Missed the Post

I am very sorry that i didn't post on sunday when I was supposed to, I have been without internet access for a while and haven't been able to make the next character in the story. Please don't kill me.

Cthulhu

I dream a world
Outside.

A world
Above.

Something more than


R'lyeh.


Somewhere bright

And Living.


Until I wake

I remain
Below.




Dreaming







And dead.

Bozo's Lament

Based upon Bozo's Lament by Jonathan Coulton.

It was night. No one was watching the ring. I was the only one there. I didn't know how I got there. Probably the beer. It always went back to the beer. I sighed, and was about to head back to my trailer when a spotlight illuminated the cannon. A man was standing next to it. Arthur, the human cannonball. No, the ex human cannonball. He died fifteen years ago. "Do you fly or do you fall?" he called to me. Without waiting for an answer, He clambered into the cannon. It fired, and he flew across the tent, turned in midair, and flew off through a hole near the top. Then I realized I had seen this before, many times. Every night for the past five years I had the same dream. Every night he asked the same meaningless question, and every night he flies away. It sucks to be a clown.
The alarm dragged me from the dream. I thought about sleeping in, but it wouldn't be worth it. Fifteen minutes later it would still be too early, I'd still be hungover, and I'd get my pay docked if I was late. Again. I punched the alarm's button to shut it up, and went to put on my makeup. I didn't shower first. No one here did. The animals smelled like crap anyhow, so what were twenty more unwashed beasts? Besides, I could use the time on my face. I took pride in it. It was always a masterpiece. Every day, I came to work looking how a clown should. Ten minutes later, I was streaked with pie and whipped cream. An hour of makeup, at least, ruined in a instant. It sucks to be a clown.
I finished my work, looked at myself in the mirror for a minute, then grabbed my cigarettes from the counter. I lit one as I left the trailer and began to make my way past the animals. The twins were there, working with the lions on their routine. They just looked at me and laughed, one of them with his head still in the lion's mouth. They knew where I stood in the hierarchy of the circus. I threw the butt of my cigarette down, and lit a new one as I walked past. It wasn't fair. They just show up and abuse a lion onstage and they get all the girls. I slave away to put on my face, struggle to walk in foolish shoes, and get pies thrown at me. The crowd laughs with the twins, but they laugh at me. It sucks to be a clown.
I didn't really have much of a choice in careers, though. I always thought being a clown was my destiny. What else does someone named Bozo do? But the circus was supposed to be better than this. All I do is get pie in my face, five days a week. Today is different though. When they went to throw the pie at me, I knocked it from the air. I took the gravel-encrusted pie from the ground and slammed it into the ringleader's face, like I've wanted to for fifteen years. I strode over to the cannon, and as I clamber in I remember Arthur. "I know the answer now. I fly." There hasn't been a net since he died, but I don't need one. I don't want to be caught. It sucks to be a clown.

Story One, Chapter Seven

Every day I wake, and every day I regret it. When I rise from the cold floor, I ache. There is no door, and I exit without pause. Then I search. Sometimes I find a rat, cold and shivering, with far too many limbs, but not a single functioning one. A piteous creature with patches of fur gone, writhing in pain. Emaciated yet bloated by starvation. Breakfast. Every day I tear off a head, and every day the blood pours into my mouth and runs down my face.

Lament of the Winged III

We openly mocked them, they crawled through the dirt.

They bore it in silence, and struggled to learn.

We took from them tribute.

They learned from us war.

Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Chapter Four

Two sets of eyes, one much smaller than the other, watched from a nearby tree branch."Now that wasn't very fair" whispered the girl to her pokémon. "Anyone could tell that poliwag is much to young for battle." The creature on her shoulder pushed its snout through her hair and began to search for food. A smile appeared on the girls face. Even though she only had her pokémon for a few hours now, she already found herself quite attached to the thing. Her happiness faded quickly, though, as she watched the boy advance to the water's edge and stare into the depths. How could anyone be so cruel? she thought. No, not cruel. Just... cold. She thought of his opponent. He hadn't seemed to enjoy causing pain. He just seemed to want - to need - to win. Even if he was the only one playing.
She suddenly felt a shock of pain, as if her earlobe had been stabbed with a pin, and nearly slapped the creature from her shoulder. Remembering herself, she softly chided the pokémon and took a bluk berry from her pouch. She carefully removed a single drupelet, which she held up to her shoulder. The animal sniffed it tentatively, and then snatched it from her, and set to the task of eating it. Thus satisfied that her ear was no longer in mortal peril, she looked back towards the boy.
He was on his knees now, sullenly staring into the water. A magikarp's head pierced the surface of the water, and it looked at him. It waited for a second, and then swam away, splashing some water at him as it did so. He never moved.

Red shivered, the water leeching heat from his body, though the weather was still well above freezing. The loss of the poliwag - of his poliwag - cut like a knife. It wasn't that he had liked the creature. Its existence made him despair of ever achieving anything, of even surviving as a Called. Nevertheless, now that it was gone he had nothing. No creature to help him protect Pallet. No pokémon to keep him alive as he ventured into the forests. No bumbling, happy Nyoromo to provide companionship.
He was so preoccupied by his thoughts that he didn't see the first bubble break the surface of the water and float off into the sky. Nor did he see the second. When three broke the water at once, though, he couldn't help but take notice. More and more bubbles rose, and a small section of the lake seemed to boil. Then, all at once, the bubbles stopped. A moment passed, and a blue sphere leapt from the water. Red watched incredulously as it dove through the water again. It reappeared a moment later, and in seconds it stood before Red.
"Poli!" it gurgled, a bubble still clinging to its face.

The girl was bemused. I'll need to remember this. She placed her pokémon in her satchel, and swung into the woods. Preoccupied with embracing his poliwag, the boy didn't hear a thing.

God Dreamt Chapter 2

2.

God was complete. There was nothing more to be, as he was all. Yet, though God was all, all was not yet complete.

Merry Christmas!

So technically, this isn't a "Friday's Feature", but Reogan can't yell at me for anything real (he's fully within his rights to make something up) because I'm still posting. :P

Now, before the huge "happy holidays" vs. "merry christmas" debate starts, I will say this: do not even go there. Please. Let's just enjoy this, okay?

This is not going to be a long post. Not even close. But that's okay. :P

So yeah, whether you're celebrating Hanukkah, Kwanza, Christmas, or the pagan festival to the Sun God during the Winter Solstice, enjoy!

Twas the Night

Childeren
Nestled

In bed

Wondering

How to


Dream


About sugarplums

When no one
Knew


What they were.

Story One, Chapter Six

I don't know what I am. I was human. I remember the past. I remember joy. Infrequently. The recollections are brief, and wake a thirst I didn't know was there. They pass, and I am the worse for their coming. I am left cold, and thirsting. A thirst that cannot be quenched.

200

We have ten score posts on the blog now, three quarters of which are maddeningly meaningless. The other forty-nine are written by Elphaba and Met. I think that now is a time for celebration. I have delayed the Lament for a week to bring you the exciting news.

To properly ring in our victory, I invited an illustrator. He will be illustrating the Apocalypse, and perhaps other things as they strike his fancy. By illustrating, of course, I mean sprites, as he somehow has less drawing ability than I do, a feat in itself. The second reward is my new blog, which will function much like bonus commentary on a DVD, but without having to watch the entire video again.

A little over a year ago, Met posted 100, a post that celebrated not 100 published posts, but 100 total, drafts included. We currently have 266 posts including those that are drafts and those that are scheduled. What have we achieved in that time? We gained Elphaba, an author with an unfortunate penchant for writing Fanfiction. GLaDOS's Lament was published. Tuesday's little Tale began, and mystery ensued. Songs appeared every week, for a time, though they have encountered a hiatus that can only lengthen as Met flees from the government. Thursday has become known for producing Thoughts, which are generally beautifully macabre. Friday now Features our newest author, who tries to resist the madness with actual meaning. God has begun to dream on Saturdays, and will do so until somewhere around the Chinese New Year. The Winged have fallen, and lament it. I have found my new work, which I have no intention of ending, and will last for as long as I can write about it.


