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A quick and I admit sloppily written short story produced from boredom based once again in the Elder Scrolls universe. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Shape-shifter ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Juline Faroume sat at her usual table in her usual restaurant drinking her usual drink: a mug of greef. She leaned back in the chair, slightly drunk and extremely bored. She was a thief - a darn good thief. She’d filched a beautiful silver dagger from the smith, robbed the fine clothier of a fine burgundy silk shirt, whisked away a small bag full of precious gems from the jeweler, and orchestrated quite a few other impressive heists. However, she’d taken most of the valuable things from the shops in the city, and she was tired of waiting for the vendors to restock. She stared into her mug, watching the greef slowly swirl around and try to crawl up the side of it. It was then that something caught her attention. A common tradition of hers was to sit and eavesdrop on other patrons’ conversations. Every once in a while, she heard something interesting. This time, however, she heard the word “treasure” and began listening with all her might. Her ears led her eyes to a pair seated at the bar. Juline listened closely and it was not long before her hawk ears were rewarded. The pair was talking about the Denaren Ancestral Tomb, which Juline knew was just a short walk down the road west of the town. However, as Juline listened on, the two patrons talked of how there was but one guardian of the treasure, something called the shape-shifter. Juline thought it odd that there would only be one guard for a tomb filled with treasure. She questioned the story’s credibility, but she also wanted the treasure that was inside the tomb. She wasn’t a master fighter, but she’d picked up quite a few tricks on how to handle a short sword from the trainers she’d paid with her ill-gotten gold. B’vek, even her blade was stolen. She took it from a fine smith when she was staying in another town. A fine steel short sword with a silver-plated blade. Because of the silver, the blade could harm supernatural creatures as well as normal ones. Juline was also an adept sneaker. During every heist she pulled, she had to sneak by at least two guards. She never got caught, but she’d had some close calls. She had no experience in fighting or evading monsters, but she didn’t think it could be that much different than sneaking by peoples. Besides, if things got too tough for her, she could always just turn back and leave, right? She was uneasy about venturing into the tomb, but she also wanted the treasure inside. She elected to venture into the tomb to seek out the rumored riches that lay inside. After a few days of preparation, she made her way to the tomb. She had all her equipment with her: her silver-plated short sword, her lockpicks and probes, and a healing potion incase she sustained injury. She didn’t wear armor; she preferred to just not be in a sword’s way. During the past few days, she had thought quite a bit about what manner of being this shape-shifter could be. Was he a daedroth? A spirit? She inhaled deeply and opened the door to the tomb. Beyond the door was a long, straight corridor with torches hung on both sides at precise intervals that gave the entire hall an eerie glow. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She was in. Now, where is the treasure? She walked down the corridor and passed through a few rooms, all the while being wary of this shape-shifter. Along the way, she also took care to evade the trip-wires and pressure plates, and also picked the locks on the doors easily. At last, she came to a large door with odd designs carved on it. Once again, she defeated the lock and opened it. As the door opened, a large room came into view. It was empty except for an altar at the back wall with a large chest on it. “Jackpot!” she whispered as she stepped into the room. She walked across the room to the altar and set to work trying to open the chest. She’d brought a bag with her; it seemed easier than trying to lug a chest out of there. She fought with the lock on the chest for a long time. Nothing she tried worked, and after a while she started to wonder if the lock could even be picked with a conventional pick. Finally, she gave up in frustration. It was then that she noticed a key lying on the altar beside the chest. She felt stupid, but she also thought that they were stupid for leaving the key behind. She snatched up the key without thinking, and immediately there was a loud slam behind her and groaning sounds above her. She wheeled around and found that the door had slammed shut. Then, she looked up and saw a wall of spikes descending down upon her. She sprinted for the door and tried to thrust the key into the lock, hoping it worked for the door to. The lock accepted the key and she heaved it open. For a moment, she thought she was free, but then she heard the groaning sounds above her again. She glanced up and once again was met by a wall of spikes coming down. She bolted for the door on the other side of the room, which had also closed. Mercifully, the key fit. She ran back through all the rooms, whose doors all accepted the key. Finally, she was back in the entrance corridor. The ceiling above her began moaning and, not even pausing to look up, Juline ran for the exit. She was up the short staircase in a single leap and thrust the key into the lock. However, the key did not go into the lock, and as Juline looked at it more closely, she saw no longer a key in her hand, but a bar. She began screaming and throwing herself against the door. The door never gave way though, and eventually, the ceiling had come down too far for her to stand. Juline collapsed on the floor, exhausted and awaiting her certain death. Her head lay on its side, staring at the object in her hand, which was once again a key. She was baffled momentarily, but then she had an epiphany of understanding. “Shape-shifter.” she whispered as she clutched the key in her hand and closed her eyes to await the lowering spikes.

