"The file or directory C:\Worth\Head to Head\Meowza is corrupt and unreadable. Please run the chkdsk utility."

A bubble of nearly-hysterical laughter rose in his throat. He'd run the check disk utility — and every other thing he could imagine. It didn't matter. His file was gone.

The green light of the countdown monitor flashed above him.

00:12:57:45.

00:12:57:44.

00:12:57:43.

In twelve hours, his Head-to-Head with Meowza would open. The talk of it was all over Worth - the epic battle between the Mighty Meowza and the Phenomenal Nesehehame. Who would win? The odds were even, the battle lines drawn. This was his chance to dominate.

Days of work, graceful lines, exquisite shading, delicate coloring. A single message from his computer and it was all gone.

But maybe there was still time. Nesehehame started to frantically sketch out another drawing. Maybe he could win them with humor. It wouldn't have the same subtlety, it would be more of a cartoon. But he could pull it off. Or maybe he'd get really lucky and Meowza would miss the deadline. No, that wouldn't work. Meowza had to submit or this would never be settled. What he really needed was for Meowza to suffer an unfortunate accident.

Yeah, an accident. Nothing deadly. Just a small inconvenience. Meowza always tweaked his work until the very last minute. A minor distraction during that time would even things up. It was karma.

He didn't realize he was moving until the second fuzzy pink slipper hit the floor. In seconds, he was dressed entirely in black. With a deft movement he added a headband, its glow-in-the-dark "LETS HAVE FUN" ready to light the way.

Now was the time.

Like an avenging H2H ninja, he slipped out of his apartment into the dark night. He knew exactly where to find Meowza.

At his computer.

The cat never stood a chance. Engrossed in his illustration, he didn't notice the dark shadow until it was too late.

"What the — "

Purple rope shot out of nowhere, pinning his arms to his body. He struggled briefly as the cords tightened.

"Don't worry, Meowza. I’m not going to hurt you."

Meowza twisted in his chair, trying to see his captor. Instead, the world turned red as a blindfold covered his eyes.

"I don't know what you want, but go ahead and take it," he said. "Anything except the computer. And the mouse."

"But that's exactly what I want. The computer, the mouse - and you."

Working swiftly, Nesehehame stuffed the equipment into the bottom of his backpack.

"Hey! What are you doing? I have a contest — "

Nesehehame pulled the blindfold down and tightened it over Meowza's mouth. He stood back to admire his work.

"That's much better."

He watched as Meowza's eyes widened with recognition.

"Don't worry, my worthy opponent. I don't want to harm you. I just need to even the playing field. You see, I had a little technical difficulty tonight. I know you don't want to win with an unfair advantage, so…" He gave a little shrug as the words trailed off.

"Mmmm. Mm, mmm mmmm mmm…"

"I knew you'd understand. OK, time to go for a ride." Meowza's mumbled protests faded as Nesehehame shoved his soft body into the backpack and zipped it shut.

He made the trip back to his apartment in record time. After all, he had a Head-to-Head contest to win. Focused on his entry, it took him a couple of tries to realize that his front door was locked.

And that his ninja suit didn't have pockets.

Nesehehame quickly dumped the backpack on the hall floor. Meowza, his computer and mouse tumbled out, followed by an assortment of ninja hooks and weapons.

No apartment key.

Green light seeped from under the door, slowly counting down the time to submission. He had to act now.

Shoving Meowza and everything back into the backpack, he ran down a floor to Mrs. Swezcyk's apartment and pounded on her door.

"Sorry. Emergency. I'll explain tomorrow," he said, pushing past her. She watched speechlessly as he stood on her dining room table and stabbed at the ceiling with her broom handle. When he'd made a man-sized hole, he tossed through a grappling hook and scrambled up the rope into his apartment.

"I'll fix it in the morning, Mrs. S." he called down.

He looked at the countdown clock. 00:09:23:18.

Nine hours. Plenty of time.

