Matter

A Chat Log. From #AFDA

(15th Dec 1999)
(about 10 to 9)
(PM)
[Non-relivant bits cut)


Matter

Aquarion: Hello
ZZ9: what's up, Aquarion
Aquarion: Sky, Clouds
Aquarion: Does it matter? And even if it matters, does it matter if it
matters?
Aquarion: Does Matter matter? And even if Matter matters, does it
matter if Matter matters, or if Matter matters not?
Bbz: It doesn't. That's the easiest way of thinking about it. Or
rather of not thinking about it.
Aquarion: Everything matters
Aquarion: to someone
Bbz: Nothing Else Matters.
Aquarion: Apart From What?
Noser: Matter or matter not, matter is no matter. A matter a matter
keeps the matter away.
Noser: A matter in the matter is worth matter in the matter.
* Bbz is baffled.
* Noser likes this game.
Aquarion: And even if Matter matters, Who does Matter matter to? are
do the increase from the point where there was one item that mattered,
to two too many mattering items of Matter?
Noser: My matter's breath smells like cat food.
Aquarion: Does matter Matter to Matter itself? Is there some kind of
Meta-Matter that matters to Matter?
Noser: Meta-matter is like a box of matter.
Noser: Matter doesn't actually matt, does it though.
Aquarion: Does Matter care? Does Matter feel pain? Does it matter if
Meta-Matter matters only to matt?
Aquarion: And is Matt Matter? Does it matter if Matt is Matter? Is
Matt Meta-Matter?
Noser: Who's Matt? No matter, it doesn't matter.
Noser: Take it away Bbz!
Bbz: Come on! You know I can't be this silly.
Noser: What matter?
Aquarion: Is matt mad? and is Matt madder than meta-Matter. Does it
matter if Matt is madder than Matter? Is Meta-Matter madness?
Bbz: It doesn't matter anyway, I'm not going to try. Not that it
matters anyways.
Aquarion: But does it matter?
Marvin: Even if it does matter, does it matter that it matters?
Aquarion: blast. I was going to say that. But does it matter who said
it?
Bbz: What's this Meta-Matter madness? Does it matter that it's
madness? Or Meta-madness?
Noser: My aunt Matt collects anti-matter?
Aquarion: Is there a Meta-Madness that manafests itself in Matter?
Does it matter? Has Matt fallen prey to this Meta-Madness?
Bbz: But do you have an anti-aunt anti-Matt who collects matter?
Noser: No, she collects ants.
Aquarion: Or is it an Anti-aunt who collects Mad Meta-Matter?
Noser: It's a matterhouse! A MATTERHOUSE!!!
Aquarion: But does it matter that this is a matterhouse?
Aquarion: and even if it matters, does it matter that it matters?
Bbz: Meta-aunt-Matt-Maddness-matter.
*** Joins: Rasher (jfh@t3o106p110.telia.com )
*** ChanServ sets mode: +o Rasher
Bbz: High!
Aquarion: Anti-aunt-Matt-Maddness-matter.
Noser: Hey Rasher, join in the matter-rich matter madness!
Rasher: Which is?
Noser: Doesn't matter.

Bath Time

A report, and diary entry, by Nicholas 'Aquarion' Avenell. Moron, of the order of St. Astrid.

