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Culture Forum

  1. 21 Apr '08 20:51 / 3 edits
    Okay, vote for your top 3. 3 points for 1st, 2 for 2nd, 1 for 3rd. Please wait till all entries are in. I will post after I have finished pasting them to let you know you can go ahead.

    Authors should vote, but not for themselves.

    The identities of entrants must remain secret till after a winner is announced.
  2. 21 Apr '08 20:54
    “Let’s call her Lucy”

    Lucy lay on the floor watching TV.

    The light from the cartoon images reflecting in her pretty brown eyes, she looked like an angel in her “little Kitty” PJs. Her pink furry slippers dangling slightly from her feet as they swayed back and forth, her black hair motionless against her tanned face. It was not often she had the chance to sit up so late, but her parents had went out for the night (for why she didn’t know), and her older brother was up in his room doing “Boy’s stuff”. Boys were lame!

    So, she sat transfixed to the screen. The bird and the cat – he was such a silly cat – ran around the Grandma’s house in a never ending battle of wits. The Putty tat caught the bird, only to have Grandma beat his bottom with a paddle until he spat it back out. The cat Thpat and thpoke about getting that bird, and lurked in the darkness with white teeth visible. The Catchphrase of the bird didn’t quite translate into her language, but “I thought I saw a cat” was enough to make her giggle. Swinging on it’s swing, the bird as it sang, the Cat slowly crept up behind the little yellow bird. And, as the little bird turned round to look at the menacing teeth, Lucy’s mouth twitched – she was thirsty.

    Slowly she got up and made her way to the kitchen. Opening the Fridge door, the light slightly hurting her eyes, she reached for the Orange juice carton and carried it with both hands to the work top. Climbing up onto a stool, she plonked it on the table. Lifting a glass, and turning it the right way up, she concentrated on twisting the cap off and pouring her drink without spilling any. As she gingerly climbed down from the stool, and carried the Juice bottle back to the fridge, she could hear the TV in the other room come alive with an exciting advert for that evening’s children’s TV shows.

    Sirens and screaming pierced the night like the missile that had minutes before ripped through the apartment block. As people scrambled around the Debris looking for survivors, the dust made them cough. Red lights flashing and women crying, the bodies as they were found, were carried from hand to hand like buckets of water to put out a fire, and laid on the side of the road.

    What was left of Lucy’s mangled, mashed up body was gingerly lifted from under a pile of bricks by a weeping fireman. Her legs left behind with her furry pink slippers, her pretty black hair matted with dust, blood, and pieces of her face. Placed on one of the carpets from the houses, beside the other dead bodies, she lay there motionless as women held each other up, shouting to the sky…"Why?"
  3. 21 Apr '08 20:55
    Untitled 1

    It took a couple of trips to the pet shop to get it right. Well, three actually. The first trip yielded me a dead parrot. They make poor guides, unless you're looking for the bottom of a bird cage. The second turned out to be a roaming pigeon instead of a homing pigeon. Finally I gave up on wings and decided to acquire a cat. There was less chance of the shop owner pulling a fast one on me.

    I had a special job in mind, and so I quickly disregarded a prissy longhair named Genevieve. I also wasn't interested in the one who looked more like Onslow on the couch in his tee shirt drinking beer. I didn't want some cat that was going to fight me for the bottle opener. I almost didn't notice Thorpe. His body didn't move as his eyes followed me. I could imagine him under a streetlight, tossing a cigarette to the ground and putting it out with his heel. This was definitely the cat I wanted.

    I bought a leash and collar rather than a cat carrier. Since he might not think his purchase was enough to earn his loyalty and services, I stopped at Delia's Deli and got him some liverwurst. Everyone works better with a downpayment.

    We went straight to the job. The road glimmered with the remnants of the recent rain reflecting the taxi's lights. We got out as close as the driver would take us. Thorpe was on his leash, leading the way. He didn't let himself be distracted, but walked with a sense of purpose. The flickering neon of the bar ahead of us seemed to be the only sign of life in this neighborhood. Something flew past my head – it was the dumb homing pigeon who crashed into the bar door. But Thorpe walked right past it.

    He ignored the alley as well as the women lurking in the shadows. He passed the man sleeping against the building, and instead led me up a set of wooden stairs that looked like it couldn't hold anything heavier than the cat. Thorpe reached up and pushed the door open with his paw. I put my hand in my pocket for reassurance as we entered the darkened corridor.

