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PostSubject: This is here.    Wed Jun 01, 2016 2:41 am

I'm just sticking this here so Plat has a link and can read everything.

Stories

1st place
(Vinder)

You've heard the stories. They start cliché. On a dark and stormy night. . . Well, the night was dark. And it was stormy. So why not start that way?

It was a dark and stormy night. Countless clouds hung low, blocking every beam from the moon above. I remember well the atmosphere within the theatre. No one knew quite what to do. We were a small cast with a heavy burden.

The constant beat of rain against the glass window panes created a badly synchronized ticking that intensified the stress of each member. One of the century-old doors slammed shut, jarring nerves even more.

"Let's get to business, shall we?" Merit Cadre broke the silence with the grim suggestion.

Truly, who wanted at that time to talk about business of all things?

"Merit, can't we just forget it happened?" Cece murmured, her soft voice barely audible.

Our group lapsed into silence as I'm sure a common thought ran through every member's mind.

Yes, forget.

"No," Monte murmured. He didn't offer any explanation. Just no. Montgomery Ager. Good ol' Monte. He had been with the troupe as long as long as anyone else, yet never vied for position.

Likely, because, there was no need. It wasn't something that needed to be said. If Monte commanded, it was done. No arguing.

So, the thought was dismissed. We weren't forgetting what we had done. It was a permanent part of our history, recorded as an engraving within our minds.

"So," Michael trailed off, unnerved by the silence. "Now what?" He hesitantly reached down for his comfort beverage -- some vintage soda brand -- and snapped open the can. After a long noisy slurp, he let the empty aluminum fall silently to the aged crimson carpet.

Merit Cadre sighed. "How about we run through it once more? Chris?"

Everybody looked to me. That's right. Christopher Blake. That's me. Was me, at least. We've all left our former selves since then. But, at the time, I was the mouthpiece and memory bank. It was only natural that I know best. And did I ever.

"At 0100 hours, we set the plan into action. Vyron, Cece and I arrived at the building at that time. Cece scaled the north wall and breached the building by a small, fifth-level window.

"At 0105 hours, the ground-level door was unlocked by Cece, and Vyron and I gained entrance. During this time, Monte and Merit were breaking into the abandoned warehouse across the street.

"At 0110 hours, Cece was on the AGH building roof; Merit and Monte were on the warehouse roof.

"At 0120, Vyron and I located the circuit breaker and shot every ounce of electricity out.

"At 0125, Members on the roof were readying the now harmless power-lines for 'the exhibition'. Simultaneously," I slowed, mixed emotions temporarily halting my speech. "Vyron and I took the elevator to the lowest level. We broke into the shaft, took the ladder to the vent system and from there made it to the private office. We took the banner and met Cece on the roof.

"It was now 0140 hours. Vyron was--"

"We all saw it happen!" Cece interrupted with a cry. "Why do we have to go over it again?" Tears broke from her eyes as she spoke, and the girl crumpled into one of the velveteen chairs. "Something was wrong," she mumbled into her hands. "Vyron-- he was better than that. He was the best."

Again, the rain pounded mercilessly outside, but, within, silence enclosed the group. I couldn't blame Cecily. Vyron was her brother. She knew him better than any of us.

From what I had heard, since the pair were small, they'd grown up in this building -- this drafty old theatre with its Gothic arches and crimson curtains. Completely outdated, the entire stage system was rigged by cranks and pulleys.

Never one for the limelight, Vyron spent his days "jumping the ropes" as they called it. Up there, among a mind-boggling, tortuous maze of twisted cord and wire, he had his own paradise. A show in itself, his work with the curtains fascinated. Many kids, including myself, found a strange sort of confidence in watching the boy dance effortlessly from one side of the stage to the other, nearly thirty feet above the ground.

As the years passed and the theatre's popularity melted into apathy, those who had once called the monstrosity a safe-house, now called it home.

That's how our group was formed together; it's also the basis for what we were doing that fateful night.

It was Vyron's idea. Jake York was the man whose office we broke into. We had asked him previously, offering much of our small store of cash for the old banners from the shows the folks had put on.

When he turned down our last offer without any more reason than a shallow laugh, we made a decision. Perhaps it was rash. Yet at the time, it seemed the only thing that we could do.

We stole the old theatre banner for their best play and hung it above the main street with every intention of giving the performance of our lives. But, it obviously didn't go as planned.

Vyron finished hanging the banner and was ambling back to the rooftop when it happened. He slipped and fell, plummeting toward the pavement far below. Somehow, he managed to catch hold of a window ledge, but his grip was uncommonly weak and he fell the remaining distance.

We were able to return to the theatre, but he didn't say a word the entire time. We helped him into the back row of crimson chairs, and there -- over-looking the theatre he loved -- Vyron died.

So there we sat -- not knowing why it happened, nor knowing what to do. There was no decision that we could truly feel comfortable making.

Finally, Merit spoke. "I think it's time to move out," she murmured. "Split up. Make up lives separate from the theatre."

"What about Vyron?" Cece questioned, turning her teary-eyed gaze toward her friend.

It took some time, but at last we convinced the girl of this: Vyron lived for the theatre; this is where he always wanted to be. The theatre had nothing left for us, but it held everything for Vyron. It was proper this way.

