elvenpalace

"Much thanks to our dear Lady Marius who has kindly granted us the privilige of overseeing this next ThinkWrite." -the words of our dear Storyteller and my mistress, the Queen.

I am Sriera, companion to and secretary of these two wondrous elves. For your enjoyment, they have chosen ten elegant words, which I will not proceed to copy out for you, if I can (writing is extremely difficult for a dragon...).

FEATHER
ASH
RIPOSTE
SWARD
LYRE
DANCE
CONDONE
KNIGHT (OR NIGHT)
EXTRINSIC
NOTHING

The Storyteller and the Queen ask that you keep your words to two-hundred and fifty-five, although exceptions will glady be read and enjoyed.
This contest will conclude in a little less than a fortnight. To be exact, in the sixth month, sixteenth day.
With all hopes that you will find this ThinkWrite inspiring and creative!

-SRIERA - faerie dragon in service to the Queen of the Elves

Nylecoj

Thank you again Marius. I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!

marius

Lol --- great start to this one. It seems with a Storyteller and a Queen as our hosts ... that we are ALL in for a delightful journey!

giraffe

Oh my god! We're being spoken to by the fire spewing dragon - the torch itself. In your honor and out of my fear of fire, I will humbly serve you. (bows).

ladyhwin

Hehehe!!! : D Hope you all enjoy it!

giraffe

Think I went 10 words over. My apalogies to the Queen.

IS THAT YOU?

The maiden always spoke in riddles. Ah, I knew her well. When speaking of something like Lords and Serfs, she'd throw in something extrinsic like "I think marriage is over rated." One had to be quick with a riposte like "Marriages are totally different in the separate classes." That would make her smile to be caught.

She was so frail - light as a feather. Her only defense was her quick wit. Nothing could stop me from pursuing her. My job was to look over her with my sword without making her feel uncomfortable or controlled. I would have done it for free, but they paid me 13 coins per week and offered me a possible knighthood.

In the evening she would play her lyre and sing sad songs about lost sailors, dead soldiers and the ash of human remains. Her depth of understanding only made me more deep in my resolve. I would never condone any harm to her.

Then she would dance by the fire. My passion was unbearable. I've always wondered if she knew that. By mid-July it was too late to find out. The horsemen surprised us from the South. They grabbed her up and took her off. I'm only one man. I was overwhelmed.

Now as an old man, I still gaze into the fire and think of answers to her unique quips. She was never seen again. I didn't make it to Knight and I don't care. Every time I hear a rap on my door, I want to hear "Arthur? Is that you?"

marius

Not sure where this bit of silliness came from, but here it is. And, erm ... to the two who managed ten stories with complete word-count and word-list ... marius cannot compare. This is a swollen 709 words, but ALL the word-list did get included. ; )


The Glass House

Once upon a time there lived a group of very learn-ed, and in the opinion of some ... evil, humans. They hailed from the Isle of Green and were called Druids.

In these days, people herald them as the keepers of Stonehenge, magic and other-worldly things. And, some consider them as no more than fanciful caricatures of a time when things were illy recorded, if at all. But, no matter about that. This is a story that did happen and you can believe it or not. Thus I begin:

On the twelfth night, when the swards were frozen solid and the Druids had gathered to welcome the new year to come, there was born to a Knight and a lady, a diminutive child of questionable origin. At his christening, the Druid Galannewedd gifted the tiny one a lyre, a feather and a small bottle of ash.

After that, the years flew by as they always do and the child grew into a great disappointment in the eyes of his parents and indeed, the entire village. He could not riposte with either weapon or mental acumen. He had no friends and no natural abilities except perhaps, the ability to breathe. Eventually he was left to do nothing and the child became extrinsic to the court, his family and to life in general. But on his thirteenth birthday something happened. His mother presented him, as was the custom, with his Druidic gifts.

The first thing Lol did, and that was his name, was open the bottle of ash. He sprinkled some into his hands and finding nothing of interest there, wiped his hands in his hair and turned his attention to the harp. When he touched the strings a most wondrous melody began to unfold and develop. It was the first time Lol had done anything worthy of note, and indeed the notes were literally washing the entire kingdom of the lethargy from which it had suffered ever since his birth.

His mother and father began a courtly dance and soon all the members of their stronghold were joining in. People were laughing as they had not in many years and somehow in the heart of Lol’s mother, it seemed that this moment excused, and perhaps condoned, the disappointment that Lol had always been.

