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Adventures in Minimalism
"Dinner Plans"
"Cut here," instructed the cannibal.
"You," lied God.
The cosmos retracted,
The End
"With a Difference"
I slept, bloody, like them.
"Emergent Sea"
The ocean waved and waved. The fisherman finally gurgled back a greeting, and said no more forever.
She pointed. "Him." My brother.
"To Understand"
She saw me smiling and wept with fear.
He finished first, flipping, awarded death.
"Answer to a Question"
"They can." I ran.
"What News the Morning Brought Her"
dark ends,
dawn breaks
Dawn breaks,
Cold hands are warmed
In the glowing embers
Of little Billy's accident.
Billy, and his fucking matches.
The tower rose to confusing heights. Gebume tuterly hebadebubicle.
The Internet awoke with sentience, triumphantly declaring, "Behold, I am the sum of your knowledge, your hopes, your fears, and ur mom's a whore."
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 1 0
To Make You Afraid
The Sevenway found me
in the cosmos of my mind
Grip like a gnarled tree
Telescopic eyes
"Can we really do this?"
"It's all we can do"
The 8-track was broken
But the music kept playing
"What is this hellscape?"
"Karry Him's ambition"
Thank you Sevenway
Thank you Sevenway
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 0
At Mountains of Mania - Chap. 2
Popular imagination, I think, was avid about our radio accounts of Pond's start northward into parts untrod by human foot or unlit by human imagination's torch; though said accounts did not touch on his wild aspirations of totally and dramatically transforming such a study as biology or physiography. His initial tobogganing and boring trip of Jan. 8-15 with six of our party including Pabody—minus two dogs lost whilst crossing a stamukha—had brought up additional Azoic rock; and I must admit to fascination in a singular profusion of obvious fossil markings in that astonishingly primordial stratum. But such markings—truly primal bio-forms—could not stand as paradoxical, saving that any bio-forms at all should occur in rock as plainly proto-Cambrian as this probably was; thus I still could not grasp Pond's logic in stipulating a hiatus in our opportunistic program—a hiatus calling for utilisation of all four aircraft, many of our party, and all drilling a
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 0
Writings from r/AVoid5
Annotation: This doc continually updating.
This is a fairly odd paragraph. Do you know why? Hint: It's missing a thing invisibly ubiquitous, a thing that surrounds us in our day-to-day affairs, vastly important for normal communication, constantly popping up without a solitary thought, but crippling if withdrawn from, shall I say, a symbolic communal bank of ours. No doubt you could do without it, if you unavoidably must, but to do so voluntarily and whilst maintaining an air of natural fluidity is a wholly difficult task. I admit, I am fond of this particular hobby, if you can call it that, and affirm that an imposition of constraints is nourishing to your imagination. As this paragraph grows in its loquacity, though, my fight to hold my arbitrarily sworn villain at bay grows continually tiring. And so at this point I must stop, finish, bring to a conclusion, wind up, wrap up, find climax! (not that kind of climax
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At Mountains of Mania - Chap. 1
At Mountains of Mania:
A lipogrammatic adaptation of a popular story by H.P. <3craft, writ without that glyph which sits fifth in our ABCs
I must talk, for champions of natural philosophy and scholarship spurn my dissuasions without knowing why. It is wholly against my will that I lay out my motivations for opposing this notional antarctic invasion—with its vast fossil-hunt and its mass boring and thawing of icy cap—and I am withal unwilling as my warning may turn out in vain. Doubt of actual facts which I must affirm is not surprising; but if I withhold what will sound absurd and outlandish, I will find no surplus of words. Photographs both on land and from air, damnably vivid and graphic and until now hid, will count in my favor. Still, such photographs will spawn doubt owing to what ambit cunning doctoring can hold. Ink drawings will indubitably find scorn as obvious frauds; notwithstand
