Limericks - A Poetry Challenge

Hello, hello, hello, and welcome one and all to the third poetry challenge on this here blog of bloggish bloggering: LIMERICKS! The rules are simple, but we'll get to that.

A limerick is pretty simple, here's an example:

There once was a hippo from London,
Whose shoelaces always were undone;
He tied them again
And time number ten,
But they still untied when he'd run.

Anyway, if you don't know what a limerick is, you can look it up. But anyway, this challenge is comprised of limericks. Here are the rules:

1. No inappropriate limericks. Limericks have a reputation for being as inappropriate as possible and they can be a bit above PG level. I will remove your limerick from the comments if I deem it too unseemly.

2. Write a limerick!!!!! And then post it in the comments if you want to.

3. See if you can come up with a rhyme for "pig iron." Write another limerick and use the two phrases, "pig iron" and whatever you come up with, at the end of your third and fourth lines. Post this in the comments, I want to see what everyone comes up with.

4. Check out the new template! How do you like it? Tell me your thoughts in the comments.

ANYWAY, LET THE CHALLENGE BEGIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Broomstick - Part Thirteen

And hear ye, hear ye, the thirteenth part of Broomstick! Enjoy, all ye who enter here! I'll update the "Inspector Wolfe Tales" page of the blog by Saturday, I promise.

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The squad carriage pulled up to the curb and we all tumbled out. It was me, Thumb, and two others: officers Snow White and Josiah “ugly duckling” Bernard.

Snow White and the ugly duckling were almost completely opposite. Officer White was a tall, slender, charming woman with dark locks and pale skin; Officer Bernard was a squatty musclebound bald man with a lazy eye and several scars on his face.

We all rushed forward to the door without a word, and immediately saw that something was wrong. The door was open and the house was dark. The ugly duckling quietly stepped across the threshold with wand extended, and the other two Peacelocks followed. I was last inside.

“Hello!” called Thumb. “Anybody here?”

“Something’s not right,” Snow White muttered.

“Fan out and search the building,” Thumb ordered. “Wolfe, go with the ug—er, Officer Bernard.”

I followed the Peacelock in question. We burst through several doors and finally ended up in the kitchen.

The worst of my fears were confirmed. A body lay sprawled on the floor, the body of Anthony Shipton.

“Man down!” shouted Officer Bernard. He rushed forward, knelt down, and took the man’s pulse. “He’s dead. Tom, he’s dead!”

I surveyed the scene and noticed several things. A mug of coffee was shattered on the floor, its liquid contents pooled over the tiles. I crouched down and dabbed at the coffee with my finger, raising it to my nose and taking a good sniff.

My nose wrinkled, and my face almost shriveled up in disgust. This guy used way too much creamer.

But then I realized what the pungent smell actually was. “One teaspoon gremlin ash, quarter pound wolfsbane, three tablespoons flour, one cup spider blood, two drops mandrake sap.”

My mind raced back to the scene of the crime yesterday morning. Aleck Shipton’s dead body. In his pocket, a folded piece of paper with a recipe on it.

Aleck Shipton had been in almost as deep as I was right now, and then he was killed before he could piece it together. He must have discovered the recipe when he was snooping around for clues. The recipe for the poison concoction that would kill his father.

My inn where I lodged was more or less halfway between the King’s Men Club and this house that I stood in right now.

They had planned to poison both of them, but Aleck had gotten wind of the operation. He was travelling from the club to warn his father when the spellbolt hit him. A powerful hex custom-crafted to look like a heart attack. He had spasmed and fallen to the ground, white as a sheet, and he had died.

But who would be powerful enough to have wrought such a powerful spell, much less used it without it backfiring? Some very magically adept person, in employ of the Three.

I had no leads, was the truth. All I knew was how the events had fallen in place, nothing more. I needed a new clue, a new lead. I needed some way to draw out whoever was behind all this.

I stared down at the sprawled body on the ground as Thumb came rushing into the room, followed momentarily by Snow. She gasped and looked away.

Thumb skirted around the puddle of deadly coffee on the floor, kneeling beside the victim. He went through various checks of vital signs. I decided to give him some information about it. “Thumb,” I said, “the coffee...it’s got the same ingredients as the list in the back of Aleck’s pocket; I could smell it.”

“What?” Thumb asked. “Oh.” He took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. “Way too much creamer—wait, you’re right. I can pick up the gremlin ash.”

“He’s been poisoned,” I said. “And it’s linked with Aleck.” I was trying to push as much as possible, give him leads. If I could convince Thumb to turn up the pressure on the investigation, then maybe it would play to my advantage in forcing the criminals out of hiding.

