tiger Jack was left breathing deeply, drenched in sweat. The Dim Mak is very draining, usually shared by a touch and meant to be used on individual foes so that one’s chi would not be so exclusively focused on Yang energy. But Tiger Jack new it was the only way he could have won. A dry, cracked voice broke his reverie as his old Master finally deigned to speak to him “in person.”
“Well done, my student. I didn’t think you would use the Dim Mak, even against the Wudan. I certainly didn’t expect you to survive such a flood of Yang energy,” Zhi Shou clapped lightly, as though at a golf match. “Catch your breath, Ki Chak. If this is to be our final climactic battle, I will have none of your friends claiming I took advantage of you. Would you care to see the garden?”
Nodding, Tiger Jack followed the old man through the room that was now a charnel house and outside to the meditation garden. “Beautiful, is it not,” Zhi Shou said over his shoulder as he gestured at the beautiful garden. “It is likely much as it was when you left, Ki Chak, much as it has been for centuries.”
“It is indeed both the same as when I left and more beautiful for not having seen it in so long,” Tiger Jack agreed, “but it is no longer a picture of the Wudan Order. Even such beauty as this cannot cloak your corruption.”
Zhi Shou turned on Tiger Jack slowly and with a beatific smile on his face. “The West has tainted you, Ki Chak. Where once you knew the meaning of the yin yang, now you only see the black and the white with no part of one touching the other. You will never understand what I had to do to preserve the Wudan, even if what I preserved is different than it once was.”
“Master,” Tiger Jack pleaded, “Listen to yourself! The Wudan of your youth was an Order dedicated to justice! You have preserved a freak mutation of the Wudan, a perversion!”
Zhi Shou waved his hand dismissively, “Despite our love of philosophy, we are men of action, Ki Chak, and this conversation does not become us. You came for battle, though you use the flimsiest of excuses for it. I will give you both of the things you seek, one after the other. I will give you battle, my former student, and, if you defeat me, you will have Kuan Yin’s Sapphire.”
Tiger Jack nodded curtly, “My best friend in the world needs that gem to save his one true love. I fight not only for vengeance, but for friendship and for love. That is why I came to you today, Master, with love in my heart as well as revenge. With vengeance alone as my ally, even in killing you, I would be no better than you.”
“Come then, Shining Blade. I’ll let you try my Wudan style!” Zhi Shou leapt at Tiger Jack in what seemed to be a cloud of silk robe. Not knowing what part of the billowing cloth to block, Tiger Jack leapt deftly out of its way, spinning in the air and landing lightly where Zhi Shou had began.
Only years of fighting the Wudan’s minions could have prepared Tiger Jack for the constant whirling attack that Zhi Shou brought his way from behind his billowing robes. Everywhere he dodged or blocked, the old Master was sending a knuckle, elbow, toe or knee at another vital area of Tiger Jack’s body. Tiger Jack knew that he was the superior fighter on offense, but if he could never get a shot in, the old man would simply outlast him. Despite his age, Tiger Jack was well aware of his old Master’s endurance. When Tiger Jack was young, entire days of his training would be devoted to making constant attacks on Zhi Shou while Zhi Shou blocked every punch and kick and kept up a constant verbal barrage of praise and correction. Tiger Jack had to up the ante of this fight the only way he could. Tiger Jack had to summon the power of the Shining Blade.
Focusing his chi into the edges of his outstretched hands, he felt the subtle change come over his arms from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. Suddenly, the swish thud swish swish thud of the battle between the two men was interrupted by the sound of silk being cut and a short intake of breath as Zhi Shou leapt away from Tiger Jack, blood oozing from one fist.
Sucking his bleeding knuckle, Zhi Shou said, “Behold the glory of the Shining Blade, able to combine the empty handed styles of kung fu with the Wudan’s 8 Divine Swords. Though I have not seen it personally in many years, I am still in awe of it.” The old man, took another step backwards from Tiger Jack and reached into a dense copse of growth in the garden’s landscaping. He pulled out a gold blade, slightly waved down its length, unlike the traditional straight blade of the Wudan style. It was sharp as a razor and seemed to hum in the air even as Zhi Shou held it still, leveled at Tiger Jack’s face.
“I forgot how to fear blades many years ago, Master,” Tiger Jack said with menace in his voice, “even one as beautiful and deadly as yours. Match your blade to the keen edges of my hands and we will finally see who is the best blade of the Wudan.”
Without a word or even a hint of breath, Zhi Shou attacked Tiger Jack. His blade struck high and low, it slashed and attempted to prick, it glinted in the sun and then was hidden in the folds of Zhi Shou’s robe. Zhi Shou’s mastery of the 8 Diving Swords was a miracle, but each time it struck for some vital organ in Tiger Jack’s body, it was met by some portion of his hand or forearm. Fantastically, the sword rang off Tiger Jack’s arms as though it were steel on steel.
And even as Zhi Shou made cut after cut, Tiger Jack began to work in his own offensive. Tiger Jack turned aside Zhi Shou’s strike at his abdomen with his left hand, feeling the ringing shock all the way to his shoulder. Lashing out with a toe quickly, he caught the old man’s kneecap and Zhi Shou stumbled backwards. Tiger Jack brought his right hand around, knife edged and glowing with his chi, the one true Shining Blade of the Wudan, and struck at his master’s face with all his might. On his back, clearly in pain from his wounded knee, Zhi Shou threw his own blade in between his face and the striking hand. Tiger Jack’s hand hit the blade and the sound was like the clear ringing of a perfectly made bell. When the note finally dwindled in the air, Zhi Shou’s blade was split in two and the old Master had finished the earthly part of his journey.
Tiger Jack reached down into the robes at the throat of the now dead old man. Pulling a large, midnight blue sapphire from around Zhi Shou’s neck, he used the Shining Blade technique to cut the chain it dangled from. Staring into the deep, blue center of the gem and standing straight in the early morning sun, Tiger Jack felt the approval of centuries of Wudan monks. Turning his back on the garden and the man who had been his master, Tiger Jack walked back into the monastery. Despite the evidence of the violence done that morning, he felt a surge of pride.
With Zhi Shou gone, Tiger Jack would rebuild the Wudan and see that the 8 Divine Swords served justice instead of vice.
That was for tomorrow. Today, Tiger Jack was prepared to help his best friend rescue the love of his life. “Dr. B’hadgai,” Tiger Jack though with grim resolve, “should be very frightened indeed, though he does not know it. He thinks he knows how to manage the Engineer of the
Impossible, but he has no idea what to do with the Shining Blade of the Wudan.”
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