Winter 2013–2014 $8.50
Interesting Things A teen magazine for Einstein, Van Gogh, and Dickinson
Prime Minister: Shelly Dove — head of project/editor/coordinator Grand Piano: Julian Kwasniewski — graphics/main editor The Hasemeisterin: The Bunny of the Grand Piano Fatmeister: Fat cat of the Grand Piano
Clare Kwasniewski — editorial consultant Fiachra Rottinghaus — Science editor
Photo Credits: All photos were taken by Julian Kwasniewski, except the background to the ‘The Gate With No Fence,’ taken by Clare Kwasniewski
Grander but less used piano: Peter Kwasniewski: the very patient assistant editor
Table
of
contents
Galactic Gators........................................................................................................ 3 Empty........................................................................................................................ 4 American Aussie ..................................................................................................... 5 Poetry ...................................................................................................................... 7 Technic Legos ......................................................................................................... 16 Art Galery ............................................................................................................... 17 Interesting Things .................................................................................................. 19 Sailors ..................................................................................................................... 21 The Hasemeisterin & The Fat Cat ....................................................................... 29 A Chance ................................................................................................................ 30 The Gate With No Fence ........................................................................................ 32 Lost Clan of the Volcano, part 2 .......................................................................... 39
By Julian Kwasniewski Space, space, space. If, however, you were not in that pressurized suit your eyes would explode, among other things. But, now to the point—let me tell you about Jupiter’s amazing moon, Io. JUPITER’S AMAZING MOON Io is the innermost moon of Jupiter’s ‘Galilean moons’. Taking a quick look at it, we see it covered in cheese, tomatoes, and mushrooms—a pizza moon. Huh? Well, if you’d rather call it volcanic, you’re welcome to do so. Io is the only other actively volcanic body in the solar system other than the earth. It’s much more volcanic than earth. At any given time it has hundreds of volcanos erupting on its surface. Its famous Tvashtar volcano has been photographed by many spacecraft, years after each other. Some of its volcanoes shoot blobs of debris hundreds of miles into space! Io sends sulfur into orbit around Jupiter and this debris stains several smaller moons reddish. But why does Io erupt at all? It is because Io is warped, during orbit, by Jupiter’s gravity and the gravity of the other Galilean moons. This generates tremendous heat, keeping the inside of Io hot enough to melt rock. Io also has the largest atmosphere of any of Jupiter’s moons. It consists mainly of sulfur dioxide gas from the volcanoes. Cool (or hot).
PROJECT
Other moons of interest; tastes to inspire further research Titan: Largest moon of Saturn. Enveloped in a huge atmosphere. Is the only other body known to have liquids on its surface. Ganymede: Largest moon of Jupiter. Larger than Mercury. Has a substantial magnetic field. Iapetus: Moon of Saturn. One side is dark like coal. The other is bright like ice. And it has a large ridge, taller than Mount Everest in some places, right around its equator. Enceladus: Moon of Saturn. One of the few cryovolcanic moons in the solar system. Also flexed by gravity like Io. Particles from its cryovolcanoes feed Saturn’s E ring. (Cryovolcanism is when a body spews ices and dust rather than molten lava.)
In this project we will use a digital camera as a microscope. In ‘(Return of) Gonzo Gismos’ by Simon Field, there is a project that I tried out and it worked great. Having had a fun time You need: with it, I will now tell you what needs to be done. I would recommend reading the chapter 1. digital camera with manual focus capability on it in Gonzo Gismos, if you have access to it. A camera can be (with the right settings) 2. microscope slides made to focus almost up to its own lens and this is why you can hold a slide in front of it 3. bright light and get a good image of what’s on the slide. When you zoom you will be surprised at how much detail you can see. Some will work better, others not. I found that the plant slides were too faint and thin for the camera to ‘see’ much. I like putting the camera in front of a bright light to show up the slide better. Conjugation of spirogyra
(this photo spans a little more than 3/10 cm)
Single Cell Animal Zoo
Empty By C. A. Marple A word sketch
He looks tired. He is shuffling through the snow with his head down and his hands buried in his pockets, seeming not to care as little mounds of snow build up on his ragged shoe tops. He is staring at the cold, white crust of snow just in front of him, oblivious to the beauty of the giant canvas above him, all streaked with gold, orange, and yellow. To the comforting scent of wood smoke drifting past him. To the majesty of the white and blue mountains as the sun strikes them with his last rays. All this flows past him unnoticed. He is lost in his own world; nothing can get in, or get out. He turns a corner and cringes as the angry winter wind stabs into him, driving a thousand tiny daggers into him wherever his threadbare coat doesn’t protect him. The old fabric stretches tight as he pulls it closer around him, retreating into himself for warmth. With a last angry hiss the wind blows itself out, beginning to prepare for it’s next onslaught. The man looks up briefly. Two dull, deep blue discoids stare cautiously out at the world, holding everyone and everything at an arm’s length. They are as tired and care-worn as their owner. They speak of long, barren years of striving, toiling, hoping, and losing; of pain and happiness, but always more pain than happiness. They wonder if there is any point to it all, if there is a reason to keep going. They are eyes that have given up. The wind gathers its breath and lets loose with another outburst. The eyes again disappear beneath the battered Yankees baseball cap. The man ploughs on. He doesn’t know where he is going; sometimes it is one house, sometimes another. Once it was an apartment. He has been trying for so long to find a place to call Home, but he’s never quite found it. He is headed toward an old duplex right now. Who knows what will happen when he gets there. Plod. Plod. Plod. Plod. One foot in front of the other. And again. And again. And again. On, and on, and on. A trail of footsteps meanders out from behind him, and a unmarked white expanse stretches out before him, as far as the eye can see. His world is empty. Is there a reason to go on?
American Aussie
Our Australian Correspondent
By Anatolia Kozinski
S
An Introduction to the Other Side of the World
o, perhaps you have always wondered what it is like to move to the other side of the world. If you haven’t, then I’m sure you will still find the question still very interesting and exciting. Well, it is. I would know, because I’m experiencing this myself, in moving from the rustic small-town of Lander in the wild west to an Aussie beach paradise close to the Sydney metropolitan. In other words, traveling from a sort of rural America to Southern Australia. So, in this column, I would like to bring you on my journey to the far East and discover with you about the fascinating and drastic history of Australia— as I learn to pick up an Australian accent, with luck. It is close to Christmas, and I’m leaving on New Year’s day. Dramatic New Year’s resolution huh? And I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m writing about my vast knowledge of Australia when I’m not even there?.... Well I thought I would introduce you to Australia in all its greatness as I am introducing myself, and grope around in the darkness until we find the light switch. I always find light switches by asking questions, so:
What is it like to move to an unknown place, and could I make this place less unknown? Sure, I shall do you the pleasure. Let me begin with introducing you to the world that revolves around the job my Dad accepted in Australia. He is going to work for a Catholic Liberal Arts college, the ONLY Liberal Arts in all of Australia. For those intellectuals out there, you will know what this means: All students in I’m sure you all know that Australia started out as an isolated prison
Aus., (Can we call it that for short? Thank you.) immediately after graduating highschool, go into what is considered Graduate or, specialized school. You ‘specialize’ ALL your studies in high school, and then further ‘specialize’ and go straight into ‘super grownup’ school, and continuously stay at your home of birth during the process. (Sorry about the overuse of apostrophes). You take the train for a few classes of law school, and come back home just like every-day
of 1st. Grade. That is the everyday Australian student. Creepy huh? Well, at least it is to me. Yeah, doesn’t seem like exciting news? Ha, well, our job is to convert Australia into Liberal Arts advocate country! Ha! OK, not quite, but we will have to struggle on our Liberal Arts island while everyone else doesn’t understand a thing about what that even means. Our job is to help promote this sole Liberal Arts College as an American family from Wyoming, surrounded by millions of people of the opposite mentality. I will address the topic of where this mentality comes from in the next installment. So yeah…one fact you can tell your friends and use to give them the impression that you’re smart and abstractly knowledgeable. So, on the way to doing all this, we’ve encountered a few obstacles. First of all, umm, my mom had to ‘change’ her name. A “Tammy”, being her name, is used to name something quite rude in Aus., that I will not mention here. (Now you know how rude it is.) You know the language of Aus. is English, but that doesn’t mean at all that we won’t
have to change a lot of our American expressions and signs to speak the language of their Australian traits. For example, the innocent and insanely common American peace sign means an EXTREMELY bad word in Aus. (the worst one)! So, we’ve had to practice restraining ourselves. There are other homonyms and synonyms that we have to be careful about, but we’ll get to that later… So, to get back to the name thing: We’d considered a bunch of names, and my dad didn’t like any of them. This brawl ended however, when we discovered that Australians made allowances for such sensitive problems, and we moved to more productive things like learning about the culture and history of Australia. My mom read the entire history, which was so tragic that even I was not permitted to read it. An article on Australian tradition states that “The cultural climate in which Australian Catholicism took root has traditionally been characterized in sectarian terms: the obvious religious antagonism between Catholicism and Protestant-ism, intensified by the over-tone of national conflict between Irish and English, and the social alienation of convicts and lowerclass immigrants from upperclass colonial authorities.”