What will the next 100 bring?



Is it cheating to end Song of the Day like this?
sǝʎ

Oak and Red

Hello people, i have been invited to the blog to put up pictures of the characters of the Golden Apocalypse. I only have Oak and Red right now, I will make Green as soon as possible. I do realize that these aren't all that great yet, but i will try to improve them over time.

Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Chapter Three

Poliwag. It seemed to fit. What better name for such a useless species? The thing gurgled as it tried vainly to right itself. Red prodded it with his foot. It stopped moving for a second, and it's massive eyes turned to Red. "Wag?" When it didn't get a response, it resumed squirming. Red took pity on the creature, and wedged his foot between its head and the ground. He lifted the creature to its feet, at which point it walked forward, towards the pond, and tripped over its own feet. This time, however, it landed on its stomach. Its tail wagged in the air like a flag. Now, though, its feet could reach the ground, barely, and it pushed with them to slither towards the water. As it neared the pond, two figures strolled out from the forest.
The first was a boy, Red's age, with blue-green eyes and brown hair. He wore a necklace with a small disc-shaped pendant. He stood about as tall as Red, but had a haughty way of holding himself that made him seem taller. In his mouth was a slowpoke tail, which he chewed thoughtfully. A grimace spread across Red's face as he viewed his childhood rival, Oak's grandson. "Green." he said curtly.
Green turned, and a sneer distorted his normally handsome features as he saw Red. "You finally made it. I thought that you lost your way here and had been eaten by an arbok. I see I was mistaken. Pity." He noticed the movement of the poliwag and looked at it incredulously for a second. "Is that your pokémon? I've seen diglett larger than that thing. I didn't know poliwag came that tiny. What do you even call it?"
Red was at a loss for a moment, and quickly surveyed the slithering creature. "I, uh, I call it - him - erm, Nyoromo."
Green laughed. "Well your poliwag, - Nyoromo, was it? - couldn't survive a minute against Hitokage here." He gestured at the pokémon who walked by his side. The bipedal lizard snarled. The burnt orange creature stood at least two feet tall. It had claws on both is hands and feet. Those on its feet were longer, but dull, whereas those on its hands were viciously curved, and were stained with red as if it had just been fighting, which, Red realized, it probably had. It had unintelligent black eyes, and its slavering maw was open to reveal the teeth of a carnivore. What was, perhaps, its most startling feature was its tail, which was half as long as the creature was tall. It was raised off the ground, and on the end bloomed a deep red flame. Green saw Red's interest in his pokémon. "You like him? Gramps raised him specially for me. Said that he'd be the strongest in this year's calling. Allow me to demonstrate. Hitokage, scratch."
Before Red knew what was happening, the reptile charged towards his poliwag screeching a blood curdling "Charmander!" Nyoromo had just reached the waters edge when it reached him. It clawed the helpless amphibian, which was tossed to the center of the lake by the force of the blow. It hit the surface, bounced, and landed again a bit farther. It floated face down on the surface a moment before sinking, leaving a small floating pool of white blood. Red watched for a minute, two, and Nyoromo failed to surface. He barely saw Green leave with his charmander, nor heard him call "Smell you later!"
A lone magikarp jumped to catch an insect, and landed with a splash. Above, a spearow called.

God Dreamt Chapter 1

1.

Before the beginning there was God. God was all, and all was God. It was a time without flaw, yet without meaning. It didn’t become, nor had it been. It simply was.