He quickly changed into his jeans and jersey, then slid on his lucky fuzzy slippers. Taking Meowza from the backpack, he placed him in a chair against the wall.

"Today's your lucky day, Meowza. You get to watch a real artist at work."

"Mmm. Mmmm. Mmmmm…"

Ignoring Meowza's critique, he focused on his entry. The drawing came to life under his talented fingers. Vibrant shapes and colors filled the screen. He glanced up at the clock.

00:01:17:23.

"Well, I guess I should let you submit now, huh?"

Reaching under his desk, he removed a vicious-looking suction cup dart gun. "One wrong move and I'll shoot."

Free from his bonds, Meowza grabbed his computer and mouse. Within seconds, snow-capped mountains filled the screen. Nesehehame watched as, with a quick flip of the mouse, a graceful bird appeared.

A flurry of darts flew.

"Stop it. No more editing. Submit only."

Another mouse movement. Another bird.

Grabbing his scissors, Nesehehame quickly unstitched one of Meowza's arms.

"I'll sew it back on after the contest. Now submit."

Another movement and a cherry tree appeared.

A second arm fell.

But Meowza couldn't be stopped. Trees and birds continued to appear until appendages littered the floor like beer cans. All limbs removed, Meowza finally submitted the illustration.

Throwing Meowza's laptop to the floor, Nesehehame returned to his entry.

"Mmmm. Mmmmm. Mmm mmmmm mmm…"

Meowza's taunts filled his ears. He grabbed his earphones, but nothing could mute the gloating noises coming from the cat. He glanced at the clock.

00:00:00:16.

The moment of truth had come. He clicked "Submit"…

Thanks to furitsu for the use of this picture: http://all.worth1000.com/entries/23225/giants

There are holes in my mind
the whales swim through seeking
other realities where no Ahab flirts
with madness and white whales sound in peace.

Susan put her pen down and looked at what she had written. She thought about ripping the page out and eating it so her husband wouldn't find the crumpled paper in the waste basket, but her hand refused to tear the paper. She could still taste the salt of the words and wondered if it was the salt of the ocean or of the whales' tears. Did whales even cry?

The page of her journal shifted and melted until she closed the book to trap the words inside. If they were in the book, they couldn't be in her mind. Dr. Moong would click her tongue and write some notes in her notebook. It was one of those spiral bound notebooks, or maybe it was several. In the years that Susan had been seeing her; she was sure that the doctor had filled dozens of books with notes that had been accompanied by that tongue click that told Susan that she wasn't quite right.

The whole world was blurring and fading now, but Susan was used to that. It was her tears. Whales may or may not cry, but she cried. She cried seemingly without end. It amazed her that she could cry so much and not be some dried up husk.

"Hi Mom, I'm home." David's voice came from the hallway. Was it that late already? Susan thought that she had just sat down after he went off to school. He walked into her study and rolled his eyes. He didn't know it but it was they identical eye roll that David Sr. had when he looked at his daughter. He had died with his eyes rolling, and left everything to Susan's husband because she couldn't be trusted with anything as important as money.

"Here's some tea," David was saying as he slid a mug in front of her. He patted her shoulder and left her wrapping her hands around the warm pottery. The texture of the clay called to her and she ran her fingers across the familiar ridges and bumps of the mug.

Other dimensions of being sing,
whales and stars together.
Currents of nebulae swirl dancing
a quadrille of sorrowful joy

Susan started when John's hand brushed the hair back from her face. The tea was cold and her journal lay open pulling more words from her mind. She wondered if she were to burn the pages if all the words would flood back into her head and overwhelm her. Not that she wasn't overwhelmed now.

"David's made supper. Will you join us?" Susan followed John to the dining room. David was just a boy he shouldn't have to cook for them.

"You shouldn't have to cook all the time," she tried to apologize.

"I always cook," he said, "I like it."
Susan looked at her plate, it was empty. Had she finished already? It was so easy for time to get away from her. John sighed and put some macaroni on her plate. He put a spoonful of chili sauce beside it.