Hey everybody. I have this project due this Friday and I need some help. Part of the project is having to put a jacket cover on the front of your novel and I have absolutely no idea what to do. If you guys can post with your ideas or sketches or something, I would be forever indebted to you. The story is called Don't Forget. Please just see what you can do. Thanks for reading!

I know I have only just joined but I wanted to post this in here as its the first poem I have wrote in quite a long time. Hope you enjoy it :) An eye lash flickers, Drifting off to sleep, Not a sound to be heard, Not a single beep. The air is still and cool, Moonlight up in the air, A few flutters of wind Signifies winter is still here. Goosebumps on my skin, "Wrap up warm its getting cold" Feel the chill of the evening air, While tucked up inside your home. Thoughts drift away, As you settle down to sleep, Over oceans and grassy lands, To where the lil lambs bleat. Thoughts returning home, As you wake from sleep, Rub your eyes and stretch, Go make yourself some tea.

what is more the cream or the tongue the sugar or the plum the man or its hung the dream or its strung the jealey or their flung the peachey or mustang halgold or free gung i don't know blessom solds i don't know blessom sell

on material i am poor on squere i am more i don't know what i am there i know I am here there is a way to look a look to look and hide away squery, squery and crish away there's more than sculting and have nothing on your embryos as the sky thrash to thrown above you better to hide night above you night is a shelter like a plaster IT IS NOT MINE IT IS GIVEN TO ME Romania_Polska

This is what I have so far for a short story I am writing for English class. Again, it has an Elder Scrolls theme (I get a lot of my ideas from that series). How does it look so far? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER 1: Caught in the Act ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Denegoth ascended the intricate lattice on the mansion wall. The movements were precise and sure-left foot here, right foot there - as me made his way up the wall. At last, he arrived at a balcony. After making sure no one was there, he vaulted over the railing and approached the door. Denegoth reached into a small pouch and produced a lockpick. He inserted the pick in the lock and began wrestling with those accursed pins. It was a seven pin lock, child’s play for a thief of his caliber, but problematic nonetheless. Finally, after removing each pin from its slot one-by-one, Denegoth replaced the lockpick and eased open the door. He opened it just enough to poke his head through and surveyed the room. The room’s layout was simple, but the decorations added a look of elegance. Staring back at Denegoth from across the room was a large, dark brown dresser with gold handles and two silver vases sitting atop it. To Denegoth’s left stood a large bed covered with colorful, frilly, shiny silk sheets typical of nobles. Small inn tables stood on either side of the bed, each with a candle on its surface. To Denegoth’s right was the door and another dresser identical to the first with a large silver vase on top of it. There was a large tan rug spotted with flowers of all shapes and sizes. A magnificent gold chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling dominated the room. Neither the chandelier nor either of the candles on the inn tables was lit, as the residents had left for the evening to attend a party at a friend’s house. Denegoth entered the room and took out a specialized probe designed to sense magical traps. He had made a habit of doing this. He didn’t always know whether or not the person he was robbing was a wizard, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He examined each object carefully, using the probe. He checked the dressers, the inn tables, and a third dresser that the balcony door hid. Nothing. The clothes were too encumbering. He’d hoped to find a jewelry box or something. Disappointed and slightly frustrated, he closed the drawers on the third dresser. He turned to go to another room, and heard a distinctive click; the sound of a doorknob. Suddenly, Denegoth was paralyzed, rooted to the spot. His mind was racing. he’d asked around town, did some self-surveillance, gathered a good deal of information. The mansion was small, and the owners were independent; they didn’t have servants. Now, he felt scared and stupid. His brain was screaming at him, “You never checked for guards?!?” The door swing open and revealed a tall figure in the doorway. its frame was long and skinny. Altmer. Denegoth could tell just by looking at it. Denegoth was still held fast by fear. He was expecting a paralyze spell at any moment from the shadow just in case his fear relented and allowed him to move. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, but eventually the lanky shadow summoned a ball of green energy and hurled it towards him. Finally, Denegoth’s fear-induced paralysis released him. He dodged to the side and the green sphere whizzed past him. With his adrenal glands in overdrive, Denegoth smashed through the balcony door and ran to the edge. He didn’t have time to climb down the lattice; he needed a quicker way down. He saw what looked like a thick patch of shrubs below. He’d have to take the chance. That blasted guard was right on his heels. He mounted the railing and leapt. He landed right in the middle of the bushes. He immediately sprang up and bolted for a small clump of trees behind the mansion. he could hear the High Elf yelling from the balcony, “Guards! Guards!” Denegoth plowed through the trees as fast as his legs would move. Not even a hour ago, he’d come through these trees in the opposite direction, and he got through it in seconds. Now, fearful for his life and pursued by a troop of guards, he felt like he was running through the Great Forest - behind every tree, there was another tree. Eventually, he emerged from the miniature grove and saw the vast green expanse across which he came to the town. He paused for a moment, tired form his sprint through the trees. Then, he heard footsteps and voices behind him in the trees. That was all the motivation he needed to keep moving. He was off like a shot. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 2 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Denegoth ran, and ran, and ran. Eventually, he arrived at the trail off which he had veered to take the shortcut across the field to the town. He was exhausted. The adrenaline had worn off, heis legs were sore, and his heart was pounding like a hammer against his ribs, laboring to get precious blood to the rest of his body. He just sat against a tree beside the path. He hoped the guards didn't come out this far; he didn't have the energy to run again if they did.

