If you’re plumber, you fix your friends’ showers. If you’re a mechanic, you fix your friends’ cars. If you’re a baker — guess you’re going to be making cupcakes for your tribe pretty regularly.
But, if you’re a writer — sometimes your friends ask you to come up with burlesque performer names.
Don’t look at me weird – it’s Athens.
What? Doesn’t your town have it’s own, personal burlesque troupe?
Anyway.
So, I came up with a whole bunch of performer names – I’m going to put them below the jump, because they are NAUGHTY. NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY. Do not click through if you are an impressionable youth or hate bad puns
Quill Wielder thinks I’m awesome. That’s what this boils down to. Thank you so much for the appreciation and support, QW. You are also shiny and made of moonbeams. Go over to her blog now. It’s a moral imperative.
The Award: The Liebster Blog Award is given to up coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers.
Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest,dearest, beloved, lovely, kindly, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome.
The rules for the Liebster Blog Award are:
Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.
Link back to the blogger who awarded you.
Copy & paste the blog award on your blog
Reveal your 5 blog picks.
Let them know you choose them by leaving a comment on their blog.
I’m a total WordPress neophyte, and I’m not totally sure how to figure out how many followers another blog has, unless it’s explicitly listed on their homepage. So, if you’re a WP rockstar and have 5 bajillion followers, and I missed it – I apologize for giving you this crayon scrawled award. You can throw it away after I leave. [sniffle]
So here they are:
The Jargon Journalist– A news focused blog, written by a serious dork. Well written articles and video production. Chelsea’s also pretty funny.
Drawceraptor – Jeff’s art is freaking great. Subject matter is reasonably nerdy — but the technique and aesthetics are top notch.
H.N. Sieverding – I am completely in awe of the amount of content that H.N. has on display here. Really inspiring for me, just starting out writing my own stuff seriously. Great feedback, and a ray of sunshine.
Robotic Rhetoric – Weird kid from the UK who makes me laugh. Very solid writer – though some of his more angsty posts remind me of my misspent youth.
The Death of Glitter – This blog is infinitely more hip, stylish, well-written, insightful and clever than I will ever manage. I just wish CookieGeisha posted more.
Congratulations to all of you, consider yourself hearted. Intensely hearted.
Hey, I wrote some fresh stuff for the blog – honest to god, typed up today — bristling with new-osity.
I’ve added a new Category “Fresh” for pieces like that, that are written and posted in the same day — I hope to do a lot more of them when my life settles down.
“Something there is to a task done well, a true task, a right task. The door-knob turns, and knows that is is doing exactly what it was made for.”
“Are you drunk?” Simon asked, waggling his empty wooden tankard.
Merridew glared across the table, bushy white eyebrows standing at attention. The elderly Yad-Elf
Artist Unknown
gripped a silver gravy-boat, clearly intended to sail the seas of a king’s banquet table. It was mostly empty, Merridew corrected this – refilling from a dark brown keg that kept the third chair occupied. He took a quick swallow from the business end of the container, all while continuing to glare at the gray-coated rogue sitting across from him.
“Cause you sound drunk. You’re talking about doorknobs. Knobs on doors – the little turny things.” Simon continued.
“That is not my point at all, you besotted simpleton. This is why I despise drinking with humans.” the elf said.
“I’m drunk. See? I said it. Feels good to say it. It is totally fine for you to admit that you’re drunk.” the rogue held his tankard to the keg, hand wavering.
Merridew sat the gravy-boat down, and massaged his temples with long, knobby fingers.
“I’m just saying that doorknobs have a clear purpose. A design suited for one action — and I was musing –”
Simon burped.
“– MUSING that it has to be a nice feeling. Knowing that what you’re doing is exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.” Merridew pointed across the table accusingly
The rogue chuckled, and sipped from his newly filled tankard. He managed to look contrite, and nodded seriously at the elf’s expression.
The old wood elf sighed, and spread his fingers across the top of the gravy-boat. He stared down through the spaces between, watching the foam settle on the dark amber liquid.
