--Oscar Wilde
I'm not fooled by this "anonymous-posting-in-the-name-of-fairness" smokescreen. This is Bloo's most byzantine ploy yet to raise his post count, using his hapless fellow Chiffers as if they were beasts of burden. Shame on him.
NEW! .4K Writing Competition: A Season to Be Brief
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Nanohedron
- Moderatorer
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- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
"Try something once and you're a philosopher. Try it twice and you're a pervert."
--Oscar Wilde
I'm not fooled by this "anonymous-posting-in-the-name-of-fairness" smokescreen. This is Bloo's most byzantine ploy yet to raise his post count, using his hapless fellow Chiffers as if they were beasts of burden. Shame on him.
--Oscar Wilde
I'm not fooled by this "anonymous-posting-in-the-name-of-fairness" smokescreen. This is Bloo's most byzantine ploy yet to raise his post count, using his hapless fellow Chiffers as if they were beasts of burden. Shame on him.
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Nanohedron
- Moderatorer
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- Joined: Wed Dec 18, 2002 6:00 pm
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- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
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Bloomfield
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Nano only recently overtook me in terms of postcount, and welcome he is to the distinction, too. Please note that my average daily post count is four posts, where as Nano's is well over six posts.Denny wrote:Well, as long as you are okay...Nanohedron wrote:Greed is its own bugbear, Em.emmline wrote:Who was catching up? From whom is he running?
4630 - 4597 = 33
Run Nano!
/Bloomfield
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Nanohedron
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- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
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Nanohedron
- Moderatorer
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- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
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Flyingcursor
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- Tell us something.: This is the first sentence. This is the second of the recommended sentences intended to thwart spam its. This is a third, bonus sentence!
- Location: Portsmouth, VA1, "the States"
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Bloomfield
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I've given this some thought over night, and have come to the conclusion that we'd be better off not guessing at the identity of anonymous posters in this thread. Thanks for humoring me on this one.Will O'B wrote:I have to admit that now I'm puzzled. As I read The Associate I thought I detected a certain Emmlinesqueness (what a word!) about the story. But after reading your comment, I guess it must have been penned by someone else. Hm-m-m . . . There is someone on this board who is doing a good job of imitating your style, Emily.
Will O'Ban
/Bloomfield
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Will O'B
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I agree. I admit that I shouldn't have done it . . . sorry.Bloomfield wrote:I've given this some thought over night, and have come to the conclusion that I think we'd better off not guessing at the identity of anonymous posters in this thread. Thanks.
Will O'Ban
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!
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FJohnSharp
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- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
Entry
Untitled
Sarah shuffles through fallen leaves of orange and gold, keeping to the foot-worn path from the house. She kicks at a baseball peeking through grass that's a week overlong, and stops under the sugar maple, whose red canopy gives her a ruddy cast against her black dress. She sits on the home-made swing and stares into the pond, trying to see past the shimmering surface to the rock hiding in the murky bottom, where, she imagines, she could still find traces of blond hair and blood, if she were to wade in and plunge her face into the cool water to look.
She feels the board beneath her, worn smooth from years of boys and weather, and it seems to cradle her. She grasp the ropes and closes her eyes and imagines motion. She imagines swinging in ever-increasing arcs without pumping, like the swing misses its master and wants only to play again. She imagines it takes her higher and higher, that it seems to hold her—almost clench her—as if to show her it was a fluke, an accident it couldn't possibly have made. She can almost imagine it weeping, with an ache that comes from the very roots of the tree itself. An ache that's exceeded only by her own.
She opens her eyes and the motion stops. The wind has paused and the pond is still and whole world seems to have taken a breath. She tries to keep from replaying it, the calling out into the evening air for dinner, the failure to answer, the walk around the house, then finally to the swing, then the image, the awful image, of a body floating at the edge of the pond.
She remembers thinking that the water was sucking away his life, that somehow she could make the pond return it to him, if only she had the means to wrest it back. But today they buried him and she realizes the pond will have no change of heart.
There is a brief motion in the water. She imagines it was a heartbeat and waits for another. A tear falls to her cheek, and a leaf drops beside her. Then the tree starts to shake in the stillness, and leaf after leaf swirls to the ground until the tree is bare, like a raw nerve jutting into the sky hoping never to stop the feeling.
Untitled
Sarah shuffles through fallen leaves of orange and gold, keeping to the foot-worn path from the house. She kicks at a baseball peeking through grass that's a week overlong, and stops under the sugar maple, whose red canopy gives her a ruddy cast against her black dress. She sits on the home-made swing and stares into the pond, trying to see past the shimmering surface to the rock hiding in the murky bottom, where, she imagines, she could still find traces of blond hair and blood, if she were to wade in and plunge her face into the cool water to look.
She feels the board beneath her, worn smooth from years of boys and weather, and it seems to cradle her. She grasp the ropes and closes her eyes and imagines motion. She imagines swinging in ever-increasing arcs without pumping, like the swing misses its master and wants only to play again. She imagines it takes her higher and higher, that it seems to hold her—almost clench her—as if to show her it was a fluke, an accident it couldn't possibly have made. She can almost imagine it weeping, with an ache that comes from the very roots of the tree itself. An ache that's exceeded only by her own.
She opens her eyes and the motion stops. The wind has paused and the pond is still and whole world seems to have taken a breath. She tries to keep from replaying it, the calling out into the evening air for dinner, the failure to answer, the walk around the house, then finally to the swing, then the image, the awful image, of a body floating at the edge of the pond.