Dramatic and depressing. I’m sure you all know that Australia started out as an isolated prison for the terrible criminals of England, and then evolved into being considered a tropical, beautiful country of famous beaches and opera houses where everyone wants to go. What in the world? Does anyone under-stand this? Well, this is a question I will answer for you in my next installment, when I’m actually in Aus. Well, I will be taking a 14 hour flight into this place of criminals and opera houses in a few weeks. Yes, a fourteenhour flight! I will be spending my entire day in the air, go into the future (by skipping a day—you have to figure this out on your own), and fly into Australia at dawn as the sun rises and is reflected by the shiny dark blue waves crashing in tumults of silk contrasting the soft pink beaches surrounded by lush trees and rainbow colors reflected in the sea (overly dramatic description).You cannot be cooler than me, or this duck: You never will be ;). Well, that is my introduction, a short, straggly one that will get you prepared for the real adventure that is to come (yes, I know that was cheesy). I have set up a few questions for me to answer by living in Australia:
1. Where does the mentality of absolute specialization and un-rounded education come from in Australia? 2. How did Australia evolve from an isolated prison to a classy vacation spot? 3. Why are the beaches distinctly pink instead of tan? (The most important and meaningful question of them all) To discover the answer to these questions, join me for the next installment of….”American Aussie”.
Dog By Dowdy Twig The Dog comes on little fat feet. He jumps looking over fences and bushes with frantic yips till we move on. Editor’s Note: This Poem refers to the famous Poem “Fog” By Carl Sandburg, and if you get a copy of that poem, you will see more of the witty parody of Dowdy Twig’s poem. —The Grand Piano
School Day By Jenny Kay Hurry, get up early, run, do math, Hurry, hussle, bussle, quicken speed, Dash, accelerating. Grunt, gone, pant, Perspire, get mad, give up—and Scream
Arabian Wind by Julian Kwasniewski The cliffs are sighing in the wind, wind that whispers in green exhortation and beats the swells to break upon the rocks. Who will repair the swells? These green and grey and white swells… the breadth of the sea is wide, but the sea’s breath is cold… And the wind whispers in green exhortation and beats the swells upon the rocks… It is a warm wind, that in Arabia was born and carried hawks of mighty chiefs and kings.
Just One of Those Days BY C. A. Marple
With heavy sigh and sightless eye I gaze upon the wall My limbs a leaden weight beneath a heavy head about to fall Before my lifeless hand sits piled a stack of half-touched work Taunting me with ink-black tongue Some hours more of writing murk. Don’t get me wrong, I love to write ‘Tis a joy that’s most worth while But now and then I find a pen that ner will take me o’er a mile My mind is empty as can be Not a bug across it flies My head is dull as a muddy brick My ambition more limp then I like to surmise A gaze most fixed upon a spot Yet it takes in not a thing For hours and more it can here stand Half-minded contentment with thoughts on the wing As hard as I try I yet cannot force My mind to form a thought Lost happily in cloudy worlds Loose now the strings that once were taught I moan and sigh as Duty flies In place of a bug right through my head. I’ll tell you straight, this is not my day I’m just holding on till I make it to bed.
ICE By Fiachra Rottinghaus
Nothing grows here. This is ice. Shining in the ceaseless light Of a never-setting sun. Blue grooves and silver ridges Water runs off the ice Like tiny shining drops of glass Into the sea. Nothing grows here. This is ice. I see swirls of oil on the ice Leaking red and gold and silver into the water Dark beauty of liquid fire Harsh tang of sour smell Running over the weakening ice like molten light Light that shines and burns The ice is melting Glistening in swirls of green and pink and amber In a retching film that clings And scorches and sours. Liquid fire and deadly rainbows. The ice is dying Cursed Poisoned With the dark and deathly beauty of the oil.
You Mikayla Foutz You always understood my fears, You always stopped my pouring tears. We’d talk and laugh and live it up, And now I wait for death to come. I cry my shallow tears, And give voice to all new fears. A whisper told me to stay strong When everything was going wrong. I miss your touch From dusk till dawn I’ll try and keep my spirit strong. But for just how long? Tell me, Why’d you leave so soon? You knew it would come, Too young. Too young to die, But somehow he took your life. I can still see your smile, Shine bright like a star. A little whisper in my heart. Why’d you leave so soon? I wish I could have felt your ease, When your pain seized. To exist in such glory as yours, I’ll wait and hold my pillow tight, And kiss your shortened life goodbye. As I cry my scared tears, Too many friends lost in young years. Why’d you leave so soon?
Poem of the Winter Sunset *By Alice Mortimer Across the mountain streaked with snow, there was a glow of red. Across the grey sky streaked violet bands, there were clouds of lead. Over the horizon geese came in V-shaped bands, honking though the night was near. Over the ground the snow fell, before the sun had hid its golden sphere. Cold frost grew on the trees’ bare branches, and the reddish glow left the mountains austere.
I Stood by Ana Kozinski
I stood, on the brink of the dark blue sea I walked, on winding paths of stone And laughed, when dauntless peril should make me to moan And cried, when joy in jaunty leaps should bring me glee
I leaned, and could not find a friendly rock I stood, but my knees dragged me down And yelled, but unspoken echo only cried my sound And held, the sturdy crags left me to drop
I wandered, and cried, and hoped for another’s quiet laughter
I hoped, and came to find an open hearth I asked, and I was taken warmly in I sang, and a sweet voice sings through the din And shivered, but mother pure cuddled me above my worth
I talked with him and he gave me his voice I walked with him and he gave me a path To choose him took away the fiery wrath The world left him but I have a choice
The Sea of the Mind by Julian Kwasniewski
Upon the waves the sun rebounds, and in the distance the island of the mind exists, with wide thoughts behind. And purpled skies at last, now shedding their light, bring the stars to glisten upon the blue waves that beat with swell on cragged rocks and leave the white below. The pines stand against the moon, upon a darkened cliff, and the wind blows. It blows across a world of thought and it toils with the sea-sailing ships, and in the mind at sea it rests, till our walk is done and we leave the earth.
Technic Legos By Julian Kwasniewski Upon receiving a Technic Lego set last Christmas, I did not know what fun I was in for. The Technic Legos are wonderful for engineering many things which a teen boy’s mind may come up with—from the instruction manual’s swing-wing fighter jet to my latest project of unfolding solar panels. The Technic Legos are not made like the ‘classic’ Legos. Instead, they look like high strength bars of a mysterious alloy making the structure of a space ship from Jules Verne. I also had immense success with a four-wheel drive (it may have been six, but I can’t remember) battery/electric motor car. I firmly taped a micro-electric motor (from the lens retraction system of a defunct pocket camera) to a flat Lego plate that was then attached to a pole and, by a system of gears, turned four wheels to provide the strength to drive over hard snow and up inclined planes. However, that was done with multiple things that the set did not provide, and after a long set of previous versions. I have also built a bug (see photo) with a set of moveable legs! Among a myriad of mechanized creations I also built the two planes the instructions directed me to. The swing-wing jet is truly a marvel, with its canopy that opens via a system of gears and levers, to the retractable landing gear; there was also the moveable joystick that activated the elevators in the tail—and the Swing Wing! The jet nozzle turns, moving the wings through a system in which bar gears are a main factor. The kit came with several worm gears, which were new to me. They are one-way worm gears, and tremendously slow at any revolution that you can produce. The Technic Legos are a bit pricy… that would be my main criticism. Build well!