“There’s been a few times, I’ve felt it myself. The door-knob turn in my heart.”
Simon continued to nod seriously, and made a twisting gesture with his free hand. His serious expression was marred by the slurping noise as he gulped down ale.
“Door-knob. Got it.” Simon slammed the empty tankard down.
“I hate you.” Merridew said.
The old elf stood, and walked over to the closest door. He poured a generous serving of ale onto the pitted brass doorknob. Then he kept pouring until the gravy-boat was empty. He solemnly hung the empty silver bowl on the knob.
Simon rubbed his face and snorted.
“I’ll get a mop, old man. Unless you want to baptize the lamps?”
Merridew did not reply. He wrapped his long fingers around the brass knob and turned it swiftly.
Once. Twice. A third time.
The old elf smiled, his fingertips resting on the brass.
That’s kind of awesome – I wonder who those six people are. Did they like it? Are we best friends now? AM I INVITED TO THEIR BIRTHDAY PARTY?!?
I know this is silly, getting excited about something like that — especially because that story is right over there under the Microfiction tab — but it jazzes me up. TO THE MAX.
Well, maybe not to the max — but in the near vicinity of the max.
1. Every action has a consequence.
2. The unexplored world will not announce itself.
3. The beautiful moment succeeds.
4. Whimsy is a precious flower. Plant liberally.
5. Obstacles are rarely insurmountable.
6. People are not just signposts.
7. The journey is the largest tree in the garden, but the rain falls everywhere.
8. Glory is bought with blood.
9. Dull questions breed dull answers.
10. A single twig announces the tiger.
Over the past year of Lodestar, I’ve tried to establish a simple rubric for most of my storytelling decisions. And because I’m an incredibly pompous sort, I codified them into these ten dictum.
Thoughts? What rules – unspoken or otherwise – guide your writing?
My blog is going to be a little sparse this week. The show I’m directing opens on Friday, and it’s going to absorb every scrap of creative and physical energy very quickly. It has become an event horizon — I cannot imagine anything that occurs after 12/2.
I’m hoping to have some downtime to post, but if not, I’ll get back into the swing of things next week.
There is a moment of stillness. Then abruptly the masks of Blue, Yellow, White and Red begin to laugh. Master Tumm makes no move, and the Black necromancer, Song, is still as always. Master Graham places his palms flat on the marble table and says nothing.
” Would you like us to come check in your closet for the Gray Beast, or hold your hand when night falls?
Mercy by Peter Mohrbacher
Such a ridiculous…” the Bloodburner begins.
“Silence.” the Grand Wizard says quietly. For a dragon.
The masked faces of the Council all turn to regard their leader. The dragon keeps his blind eyes on the crew of the Lodestar.
“The Council is adjourned – leave me with these adventurers.”
The Red Master Vayton sputters slightly, then nods his head briskly. The rest of the council genuflect slightly as well, and stiffly make their exit from the chamber. Footfalls on marble, then the shutting of seven doors.
The gray-cloaked figure at the side of the room steps forward slightly, and makes an inquiring gesture, right palm open and up.
” You as well, Sideways.” says the steel dragon.
The cowl shrugs, as the figure turns — barbed tail swishing under the hem of his cloak. He walks through the nearest wall without slowing, as if the marble was made of air.
The Grand Wizard’s neck drooped slightly, and his bobbed slightly towards the floor. The crew can see the weariness in this old creature’s posture. He speaks, quietly.
“Come closer. ” the dragon breathed.
A few cautious steps, just at the edge of the steel dragon’s dais.
“Do you know the story of the founding of Valeria?”
Before Carbunkle has time to shoot his hand up, the dragon continues.
Artist: toshim
” Valeria was my beloved mate, oh so many years ago. We stood together against a mighty evil, but in the last battle she fell — like a comet from the heavens. It was my fault.” the Grand Wizard sighed, an ironworks fume.