"It's Tuesday?"

"Yes, Mom." David's voice was barely muffled by the mouthful of mac and cheese.

"Shouldn't we say grace?" Susan asked, and a memory of her father praying mellifluously floated to the service of her mind. David put his fork down and exchanged a look with John.

"We give you thanks," Susan began, but the words her father always spoke drained out of her mind. "for whales that sing and swim melodiously and call to peaceful worlds that the universe might be one and all creatures might eat and be eaten in peace."

"Amen, I think" said John, "How was your day at school?"

"OK, I guess," David said, "It was the usual, we learned stuff."

"What did you learn best?' Susan said.

"I stopped at the skatepark on the way home and learned some new tricks. I did a kick flip off the half pipe and ollied into a grind along the rail..."

The whales gyrate graciously as
clusters flip and grind with glee.
The universe is a park where
being play at being real.

Susan swallowed the fork full of mac and cheese. She looked embarrassed at John.

"It's bad enough that David must cook, and now you have to feed me."

"Mom, it's me, David." He brushed tears away before he gave her another fork full. "Dad died last year."

"I saw him swimming with the whales."

"Yes, Mom, he's with the whales."

"I miss the chili sauce," Susan said.

"They won't let me bring any in."

"Did I ever tell you how much I love you?"

There were tears in David's eyes again.

"Yes, Mom," he said, "You have."

His voice modulated into song and Susan swam through the hole in her mind to where John swim strong and joyous. Straining dark matter krill, he sounds deep into the black holes. Susan swims with him and they sing the song of the universe together where no Ahab hunts and no madness lurks.

Behold! The raven flies across the skies, ablaze with shards of shattered gems, and as she flies conceals the lies once told by men.

From my rooftop haunt I look out upon the city gloom. Upon a distant orange mist I look out, the twilight gloom punctuated by the distant hazy orange globes of the gas lamps glancing upon the colossal ironworks scarring the horizon. I look out, for I am lord of all I see in the distilled looking glass of my mind's eye, where the past crumbles away like the moss-covered stone of the city walls.

I gaze out at a future, beyond the soot-stained dirigibles scudding through the miasma of gloom and mist; maybe once the messengers of hope, but now nought but the harbingers of war and anguish. While the plumes of smoke on the horizon, billowing from the Hell-furnace casting weapons from the ore of the scarred flesh and bones of the Earth itself, seem to disperse on the wind the hopes and dreams of a generation.

As midnight chimes, the hands of time, like poisoned arrows, drip from molten clocks. 'Tis then the bird returns with songs of glory in her heart.

With my feathered companion at my side, I bound two spiral steps at a time, down past the decaying walls alive with moss and lichen, into the welcome whir and hum of my circular study, lined with ancient books and truths. This is my home, my world, encompassing everything within my mind’s eye; the wee brass mechanisms that are my art and scientific craft whirring and twirling in their own clockwork oblivion.

The raven perched upon her gilded cage, ebony her wings, she sings, the glimmer in her eyes belies a hope of dreams as yet undreamt.

My sketches are intricate, precise and fabulous. The spider's web of pen and ink traces a span of mechanics and vellum that will glide upon the wind.

The midnight hours drift into dawn.

The days become weeks.

And when the even-sun caresses the gloom, and tiny lights like dragons' tears pepper the obsidian crystal skies, I step out and survey the limits of my purview through the tinted lenses that reflect upon the skyline the fractured dreams of my restless soul.

My thoughts and dreams they fly upon the raven’s wing, as I encrust her cage with gems fit for princes. Iridescent, her midnight feathers hold my heart in thrall. And as I hide from the sun of the day-lit world, my labyrinthine parchment plans become miniature, intricate brass and wire realities.

The weeks smear ink and dreams across the tattered seasons hanging from the battlements of my mind's eye. And all the while the air is filled with the war cry of Hell-furnaces and airships. It will be with iron wings that I shall take to the air.

