VIOLA!

VOLUME 4

Compiled May 2001

---

The NG Gang

by Jihane

At the foot of the Grey Tower, sometimes called the Tower of Many Doors, next to a door marked "Snippets" lies another, less used door. Its name is "Delivery Chambers", except that no delivering young, muscled (drooling?) fellow ever comes in, a dog (drooling???) sometimes comes out, but that is not the present story.

A small crowd is excpectantly waiting by the door. The waiting has nothing of nervous, they are all chatting happily, exchanging sarcasm, wit and stoopid comments with the same level of giggles, noises of appreciation and natural good humour -- as a famed viking said, they are, all, very very very intelligent people. and diverse too. Because each and everyone carries within him or her a whole universe with its own law.

Some may appear strange to you, but it's only because you don't fully get how logical and reasonable and intelligent they are according to _their_ universal rules

... Now, where was I? Yes, I need a second cup of coffee...

A clone, dressed like a nurse, comes out. The Archangel folds his wings. Davids come down from up north, up from down south, Clearlungs the Viking stand up, Hiram fly back to Sir Tim's shoulder, a Rocky Jobby Lady looks up and smile, 99-Nicole seeps her chocolate and the Lady mommy Janet stops muttering a song about bunnies; Annette smiles over her own coffee, and Missouri Mole stops typing for a fraction of a second.

Everybody listens to her report on the delivery.

"It is not born yet, but it is coming nicely. It will be a heavy baby!"

Everybody smiles.

A baby with pointed ears giggles, she knows her turns to come out on paper is _soon_ now.

But we heard screaming inside..."

"That was nothing, she had just found the right word."

"But we heard howling."

"Oh, yes..." The Lady's clone eyebrows shadow her face with a trouble expression. It suddenly lit up "Yes! I knew I forgot something!!! The dog!!!

Maybe a little more pizza would help... Do they eat pizzas still in the future?" And, muttering to herself, the clone goes back inside.

All the assembled wait a while longer. L'John tries to look inside, but the window is too high. All he can report is a glowing screen, some more muttering "beers without pizzas...", a dog being promised a walk, but nobody comes out... They all settle back.

"It is coming nicely."

"And hugely".

"This means huge snippets, yes?"

"June is just after January, yes?"

"Ye mistook yer own calendar with th' other one again, damoiselle."

"Oh, flûte."

---

(these next two poems came about because Julie was silly enough to tell us she had killed a chapter in her newest novel In The Company Of Others
needless to say we were all in a state of shock)

Ode to 22

by Julie E. Czerneda

There once was a chapter two two,
Whose loss caused the hounds to boo hoo.
So the author, they say,
Almost posted it -- NAY!
She knew it was not right to do.

For you see, all fine lovers of lit'
There's a point where the words just won't fit!
You can cram them and fight,
To get it them in there and right,
But a failure would be all she writ'

So mourn for the days' labour lost,
And think of the paragraphs' cost,
But you're better off now,
Without doubt or row,
That 22 was, in the end, thoroughly tossed!

*********

Ode Response from a Snippet Hound...

by Chris Taggart

So it's off to Orillia I go,
Disinfectant and rubber gloves in tow.
Dig through garbage bin
With maniacal grin,
Never quite thinking I'd have sunk so low.

Can't beleive that she chucked out a chapter!
As a 'hound, I'll be crying long after.
Poor 22's dead
Never even been read!
If she was anyone else, I'da slapped her!

Yeah, I agree that I sure should know better,
But it's a damn shame no snippet hound read her.
And I'm expressing my woes
For those cast aside prose,
I just hope that she don't have a shredder.

Now, you know that I'm waxing poetic,
And I'm not really quite so pathetic
As to demean myself such,
To want that chapter SO much.
(besides, if she caught me, she'd go apoplectic).

So I swear not to over-react here,
Julie, you know I'm no stalker (so don't fear),
I won't show up at your place
To search through your curb waste,
So just call off that court order, my dear.

I'm honestly just a teeny-wee bit sad
(although previously I sounded quite mad)
But while a fan of your word,
I'm not quite so absurd
As to go rooting from Glad bag to Glad bag.

So I'll only be sad for a short time.
Such maniacal behavior's not my line.
The re-write's probably good,
(Julie wrote it - it should
be much better). Yeah, I'm sure that it's just fine.

But I shall still pay a moment of silence
In the face of such editing violence.
And I'll give my respects
To that poor edited text,
And trust to the Author's good Word Sense.
Poor 22. We could have had such fun together.

---

On behalf of Marioum

by Jihane Billacois, David Brims (DDU), J'sBF

The desert city was their last chance; they had run and hid for three days now, but the monsters were almost upon them...

Holding Adan's hand, Vaira tried not to despair. When her brother had suggested running to the City, it had seemed like such a good idea. The Attackers would never find them here, in this ancient labyrinth.

They should have seen their mistake when the Attackers hadn't even tried. Just sent their monsters scurrying after the humans.
Coming amongst the labyrinthine yellowed buildings as they had so many times before, Vaira and her brother had moved slowly, trying not to disturb the choking black dust that lay everywhere, and that had driven them away on each of their previous explorations. This time it would not drive them back - they were here to stay, for as long as it took.

Brown and small, Adan had led the way with that darting alertness that always reminded her of little creatures scurrying through the sands. And like those little creatures, he had used his previous visits to secrete food somewhere near one of the buildings that held water. It was just the sort of thing he did. Now that food might mean the difference between life and death.

If the Family had known the City held water, they would not have avoided it all these years. And such water it held! Icy, perfect, unreal water, the very nectar of the gods. Vaira and Adan had played games on those previous visits, wrapping themselves in the strange black shiny material Adan had found, and stalking up and down with their shoulders back and their heads held high above the swirling dust, dripping water from their fingertips, wasting it as if they were the ancient Lords they were pretending to be.

The City had been their private place, though they both knew they would someday inspire the wrath of the Family by telling how they'd visited it. The water was too important to keep secret.

Now none of that mattered, because the Family was gone, and they were all that had left. And this time they had stayed too long in the City. This time the City had begun to kill them.
Vaira extended a pale arm out of the black shiny folds that were supposed to be protecting her clothes. There were dark streaks where her sweat had mixed with the dust. But poor Adan was propped up against a wall, unable to stand to get above the swirling dust, and further beaten down by the relentless heat that gathered in these buildings each day, yet somehow vanished instantly the moment the icy night froze the sky.
The dust had turned the deep brown of his skin and clothes almost black. He had always been a brown person in every way, yet now even his face was smudged with black trails, and his hair hung lank and dark. More dust had swirled up at her coming, and she drew the shiny black sheet back up from where it had fallen, to protect him from the dust, trying not to stir more into the air.

Black dust. Each day it choked them more and more, and it had given Adan some strange illness. There was something wrong with that dust, she now suspected. Something dangerous. As dangerous as the monsters that would be returning with the darkness in less than an hour. And then they would have to run, and this time Adan wouldn't be able to.

And what could she do? Perhaps some more water...turning, she made her way across the room and out into the square tunnel, moving along slowly to the hard stone room at the end where the water flowed from the strange metal contraptions.
As she entered the closed in room, dust swirled up around her, and she coughed - a deep, hacking cough that burned her lungs made her tremble with fear. If she too succumbed to the dust, then that was it, they were dead.

The child looked up from his book. Just what the heck was his father thinking? This was no book for a mere 8 year old. Where were the knights in shining armor? Where were the pyrates with their witty parrots? The young lad shuddered as he thought of the place in the story. Monsters, hacking choking children. He'd be lucky if he got an hours sleep tonight. He decided he would have to speak to his mother about this in the morning. Dad was obviously not on the same wavelength as he.

Shuddering, he put the silly book away and drifted into a much more pleasant dream.