Well, That sucked.
Went to Bath.
This sums up, in three words, four hours of travel, decided completely on a whim at 11 O'clock in the morning. I decided that since it wasn't every day that RR was in the country, I should be there.
Life began to suck as soon as I got to the station just in time to see my train leave. Caught the next one - 15 minutes later - to London, Charing Cross -> Waterloo -> Bath Spa.
Where I arrived exactly 15 minutes late.
So the people I was looking for had left. Yay. Rah. And other expressions of sarcastic joy. Together with someone else in the same situation, we wandered around Bath until, quite by accident, we ran into someone who had just walked out of the pub where the Meet was happening.
I should have known this wouldn't last.
It was suggested that finding a cheap (£10) hotel would be an improvement on going home at 20:45 (My last train), so we went to the local Backpackers place, which was totally full.
Bad.
They, however, were very helpful and booked me into a similar place, giving me a leaflet with the name and address of the hotel on it, and gave me the check in time, which was "before midnight".
So, Back to the meet, by way of most of Bath. We asked two people how to get to the pub. When the pointed in opposite directions, we realised this was going to be fun.
Anyway. Meet, Drinking, Geeking, Vommary galore. *fun* stuff.
At 10, LC had to wander off with parents.
At 11:15, I decided to go find my hotel.
Actually, At 11:15, I discovered that the leaflet with the address and name of this hotel had gone. Completely.
So, I spent 45 minutes wandering around where I thought the map had said, with no success, before realizing I was screwed. Next train home was 08:00. It was now midnight.

The Long Wait:

Spent about an hour at the station until they locked it up.

At this point I got as far as "How..." of "How could this possibly get any worse" before it did.

And it started to rain.

Spent another hour sitting beside the river, explaining my life story to it (More vocal exercises than anything else). Attempted to sort my life into some kind of order. Wandered up the riverside path, sat around for a while.
Wandered back again.
Found a bench with a street-light above it, finished my book.
Wandered back to the weir I'd been talking to earlier.
Wandered to the bus-station in search of a chocolate vending machine I'd seen earlier, and by this time it was about 4am.
Started writing in my (Physical) diary, which, as it will *always* do, even at 4am in a deserted bus station, prompted someone to come up and try to talk to me.
Shot the breeze with him (name unknown) on the State Of The Transport Network, and how terrible it was that he had to wait a whole 45 minutes for a bus home.
You can hear the sympathy oozing from me, can't you?
At 4:45 his bus left, and so did I.
Wandered back to the wier (It was nice there, shady from the rain, the noise of the water keeping me from sleeping and either being robbed or arrested for being a vagrant or something) and watched the sun rise. Wandered around Bath for another couple of hours, caught the train to Reading, Grabbed coffee, Train to Redhill, Train to The Fictional Town of Paddock Wood, Walk Home.

Get home ~12:00

*sleep*

Delurk post

The minds eye is an infinitely versatile object, capable of rendering objects that the most dedicated artist would find impossible to make look real. In dreams we see another reality, and it is in dreams where this post begins.

Imagine, if you will, the multiverse. A huge sphere of multicoloured points linked in ways our minds, conceived in one of these points, cannot possibly see. And yet there is something around it. A sprinkling of blue sparkles surrounds the entire area, around every point they eddy and swirl, gradually focusing on one point, pointing, leading, like iron fillings to a magnet, and onto one point they focus and the mind shifts perspective.

We are inside one of the points of the multiverse, one of the nodes, one of the universes. There are many more, governed by magic, words, or just the same more-or-less logical rules that bind our own universe together, for that is where we are. And the blue sparkles are here also, spinning and flowing towards another, smaller point, a swirl in the galaxy, and we zoom in further.

And further, though the clouds of stars, focusing on a string that is orbiting the galaxy in mindnumbing slowness, and yet travelling faster than many thought possible.

Onto a single star, orbited by 9 rocks of varying size, and as we circle the sun - as all the rocks do - we can see the sparkles head toward a single planet, a blue-green planet.

We spin past the lands, though the daytime, the evening and into the night, and in the darkness we focus on a small triangular country which for the sake of argument we shall call "England" and from there into the south-eastern corner, midway between the bright lights of the big city and the calmness of the sea to the south.

And closer do we zoom, to a single room, and a single computer, as the blue sparkles collate and solidify into a young male, typing at his keyboard. The figure of Aquarion, making his de-lurk post to RHOD.

Hi, I'm Aquarion, and I am to be your newest member for a while.

I love to say I have lurked lots, but in reality I followed people from AFDA a couple of days ago.