“You’re right,” Thumb answered. “And it must also be linked with Alice’s disappearance. Someone’s got a beef with the family or something; this can’t all be coincidence. And you know what? It may be connected with this whole Nether Key business, too!” He was hot on the trail now. Inwardly I started dancing for joy. If Thumb could get some leads, then I would be a step closer toward wrapping up this whole affair. It was going on far too quickly, and who knew how much time Alice had left? She couldn’t be stuck in the Nether Realm indefinitely. I had to free her. With or without the Nether Key she was still in harm’s way, and I was the only one who could help her.

“Get a forensics team,” Thumb ordered Snow, who nodded and left the room eagerly. She didn’t seem keen about staying with a dead body. “You’ve done well, Wolfe,” Thumb commended me. “But the Peacelocks are taking this one over.”

I groaned inside. This was the last thing I wanted. Thumb was back to being an idiotic prickly pear cactus of a detective. “Well, maybe I could help more,” I said.

“No, don’t get me wrong,” Thumb assured me. “I’ll have forensics search the house, and if anything turns up, I’ll inform you. Just this once, you’re on board as temporary consultant. If this goes well, I’ll send you a check. But for now, you don’t have much you can do. Go back home.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” I said, a bit confused. Thumb was actually being...well, being practical, for once. I nodded. “I’ll let myself out,” I remarked, turning and leaving the room. I felt a touch of pride at the prospect of being a consultant, even if it was a temporary post for just this single investigation. My dreams were close; I was closer than ever to being a certified detective. A temporary consultant’s status would show well on my resumé. Perhaps I would even get some sort of discount or scholarship to the Peacelock University so that I could become a certified investigator. The world would know my fame, at last!

But for now, this investigation was closest at hand. I needed to concentrate my efforts, and I needed a little something done for me.

Broomstick - Part Twelve

I ran up the sidewalk towards the Peacelock HQ. As much as I hated this, it might be the only way. I had to get police help quickly.

I hurried in through the door and brushed past several people to the front desk in the lobby. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait in line,” the receptionist informed me, a cat in a gray suit.

“No time,” I told her. “I need to see Tom Thumb, it’s an emergency and I think someone’s about to be murdered.”

“I’ll notify him,” the receptionist responded. “Now, I have people in line.”

“No, do it now,” I insisted. The cat at the desk ignored me, so I left and journeyed down the hall. I passed a “No visitors beyond this point” sign but ignored it and acted like I worked there. Not strictly legal, but someone’s life was on the line.

I knocked on the closed door to Tom Thumb’s office. “Come in!” he yelled.

I opened the door, and he started in his chair. “James Wolfe!” he exclaimed. “You’re not supposed to be in here. I’ll escort you out!”

“Tom,” I growled, “Anthony Shipton is about to be murdered, if he isn’t dead already.”

“I’ll get a squad carriage,” Thumb told me. “You’re not off the hook, Wolfe!”

I sat down in a chair in front of his desk. “I don’t care. Someone’s going to be dead if we don’t get to him right this instant.”

Thumb got up from his position behind his desk and made a few quick scries. “Okay, Wolfe, we’ve got a team. Snow White and the ugly duckling volunteered.”

“The ugly duckling?” I chuckled.

            “It’s a nickname,” Thumb explained cryptically. “All right, let’s go.”

The President - A Short Story

The sweaty rain fell upon the earth in hordes upon hordes, like a volley of liquid spears thrown down at the armies of the world. The whipping wind stirred it into spirals as it fell, creating a tearing vicious storm in the hands of the darkness. The bleeding sky tore open in a brilliant flash of forked light. A crack tumbled forward, carried on the wings of the wind, as if a veil had been torn.

In the light the President thought he could see faces, ghostly shapes in the darkness beyond the weeping window. Their eyes, pale and weak, shone with a determined light that was at the same time brave and dwindling.

He could always see them on rainy nights. He remembered these faces well. He remembered the motorcade, the darkness, the slashing storm that bit into the cheeks of hearty men much braver than he. They had protected him. He had not protected them.

He remembered with grave detail the feel of the fountain pen in his hand, the peculiar way it slightly slipped every single time, every single time he inscribed the “u” into the grainy papers at 2:00 a.m. At 2:00 a.m. his signature had changed forever. Even today the pen, the same pen, slipped.