    Thorpe never hesitated. He led down the hall, bypassing broken bottles and hanging strips of wallpaper. Finally he stopped in front of a door. This time his paw wasn't enough to overcome the barrier. I moved him aside and slammed my shoulder into the door with my whole weight behind it. The door burst open and the group inside jumped up.

    "Did you bring it?" The man nearest the door glared at me. I patted my pocket, and he relaxed. His companions glared at me. Thorpe jumped on my lap and pawed at the pocket. Finally I pulled out the black queen.

    "Geez, what a drama queen you are! Can't you just show up at a chess meet like everyone else?"
  4. 21 Apr '08 20:56

    23 September 1989

    It's been 3 weeks since I was forced into this institution but it feels like it was only yesterday that my mental paralysis overcame me. Even though I've hurt her terribly, Fran has just gifted me this diary, and, because my concept of time is so warped and cruelly bent, I intend to begin writing every day, to keep a log, to retain some sort of cognitive attachment to this unsteady flow of time.

    We had group therapy this morning, Coen, one of the more vociferous characters with whom I am lodged, sprouts out these inane ramblings midst our sessions. It's very disruptive but I'm not one to care. I just want to get out of here. "The trees are singing in the wind and the echoes plant our footsteps!". He interrupts Gary in the middle of his cathartic remembrance and recollection of the abuse he endured at the rough hands of his father. Miss Vandenberg chastises Coen, and prompts Gary to continue. The group listens. These people are crazy. How did I end up here? Gary finishes. Vandenberg looks at me, "You look like you have something you want to say." I don't. My mouth is hanging open. I've hardly said two words since my last electroshock. I can think normally and I can obviously write, but I can't seem to communicate verbally. "I… sorry… I…". I can't even get a single sentence out. Coen seizes the opportunity, "A cat may lead to darker things, but a bird is just too flighty!" Vandenberg, furious, expels him from the group therapy session, he's sent back to our room.

    "It's alright, when you feel you are ready we'll be happy to listen." Vandenberg says to me. She knows that I've the capacity for rational thought, that my faculties are all in check, that I just can't overcome this verbal hurdle in my way. It'll take time, and she knows it. I hate that. I hate people knowing things about me that I haven't permissively shared. Doctors. Therapists. They've read my file. They know the deal. I hate it. I preferred my life on the outside in the real world, in secrecy, I could go about my day and no-one would know any better. My thoughts stayed in my head. Now they want them all to come out. These thoughts. They must come out and face the light of day. I'm scared. I'm terrified! I don't want people to know. They don't need to know. I can get better without talking about the thoughts. I can get more pills and more electroshock and I can get better and they won't have to know these dark thoughts.

    It's 8pm now, time for our nightly meds. I'll be off to sleep soon, to dreamland and freedom. "The owl never sleeps, the owl never sleeps!" Coen rants and rocks back and forth on the floor. He thinks that the nurses are evil. Here they come, hypodermic needles. Goodnight Coen. Goodnight me.
  5. 21 Apr '08 20:56

    It is dark. Dark and cold. The darkness outside matches the darkness of my soul. Darkness surrounds me, devours me. There is no escape, no hope. All that is left are memories. Oh Lucy, Lucy!

    She was so beautiful. The way she moved and her enigmatic green eyes reminded me of a cat. My little cat. Sometimes affectionate and cuddly, sometimes wild and unpredictable. How I loved her! And she, an animal of the night, returned my love, maybe attracted to the darkness of my soul, a darkness I knew little about. So little I knew about myself! My life had been like a dream, a state of half-consciousness, superficial, fleeting. Lucy woke me up, leading me towards myself, deep into my soul.

    And what a journey it was! The intensity of life was exhilarating, terrifying and wonderful. We went out into the world, experiencing it with all our senses, dancing, celebrating, laughing. And then we would shut out the world, and it was just us and the depths of our souls, hers filled with light, mine full of dark things. I was scared; but she led me on, not taken aback by the darkness she found, the fear, sadness and anger buried deeply in my soul. When she looked at them with her shiny eyes, they were transformed into places of melancholy beauty, mysterious, deeply romantic. We laughed and we cried. We were borne on the wings of love.

    The wings of love, I said? How poetic, how romantic, how horribly clichéd! And yet how apt, in a cruel and unforeseen way. For a bird is flighty; and the bird that was our love did not stay with us. How did this happen? I have agonised over this, and yet I have found no answer. Was it something I did, something I said? Were the powers of darkness getting too strong, scaring her away? Or is this just the way of life and love, inevitably ending in sorrow and loneliness?