Okay, I have an ulterior motive this week

This week's topic is fanfiction. The reason I have an ulterior motive is because Reogan absolutely detests fanfiction. I write it. Thus, I'll present both the positive and negative sides to it. I'll allow comments for now, but if Reogan and I get into a huge online fight about this, I'm disabling them.

Also, may I insert here: I have my own blog now! It's called Elphaba's Writing Space. I write stuff and post it on there (hard to figure out, I know). The address is http://elphabaswritingspace.blogspot.com. Minus the period after the ".com". But I digress...

So, fanfiction. What is it? Basically, it's people taking previously concieved stories, movies, or TV shows, and putting their own twist to it. They can show a scene from a different character's point of view, make up their own scenes, add characters... whatever works for their stories. They use their own imaginations to make something theirs. That way, they get to control the story.

Some people (coughREOGANcough) think that the authors of fanfiction are stealing someone else's story, and not being creative enough to come up with a story themselves. I disagree. The authors are still creative--they have their own characters, circumstances, and way of writing. They like a character in a certain book or TV show, and they want to put them in a situation of their own making. Is that not creative? They're asking the question, "what if?" Is that so wrong?

i

When you said
Our love was


Complex,

I thought
You meant

We shared something
Deep


And beautiful.


Now it's clear
You meant

It includes



Imaginary values.

Story One, Chapter Five

It is twilight. It has always been twilight. It will always be twilight. There is no breaking of day. There is no falling of night. The Burning Fields glow endlessly, the flames reflecting from the vortex above down to the scarred earth. The ashes rain constantly down, and coat everything. Everything is a black brush of ink against a pulsing, sickly background. Occasionally, the world is illuminated by lightning stirring above. The air becomes charged and a roar sounds forth. Then everything returns to silent twilight.

Lament of the Winged II

We had been gifted, and we were haughty.

They came to learn, and they were spurned.

They saw us as teachers.

We saw them as dogs.

Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Chapter Two

Red stepped back from the cage and watched intently. For what felt like an eternity nothing happened. Red took a tentative step forward. Nothing happened. He poked the cage with his shoe. Again, there was no sign of life. He bent down to look in the cage. He saw nothing in the darkness. He was debating whether he should reach into it or attempt to dump out its contents when he heard a moist slapping noise from within. He leaped to his feet and moved back. The sound came again. Seconds passed. It came once more. Red could only imagine what horror lurked within, slowly moving forward on a thousand tentacled feet, moving them with the deliberate slowness of a predator that none can hide from, each sucker being pulled from the wall before reattaching inches ahead. The noise came again, closer to the entrance. This time it was less distorted by the cage. It sounded less like a tentacle and more like wet sponge dropping to the ground. Red waited a little longer, and then a sad little round creature hopped into the light. It was small. Far smaller than most pokémon Red had ever seen, save newly hatched magikarp and perhaps some caterpie. It was a slimy blue, similar to that of a blue algae he had once seen when one of the wells was contaminated. Its nose was the pink of pecha berries, and it was below two large eyes that together filled most of the sphere. Its stomach was translucent, and Red could see the spiraling intestinal tract within. What made the beast so miserable - what made Red despair - were its limbs. It had no arms, and it's legs were small and weak. The thing could barely support its own weight, and seemed to have difficulty walking. It had a tail, much like a tadpole's, that seemed to do nothing but trip the creature as it waddled around Red cheerfully. He looked back at the shining Lab, with its glorious Guardian perched above, and wondered how he could ever hope to achieve anything with this, this, abomination at his feet. Blissfully ignorant, the pokémon tripped over Red's foot and, looking up at him in apparent surprise, happily gurgled "Poliwag!"

Burdened

I have a secret none can know.
It colors every aspect of my life.
It affects all I do.
In everything, I must be cautious not to let it slip.
Not to let it shatter the illusion
And my life.
And my lie.
I know that there is help.
I know I could be cured.
To heal, though, is to tell,
And never be seen as I was.
As I am.
As that which I am, yet never was.
A lie.
I tell myself I'm not alone.
That others suffer as I do
Ensnared.
I search for signs in everyone.
I find them in some.
But I'm not sure.
And to ascertain is to tell.
And to tell is to invite ridicule.
Alienation.
Pain.
I float alone
In a sea of regret
And misery.
I am consumed.
I am without hope.
I find myself not caring about the world.
But I do.
I care enough to maintain my lie.
To maintain the person I want to be
Rather than that which I am.
I disguise myself daily
With a smile
And with casual
meaningless
conversations.
Every day I take up my shovel
And dig a little deeper into my pit.
I sit at my loom
And weave another dozen lies.
I take up my hammer
And forge more chains
Binding myself
Into darkness
And sorrow
Forever.
I am trapped
In a prison of my design.
A lie.

I'm back!

Well, sorta. Actually, I just promised Reogan I'd write this week, and I didn't have time last night or the night before... But I am back for this week!

Honestly, I'm not sure what to write about. I think I just like being able to write, you know? Having the freedom to express what I think, how I feel... it's great. Kind of like keeping a diary, only I'm not writing stuff THAT personal on here. Duh.

Maybe that's what this week's feature is about. What do you do to express yourself? Writing? Composing music? Getting tattoos? Whatever! We all have different outlets for creativity, and that's the fun part!

The sad part is, some people don't express themselves creatively. Maybe they don't think they're smart enough, or talented enough, or whatever. But if you think about it, everyone has a talent! Maybe you're super good at video games, or cooking, or computer coding, or some other fourth thing. I don't know.

I think I'll be posting more regularly. Hopefully. Because it feels good to write again.

Song of the Day Nineteen, The Cavern

Sword in hand, the hero descended into the pit that had only yesterday been a lake. Now, still dripping, the gaping maw of a massive cavern was accessible, an it was into this cavern the hero advanced. From this cave had pured forth all the evils the land had endured, and within it would the hero subdue the lord of the darkness. He was met with great resistance. Beings born of fire and forged of sin clamored about him, but could not harm him for the light of the scepter he held as a torch. The cave was deep, and pools of water were scattered about the ground. As he advanced, a drumming began to echo from the depths, and a feeling of foreboding grew in the hero's heart. He passed glowing stalagmites and menacingly sharp stalactites, which he feared would fall a skewer him. Yet he pressed on and didn't turn back. He felt his apprehension grow dark and dense, knotting his stomach in dread. The fiends about him suddenly scurried away as the hero stepped onto a ledge overlooking a massive room lit by blood-red candles and smoky with incense. A hulking form moved in the hellish twilight and the drums fell silent.

Rights

I thought
We were

Past this.


Look at us!


We're people

Too.


Do we not breathe?



Do we not
Feel?






We're no different.





Other than that





'Infant Blood-Feast' thing.

Song of the Day Eighteen, A Quiet Passing

From the skies the Hero descended, bearing a scepter of the ancients said to have been made to restore vitality to the world. He alighted at dusk, on a hilltop in his own village near Pandora. He saw light without substance coming from a dark gray square. There, a pallid throng was gathered in silence. A young girl turned and saw the hero, and tugged the dress of her mother, who turned. Her motion triggered others, and soon the entire village faced the hero. Rather than rejoice, or even greet him, the crowd simply parted. The hero walked forward to the lake side of the square. There, floating gently on the waters edge was bier tied with a hemp rope to a stake in the ground. Upon the bier, in the grave decorum of death, was the farmer; the man who had been more of a father to the hero than anyone. Tears ran silently down the hero's face as he remembered the toils shared in the sunlight. The spring planting, a long summer of weeding and watering, and the fall harvest where they gleaned the fruits of their labors. His body shook with silent, yet wracking sobs, and he fell to his knees. His hands knotted up in fists, driving the blood from his knuckles and drawing it from crescent-shaped fingernail cuts on his palms. He wept for the father he had lost, for the life that was stolen from him by the Darkness, for the lives of those in Pandora, for the destruction of the world. What possible reason could there be for this destruction? What reason could validate the loss of a single life? He drew a deep breath, then raised a hand to wipe away his tears. He ran it, open, across his face, streaking it with crimson. He took his sword, raised it above his head, and brought it down on the ropes which tethered the farmer to this world. The raft slowly sailed out into the water. The silence was oppressive. Not a leaf stirred in the wind, not a tear fell to the pavement with an audible splash for an eternity, then the hero took his scepter. He raised it up, with both hands, and a sudden light suffused it. He pointed it out, and it illuminated the body in the water. The farmer exploded into flames, that glowed a fierce, beautiful red in the colorless world. Light bloomed upwards, and solidified into crystalline motes that restored all that touched them into true life and color. The hero watched, his tears drying in the heat pouring from the lake, then fell back, the world growing black about him. A dozen friendly hands caught him before he hit the ground.

