An Odd Creature.

This office gives up. Now, for something entirely different.

I will describe a creature to you. It is not humanoid - this being a primary concern of its creation - rather existing in a shape best compared to the naga - with a snake-like lower body, and a torso that bends backwards to seat the upwards-facing, heavily armoured head. (The top of the body is actually a really good place to put the head, for anything that depends on sight. The eyes need to go there, because that's by far the best vantage point, and then the brain really needs to go there too so that reaction time can be high enough. (Probably.)) Were this creature dependent on smell, or taste, its head might be elsewhere; but it is not.

The creature's main method of manipulating its environment - to kill, eat, etc. - is through its grasping arm/tentacle. It has one only, on its right side (though there are uncommon, left-armed mutants, perhaps 4% of the population), the main body of which comprises a five-foot long grasping tentacle, roughly a foot thick at its middle point. (All proportions are given for the adult.) This arm is fractal - in its middle, two smaller arms fork off at forty-five degree angles, each two-and-a-half feet long and half a foot wide at its middle. These are equivalent to human arms for many purposes, being of similar dimensions. From these each sprout two smaller tentacles - very large hands, perhaps - which sprout two more, very small tentacles - fingers, of sorts - from which sprout little grasping hooks.


The creatures evolved with such a heavily armoured, upward-facing cranium because all their enemies attack from above. A sort of bat-analogue, with long, raking talons, that tended to strike from above was this particular species' bane, though they became one of the first to die out when the species developed tool-making skills. (Spear beats talon.)

I have little more to say of it, for the moment, than this: surely, it needs a name. Perhaps the Infiniciliate? I invite suggestions.

Deathless

This office is increasingly worried. Our best efforts to sponsor only deserving works, containing suitable content, have gone astray repeatedly. In light of this, we have decided to sponsor a new author, on the stipulation that he will include absolutely none of the content we have objected to recently - most especially death, to counter our previous oversight. The results are below.

Oh, our world is great
oh yeah
so great
Gonna have a good time
oh yeah
all day
all night
(but not in bed)
(not allowed)
the man
he's keeping us down
telling us what to do
what to write
how to think
what to see
who to be
(the man! the man!)
(who's the man?)
(you're the man!)
no sex
no children
no emotion
no death
(no death!)
(no death?)
(what does it mean?)
the streets overflow
the bread lines are endless
too many people
too many
too many!
people on the ground
on the sea
in the sky
everywhere
endless
nothing but people
who can never die!
never die!
NEVER DIEEEEEEEE!

(not Never Die.)

(Though that's good too.)

Immortality without end!

The horror! The horror!

Mr. Kurtz! He alive!

Fin.

Sigmar and Soren!

After the latest post, this office has determined that such steamy romance is quite as damaging as overt violence. We were shocked - shocked - to realize quite how explicit the previous story sponsored by this office had become, and therefore disavow further such works. Our next story will eschew all such moral corruptions, and is instead a story of two little tykes, and their misadventures.

Sigmar and Soren wandered deep inside the abandoned mansion. "I wonder why it was abandoned?" Sigmar wondered.

"Maybe it was pirates! Or ninja!" Soren suggested with youthful enthusiasm.

"Oh, silly Soren," Sigmar scolded. "That's impossible!"

Then he pointed. "Look there - maybe that box has treasure!"

Sigmar and Soren examined the box carefully. It was made of wood, and had six sides. That's as far as Sigmar got before Soren wrenched the box away from him. With a chortle of glee, Soren popped the latch on the box, even as Sigmar reached to pull it away.

A dart whizzed out of the box. It barely missed Soren; had Sigmar not tipped the box back as he did, it would have hit him. Sigmar examined it - "Poisoned!" he declared. "Soren, you need to be more careful!"

Soren examined the inside of the box, ignoring Sigmar. "Look!" he said, waving something in the air. "A shiny gold coin!"

Sigmar sighed, and together they continued deeper into the mansion.

As they walked, Soren toyed with his coin, rubbing it and staring at it intently. "It's really nice," he said.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Sigmar agreed.

"Maybe it's pirate booty, brought from the high seas to hide in this mansion!" Soren exclaimed.

"Oh, silly Soren," Sigmar sighed. "That's impossible!"

Then he froze. "Wait, Soren," he said. "Look at that chandelier."

"What about it, Sigmar?" asked Soren, craning his head.

"It looks really precarious," said Sigmar. "If we aren't careful, it might fall on us. "

"Wow, it's really shiny," Soren said, ignoring Sigmar. "Look at it twinkle... I wonder if I could get to it?"

"Wait!" Sigmar shouted as Soren began to climb, clambering up tables and bookshelves to get to the chandelier. "It might drop at any moment!"

With that, the chandelier plummeted, falling right past Soren and landing at Sigmar's feet. It shattered, sending shards of glass everywhere.

"See?" Sigmar instructed Soren sternly as he climbed down. "We both could have gotten badly hurt!"

"Wow!" Soren exclaimed. "It's even pretty when it's broken!"