This is a poem I wrote after watching my favorite sprinter Robbie McEwen wina stage of the Tour De France. It is kind of lengthy so I will enter it in stages(like the race, get it?). For those that don't know, the Peloton is themain mass of cyclists in a race.PELOTON: ROBBIE MCEWENPelotonA living , breathing mass of humanity and inhumanityPulsating, aggravatingAn abstract swarm flowing with rhythm and intensityA sum greater than the individual partsGestalt emancipatingA sea of ultimate trust and distrustAn all-knowing brain hunting down its prey Cruelly and efficientlyCompetitive lustClosing the gap always just in timeEnding dreams with wax wings meltingAnd of glory of country fadingA river flowing and ebbingNarrow then wideAnger and prideLow and high tide-TO BE CONTINUED-

NeedNever enoughEver hungryEven if you'reDead and goneJoyJelly-filled donutsOf every colorYearning to be eatenFamilyFriends one and allAlways for each otherMothers, fathers, siblingsIf hard times ariseLove will prevailYes, even if unseenDespairDeficient in somethingEven though you trySo hard to discoverPeace and something moreAll that you doIs always for noughtRed closes in

Easter Sunday Renting open the mantle of salvation rests a champion’s prize - lack luster on its brass plated pyre standing guard over courage And heroics as if to jeer and cajole those with gleam in the eye for the jubilant ceremony celebrating the risen spirit, but skeletons and shells, that were garnered stoically, embedded by pressurized carbon, block them as before those many years ago The misery of knowledge is soon dispelled by the regret of success and the angst is replaced with moans thrown about at a funeral where hypocritical columns of strength and fortitude are so casually and callously smitten down as if saving the souls will result in salvation rather than damnation So many chances have been cast – Gamblers casting bones solely for the moment with no foreshadowing or guilt of the grey clouds crossing the gilt-edged horizon.

There is a new exciting group available on Chess.com.Welcome to the Great group:http://www.chess.com/groups/view/greatThe Great group is dedicated for all the great personalities and cultures in the world. It started as a series of the Great Writers’ Tournaments in February 2010. In March there will be another series of tournaments called the Great Books.For a start we do not play any vote chess or team matches, but instead we arrange Great tournaments:Great Books: Ulysses < 1500http://www.chess.com/tournament/great-books-ulysses Great Books: Kalevala 1500 - 2000http://www.chess.com/tournament/great-books-kalevala Great Books: Iliad > 2000http://www.chess.com/tournament/great-books-iliad Feel free to give any ideas in order to develop our group into one of the most exciting groups of Chess.com. This is great!

from one side of our home to the other few things have been left uncovered unspoiled unspoken unleavened unleashed and nothing has escaped the wrath of defeating deafening overwhelming masses of uncouth violent nihilistic crevasses splitting through continents into islands unto driftwood into dust interwoven microstructures invisible to us... bedrock, sheaths and layers drift upon the hot conveyors near the ever churning tides over the metallic heart absconded knowing nowthing of our tiny inappropriate societies meshing lightly overhead slowly spinning round in sheds, shacks and structures barely rising higher than the loamly thinking we're deified permanent constructors but we've never really had a single clue how to properly use this fuel.