Art gallery
“Stunt Plane” by Robert T. Northridge (colored pencil on paper) “Repose” by Julian Kwasniewski (oil panel)
“Taste of Autumn” by C. A. Marple (acrylic on board)
“Against the Wind” by C. A. Marple (acrylic on canvas)
Interesting Things Flying Snakes Can Glide 300 Feet The flying snakes (Chrysopelea spp.) of South and Southeast Asia can glide by launching themselves into the air and flaring out their ribs, which makes their bodies look much like a Frisbee in cross section. In fact, the physics that allow them to perform this feat are much like those that allow a Frisbee to fly through the air. The snakes continuously undulate while airborne, which causes increased air pressure under their concave bodies. The sophistication of their gliding methods makes them even better gliders than flying squirrels and other gliding mammals. They have been recorded traveling up to 100 meters and can make 90 degree turns. —Lane Bushmeyer
Fire Rainbows This spectacular phenomenon is known by several cumbersome scientific names but is colloquially called a fire rainbow, although it is technically not a rainbow and has nothing to do with fire. It can be seen only under very specific conditions. The sun must be at an elevation of 58 degrees or more, and cirrus clouds or haze containing plate-shaped ice crystals must be present. Windows of visibil-
ity vary with season and latitude, and it is impossible to see north of 55 degrees N or south of 55 degrees S. In the United States it is seen several times each summer, though it is rarer in some parts of the world like northern Europe. In full, it appears as a huge band of color running parallel to the horizon, although a complete band is rarely seen. Patches are most often observed in scattered cirrus clouds, the flame-like shapes of these clouds giving rise to the common name of fire rainbow. —L. B. The Thunderbird’s Egg Thunder-eggs are geological structures that form within volcanic ash. Their centers fill with jasper, agate, opal, and other minerals. While they typically look like ordinary, though somewhat spherical, rocks on the outside, if they are sliced open and polished they reveal beautiful colors and patterns. They may be found all over the world if local conditions are appropriate for their formation. The thunder-egg is the state rock of Oregon. Its name comes from Native American legends, in which it is the egg of the thunderbird. —L. B.
Alcohol Discovered Among Extra-Terrestrials! On January 8th, NASA revealed that the Hubble space telescope discovered an earth-like planet with strong alcoholic spectral lines. “It can only mean one thing,” said Huck Finn, a planetary biologist. “The extra-terrestrial life must have giant vats of beer!” The UN is feverishly discussing what to do about it.—Julian Kwasniewski
S A ilo R s By Anatolia Kozinski Part 1
“Hmm, how about….The Sailor” and the quill scratches the parchment with music of its own: The Sailor He Struggles through the waters, through storm and through calm He Stumbles as he pulls the ropes, trembling from the cold So the old sailor with his stained cloak and fishy play, Cigarettes and whiskey, his guns and his gold Tramps through his sea-born day Through fire and through stone The sea is his battlefield, the vessel is his home A fire-drink his chummy friend and thieving his oldest game He sees cold, gnawing waves, and rides them for his gain And throws his drool and moldy bread into his sea of pain There is many a trick he would play for wealth, And many a slighting game to make him hid in shadowy dens and tip toe away in dark mischief, and hurry away in stealth My uncle this sailor was, a fiery heart that turned its prow a crooked bend As he grew older, he came to land again For me to tend him, and watch his will, and end his mischievous plans He began to grow still, perhaps to think of what he gained Fingers he’d run through chipping gold, and fiddle with Chinese fans
“Hmm, so far so good.” I say to myself, but still wondering what it needs. I struggle for a few minutes, almost giving up. I glance up at the mantel and see a painting that strikes my heart. It is a small painting with many marks and mistakes, but is my painting, and there is something in it that comes from some place I don’t know, though I have traveled the seven seas and the five oceans. “Wait” I say, “that’s it!” The fire glinted and captured his eye, as he looked up and down again There was a painting, at the top of the mantel That drew a man, whose brow tickled and calmed the sea He would stare, fixed upon it, so to understand what it meant He called me toward the fire, and sat me on the rug One cold, stormy day, hidden by hail and fog And told me all his stories and gave me a sailor’s hug As I listened closely, and tended a burning log The sailor spoke of the way, he cared for the measureless sea He dreadfully regretted, his games and his cheek ‘The sea is a wild place, for an untamed heart and an empty soul And let it fill you another way, not with such stories I have told’ He, he…. “WHAT does this old sailor tell me to do?” I ask frustrated. The fire is like a bright beacon on a dark mountain, as I sit by it in our small cabin, with a weary and almost satisfied glance at my newly written poem. It is unfinished, like a flower without petals. As usual, I begin to ask questions to no one in particular. Exile may be the worst thing in this world, exile from everyone. I have been exiled for 20 years, and I have nowhere to go. I will never tread the sea waters again, and that city across those waters out my frosted window is a place I cannot find, and even if I could, I have not enough courage. I have my stories, and my poems, and ‘Sail’ to keep me company (yes, that is the name of my dog). Still, I am lonely, especially when the sun leaves, for that is the only thing I can see that is partial to no one, and gives me light. Still yet, at times when my heart is at a quiet pace, I feel as though there is someone who talks with me, and he is there even when I leave him or when I flare in anger at life, a thing which I am no longer willing to fight against; I have come to know this person very well, and one day I drew a painting of him calming the sea. Sometimes I will sit for hours talking with him, but yet I still do not know his name; Those are the times I began to write, or wonder in my everlasting curiosity: “Why do we have stories?” I ask him softly; perhaps he is wondering the same thing. “Well, how about I tell a story? But what story can I tell that is mine own?” I glance back at the poem about the old sailor, and my eyes feel bright like the fire that is mirrored in them, and I feel the sudden urge to tell the story of the poem, like if any-no when any person needs to tell a story:
“You there! Eh….Sanctapec! Come here right now!” “I’m not Sanctapec”, lied a young man with a guilty look on his burnt face. He had just stepped into the grey shipyard, seeing the sea stretch far and mangled over the horizon. He had tried to avoid the man calling to him, but it was too late, he was already upon him. “Stop stealing my whiskey! It ain’t good for me to lose all my merchandise, don’t ya’ think!” The old man said, pulling the youth to his crooked, ale-drenched beard, and breathing yellow fumes into his fearful face. He pulled him closer, staring with angry eyes that had seen the world in its darkest places, and whipped his hand across the young man’s face. Sanctapec’s eyes lit up like a crackling fire, and he spoke with a fiery voice, “Sell somepin’ else!” He kicked the man roughly in the shin, and ran past the shipyard down a dark alley. The old man’s shouts drifted away, as Sanctapec ran to the quick beating of his pulse. He was sure the man would send some thugs after him soon. He ran a long way, and reached a stairway, underneath which was a tiny home full with, well, “stuff” he had accumulated over the weeks: Dirty rugs, a misshapen stool he had carved with some old wood, and other things not to be mentioned. He jumped over the stairwell and ducked beneath it, putting up some rugs and cloth to hide himself. He sat there quietly, turning over what he should do. It’s too dangerous to stay, he thought, I’ve landed in trouble with enough strange people. He stopped, and then shouted suddenly, That’s it!
I’m tired of running, the old man deserves to be punched in the-no, thrown in the cold water! I don’t care if he has the same…, he stopped, feeling for a second, a small pity for him and his whiskey, something that soon drifted back into a rampant hate. “I am hated by everyone here, doesn’t really matter where I go, where I stay, I just won’t stay in one place, I’ll never make a home!” He shouted recklessly. A flicker, and then a moment of decision passed through him. He angrily scurried, grabbing a holed rucksack and filling it with old treasures, the stalest bread, and some bright red berries. He took a long look at his little cubby hole, but then went off determined: I will come back here one day, and they’ll see what it means to hurt. Ain’t nothing that will stop it. He went off a back-way to the shipyard which he reached quickly, and with a snare at the old man’s hidden market-table, ran with a wave of passion towards it and kicked it down, emptying all the content0s of the chipped bottles. He forced a toothy smile at the fact that the old man would lose everything. “He might as well go ta’ hell!” He said menacingly. Still, through all this menace, a good listener could have heard a strange reluctance in his voice as he stepped back. Sanctapec ran away quickly as yellow glass fell on his shadow: a shadow that whether against his will, would not return for many, many years.