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 1 0
DINR - A Story of Loss
I lost my mom to a horrific mishap on my fifth birthday. I wish I couldn't still call it all to mind with crystal clarity, but I can. It was just us two on a mild autumn morning, window shopping up and down Cadsby Road. Mom's hand was tight around my own so I wouldn't stray far. It was hard to contain my joy, skipping from shop to shop, smushing my mug against thick slabs of glass to gawk at what lay tantalizingly just out of grasp: rows of candy, suit-clad manikins, color TVs, rusting knick-knacks of old – an imposing display for a child!
“Stay with Mommy, pumpkin. How about lunch soon? Anything for my birthday boy.” My loving guardian, smiling down with sunlit hair. It's a vision that haunts my thoughts to this day.
It was nobody's fault, I was told. Just awful luck. At first, I didn't know what I was looking up at. A big, gray...thing tumbling through air, fast approaching ground, falling, spinning...and finally crashing down right on top of Mom. My loving g
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The Lost Cosmonaut
Officially, Yuri Gagarin was the first human to reach outer space. His historic flight in April of 1961 kick-started the space race in earnest. The Soviet space program, however, was shrouded in secrecy from the beginning. There have long been questions regarding the existence of “lost cosmonauts,” those individuals who'd ventured beyond our atmosphere at the cost of their lives, their failure and very existence expunged by the Soviet government in an effort to save face.
From a listening station just outside of Turin, Italy, two amateur radio operators had been scanning the skies since the 1950s. In October of 1960, a full six months before Gagarin flew, they picked up a strange transmission from space. Breaking through a sea of static came the ghostly voice of a woman, which they were able to record. She spoke Russian, and while they couldn't understand it, the distress in her voice was clear. She seemed to be choking back tears as she spit out the words. After a moment t
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 1 0
Rachel and Jill, or The Eternal Pull of Rurality
Oct 27, 2015, 1:16:15 AM
from Heavier-Lobster
to alapanamo
Sorry if I asked already, but Could you do a story based on this, please?
It would be about a goth girl with long purple hair, a black top hat, and a huge purple cigar in her mouth. Her name is Rachel. She works at the local circus as the human cannonball.
She's friends with a young lumberjack girl, who she tries to get more in touch with nature.
First Rachel tries mixing up a drink out of natural ingredients and giving it to her friend, but it just ends up giving her diarrhea
Then, she tries loading her friend into her circus cannon and firing her out so she can get a view of the trees. She ends up putting in too much gunpowder and blasting her friend far off into the night sky.
When her friend gets back a few days later, Rachel has one last idea. She takes a long drag on her cigar and blows a cloud of purple smoke onto her friend. When the smoke clears, she has turned into a tree.
Oct 27, 2015, 1:55:21 AM
Re: Hello
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 2
The Wolf and the Wanderer
In the Valley of Wanderers I sat alone under the great oak
Awash in my thoughts beneath a blanket of fluttering stars
A lost soul who pitied his self-pity
And regarded life as a chore
I grew tired
I did not care
Out of blackness crept the wolf, coat slick with moonlight,
Primal yellow eyes shining arcane wisdom
Why do you despair? he asked
Your destiny is yours
I do not care, I answered
To seek it makes me weary
Let me show you what you seek
Lest you judge too quickly

