Davios: Your story I found, as with Dagger's, to be convincing and interesting...up until the ending. The mood was not set up earlier in the piece for such a heavy, depressed finale. I was certainly excited while reading most of it--the sexy girl, her glass of ice (great touch), the pink pillows--but the end fell sudden and flat.
Just my 2 cents.
Dagger: I like the flow of your story, the characterization and conflict between the two animals, but the ending was just unremarkable and a bit of a letdown. It was fine as a fable without the witchcraft.
It had never been brighter than it was that day at the bazaar. Nor had it been any more deserted. Edwín had had an “emergency meeting” that morning to attend, leaving Rajmi and Sélima to their pearl stand by themselves. The few other families selling that day were scattered about the town square in front of the church, the women gossiping, their children playing with stray stones. A baby’s cry could heard in the background, echoing from stand to stand, swallowing the pearls in its shrillness. Then, the church loudspeaker suddenly came on: "Praise God in our darkest hour! He is our savior and he alone can save!" The pastor's voice loomed ominously
I heard a loud boom in the distance, then two successive booms, the din reverberating, making the stand quake under my hands. Sélima was playing games with a little boy two stands over. I called her name—Sélima! But it was already too loud for her to hear me. I saw a woman running down the hill towards us with only a white shirt on, and behind her, thirty meters back, appeared armed men in formation, much like those I’d seen in my dreams. But they did not look like us—they were white and green, and did not shine like the pearls. They shot at the woman, who was screaming and crying out the name of God as had Father Inam. "God will save us! God and no one else!" she shouted as she ran down the hill, faster and faster like a rolling boulder. She ran towards us, and towards our pearls. Blood shot out of her arm, then her leg, until she was only meters from us. She touched a device on her stomach before our eyes just as a bullet pierced her chest, and while still praising Him, she exploded. The force of the explosion sent pearls bursting into the air while bullets rained down from the hilltop, creating a mixture of body, blood and pearls glistening horribly in the light, echoing the carnage that was yet to come. I called for Sélima.
As she searched for her child she saw dead bodies lying against the church, shrapnel pearls on clothes, in their eye sockets, in their mouths. But not all of them were dead. Some cried out, “What God is this?” Others cried for their families, as Rajmi now cried out for her daughter.
SÉLIMAAAAA! she screamed through the smoke and fire and bullets. She was bleeding from her left leg, but she paid it no attention.
She was somehow alive, squatting under the half-broken stand by which she’d been playing with the boy before. He was next to her, dead. A pearl—or a bullet, Rajmi couldn’t tell—had struck his skull. She grabbed Sélima’s arm and lifted her into her own in one long, titanic arch, running into the distance as the pastor continued his incantation: "God is great! He alone can save!"
Josh Miller, 30, waved good-bye to his wife, Harriet, and three-year-old daughter, Maggie, as he boarded flight 117 from JFK to Atlanta. The conference in Atlanta would be his first since his promotion to division director at Comm USA, one of New York's many communications firms. It would also be his first time flying, the fear of which overtook him as he stepped through the wide aisle of the 747.
Josh never talked about his fear. It had always brooded inside him, waiting to be released until the time was right. He did not kid himself, however. Flight was a necessity these days, not in the least for an employee at a communications firm. But at his core he felt unease about putting his life in danger. Harriet's cancer had relapsed, and Maggie, without a stable mother to take care of her, would soon need a sitter. Surgery, sitter...
Money. Josh's hands gripped his armrests in tight disquietude as the plane detached from the airport gate.
He then rubbed his face, mashing his cheeks together and squeezing some tension out of his pores. How he wished he could be on the ground at that moment, safe from risk. What if there were a malfunction? What if the turbulence was so violent that it threw the plan into a nosedive? What about terrorists? The captain's voice did sound Middle Eastern.