*************
“Head ta’ star board, to ward that ‘esland, right over the horiz’en’!” said a tall man with hard eyes and a scrubby beard, standing atop the deck of a lonely, sea-worn ship. “Can’t ya’ smell the sin’mon and nutmeg! This’ people look ‘ealthy an’ strong, ‘hey would make good slaves fee’r Tania pa’rt! Get em’ chains and head thee’re quick like!” An old man began to walk over fearfully, as if about to protest to the man’s command, but then sunk back into an invisible shell and walked over to the wheel. “Tell the boy to grab ‘is sword!” He said behind his shoulder to the old man again. The old man squeaked slightly, a squeak that did not go unnoticed. The man walked over solemnly, every step like a crunching on cold ice, and grabbed the old man by the scruff of his shirt, breathing yellowish fumes down his face, “So Patrick, you, do ya’ theek it’s good for me to lose all me’ command hear? Don’t ya’?” “But Sanctapec, the boy hates it, hates it more than anything!” “Patrick, He’d better get used to doing what ‘e ‘ates!” Sanctapec said coldly as he thrust the old man on the ground, and walked towards the cabin. As he walked through the ornate entrance into the smelly cabin, he stumbled into a room he had never seen before. It was a room bedecked with many strange paintings, all which seemed to give off a warm glow. Santapec stood frozen for a moment, fixated on a certain painting, and then turned his head to another, mesmerized by each one. He was brought back to the present by a soft touch on his shoulder that ignited him to turn around and draw his sword. He met with a small but muscular boy with a soft, smiling face, who did not draw his sword in return. Santapec sighed angrily, sheathed his sword, and said “ Well, Volo, ‘fore we talk aboot our next landin’, ya’ need to tell me wha’ ‘im standing in tis’ room, that the two years ‘iv been on this ‘ell of a ship, never knew about! Well!” He shouted as he yanked on Volo’s dirty collar. “I told you, this is a magic ship.” He said as though he had never heard of anything more normal. “Stop playing ya’ stupid tricks! We got this from a ditty’ old man carrin’ a block of wood, yi’ thunk he owned a magi’ ship?” “He was a kind man, and maybe if you hadn’t...killed…him, we could have learned a lot about this ship from him.” He said with white fire in his eyes and no hint of sarcasm. These eyes were a blue like the sky. A blue that seemed untouched except for the glare of Sancapec reflected in them. “I told you, ‘e was suspicious, plus he was getting on my nerves, and I don’t like old men!” he shouted. Volo stood silent and shaking and then ran out on the brink of tears, as though afraid for Patrick. Santapec smiled a strange, twisted smile, and began to leave the room but stopped to look at a painting that depicted a man standing on trial before a confused person in red robes and brown armor, with laurels on his head. The next painting depicted the same man, being crowned with something that looked like a wreath made of thin wood, or maybe it was thorns, with blood in his eyes. The soldiers beside him were laughing, and smiling strange, twisted smiles. He felt a surge of molasses in his stomach as he saw their smiles, they looked so much like his own. What
is this! I don’t understand! That stupid boy keeps telling me I have a magic ship. Ha! People like me don’t receive magic ships. They get a crazy man carrying two blocks of splintering wood, that’s all it was.
As he thought, his eyes wandered to a certain painting, and he froze. The painting drew a man in terrible clothes, carrying two blocks of splintering wood, and falling to the ground. Santapec stood silent and shocked for many moments until he heard a call from on deck. He jumped abruptly, regained himself, and ran outside. “Sanctapec, it’s Volo!” “What ees’ ‘et now Patrick? “He ran out and jumped overboard! Sir look at the clouds! A storm is on the verge and he’s swimming to the small island to starboard, looks like t’ree quarters of a mile! Take this telescope and adjust it a little to the right.” Sanctapec snatched it angrily and looked intently, but his gaze wandered and instead he looked to the island to the left, full of people, rich orchards, and hanging vestments wafting their smells of cinnamon and shining purple shades. Sanctapec looked at it and pushed the boy to the back of his mind. “To Port!” He shouted over a distant roll of thunder. “But sir, ‘ow about t’ boy?” “These people don’t look like warriors, his help ain’t needed.” “But sir—” “Why don’t you jump in and go after him then?” Sanctapec interrupted with a cold glare and continued it with a determined stride to the wheel of the ship. He shoved Patrick aside and turned the ship. He saw the sky become grayer, and heard thunder coming closer. As he turned the wheel hurriedly, he heard a loud splash in the water, and looked over the plank to find the old man swimming in the water towards the direction the boy had gone. Sanctapec called frantically to him, but it was no use. He had not expected him to actually follow his cruel joke of an instruction, but for the first time, looked at the old man fondly as he struggled and he smiled a true smile; something that turned into a perplexed frown as Patrick got farther and farther away-tugging the water with surprising strength. The sky became darker and lightning cracked directly above him. Sanctapec flew to the wheel and turned it drastically to the right as the thunder sounded closer and the water rose into tumbling waves. “Come back!” He pulled out some rubber and rope from a chest and ran to the side. “You’re ain’t gon’a to make it! ”He was right, the old man’s arms began to droop and he sunk down slowly as waves crashed over him. Sanctapec jumped in the water with a sudden splash and swam with a crazed look in his eye. Patrick was far away, and Sanctapec’s jewels were weighing him down. *************** Rain fell like faceless tears across the mud on the shore, traced with Sanctapec’s weary footprints. Patrick was dead. He felt like the man in the painting, with the crown of thorns. Patrick, an old man chasing a boy had tried and failed, and Sanctapec could not stop the power of the sea. Still somehow, he felt like he could of. He began to weep, something he felt he would never do. “Why!” he asked, “Why do I feel this way? What is this!?” I’m not dead! He had never wanted to care for anyone, anyone but himself-and why should he? What is it? Sanctapec threw cascades of sand in every which direction, and fell warily to his knees. Silence fell like a veil, only leaving room for the crashing waves-who even hushed themselves to hear Sanctapec speak, but he did not. He stood silent, and then turned his heel towards the forest; with the angriest glare he had yet shown the world. He had to find the boy! There was nothing else on his mind.
The forest was dim like a black candle as the sounds of the storm died away, and he was soon surrounded by the despot of silence. He broke it rebelliously with a shout for the boy, whose replies he only heard in his head. His mind drifted back to the supposedly magic ship and the sure belief of the boy. The ship was something freely given that he had received as a trap, and he began to realize, that when he had killed the old man offering him the ship, he had made no resistance. The man just sank under his heavy burden, muttered something, and breathed a gentle breath. Falling down, just like the man in the painting. Sanctapec felt he might cry again! “Why!” He shouted again, truly wanting to know why he was feeling something, something he didn’t understand. Why did he have a room full of paintings that so reminded him of himself, and people he had known and forgotten? His past shoved its way through to his mind. He remembered turning to see the dead old man disappear, out of nowhere, and then seeing the young boy walk up to him with the key to the ship cabin, right afterward. The boy kept asking where the old man was, but I shoved him on the ship before he could ask any more questions, he remembered distinctly. He had not cared for it all then. Why now! What did the old man ever do for him! Why did he care if Patrick was dead? Why now? Sanctapec stood confused for so many moments. He begins to feel like, that day, that he was part of something-part of the world, when he had always tried to be alone. Patrick’s death should seem like a tiny drop in the ocean, but it wasn’t; even though Patrick had become a bother over the years his death made him feel something different and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t understand why the old man with the ship was making his way into his mind now. Why was the boy so important to him? Was his ship really a magic ship? But why? Sanctapec had never asked “why” this many times before. He had always done what he wanted but he had never asked why. “Why” questions were surrounding him like a storm of lightning bolts. Why was he alive? Why was the world so lonely? Why did this forest exist? He continued to walk, miles it felt like, all the while perplexed. There was no human voice, no cry of a joyful boy. The island was small, but the walking was long. Long and fruitless. *************** “Volo! Where are ya’? Come back!” He felt like he had been walking for hours, and Volo was nowhere. His skin was cold as ice, and his hair matted down with rain. Was he hiding from him? Sanctapec sunk down on the dirt again: of course he was hiding from him. What had he swum away for? Everyone was running from him. He rose and shouted with an aching voice “If you’re running from me then why should I look for you! I’ll leave you here alone then!” He started walking back toward the beach with clenched fists, expecting no response. Then his heart froze, he heard a rustling behind him. There was no doubt. He turned in hope, but Volo was not there to smile at him, instead he met with a black face and the great, glaring teeth of a black cat. She snarled at him, and dug her large paws in the ground. Their eyes met, like water against a lightning sky. Sanctapec ran like nothing else, through the trees and towards the light of fleeing storm. His foot hit something hard, and he toppled to the ground. He felt a searing pain in his head, and the world was drowned out. ~ To Be Continued ~
The Hasemeisterin & ~The Fat Cat~
A CHANCE By C. A. Marple I can hardly wait ‘til I get out of here and get started on life. Just think of all that lies ahead! An entire world just waiting to be explored, people to meet, things to learn, so much beauty to wonder at! I already know what I’m going to be: Music has laid a hold of me. I can just hear the faintest muted bits of sound through all these walls; it’s faint but it mesmerizes me. It’s like I’m a starving man who catches just a whiff of an emperor’s feast. If the faint smell is this delicious, just imagine how great the food itself will be! I’ll bet you guys are thinking right now, “Oh yes, he’s very happy about it now, just wait until he gets out and sees what it’s really like.” And you’re probably right. I know there’s the ugly part of life too, and that will be a challenge. I’ll probably have quite a bit of heart-break out there. The pain that’s out there is probably a lot more real, and hurts a whole lot more than anything I can imagine now. But, then again, what is Life without challenge? How can you reach the fullness of being human without anything to overcome? “Being Human.” Oh, how beautiful those words sound! Isn’t it incredible that I get to be Human? Sure, other animals are Ok, but if I weren’t human how could I ever really love music? How could I have friends? How could I love people? How could I accomplish anything with my life? Oh, there’s so much out there, and I only have one lifetime to do it in! I wonder if I’ll have any friends. It’s still a bit too early to know how my personality’s going to turn out, but I hope I’ll be able to find some people who are different from me. Yes, they would add a whole lot more color and texture to life, even if we do clash a bit. I’d like some people who are like me, too, though. We would inspire each other, and I could share my thoughts, my ideas, my… my soul with them. How long do you suppose it will take to find some more music souls? I wonder if I’ll even fall in love someday. It must be interesting to fall in love. Seems like there would be a lot of pain in it too. Oh, there’s so much to do out there; I can hardly wait ‘til I’m born! Hang on, what’s going on out there? What are they talking about? Oh… oh no… no no no no no… why on earth would they do that?! I can understand if she’s too young but… well I’m sorry if it’s a bad time in her life but… Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. “A soulless tissue!?” Come on, what am I here, chopped liver?! Doesn’t… want me? Well, okay then, give me to someone who will! I don’t care if I end up on the streets, I’ll deal with it, I’ll find a way to work through it, I’ll do whatever it takes, just please, please, give me a chance! I want to live, I want to grow up, I want to laugh, I want to cry, I want to find someone who loves me, I want to love them back…I want to Live! Please, let me live! Please, let me have a chance!