” She died because of a lie. Because of me keeping knowledge to myself, and believing that I knew best how to shield her from the harsh truths of the world. Her passing carved a deep gouge into the earth, that filled with a fresh sea – a sea of blue. Where her bones came to rest, I came and wept. A tear for each lie, and I grieved for my arrogance, and the loss of the fair Valeria.”
The dragon blinked, slowly.
“There I swore to share my knowledge with all who sought it. Over time the wise of each race sought me out, and I instructed them in the Art. They were the first wizards, and this marvelous city grew out of the bones of my beloved.” the Grand Wizard stretched his mighty arms, as if to encompass the entire city.
“This is a small secret. The Council knows, and some learned men throughout the world have pieced together this truth from relics, old songs, and the fragments of a lost age. I give it to you freely, so that you may understand what you ask, and how I must respond.” the dragon laid its head down on the dais for a moment, and closed its eyes as if thinking. A few heartbeats pass, until its blind eyes open.
“I have offered you a boon, and I will not renege. Not here, so near the grave of my beloved. The knowledge you ask is dangerous, and costly. I will not tell you all, as I would not teach a child spells of flame and death. My boon shall be the beginning of the path, you must find your own way after that.
The Umbral Plane is a dark mirror to our own reality, it overlaps and permeates the Material Plane
Artist: Thomas Scholes
—separated by a thin band of energy, some call the Spirit World, or Astral Plane. One must pass through the Spirit World to enter into the Shadow Plane, and vice versa. These “shadows” that you have encountered are emanations, using shapes they find in the Spirit World to temporarily visit our dimension.”
The Grand Wizard shifted slightly, steel scales ringing on the marble floor. He stretched his ancient wings, and stood on his hind legs, stretching.
“All this is within the realm of mortal knowledge – not all believe it to be true, but still the wise have assembled the scattered puzzle pieces. What I tell you now is not known, to any but the oldest of dragons and gods.
When my beloved fell from the heavens, there was no Plane of Shadow. Not then, and not for a great time after. ”
The Grand Wizard flapped his wings, and began to rise from the floor. The old blind dragon sings, as it ascends.
the Shadow is mirror
the Mirror is power
Songs of the Lost
shine on Dark Hour
the Key and the Shield
throw wide the One Gate
the Price of the Beast
if Hero come too Late
The Grand Wizard is gone. The crew of the Lodestar are left alone in an empty room, with nothing but marble and questions.
The man in the brown cloak walked to the side of the golden roc, and spent some time tending to the creature’s plumage. He pulled broken feathers from the roc’s breast, and cleaned the dirt and grime of their travels from the great wings.
Bird squawked, and looked at the man quizzically. It was rare for his master to show this much attention to his steed.
The man scratched absently at the tattoo over his heart and continued to work.
Ziria
The druid held tight to the seaweed harness of Manitok, the whale. The two companions moved swiftly through the dark waters.
The creatures of the sea had been crying out for as long as he could remember against the destruction brought by the land-ones. The poison had increased slowly but surely, growing ever worse in the most recent years. Young died in the egg, the strong swimmers withered – his home was dying. His people were dying. The sea was dying.
But now something worse had been discovered.
The great travelers of the sea had called him. The whales has sung to him in dreams, telling of a new abomination growing in the waters to the west of his tribe. At last, Ziria could abide it no longer. He saw to the defenses of his tribe, and took to Manitok’s back for the long journey west.
After several days they arrived, cresting over a deep abyss in the sea floor.
A vast structure of metal had risen from the floor of the sea. Ziria could see tiny craft moving about the
Far from Home by *UnidColor
rising tower, strengthening it and adding more metal. The druid could just make out a vast stone ring at the base of the tower. Massive carvings fifty feet in length encircled it. He recognized them as Precursor.
It is wrong, Ziria. the whale’s mind sighed. So very, very wrong.
I know, old friend. Ziria replied. The might of my people are not enough to topple this thing of metal and death.
spell-sword.com 