She remembers thinking that the water was sucking away his life, that somehow she could make the pond return it to him, if only she had the means to wrest it back. But today they buried him and she realizes the pond will have no change of heart.
There is a brief motion in the water. She imagines it was a heartbeat and waits for another. A tear falls to her cheek, and a leaf drops beside her. Then the tree starts to shake in the stillness, and leaf after leaf swirls to the ground until the tree is bare, like a raw nerve jutting into the sky hoping never to stop the feeling.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
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emmline
- Posts: 11859
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and yet another stinkin' entry:
The Game
Janie clicked on the knapsack.
“Inventory:” said the pop-up. “1 dagger, 3 copper coins, 1 invisibility potion.”
Okey-dokey...let’s see what we can do with that.
Janie typed: “go south.”
Another pop-up. “Carnos the Sorcerer says: ‘Pickpockets are not welcome in this sector.’”
Janie typed: “Blow it out your ear Carnos.”
Pop-up: “Flory says: ‘Do you want to join me on a quest?’”
I can’t, Libby just woke up...that was one short nap silly baby.
Janie typed: “Not now Flory.” She hit “save game.”
Libby...are you hungry? Didn’t I just feed you? That’s ok, I’m tired of being stuck here alone, but Daddy gets home tomorrow...and Daddy thinks that dumb game is a waste of time anyway.
Janie did not like Jim’s business trips. Three nights alone in this house on the edge of nowhere with nothing but Libby and a computer for company were enough to convince her it was time to move back into town.
Libby’s nap had been too short. After dinner, Janie cradled the cranky baby in front of a series of forgettable sitcom reruns until she was ready for her crib.
Janie typed: “go east.”
Pop-up: “In the distance you see Carnos the Sorcerer talking to a merchant.”
This could be interesting
Janie typed: “drink invisibility potion.”
Pop-up: “You are now invisible.”
Janie typed: “go east.”
Pop-up: “Carnos the Sorcerer drops an amulet in his cloak pocket.”
And I am a pickpocket.
Janie typed: “steal amulet.”
Pop-up: “You have added an amulet to your inventory.”
Another pop-up: “Carnos the Sorcerer says: Do you think I am fooled by a potion? Now you will pay!”
Janie typed: “run west.”
Pop-up: “You cannot run. You are engaged in combat.”
Janie typed: “bite Carnos.”
Pop-up: “Carnos strikes. You have 4 life points left.”
Janie typed: “run away.”
Pop-up: “You cannot run. You are engaged in combat.”
Pop-up: “Carnos strikes. You have 2 life points left.”
Janie typed: “hit Carnos.”
Pop-up: “Carnos strikes. You...
Janie hit the power switch on the pc. Sure, I might’ve trashed my hard drive, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction...that was freaky and too real.
Only Libby's gentle breathing broke the silence.
The phone rang. Janie almost fell out of her chair.
“Hello?”
A hollow voice said “Pickpockets are not welcome in this sector...”
The Game
Janie clicked on the knapsack.
“Inventory:” said the pop-up. “1 dagger, 3 copper coins, 1 invisibility potion.”
Okey-dokey...let’s see what we can do with that.
Janie typed: “go south.”
Another pop-up. “Carnos the Sorcerer says: ‘Pickpockets are not welcome in this sector.’”
Janie typed: “Blow it out your ear Carnos.”
Pop-up: “Flory says: ‘Do you want to join me on a quest?’”
I can’t, Libby just woke up...that was one short nap silly baby.
Janie typed: “Not now Flory.” She hit “save game.”
Libby...are you hungry? Didn’t I just feed you? That’s ok, I’m tired of being stuck here alone, but Daddy gets home tomorrow...and Daddy thinks that dumb game is a waste of time anyway.
Janie did not like Jim’s business trips. Three nights alone in this house on the edge of nowhere with nothing but Libby and a computer for company were enough to convince her it was time to move back into town.
Libby’s nap had been too short. After dinner, Janie cradled the cranky baby in front of a series of forgettable sitcom reruns until she was ready for her crib.
Janie typed: “go east.”
Pop-up: “In the distance you see Carnos the Sorcerer talking to a merchant.”
This could be interesting
Janie typed: “drink invisibility potion.”
Pop-up: “You are now invisible.”
Janie typed: “go east.”
Pop-up: “Carnos the Sorcerer drops an amulet in his cloak pocket.”
And I am a pickpocket.
Janie typed: “steal amulet.”
Pop-up: “You have added an amulet to your inventory.”
Another pop-up: “Carnos the Sorcerer says: Do you think I am fooled by a potion? Now you will pay!”
Janie typed: “run west.”
Pop-up: “You cannot run. You are engaged in combat.”
Janie typed: “bite Carnos.”
Pop-up: “Carnos strikes. You have 4 life points left.”
Janie typed: “run away.”
Pop-up: “You cannot run. You are engaged in combat.”
Pop-up: “Carnos strikes. You have 2 life points left.”
Janie typed: “hit Carnos.”
Pop-up: “Carnos strikes. You...
Janie hit the power switch on the pc. Sure, I might’ve trashed my hard drive, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction...that was freaky and too real.
Only Libby's gentle breathing broke the silence.
The phone rang. Janie almost fell out of her chair.
“Hello?”
A hollow voice said “Pickpockets are not welcome in this sector...”
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FJohnSharp
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- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
Creepy.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony