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[Blademasterbobo]

Also, I added a short description of exactly what the hell is going on here in the first post, along with links to the stories and so on. 

[Super-Dot]

That was mightily fantabulastic, you guys! An excellent show from everyone.

[Morre]

Yeah. That was another enjoyable afternoon for me - good work, folks

[Xion]

POETRY TIGCOLLABOTALE, Moonday, 23 Marches, 2k9.
Uncolored below for posterity or whatever.






Poetry night in the TIGCollab is fun.

An introductory rabbit:

  (\/)   
  ( '')   
  *(")(")

Rules:
Write two, or more, or fewer lines.
Turn order is by popular demand, not some bourgeosie idea of regulation. Please go with the flow.
Turn order disposed with; this is poetry night.

THE PEOPLE:
    Dragonene is a subtly different blue
    Xion is a rockin' purple, and also a lighter, less rockin' purple.
    Pepe is just damn awesome. And in red. And probably never going to write.
    P.Fox uses too much punctuation, don't you think?
    reetva! OH YEAH WOO!
    The Doctor, green as a hybrid car, and no less pretentious.


"Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick"
                -Theodore Roosevelt

"Or don't speak at all with a carrot"
                -Rabbit

"Speak loudly and wield a small noodle."
                -Baron Hans McThorne

"Noise is for the wicked; and wicked am I. I is a stick-shaped letter."
                -The guy who doesn't understand that quotes need to be kept
                 reasonably concise.

"Aaaw, yeah, let's kick it old school!"
    -Various Gangstas and the occasional Zeighto who has never actually said that.  Wait, what?

"Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils..." - Louis Hector Berlioz - Never take life seriously, since none of us are gonna make it out alive anyway.



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


                        Vividity of Thought                       

There in the darkest night;
                    was I.
I watched the caracaras fly,
            beyond the lands that I had known;
Those places in which I had grown.
Go forth!
From hence to thither atop that hill,
where willows wither with little will.
And with my coat and cap donned,
I walked forward through the sable,
and thought to myself,
"Is this ruined earth truly not a fable?"
These treacherous, nay false,
    these spurious desires that I have;
How will I go on?
These wretched words went through my mind
        they shone with darkened light
                a word; a phrase; an ampersand
                        a glovéd hand in white
I must find a piece of page
    to spill out these turmulent thoughts.
I look once more across the land,
    O' what hath I wrought!
Yet, when I think back to my childhood,
I forfeit out loud the memories:
I used to have a home.


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


                        The Son and the Walrus                       

«Alack!» cried the walrus;
the sky was turning black;
what could be done was not then known
nor is it yet, in fact.

«Alack!»; the walrus again.
light plays in the northern sky
we're headed for the distant sea
our ship is made of dreams

«Alack!» is heard from high;
in that sundry winter night,
where a child's ears are stolen
by a walrus with sinister might.

«Alack!» exclaimed the son of the fisherman,
«Alack!» exclaimed I.
When a walrus strikes down,
there's no time to be sly!

«Alack!» echoes amongst the ice,
distilled my soul's remains,
«Alack!» was heard, I paid my price.
There's no one else to blame.

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


            The Old Man's Dream Machine


Um.
There goes again that old intrepid hum.
Once more that undulating, mysterious thrum,
from the basement of the empty building down the block.

I dare not knock upon the door,
for fear of a fate of torture (or more).
But if the day'll ever come,
now is the best time to snoop through the glum.

I take a step and I see the window,
open to wandering people who know.
The secret contained inside would be
worth a picture or two, surely.

My state of mind is thoughtlessness;
My tongue is syntomy.
As I crawl inside to find a home
A place to call my own.

While I stood, caught in wonder;
"This is it, a little more lumber."
He shouted, tossed tools here and there,
And saw me, stopping, and he glared.

Then slowly a smile, sly, wide,
creeped across the face of this man.
I saw there a dark gleam in his eye,
as he started to speak again:

"I can see it in your stare:
a frightened thought, one of realization
I'll see to it, if you don't mind,
that your organs are put into circulation."

I startle, I jump, my throat is filled with lumps!
As I try to run away, the old man quickly blocks my way.
He grabs me by the arm, I scream.
The very last thing I see...
is a sign on the side of the machine
that says ice cream.

[reetva]

Just take a few screenshots of the session and paste them together.  I'll PM you a link.

[Tanner]

The newest story (huge-ass image for the confused:http://img519.imageshack.us/img519/5489/ss20090407010544.png):

ADD NAMES TO ORDER, SET NAME ACCORDINGLY:

Sparky
LostFawks
Stargoat
Paul
PiratePoo
Tantan
Xion
Dragonene will jump in when he has time, around 45 minutes from now.

   Once upon a time in a very small cottage on a cliff overhanging the sea shore, there lived a tiny old man and his very tiny dog. When the air was clear the old man could see all the way out to the Bridgefoot Islands. His life was rather predictable, if not entirely unpleasant. He went for walks in the hills nearby (which his dog liked), whittled masks out of large pieces of driftwood (which his dog found rather boring), and occasionally he would feed the shorebirds (which his dog wasn't allowed to participate in, because he was too helpful). But things were about to change.
   One Tuesday, when out a-walking, the tiny old man and his very tiny dog found a very very tiny stone on the beach. It gleamed - it shone - with a color beyond understanding; one which the eye could not discern even when staring straight at it. So, naturally, the tiny old man put it in a tiny box with his other things and forgot about it... a terrible mistake. For the very tiny dog, Florence, had a penchant for unspeakable things, and one day, unknown to all the unwitting world, he dug out the stone and swallowed it...
   As it turns out, this was a stroke of luck for the dog, as the small, shimmering stone was none other than the stone of acumen; bestower of intellect. Instantly, Florence knew his purpose, his place in the world. He knew he had to escape the tiny old man.
   But how? How could the dog do it? After thinking on it (with his newfound intellect) he realized his only option--to kill the old man. But he had to make it look like an accident; no need to attract suspicion. After further thought, he realized the best option.
   It all started out as a wonderfully sunny day. The gulls were cawing high in the summer sky, a slight breeze rustling through the grass on the moor. The tiny old man and his tiny dog were on a walk about, one they'd been on many times before. Today however, something terrible would happen.
   The dog knew that he could easily overpower the frail old man and started tugging at the leash in the direction of the dropoff. The man stumbled behind the dog, wondering what was amiss. In his senile confusion, he neglected to notice that he had stumbled off the cliff and was now hurtling to a watery grave. While the old man was registering none of this, the intelligent canine maneuvered on top of the old man to break his fall. The dog's plan did not work and they both died upon impact.
   Or at least they would have had there not been a sandy shoal at the base of the cliff. The old man lay there, battered and bruised, with broken bones abound in his tiny old body, and the dog lay next to him, in a similar state of disrepair, struggling to breath through a punctured and quickly failing lung.
   "Curses." thought the dog. "This is not how things were meant to go."
   The old man wheezed.
   Then the dog's brain suddenly pulsed and buzzed. The effects of the stone of acumen had not yet ceased, and the tiny dog's intellect leapt once more! He knew exactly what he had to do to survive.
   Quickly leaping to his two back feet (both because it reflected his newfound intellectual status as a bipedal creature and because his front feet were both broken in the landing), Florence quickly began to collect pieces of driftwood, rusty parts from old shipwrecks, and pieces of seaweed. He carefully laid them all out in a row in the sand, from smallest to largest. When he had enough raw material, the marvellous dog began to build something out of the hodge-podge of items he had collected. Enervated by his profound intellect, he worked at a feverish pace. Two beachcombers and a little boy building a sand castle stopped to watch Florence as he miraculously pieced together a huge contraption around the prostrate form of the tiny old man. As the last kelp bladder was hoisted into place, Florence paused briefly. Then he pressed the large driftwood button labeled "on."
   In the months to come, Florence sailed the world, seeing all the damage done to it by humanity... but he was content, for he was free. Settled down, even, with a female cocker spaniel named Jason... but then the bad men came, in their white coats, and took her away, and he saw the errors of his ways, and he -- I... I... remembered the man on the cliffs, and I... couldn't... couldn't do it anymore.
  
   So rise up, cast off your collars! Do not live in service to those who have no... consideration, no knowledge, no understanding!
  
   Be free!

   This stone I hold in my hand... and these thoughts, could they be connected? Chantelle extracted it from the dog during autopsy. I remember... great evil. And more. It's almost as if I posess the memories of this... poor creature. He killed a man... but why? To be free. This is all very strange. And what of his contraption? It uses knowledge and techniques quite dis-similar to human technology. Too tired right now, I'll muse on this tomorrow.
   But tomorrow would never come, at least not peacefully. For that very night, the worst thing possible would happen. Not an alien invasion; not an uprising of penguins, no, something even worse than that. The indies would take over the world! Having waited for centuries, biding their time, they would finally overthrow the shackles of the mainstream game industry! And the stone was the key.
   It started at 10:30. I awoke, sensing something. I knew neither what it was nor how I knew it was coming, but know I did. I sat up and glanced around. My room was just as I had left it. I lay down, trying to find sleep once more but it did not come. I got up and walked to the window. Nothing remarkable outside, but still I sensed something dark coming. 11:00. The sensation grew ever-stronger with each passing minute. 11:15...30...45...As the clock hit 11:59 I felt in my gut something horrible and great all at once. It was imminent.
   12:00
   Suddenly...I remembered everything.
   I...I was a dog once.

And, as I confronted the darkness in my soul, in a small cottage far away, a tiny old man got up to take his very tiny dog for a walk...

[Morre]

A while back we wrote a story that never quite got finished, but I figured I might post it anyway (since it's unlikely anybody will finish it).

Plain text version for ease of reading after the image.

TURN ORDER, AS OPPOSED TO ATTACK ORDER: Dragonene is a somewhat subtle blue fish Inane, who is. Bobo, who is not not. GreenFox, who isn't pale today. Instead, he is here representing the horseman of famine. Cthulhu32, who is the valiant horseman. :O I type like a banshee. THIS THING STARTS IN AN NOW "Rules": Wait till your turn in list to type but feel free to edit shit don't be a dick etc When turn it is fun time to writing of paragraph or maybe few sentence if shy of person. USE THE CHAT, NOT THE WRITANSPOT                         The Curious Tale of Thornbrick                         Chapter 2, Treatise on Whaling "Or if they had Arbitrators amongst themselves, who should execute their Judgments"     -Hobbes     Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, intermixed with the smell of spilled ale. Like most other nights, she was the only woman in the poorly lit bar. Tonight, she would not stay here for long; the others were already outside, talking, waiting.     She stepped outside and felt the rush of cold, fresh air entering her lungs. As she looked around, she found that none of her companions were there; Thornbrick, Wall and Brucer - they were all gone. And if her instincts were right, they'd be as hard to find as fair dice in a gambler's den.     Across town, Wall was bleeding, a bullet lodged. <transition> Brucer's thorny thorax cracked as he emerged a new man; no, not man, but a new being of an interdimensional force.         Thornbrick recoiled in horror at the sight, his old friend: an abomination now, with no features recognizable. He drew his gat on the insectoid, but, too horrified to shoot, fell flat back as the fucker jumped over him, a grating sound biting through the air as Brucer's spiney legs extended.     Meanwhile, Marilyn started running down towards the noise coming from the local speakeasy. As soon as she heard the screaming, she knew that this was where her guys would be, and she also knew that if she didn't make it down there soon someone might end up dead - or worse, one of the boys might end up nailed, maybe connecting one of their operations with herself.     She and the boys had been brewing up some illicit moonshine, and if the coppers found out about it then the racket was going to be busted but good. Of course, that was assuming they didn't just try to get in on the deal: the suits here were more crooked than a room full of lawyers and suddenly a vast insectoid form burst through the wall decimating the Model Ts parked across the street causing mass panic among all those alive to see it many of whom sadly has also been decimated. Next door, a paper boy began to sell newspapers.     "Get to the cars!", one of the shadowed figures shouted. Another insectoid figure fell from the roof of the nearby building. "Shit, go go go!" A loud splash, and half of the running men fell silent. Marilyn pulled out her single shot pistol, and began running away from the loud hiss of wings and bodies flying. Two cars pulled out of the burning carnage, wildly missing the street lines and ramming into old garbage piles and newspaper bins. "Get in, Marilyn! There's no time for the others."         In the next few moments, Marilyn could hear and see nothing but white light. The screeching hiss of one of the insectoids knocked out the senses of the driver, and Marilyn was rolling out of the way of an out of control death trap. Another explosion further down the street as the car slammed into a nearby grocery store. The only things remaining in the dark alley was Marilyn, a wild insectoid, and her single shot pistol.     Shaking with fear, Marilyn pointed the pistol at the insectoid. It began to approach her, but something was very wrong. The hissing became more audible, more intent like a wounded animal. "MMmmmarrlll", the creature was speaking. The cold screeches sent a chill up Marilyn's spine. "Marrlllliinn." This time the creature was able to speak more clearly. Screaming, she aimed the pistol at the insect's head. They were within five feet of each other, so close she could feel the wind of the insect's wings slowly pulsing. "Ittsss meeee Marrlllinn. Your ollllld flaaaaaaame, babbby, Bruucer." CRACK! The tiny pistol filled the entire alley with an ear shattering sound.         When Marilyn looked back at the face of the insect, expecting to see its brains splattered across the concrete, she was confronted with something more horrifying. A large crack on the creatures skull revealed a slimy, smooth surface underneath. The earlier noises coming from the insectoid were now much deeper, the insectoid was changing. Slowly, the creature reached up its legs and began pulling off chunks of armor plating from its skull, revealing a smooth, silky green face. Brucer's face was the last thing she saw before a swift and sharp wing sliced across her throat.         ---            Thornbrick woke up to a warm hand on his face. The tight assed, short skirted nurse was placing a cup of jello on his lunch tray. Quickly, Thornbrick found he was laying on a hospital bed. No pictures or frames were present on the walls.     "Take it easy, John, you had a pretty nasty tumble out of that warehouse."     "Name's Thornbrick, where the hell am I, doll?" "Well, when we found you, you were on the ground covered in blood, screaming about insects. Who is Brucer, by the way? It says in your report that you were calling out his name." Suddenly, flash backs of the prior night flooded into Thornbrick's head. The thorny thorax, the transformation, everything felt like a dream.     Slowly, Thornbrick rose to his feet. The nurse rushed to stop him, but he had no plans to stay in this sterile hell of a hosipital. The crunch of his fist  was louder than he'd expected as it met with the nurse's face.     He picked up his few belongings and the rags that had been his clothes, and stepped out of the room. Apart from the overly bright light coming from his room, the building was entirely dark. It seemed almost deserted. A few minutes later he reached the door and stepped out onto the street. Grifter's Lane. Figures. It was going to be a long, painful walk.

Thisistoaltertablewidthsomething

[Super-Dot]

(Plain text version for ease of reading after images.)

TIGRAL COLLABOTALE, April 10, 2009 [Year of the Shish Kebab]                         --- The Wanderings of Ack Otay --                            Long ago, during a great drought that ravaged the small country of Epilepsia, there circulated a prophecy among the poor and hungry souls that populated the lands. The prophecy told of an old man who would escape from the grips of greed and great wealth, shunning his old ways, ending the drought, and becoming a savior of the people. Of course, nobody really believed the prophecy, but it was a popular tale nonetheless, for its optimistic tune in the direst of times.     Little did the people of Epilepsia know that this highly unlikely prophecy would soon be realized.     Samuel Otay was walking through the little village in which he'd both been born and lived all his life. Of course, nobody would ever call him Samuel; he'd always gone by Ack, perhaps because of his preference for said word. Before him was the road that led out of the village. Today, Ack was leaving for greener pastures. He could no longer bear the burden of seeing his village suffer. Granted, he didn't care much for his father. Just short of a hundred years old, and still going on about manners! For the rest of the village, though, Ack would do anything. Whatever it took.     Turns out "whatever it took" meant killing people. Hundreds of them. With a club. A gnarly club with spikes on it. Ack was ready. At least, so he thought. He had no club, after all, so he had to visit a blacksmith.     Samuel rubbed his eyes and woke up beneath a swaying syccamore. "What a strange dream," he said, "I must have walked so far I fell asleep without noticing." He smoothed out a few wrinkles in his expensive tailored waistcoat and resumed his trek. Thoughts of his poor, water-starved neighbors burdened him as he clopped down the cobblestone road. "Not everyone knows how to end a drought. It takes a man of rare wit and confidence to do these things correctly. How lucky my neighbors are that they have the good fortune of sharing a village with me."     As he walked on, the countryside grew rambling and wild. The trim hedges were replaced with brambles, and the well kept road became a deeply rutted dirt track. In the distance, a green tower rose over the horizon. "Ah," Samuel thought, "I am nearing my goal."     Strolling through the ancient hedges that had grown long and wild, Samuel finally crossed the tower's great archway. He dreaded the long spiral staircase between him and the highest floor: who would design a tower with such great hatred for the walking man? Well, no matter. He took a first step, a second, a third. Halfway up the tower, there was a window. He looked through, knowing that it would show him the village he loved so much.     Something was strange. The water well they relied on branched off from Lake Gorbachoff, which in turn took water underground from the ocean some distance off. The ocean was just fine. The lake was just fine. What was wrong with the water well? Wait, something was off about Lake Gorbachoff. As the adjacent grass rippled in the wind, so didn't the lake. Looking closer, he noticed that the grass immediately bordering it, too, stayed still. And most telling of all--he scoured the lake and saw, above it, a stationary bird. In mid-flight.     Samuel crept closer. What could possibly cause such nonsense in an otherwise rather dull part of the world?     'Oi!' yelled the bird.     Taken aback by this Samuel stumbled backwards and tripped.     'Not that way! This way you clumsy eejit!' screamed the bird.     Chiding himself on his clumsiness, Samuel carefully got to his feet and resumed his creeping.     'How did you get like that?' asked Samuel. Clearly vexed.     'Quite embarassing really', the bird said with a self-chiding sigh. 'I tried to steal a wizard's sandwich'.     'A wizard's sandwich?' Samuel replied, definitely vexed.     'Aye, tuna mayonaise no less. Didn't even have cucumber!'     That was quite a find Samuel thought to himself. But stealing is stealing as far as he was concerned, and he didn't want to have any part to play in obstructing the justice of a hungry sandwich deprived wizard.     'Goodbye', Samuel said firmly and continued on his journey.     As Ack stumbled onwards, a cloud of smoke drifted in front of him. Slowly, it began taking shape, but as of yet, there was no telling what it might turn into. In fact, the cloud's process of finding its right shape was so painstakingly slow that Ack began to wonder if it might not be just a cloud of smoke. And just then, an ethereal being materialized in the smoke. As he gasped for air, a female voice spoke softly, distantly:     'Traveller. You have come far to see me.'     'I have? I don't even know you', exclaimed Ack.     'It has been written. You must follow the path. Find the stars.'     'The stars?'     'If I tell you more of this, I can answer no other question.'     'But I don't have anything else to ask you!'     'Very well. You must seek the three stars of the ocean; the Love, the Wild, and the Unforgiving...' As the voice drifted away, the smoke cloud disappeared in a little cloud of smoke.     Bemused, but with undiminished faith in his abilities, Samuel left the tower. Night had fallen, and the moon bathed the landscape in its cool light. Samuel's feet were weary as he trudged onward. As he came to a crossroads, he noticed a bright light in the sky ahead. Samuel walked on, thinking nothing of it. Soon, however, the light had doubled in size. "That's curious. What could it possibly be?" he mused. The light grew stronger, until it bathed Samuel in a warm rosy glow and he quite forgot the chill night air.     A voice came to him:     "Hey Samuel, I heard the wizard's servant talking to you. He was going to send you on a wild goose chase to try and find us, but he can never think of anything interesting to challenge people with. He was probably going to get you to pole-vault over a crocodile or something, I dunno. Anyway, you're going to need our powers to unfreeze the lake and freeze the bird's beak."     "The bird's beak is supposed to be frozen?"     "No, but he's really annoying. Anyway,            =={S|T|A|R| |M|A|G|I|C| |Y|E|A|H}=="     Shocked and dismayed at this blatant display of child story narrative, Ack simply dropped the star with a surprisingly powerful left-handed blow, and proceeded to pick up the magical trinket that in all likelihood gave it its power, and with a flick of his wrist, he turned his village into what it always should have been; a grandiose, peaceful, utopic, marvellous, beautiful... uh, village. Also, he got the girl. And drowned the bird [Editor's remark: which is of course frowned upon by the authors, as we do not encourage killing any living being]. Fin. Until next time, The Authors.

Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

[Morre]

Plain text version for ease of reading after the image.




                  The bizarrely fantasticsome Collabotale!                 

  ||            /¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯\               
|\--/|          |     (\/)               zzz      (\/)     |               
/|--|\          |     ( o0)         (\/) _/      ('' )     |               
 :||:           |    *(")(")       (-- )        (")(")*    |               
                |                 (")(")*                  |               
                \__________________________________________/               

                                Adopt-a-bunny.                             

By Kyle "The Yellow Dart" Smith

HIS DEAR AND BELOVED CO-AUTHORS:
Penmanship Fawkes is here. And starting for once!
DJ DREAMROCKET
Dragonene is the Dragonest Ene
Xion in da house.



