A small, retro microphone rises out of a deserted plain in front of a veiled figure flanked by a suitable number of dragons. The figure lifts gauntlet-obscured hands to the hood and throws it back to reveal that the figure is none other than George R. R. Martin. He smiles one of those little half smiles of his and chuckles. He’s wearing that beret he likes so much. Clearing his throat and pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, George begins, “And now, for a look back at those we’ve lost.”

Another hooded figure strolls up next to George with a large, leather-bound tome, and, with every name spoken by George, the figure turns to a page with a beautifully-drawn image of said character who had passed away tragically at some point in the series. Then, when the names had all been read, the hooded figure and George would lock arms and sing, “My Way”--made popular by Frank Sinatra. I smell an Emmy.

A small man strode into a large tent. He spoke quietly, “Gen. Hannibal, sir... your greatness....”

“What is it?” Hannibal peered over a stack of scrolls.

“The troops are rested... yet restless. There has been a terrible accident.” The minor attendant shifted his weight, averting his eyes from the chief commander of Carthage’s armies.

Hannibal rose to his feet and strode around the table to face the man. “Have our supply lines been cut by the Romans?”

“No, sir. Something has happened to the animals.”

Hannibal grabbed the man by the shoulders and shouted, “Which animals?”

“Some of the... uhh... exotic animals went missing early this morning.”

Hannibal shook him and cried, “Which exotic animals? What kind?”

The attendant’s eyes widened as he replied, “The elephants.”

“How many of the elephants?”

The attendant paused for a moment. “All of them.”

Hannibal released the man and strode away, incensed. “Send out men to search for them. They can’t have gone far, not in this blizzard.”

“They were found not long ago.”

Hannibal turned, the expression on his face was hopeful. “Were any lost?”

The attendant closed his eyes and whispered, “All of them.”

Hannibal tore at his clothes and screamed. “How did this happen?”

“They walked too close to the edge of a cliff and... slipped, sir. They were found far below, frozen.... All of them.”

“How are we supposed to defeat the Romans without elephants to trample them? Our men aren’t capable of such valor. Send word to Carthage. All hope is lost. And tell them to send more elephants.... All of them.”

This site is creative sustenance. It's like the last bit of buttered popcorn at the bottom of the tub, when all life seems to be handing out are charred, unpopped kernels and used Justin Bieber CDs. It's a way to see and be seen. It's as if Casey Kasem were still alive... but this Top {insert number} is for interesting, up-and-coming writers, and I get to pick my own music.

Active participation in this site is like cultivating the soil of the Brazilian Pampas. It's a fertile place to learn and grow. It's like a hillock in a meadow--conspicuous, but in a good way. Sometimes, I even get bits of feedback, even if I'd rather just get that little heart. (Egad! Honesty?) It's encouragement, entertainment, engagement, and advertisement all rolled into one like a four-cheese quesadilla.

I for one am glad to be here.

Smile--that's S-M-I-L-E.

Crack a grin and humor me!

You'll feel super when you do.

I hope this left you smiling too.

Fin.

There was a woman... or a man... who once fought for justice, but, just as often, ran from it. They experienced a lot throughout their both long and short life. They'd had money, and then they didn't any longer. They were happy, but the rain clouds came and brought sadness with them. They liked dogs one minute, cats the next, and, before you knew it, they didn't like either of them, because of allergies--weird, adult-onset allergies.

Anyway, they were politically-engaged, but they were also apathetic most of the time. If it wasn't the cold or heat, it *was* the humidity. Their family meant the world to them, except when they were mad at them or had been wronged in tragic fashion.

And they never removed their mattress tag when they had access to a mattress. The End.

A long time ago, in a place unlike any other place... but yet familiar enough to make sense... there lived a cat. This cat could walk around on its back legs, and it even wore a pair of... loafers. This cat in loafers was also great at playing Scattergories--so great, that the cat in loafers was invited to participate in the largest tournament of problem-solving party games in all the land.

The party was to be that night, but the cat in loafers didn't want to go to the tournament, because he needed some alone time. It'd been a long week, and the cat in loafers, while outgoing and all, needed some time to recharge. The more the cat in loafers thought about how awesome that tournament was going to be, the more the cat decided it should make the effort to go.

But, instead of taking a nap or maybe taking the day off work, on its lunch break, the cat in loafers decided to visit this witch who really liked apples and mirrors and eating apples in front of mirrors. Anyway, the witch gave the cat in loafers a magic restfulness and anti-social anxiety potion that made the cat in loafers feel just like it had spent the whole evening reading in bed. The witch did warn the cat in loafers just before it headed out that the potion was only good until midnight, but the witch couldn't remember whether that was midnight local time or midnight in the timezone where the potion was manufactured, but the cat in loafers didn't really care all that much, and, honestly, neither do I.

So the cat in loafers decided that it would head to the big party game tournament after all and took the potion with a saucer of milk for dinner. The witch may have neglected to tell the cat in loafers about the side effects of the potion, though. Specifically, that the cat in loafers would be turned into a watermelon--a well-rested and socially agreeable watermelon. The cat in loafers was sadly not able to attend the tournament, and that witch made it out of town before the cat in loafers had the chance to file a claim with the Better Business Bureau... and burn her hut to the ground.

With all that said, the cat in loafers' absence at the tournament only added to its game-playing mystique in the ever-expanding world of professional problem-solving party game players. And the cat in loafers was still one heck of a Scattergories shark. So everyone lived happily ever after, except for the makers of the watermelon potion. Their potion patents all expired soon after, and they went out of business which was a huge economic loss to all the land.

The End.

A homely Dutch brood sat 'round a square table,

Thhim, Byet, Kaarl, Saydee... weird cousin Yaeble.

They supped on potatoes in some dim light,

Like all unattached Dutch singles at night.

In one dark corner, a second kettle sat, cold,

Yes, a second tea kettle they all could've sold!

Fools! There're nose jobs to be had!

Sell that kettle already! Stop looking bad!

But... maybe, the Potato Eaters were doing just fine.

Maybe. Or maybe they were plotting a crime.

Dutch people are wily. It's all those darn tubers.

Let's give it up for these sad, homely goobers!