    It happened gradually. Out in the world, we were still dancing, celebrating, laughing. But the moments when our souls met became more and more rare. I felt alone. One day when I looked into her eyes, I could not find her. I was looking at her like through a glass wall. The warmth and the light in her eyes were gone. I reached out, but could not touch her anymore. And then one day, she was gone.

    It is dark, dark and cold. How I wish I could go back into sleep, into the dreamlike state I lived in before I met Lucy. But there is no way back. In the far distance, a bird is singing a sad song.
  6. 21 Apr '08 20:56
    Plymouth Rock

    Ezekiel was plowing his fields while Desire planted seeds for the new season. Desire was a lass who was born on the May Flower nearly 2 decades ago. Ezekiel found her name quite fitting, since he couldn’t keep his eyes off her as he followed his oxen up and down the rows that would soon be a corn field.

    “Aye, Desire would make a find consort. I can’t take my eyes off her”! Ezekiel found himself plowing several measures through the field where pumpkins had already been planted. “Whoa Oxen, what are you doing”? He quickly pulled back the reigns in hopes anyone who may have been watching would think the oxen had decided to cause a ruckus in the pumpkin patch.

    “Ezekiel, do the oxen not listen? They have disrupted the pumpkin patch”! Desire’s face was dirty, yet glistened from the mid day sun and sweat. Ezekiel noticed her blouse had the top button undone, and he could clearly see the nape of her neck.

    “Yes, these ill-tempered beast will not listen to me I say! How goes the planting of the pumpkins, surely I have set ye back a bit.”

    “Fret not, Ezekiel. I am almost done and shall finish forthwith. Your oxen shant slow me too much”. Desire removed her bonnet letting her long brown hair flow down over her shoulders and around her neck. She used it to dab sweat from her neck, and as she did, yet another button came undone. Ezekiel fell short of staring with his mouth open and began to back the oxen.

    “I think I will give the oxen a rest, and collect some wood for the oven”. Ezekiel backed the oxen up and drove them towards the barn.

    “I shall finish planting shortly, and finish some afternoon chores”.

    Ezekiel put the oxen to rest, and went back to his house to fetch the axe. As he walked through the kitchen, he saw the butter and had an idea. He quickly brought the butter out and gave it to the oxen to eat. “Ah, seems we are low on butter. Perhaps Desire could churn up another batch”.

    Desire had finished planting, and arrived back at her house. Ezekiel approached her with an empty butter tin. “Desire, I have run out of butter. Could you be bothered to churn me up a new batch”?

    Desire looked at the empty tin, “I believe I could, Ezekiel. Could I bother you to sing me a song to make the work go by quicker”? Desire got her churn and some cream from inside, while Ezekiel fetched his fiddle. When Ezekiel came back, he found Desire had already started to churn the butter, and yet another button had come undone. Her bonnet hung off the back of her long flowing hair.

    Ezekiel began to play a somewhat fast tempo song, and Desire churned the butter faster than ever. Her neck and chest glistened with sweat, and she looked to Ezekiel and said, “Faster Ezekiel, this work shall be done post haste”!

    Ezekiel worked his fiddle faster than ever, and Desire churned butter like never before. Ezekiel walked up next to Desire and leaned into her shoulder and their motions became one. She was grunting, and he was picking and strumming.

    They looked each other in the face just inches apart. Their lips touched, and Ezekiel could taste the sweat running down Desire’s top lip. Ezekiel embraced Desire falling into her.

    “Ezekiel, I would ask you take your leave”! With that, Desire gave him the bums rush. “Back to your chores; for a cat leads to darker things, and a bird is just too flighty”!

    They both finish their chores separately that day.
  7. 21 Apr '08 20:59
    Sh;t story

    Setting it down in front of him, he savoured the anticipation.
    Soon. Just a little longer. No point rushing this.

    He'd open it and pour it out into a long glass. How many would he have? Stringing it out into lots of small ones - or enjoying the fullness of just a couple of large glasses?

    This was a bottle to savour. A real rarity.

    Glancing at the clock - Not yet. Have to hold off for just a little longer.
    No point starting too early. This was strong stuff - expensive too. It had to be right, preparation was everything - clean pallete, clean glass, clean mind.

    It wasn't time, but he suddenly found he'd opened the bottle. The neck resting guiltily on the rim of the glass, the echo of a faint 'ka-link' as the bottle and glass had connected still there troubling his ears.

    Trapped in mid pour - the liquid lapped lazily at the neck of the bottle - not level enough to allow it any escape. The glass clear and immobile, the bottle dark and trembling in his grip.

    A drop fell. This was the catalyst. That single drop. No sound, no splash - just a smear down the side of the class, almost gone before the drop reached the bottom of the glass. That one small drop pulled the rest behind it. Like a single, blown leaf intimates a storm. Like the lead runner in a marathon - the tumbling multitudes behind are inevitable.

    He picked up the full glass and peered through it. The wafting smoky scents drew his nose closer to the glass. What would he find this time? Closer. Would this kill his demons? Closer. Or was it the next glass?
    Closer. Maybe the next bottle?

    He tipped back his head and launched the glass skywards, the contents momentarily fooled before rushing to find their gravitational destiny. It bit and tried to choke him, he swallowed and sucked his teeth. Nose twitching he felt his legs give - something was wrong here - still clutching the glass he reeled sideways, curling as he stumbled into a foetal position - balanced on tiptoes, knees high left arm extended and hand splayed, right arm protectively nursing the glass.
    The floor disappeared.


    He was the drop.

    SPlash - deep under - glass still held - eyes stinging - burning and falling - can't breath.

    Hands and knees - no air - falling onto elbows, dry gasping, gasping - WHOOSH - air. forehead on cold floor, can;t work out how to move it away, stop the pressure. Breathing, retching, collapse again - this time sideways and hard against the floor.

  8. 21 Apr '08 20:59

    It's cold. I mean, my hands and feet are numb and my joints are like rusty springs so I must be freezing despite this thin layer of sweat covering me.

    I think it's sweat.

    I am desperate but I'm not sure about what. If I keep moving forward, I will know but until I get there, I have to try and figure this out. Which is difficult because I don't know what this is. There are clues maybe, if I can just stop and think.

    I know my eye hurts. Bad. I must be outside because the sun is coming up and around my field of vision, the light glows and grows – threatening to invade my sight completely with white blindness. I focus on a dark spot in the sky ahead of me and keep moving toward it.

    This is costing me tremendously. I'm not making much headway but my lungs burn with effort and my heart drums direly in my ear, adding to the pain in my eye with each throb. I feel like I'm slogging through a snow drift. The dark spot is moving away from me faster than I can follow it and I'm going to lose it in the ever-increasing sunlight. I stop for a moment and blink up at it.

    And now I get it. Oh God….

    My eye. It's gone. Plucked from its socket by a huge black bird and I have to run and catch it before it reaches its nest and devours it and I'm…I mean my eye…is gone forever. I can see it faintly glistening in the creature's malevolent claws.

    I might be imagining that part.

    Just run. I will keep running for as long as it takes. Hours. It must be hours that I've been at this because the white light is darkening and I'm losing sight of that damn bird. My mouth is so dry it's hairy. My chest smolders. My heart stumbles. My body fails. I'm falling to my knees, collapsing onto my side.

    It's over.

    Suddenly, I gasp and sit straight up. For an instant there is nothing in the world except the blessed sensation of fresh air cooling my burning lungs and calming my bursting heart. I'm saved. I'm safe.

    I'm home in bed.

    And the cat that had been asleep on my face jumps down and walks off with an indignant twitch of her tail.
  9. 21 Apr '08 21:04
    Untitled 2

    Great! Another lost pet case.
    I wouldn't find it surprising if the fat Barsteward sat on the damn thing and it's lodged between his enormous ass cheeks.
    "Mr. Tiddles?! Oh, MEEEESTER TIIIIIDELLLS! Where'd you go? Mommy and Daddy misses youse!" bloody cat people.
    Still it keeps the money coming in and money means luxuries. Cigarettes, wine, toilet paper and food.
    So lets see here: cat, short-haired ginger, likes long walks in the park, enjoys tuna even though it makes it puke everywh... bloody cat people, enjoys clawing at legs in denim jeans.
    Right, basically spoilt fat-cat who thinks its a tiger. Hm, this must be the house.
    Final equipment check: Stick. Check. Welding gloves. Check. Catnip. Check. Cat box. Check. Check, check, bloody check.

    "Hello, sir. I understand you have a missing kitty?"
    GOD! The smell! Cat p;ss, dead somethings and more cat p;ss. Straight face! DON'T BREATHE THROUGH YOUR NOSE! STRAIGHT! FACE!
    "Yes, I am here to help. May I have a look around the house? I'd like to establish a possible escape route."
    It stinks! It stinks! It stinks! Correction, it reeks in here. Uh, he's flapping his jowls at me again.
    "Yes, I can see he liked his toyses. Hohoho. That silly little kitty! Did you cover him in chocolate and lick it off at night, too as a special game?" It would explain all the sticky cat hair covered DIRT!
    "Nothing sir, simply asking if you fed him chocolate. I, er, understand its bad for cats." Twaat.