Leaf By C. A. Marple Now the Dead leaves are Crackling, Crackling Glory so lifeless yet not luster Lacking
The Gate With No Fence By Julian Kwasniewski
Foreword The Gate With No Fence was prompted by just that. Where I live (AnyTown, Anywhere, USA) there really is a rundown ‘Yellow’ (the loudest yellow—it was a real “Yellow”!) house with a number of rakes and a gate with no fence. The Wizards in my story (or Magicians) would fall under the classification of ‘Green Wizards’, I think. Stupor Fisheye III and Crosby Jumble developed partially on walks in AnyTown with my family.
A little time ago in AnyTown, Anywhere USA there lived two old and grumpy men on 123 and 124 Happy Lane. Crosby Jumble lived on the right side in a large house with French windows. He had a large lot, studded with tall pines and flower beds and garden Gnomes. On the other side of the road, the Right side (as far as he was concerned), lived Stupor Fisheye III. He lived in a small yellow cottage with his cranky wife, who was a health maniac. She spent most of her day running or gardening. The Yellow cottage crouched behind a gate with no fence! On his lawn there reposed nine identical garden rakes, several lawn mowers (I never counted) and numerous flower pots. These two men nurtured a profound dislike of each other, especially on the subject of gardening. Why, the reader asks, gardening? Because of the AnyTown Gardening Competition, held every year. Even more so because Stupor Fisheye had won the Brussels Sprouts Division one more time than Crosby Jumble. This was a constant point of strife between the two. It especially rankled Crosby to see those twenty five Brussels sprouts bumper stickers on Stupor’s car, and only twenty four on his. ****** On the morning our story begins Stupor got up out of bed and got dressed. Then he went to get his coffee. As he put on his slippers he glanced out the window, into his yard. He reeled and almost fainted, clutching the windowsill. He could not believe it! His yard was covered in Bright Pink Hydrangeas. Stupor tottered to a chair and slumped down in it. Just then he heard his wife slam the front door and start banging around in the kitchen. He pressed a button in the wall. Immediately a purple kitten whizzed in through the open window and hovered in front of Stupor. “Have a cigar. I need to talk to you,” said Stupor Fisheye to the cat. “I know what’s up,” said the purple kitten, lighting her cigar. “It’s those Hydro thingies ‘tat’r ruining the yard.” “Quite so,” said Stupor, shuddering. “I believe they are Crosby’s doing. Have you made any discoveries or found any evidence?” Crosby Jumble expected that the kitten would prowl about, keeping an eye on Crosby. The Kitten chewed its cigar meditatively. “Yes, I have. Mmm… I found a bushel of Hydro-thingies in his cellar this morning. ‘And also some growing powder. Reeked of amateur magic.” She took another pull on her cigar. “But Towser came before I could do any more investigating—blast that dog!”
Stupor put his cigar in the ashtray. “Go get rid of the Hydrangeas,” said he, “And don’t light anything on fire, like last time, with that cigar!” The purple cat floated out the window trailing blue cigar smoke behind her. Stupor Fisheye spent the rest of the day mixing spells in his workshop, while the purple kitten dealt with ‘them Hydro-thingies.’ That evening Stupor came out of his workshop. He looked happily at the Hydrangea free lawn in front of him. Then he went in for dinner. “What’s for dinner?” he called to his wife. “Brussels sprouts and sardines wrapped in celery,” she replied, “and tomatoes.” Stupor sighed. After dinner Stupor went back out into the yard and called the purple kitten. The purple kitten was only ever called ‘Kitty’. As she floated up Stupor said, “I have my spell ready, and I intend to — ah, yes, do have a cigar. I intend to do what Crosby did to me, but not with Hydrangeas. Poor fellow likes ‘em!” “Well?” said Kitty. “Listen,” said Stupor Fisheye. “I’m gonna’ enchant Crosby’s garden gnomes.” “How?” “Remember the song ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’?” “Yah, stupid song. What’s that ‘ave to do wi’ it?” “Lemme tell you. Tomorrow morning Crosby Jumble is going to wake up and hear ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ and see his garden gnomes singing it,” said Stupor. “That’s what. An’ don’t choke on your cigar, either!” The Purple Kitten was laughing so hard she was, indeed, in danger of choking on her cigar. “But what about time? Wont he stop ‘em real quick?” she asked. “No, I put in one of my time spells,” said Stupor. ****** As Kitty flew off to sprinkle powder on the gnomes, Stupor Fisheye III walked over behind Crosby’s house, where he was grilling with some friends. “Ho! Evenin’. ‘Ave a ‘ot doggie?” said Crosby Jumble, pretending to be nice. “Evenin’. Sure, I’ll have a hot dog,” Stupor said, sitting down at a table with some of Crosby’s friends. The dinner he’d had at home had not been as filling as he wished. After a few minutes the radio began playing ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’, and after a few seconds Crosby said, “Turn the blasted thing off! Such an annoying’ song.” Stupor smiled and started talking about the weather. ****** A little while later Stupor rendezvoused with Kitty on the back porch. “Yah, you gave me plen’y of time to do the dirty work,” she said. “Good, good, great,” Stupor responded and went off to bed thinking “Tomorrow is another day to hear ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’”. ****** When Crosby Jumble woke the following morning he had little to worry him. He could see the sun shining on the floor, as it came through the window. Crosby Jumped out of bed. “It’s a ‘ovely day,” thought Crosby, “Maybe I’ll p’ay golf.” He opened the window and voices came over the sunlit lawns “All the cops in donut shops, Ay oh whey, ay oh whey oh!” And there
were his gnomes running about, trying to look like Egyptians. Crosby sat down on a chair. He was dazed. Suddenly he sprang up and pointed at the gnomes through the window. “Be still!” he shouted. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing happened. He swore, and went down stairs. He ran outside and punched one of the gnomes. His hand just went through it. “Foreign types with the hookah pipes…” He went back inside and had a troubled breakfast. ****** After breakfast Crosby Jumble called Towser. A large brown dog with long hair bounded in. “Err… hi! help, help…uh, how can I help? Hi!” Towser barked. “Down boy, down,” said Crosby. “You can tell me how those blasted things came to be running around our place! Well?” he shouted. Towser cowered. “Err…” “Don’t say ‘Err’! How did they get there and ‘oo did it and why didn’t you catch ‘em!” “Well, I—” “Well?” “I didn’t see any one! Help, help! Hey! I’ll go get ‘em now!” said Towser, finally getting a word in. “No use! Can’t do a t’ing!” Crosby said. “Now let’s be reasonable. I’m almost certain it’s that blister Fisheye. Did you see anything last night, Towser?” “No,” said Towser. “Well, hum…,”said Crosby. “Ah! Listen, ya’ ol’ stinker, O. K.? Report back here in — no, at the shed, at the shed in half an hour. Then we’ll see if we can’t quiet t’ gnomes, and get our revenge! Ha!” ****** Stupor Fisheye was enjoying himself. He was sitting on his porch and had been watching the