Yours in total sincerity, Aquarion

--
Web: http://www.Aquarionics.com
E-Mail: Aquarion-At-Aquarionics-Dot-Com
"Whenever Pavlov rang a bell, all the dogs attacked the nearest merangue"

Marmite

AFP, 2002-03-15

The simple thing is that, light of my life, Marmite is ikky. Marmite is a blot on the spec of a culinary horizon of spreads that rises over the mountains of "It's All Mine" Real Chocolate spread, though the wastelands of peanut butter, around the small puddles of sandwich spread[1] and flooding the valleys with a sheen of golden syrup glinting lightly in the sunset. Somewhere out in this metaphorical landscape is a pit of thick brown liquid that occasionally goes "gloop" horribly, it's only claim to fame being a brief appearance in a movie staring David Bowie. Marmite is the anti-spread, a single gram of it dropped into half a kilo of butter will render the entire pat useless for consumption by all those with more than one single properly functioning taste bud. Marmite is the very definition of evil, it's very colour a signal to nature to stay the hell away from it, nothing edible can be that colour. It's smell can drive grown men out of a house, it's taste causes ducks to swim *away* from bread. Even it's makers admit that you can make circus-freaks of the people who eat the stuff. It is Wrong, purely and simply. And the fact that you, darling, eat the stuff just confirms how good your taste in things is.

Now, if you excuse me, I think I'd better start running.

Yours in total sincerity,

Aquarion

(Lonecat's worst, or at least other, half)

[1] Sandwich spread was used in a great many TV dramas for when a character needed to throw something up. This is all you need to know about it.

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NNTP Licence

Green Man Meet (2002-06-01)

It was a bright and sunny night.

No, hang on.

It was a dark and stormy summers... nope.

Hmm.

It was a day. Not a cold, miserable day. Nor a humid, drenched shirts day. No, this was an English bank holiday, sunny but with light breezes, and that means comfort.

Bright was the morning, and high the hope in my heart as I left the fictional town that I shall one day soon leave for good, in the hopes of getting to the smoke in time to meet LoneCat's train. In a move that shocked and stunned me, the British transport system got me to London early, I met LoneCat, and we toddled off to Regents Park station, where we met Simon Callan, and then up to Regents Park proper, where we met Meg, Karen, Rocky, and misc other people whose names shall be detailed later. (This is not a cop-out of an Aquarion being afraid of missing people out. Oh No. At all. Bah), and the Quest for the Meeting Spot began.

The quest began in a place of much mystical mysticism, the bottom of the circular road. It was suggested we went around the outside, but going though the middle was clearly quicker, and so the Map Committee[1] followed the path, and wandered through the scenic flowerbeds and slowly bronzing bodies littering the lawns of Regents Park. Then we turned around and went around the outside, because that was the only route to the meeting place.

[1] I am not taking *all* the stick for this one

Slowly, other people began to join us under the trees beside the bridge. There was Geekary of chainmail, there was Tennis, There were strawberries. There was a Frisbee, which was red. And there was a field with a locked gate.

If you can guess where the *first* throw of the Frisbee ended up, you get a bonus point. With the assistance of Bearded Swedes we retrieved it, and played for a while. As the game progressed a rubber turntable joined the thrown objects, as did a tiny blue Frisbee. And A Good Time Was Had By All.

There was also juggling.

When the hour of six approached, we were led like the careless sheep we all undoubtedly are to the basement of the Green Man, where there were drinks, bikkits (Thanks Kyle), Small Light sabres (thanks to Barry V), much talking, geeking, and stuff. There is a comprehensive list of people somewhere around, and I'm sure someone will post it.

This was not a meet report, it is just a framework for everyone else to comment on, so do so, here:

Thanks and kudos to all organisers as ever, and when's the next one?

Yours in total sincerity,

Aquarion De'blue

Painitude

(Note: "Does Pratchett Miss The Point" was an epic thread, spanning Alt.fan.pratchett and alt.books.tolkien. It was dull. It was boring, and a little while later, somone posted...)