“There’s no such thing as solace,” muttered the President. “No such thing.” He turned his head down and stared at the carpet. All he could hear in the rumbling of the thunder was the firing of the guns. All he felt was the press of the seat into his shoulder as he was flung down away from the window. The lightning was a flashing muzzle. Seven men gave life and limb. Seven men to whom he was more indebted than to anyone, and whom he could never repay. Seven men, seven years ago. Now it was his last night in the Oval Office. He turned away from the window.

Announcement: Concerning Camp NaNoWriMo

www.nanowrimo.org

www.campnanowrimo.org

During the month of April, I fought a long and arduous struggle with several powerful dark creatures: Writer's Block (Wielder of the Blank Page and Evil Overlord of the Slowly Shifting Word Count), Distraction (That Dancing Llama at the corner of your eye who entices you with cotton candy and cookies, only to destroy your whole manuscript when you approach in hopes of treats), School (I won't even go into that; suffice it to say it impeded my word count very much), Despair (at the meager size of my word count), and, perhaps worst of all, Sickness. I came down with some bad poison ivy, coupled with a fever, around the second week of the month.

Any fellow Wrimos out there know how important the second week is. You can catch up on the first week, but if you don't stay on track for the second, it all falls to pieces. I still managed to write quite a lot (I was aiming for 75K, and I cranked out enough to put me in position to conquer 50K). But after my second week, I basically gave up, and only managed about 3000 more the rest of the month.

I have won NaNoWriMo before, last November in fact. But Camp NaNoWriMo, the April session at least, was not in my destiny. I had several essays and projects to write in school, as well as the dreaded ALGEBRA, worst of all horrors, so that when I came home I was exhausted by the time I finished homework. All these factors I've mentioned combined to beat me to a pulp this April. I only managed 30K the whole month. Which isn't bad, considering the obstacles. But it's still far short of the intended goal.

However, in July, I will try again, and there won't be school to impede me. Hopefully, I'm healthy, too. The phoenix will rise again!

Broomstick - Part Eleven

Here's part eleven! We left off with our hero escaping the dwarves with the Nether Key, which he cleverly took in his escape. Now the story continues.

I've been tagged again...by Leilani Sunblade this time (http://dreams-dragons.blogspot.com/2013/04/tagged-again.html ). So I'll do it right here as quickly as possible. Same tag as last time.

1. I have red hair that needs to be cut soon.
2. I love to play chess.
3. I have never owned a hamster.
4. I want to see the new Star Trek and Man of Steel, but I can wait for Iron Man 3 probably.
5. I live on earth.
6. I like science fiction, and am trying to write some.
7. I am currently reading Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury.
8. I think it's a good book.
9. I write poetry from time to time.
10. I like to draw people's faces, but I can't get body proportions down right.

-------------------

The next morning when I woke, it was on my bedside table. The box that contained the Nether Key was right there, and I couldn’t return it.

I went downstairs and out after carefully hiding it (in my sock drawer) and purchased a paper out in the street. I returned to the Sleazy Fox and ordered some breakfast and began reading. The front-page headlines stated: POWERFUL ARTIFACT STOLEN FROM IMPOUND

The article was about the Nether Key, of course, and to my annoyance featured Tom Thumb as an interviewee. To my further dismay the paper reported that he wouldn’t be taking today off for the Broomstick holiday, but would rather be continuing his investigation into this.

The death of Aleck Shipton and the disappearance of his sister Alice were bumped back to the second page. The recipe in Aleck’s pocket was not mentioned, but the cause of death had been determined to be a heart attack. I highly doubted it was that simple, but the recipe he had in his pocket hadn’t been what killed him. I read a little more about Tom Thumb’s exploits and then breakfast arrived, and I handed the paper to Woody. I ate quickly and headed out to the library.

The mysterious “Three” wanted Alice alive for some reason. They wanted her brother Aleck dead for some reason. They also wanted the Nether Key, which they did not have. Why?

I checked out a few books on the Nether Key and spent the morning scanning the pages of those up in my room at the inn. What I found was not very helpful.

It had something to do with the Nether Realm, but the problem lay in the fact that nobody really knew what the Nether Key did. There was much speculation about the subject, but the artifact was kept locked up and had never been used in recorded history. All that was known about it was that several had tried to channel its power, to disastrous effects.

I wrote down a few possible uses of the Key:

Nether Key

Summoning the dead/supernatural being(s)

Control over death

Control of the Nether realm

Grants wishes

Gives immortality

Curses the user to be a vampire or other creature of darkness

This was more promising. If I could figure out what they might want it for, I could derive what they needed to do in order to use the Nether Key. I fished around to see if there were any references to kidnapping, and I thought I found something to do with summoning a supernatural being and controlling the Nether Realm.