Josh watched the luggage cars float across the terminal as the behemoth moved into position on the runway. Its engines roared. And for just a moment, as the din filled the cabin, Josh felt nothing but suspended hope--as if the plane was not going to take off after all. He thought about his family, about God, about life and death, about pain, the pain of dying in midair, while everything around him became overshadowed by a fury propelling him suddenly forward, forcing his back to his seat. He was dizzy; everything was. He felt blood trickle down his lips and chin as his breath left him, sucked from his lungs as if by the jets themselves. He looked outside his window and vertigo took control, sending him unconscious.
....
He woke up and barely blinked an eye before he saw the cabin explode into flames. Josh thought only that he was to die.
They all assumed he was brave in his last moments, as was assumed of everyone aboard the flight. And the firm thought of him fondly, and established an annual day of remembrance in his name. And his parents held each other wistfully after receiving the call from Harriet, and they, too, must have thought he had been brave through it all.
And the pastor spoke at his wake solemnly, "Simple is a man's life when weighed against God's force, and great his fear when he realizes this truth." Harriet cried and dreamed he was still alive.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! from Washington, D.C.! This thread was such a good idea! Think of your loved ones, whatever you celebrate! Who have you called today?
On the bright side, there is no more rumoring about MaRo' ego. We now know with 100% certainty that he is on a power trip equal to that of President Bush.
I was in one of the later flights, #8 to be exact and I was actually sitting across from Brian Tinsman, who was Lead Designer of the Time Spiral set. As we were waiting for the event to start, MaRo came over and was talking with him. I don't remember his exact words, but I think one or two of his children were ill or something and he was stressed... now we see he was probably even more stressed because of the Timeshifted Cards being posted on the site... which is like a brick house falling from an already shakey foundation (which was the Adult Swim ads).
His surprise party was well recieved, as a surprise or not... I mean, it still had that party atmosphere. There were bonus Foil Rares, bonus Shifted Rares, awesome nostalgia... even more awesome game play. This pre-release is easily the best one I've ever been to... the packs are plentiful (the return of the God Pack) and the promo was so great. I'm so happy I've got 3 of them... really wish I'd have squeezed in another Sealed for a Playset, but hey... it's all to the good.
This pre-release pushed me to play in my first FNM, ever... I ended up winning the thing, which was an added bonus. My love for Magic and limited play is so high right now, I can definitely see myself becoming a draft hound. I can't wait to play TS Limited again.
Umm...this post reads a lot those written by the nay-sayers around the time TS cards were leaked on e-bay: WotC plant.
Despite my severe doubiousness as to the validity of the above post, I must agree. I can't wait to get my hands on TS limited at last: I've been at school for a while and haven't goten time to fondle my precious pack(s).
First of all, a preface: Rosewater is an excellent head designer. Perhaps the best in Magic's history (excepting The Architect, of course). Ravnica and now Time Spiral are proof of this. HOWEVER:
While his merits in set design are notable, Mark Rosewater's ego reflects this fact a bit too well, as he has adopted a writing style that is way too cocky for my tastes; his self-touting has gotten progressively obvious over the last few months. Today's feature article is a prime example. So, Mark, please tone down your omnipotent attitude and be more modest--take credit where it's due, but retain overall humility.
Nobody likes a know-it-all, after all!!
And, finally:
(>' ' )> DO THE KIRBY! Do-do-do-doot dooo-doot. YEAH! <( ' '<).
Oh, and Wits End is terrible too. Just because it is iconic, doesn't make it good. Frankly, it is ugly. Its some wrinkled, hairless face, with white eyes. It is iconic for sure, but it is ugly and is lacking something.
If anyone has seen the recently released "Mysterious Skin," you'll understand that the face in Wits End looks like that of the old sketchy guy from L.A.--creepy and something out of a nightmare. That having been said (and I'm not sure Kev Walker was going for "rapist" when he drew the card), the art does match the card's function, despite its...lack...severe lack...of attractiveness.
I didn't find anything wrong with the article. So what if he isn't an expect in judging art, are you? Sure, some of his opinons were brief, but whatever. I thought it was just fine. Don't let all the negative reviews keep you down.