Getting To Con Sessions

Message-ID: <45tbha.1fb.ln@10.1.0.2>
From: Aquarion 
Newsgroups: alt.fan.pratchett
Subject: Re: [F] DWCon - Convention Update
Date: Sat, 20 Jul 2002 15:45:22 +0100

On Fri, 19 Jul 2002 21:07:01 GMT, junk@bleurgh.net (MP) wrote:

>On 19 Jul 2002 13:34:24 -0700, info@dwcon.org (Discworld Convention
>2002) wrote:
>
>
>
>I have a query: is it normal to want to attend every single session at
>the Con? I mean, every single one?
>If so, how do you do it? I haven't enough time to clone me several
>times...

There is a saying. It goes as follows:

	"So many responses, so little time"

So, we have cutlery on the moterway, three possible directions.

Number One: The Harry Potter Reference.

Number Two: The Dr Who Reference.

Number Three: The one where I might actually have to work on a post.

*tosses coin*

*coin remains at apex of throw, spinning rapidly*

So, Heads for option one. Tails for option two, and anything else for
option three. (heh heh heh, this should be quick).

*coin begins to dramatically tumble to earth. it lands on the soft
ground.* 

Heads!

*it bounces*

Tails!

*it turns into a small bowl of custard, accompanied with a very small
piece of rubarb crumble*

Bugger.

Okay, it's very simple.

As you enter the convention, to your left will be a person in a hat,
it is vitally important that you turn right, and walk into the first
event, then out, and right again into event two, at this junction take
the northeast exit to the event sign posted Woolpit, and then west
onto the hall of worlds, then right again to get onto the A25, from
then the room with the third event will be on your right, the forth on
your left when you take the fifth exit from the third room of the
third panel. Then enter the blue police box, and ask nicely to be
taken to a cafe where they serve nice tea, where you will meet a man
with a birdcage over his second head who will give you the telephone
number of an Islington flat where you will encounter an angel who will
give you a small ebony statue of the beast of London, and point you to
an exit where you will find yourself inside the next session. Take the
right exit from there to find yourself on the Watzaup Dock where you
can catch a barge up the slow river. In the saloon of the barge you
will find the next session, but be sure to leave early so you can play
the game of dice-dominos with the man from manchester who is in the
cabin. When the boat stops, you will find yourself on a landing place
inlaid alternately with hickory wood and wood from the d'cory tree
which doesn't grow on these shores. Proceed up the Hickory/D'Cory dock
until you see a rodent enter the chronometer, where you will find a
woman with a rabbit tattooed on her shoulder who will present you to
the next session. Keep following her until you reach the tunnel, then
drink the potion on the table (Taking the key first!) until you can
enter the door in the far wall. In the room beyond will the next
session, which you can attend. When you exit that room, find the
sandy-haired man with the big sword and the red-headed wife, and
follow them to the next session. Another left, another trip through
the hall of worlds (take the second door) kiss the blonde girl, but be
sure not to let her stab you with the pointy stick, and run north
until you get to the library where the next session is. Talk to the
red-head about riding people like ponys, and she will cast a spell
transferring you to another dimension. Again, beware of the pointy
sticks, but also note that you can dehydrate from excessive drooling
at the alternative version of the redhead. A swirling portal near the
nightclub will take you back to the convention carpark, where the next
session is, and then a man with long blonde hair in what appears to be
an inflatable time machine will take you back to your original
co-ordinates, and give you a hat.

Walk into the convention, turn left, and put on the hat. Wait for a
few minutes until you're sure you've already gone past, then spend the
next weekend trying to remember which sessions you attended already,
and then attend the ones you didn't.

The only mandatory one is the speculation panel. 

Yours in total sincerity, 

       Aquarion "Spot the reference" De'blue
	(Answers at http://www.aquarionics.com/afp/str.html)

On AFP, And Leaving it.

What is AFP?

At one stage, I was so completely fed up with AFP that I left. For about a month, in fact. I'm not sure anyone noticed. I did this in the thread "[I] I've forgotton how I got here - have you?, and even leaving the group took me 1800 words.