Story One, Chapter Four

There is a picture on the wall. It shows a boat on a lake. Before the boats all sank. Before the lakes all dried. Every day it is obscured by accumulating smog. Every day it is cleaned. Yet some things can never be removed. A darkness oozes forth from the corners of the painting, and every day the lake shines less brilliantly; the sails show more wear. When they are no more, hope will die.

Song of the Day Seventeen, Village in the Clouds

The hero opens his eyes and sees a golden light suffusing the mists about him. He rises, groggily, and attempts to recall the events of the past evening. Failing he shrugs and replaces his hat, which had fallen to the soft ground at some point during the night. He rubs his eyes and squints. The morning would be painfully bright if not for the fog, which hung draped in the air like lace. Light dances through each droplet, sending colorless rainbows across every surface. He ventures toward the rising sun, acutely aware that anything could approach him now, and he'd never see it. Within a minute of starting, he sees a mountain peak to what he assumes to be the south-east. He makes that his target and heads to it. It seems to grow too quickly as he approaches it, and soon he sees it's a clock tower, jutting into the sky. He glances down for a moment, but the fog is so deep he can't make out the ground. He manages to reach the edifice without incident, and when no one answers his knocking, enters. He searches for life, climbing the almost eerily empty structure. He reaches the highest room, and can see the clock face from behind. He heads to a door that he assumes leads to a small balcony or something of the sort when a cough sounds from behind him. The Queen stands there, robed in her glory. She walks silently past the hero, and motions with her hands. The clock face becomes transparent, and a burning light sears the Hero's eyes. The Queen passes a hand across his face and his sight is restored and his vision cleared. He views the village below the clock, uncomprehending for a moment. Suddenly he realizes the source of the mists and why the sun had such intensity. He stands above the clouds.

Lament of the Winged I

We are the winged ones, and we are dying.

They are earthbound and they know naught but envy.

We met in the sunlight.

We parted in blood.

Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Chapter One

The Lab sat on the crest of a hill, glinting in the sunlight. It was a relic from times long past, when humans ruled and pokémon were domesticated and small. It consisted of two parts; the first a massive, multistory building which connected to the second, an even larger, glass-enclosed dome which held a miniature forest, a small pond, and a grassy field. Most of the laboratories were now closed down, though a few were kept open for use as classrooms, storage rooms, and one still served scientific function. The Dome, on the other hand, was in constant use, for magikarp were harvested in the pond for food, and those pokémon that were trained from birth to serve humankind lived within until Called into service. However, the number of those pokémon was prone to rapid fluctuation as they depended solely on eggs harvested from the wild. No breeding pairs had ever been established, except among the magikarp which were useless in all regards except as food. The complex was kept safe by a constant vigil of the Seven. The Seven each held watch with the pokémon they had tamed for a full day and night, rested upon being relieved, then struck off into the world until the next week.