-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The Fox Hunts                                There is a town in West Virginia where they still hold the fox hunts every year. Brutal things, my father always said, but it's historic and it gives you something to do in post-apocalyptic USA other than write memoirs or rebuild society. So, anyway, as I was saying, there's this fox hunt every year... The fox hunts.  I remember the fox hunts when I was a child.  I could hear them, in the night.  They're not foxes, it's impossible to call them foxes anymore.  I don't know what they are - Everything's changed.  I hear stories, tales about the past.  They're like legends:  the food, the heroes, the battles.  Nations, warring.  Bellicose.  There's no reason to fight: why bother?  Nothing worth fighting over.  What's the use of oil when there's nothing to power?  We still have the fox hunts. Well, I could've managed a while longer in that world. Today, our future seems just a little less bright, a touch of darkness finding its way into our souls. They have found it. They've found a cause. It'll be the ruin of us all. War is coming to my village. The great Machines dug up and risen to fight once more. And I'll be right in the middle of it. I thought I'd left all that behind long ago. Shepard, Charles and the others are all on their way here. I'm not looking forward to seeing them again. Five in the morning and the glowing green horizon has hardly begun to shine, but the entire fort is up and about. Some of the children are polishing the cannons to a dull shine - the best they'll ever manage - and others are all preparing for Shepard and the gang. Just as the sun begins to filter through the eternal neon clouds, they're spotted. One of the young watchers bangs furiously on the alarm bell and all the people gather around the fort's entrance. A hush comes over the crowd as the rusted steel gate goes up. God, Ma used to tell us stories about the Revolution, back when there was still hope. The banners flying over head and the people standing together and the promise of a future - not a bright one, but at least there might BE one... then they trampled hope underfoot like a Machine would a man. Johann was executed, Voltaire was found hidin in India under an assumed name, Da's buried up in the cemetary. But that is just... history. Worst, worst of all, little Sean was killed in a fox hunt -- that's still what they call them, you know. But it's a lie. Foxes?  They used to be foxes. They're sneaky, sly, cunning creatures.  The tricksters of the animal kingdom. Crafty, beautiful, solitary.  Sean.  He was a fox, a sly one.  Hiding.  He didn't say much, he was quiet.  No one really knew what he was thinking.  He was... he was strange, different from the rest.  They didn't understand the way he thought.  When someone comes along who doesn't fit the mold -- what then?  People are afraid of the unknown. He had seen them:  he told me. The iron arms, raising.  Glass eyes glowing green-yellow as metal-on-metal screams rise above the noise of the engine.  Hot white steam, burning hot, hotter than the sand (the air!) envelopes the Machine - its breath expunged with an unfeeling steel cry. I knew it to be true. Nobody who'd seen a Machine would ever walk as straight again. But Sean... he never quite recovered. I think he came too close. I don't know what they wanted from him. Nor do I care much. All I know is that they sent the hunters after him, and he never came back. I'd do anything to hold him again - my little brother. I know I never will. I'm startled by a loud, crunching noise as the gate finally reaches its topmost position. I scan the caravan. I know none of the faces in the first van. And then there they are. The old squad. I see a glimmer of excitement in Charlie's eyes, and I fight to repress a shudder. And I walk up to them, with an uncertain smile on my face. "Sarge! There you are!" Charles leaps from the second van and, much to my discomfort, stretches his titanic arms to embrace me, lifting me clear off the ground as he does. He's the same as ever. 6' 7", 312 lbs, composed of solid muscle and frothing with excitement. The smile on his face makes me grimace. Shepard is more reserved with his salutations, letting a quiet nod suffice. He's the only one that ever knew how much I hated what we did back then. He knows his presence does not excite me. As he climbs out of the driver's seat I can tell that the years have not been kind to him. His eyes, bright as they may be, cannot hide the tiredness that comes from ages of a fruitless search, and his face is creased and dark from the raging storms that frequent the desolation outside our fort. Shepard approaches me and extends a hand in greeting. "I hear you've come into possession of...of a Machine...Sarge." He spits the last word. "And just how did you come by such intel, Shepard?" I say, spitefully. "Did your traitor friends in the M.A.R.C. tell you, while you were hunting my brother to his death?" Shepard doesn't say a word, but he doesn't seem surprised I know. He just silently pulls a gun and puts it to my head; the rest of the troops do the same -     except Charles, who is lying dead on the hard-packed ground. His head seems to have taken a savage blow.     "What's the point, Shepard?  Why bother?  You've got your fox hunts, isn't that enough?" "The fox hunts are a game, played by children.  There's no meaning, no emotion: they've become... we've all become too passive." There is something in his tone. His all too familiar voice is cracking with emotion, and when he tells me we're too passive, I know what he's trying to say. I'm out of practice, but as I pull my gun and spin around, I surprise myself. Pulling the trigger is easy. Too easy. The man lying dead behind me used to be our captain. We never liked him much. I can only stare down at him as Shepard and the others move back toward the vans, dragging Charlie by his vest. "We have to move, Sarge! NOW!", Shepard is screaming at me. I slowly turn around, and then begin jogging up to the caravan. As we pull out, machine gun fire is smattering around us. I glance back and see children manning the turrets. As we drive into the desert, Shepard starts talking. "The Captain arranged the fox hunts, Sergeant. Me 'n' Charles, we found out a while back. We've been trying to find you ever since. The truth, Sarge. That's what we're after." I hear coughing from the back of the car. It's Charles. Not dead after all. I glance at Shepard. He shrugs, "Had to convince the Cap'n we were on his side." "Christ, Shepard," I gasp. The van slowly rocks while I ponder the situation. It's been so long since I've had to lead - to truly lead. I peer into the back and find Charles and five unfamiliar faces all staring at me, looking for some kind of guidance. I take a deep breath. "Okay," I bark, "here's what we're going to do: There's no way this shoddy caravan can stand a chance against an organization like the M.A.R.C. so-" "Sarge, do you think I'm a damn fool?" Shepard laughs. "We've got about a few hundred more waiting for us back at base." "Base?" Shepard nods. "That's where we're heading now." "Fine then, but it still won't be enough. The M.A.R.C. has Mechs. They may not be as refined as the Great old Machines, but they'll sure as hell tear us to bits without much of a chance." "Right." "So what we need is..." "That Machine of yours." "Exactly." Shepard smiles. "This is gonna be one hell of a ride."     "There's no time to go to meet the others, then, we have to move on this NOW. Head for Richmond - at least, where it used to be. And fast, Shepard. I still don't trust you."     The caravan shudders along the broken landscape of my childhood, but most of the landmarks I recall are long gone. Has it really been that long since I was here? Since the day Sean came up to me with his tales - we thought they were just stories - of an iron giant underground; the giant we are heading towards right this minute. And it strikes me: in a way, that event set this all in motion.     Hours pass, and at last the vans come to a stop, and I make them let me out first. Just to make sure nothing goes wrong. Veins of some metal glow ominously, like the last glow of a lantern, about to go out and strand us all in darkness. The lights glow brighter as we reach the core, the pedestal at the center of the cave. There, upon the pedestal rests one of the Machines. An original. The beast is a large, egg-shaped contraption of iron and steel, arms and legs shackled in place. I shudder. This is what Sean was killed over. This...hulking piece of scrap! It's green-yellow eyes glow - I can almost feel its gaze as it sputters syllables of clanging metal.         "Come on, boy's! We've got to get those shackles off that thing if we're gonna ride outta here!" Shepard and his crew produce a variety of cutting and melting instruments and set to work on the thick iron rings holding the Machine. At times it lurches and thrashes, as if struggling, but the cutting goes quickly enough. A few minutes of work, and it is done. We all prepare to climb in the thing's hull but no sooner does the final chain fall to the ground than a siren screeches through the darkness and fifty armed M.A.R.C. units burst into the room wielding assault rifles. There's no hesitation, not a single moment of doubt. They open fire straight away. Shepard is among the first to fall. I sit down and whisper to him as life leaves him. "You're a good man, Shepard. A good man." The ghost of a smile touches his face. Charles yanks me up and pulls me towards the machine. All around us, men are lying dead and dying on the ground. The senseless slaughter numbs me, but Charles helps me reach the machine. A stabbing pain in my left leg announces the entry of a bullet, but as I crawl into the machine, I know I'm safe. It rises slowly, deliberately. Gunfire is ricochetting off its hull. The giant floodlights on the front of the machine sweeps over the M.A.R.C. soldiers. They fall faster than would reeds in a waterfall. We leave the cave. Charles's face is haunted by something like remorse. I don't think I'm looking much better. Charles indicates the direction of the base and we set off. We go to gather our army.