gnomes for about half an hour, dancing about. He had also seen Crosby Jumble punch that gnome, and had almost died of laughing when he saw the post man’s expression, for, he too had seen it. ****** Towser came bounding up to the shed. “Hi, Hi! Hi, hi!” he barked. He was about to start on an account of his latest squirrel chase, when he found there was nobody inside. “Oh well,” he thought. “I guess I can tell somebody some other time. Still, that was awesome when it jumped over me and I jumped at it and fell over! Awesome! Awesome! Awso- oww!” This last ‘ow’ was included in Towser’s thoughts because Crosby had kicked him “Get out ‘o the way. Now come on in!” Now Towser said ‘ow’ out loud. Crosby and Towser went inside the shed. “What I want to talk about now is how to get revenge on that stinker Fisheye. Any suggestions? No? I thought as much. Giant squirrels--not likely.” Crosby sank into thought. ****** Kitty had just floated in the window, in response to Stupor’s summons. “Hi there. Will you go and take care of those weeds in the Brussels sprouts patch? Yah, here’s the powder. After that you might want to sneak over to Crosby’s place to see what he is up to. Cigar? Sure. Here,
have one. What? I’m going to the ice cream shack. What? Yeah, she’s out, won’t be back for about an hour,” said Stupor, smiling. ****** In the evening Crosby gave Towser a bag of miniature chocolate chips. The chocolate chips looked strange in the dusk as they changed colors slowly. Crosby gave Towser his instructions with the faint light of the chocolate chips illuminating his face. “Sprinkle them evenly over the beds, ‘ol boy. Don’t eat t’em, or you’ll regret it! See ya!” Towser whined and said, “No wings?” “Oh! I forgot ‘em. ‘Ere and don’t you chase squirrels too long after, or before, your mission. Don’t look at me like t’at.” Towser bounded up into the air and flew away over the street. ****** When Towser left the Brussels sprouts with glowing chocolate chips, he flew away through the darkness on a chase. “Squirrel! Squirrel, squirrel, oh! Squirrel! Help!” ****** Crosby Jumble went to bed that night with a light heart, and only a mild foreboding. “But chocolate!” he thought. “No one doesn’t like chocolate… still his wife is a known chocolate hater… Maybe I was too nice!…Arg, and I don’t want more Egyptian gnomes. Blast.” ****** The sun peeped over the tree tops and illuminated the Yellow house of Stupor Fisheye on 123 Happy Lane. Stupor Fisheye’s wife was long gone, running. When Stupor woke up to find the Kitten hovering above him, he knew there was something wrong. The Purple Kitten never woke until the sun was high in the sky, or unless Stupor woke her from her beauty sleep to help him. “Sumpin’s wrong wi’ t’ Brussels sprouts,” she exclaimed. “What ta’! How da’ you mean ‘wrong’?” growled Stupor, jumping out of bed. “Well, I-” but Stupor was already out of earshot. The Purple Kitten flew at top speed out the window and arrived at the Brussels sprouts patch at the same time as Stupor arrived there. “Let’s see… ho, no! not Charclasstifnerosis…Chocolate, you say? humm…by Gum! I…it...it is chocolate!” Stupor cried. “Well, I— I never!” “Cigar?” queried the Kitten. “Cigar?” asked Stupor. “You know w’ a cigar is, silly. Can I ‘ave one?” “Yeah, sure. Cigar… at a time like this!” Stupor exasperatedly passed a hand over his
brow. “So wha’ da’ you think of t’ Brussels sprouts, huh?” “What? Oh, yes the Brussels sprouts… well I like ‘em. I mean they’re chocolate.” “Oh, good. Crosby’s doing, you think? Wha’ about t’ missus?” asked the Kitten. “Oh, I forgot about her! Brussels sprouts, breakfast, lunch, dinner, what can I do?” said Stupor, wringing his hands. He could well imagine what his wife would say to chocolate Brussels sprouts. “Deny it all!” said Kitten. “Not such an easy thing to do,” said Stupor in reply. “I will just give them to her. She’ll be home any minute. Come on.” ****** “Hello, dear. How was your run? Breakfast is almost ready. What?” said Stupor, as his wife came in. “I said what’s for breakfast?” she responded. Stupor braced himself. “Brussels sprouts and yogurt. I can make some green beans if you want,” he said “No beans, thanks.” “How was your run?” “Oh, fine. I met Mrs. Smarts this morning.” “Did she have anything to say?” “You know what?” “What?” “She had chocolate cake for her son’s birthday! Chocolate!” “Well, why shouldn’t she have that?” “Chocolate! You know the stance I take on chocolate!” “Ah!” He knew all too well. Sometimes he dreamed about chocolate, free chocolate, chocolate unhampered by sneaking, or his wife’s iron hands. At this point the conversation deteriorated, and Stupor served breakfast. After breakfast Stupor shakily went outside and sat down on the porch bench. He called The Purple Kitten. “Hi,” she said. “Well ‘ow bad was it? Not to good I can tell. I durst’nt ask.” “No , no, oh, she didn’t say anything! That’s what’s so weird! I — she didn’t say a thing— she looked surprised an’ didn’t say a word! I—” Stupor exclaimed.. Then, “ ‘Corse you can ‘av a cigar,” he added distractedly. The Kitten puffed slowly at her cigar. Then she said, “What if t’em were enchanted? Maybe Crosby enchanted them...” Stupor nodded. “I think you’re right… I— well um— She is a lot happier! She stopped being so cranky as soon as she tasted them…. look, shush—there she is, look at the difference—you see? Look, she’s going to the librar— haven’t seen her do that in months!” Stupor whispered. “I suppose I really ought to thank Crosby.” He cleared his throat. “Look over t’ere,” said Kitten. “There’s ‘t blighter Crosby comin’ o’er’ t’ street. Lookin’ real furtive like, too.” Crosby Jumble was indeed coming across the street. He stopped at the gate with no fence. “Hoy!” cried Stupor, running over to him. “What’s up? You look like a dying duck, you blister,” said Stupor cordially. Crosby hesitated, and leaned against the gate. “I— I’ve come ta’ parley,” he said. “I— I ‘av relatives comin’ tomorow, and I need to ‘av the grounds ‘an ‘ouse
respectful. T’at means I can’t ave you making Egyptian gnomes go about the place. I came to say, to say sorry about t’ Hydrangeas.” Stupor stared at him. “I was hopin’ you’d not do any more disturbing t’ings,” Crosby continued. “I know I’ve ruined your Brussels sprouts for the year. I….”. “Stop, say nothing more,” Stupor said. “I think we have been rather stupid. I have to thank you for reforming my wife. There’s hope now that she’ll eat normal food and cook it for me too. It’s time we got even in the Brussels sprouts category, you low down stinker. Don’t say a thing. Forget it. It’s high time we stopped fighting.” ****** Epilogue Crosby Jumble walked over to his car. He proudly carried the ‘Brussels Sprout Division Winner of the Year’ bumper sticker. He ceremoniously placed it on his car’s bumper. Across the street Stupor Fisheye III sat with his wife on their porch. They were eating Chocolate Brussels sprouts.
Lost Clan of the Volcano After the ruthless dragon king Sunflame gathered an army of nomadic desert dragons, he sent spies to infiltrate the other territories in a plot to take over all of the dragon clans. Meanwhile, a young green forest dragon named Teek learned of an ancient prophecy from a lost clan of ancient dragons stating that in a time of war, one dragon would go on a quest to find a champion who could defeat the evil.