This is a rough chapter one of a fiction novel I am working on. I have had a long and not so good past with fiction. I wrote several fantasy stories as a very young child which I never finished, partly because I did not have the commitment and partly because they were no good. Now, in 7th grade, I've decided to come back and see what I can do with a full-fledged book with the strongest commitment. Prepare to be amazed...and prepare to be distraught. :) Heavy drops of rain landed like pebbles on the window of Emerald’s room. The dark, menacing clouds from which they came soared overhead through the sky, shouting unspoken curses that filled the house with an aura of inevitable depression. Emerald was young, short, brown-haired, and generally positive. But this day was quite different then than the rest. He sat on his bed with a blank expression on his face, watching the ferocious storm that was occuring outside his window. What luck, he thought. This foul weather only worsens the loss. For his brother, Raymond (who was nine years his superior), had announced his departure to Oxford University a month before, and had gone through with the decision only an hour before. Raymond was tall, had jet-black hair, and was of medium build. He always had a serious and confident expression on his face. Emerald had looked up to Raymond far more than anyone else in his life. At a far younger age, he attempted to mimic everything Raymond said and did. He played with Raymond, talked with Raymond, and even mourned with Raymond. But as of the past year he had become far more independent, and thus he had focused less on his fellowship with Emerald and more on his own future, his own plans, and his own life. When the news was broadcast of his leave, Emerald’s heart had sunk with immeasurable sorrow he had never felt before. This grief was anything but hidden. He had lost his old, chipper, and usually positive self and had grown silent and lonely. What normally would have come out of his mouth remained inside his head, and he began to spend much more time studying (to the great surprise of his parents, to whom he was known for his rather negative outlook on school and anything related to it). After a few minutes of dwelling on this, Emerald decided it was not worth wasting time thinking about. He silently strolled over to his desk that was covered in school papers and schoolbooks. His tournament chess set was set up in the middle of it all. Dust distorted everything like a cloud of smoke. Emerald blew a strong gust of wind to clear most of it off of the chess pieces, and proceeded to play himself a game. That was something he never did for fear that he might lose objectivity with risky sacrifices and dubious moves. I don’t care if I lose objectivity, or most anything else, for that matter, Emerald thought. I just wish my brother had not left. Suddenly, footsteps could be heard at the staircase outside of his bedroom door. Emerald glanced up from his chess set and stared at the door, expecting his mother or his father. When the door opened, two men stood there looking at Emerald. One was very obviously his father, but the other was simply unrecognizable. His misty white hair, rather than setting atop his head, circled his mouth and flew down his torso like a waterfall. His shirt, which was gray with a thick white stripe running horizontally across the center, was partly hidden beneath a black leather jacket. He carried a large briefcase, which was also black, and his pleasant face and old age radiated wisdom and serenity. Emerald’s father was the first to speak. “Hi, Emerald,” he said. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.” He pointed at the man standing beside him. “This is Kyle.” With a small wave, the other man said, “Hello, Emerald.” “Hi,” Emerald replied, his eyes fixed on Kyle. “He’s going to be your new tutor. He thought he’d come to visit and introduce himself before we start the lessons tomorrow. So I’ll be in the living room if you need me.” “Ok,” Emerald said, his voice slightly shaking. He had heard his mother and father discussing this a few days ago. He was wary of the idea and did not think it a very good one, but the departure of his brother had made him forget all of those past feelings. ***** “I think we need to hire a personal instructor to teach the kid,” Emerald’s father said. “This public school is not working out at all. I was thinking about hiring Kyle Katsampes.” “You mean Double Kay? I don't know. Are you sure you want to do it this quickly?” his mother said. “It’s only been three weeks into the public school curriculum.” “I really don’t think this is what God wants for us. It seems as though there’s something better.” Emerald, who was listening from his room with Raymond, was growing increasingly nervous. “I don't even know who Kyle Katsampes is," he said. “What if he's mean or get angry easily?” “Don’t worry about it, Emerald,” said Raymond. “Mom and Dad know what they’re doing. They’ll be able to determine a good teacher from a bad one, supposing they go through with this.” ***** As Emerald’s father left, Kyle wandered through the room over to Emerald’s desk. Looking at the chess set, he said, “Playing yourself, eh?” “Yeah, you could say that,” Emerald responded. Chuckling, Kyle said, “I used to do that as well when I was your age." “You’re Double Kay?” Emerald said nervously. A wide smile grew over Kyle’s face. “I am called that by most in this neighborhood, yes,” he replied. “I presume you know that chess is one of my required classes?” Emerald suddenly lit up from the inside out. “I was hoping so!” he said with irrepressible