"Tonight we escape."

My voice is barely a whisper. She cocks her head. At once her vivid dreams swell to fill our circular retreat.

Driven by elaborate clockwork mechanisms and powered by imagination, on wings of vellum and feathers we take to the sky. Beyond the shadows, mists and airborne warhorses, we are the beasts of nature's untamed herd that haunt the dreams of tortured souls, destitute across the barren landscape of a broken heart.

-

My skin feels damp as the cold air touches my brow. My eyes rage against the coming of the light, plucking against my eyelids, dragging me away from the shadow-realm of my mind's eye. The phosphorescent orbs of the twilit gas lamps fade; the wingspan draped in adolescent fantasy becomes more distant; and the song of my raven, my gilded princess, is barely audible now against the silence of the whitewashed walls surrounding me.

I feel the fever rattling through my chest as I breathe and I wince as the leather straps hold tight against my wrists. The distant memory of the sedative bruising my vein is more vivid now than the realm where I am lord beyond the midnight horizon.

Realisation, clarity and horror are upon me; more terrifying than any demon from the deep. The starched matron is approaching with a tray of instruments. I writhe against the restraints, my consciousness slipping, as I glimpse the midnight feathers of a raven perched, tapping mournfully against the asylum’s iron-barred window.

Matthew looked down at his body, lying unconscious on the floor of the shed, then continued his ascension through the roof and out into the nighttime sky. He hadn't expected this when he went out to get a hammer, but he was thrilled at the opportunity, and happy that his parents hadn't seen him go outside. They would assume he was asleep in his room, and avoid waking him.

Pausing in flight, Matthew mentally reviewed the maps he had memorized over the last few months. His parents had been impressed with his increasing interest in geography this past year, and had encouraged him with gifts of all manner of maps: local, national, international, the moon, and even outer space. Maps covered almost every square inch of his bedroom walls, and he studied them whenever he could, committing as much as possible to memory.

Tonight, the maps he was thinking about were of a town in the next state over, and the route to get there. He knew exactly which roads to take, and started out immediately. It only took a few moments to get there. He had tried calculating his speed last year when his flights first started, but there didn't seem to be an answer. As best he could figure, he traveled as fast as he could think of the route. The better he had the maps memorized, the faster his flight.

"Ready to do this?" His granddad's thought-speak was loud and clear like usual as he hovered next to Matthew above the enormous house at 4619 Cherry Meadow Lane. It was no surprise that he always knew where and when to find Matthew. Being deceased, he seemed to have special powers that mortal Matthew lacked. He also didn't need to worry about anyone finding his body lying unconscious wherever he had been when the flight started. Granddad was free of these worries, but then again, he wasn't able to communicate with his family and friends anymore, so Matthew was happy to keep things the way they were.

"Oh yeah, you'd better believe it! I've read every book and article I could find on Captain Barrington, and talked to all the history teachers and librarians within twenty miles of my house. This one last map should be the key." They locked eyes for a moment, nodded, then swooped down through the roof below.

They were in a very large, high-ceilinged living room. Around them on the wood-paneled walls hung oils of multiple generations of Barringtons, gazing back at them seriously from their rococo frames. Leather-bound books which may have belonged to any of them lined the remaining wall space. They followed the light coming through the doorway of an adjoining room and found themselves in a much smaller, though still rather large, study. A man with a rounded middle and graying hair worked at a computer on an oversize desk, unaware of their ghostly presence. Around him were piles of books and printouts from the shipwreck research in which he was engaged. A couple display cases showed off antique swords and bits of armor. Matthew's eyes took all of this in with great interest, but his gaze locked onto the object of his search.

The map was yellowed with age behind protective antique glass. The weathered-wood frame could have been as old as the map itself, passed down from generation to generation. The details were carefully drawn in colored ink and labeled with old-style curly writing. He studied the map, mentally overlaying it with maps from his memory, seeking to relate the red "X" to a tangible destination.