The sacrifice of a person with no family and a deep connection with the Nether Realm is thought by many theorizers to be required for the proper rites to do with summoning the great Titan Ishgrald of the Dark.

And then it hit me like a brick to the face. Alice was the sacrifice, of course; but what I hadn’t realized in time was something I should have seen coming. My mind flashed back to when I first eavesdropped on the two dwarves in the King’s Men ballroom.

“Did you hear the news?”

“Of course.”

“He’s dead.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“Same as tomorrow.”

“Of course. With Aleck out of the way, all that’s left is Old Man Shipton, and then Alice.”

Alice Shipton still had family. And I might already be too late.

Hide and Go Seek - A Jethraxx Nokt Tale

I wrote this story quite recently, and I've written another story similar to it called Playing Poems. It's on Iron Wyvern, but I will post it on here at some point in time. Anyway, they are similar because the genre could probably best be described as "Little Boy Dark Forest" fiction. Enjoy.

"Gonk! Are you there? Gonk!" The little boy peered into the darkness of the forest trees. He saw nothing within that dark forest,  but he had just seen his pet rabbit leap into those bushes inside it. "Gonk!" he called, stumbling forward into the bushes. He tripped over a root but caught himself by grasping onto a thin ash tree. Rollo was a little boy of four years of age. "Gonk!" he exclaimed. "Where are you? Gonk!"
He began to feel that Gonk was never going to come back to him, and the thought made him pause for a second. But then he thought: Gonk is my friend. Gonk is just playing hide-and-go-seek. Rollo ran farther through the bushes with an earnest expression on his little face, calling, "Gonk! I'm going to find you! Gonk!"
Rollo suddenly realized that it was really dark inside the forest. He couldn't see very well. Gonk had the strategic advantage, but Rollo knew that he had to keep looking. To give up was to accept defeat. Defeat was unquestionably bad. Gonk would come out and taunt him.
"But Momma says I need never go in the forest on the west edge," Rollo intoned solemnly. "She says it's bad and I could get lost or aten. If I got aten I couldn't find Gonk."
Then another thought came to him: what if GONK got aten? That would be worse. Rollo called, "Gonk! No more hide-and-go-seek! You're gonna get aten by the monsters!"
There it was, at last. Spoken. He had avoided the thought, but once he spoke the word he shuddered and realized how alone he felt, and how dark it was, and how cold the wind blew. When Rollo had walked into the forest, it had been late evening. By now the sun was probably nearly down.
But Rollo was brave, and reluctant to give up. If Gonk was lost, he had to help Gonk get back out of the forest before the monsters eated them both. "Gonk!" he yelled again. He tumbled through the waist-high grass and underbrush, wading into a sea of darkness. He caught his pant-leg on a thorn, and he had to tug at it to get it unstuck. By now, he was on the verge of hysteria, a little child lost in the woods pursuing something that was too far gone to be retrieved.
He finally freed himself from the grasp of the thorn, but the momentum sent him sprawling onto the ground. It jarred him, and as his eyes searched the darkness it suddenly occurred to him: I'm lost. "Monsters, don't eat me," he muttered. The uttering of this sentence sent him over the edge. Rollo curled up on the ground, rocking back and forth. "Momma! Gonk! Daddy!" he shouted, his voice a frightened wail. "Momma! Daddy! Gonk!" A fleeting thought told him that more noise would ward off the monsters, so he began yelling hoarsely at the top of his lungs. He didn't even hear an echo; nothing came back to him except the silent absorption of the darkness around him. He was the only living thing in the world, other than the monster.
In his imagination, he thought up a giant reddish pig of a creature, with snorting nostrils and stamping hooves. It had two long tails like a lion, and its great huge teeth dripped with saliva, but its eyes were the worst: glowing yellow lights, like lanterns or furnaces. Those fires could only be kept going with the blood of little boys and bunny rabbits.
At this conjuration, Rollo buried his face in his hands and sobbed, wailed. He looked around as the warm tears trailed down his dirty cheeks. He could see no light, anywhere.
He heard a rustle in the grass, the snapping of a twig. "Hello," said a voice.
"Hello," Rollo answered, hiccuping as he stopped sobbing. "Who are you?"
"My name is Jeth," said the voice. "Who are you, little boy?"