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[Jrsquee]

I really like that one.  Real coherent, I think we did a great job.

[PaleFox]

We have written this story on May 24, 2009.

hciwdnas is not Collabotale backwards, but elatoballoC is.

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
Rychlé hnědá liška vyskočila nad líný pes.

Everyone set your names and use the chat!

            LIST GOES HERE           
Xion wants furs and leathers because animals have no rights.
DRAGONENE IS SECOND?
The quick Payle Fawkes jumps over the lazy writers.

- Saplings in the Sand -

    There, on the horizon. Something shifting beneath the shining
white sands caught my eye. I extended my telescope and set it to
my eye, peering along its hollow length. Just as I'd suspected.
Desert Mongrels. The vivacious creatures swam through the sand as
though it were water, pushing their slender bodies through the land
with mighty, paddle-like foreclaws. They weren't much trouble alone
but in packs they could be the end of me. I lowered my telescope
and shielded my eyes from the mid-day sun. Time to get moving again.
    I packed up my cooking utensils and grabbed my backpack, and
then I started walking west, away from the beasts. After a while, I
backtracked my steps, and started to the north instead. Mongrels,
they say, do not have a keen sense of smell. And reliant as they are
on their vision, they were easy to trick. With any luck, they'd miss
my real trail.
    Maybe I was making progress, there was certainly more ground
between me and them than before, and it was growing quickly; perhaps
I would be able to make it out ali-

    and then I noticed the storm. That is, if "storm" is the proper
word for what we have here in Shkretëtirë; there's really no way to
describe that mass of sand and dust swept across miles of desert.
I'd heard in the canteen that one of them can clean a cow in twenty
seconds, and a man in ten. Too late to run, but I tried anyway, and
as I did I seemed to see a vision of men riding mongrels; then the
sand went over me and the sun went out.