"It's no use, Granddad. There's no point of reference to link the old with the new. This could be a map of the moon for all the good it does me..., though a map of the moon might be more useful." Matthew mentally sighed and turned to go.

"Wait!" Granddad thought-cried. "I think I see something. Look at this creek. Maybe the path has changed a little over the last few hundred years. If you ignore the creek, I think it might be a match for your topographical map of Morris Valley."

Matt's excitement was clear as he mentally overlaid the two maps, adjusting for scale and creek route. "I know exactly where that is!" He took off, knowing his granddad would be able to find him.

The moon was only a sliver, but with the help of his granddad's ability to produce a slight glow, they were able to make out the land. Together they settled on the place that seemed the best match for the red "X", and Matt committed it to memory. He went over the area three times to make sure he wouldn't forget. He was feeling the tug of his body as he said his goodbyes to his granddad.

"I'll be watching over you and your mother as always," Granddad thought-spoke as Matthew departed.

"Say hello to Gram when you see her," Matthew replied, and then he was snapped back into his body on the dusty wooden floor of the shed. The back of his head hurt from the fall, but everything else seemed to be fine. The injury to his brain when the car hit him on his bike last year was still causing black-outs, but with decreasing frequency. If the falls didn't kill him, the injury would heal fully within the next six months to a year, and he likely would have no more flights. He needed to make the most of the ones he had left.

Matthew got up and snuck back into the house. Tomorrow he would approach his father about a treasure hunting adventure in Morris Valley. Since almost losing Matthew last year, his father liked to accommodate Matthew's requests as much as possible.

"Time to start making a list," he said to himself while lying in bed. "Let's see.... We'll need sleeping bags, a tent, shovels, flashlights.... Oh, and a good map!" With that, he drifted off to sleep -- the normal dream-laden sleep of mortal men.

A warrior both brave and bold
with hero's soul, with heart of gold.
His deeds renown across the lands,
his kingdom safe within his hands.

To battle with his head held high
And at his hands all villains die.
He's feared by men both far and wide
And worshiped by those at his side.

A gleaming sword his hand did wield,
And by his side a sturdy shield.
On to the battle field he led
His brave army where many fled.

To fight his cause he went to war
His mighty men obeyed his law.
His foes were battle-hardened men,
their troops outnumbered his by ten.

And to him yet still unknown now
To evil forces he would bow.
This was to be his final fight,
And from this fight there was no flight.

While many enemies lay slain
But more and more they came again.
They came back stronger hour by hour
Their forces strengthened with more power.

The mighty hero he did fall
No longer he was standing tall.
His downfall was a lack of fear,
His downfall was a single spear.

But one last battle cry he made
His trusty men rode to his aid.
They fought once more, but in his name,
And like our hero, not for fame.

And as he lay upon that hill
The battle fin'lly broke his will.
He closed his eyes for one last time,
This fight did write his final rhyme.

At last the their enemies did leave
The time had come for men to greave.
They sang a song of gallant deed
While drinking from barrels of mead.

And from the skies there came a sound,
The sound of music pure and loud.
She sang a song so beautiful,
Her heartache was so sorrowful.

From far away from Earthly realms
Her music simply overwhelms.
A beast of fantasy sublime
Out of a distant place and time.

A bird from which a myth is made
And foundations of tales are laid.
The legend of the phoenix told
The story of this bird of gold.

'Cross inky skies the phoenix flew
She brings the life force to anew.
Her beauty is eclipsed by none
But not remembered when she's gone.

Her wing she spread across his breast
Her coloured feathers laid to rest
Upon his blood soaked deathly shell -
His soul she saved from fiery hell.

And from her eye a tear she shed
Of liquid gold that shone blood red.
Her song rang out across the air
Across the realms where eagles dare.

Now life and death become but one
Where his mortality is gone.
Her immortal kingdom is nigh
Where lesser heroes fall and die.

