|| Replies ||

User	rtx2 | 2006-03-25 |
Subject	Parents
Message	With infinite wisdom they shelter Their bodies begin the decay At their death we are in torment Only with the promise of reuniting Do we experience elation In the sanctity of life we experience a burning desire To understand that which restrains us From our full potential. It is the human flaw that limits The purity of love from parent to child Can be the sweet refrain in our life song Denial of this bond stems only from human lust We have been kept safe from abuse That strangles innocence from society

User	inspirit999 | 2006-02-08 |
Subject	untitled
Message	“ram the doors!” said the mighty Viking men, "we will sack the castle by the stroke of ten!" the brakes on the aged up ram gave out, Eric he spit then he gives his mechanics a shout. melancholy written of the faces of Curly, Larry and Moe, three bellicose mangy men came forth bobbing to and fro, queen Charlotte squarely looking onward from the rear of the pack, tweaking a wire Curly snaps violently his arm lands right into Eric’s back, “hold that swine” he growled as he balled his hand into a fist, Moe lent Curly a hammer and he swings though he missed, it hit poor ole Larry lame right on his flinching eye, Moe gave Curly a slap and ask if he were wise guy, the once rankled mob now laughing at the silly group, the magnetic charm was enough to make the tower archers stoop, in wisp Moe kicks the Eric the red in his precious groin, he drooped like jelly down to his knees with hand over his loin, Satan came out of his cellar and sees the reenactment to his delight, “he winks at the his comedic trio, Vikings! You can’t get anything right!”

User	Rokhal | 2006-02-07 |
Subject	untitled
Message	So slight and slender a sussurus I never heard before, nor will again. The hill concealed a whisker of light, an illuminance so faint I thought my eyes faltering, though my ears seemed keen, eavesdropping on the wisp of noise over the pift-pift of my own lame tread in drooping snow. How keen were my ears! I heard the very singing of earth’s magnetic pole. The stars lent a little light, but too little. I had lost my way, so toiled up this strange hill, casting about for the little house with breaking mortar which waited for me in some nook of trees that melancholy frosting night. It waited long. The cooked potatoes in my pockets grew tepid under my hands as I rounded a breach in the ridge. The light grew, took on a carmine tinge in the thin snow rimming the hillside. Then, by luck, I paused behind a frostrimmed shrub to peek at its source. It was a dancing ring. That hour, you could have dug a cellar under my feet without my noticing, so long as you saved my sight for the dancers. Tall creatures pranced on splinter-thin toes, weaving fragile tracks in the snow. The fire they orbited was tall, and pink-tinged, and burned no wood. It whirled in place on a blunt disk, like the beheaded tip of a battering ram, a flat wood dome. The whisper I heard was the song, a sighing thread like the woven tracks of the tall folk. I saw no tracks leading to the ring. As the night deepened the movements grew hasty and bellicose, though no deer-feet strayed from the tiny knotted tracks. My eyes glazed, and in imagining, the fire grew a thousand eyes and looked at me, cocked a thousand spears, roared in recognition and hate. Yet my feet and eyes were rooted. My ears heard each tapping footfall, still gentle as a cat’s paw, but quick as snakes. The creatures’ flying hair hid all their faces, all but glints of parted teeth. I felt a horror. With it rose a woman before my face---I say a woman because of its hair, but it was tall and lanky, taller than I, tall as a wounded birch trunk. She held a trochar. I stared---that ordinary doctor’s instrument in such a thin, papery hand, its toyish size against her arm---but she caught me under the chin with fingertips like chipped slate. She whispered over my neck. The instrument struck twice, at each side of my head, and I began to bleed. Still my feet and arms hung, such was her grasp. I saw a white smile like starlight, then nothing. When I woke, I wandered home, and the path was straight. I saw my little dog run to greet me, and wondered why she did not bark. Dear Charlotte came to me, too, and was silent. Though I bled from the witch’s blows, I have no scar in my ears. I have never heard again, not a word, not a bellow of cannon, not a brush of grass, but some nights, when the moon is low and the snow is thin and sour on the frosting ground, I think of the music, and listen.

User	Rokhal | 2005-08-03 |
Subject	untitled
Message	Brightness-sent, and bellicose The ram Lent black, magnetic mortar-roars That rankle in my cellar floor Quiver the whiskers whose toiling cat Tweaks her throat to my shin Exposing her chin And shivers my nerves into wisps.

User	wewak11 | 2005-08-01 |
Subject	untitled
Message	Charlotte always wanted to be a ram. Being a sheep was lame. and her melancholy mood lent a sadness to the flock. The shepherd was rankled. "Lift your droopy head, Charlotte!" he cried, "your whiskers are getting mud on them!" This left the sheep belicose, and they spit invectives at this breach of privacy. Sussurus the ram sneaked up behind the shepherd, spit at him and called him a tepid crank. The shepherd was shocked, but began to hold the view that a wisp of iluminance could possibly clasp a splinter of mortar to hold the flock together.