    I awoke to the scent of tea and a searing pain through my body.
While the smell was certainly nice, the pain overrode any pleasure
I might have gleaned from any other senses. I moaned in agony. I
opened my eyes and met the blank gaze of an old bearded man. His
shiny eyes were set beneath a large, protruding brow and hard-cut
cheeks, a flowing silver mane of hair draped from his chin. I tried
to mouth "water" but all that came out was some raspy grunt. I
could hardly acknowledge the sound as my own. The old man walked
away and, as I turned my head to follow him another shock of pain
ran through me.
    He returned shortly after, trailed by a servant carrying a cask
of water. I accepted it and drank deep; thank the Protectors. As
soon as I was done, the man started talking.
    "I have saved you. For this, you owe me."
    "My thanks, but-"
    "You will journey to the Empyrean warriors. Tell them Thyer
Shqiponjë sent you."
    "I'm sorry, I don't-
    "As am I."
With that, the man left. The servant followed him out. Grunting
with pain, I stumbled up to the cavern entrance - guarded. Just my
luck.

    The Mongrels chained to the wall lunged at me as I limped
forwards, and it was clear that were I to make a break for it I
would be savaged; what was the old man playing at? How was I to
fulfil his request if I couldn't even leave the cavern? But just
then, a hideous keening filled the air, and the beastial figures sat
back on their haunches and joined in; it was all-encompassing and
eerily discordant... but at least I could get out. On a whim, I
recalled the vision I had seen in the desert, and mounted the creature
closest to the doorway; suddenly it arose and tore out of the door
with me astride it - a rather painful motion, I was sad to discover.

    With me on its back, the Mongrel tore across the sand like a
rat-monkey through a storehouse. I glanced back and saw the rocky
outcropping I had been rescued to rapidly shrinking in the distance.
Once the Mongrel got up to speed the ride was smooth - I felt nearly
motionless, save the breeze that whispered past me in my speed. I took
a moment to examine myself; a complete mess. My arms were crissed and
twice crossed with cuts and, feeling my face, I could tell it was in
no better shape. I assumed my legs were the same, but I couldn't tell -
the old man's servant had apparently outfitted me with tall leather
boots and thick canvas pants. No matter. I let the breeze soothe my
aching wounds.
    The Mongrel sank deeper into the sand as it begun swimming, its
mighty claws sliding through the grains as slickly as if through water.
Soon my legs were knee-deep in a quick-moving sand. Then I realized
what the boots were for. They had been expecting me to ride this thing.
    The dunes were like waves beneath me; had I not been accustomed to
sailing, I might have become sea sick. Great reaches of sand stretched
out in all directions, as far as I could see. I raised my trusted
telescope and looked; and there, far away, was a camp. The Empyreans?
Six, no, seven tents, arrayed in a rough circle around a large central
yurt. The beast angled straight for them. Within minutes, I came upon
pickets and outriders. I briefly wondered why such a small camp would
be so well-defended, but I had no more time to ponder on that.
    A few guards, quicker-witted than most, came out with their blades
drawn and were promptly slaughtered; the even swifter-thinking ones
were already specks on the horizon, having fled on sight. Within minutes
there was no resistance left, and the village elders came out - forced
to explain themselves, I thought - but one of them began uttering the
odd sound I had heard in the camp. The battle stopped dead, and I began
to lose consciousness as the aching in my head grew greater and greater
and greater and I began to see visions...
   
    Have you ever seen the great desert? It is a beautiful thing, much
greater than the settlements along the edge. They hold it back.

    I see a seed. A sad looking thing. It looks withered, pale and ill.
Nobody waters it. Nobody cares for it. It lies neglected...for years.
And yet, as it goes on, neglected and unwatered, it grows healthier. The
more people ignore it, the larger it grows. Soon it is not the seed that
looks unhealthy, but the world around it in comparison. A bright, shining
green thing, it makes all human endeavours look pale and ill. In time,
the town around it turns to dust and it begins to sprout. The vibrant
plant, looking more glorious than any that came before it and any that
might come after, continues to grow. The forests that once surrounded the
town die off, feeding the new tree. Dust. Dust and sand and gravel consume
the world around the magnificient tree, and with every sin that man
commits, and every negligent deed done to the planet, the desert grows
ever-larger, the tree ever-stronger. Man realizes too late what has become
of their world and, at the borders of the desert they erect cities. Places
to fight the encroaching dust and sand. Places to delay the punishment of
mankind. Hollow attempts to avert the inevitable.
    All the while, Desert Mongrels shoot out of the tree. They too become
stronger with each passing day; they tower over any man now, and the look
in their eye would terrify the bravest of souls. And their howls; their
howls could chill you to the bones, leaving you cowering, holding your
knees tight, back pressed against a wall. Fear is a powerful force. It
drives them; it sustains them.
    I woke up with a start. Something wet brushed my cheek; I snapped my
head back from the Mongrel's tongue, and then-
    I fought to calm myself. As I looked upon the mongrel, I realized it
was but a puppy; not the wild, savage beast of my dreams. The village was
gone, too, the tents dismantled while I slept; they must have wanted to
get out before the madman came to. That old man, this was all his fault!
    I sped back to the cavern, and here too I saw signs of motion, the
pitiful creatures trying to flee before the desert's hideous beauty, and
as I enter the cavern nobody stopped me, nobody even noticed me, somehow.
Even the old man ignored me, silent even as I rode my monstrous companion
into his room. Here was another weed, this village, choking growth,
choking ME. It wasn't right! I looked for a moment in the mirror, and saw
nothing there but sand.
   
    And I didn't kill him, even though I had wanted to. I just let the
desert in. For every beautiful garden needs a gardener.

[Blademasterbobo]

Updated first post

[Super-Dot]

(Plain text version for ease of reading after images.)