"I'm Rollo," said the little child, shivering with a sudden cold he felt, blowing softly over his skin and raising goosebumps. "Rollo Tanner. I was looking for Gonk, my rabbit, and I got lost. Can you help me?"
"A rabbit?" Jeth asked. "Why yes, I think I saw one just a while ago. I have good eyes in the dark."
"Really?"
"Yes, little child," Jeth assured him from the dark. Rollo couldn't actually see anyone, but he felt a cold breeze and he thought he felt the presence of someone near him. "Follow me," Jeth commanded, taking Rollo's little hand. His touch was cold, so cold that at first Rollo flinched and tried to pull his hand back, but the person in the dark held him firmly. Rollo felt the freezing grip burn into his wrist as he was pulled along through the forest.
Before, he had stumbled through blindly, but with Jeth, though Rollo walked and thought he felt his feet touch the ground and the grass brush his sides, it was as if he was gliding over a soft silky surface; he felt no root touch his foot, and never tripped.
As they passed along, a strange orange light developed, so dim that it made Rollo's eyes strain even more than they had in the dark. He thought that he could see the vague shape of the form in front of him. He could tell it was a human form, but Jeth seemed too tall and wispy to be a normal person. Rollo didn't mind saying so. "You're tall," he giggled, wriggling his wrist under Jeth's firm grip. "And you're cold."
"Do you know what manners are?" Jeth asked, genuinely inquisitive to Rollo's naive ears.
The little child answered in a heartbeat. "Yes I do. Don't burp or toot or pick your nose or--or--or--or, uh, poop your pants." At this he giggled uncontrollably. "I think I pooped mine," he announced cheerily. "Did you know that you're cold?"
"Yes," Jeth answered. Rollo smiled at the darkness.
"That orange light is a little brighter," he said. Now he could make out the silhouette of Jeth's face, thin, with a sharp curved nose. He looked down but didn't see individual legs or feet, just a black shadowy form, like a long dress or skirt, gliding across a silvery glinting ground. It was almost as if...Rollo thought...he was made of shadows.
"Are you sure my rabbit went this way?" he asked, noticing the cruel curve of Jeth's nose again.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure. What was its name again?" asked Jeth absent-mindedly.
"You didn't remember it?" squealed Rollo. "You don't care about Gonk after all! You're just a gonna sell me, uh, take me and sell me to the gybsies!"
"Of course not," Jeth denied, his grip tightening on Rollo's little wrist. His hand was icy, even colder now it seemed, and upon Jeth's tightening it, Rollo suddenly cried out sharply.
"Can't you be quiet?" Jeth sneered. "We're almost there."
As he said this, the orange light grew brighter, and Rollo saw Jeth's face clearly for the first time as they descended into a little hollow. It was pale, paler than the moon, and there was an evil glint like that of a curved scimitar in the figure's eyes. This was no friend of Rollo's.
"We've arrived," Jeth cackled, and turned to the boy.
"Help!" Rollo yelled. "Help help!" He began screaming as loud as he could, until an icy numbness stopped his throat from uttering sound. His numb mouth jabbered and moved, but no sound came out.
He looked down and saw that ice had covered the ground, a thick layer, and Jeth rose like a phantom out of its expanse. He was a monster, his cruel face reflecting in the orange light.
The light came from a small den in the dirt wall of the hollow, an evil ghoul-light, and Rollo knew enough of local lore to recognize a ghoul.
"Ha! Annoying child!" Jeth smirked, tossing Rollo into the den. The little boy landed right next to the large crystal that was the source of the eerie orange light. It glowed and pulsed and throbbed when he came near. Tears rolled down Rollo's cheeks as he silently sobbed; he was going to be devoured by a ghoul.
"I am the Jethraxx Nokt," announced the ghoul, ducking into the little den and grasping the ghoul-light. "Terror of Kings, The Phantom of Dark Ice, the Kolwolf. Foolish child, I will strike you down; and who is there to save you?"
Rollo stopped staring up at the phantom, and instead his eyes looked past. He uttered a single word. "Gonk," he said.
"Boy!" raged the Jethraxx Nokt. "Be silent!"
"Gonk," Rollo insisted.
The ghoul seemed to be a little smaller, and his light faded a bit.
"Gonk, you found me!" Rollo repeated, and scurried forward, out to the opening of the den. The phantom was gone now, and what illuminated the hollow instead of the crystal was the glowing tail of the little rabbit, silver in the night. "I was hiding, and you were seeking," Rollo muttered. "I was wrong. Can you lead me out of here?"
He patted his rabbit's fur, and Gonk led him out of the forest and into the dawn.