So, as we passed through the stage, I glanced back at the silent figure. It had taken this long for us to learn. First, the theatre tried to tell us; it never quite succeeded on its own. It took Vyron's death to drill the simple truth into our drama-obsessed minds.

Though often depressing, death, for the living, is life's little reminder: people are designed to be adaptable. So, when the going gets tough, get tougher. Forget about "thinking out of the box"; just get out of it.



2nd place


The piano music filled the concert hall. A haunting, gentle tune that stirred the air.
The seats where empty and the song fell on the distant confines of the roof.

Silently the cloaked figure slide between the rows and seated itself. Bright eyes closed and the slim figure smiled beneath the mask as the familiar tune warmed the rain chilled soul.

After a few minutes of passionate playing, the pianist finished and leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction.

With a swirl of fabric, the cloaked intruder stood and applauded, filling the room with an unprecedented sound.

Startled, the pianist tried to stand up, got his paws caught in the piano bench's legs, and ended the struggled by tipping the entire thing over on top of him.

"Oh, sheesh." the cloaked figure sounded annoyed, but he raced down the aisle and up onto the stage, quickly righting the bench and untangling the moaning musician.

"You don't have to go into hysterics because you're startled, y'know."

Wesley stared up at his brother with wide, glazed eyes. "Townly?"

The older weasel shook his head "No. I'm Mr. Harrison. Seriously. You should know my face by now."
"You scared me," the blond musician said tritely as he picked himself up.

Townly shrugged "I didn't mean to. But that was something of an overreaction. Even for you."

"I know.... I just so nervous.
"Oh," Townly smiled sympathetically "But, Wes, it'll be just like the other concerts."

"No it won't," snapped the younger brother "The other concerts weren't it Tasent Hall. And the pieces I played weren't ones I composed. There's going to be so many more creatures looking at me."

"I know for a fact that they won't."

Wesley lifted a dubious brow, sensing a sarcastic comment or witty note lying beneath the sympathy. He hesitated for a second, wondering whether or not to bite.
"What do you mean by that?"

"They'll all have their eyes closed, enjoying the rapturous melodies that you composed."

Wesley snatched a sheaf of sheet music and wacked his brother over the head with it "Shut up. You're not helping."


3rd place


Are you afraid of Death? I believe everyone is, in their own way, even me. Although perhaps my fear might differ from everyone else's, because of who I am. When most people try to imagine what what death is, I think they envision a hooded man in a long black robe, a skull mask, a scythe in one hand, and a forbidding nature. When in reality, I am actually quite lonely. Who do you know who would willingly spend their time with the embodiment of death itself? I don't know anyone who would, mostly because of the fact that no one comes around to see me, rarely coming around for a legend in the making or some such. And in any case, most of the time I can't even show myself, only to those who are dead or dying, and then I must send them on their way to heaven, or hell, or wherever they must go. So sometimes, when I feel the need to be empty, devoid of these lonely, depressing thoughts, I will . . . . Take a vacation, so to speak. There is an ancient coliseum in Rome that I am particularly fond of, because there I can lose myself in what used to be instead of who I am, and what that means. It is ruined, yes, but if you look long enough, you can see the grandeur it once held, and you can imagine the crowds roaring in excitement. But then I will crash back down to earth and realize I am not in fact an ordinary human being, but an entity that inspires fear.
However, even if I must always carry out my duty in solitude, I can always come back here, if only for that one fleeting moment of contentment.
My name is Death. Are you afraid now?

Poems

1st place

They use the passages to hide
By moon's light they sacrifice
The queen has seen the truth you see
However the king does not believe
He says
She weaves a feeble web
With lies and tales she sews her thread
How dare she spin such a lie
And now at midnight she will die

She grins at him and gives him a nod
She says
You're foolish lord, such a boy
Are you just the darkness's toy
How are you lord of this realm
People who see you are supposed to tremble
By your name they stop their rebel
Can't you see the darkness creep
Will it take you in your sleep
No, husband, I don't lie
But if you must kill me, go ahead and try
I know the way around my realm
Here, I give you my crown, you won't stand up and fight
I won't perish here tonight
All because you don't see darkness,
You only see the tricking light


2nd  place

The theater is a mysterious place.
Where beauty and tragedy stricks at the same time.
The audience will sit in silence.
Awe and horror going through their minds.
They don't pay attention to the things around them.
Where even more mystery is learking.
It will creep up on you in the moments silence.
The theaters shadow.
The theaters phantom.
It's own beauty.
It's own tragedy…
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PostSubject: Re: This is here.    Wed Jun 01, 2016 11:58 am

Clapping Ooo, these are all nice! I can even guess who wrote them (even though I'm not sure why...was this some kind of challenge?)
First story: Obviously Vinder.
Second: FiveSecondsToFly. (I'm familiar with the characters)
Third: dragonlass? (she's the only one other than Vinder that uses . . . and that sounds like something she'd write)
First poem: I have no idea who wrote it...
Second: Ranger of the North?
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PostSubject: Re: This is here.    Thu Jun 02, 2016 1:49 am

It was a challenge Ranger hosted on Chicken smoothie.

Yes.
Yes.
Yes.

krenko
And MexicanGrizzlyBear

You got three out of five. Very Happy XD

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