Sigmar sighed, and together they continued on.

Soon they came to a tunnel, seemingly through solid rock. The far door was made of rusty iron. "I wonder why this is here?" Sigmar wondered.

"Maybe this whole place is a pirate stronghold!" Soren suggested. "This is the entrance to their underground docks - locked so that if you open it without the proper handshake, it'll explode!"

"Oh, silly Soren," Sigmar sighed as he turned the doorknob. "That's impossible!"

Then the roof fell on them! Everyone died.

The end!

Petra

Following the previous story, it has come to this office's attention that the story given as an example might perhaps be inappropriate for some audience. We have therefore decided to withdraw our sponsorships from similar stories, that is, those including severe emotional damage and children. The next story will include none of that.

Petra laughed delightedly. "Why, you're quite a charmer, aren't you?" she asked her dining companion, the esteemable Mr. Wentworth.

"You flatter me, dear Petra," he told her. He took another swallow of wine, emptying his wineglass once more, and then told her, "If anything, it is you who are the charmer!"

They laughed together happily.

Mr. Wentworth whispered to Petra coyly. "Perhaps, my dear, you would find it convenient to spend the night at my domicile?"

"Perhaps!" Petra giggled.

Then a waiter approached the table. He pointed a stern finger at Mr. Wentworth. "That man," he declaimed, "is a liar!"

"What?" both Petra and Mr. Wentworth asked at once.

The waiter frowned. He slammed a card onto the table. "Your credit card did not clear, sir," he informed Mr. Wentworth. "You have attempted to defraud us!"

"I don't know if I can love a liar!" Petra declared, shocked. She moved away from Mr. Wentworth.

"It is all right," the waiter comforted her. He squeezed her on the shoulder. "It will all be fine."

Mr. Wentworth stammered, wringing his hands. "What... how..." Then he took a closer look at the card. "Why, this isn't my card at all!" he declared. "I don't know how that got there!" He pulled out another card from his wallet. "This is my card!"

The waiter, reluctantly, took both cards and retreated to the counter. With a frown on his face, he returned with a receipt.

"Now can you love me, my dear?" Mr. Wentworth asked Petra.

They rose and left, walking toward Mr. Wentworth's automotive. "I do believe I can!" Petra exclaimed. Together, they traveled to Mr. Wentworth's apartment.

This next section is censored for non-mormonosity (seriously - it is really, really, really NSFM*). The truly curious may find it with ease.

Once they arrived at the house, Petra slipped out of her tight, tight dress. Mr. Wentworth stripped out of his formal suit. They fell into bed together. Mr. Wentworth grew aroused quickly, aided by Petra's adroit manipulations of his member. She spread her legs and groaned, rocking back and forth as Mr. Wentworth enjoyed her pleasures. Soon both were spent.

It had been a grand evening indeed.

The end!

*Not Safe For Mormons

Horrors of Horrors!

In the past, this office has been informed that works sponsored by its name include undue violence. Shockingly, these messages were sent several months ago, and seem to bear almost no relation to present posts. Furthermore, there has been a decided lack of such complaint recently, with some complainants even engaging in writing works of violence themselves!

This clearly cannot be abided. But that is not the worst. Ladies and men of gentle dispositions, avert your eyes:

Some day, some-one may read this blog, and be mildly offended at certain content!

For this office, the news is a cry to action. We hereby declare that this office shall sponsor, for at least its next five works, no post which includes violence. Other authors upon the blag are encouraged to follow suit, but are by no means required. For an example, we provide the following, violence-free tale:

Billy the Bouncing Baby Bunny: A Tale Suitable for All Ages

Billy woke up. Today was a great day to be alive! He hopped out of his bunny-hole.

Outside, children were waiting! He smiled. "Hello, friends!" he exclaimed.

"We're your only friends, right, bunny?" one of them asked.

Billy was a little confused. "Sure!" he told them.

"You know why that is?" another asked.

"Why?" Billy inquired.

"Because you're not good enough." the children told him. "You're just a stupid, pathetic little bunny. You're small, you're stupid, and you'll just keep on being that way until you die."

"What?" Billy asked, shocked. "Why are you saying this to me?"

"Because you're stupid," the children told him. "We're your only friends, and even we don't like you. You're just a worthless, pathetic pile of trash. You can't even walk properly - you can only hop!"

Billy tried. He couldn't! His face crumpled. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Boo, boo, bunny," the children chanted. "Stupid little bunny, worthless bunny, can't think, can't talk, can only cry like a baby!"

Billy, devastated, began to weep.

One of the children reached back and pressed a button behind his ear. Billy went limp for a moment. Then he straightened and, expressionless, memoryless, returned to his burrow.

Billy woke up. Today was a great day to be alive!

"I bet this time we can get him bawling in fifty seconds!" one of the children told another. They cackled with glee.

The end!

See? This is the sort of carefree, harmless fun you can have when you just let go of that old dang obsession with violence. This is fun for everyone! Now, try some violence-free writing of your own!