Part 2: Thundering
R
ain dripped down on Teek’s wings and head. She stuck her head out of the thicket, received a blast of cold rain in her face, and pulled her head back in. Waking, Luna wriggled out of the ferns. “I’ll go get some food. You know I don’t mind the cold.” the silvery dragon said amiably. After Luna left, Teek thought she smelled a strange dragon-scent, a smell of hot wind and sand and blood, but it quickly dissipated. Two of the chicks squeezed into the tangle of branches next to her, and Teek gratefully wrapped her wings around their warm scales. Sunflame curled his massive tail around his paws as he looked up at the King’s Cliff, a massive boulder projecting over the clearing where he stood. The bronze warlord chuckled, seeing no sign of Torkyn. “It would seem…” he whispered, “that there is nobody home…” As he spoke, Sunflame leapt onto the glacial boulder, tucking his wings around his torso to shield himself from the pouring rain. The cruel, quiet laugh of the powerful dragon was lost in the distant rumbles of thunder over the mountains. By the time Luna returned with a soggy deer, Teek had managed to extricate herself from the thicket, and the sky was covered in pitch-black clouds. “Even the prey is hiding from this storm!” Luna said, with a hint of an exasperated growl. “Did anything happen while I was gone?” Teek shrugged her wings. “Torkyn just left- he was visiting Tana and the chicks. Other than that, nothing else.” A massive clap of thunder made them all bristle. “What was that?” Tana yelped. Baring her teeth, the blue dragon bolted into the forest with Teek and Luna close behind. “I-I think it was thunder,” Luna called. Tana shook her head, still running. “Behind the thunder- there was roaring,” she gasped. Leaping through the dripping branches of the trees overhead, Teek reached the King’s Clearing first and stopped dead. Below her stood Torkyn, hemmed in by Luna’s brother Draenor, an Ocean dragon, and the silky brown traveler Teek had met earlier. Teek hopped out of her tree and muttered to Luna, “Did you see? The Traveler took off his Traveler’s badge. Is he allowed to do that?” It was Ket who answered, slinking up beside them with Chestnut, Silver, and Smolder following him.
“No. It invalidates his neutral status. If we wanted to, we could attack him now… or he us.” Looking up past the snarling dragons, Teek saw a huge outclanner perched on King’s Cliff. His cold eyes burned with a black fire. Torkyn reared onto his hind legs and roared, “It is on the Stone of Law that only the king may perch on the King’s Cliff, Sunflame, Lord of the Desert!” Smiling slightly, the massive bronze dragon purred, “Well, you see… you aren’t the king either… not anymore.” Just then, Byrn, the brown plains dragon, lunged for Torkyn’s throat, briefly knocking the larger dragon off balance. Hissing, Torkyn seized Byrn and threw him to the ground. The two dragons circled, snapping at each other. Suddenly, the smaller dragon lunged for the king, who knocked him across the clearing to land at the foot of the King’s Cliff, where he lay unmoving. Sunflame’s powerful muzzle creased in a brief smile before he rose to his feet. “Byrn is dead! It is not permitted to kill in a challenge!” Sunflame’s obsidian eyes narrowed. “The penalty for murder is death.” Overhead, lightning flashed and cracked, drowning out Torkyn’s roar as Draenor and Skvar, the Ocean dragon, sprang at him. Out of the corner of her eye, Teek saw Byrn open his eyes and smile slightly. She crept through the undergrowth to get a better look but was interrupted by another flash of lightning. The bolt lit on fire one of the trees overhanging the King’s Cliff. In the sudden light, Sunflame noticed that Byrn was awake and no longer even pretending to be dead. Before Teek could say anything, the Maceking jumped from his perch and landed heavily in the clearing, intentionally snapping Byrn’s neck with one of his spiked hind paws in the process. The next few minutes came to Teek in flashes. She saw Luna screaming as Draenor reared up, thick blood dripping from his jaws and Torkyn’s twisting emerald shape, silhouetted against the rain and fire. Then, in one swift move, Sunflame slashed open the green king’s throat. Draenor and Skvar backed away from the twitching form of the dying king as blood and fire streamed out of his throat into the mud. Tana screamed and screamed and did not stop screaming. For a long moment, Sunflame stood over the bleeding corpse. Then he turned, preparing to spring onto the stone overhang. In a flash, another dragon burst from the dripping ferns. In the smoldering light of the burning trees, Teek realized that it was Tana. The queen’s features were twisted in a savage snarl and her eyes were glazed. Stiffly, she stepped forward, hate etched into her face. “You say that Torkyn was the murderer, but I say you are the true killer, Sunflame the Mace! Murderer! Murderer!” As her icy voice rang out, Sunflame’s ears flattened and his dark eyes flared. The blue queen snarled one last time, the hiss cutting through the booming thunder. “Murderer!” Swiftly, the bronze dragon’s bloodied paw struck out, leaving three broad stripes of blood across Tana’s neck. Staggering, the blue dragon hissed again and fell. Horror overwhelming her, Teek turned and bolted into the woods. The last thing she remembered was a bright light and a searing pain in her right foreleg.
Bright light streamed into the thicket as Teek’s eyes fluttered open. Dimly, she realized that her leg was smeared with an herbal poultice and that Luna and Ket were hovering over her. The young green dragon sat up. She was in a clearing with most of the tribe: The black warrior Ket, Torchlight, Burn, Nimble, Aliina, Silver, Smolder and Luna. “There’s a bad burn on your leg- we think you were struck by lightning.” Luna said quietly. “Torkyn and Tana are both dead, but we have a plan to drive out Sunflame.” “Chestnut’s gone to help the Firefalcon clan smuggle fighters here.” Ket rumbled. “Last night, desert mercenaries cut off all our communications to the other forest clans. The Hundred Stars clan got a full phalanx of ten dragons through before the blockade set in, and they’ll try to send more through. The Azure Talon and Midnight clans are fighting their own battles with the desert dragons, but Firefalcon said they could slip some dragons over the border. We’ll attack as soon as they arrive.” Blinking groggily, Teek tested her injured leg. “Sunflame has enough fighters to blockade the clans?” Ket nodded. “The advantage is that we think most of the desert army is guarding the borders. We charge in, draw the mercenaries into the forest where we can use the terrain to our advantage, and force Sunflame to surrender. Then we can choose the best candidates from each clan to figure out who the next Forest King will be.” Smolder smirked, stretching lazily. “And during the fighting bit we just make it up as we go along?” Snarling slightly, Ket opened his mouth to retort when Smolder grinned broadly. “My kind of plan. I’m in.” “We’re all going to die…” Aliina muttered, steam curling out of her nostrils. Suddenly, Chestnut and two silvery white dragons slid through the canopy. All three of them were scratched and panting. “We were jumped by something like two full phalanxes of desert clanners and just barely fought through. The rest of the Firefalcons are sneaking around the long way- through Hundred Stars land. They said to proceed with the attack and they can get here before noon.” Ket paused for a moment, and then he reared onto his hind legs and roared. In moments, the forest dragons had broken camp. Aliina and Lazuli stayed behind to take care of the chicks, and as she was leaving, Teek caught a glimpse of the little chick Copper waving before she was swallowed up by the trees. Hunkered in a thicket on the edge of the King’s Clearing, Luna reapplied moss and cobwebs to Teek’s wounds. Glancing down while Luna dressed the burn, the green female glimpsed blistered pink skin and cracked scales her under the mashed leaves and moss before Luna’s silvery paws smoothed out the wrapping again. Most of the forest dragons were hidden in the trees and ferns surrounding the clearing. Sunflame and his small contingent of mercenaries seemed oblivious to the looming threat. “Now!” boomed Ket from the branches above Teek. As the first forest clanners surged into the glade, Sunflame flicked his powerful spiked tail and another half dozen desert dragons leapt over the edge of the King’s Cliff. In less than a
second, the clearing had exploded into a mass of twisting scales and snapping fangs. Ket’s plan to lure the desert dragons into the undergrowth did not work as they had hoped. Instead, the desert dragons simply smashed through the clinging shrubbery. Overhead, the fighting spilled into the sky when Chestnut leapt into the air with two roaring desert nomads in hot pursuit. Hissing, Teek grappled with a lean, sandy grey dragon who was nearly twice her size, weaving and dodging around his strikes. Just when Teek though she could hold him off no longer, Silver charged through the fray and pounced onto the desert dragon. As Silver clung to the grey dragon’s back, Teek sank her claws into his wing and pulled, feeling the rough membrane tear beneath her talons. Fighting a sudden wave of nausea at the sound of the desert dragon’s wing ripping as he squirmed away, Teek scanned the clearing. With the arrival of four more dragons from the Firefalcon clan, the bright scales and amber eyes of the forest dragons far outnumbered the dull, spiny desert dragons. Unfortunately, Teek thought as she dodged the swinging antlers of a yellow male nomad, Ket and Smolder hadn’t quite realized that the desert dragons were trained for battle, and were much more ruthless than even the furious forest dragons. This made them extremely dangerous even in small numbers. Near the King’s Cliff, Teek spotted Draenor’s silver and purple scales and remembered his part in Torkyn’s murder. At almost the same instant, Luna bowled past Teek, bellowing, “Draenor!” in a wild voice Teek had never heard the gentle dragon use before. Hearing her, Draenor shot into the air, dodging blasts of flame from the dragons battling in the air. Snarling, Luna followed, shooting a burst of icy freezing-breath from her jaws. Draenor roared and crashed into the branches as the ice crystals immobilized one of his wings. Luna and Nimble raced into the forest after him. As Teek stumbled from a sudden pain in her wounded leg, another mercenary slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Like the most of the other desert dragons Teek had seen, this one was also a male, but unlike them, he had dark gold scales and black antlers. His eyes shone blue, flickering uncertainly in the harsh light of the dragonfire streaking through the sky above them. A particularly bright burst of flame nearby made Teek close her eyes for a brief moment, and when she looked again, the strange dragon was gone. As Teek turned to try to make it back to the relative shelter of the trees, she saw the golden desert dragon pinned to the ground beneath Sunflame’s huge paws. The Maceking snarled something Teek could not hear to the smaller dragon, who shook his head violently. Growling a response, Sunflame raised one paw from the other dragon’s wing and gestured at a dazed Hundred Stars forest dragon, slumped on the ground in a heap of bloody blue scales. As soon as the pressure on his back eased, the small golden dragon slipped out of Sunflame’s grip and winged off into the sky, blood dripping from his scales, calling something defiantly back to the Maceking. Teek lunged into the long ferns, feeling the safety of thorny branches close around her scales as darkness gathered at the corners of her vision. Vaguely, she realized that somehow the vibrant colors of the forest dragons were getting sparser and her last impression before she blacked out for the second time in as many days was one of rusty scales and dragons screaming.