Even as Vaira sank slowly to her knees, the door behind her crashed open with an almighty bang. Trying to get her heart out of her throat after banging her head on the sink, Vaira whirled to see...
"Uncle Torbjørn!"
"Yes, it is I." But this was Torbjørn as she had never seen him before. He towered in the door like a great bear, or a giant...nay, a veritable god, Thor, his bushy red beard trembling with majesty. A silver belt girt his waist, and runewrought wristguards of white gold framed his great fists and the hulking muscles of his arms.
A tunic of heavy black leather was caught in his belt, held up at the neck with golden chains that set off the wings of gray in his hair.
Those hadn't been there before, but merely made him look more dignified. She looked for Mjollnir in a large fist, but saw instead a great waraxe like the crescent moon had been brought down from the sky and caught on the end of a great stave. The strangest thing was, there was a parrot on his shoulder, a great colourful parrot that was squawking something.
"Polly want a pyrate." He reached out one great unencumbered hirsute arm to catch her up like she was still a small child. It really was like hugging a great teddy bear, like all the comfort in the world rolled into one.
"But...You're alive!!! The Family!"
"All well, but we must hurry!"
"How did you know..."
"Jihane has a crystal ball, and an invisible time machine. Finding where you were was the easy part. You wouldn't believe how long we had to look for that time machine." He paled slightly.
"And you couldn't imagine what the goblins had done to it." She wiggled around 'til she could look him in the face.
"Adan! He's sick!" Her great bear-god frowned.
"Mattbeth will know a cure, or we can always visit the Lady. But we ~must~ go. Where is he?"
"In the room at the end of the..." Torbjørn tucked her under an arm and started running, and it got hard to talk after that.
"Uncle...hard...breathe..." He put her down, but only so he could sweep her up with Adan at the same time, and turn and charge back along the floor and down the steps.
"Polly want a pyrate." "Arck...uncle..." They left the building just in time to see...
"Jörmungand. Blast." Behind crumbling building was a wall of flame proceeded by a great monster. He put her down, and got a better hold on Adan.
"Come on, it's the other way."
"Polly want a pyrate."
"Why does that bird keep saying..."
"Trust me, you don't want to know." Several breathless blocks later, they tore around another corner with Torbjørn looking considerably more worried.
"I know it was around here somewhere."
"What do you mean it was around here...ooof!"
"You found it! Great, let's go!" Vaira wasn't quite sure what happened next, she was still clearing the spinning world of a number of uninvited stars, but then she was in a beautiful garden, and right in front of her was a single exquisite flower.

The child woke up with a smile on his face. Not quite a knight, but close enough.

---

Some Prose By David

by who else? David Brukman of course!

Unceasing, we shall guard the Tower,
Wherein the gems of fiction flower,
And Mistress of the Dreams may rest
Amidst the planets, aliens, and quests
So snippets rich, in this nocturnal hour
May grow forth from that enchanted bower.

---

(for those of you not privy to the reason for
this particular prose...Julie broke her toe...and of
course, it brought out the best in the newsgroup)

Ode to Toe

by Chris Taggart

The toe was broke,
It caused her pain.
Would the twisted toe
Ever be the same?

The toe'd been straight,
It had been strong.
It'd held her weight,
But it's strength was gone.

The toe was not
Designed to break.
But since it had,
It'd begun to ache.

We knew not why
The toe had bust.
A horrid reason,
We had to trust.

In her own good time
Would she tell the tale
Of how the toe
Caused her to wail.

I'm not making fun
Of the twisted toe,
Undoubtedly pained,
Cause of untold woe.

But just to say T
oe is in our thoughts.
(was it in a door,
said toe got caught?)

We shall pray a prayer
To the toe-god on high;
Relieve this pain
That made Julie cry.

We don't want her sore,
Because of toe;
But if the pain don't stop
Toe may have to go.

It would serve it right
pIf the toe's removed
It's caused some pain;
This has been proved.

Not a pleasant toe
This causer of grief
Nasty evil toe,
Just a piece of beef.

But if by chance
Said toe can heal
And cause no more pain
We'll make a deal

The toe can stay
If it heals up strong
If it heals up straight
Proud, and long.

So, I say this to toe:
Don't mess around
Julie needs you to balance
Walking across the ground.

Be a proactive toe
And heal with haste
Else we'll lob you off
And chuck you in the waste.

---

The Writes of Spring

by Lady Czerneda

Oh, the dreams an author dreams,
Of robins, grass, and streams,
Of joyful inspiration,
And timely dedication,
To her muse.
In spring.
That's the thing.
But despite all that rare passion,
And winter's fondest expectation,
If happy solitudes...
Reality intrudes,
On her life.
In a lump.
With a thwump!
For no season's quite as busy,
Turning a mere mind 'til its dizzy,
Full of visitors,
Cheery inquisitors,
That pop in.
In spring.
That's the thing.
Add to this joy all those others,
Garden post-frost -- get those flowers!
Such living inspirations
And determined dedications,
'lo strawberries.
Why withstand?
Make the jam.
Why all this versifying?
Just an author, writing, trying,
As she bursts with ambition,
Then yawns in submission,
To spring.
So bright...
g'night

---

The Dealer

by Uriel, Mike Picray and Nightowl

A dark alley. A grey afternoon light. Reflections from stagnant pools. The faint clicking of hard soled shoes wandering along the alley. Voices bounce and echo softly, at least two young voices quietly explaining the latest new game to each other.
A gasp.
A figure steps from the shadows, long coat sweeping around his ankles, swaying in his sudden motion forward.
The two young children stop, step back, unconsiously grab at each other. Wait in uncertainty as the figure smiles reassuringly and reaches one hand for the lapel of his coat. Sweeps open his coat.

"Hey, kids, wanna read a good book? Just this one book... there are others, but you know you don't have to read them if you don't want to... It's so much fun... really it is. Come on, just this one..."
The figure waggles his coat, making the shiney covers of the Czerneda books glimmer in the dim lighting...

... the children run, screaming!
"Illiterate little brats," he thinks.
The shadowy figure moves on out onto the sidewalk. He sees the children at the end of the block gesturing wildly and talking... to a videocop. The videocop looks up and their eyes meet across the distance. The hatred in the videocop's eyes is plain even a half block away as he begins to move menacingly toward the figure.

The figure takes two steps backward into the alley, then turns and runs. He hears the sound of the videocop's Nikes scritching on the sandy alley entrance as he makes the turn. The figure jumps and clears the wall at the end of the alley as the videocop throws a bottle at him. The bottle shatters on the wall, spraying glass splinters which will eventually return to join the brick sand at the other end of the alley.
"*NEXT TIME, YOU PERVERT*" the videocop screams.

He hears the children laughing and throwing things that don't even reach halfway down the alley. The wheel will turn. One day, books will return and when they do, videocop will be out of a job because he can't read the signs of the times.
The figure sees a newspaper page blowing past, the headline blaring, "Thousands Line Up To See Rowling". Soon, now,. Very soon.

Nightowl's fingers spasmodically twitch, reaching towards the latest book...honest, I can stop anytime, just need one more book, just one...muttering in delight as she wanders away, clutching Julie's book close to her body.

Meanwhile, Nightowl huddles in the darken corner, eyes squinting in the dim light. She's oblivious as the figure runs away, and hunches down further into her retreat as the videocop peers into the alley.
A wild, cornered look crosses her face as the videocop comes crunching into the alley. Large hands reach down and tear the book away from her grasp. She screeches, jumps the cop and starts futilely pounding on him,
"Give it back! Give it back!"

The cop subdues the crazed female and drags her to the local movie theater...
"There, there, it'll be all right"
NO! She wails as she forced into the chair.... The screen darkens as the movie starts, the words "Dune" light up on the silver screen. You hear is her screaming....Read the book! Read the book!

A crumbling stone lion. Resting to one side of cracked marble stairs. Pillars rise like dark ghosts, draped in moss and forerunners of vines.
Shadowing empty doorways and blank windows.

A figure rests. Folded into the darkness, haloed by shards of glass in a square of black, window lost to time more than he.
Wind attempts a dance with his coat, failing. Frowning the figure brushes fingers against the stone wall. Faint line of deeper darkness appearing, wall swinging inward.

A whisper. A vanishing.

Flickering amber, sputtering gold. Candles stand in iron, on stone, next to paper. Lighting ruin and gliding figures.
Ghosts of grey the multitude move like whispers through the massive space. Lined with shelves, centred with desks and podiums.
Pillars in slightly better repair support balconies above, several floors rushing upward to the distant cieling. Each a band of light and moving figures.
Scent of paper, of leather and candle wax. It fills the air, trails after the grey figures as most carry a book. Some stand in aisles, fingers brushing spines of treasures, marking time and place of books. Others carry and return passages of the now banned writers.
Hands spread along the balustrade, he leans forward and wearily drinks in the sight. Taking strength in the words that can almost be heard in the swish of cloaks and pages.
Look upward. As one the others soundlessly still and face him for a moment. One by one they return to their duties, nodding as they leave.

A quick stride, a pale shadow, he moves along the balcony and down a wide spiral of stone. Reaching the floor he moves, a ghost among a host of memories.
Grabbing a candle as he passes, he moves along a deeper shadow. Stone hallway surfacing from the gloom to swallow him.

A door opens. Stepping through he snuffs the candle. Places the stub on a shelf next to the door and enters.
A wide shallow pool sided by waist-high plain stone centres the room. Other figures with the same air of motion that he carries step from the walls and move to the pool.
Strange light blooms at the bottom of the pool, underlighting their faces, casting shadows to the cieling. Hands resting on the lip of stone, they face inward in a circle.
Each face and form is strikingly different. Superimposed over each a second image wavers and flickers in the light of the pool.

The grey of one cloak constantly weaves in and out of a long gown. The woman appears by turns an average woman and a towering Lady with a pale hint of a circlet in her hair.
Grey blurs here with another, from coat to form-hugging material. Pale lines and weaving electronics slickly appear implanted in his arms and head, fading and appearing.
Each of a genre, each of a skill, they face each other across the pool.

"I almost had one. I know I had another one... but I think she froze under systemic shock. I need to check on her, I didn't have time to get her out of there."

Sighing tiredly he looks across at one face.
"I told you that we have to be more careful with the recruiting. We should be working in teams, not alone. I could have dealt with the V-cop if I'd had some one to back me up. But this isn't the time... Some one get me a lock."
One figure, wearing a reflection of a dark bandage across his eyes leans forward, hands dipping into the water. His voice is low and fills the room.

"Tag : Czerneda-Night-153. Subject is female. Nightowl. LOCK!"

For some it seems a swirl of photons directed by a field, others see it as a glow of magic spinning upward. Others see a simple television. None miss the image.
Within the pool Nightowl writhes in her seat, flicking light from the screen of the theatre paling her skin. She seems to be weakening.

"Damn. I don't like playing our hand like this."

Another of the gray ones slams her hand against the stonework.
Sighing, she pulls out a slim silver pen. She hands it to Uriel, sternly cautioning him.

"Remember. Subtle as possible. We can't afford to directly confront them, yet. Subtle!"

Nodding he grabs the pen and leans into the light. Carefully he leans further into the image, toward the massive screen.
With quick, economical strokes he scribbles glowing words across the screen, from his perspective watching them apparently sink into the images.

Nightowl wants to scream, a part of her does.
Arms and hands. They reach for her, hold her still. Others moan, distant voices that barely comfort her in there common struggle.
Little strength remains to avoid the light. The images. Pounding sound washes over her. Tide of light and fury that she cannot match much longer.

Suddenly the light changes. Sounds soften. Unintentionally she looks up.
A snip of the story catches her. Engulfs her. She wants to weep. To struggle. Until she realizes that somehow the story is enhanced. She can almost see the words behind the actions, behind the speeches.

"Exceptional writing, that..."
Looking up at the comment that escapes one of her captors, she blinks.
Pale. He becomes so pale. Looks around.
The patter of feet up the aisle, down the aisle.
Figures of V-cops swirl and scatter. Voices babble over the soundtrack. Bewildered prisoners rise and tentatively look around.
In silence the lost and confused huddle together, watching as the V-cops argue among themselves, shaken. A few head toward dark doorways. Some drag others from their seats, blocking the view.

Nightowl shakes her head, gulps air. Turns and grabs those nearest her and slips from the theatre.
In dim reflections, he looks to the oracle.

"Subject... freed. Released cohort: 84%. Potential recapture due to experience... lowered by 75%."
A sigh. It moves through the room.

Too busy to worry about the prisoners, the V-cops argue among themselves. Some weakly protest that acknowledging the writing of the scene while others call for back up, finally.

All passes through the pale light of the pool, washing over slightly more hopeful faces.

---

Email: chasevegas@msn.com