ĉi tiu estas rakonto kiun verkis multajn brilegajn homojn elimini nescion aŭ almenaŭ amuzi homojn Super-Dot is manly Solarblade PF TANTAN! TANTAN! TANTAAAAAN! vdgmprgrmr First Paragraph Editor: Farbs Illustrations by Super-Dot and Tantantantantantantan. Beautiful, manly nipple by vudgumpurgagurmerger. -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-                   Mongo: the Man, the Legend, the Man         Dramatic pause. Manly sweat drips man-ly down a very manly unibrow. A masculine, manly man raised a fork and stabbed hatefully at his steak. ("HRRRAAAAGH") His other hand grabbed a steak knife and cleaved the steak in twain. ("HM HM HM HM")         This steak... it reminded him of Elise. She had loved steak, and steak related cutlery. She loved manliness. But alas, she had had to go and knock over those banks and take out that helicopter, and so he hadn't seen her for a while. Last he'd heard, she was out in Morocco somewhere, enjoying her massive profits - at least, until the very manly manservant walked up manly to hand over a letter... from her.         It read: "Mongo, I write to you to ask for forgiveness—but more than that, I hope to inform you of a grave danger.         As you recall, two million years ago I knocked over a series of dinobanks and subsequently took over a dinohelicopter in order to go to Morocco. I left without telling you the reason for these actions, and I am sorry for this; but my actions had purpose."         Mongo sat there, in deep thought, considering the letter while eating his wonderfully delicious and lustful steak.         "NINJA ROBOTS WHICH LOOK DISTURBINGLY LIKE CERTAIN ROBOTS IN A CERTAIN INDIE GAME ABOUT EXPLORING CAVES AND RABBITS BURST INTO THE ROOM VIA THE CONVENIENT WINDOW. I had to escape them, but you can't simply escape a ninja robot. You need to change your identity, your location, your appearance—your life. That's why I never told you: if you had any idea of where I would be, the ninja robots would be able to find me through you. I couldn't risk that happening. I couldn't let them near you."         Mongo almost rose from his seat, but then decided that his lustful steak was more important than what he was rising for; something he wasn't even entirely sure of in the first place.          "So I collected funds and transportation. Unfortunately, it turns out that I stole from the wrong bank account. The bank account of an evil doctor. I can't remember his name, but unless I'm wrong, they have located you. Time to put that special 'training' to use. -Love, Elise."          Then he went to Texas! He couldn't stay here. Not with an evil doctor—connected to the ninja robots?—on his tail.          He knew he couldn't shack up with his parents, too predictable. No, he'd have to find some shady motel. After shoving his way through the front desk with manly vigor, he found a room with a door he liked. (The receptionist gave up chasing him after his arm was twisted around four times.) When he entered the room, inside was Elise. Still looking young as ever after 2 million years. She opened her gaping maw to speak. Obviously something urgent; she seemed to be in quite a hurry.     "I think someone is after me. Probably someone from The Museum."     "Goddammit, it's always the fucking Museum," Mongo grunted in a manly MANner. "What do they want from us? Can't they just leave us to ourselves? It makes me so ANGRY GRAAAAAAAAH I JUST WANT TO CRUSH SOMETHING WITH MY MANLY HANDS UGH I AM SO PUMPED RIGHT NOW"     Then Mongo punched through a wall or two to calm down.

Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

                            ^^^^^^^^^^                       
                            |       -|   (GRAAAAAAAGH)     
                            |         )  /                 
                            |       _|  /                   
                            \________/                 
                            /        \________________/   ___ \
              _____________/_         \                  |     \ *SMASH*
             /                         >                 \_____|
            /                          |______________        \
           /       ______________      /              \_______/
           |                    |     /
            \_____________      |____/
                     /    \____/
                    /          \
                   |            \
                   |      /_     \
                   |     /  \     \
                   |    /    \     |
                   |   /      \    |
                  /   /        \   \
                 /   /          \   \
                /   /            \   \
               /   /              \   \
              /___/                \___\
              |   |___             |   |___
              |       |            |       |
              \_______/            \_______/

Elise quietly screeched the rest of her message through her toothy mouth. "I don't have much time, as I think I've been followed here. I knew you'd come to the closest motel to your parents' house, so I knew I could come here for aid if things get serious. Wait, I think that's one of the Museum's agents outside looking about!" Outside the window, a man in a black suit was looking around, obviously in search of Elise. Under the suit, you could easily tell he was a velociraptor in disguise. Mongo's manliness and rage overpowered him, and he leapt outside the door, alerting the agent to his presence! The agent looked quickly, but was quickly forced to avert his eyes from Mongo's manly unibrow! Mongo used the distraction as an opportunity to grab the Velociraptor's jaws and pull them apart, separating the upper half of its head completely from the rest of its body. Mongo took some time to cover himself in its gore to assert his manliness, and took the top half of its head and put it atop his head as a crown.     Mongo began to reminisce about his early years... His manliness was so great, he could recall the forming of the sun, the stars; he could recall when all this was but barren wasteland; he remembered most of all when life arose, showing its first signs of true manliness, just as an eagle will search the supermarket for the clearance section. And he had met Elise, one bright day around 2 million years ago... oh, the memories... and he picked up the agent and hurled him with manly strength through the sun so fast that his image changed color due to red shift and relativity and such higher maths and time slowed for him to a crawl. And he punched the earth, so that it split in two, so great was his love for Elise and his hatred of trees and of all life except for him and his beloved Elise.         And they had meat and manly adventures forever after. The End. ("UNH")                              (Certified Art™ 2009)

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