    "Well then sir, may I ask to see the back yard?"
    "Interesting bird cage there, antique is it?" "Until recently? Missing bird too?"
    "Right, and your neighbors have dogs?" More toys, more pictures of the cat. Is this guy a cat fetishist? Don't blame the orange Barsteward for flying the coup.
    "Well cats will go where they like, I suppose. Lets head back in and I'll explain the search method."

    That smell is nearly toxic... Oh, lord. Hang on.
    "How many days has the animal been missing sir?" "Ah, and the bird?"
    "Flighty buggers, birds. However, I think this one might have had reason to fear the dark. Notice any strange odors around lately, sir? It's especially strong over here."
    "Well yes they mark their territory, but this is something different, I'm afraid." Filthy, imbecilic cat people.
    "I think he must have chocked on the canary while trying to make his escape from the scene, sir. Tragic."
    "No that's alright sir, cry it out." Don't you cry on me! OH GOD NO! Moron sinus leakage all over my clean shirt!

    "I'm afraid I must leave. Another urgent case. I'll send you the bill within the week." Twaat.
  10. 21 Apr '08 21:05 / 1 edit
    Untitled 3

    “Are you sure?”
    They looked across the table at each other. Mick played with the spoon in his coffee and Peter fiddled a napkin as he slowly nodded.
    “It’s like. Like. Like a big step, you know?” added Mick.
    “I know.” There was a higher level of acceptance in Peter’s voice now he’d told his best friend.
    They sat in silence looking at each other. Peter ventured a sip of his cappuccino, it was still too hot.
    “So, what did your parents say?”
    Peter rolled his eyes. “They’re so… so… so suburban. It’s like talking to the Amish community. Seemingly God gave me wings and clipping them is spitting in the big G’s face!” The two friends snorted.
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Mick shaking his head.
    “I don’t know, but they gave me a bible and told me to talk to Father David.”
    “He was accused of that kiddie thing, wasn’t he?”
    “Yeah! But seemingly that’s what his wings are for!”
    The friends shared another fit of laughter.
    The giggles subsided and the blanket of seriousness descended as it often does after nervousness is relieved.
    “When’s it gonna start?”
    “In a month. Plenty of time to get my act together.”
    Mick murmured a ‘Huh?’ and pulled a face to back it up.
    “No booze. No coke. You know?”
    “That’s pretty harsh.”
    “Well, not indefinitely, just ‘til it’s over.”
    A look of relief swept across Mick’s face, what was he supposed to do without his best friend?
    Peter sipped his milky coffee and added: “But just wait ‘till this nightmare is over! What’s it gonna be like!”
    Mick tried to imagine what it was gonna be like. He couldn’t.
    Peter smiled. “The gates of hell are gonna open up and I’ll be surfin’ on in!”
    “Yeah,” said Mick, “More like your legs are gonna open up and something completely different is gonna be doin’ the bloody surfing!”
    The two friends paid for their coffees and exited the bar.
    “So, what’s it gonna be?” asked Mick.
    Peter knew exactly what his friend was fishing for: “I’m not decided yet. Probably Petra or Alanis.”
  11. 21 Apr '08 21:09 / 1 edit
    Untitled 4

    “He's cute. Can you please take him? Your apartment's in back and Alice won't see. He's cute!”

    He's wiggling like he wants to feed Eve an apple is what he is. Sad, there's no surprise in meeting my neighbour for the first time after we've both lived here six months. Let's be nice. Ask to hold him and don't write litterbox-related shoebox-flat space constraints on the face-piece.

    “What about for the weekend? Just give him to Andrew when he gets back. He's in Lennoxville but he'll be back.”

    Not too many questions. Who's Andrew or Where's Lennoxville but not both. Probably the former. Maybe this is creepy. Is there a protocol for kitten-offers? Probably; who knows. Who's creepy? If Andrew is too, does that answer the first question? Creepiness isn't monic so I'm not necessarily Andrew, even if he's creepy. Now the barsteward's in the fingers-piece. Oh Ja Ja Ja. He's wiggling more. I'm not Andrew, but I'm creepy. Creepy people are so creepy even cats can tell. She must know Andrew in Lennoxville isn't creepy and I bet I can't even manage a little inconsequential weekend of non-creepitude. Best give him back. Excuse but don't lie...interrupting COW!