Of course, the moment could not last for at the very second where all seemed honey-colored and bright in the world, Lol’s feather began to write ... in large block letters ... upon the tall stone walls.

It turned out that the feather was Lol’s voice and now it began to say what its neglect had kept silent for all those years ...
-father winks at my Auntie when he thinks no one is looking
-the cook puts sleeping powders into my mother’s mead
-the royal herbalist made a new love potion and is trying it out on the court-maid
-my origin is not what others believe
-the treasurer has never told the truth
-our enemies are within

And so wrote the feather, and at such an alarming speed, that in no time at all, the sins (or foibles, if you wish to call them that) of every person in the kingdom had been disclosed.

Now, you might be expecting an ending where everyone lives happily ever after ... but that was not to be. What actually happened is much more true to real life: the judgmental ones found more to judge, the compassionate more to love, the timid found more to fear, the insightful more to see, the gossip more to talk about, the hateful more to hate ... and so forth. But, then came the moment when one of my favorite sayings was invented.

As it turns out, when the feather had finally finished its feverish work, and the entire lot of witnesses had been stunned into an eerie silence, Lol said his first and only complete thought.

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

Indeed, that is all most people remembered of that peculiar night, but my very ancient gran remembered what Lol said next, and that is what she passed on to her children.

“It will make you laugh when you discover that all houses are made of glass.”

-The End-

marius

Do not really like that ending much. Like this better but still not quite right.

... Indeed, that is all most people remembered of that peculiar night, but my very ancient gran remembered what Lol said next, and that is what she passed on to her children.

“When you see that all houses are made of glass, you can laugh yourself silly.” Indeed we have done just that for a long time now. Thank you Lol.

-The End-

: )

giraffe

Don't get me started, marius. I have an interesting sequel to that. Bringing it to modern times. Maybe tonight, but I need a nap. Your story brought out some powerful things.

marius

No, no ... please no sequel on this one. Kind of liking it as if is. But feel free to make your own creation using any ideas this sparked for you. : - )

Nylecoj

Thank you for starting us off Giraffe, the Queen is sure to forgive your ten extra words. An intriguing story!

Marius, also an interesting tale! I will have to remember not to throw rocks if I ever visit the Druids.

giraffe

255 with title I think, but I count on my fingers.

COLD

My cat sits on my lap as my friend plays his lyre and the fire dances. We threw down our swords long ago. It's so much better this way. To befriend a past enemy makes it so you can't condone the tribal wars. All that hatred seems extrinsic to the bond we now have.

I was a knight in the Celtic army (meaning that I was an Irish cop in New York City). He was a drug dealing fool (in rehab) from the Moorish tribes from Africa. But he plays a mean lyre and sings like silk so nothing could keep me from liking him unless I was totally cold to the bone.

I used to think I lived in a glass house and wasn't allowed to tolerate any diverity or even flaws in others. Once I 'got it'. I was kicked off of the police force. The Celtic Knight was stripped of his stripes.

It started out one night when we were routinely questioning a man for entering his house. The man reached fot his ID and 4 officers opened fire on him thinking he was going for a gun. I wouldn't shoot so that made me a traitor. So much for being a Celtic Knight.

This isn't what the Druids had in mind. To me, the Phoenix rises from the ashes with a single feather. My riposte to them is that rushing to violence just creates more violence. My friend plays a great lyre (or guitar as you now call it).

giraffe

Should have said "My friend plays a great lyre (or harp, or mouth harp or harmonica as we call it).

I had lyre confused with lute.

ladyhwin

The Queen gladly forgives giraffe the ten extra words, but only because of the wonderful second submission that he gave us. ; )

As for you marius, much enjoyed and applauded! Thank you!

The Queen is very impressed by the talent!

Nylecoj

Giraffe, love how you took all the old words and set them in modern times!

morshy

255 words sans title. Not a self contained story, more the opening chapter to something much bigger. If there's decent enough feedback, I might see if I can expand on it, but possibly not in the confines of this challenge. Will leave it witout a title for now.

***

The feather quill scratched noisily across the parchment. The only other sound in the great hall was the scribe’s hesitant breathing. The Word was everything. Food turned to ash in his mouth, wine to vinegar. Lord Polgar was not a man to be trifled with. There were…stories.

The door at the far end of the hall few open. Lyre music, laughing and clapping floated their way up to the scribe, who paused in his writing. Hurried footsteps stopped the scribe, who placed the quill to one side. The parchment in front of him was taken and studied. A soft grunt, the sound of metal on leather, and then nothing.