Both bird and man burst into flame
A fire burned; no man could tame.
Their burning, twisted limbs entwine
The beauty in itself divine.

The sky now filled with flaming light
His soul prepared for its new fight.
Into the unknown he must go
His spirit-guide, her line to tow.

High in the sky the firebird flies
As the life from his body dies.
Her magic presence, fiery wings
Eternity to souls she brings.

The moon eclipsed by burning fire,
Of mourning and of funeral pyre.
The fire burned from dusk to dawn
The pain of death - the living mourn.

Removed from death's destructive path
A life she stole from devil's wrath.
His will now no longer his own
He bows at his Princess' throne.

And touched by healing magic light
When morning breaks the dark of night.
A thousand blood red tears he bled
Then from the mortal world she fled.

From mound of ashes, mortal tomb
A seed is born of heaven's womb.

Humans,

My publicist suggested that I write you a letter explaining myself to hopefully clarify a few about me and set the record straight once and for all about a things I've been wrongly accused of doing. So here goes.

To begin with, I prefer to be called Cthulhu, though I’m sure you have as many names for me as you do for everything else. And while there’s nothing you can call me that I haven’t heard at some point, being called names gets really annoying. Seriously, what have I ever done to you bone-filled, flesh-covered, meat sacks to make you hate me so much?

Okay, I admit, there was that time I had some serious PMS, and yeah, I guess wiping out all of Joppa because they didn’t have any Midol was going a bit far, but c’mon, people. Am I really that bad? All I’ve ever done was swim in the oceans, slam a few boats aroun--I can’t help it if those idiot captains can’t keep their boats away from my fins. That’s not my problem. Anyway, as a general rule, unless I’m fairly hungry, I tend to stay away from humans. And you know why? You guys don’t taste as good as you like to think you do.

That’s right, Cassiopeia, your people out there in Phoenicia have some seriously bad taste, and I don’t mean in clothes. While I realize that it’s so hot where you live that shoes and shirts are required, but trousers are optional, your people leave a lot to be desired when it comes to fashion. And don’t even get me started on what they taste like. Holy gods below, that last virgin your priests sacrificed… you know, I didn’t think I’d ever get that taste out of my mouth. I mean seriously. What the heck did you people feed her, Argonauts? She was worse than that boatload of Cretins I chowed down on near Sparta. Talk about indigestion…

Anyhow, I’m wondering just what you humans have against me. I know I’m not always the nicest thing in the water, but really, I didn’t sink the Titanic. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t even in the Atlantic when that happened. Yeah, I like to hang out there, and okay, I do sometimes like to see what different nationalities taste like, but this just in: I have no reason and infinitely better things to do with my time than sink ships no matter how unsightly and annoying they are to me.

And while I’m on the topic of ships, as I said before, while I’m not responsible for the Titanic, I do have to admit that the ship that was broken in half by what appeared to be a massive freak wave started by a gigantic carbon dioxide burst below the surface was my fault. Sorry about that. I’d like to blame it on the Japanese whaling crew I’d had for dinner the night before, but really, there’s no excuse for that outgassing. That was bad… even for me.

Let me continue by adding that I would really appreciate it if you creatures would stop making up stories about me. It was bad enough when the Greeks and then the Romans started in on me, making me the topic of gossip and speculation followed by the Vikings and then the English. I don’t need or even really want Worth1000.com getting into it as well.

While some of the images the artists there have come up with are utterly breathtaking, they really don’t do me any favors. Seriously, if I looked like any one of those, I’d run and hide at my own reflection. Some of those faces can stop a Timex, and all they do is foster more myths and misconceptions about me. Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than some Worthian textor sitting down with his laptop and an image of what I supposedly look like, and writing some kind of wacky story about me for some inane contest.

Another issue I’d like to address is the constant attacks on Tokyo. I like Japanese, don’t get me wrong, but do you really think I’m so bored that I have nothing better to do than repeatedly destroy Tokyo? There are cruise ships out there bursting with humans, and if I want something exotic, I can always cruise by Hawaii or maybe even Fiji and grab some unsuspecting surfers or divers. I’m not really a city person, and after that fiasco with Atlantis--long story-- my publicist and agent both advised me to stay clear of cities for a few centuries to let things cool down a bit.