excitement. “Well, consider your hope fulfilled.” “I’m not a great chess player, but a lot of people around here would like to think that I am.” Resting his eyes on the board, Double Kay responded, “And I can see why. You do know this is the entire theory of the Najdorf Sicilian opening, don’t you?” Recognizing the Najdorf Sicilian as the name of one of many ways to start a chess game, Emerald nodded. He was beginning to enjoy the company of this new instructor. “So,” Double Kay said. “Shall we play a game of chess or not?” Emerald smiled from ear to ear. “You bet,” he said. Immediately he set up another chair on the other side of the desk and sat down at the side with the White pieces. Double Kay raised an eyebrow at Emerald, seemingly trying to help him remember something. Emerald looked down at the chessboard again, realizing that a White pawn and a Black pawn were missing. “Lord have mercy,” said Double Kay. “You didn’t forget the selecting of colors, did you?” The elderly instructor held out two fists to Emerald, who remembered the routine. He had to pick a fist, and whichever color of pawn was in the selected fist was the color he would use. Emerald, somewhat ashamed, chose the fist to his right, which was revealed to be the White pawn. Double Kay immediately spoke. “Good choice.” With a smile on his face he pulled out the other chair and plopped himself down in it. Emerald, playing as White, made the first move to begin the game. Emerald played an opening move that was known to chess players as the “Polish Opening”. This was an unorthodox push of a pawn close to the side of the board, which was rarely played at top level. Nonetheless, Double Kay played almost all of his moves automatically like he knew the line inside and out. After the opening had concluded, Emerald felt himself becoming quite distraught. He did not play this line on a regular basis and was rather clueless as to how to continue. Finally he decided to meekly push a pawn, immediately seeing another clearly better move developing his knight usefully. Double Kay only had to think for a few moments before seeing an aggressive queen move he had that would quickly take advantage of Emerald’s mistake by challenging weak territory he had left behind. If you have ever played a game of chess and wound up in a terrible position, you know the feeling that Emerald had at this point in the game. As he inwardly panicked, his ears grew blazingly hot and he began to sweat profusely. He played a passive rook move that he knew from experience was inferior, but he simply could not decide on anything better. Double Kay smiled at Emerald, causing him to realize that he had just left a pawn open for capture. What on earth possessed me to play that move? Emerald thought, quite embarrassed that he was playing a very bad game. Only five moves later did Double Kay have a completely won position-a rattled Emerald had had quite enough, and attempted a risky rook sacrifice. Double Kay refuted the line as if he had this entire game completely rehearsed. Emerald, confused, beaten, and a bit irritated, tipped over his king in resignation of the game. Double Kay stretched out his hand, which was quickly shaken by his student’s. “You played a pretty offbeat line, wouldn’t you say?” he said. “To be honest, I’m feeling a bit off today,” Emerald replied. Double Kay breathed out a heavy sigh and began speaking in a much softer voice. “I understand your brother has left,” he said with apparent compassion. Emerald couldn’t speak. It was too grieving a subject to discuss with a person he barely knew. “I went through the same thing as a 15 year old. My older brother, who was 19, decided to leave the house to go to college. As it turned out, he had been preparing for five years without telling anyone, and he left two days after informing us.” “What happened after that?” Emerald asked. “It was two months before I could bring myself to do much anything else except read. I read anything there was to read-science fiction, realistic fiction, and some non-fiction as well. In a lot of those stories, I saw that there were many characters that had gone through the same thing I had. They mourned and grieved, too. That’s a part of life. But they did not grieve forever. They had the power to overcome that loss, and to realize that they could move on with life instead of wallowing in sorrow as I had. And when I realized that I could put the loss in perspective and make myself productive, I did.” Emerald paused. He certainly didn’t feel like making himself in any way productive, or putting this loss behind him. But before he had a chance to speak, Double Kay stood up and began talking again. “Well, I must be off,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning for our first lesson. Will you be alright?” Emerald was hesitant, but brought himself to respond. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Until then, God bless.” Double Kay left the room to meet Emerald’s father before departing. Emerald followed him out from a distance. “Thank you for allowing me to meet your boy,” Double Kay said. “No problem,” Emerald’s father said. “He seems like a very bright kid. I’ll be back tomorrow morning at 7:00am.” “Alright. Thanks for stopping by.” “Good bye.” Double Kay walked out the door with a low wave. Emerald did not know what to think. He had enjoyed the man’s pleasant demeanor, his love for chess, and his joyous smile, but there was still the fact that he did not know much about him, let alone his teaching routines. Only time would tell what this new teacher had in store for him. So, was this good quality or bad quality?