    “Uh, well actually Jason wanted one of them. Thanks though. I guess I might come back if I can't get rid of the others. It's just a weekend. You wouldn't even have to feed it, I bet. Well, Jason will probably take the others, too. He's a cat person and Alice likes him anyway. Well, uh, have a good night thanksbye.”

    Good not to excuse because there isn't one and lying is impossible. That poor wiggler would have been in the presence of Creepy McCreepsalot all bloody weekend. No excuse no excuse no excuse but none needed anyway. Did I even say anything the whole time? How much time was the whole time? The little chain is chained like a little Jaforsaken fortress in here. Why? Kind of wanted the cat. Do I look like a cat-killer? Maybe if I had a cat I'd be less creepy. I'm talking to a plant, a cactus. I'd definitely kill a cat. I can only be trusted to care for something once a month. No cats, just cacti. Mojave of human bleeding decency. Go to bed and shut up shut up shut up because the enemy is listening and anything you say will be used against you in the court of public opinion and they can all hear you because Carl Jung hacked into the old self-loop and is broadcasting to her and the world in surround sound, and that Jason got your cat is proof. Go to bed go to bed go to bed and for the sake of all all that's wholly holy shut up shut up shut up.

    Wake up from some clonazepam dreams with the Habitant-head; a fog like pea-soup and low-viscosity pig sh;t, which are basically the same thing here. The old self-loop at so many Hertz it hurts talking talking speaking no words just talking like an immortal drunk on speed, no relief because the other-loop can't get a word out, edgewise or otherwise. Talking out the side of the mouth-piece is creepy anyway, so otherwise is the only way and who knows how that works. Don't jump to conclusions though. Maybe that was creepy, maybe not. There was a cat, and conclusions were jumped to. It was no lion, though. Don't be chased to conclusions by a little serpent-mewlet thing. Maybe it was creepy; maybe she just can't make up her mind. Hey, brother, don't do that to yourself with the cats and the dark little intuitive crevices-leapt-into. She came on a whim and she left on a whim and it's nothing to do with you, brother. That bird's just far too flighty.
  12. 21 Apr '08 21:27

    “It’s not a fear of lions, it’s a fear of lion-induced consequence!”

    “What, in the name of Anubis is lion-induced consequence?”

    Achilles sat down and undid his right sandal, hoping somehow to remove the itch upon his ankle by removing the itcher thereupon.

    “There’s no such thing as conceptual fear, it’s a misnoma, a quite perverse misappropriation of fact, built on a social tradition that has learnt to place the blame on the symptoms and not on the disease. You fear the consequence, the actuality of the reprisal, the certainty of climax. Don’t you see? It’s not how you acknowledge that lions are present and intent on your indigestion-encouraging demise, it’s how you deal with the notion of pain and mutilation which is important. Lion induced consequence.”

    “Balls!” Said the tortoise, wondering if lettuce leaves grew in the desert. “I have only to acknowledge that lions are probable causes of pain and mutilation to make their conceptual teeth and claws equivalent to the pain and mutilation thereby produced. I do wonder sometimes if you wouldn’t be better going to war or something, your mental prowess is somewhat dimmed by the lethargy of peacetime.”

    “That may be so, but war is a transitory position, and glory; a bird which takes flight and is beautiful as the dawn, full of the angels of movement, but ultimately is gone and cannot be caged without, as you would suggest me to be, being dimmed.” Achilles sighed and replaced his sandal, sure in the knowledge that the consequence of its removal had not helped its replacement; his foot itched all the more now. “I’d take the peaceful surety of lion induced consequence over the flighted glimpse of glory any day, dark as it may be.”

    “Hmph,” said the tortoise, “that’s all very well, my friend, but if we don’t find water soon, I fear I may pass away.”

    “See!” Said Achilles, triumphantly.
  13. 21 Apr '08 21:27 / 1 edit
  14. Subscriber huckleberryhound
    Devout Agnostic.
    21 Apr '08 21:35
    Originally posted by Starrman
    Okay, vote for your top 3. 3 points for 1st, 2 for 2nd, 3 for 3rd. Please wait till all entries are in. I will post after I have finished pasting them to let you know you can go ahead.

    Authors should vote, but not for themselves.

    The identities of entrants [b]must
    remain secret till after a winner is announced.[/b]
    You mean 1 point for 3rd.
  15. 21 Apr '08 21:37
    Originally posted by huckleberryhound
    You mean 1 point for 3rd.
    Misquoting posters may lead to a ban 😠