Anyway, Rebecca Guay's art is absolute trash. Seriously, my buddies and I could get drunk and draw better pictures with magic markers than she could completely sober, and I can't even draw!! No, they don't need to have blood dripping off the fangs, but can we try to make it less obvious Crayolas were used in the "art". I find her stuff to be very bland, and almost blotchy in spots and it is really terrible. Its almost like she was in a rush, then just tried to slop something together just to see if they would print it. Find a new job lady.
A very thoughtful comment... I hope you were being facetious when you likened a proffesional painter's work to art made by someone who "can't even draw."
I agree that Guay is not the right artist to draw a card like Pride of the Clouds (a mistake made by the Creative Team, not the artist); however, most of Guay's other pieces "fit" their respective cards.
It's fairly well established that Guay's art is not run-of-the-mill style, but diversity is good. Rather than trash her work, why not focus your intellect on the Magic art you appreciate?
Sorry for my ignorance!
At two mana the card is slightly more acceptable than I previously thought, but it is still easily negated by several other two- and three-drop common fliers, not to mention the possible 2-for-1 resulting if you target it with Riot Spikes. There are better cards to play in the 2-drop slot. It could be started MD, but it will often be sideboarded out for games two and (possibly) three.
Just my 2 cents.
It had never been brighter than it was that day at the bazaar. Nor had it been any more deserted. Edwín had had an “emergency meeting” that morning to attend, leaving Rajmi and Sélima to their pearl stand by themselves. The few other families selling that day were scattered about the town square in front of the church, the women gossiping, their children playing with stray stones. A baby’s cry could heard in the background, echoing from stand to stand, swallowing the pearls in its shrillness. Then, the church loudspeaker suddenly came on: "Praise God in our darkest hour! He is our savior and he alone can save!" The pastor's voice loomed ominously
I heard a loud boom in the distance, then two successive booms, the din reverberating, making the stand quake under my hands. Sélima was playing games with a little boy two stands over. I called her name—Sélima! But it was already too loud for her to hear me. I saw a woman running down the hill towards us with only a white shirt on, and behind her, thirty meters back, appeared armed men in formation, much like those I’d seen in my dreams. But they did not look like us—they were white and green, and did not shine like the pearls. They shot at the woman, who was screaming and crying out the name of God as had Father Inam. "God will save us! God and no one else!" she shouted as she ran down the hill, faster and faster like a rolling boulder. She ran towards us, and towards our pearls. Blood shot out of her arm, then her leg, until she was only meters from us. She touched a device on her stomach before our eyes just as a bullet pierced her chest, and while still praising Him, she exploded. The force of the explosion sent pearls bursting into the air while bullets rained down from the hilltop, creating a mixture of body, blood and pearls glistening horribly in the light, echoing the carnage that was yet to come. I called for Sélima.
As she searched for her child she saw dead bodies lying against the church, shrapnel pearls on clothes, in their eye sockets, in their mouths. But not all of them were dead. Some cried out, “What God is this?” Others cried for their families, as Rajmi now cried out for her daughter.
SÉLIMAAAAA! she screamed through the smoke and fire and bullets. She was bleeding from her left leg, but she paid it no attention.
She was somehow alive, squatting under the half-broken stand by which she’d been playing with the boy before. He was next to her, dead. A pearl—or a bullet, Rajmi couldn’t tell—had struck his skull. She grabbed Sélima’s arm and lifted her into her own in one long, titanic arch, running into the distance as the pastor continued his incantation: "God is great! He alone can save!"
Josh Miller, 30, waved good-bye to his wife, Harriet, and three-year-old daughter, Maggie, as he boarded flight 117 from JFK to Atlanta. The conference in Atlanta would be his first since his promotion to division director at Comm USA, one of New York's many communications firms. It would also be his first time flying, the fear of which overtook him as he stepped through the wide aisle of the 747.
