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What does everyone think? We ready for some team games for this group? Chime in everyone.

I pass through life's tunnel, a dark cold expanse, Ruled by fate's unforseen circumstance. Optimists speak of a light shining still after the depths of the tunnel we fill. The blinding light obscures one's sight as second by second we fade away. For the light that shines at the end of the way Serves merely to blind our eyes today!

She dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye. Fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky. She lived unknown and few could know when Lucy ceased to be. But she is in her grave and oh the difference to me. -William Wordsworth

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasonsHe wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;The vision of a warrior bold Would send him dancing.Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors;He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant;He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one;He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing:He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it;Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking;Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking. -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

I want to welcome the three newest editions to our small, up and coming team - Sivat, Ravenloche, and Eventhorizon-. I hope that we can share some literary ideas and insights, but most of all kick some butt at chess!!!

'Said Hanrahan'"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, In accents most forlorn,Outside the church, ere Mass began, One frosty Sunday morn.The congregation stood about, Coat-collars to the ears,And talked of stock, and crops, and drought, As it had done for years."It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke; "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,For never since the banks went broke Has seasons been so bad.""It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil, With which astute remarkHe squatted down upon his heel And chewed a piece of bark.And so around the chorus ran "It's keepin' dry, no doubt.""We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out.""The crops are done; ye'll have your work To save one bag of grain; From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke They're singin' out for rain."They're singin' out for rain," he said, "And all the tanks are dry."The congregation scratched its head, And gazed around the sky."There won't be grass, in any case, Enough to feed an ass;There's not a blade on Casey's place As I came down to Mass.""If rain don't come this month," said Dan, And cleared his throat to speak --"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If rain don't come this week."A heavy silence seemed to steal On all at this remark;And each man squatted on his heel, And chewed a piece of bark."We want an inch of rain, we do," O'Neil observed at last;But Croke "maintained" we wanted two To put the danger past."If we don't get three inches, man, Or four to break this drought,We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."In God's good time down came the rain; And all the afternoonOn iron roof and window-pane It drummed a homely tune.And through the night it pattered still, And lightsome, gladsome elvesOn dripping spout and window-sill Kept talking to themselves.It pelted, pelted all day long, A-singing at its work,Till every heart took up the song Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.And every creek a banker ran, And dams filled overtop;"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If this rain doesn't stop."And stop it did, in God's good time; And spring came in to foldA mantle o'er the hills sublime Of green and pink and gold.And days went by on dancing feet, With harvest-hopes immense,And laughing eyes beheld the wheat Nid-nodding o'er the fence.And, oh, the smiles on every face, As happy lad and lassThrough grass knee-deep on Casey's place Went riding down to Mass.While round the church in clothes genteel Discoursed the men of mark,And each man squatted on his heel, And chewed his piece of bark."There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man, There will, without a doubt;We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out." -- John O'Brien

by Percy Bysshe Shelley Ozymandias I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Last night by many cares and toils opressed Weary I laid me on a couch to rest.

"The Tell-Tale Heart" (A), The Pioneer, January 1843"The Tell-Tale Heart" (C), The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, 1850The Tell-Tale Heartby Edgar Allan Poe TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!" -The End-

Fiction or non- fiction that is the question. Do you prefer fiction with its interesting character development, ability to create mental scenes, and escapism, or non-fiction with its concreteness, educational value, and real life application?

I would like to start playing some games with this group. I don't know if there is a required number of members for such activity, but if so we could enlist some people. Let me know some of your ideas.

Hey all, I found a start up group named planet chess. It will be two simul games each with a three day time limit. Let me know if this is cool! Let's kick some As*.

To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of ourageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To die to sleep no more, and by a sleep we say we end the heartache and the thousand natural heirs that flesh is heir to.'Tis a consumption devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come as we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause. There's the respect that makes clamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressors wrong, the laws delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that merit of the unworthy takes when he himself might his queitus make with a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the threat of something after death that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns puzzles the will and makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. thus conscious 'doth make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'erd by the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action