Herrick wiped the blade on his hem. Though blind and mute, there could be no possibility that the scribe would pass on the details of his visions. It was not a task the knight carried out with any great relish, nor did he condone it, but Polgar was paranoid, and that made Herrick a wary man. He made his way back down to the feast hall with heavy heart.

On the sward in the courtyard, Berrimar paid little attention to the apprentices’ combat training. Advance, parry, riposte, retreat. Occasionally Heldan would bellow at them for making an error. Peace had encouraged indolence. Berrimar took a draught from his flagon. He swatted a fly away from the tip of his nose and burped gently. Heldan was stating the importance of extrinsic influences, not just concentrating on form. Berrimar snorted, closed his eyes and was soon gently snoring.

Doug

I"m back! Still so busy unpacking and getting settled in, but I did manage to get our internet up and running just as we lost all capability of surfing the web at work. I promise to persuse all your stories and give my two cents worth. Here is probably my only attempt at this nefarious word list. How did you two come up with these words? I changed a couple to my liking. tee-hee. Hope you like.

Fitful Sleep

Taking a brief riposte from my more mundane life I set out on a journey many have taken, but not everyone remembers.

I don’t want to bore your with details of fantastic dancing fairies or ashen smoke snorting dragons, but I would like to share one single frame of an afternoon so simple it would fit in with a Norman Rockwell painting.

It all took place on a slow lazy ride (or slouch if you must) from the extrinsic confines of my Barcolounger. A serene vision condoned by the sandman himself unfolded like the flicker of a nickelodeon. Fields of poppies, leafy oaks blowing in a gentle breeze curling just at the tips and purple floating feathers all meshed together to create a cataclysm of beautiful waves played out in front of me. My mind interpreted the sights and sounds from the blue tinge of the horizon peeking above a golden wheat field and the lyrical trumpet of the songbirds flitting about barely touching each branch they lit upon. Thus, a vision at night had become day and this was a wondrous daydream. Nothing in my real world could compare to this dreamy glimpse into a never land.

There…beneath the smooth skin…sliding on a pond of moist tears drooping eyelids signal the time of dreams. Sometimes panic stricken terrors, but others, like THIS day…a beauty so deep…a journey never found except in quietness and the absolute stillness of thought a new world erupts…surreal…only broken by the soft touch of my wife ushering me to bed. My next visit to the sward must wait. A downy pillow will nestle my head and an outstretched arm will embrace my love.

Qsilv

..mmmm... Doug... lovely vision --thanks for taking us on it. Sounds like your new home may be kind to you.

morshy --you KNOW that carries a Pratchett pace and tone. The only whine I have is that at this level it's so disconnected I can't be sure who's who.

Qsilv

(If you’ll allow me to claim the last sentence as my title, the word count is spot on and I still get the prose effect I was after.)




Y’coulda knocked me down with a feather, I’m tellin’ ya. We’d no sooner scattered those ashes than this little bugger come up to us... right up to me, matter of fact… further matter he only come up to m’… er…

Groin? Privates? Crotch? She offered, catching his drift and allowing her eyes to wander there… much to his further discomfiture. Funny how hill people could be so coarse and yet still want refinement in some particulars.

Well crotch then, he acceded, uncomfortably running a finger around his neckline. It lacked a collar proper, just a rolled bit of fabric that suddenly seemed to be itching him.

I sward, he swore softly… Never thunk it’d come to this. Now I ain’t no liar, Ma’am, y’ask anyone around here. But…

She smiled quietly, closed her notebook, and rested her eyes now out over the verdant rolling true sward. Greens blended into pale wheat-gold, and that in turn bled into a delicate violet hue… blood of the horizons, she thought.

Extrinsic to the fact that he was probably lying through his teeth… or what were left of them... was the undeniable fact that he had seen something. And he didn’t quite know how to spin it. Did he even really condone it? He could kill but nothing pointed to this. And they could play parry-riposte all night.

She watched the old knight-of-the-hills stroking the satiny walnut of his even older Hawken… low sunbeams dancing off its brass-shrouded buttstock, lovingly carved into the most extravagant lyre-tail she’d ever seen.

Land and skies bleed different from people and critters.

ladyhwin

morshy, doug and Qsilv, all of you did wonderful! I'll be back tomorrow with more comments, but for now, good job!! I'm sure Nyle will enjoy your tales.