In the series of Great Writers' Tournaments: GW: Plato > 2000, 7 days, 7 players http://www.chess.com/tournament/great-writers-plato GW: Shakespeare 1500 - 2000, 5 days, 10 players http://www.chess.com/tournament/great-writers-william-shakespeare GW: Beckett < 1500, 3 days, 12 players http://www.chess.com/tournament/great-writers-samuel-beckett These are no vacation tournaments. Welcome!

We never did have that contest this Winter, so perhaps we could have aPoetry And Prose Contest for the upcoming Spring. Writch already approved the idea and now Rael is back as well. What do you all think of the idea?

GOOD NEWSAt least you were elegant, Gwen,at least you made an elegant exit,realizing how so-called love so depressingly extinguisheswith endorphins and dopamine and serotonin and norepinephrine,of course, sure, saying soul mate once more, as if.With over-population as it is, even, why the hell (which doesn’t exist I guess)continue to persist in this abhorrent planescape, what withthe nonsensical, fickle, ugly pseudo-promises you receivethen find out just next none of them were worth their weightother than empty sentiment. Well, fuck this, I’m with you,this was an idiot error, a schoolboy mistake to thinkthat God existed, Love occurs, tiresome, dragging, sterilepragmatics doesn’t overwhelm us all eventually.So I court the oblivion you already enjoy.The dark designs of my mind drift deeper,into the actual, awful, sink of distinct, evolutionarylie that underlies all love, whether or not they subscribe (or seeor can see, being willfully blind). So fine, you win,destroy me at your soonest whim, barring that (being too easy)I’ll figure it out when I can overcome life’s insistent resistance.Don’t worry – that is a tension formed by my difficulty disappointingmy mother against my absolute excitement in ceasingto exist, which, thankfully, expires soon enough, justcontinual, incessant impactful reminders need strikeall saying “You’re not worth life, look at what you’re like”and so forth. Good news, they arrive every second. Solovely, really, ‘cept for a truly elegant place from whichto guarantee that garrulous gratuity – escape on impact.Good thing I’m clever, clearly. Like one last step in my legacyof calculating game strategy, for what it’s wonderfully worth.And so I seek a cradle for my corpse, and an excellent loftfrom which to cast it off.~

I got this e-mail from my step mom and I thought it was too funny not to pass on. I hope nobody minds a little silliness. Make sure that from now on you send your emails to the right address!! Typing in the wrong e-mail address could cause some serious harm. Consider the case of the Illinois man who left the snow-filled streets of Chicago for a vacation in Florida. His wife was on a business trip and was planning to meet him there the next day. When he reached his hotel, he decided to send his wife a quick e-mail. Unable to find the scrap of paper on which he had written her e-mail address, He did his best to type it in from memory. Unfortunately, he missed one letter, and his note was directed instead to an elderly preacher's wife, whose husband had passed away only the day before. When the grieving widow checked her e-mail, she took one look at the monitor, let out a piercing scream, and fell to the floor in a dead faint. At the sound, her family rushed into the room and saw this note on the screen: Dearest Wife, Just got checked in. Everything prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Signed, Your eternally loving husband. P.S. Sure is hot down here. Author unknown

The author of "The Catcher In The Rye" has passed away at the age of 91.Living as a recluse he had not given an interview in 30 years and he hadn't published in 45 years. In fact he only has one great novel along with a few other writings and acolumn, which has only added fuel to his legend and mystery. Many fans would even make pilgrimages to New Hampshire to try andspot him at his estate.