Chapter One:

At exactly 10am, the sun hit the precise position in the sky to filter down though the pen-sized hole in the ceiling and hit the mirror suspended below it, reflecting the light into the concave mirror strategically positioned to focus the beam of light though a lense and onto a thin piece of paper sitting on the desk, which immediately caught fire.

As the paper burned a spark lit up as the flames touched the trail of fuse-wire pinned though it, passing the flame down the wire towards the white object at the far corner while - unnoticed - the thin piece of paper was hit by a small gust of air and fell, still burning, into the waste-paper basket far below. As the spark capered joyfully along the carefully placed line of fuse, the small plume of smoke rising slowly from the metal bin began to fill outwards and darken as discarded ideas, fueled by an acclaimed imagination, became in their turn fuel for a far more natural and scientific study. That of the combustion of compressed wood-pulp.

As the spark of the fuse hit the white object, a "woomph" noise was heard in stereo as both the chemicals within it and the paper within the rubbish bin ignited into orange flame.

At exactly 10:12am, the smoke from the waste-paper bin filtered though the heavy duvet and into the nose of the figure asleep in his bed. waking quickly, he threw off the duvet, cast a water spell at the waste-paper basket, a wind spell at the window, and resolved to go back to bed until life was on his side again.

At 12:36, a hand reached from under the duvet, explored the contents of the bedside table, and withdrew back to the safety of it's cotton tent clutching a round object. A few seconds later, the hand returned, placed the clock back in it's place, collected a pair of glasses, and once more withdrew into the safety of the cloth dome.

Simon Merlin, mage, elemental, immortal, and late for work, arose, Staggered into another room, mumbled "Water", and pointed at the ceiling. A light cleansing rain fell upon his shoulders. Pure, clean, natural, and above all cold.
"S S S Stop" stuttered Simon, shivering. he staggered back out of the shower, though the puddles created by the less-than-watertight wastepaper basket, removed the clothes he slept in, and went back into the doorway to the shower.

"Heat" he spoke, and pointed at a point some three feet above his head. A shimmering haze appeared where he was pointing.
"Water" he repeated, and a brand new shower appeared, filtering though the warming haze and cascading over his body.

He washed, dressed, found a cup of tea, breakfasted, found a further cup of tea, realized he had missed all the lectures he had been time tabled to take today, and resolved to go on a Quest for the great fountain of knowledge.

It was traditional for a mage out upon his Weekend Quest to go forth to Mallets the supplier to purchase goods. And for the long and dangerous trek to the land of All-Father Pedant this was especially required, so Simon, mindful of this, entered the shop, the bell signaling to the shopkeeper within that a new customer was there to be served...

Chapter Two:

Supplies bought, Simon made his way to the Village Tavern, where he could find some Loveable Compatriots to help him on his Quest. It was mid-morning, but the inn was already thriving. As he watched, a young girl who couldn't be more than thirteen sneaked out from behind a piller and slit the purse of a merchant, laid out dead drunk on the table. "Loveable rogue with a Heart Of Gold?" thought Simon, "Nah, not this trip. Who else?" sitting in the corner, telling tales of wars long past was a scarred, but still quite young, man. "The superstrong fighter who can kill a hundred enemies single handed without anything more than a broken arm?" he considered the man "Oh, and probably some kind of weapon" he added.

"No." and his eyes continued to sweep the room. A young woman whose heavy hessian robe couldn't quite hide her hourglass figure and thick raven-black hair tried to catch his attention with her striking green eyes, but Simon had only just lost the last Rich Daughter Doomed To Marry Some Bastard he tried to help, and avoided eye-contact. The closest thing to a companion he could see was a black cat staring at him from the rafters, but a shimmer in the air around it reminded him that he was a mage already. Sorceresses would not be required. No, he decided. This quest would be done alone.