Josh never talked about his fear. It had always brooded inside him, waiting to be released until the time was right. He did not kid himself, however. Flight was a necessity these days, not in the least for an employee at a communications firm. But at his core he felt unease about putting his life in danger. Harriet's cancer had relapsed, and Maggie, without a stable mother to take care of her, would soon need a sitter. Surgery, sitter...
Money. Josh's hands gripped his armrests in tight disquietude as the plane detached from the airport gate.
He then rubbed his face, mashing his cheeks together and squeezing some tension out of his pores. How he wished he could be on the ground at that moment, safe from risk. What if there were a malfunction? What if the turbulence was so violent that it threw the plan into a nosedive? What about terrorists? The captain's voice did sound Middle Eastern.
Josh watched the luggage cars float across the terminal as the behemoth moved into position on the runway. Its engines roared. And for just a moment, as the din filled the cabin, Josh felt nothing but suspended hope--as if the plane was not going to take off after all. He thought about his family, about God, about life and death, about pain, the pain of dying in midair, while everything around him became overshadowed by a fury propelling him suddenly forward, forcing his back to his seat. He was dizzy; everything was. He felt blood trickle down his lips and chin as his breath left him, sucked from his lungs as if by the jets themselves. He looked outside his window and vertigo took control, sending him unconscious.
....
He woke up and barely blinked an eye before he saw the cabin explode into flames. Josh thought only that he was to die.
They all assumed he was brave in his last moments, as was assumed of everyone aboard the flight. And the firm thought of him fondly, and established an annual day of remembrance in his name. And his parents held each other wistfully after receiving the call from Harriet, and they, too, must have thought he had been brave through it all.
And the pastor spoke at his wake solemnly, "Simple is a man's life when weighed against God's force, and great his fear when he realizes this truth." Harriet cried and dreamed he was still alive.
(edit: my story's up for week 2 if anyone's interested in reading it.)
Quoted for truthery. Down with Mark Rosewater!
Umm...this post reads a lot those written by the nay-sayers around the time TS cards were leaked on e-bay: WotC plant.
Despite my severe doubiousness as to the validity of the above post, I must agree. I can't wait to get my hands on TS limited at last: I've been at school for a while and haven't goten time to fondle my precious pack(s).
Do the Kirby!:rolleyes:
While his merits in set design are notable, Mark Rosewater's ego reflects this fact a bit too well, as he has adopted a writing style that is way too cocky for my tastes; his self-touting has gotten progressively obvious over the last few months. Today's feature article is a prime example. So, Mark, please tone down your omnipotent attitude and be more modest--take credit where it's due, but retain overall humility.
Nobody likes a know-it-all, after all!!
And, finally:
(>' ' )> DO THE KIRBY! Do-do-do-doot dooo-doot. YEAH! <( ' '<).
If anyone has seen the recently released "Mysterious Skin," you'll understand that the face in Wits End looks like that of the old sketchy guy from L.A.--creepy and something out of a nightmare. That having been said (and I'm not sure Kev Walker was going for "rapist" when he drew the card), the art does match the card's function, despite its...lack...severe lack...of attractiveness.
A very thoughtful comment... I hope you were being facetious when you likened a proffesional painter's work to art made by someone who "can't even draw."
I agree that Guay is not the right artist to draw a card like Pride of the Clouds (a mistake made by the Creative Team, not the artist); however, most of Guay's other pieces "fit" their respective cards.
It's fairly well established that Guay's art is not run-of-the-mill style, but diversity is good. Rather than trash her work, why not focus your intellect on the Magic art you appreciate?
Sorry for my ignorance!
At two mana the card is slightly more acceptable than I previously thought, but it is still easily negated by several other two- and three-drop common fliers, not to mention the possible 2-for-1 resulting if you target it with Riot Spikes. There are better cards to play in the 2-drop slot. It could be started MD, but it will often be sideboarded out for games two and (possibly) three.