A short story with a little Elder Scrolls and chess mixed together. I'm 15 years old and I just write in my spare time. I don't have a writing class and I've never had any formal teaching, but I love writing. Please tell me what you all think of it! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Badael Denaren trumped up the old, weatherbeaten stone steps and came to the door of the local pub. Raindrops pelted his dark blue skin as he lifted the old wooden door's latch and stumbled inside. The threshold, made slick by the wet soles of the patrons shoes, threatened to sweep his feet out from under him and crack his head open like an ironwood nut on the stone stairs. Badael, however, maintained his balance, and turned to relieve his shoes of the water that had flooded their bulging walls. He removed his shoes and let the water fall from them down the stairs. As Badael watched the water from his shoes trickle down the old stone steps, he imagined it like a river. The puddles in his shoes were the headwaters. The stream coursing down the stairs was the body of the river with the waterfalls. The expanse of paved rock that stretched out beyond the last fall was the delta, where farmers tilled and cultivated oceans of soil that would bear groves of crops thanks to the river's gift. After a short while, the river ceased to flow, and Badael donned his shoes once again, still damp with water. He turned to face the inside of the small building. He could see orbs of blue light hung on chains that darted across the ceiling. The blue lights granted the room's layout visibility to Badael's eyes. Badael could see people talking with each other seated at small tables. Some tables bore food and drinks, some bore only one of the two, and still others were crowned with small boxes from which little wisps of different colors rose. Badael strolled past a few of the tables, where he observed hands of all colors and races manipulating utensils and colored figures. He finally spied a table where a big, burly green creature was sitting. He could see a little box with small figures strewn across the table, and the green brute was seated with his arms folded on the table and his back slightly bent. He had an expression on his face that told Badael that he was waiting for someone. As Badael neared the table, the green man's gaze floated over to him, and his face lit up. He leaned back in his chair and said in a rather hoarse voice, "Well well, you've shown up after all." "Yep, even though I think I already know my fate." Badael answered in a calm, soft voice. "You never can tell with chess." the green giant said. "Who knows, this might be the night that you finally beat me!" "Maybe." Badael replied in a sarcastic tone as he sat across from the green man. "Heh, you may think me a genius, but I've had my share of defeats, some more embarrassing than the ones I've handed you." "Well, I will say that you are the only Orc chess player that I have ever seen. A lot of people think your race one of idiotic barbarians, with some justice." The Orc let out a hearty chuckle and held up two monstrous green fists. "Choose." the Orc said. Badael poked the left fist with a long, slender blue finger. The Orc turned the fist over and extended his fingers, unveiling a small, dark brown piece. "You're black." said the Orc as he lowered his hands. Badael took the little dark piece and placed it in its place as the Orc restored the missing light piece to its place. Badael looked over the checkered board, and over the four rows of pieces. A battle was about to begin. "Prepare yourself." the Orc bellowed in a joking voice. "I would if I could." Badael replied in the same tone. The two duelists fixed there eyes on the board, and the Orc advanced his king's pawn 2 squares forward. Badael returned the favor by advancing his king's pawn forward 2 squares as well. As time went by, position on the board constantly changed shape. Some pieces were moved, others exchanged, still others unmoved since the beginning of the game. Badael kept his concentration focused on the task at hand, refusing to be distracted by the low rumble of chatter and the soft thumps of wood striking wood that stemmed from all directions. He took sizeable amounts of time for many of his moves, while the Orc gave no more than a few moments of consideration to most of his. Badael wondered how that green mountain of flesh and muscle could so quickly find moves that matched the ones that he spent what seemed like milennia trying to find. Every now and then, he glanced up at the Orc's face, and he could see from his expression the patience that only came from many long years of playing against people that thought forever on moves. Once again, it was Badael's turn to move. For fifty-six turns, and he had been counting, he had maintained what he considered an even position against the old green Orc. Now, however, he thought that he saw a move that looked like it improved his position, and could possibly give him an advantage. Badael's mind once again plunged into the abyss of time as he studied the move with all his might. The move looked so promising, and he could almost hear the piece that he considered moving and the square begging him to unite them. Badael remembered past games where he thought he had assembled a superior position against his green friend only to be crushed a short while later. Those flashbacks now taunted him, bringing forth the memories of that false sense of superiority that had ensnared him so many times. Badael tried to think of alternatives, but no matter what he looked at, his mind kept drifting back to that one move. Badael struggled with the decision for quite a long time, much longer than on any other move this game. However, the Orc maintained perfect composure, that look of patience never leaving his wrinkled face. At long last, not seeing any other good move, Badael gingerly lifted the piece and rested it on the square. Those memories of false senses of security still mocked him, but he was determined to avenge all of those lost games tonight. After making the move, his eyes flitted up to look upon the Orc's face once again, and this time, they saw something new. Badael saw what looked like a slight sense of bewilderment on the old Orc's face. Could he finally have caught the man in one of his mistakes? Was this the night that those haunting memories feared would come? Would he finally, dare he think, beat him? Badael retreated his gaze from the Orc's face and once again locked his eyes on the board and pieces. Finally, he saw a big green hand dip down and relocate a piece to another square. Badael then reentered into his world of deep thought and concentration, as he did every turn of a game. The game wore on, and although what seemed like centuries to Badael had gone by, a small amount of moves were made. From that attractive move Badael had seen on move fifty-six, the position had changed shape less than ten times. It was now move sixty-two and all traces of Badael's seemingly terrific position had vanished. Once again, the old Orc's skill and experience had seemed to award him the victory. Badael played on for five more moves before finally resigning in the face of a forced mate in three. Badael leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, his mind grateful for being relieved of such tedious calculation. He brought his eyes back down to the game board and stared at it. Then, he heard the Orc say, "What happened?" Badael looked at the Orc with a quizzical expression and said, "What do you mean?" "Here, let me show you." replied the Orc. Badael looked at the board as the Orc arranged the pieces to depict a position that they had been in near the end of the game. Then, a feeling of shock came over him when he recognized the setup as the one that had arisen right after he made that one particular move. "You had a forced checkmate." the Orc said plainly. Badael just stared at him in astonishment. "You finally caught me in a mistake," the Orc continued. "but you failed to follow it up correctly. You could have forced a mate in four moves regardless of what move I made." Badael just looked at the board as the Orc proved his claim by sacrificing a dark piece so the others could crash in and corner the light king. Just as he said, the light king was completely trapped in four moves. After he finished the sequence, the Orc looked up at Badael, who in turn came up to meet his gaze. "I never even thought I could try to checkmate you. I would have never found that sacrifice." "You are very hesitant to sacrifice pieces," said the Orc, "and that's what I was banking on. As long as you did not make that move, I was fine. It took two moves to render that sacrifice useless, and you allowed me those two moves. I could then proceed with my own attack plan." Badael looked at the board, and then at the Orc. "Well, good game. Well played, even though you should have lost." Badael said "Like I said before we played." the Orc replied, "You never know in chess." "Goodbye, Borgak." Badael said, rising from his seat and turning toward the door. "Bye, Badael." the Orc replied. "See you tomorrow." Badael walked out of the tavern and down the old stone steps. It was still raining outside, but he didn't feel the drops hitting him. He was absorbed in the fact that finally, after so long, he had caught the old Orc in a mistake. He might not have won the game, but darn it, he finally caught that old Orc! He walked home with forceful steps, his back straight, and his head held high. Just catching his friend in a mistake was, to him, a great victory in and of itself.