Simon stalked towards the Dynkwood. Spotting a useful tree, he pointed to it, and commanded "Fire". A tiny beam of pure heat nearly sliced the sapling down, and with the powers of the elements at his disposal, it wasn't long before Simon had made himself a serviceable staff. Deep orange in colour, it was, and criss-crossed with designs that looked almost like mystical symbols, but were more likely places where Simon had been less than careful with the beams of heat. He passed though the Dynkwoods quickly, never once straying from the path. At one stage he heard the sounds of an elven party somewhere in the woods, but convinced of the safety of his route, he kept to his path. Away from the giant woodlice that roamed this part of the world.

Before long, Simon reached the Mountains of Oblique, and he knew his quest was nearly at an end.

The mountains of Oblique loomed over Simon as he camped in the foothills. he had only been here once seeking knowledge before, and that had involved the relatively easy cave system under the Seven Peeks. He doubted the quest would be that easy this time. "I'm going to have to go the Other way, aren't I?" he spoke, apparently, to a raven perched on a branch high above him. "Nevermore" quoth the raven.
Simon glared at it, and the bird swooped down behind the tent.
"The problem with you, 'Simon'" it said, the raven's rough squawking being slowly replaced by a female, and slightly superior, tone "is that you only appreciate your own jokes".
"Hello Violet." said the Mage "What are you doing here?"
"Aha, direct to the point as always. And I answer your question with another: How did you know it was me?"
"Vanity" said Simon, shortly.
"That wasn't an answer" replied Violet.
"Yours wasn't exactly high rated either. You're transformations tend to the Ravenous"
"I like ravens. Noble birds"
"With deep purple feathers? Ravens are black"
"You aren't supposed to analyse every animal you meet"
"I've been working with you too long. Now, would you mind giving an answer?"
"Forty-" began Violet
"Ravens don't fly with all their feathers burnt off. Not even pretty purple ones"
"I'm not a raven now"
"Nor ever shall be?"
"You wouldn't dare"
"Oh, please." said Simon "Just give me an answer, if you have one"
"If you insist" replied the seer "Your quest will take you into the mountains of Other, though the land of the powered wind, and into a place where all are welcome, Mostly." And then, prophesy proclaimed, she transformed back into a raven, and took off in the direction of the Guild Hall. Simon fired a wind spell after her, partly to assist her on her journey, but mostly to dissuade her from following as he packed up his belongings and started up the long trail into the mountains of Oblique.

His quest reached on for days, and he was thankful for the stores he had bought back in the town. Soon the trails he was covering were waist deep in snow, and without his fire-spells to keep him warm and the snow molten around him, he would surely have perished. He survived, though, and as the days stretched slowly into weeks he felt his goal was nearer with every step. Soon he had passed into the area of the Otherplace known as the Powered Winds, and one day, wearied by constant travel, he stumbled upon his goal.

The snow and wind were constant upon him now, and his once great powers were fading under the barrage of constant use he put them though. As he climbed the dirt track, he thought he heard the faintest sound of a tune on the wind. He almost tripped over the sign before he saw it, blown down by the storm.

"AFP" it said. "Please post carefully".

He trudged on up the road, both sides filled with houses for people who were in AFP, yet not part of the main party. But where was this main party? the further he climbed, the more snatches of music on the wind he heard, and soon he could see it before him.

The building was large, and obviously older than it's current incarnation. The Tudor stylings of the lower walls betrayed it's age, but by the size and mismatched extensions and revisions, this was obviously a building that had seen much use. From the windows golden light spilt out and brilliantly lit roughly rectangular patches of snow outside. As he watched, the front door was flung open and a creature was flung out of it, with many cries of "Find a new bridge to lurk under" as it scampered away into the darkness. This was the place he had been searching for. The legendary lost land of AFP.

Simon entered the building.

Chapter Three:

The building was big. Far bigger than it had looked from the outside. This was partly because the floor level was some six feet below the door. Fortunately the management had provided stairs for this purpose, and Simon descended them slowly.
The first thing that hit him was the heat. After the freezing snow and sleet from the world outside, the warmth in here was almost unbearable. The second was the light. From hundreds of candles scattered around the room, and a blazing fireplace set in the wall to his left, the varnished floorboards looked golden in the soft, dancing light. The hall was filled with tables. Literally, filled. To the point where it was not easy to make your way across the room without asking people to move chairs, or tails, or selves.