It was to the Lab that Red ran, struggling to put on his jacket. He was late, and the Ceremony of Calling was to have taken place that morning. The hill upon which the Lab sat was so tall and steep, Red was forced to walk it. At reaching the peak, he stopped, awed. Though he had been here before, the sight was so powerful that it took his breath. He saw a figure on the roof, and knew it instantly to be one of the Seven. He couldn't see which it was, as the figure was silhouetted by the rising sun, and the Robes of the Guardian prevented him from determining gender. He stared for a while, somewhat dazzled by the power of the sight, then remembered the urgency of his situation. He sprinted in through the doorway. Once, the portal had been filled with great sliding glass doors, but since the Fall they stopped working and were removed with the few pokémon that remained under human control at that time. Now it remained open always, increasing the need for a constant watch. Red hurried down a long hall and entered a room that was used only once a year. To his great dismay it was empty. He was about to leave when a soft voice spoke, "You're late." The voice came from a dark corner of the room. Red could just make out a chair which swiveled around as he watched. A large figure rose from it and stepped into the light. It was Oak. Once an esteemed professor, he now led the small community. The muscle-bound man stood over two meters in height, and had a long scar from his jaw to above his left eye socket. The eye that once was housed there had been lost when Oak fought off a rhyhorn alone. He was lucky he lost only his eye. The man never wore a patch, though, and kept the socket empty. Red immediately began stammering an apology, but trailed of when Oak raised a hand. It was missing its ring finger, though Red didn't know the tale behind that. Oak walked to the far side of the room. He opened a door, and entered, with Red trailing behind. He led Red to the back of a dim room, where a row of cages awaited. "One remains. Take it, use it, and preserve the fragile peace we know."Oak took a cage in one hand, and gave it to Red, who staggered from the weight of it. "Go." Oak commanded. Red obeyed, and when he reached the hall he sprinted out. Upon reaching the entrance he reconsidered his destination, and turned for the Dome. Once within, he set the cage on a lone rock on the field, near both the pond and the forest. He reached for the cage, and opened the door, knowing as he did so that it marked the end - the death - of his childhood. The door swung out, and his breath caught in his throat.

Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Prologue

Red ran through the dense forest, branches ripping at his clothes and snaring his feet. The vines that hung down from the canopy were covered in vicious thorns, but he ran straight through them, ignoring the searing streaks of crimson they left on his exposed face and arms. Behind him, a roar bellowed through the trees, causing some branches to fall, such was its ferocity. He tripped on one of these and before he could rise, the skies darkened. A reptilian monstrosity flew through the air above, spewing smoke from its nostrils and fire gleaming on its tail. As it flew past, a torrent of water erupted from the river to Red's left, and the dragon fell from the skies, somewhere to his right. The Blastoise turned in Red's direction, where the Charizard had fallen. Cursing, Red jumped up, and tried to escape the spot where soon, no doubt, two behemoths would battle. He had barely started, when both creatures fled from some creature more terrible than either of them. Though hidden by the forest, its advance was marked by the tremors that shook the ground and the crashing of distant trees. Red ran for but a moment, before reaching a clearing at the end of the forested valley. His heart sank, and his thoughts dulled as he slowly realized there was no escape; instead of a steady rise to the level of the surrounding land, there was a steep cliff, precluding any progress. Red turned, intending to run past his pursuer, when the Venusaur entered the clearing. The titanic beast stood twenty meters high, and a vine thicker than a large sapling snaked from the bulb on its back. Just as it was about to grab Red, the sun reached an angle that cause light to suffuse the scene. The vine retracted as the bulb on the giants back opened. A glow began to emanate from the flower, which grew unbearably bright and then leapt from bulb. The beam howled towards Red, heat rolling off it in waves and-

Red awoke screaming. Realizing it was just a dream, he laid back down. He was almost asleep when an errant thought strolled into his consciousness. He was sixteen today. It was the day of the Calling.

Free

I didn't leave
With the

Others.


They told me

'Come with us!

We have shelter,


We have food.'


Instead of hiding


Trapped



Underground,


I pick roses

In my garden,


As mushroom clouds



Bloom for me.