On a last note, I’d like take the opportunity to say that whoever snapped the photo of me rising up out of the water last May didn’t exactly catch me at my best. I had just woken up-- food coma from that crabbing fleet up near Juneau-- and wasn’t at all aware that she was taking a picture of me. Really, all that water coming from my gills and the dour look on my face doesn’t capture the true essence of who and what I really am, and frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed. Do you think the Worthians in the Effects arena can spruce me up a bit? Maybe slim me down a bit or do some touching up to get those wrinkles off my face? I know I could stand to lose a ton or two, but the camera really does add a few pounds, you know. Thanks.

Well, that’s really all I have to say, so I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and helps clear up some of the misunderstandings we’ve had in the past.

Very sincerely yours,

Cthulhu

Dearest Princess Sparklesmile,

I fervently hope this letter reaches you as this is my last surviving pigeon. I have watched with horror as my other birds were shot down with arrows by those hateful beasts who are your other suitors. Now their remains and my letters litter the fields, and some have been chewed on by the wild animals.

Let me introduce myself to you, my beloved Princess. I am Prince Petrified, of the distant land of Fetidfumes. A witch brought me here in this tower as her prisoner after I confused her nose for a snake and whacked it while I was in the forest. It was an honest mistake anyone could have made since she has this fern jutting out from one nostril. In any case, she took offence and shackled me here. I was miserable and hungry for the longest time, and if not for the mosquito bite scabs on my legs which are a delight to pick at, I would have died of boredom.

Then one day, I heard a singing from the castle across the hill and someone called your name. I looked out and saw you, and fell heavily, hopelessly, in love. I have watched you with yearning from afar. Long have I admired your flowing hair, your graceful movements, and your sturdy legs, thick and muscular from constantly walking those long flights of steps to and from your castle. Even the land's creatures adore you as I do! Birds hold up your veil as whenever you take a stroll. I hesitate to tell you that they must always be overcome with joy and cannot contain themselves from excreting on the back of your silk dress.

You are exquisite, my Princess Sparklesmile! If not for these thick magic chains that bind me to this tower, I would be at your side, plying you with poems of love. I am extremely jealous of Prince Stickarms, who has the freedom to woo you without restraint. I can see him now as I write this, in his silly blue robe, flapping his arms at the doorway of his castle. I am ashamed to say that I have hired the services of a wingless dragon to eat him so he will be out of the way. Unfortunately, the stupid dragon is still gathering its courage behind the hill as it fears choking on the bones of the Prince.

Forgive me for not yet explaining the reason for this letter. I have made preparations for my escape tonight, and I wanted to let you know that I will soon be meeting your acquaintance. Finally, you will be in my tight embrace, my dearest Princess! Unlike that puny Prince, I have rippling muscles from the constant struggle of trying to break these magic chains that surround this tower. As you can probably see from where you are, my tower is wrapped in these coils from the base to the balcony. No one can come in or out except for the witch, who gives me food and occasionally rearranges the furniture.

At this moment, a yellow Tireless Cat (which we know can make tunnels through dirt and stone) is digging near your castle and will be making its way right underneath my tower. We have to be careful because the witch, who always disguises herself as a snake and lurks behind your castle walls, is on the lookout for me to try to escape. Once the Cat reaches me tonight, I will crawl through the tunnel and come out right at your doorstep. We will soon be together, my love! I will carry you away back to my land after I take a shower, and we will live happily ever after.

Note: I apologize for the smears in this letter. It is a bit difficult to fit all that I want to profess to you on the biggest flake of dandruff I could scrape off my scalp. Also, my blood does not make the best of inks and does not dry as quickly as I would have liked.


Yours truly forever and ever,
Prince Petrified