Please read my News post for the group. It outlines some guidelines for the forums. If you have some feedback or input, I'd love to hear it. Post here or under the News post. Cheers,Rich

This is another essay I wrote recently. It is part of a lengthy project I'm working on at my website (go there to see it's currently completed parts. It is entitled "Foundation, Not Addition"). This is some commentary on a certain part of the Bible, and as such could be classified as an informative/expository essay. Let me know what you think of it. Matthew 6 1Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven. 2Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. 3But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth: 4That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly. 5And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. 6But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. 7But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. 8Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him. 9After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. 10Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. 11Give us this day our daily bread. 12And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. 13And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen. 14For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: 15But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. 16Moreover when ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance: for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. 17But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; 18That thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret: and thy Father, which seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly. Pride-the treachery that resulted in Lucifer being thrown out of heaven, the quality that so many have been seduced into thinking is just, and the word Jesus used in this sermon to describe the real intentions behind countless good works done by the supposed “righteous”. If people could see even a glimmer of how much of an abomination to God pride truly is, you would not ever again see a puffed up Christian. Mankind has distorted it from being an utter sin and made it into something of a rule of patriotism. So many individuals that people admire pretend that the world is a theatre, and that their job is to put on a good show, get an applause, and become a celebrity. Let me tell you this-God will not be applauding. These actors get publicity, but that is well all they will receive. Hypocrites like that like to think that they are the greatest thing since Christ Himself, and that anyone else is just orbiting around their brightness. Good works are not to be a performance, but rather acts dedicated to the glory of God. In C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity, he makes point worth noting-pride is a competition, and for a person indulging in it to be considered even remotely lesser than another bothers them. They simply cannot accept the fact that someone or something is more admired, more respected, or more honored than they are. If this is the case, then they cannot be serving God at all, because God is of a higher degree of righteousness than they are (or anyone else, for that matter). If this is further the case, then their “good works” are futile and worthless, because they cannot be giving glory to God. The Lord said in the above passage that you, rather than acting like the pretenders, should do good works without attempting to become a short-time celebrity. There is one curious thing said in this passage. Jesus said to do your good works “in secret”, while He, in earlier passages said to let your light illuminate your good deeds. I would like to offer an explanation. When Jesus said to do your good works in secret, I do not believe He meant you should constantly be out of sight of anyone. I believe He meant that they should be done without trying to attract attention. Such deeds are genuine, not futile. In regards to prayer, we have a totally new direction. People who pray using vain repetitions and many words are trying to get applause from God as well. What stupidity! They act as if prayer is a mission to entertain God enough that He answers the prayer. You can see this in some churches today. People will pray and, even if they do not realize it, think that using such advanced words will somehow enhance their prayer. God knows what you are going to ask before you ask it, and as such you do not need to use flashy words or King James English to impress God. Instead, Jesus said to pray with simplicity. This should be practiced especially when praying with other people. Oftentimes the person praying the prayer attempts to assert a “holier-than-thou” perspective by using as many Bible-slogans as they can. The Master gave us a very simple way to pray, which we recognize nowadays as “The Lord’s Prayer”. I also find it intriguing that He said to, when you go into your closet to pray, “shut the door behind you”. I believe this was added to stress the importance of secrecy when you pray. Your closet is about as far away from the temptation to try to impress others with your words as you can get. There was a reason for every word or phrase Jesus said, we just need to find it. In a similar fasion, fasting is not to be a show of righteousness before men, but rather an act forcing yourself to release yourself from the things you want (particularly food) to get a greater focus on God for a period of time. Prayer and fasting should be private issues between you and God, not something that should be broadcast to everyone in order to make you popular. So, was this an improvement on my last essay?