That night, far away in the mountains, Kalvero perched on a windy crag, gazing from the mountains to the forest. Behind him, a golden desert soldier sat hunched in an exhausted heap while two mountain dragons tried to shelter him from the freezing night wind. “You are sure what you say is true? Sunflame has taken over the forest clans?” Kalvero growled. To the small desert dragon, the red warrior’s scarred head seemed to scrape the brilliant stars above them. “Y-y-yes, sir. Torkyn the Forest King is slain. The armies will take the mountains next. I… I deserted during the battle when the forest clans rebelled.” Kalvero pondered for a moment before his golden eyes softened. “What did you say your name was?” “W-Wasp, sir. Darkdune clan.” Nodding, Kalvero gave orders to the waiting mountain dragons. “Glacier, take Wasp back to the stronghold. Try to get him warmed up before he freezes to death. Nox, you need to go meet one of our agents- it’s Solaron reporting again. If he’s not there, don’t stay in the open too long. And Nox?” The velvety black young dragon’s head whipped around. “Yes?” “Be sure you get some sleep- you have a mission with Del tomorrow.” The shapes of the twin mountain dragons, one black and the other icy blue, swirled into the night, but Kalvero stayed. His gleaming eyes strained to pierce the night, or perhaps the future. Someday, he could rest. Kalvero snorted to himself. Rest? Perhaps when the Fire Champion of the prophecy came from the ancient ruins of the toppled mountain… Chuckling a bit to himself and shrugging off his train of thought, the gigantic red dragon reared onto his hind legs and roared into the wind, great tattered wings flaring like a bloodstain across the mountains, challenging Sunflame from a hundred miles away. Perhaps the howling wind could carry the sound of that roar over the foothills and the woodlands, all the way to the heart of the forest… Far away, Sunflame lay on the King’s Cliff, gazing uneasily towards the mountains where he was sure Kalvero hid. “Sahara!” he barked. The rust-red queen stalked into the clearing, her tail rattling on the dead leaves strewn across the ground. “My lord?” “As soon as possible, we strike the mountains. When will your troops be ready?” Sahara shrugged. “A day, perhaps two. There were very few casualties in the battle, but several of the soldiers were wounded.” With eyes like twin pits of shadow, Sunflame nodded. “When we attack, order the troops to search every cave and canyon until they find Kalvero. The longer we wait, the sooner he can gather an army.” Sahara bowed and prowled back into the night. Sunflame purred with satisfaction. Soon, the one great danger to his plan would be eliminated.
To be continued…
Fake Photos with Word 2007 – Tutorial To make the photo shown on the next page, I will take you through the process. 1.
2.
3.
You want continuity—your picture needs to look as if it was one shot. One way to do this is to make sure the values of one photo are the same as that of the others. In Picture Tools, there are the ‘brightness’ and ‘contrast’ tools. Use these to tweak your images to match the tone of each other. You want them to be integrated into each other (not one thing being cut off by another). The main tools for this are: the soft picture edges in ‘Picture Effects’, the ‘Picture Shape’ tool—both of those are in Picture Tools. And also ‘Shapes’, found under ‘Insert’. You may think that the shapes in ‘Picture Shapes’ are not good enough. “My picture is of an airplane (or a person or a rabbit, etc.), but there aren’t any airplane shapes there.” No, but all you need are no hard or predictable edges. Now the ‘Soft Edges’ are good for the same reason. Of course, it may not always be perfect. The ‘Shapes’ tool is just a drawing tool. It has lines and clouds and squares. Why? Think about the photo below: would it look good if that rabbit did not have the pole going across it? That is a ‘line’ from ‘Shapes’. And the longer nose, made out of an oval and a square? That was not there on the original plane. Why, though? To cover extra on the rabbit’s heart-shaped photo (from ‘Picture Shapes’). And the rabbit would not match if one hadn’t used the ‘contrast’ and ‘brightness’ and re-color tools, too. But it won’t always work—Word, sadly, is not a photo program.
SUBMISSIONS TO INTERESTING THINGS All submissions in the areas of Fine Art, Science, and Writing are welcome. This includes works of art, photographs, poems, short stories, and articles. All submissions must be electronic. Please submit to: Shelly Dove at interesting.things.magazine@gmail.com If you wish your submission to appear in a particular issue, please follow this table: Fall issue: submit by September 1 Winter issue: submit by December 1 Spring issue: submit by March 1 Summer issue: submit by June 1
Good luck! I hope to hear from you in our contest! (signed) The Grand Piano
“Beer Bellies from Another Planet” Contest! Please remember that the Deadline for this is April 15! Remember, the only limitation is that the title must be ‘Beer Bellies from Another Planet’. Send your Story to interesting.things.magazine@gmail.com
Make A Fake Contest
Make a digital photo fake—everyone likes that. Whatever it be, two-storey outhouses, monkeys on surf bords, or rabbits flying, we will take it. Entries will be judged by their visual coherence. The above photo was made using Microsoft Office Word. What do you think? Can you do it, too? All entrys must be your original work. We will accept any type of electronic file. The winner will be published in the Spring 2014 Issue. Send your photo at interesting.things.magazine@gmail.com
Some books contributors recommend…. New Frontiers: Modern Perspectives on Our Solar System (DVD from The Great Courses) Space-related, as the title suggests, this is a really great set of lectures. It includes lots of animations, videos and photos of places in our solar system. Some of my favorites include the footage of solar flare particles hitting a sun-observing satellite and the footage of the descent of the Huygens probe onto Titan, the largest moon of Saturn. I cannot forget the images of the results of the impactor probe smashing into Comet P1 Temple. Into The Unknown By Stewart Ross, illustrated by Septen Biesty “How great explorers found their way by land, sea and air” is the subtitle of the book, and it sums up the contents nicely. From the adventures of Captain Cook and Nobile’s arctic airship to the Saturn V, the book covers, with fantastic illustrations and foldout pages, the adventures of some of the greatest explorers. Beginning with Pytheas the Greek and ending with the first moon landing, it is a very informative book. Artemis Fowl and Artemis Fowl – The Arctic Incident Artemis Fowl is a genius, a millionaire, and only twelve years old… When he kidnaps and holds a fairy hostage, he is sure he has covered every angle—before the fairies find a way to stop playing the way he expected. In The Arctic Incident, he must work with the fairies to rescue his missing father.
Aliens Land Here