Which was another point. Although mostly human, the people within ranged from a dragon in the corner, to cats, mice, hamsters, moles, beings of every size and shape. And above were the balconies, packed with more people, looking down and observing the crowds below without ever making a contribution. The room was bright, and it was warm, and it looked friendly, so long as you didn't look too close.

But the noise was almost unbearable. The noise of half a thousand people and animals talking, some loudly so they could be heard, some softly and at length, letting the power of the words carry the argument. At one side was a notice board, advertising forthcoming events and attractions. Somewhere to the right a merchant who appeared to be trying to give people tin cans was being jumped up and down upon by a hamster wearing chain mail, to quite noticeable effect, in fact.

Bewildered, Simon made his way to the bar running along the nearest side.
"Welcome to The Buggered Hedgehog" said the barman. "My name is William Fitzsackett, what can I get you?"
"You work here?" said Simon.
"No" said William. "I just run the bar."
Simon asked for a pint of ale, and was rewarded with one of the best pints he had ever tasted. He turn to thank Fitzsackett, but he was already arguing with another inhabitant over the definition of a Girly Drink. Mentally preparing himself for an attempt at his quest, Simon turned to the crowd, and said, quite softly
"Hello, my name is Simon"
The reaction was immediate. Whilst most of the people continued with whatever discussions they were involved in, a fairly large number decended upon the mage, giving him hugs, chocolate, and small black balls which he assumed he was supposed to eat. At one point someone threw a stuffed alligator at him, bit somewhere between the thrower and Simon, the animal was deflected onto the fire.
Buoyed by this positive reaction, Simon asked a question. To say there was silence would be incorrect, since the noise inside was enough to deafen most people, but to Simon, who was listening only for a response to his query, there was silence none the less. Slightly bewildered, Simon asked his question again, slightly louder. Again, no answer was the only reply.

Slightly dis hearted, Simon wandered around the hall, catching snatches of conversation as he went. At a couple of tables, he sat for a moment, and joined in for a bit. After a while, overwhelmed by the noise, and the heat, and the light, and the inability to make a single tiny dent in the group dynamic, Simon Merlin climbed the stairs and went outside.

It had stopped snowing. So he went home.

Epilogue

Simon came back, eventually, and stayed for long enough to be recognized as a regular in the bar on the oft-times he wandered afar. Eventually the heat didn't seem quite so intense, and the conversations not quite so friendly. So he left the bar for a while, hoping to return one day and see the place as new again.

The End

I left. Nothing changed, I was still depressed, I was still not getting anything done. So I looked back, to see if anyone had replied to the story (Nobody ever replys to creative things, this is one of the major reasons I left, because I was throwing stuff into an abyss)

They had. I didn't last long after that, and returned. This is the post that brought me back.

Mary Messall writes:
Mar^W Um, Penelope, watched sadly. The daughter of a local tanner, she had discovered the tavern when she was still quite young, and retreated there often to escape the smells of home. She took the extraordinary place itself for granted, having more or less grown up in it, and was less aware of its now familiar colour and noise and atmosphere, than of the individual people (or creatures) who frequented it, and their stories. She had come to look forward to Simon's visits, and thought the evenings would be less pleasant without his voice. She took a sip of her half-pint, and watched two brightly coloured birds in the corner peck and squawk at one another. The noise, to which she was well accustomed, did not bother her, but the laughter and song and dull roar of enthusiastic conversation which normally swelled above it were quieter just then, and that semi-silence, and the *absense* of a few specific voices, she did notice, and regret. In her experience, however, this relative quietude never lasted long, so she curled her sandalled feet (she wore sandals year round, even in the snow) round the legs of her bar stool, peered through the amber liquid in her glass at her companions and tried again to learn to flip beermats off the edge of the table. Which is to say, she waited.

At some point, I'll either tell Mary this, or she will read it. Either is possible, I suppose.