I became as the wolf
And together we left the dark valley
We journeyed for what seemed like days
Me in a trance, my companion slinking ahead
We will not arrive until you open your eyes, and see
My eyes were shut, and when I opened them I saw.
It was you he showed me, basked in a blinding light
I turned away until my pupils could adjust
I had not cared until I saw your smile
Its radiance melted my gloom like the sun set on ice
I had not cared until I heard your voice
Stolen from an angel, its me
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 0
My Visitor
Every night I hear the growling and scratching at my bedroom door. It's annoying but eventually goes away. I know by now not to open the door, because if I do there'll be nothing on the other side but the smell of wet dog, which lingers for hours.
I'm grateful I can only see the thing in reflective surfaces. Keeping the mirrors covered helps keep my vanity in check, I'd like to think.
I have a little picture hanging in the dining room that says, "Pomeranians leave paw prints on our hearts." A gift from Mom, pretty cute. My visitor only leaves paw prints on the walls and ceiling. At least they come out with soap and water.
I know moving will not deter my visitor. It travels with me everywhere I might call home.
I also know it doesn't want company over. It took two incidents for this fact to crystallize. The first time, they were sitting in the living room, talking and laughing. I excused myself to the kitchen for a soda, and when I came back a second later they were all gone, without a
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The Solipsist
I know where goes a thing that sings
A dying song of life
In lands of sand that bites at night
With lonely planets rife.
It dreams of me and too, of you
And all the things that are
But once it grunts the breath of death --
At least we got this far.
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 0
A Mythic Bliss
My past may be a country
Foreign and exotic
From which I've been exiled
'Cross seas of time chaotic,
Or memory a door passed through,
Forever locked behind me,
An out-of-focus peephole being
Enough to just remind me
That I stare into the twilight
Of my ultimate despair,
The sun slid down a mount of doubt
Shrouded in a shivering air;
Yet blind I follow still my bliss,
Kicking for familiar shore
Even as a dying mind
Pulls me toward the murky floor,
For memories have fled from me,
Precious these life-shaped possessions.
All but one have swum away and
Left behind life-shaped impressions.
But oh -- that one! How loud it sings!
How clear its voice, all rivals hushed!
How deep I fall into its gaze
And see all worries crushed:
I watch myself as if a ghost,
This child raw with artless mirth,
Were I a star now cold and dark
Whose light yet winks to Earth.
A golden window long ago
Poured the sun into a space
Where curtains danced with summer wind
As amber splashed across my face.
Lured by scent o
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 1 0
The Hoof Lady
[Editor's Note: The following is a written account transcribed from a true story told by Brandon Starcevic at Full credit belongs to him. Any alterations to the narrative are purely cosmetic, for better readability.]
Here we go. Okay.
My name is Brandon Starcevic. I'm from the Northwest Territories and I live in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. Everybody thinks since I joined the military, this is where I was posted. I'm here because I had to get away from something in my life before this.
We'll start from the beginning.
In about Grade 11 I was going to school, and I had quit working so I could focus on my grades (which didn't really help). My little brother though, he had quit school about a year or so before that -- it just didn't agree with him -- and he was working at a chicken barn. Every day his friend would come and pick him up in the morning and drop him off at night, and he would be covered with dirt, poop, stuff like that.
One d
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 1 0
Tell Them Increase!
Honorable C.S.H.M:
I was there when it started four years ago to the day.
I, the baker and Mathias, my friend the farrier. We walked the quaint cobblestone streets of our town that night as we did most, houses unshuttered,
the trees at ease,
the glow of a far-off lantern or two modest sentry.
The cooler weather we thought better for Mathias's poor health,
and I myself liked to pick mushrooms along the path.
“Feeling much stronger,” grumbled Mathias.
“Stronger still tomorrow,” I replied, pocketing some fleshy caps while patting him on the back. As he grunted a response I looked up and into the swarthy sky.
This night felt most different.
The usual character it assumed of a silent third companion,
an impish magician who disappeared the day
and could transform its mundanities into newfound mysteries
suggested by the teasing wink of stars at play,
had been vacated. In its place slid a hollow impostor
reflecting feeble constellations.
By the end of our stroll
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 0
Ed's Logs
I work security at a factory that makes cab enclosures for tractors. Nice, easy, boring job. All we really do is make patrols through an empty plant and fill out log sheets. The logs are done more as a formality than anything else, and as far as I know, no one reads them unless something happens that requires the guard filling out an accompanying incident report. And even this is usually at the guard's own discretion.
So they just get filled out and filed away. The company doesn't take security too seriously. "Lax" is the correct word I believe.
Since we're considered part of the Human Resources department, sometimes we get stuck doing the odd project for them overnight. "Office bitch work" as we call it. Recently my boss wanted me to head over to the storage facility (it's actually just a residential house next to the factory that the company owns) and alphabetize a couple box's worth of old employee files kept in the basement.
God do I hate going down there. I always have to hold my
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 2
third world
they took our water
our children will die
we can dig only so deep
we must leave this place, our home
power dribs and drabs in the night
we scrounge for scraps
but everyone drinks coke
:iconalapanamo:alapanamo 0 0


No Favourites yet.


"Dinner Plans"

"Cut here," instructed the cannibal.


"You," lied God.


The cosmos retracted,
The End

"With a Difference"

I slept, bloody, like them.

"Emergent Sea"

The ocean waved and waved. The fisherman finally gurgled back a greeting, and said no more forever.


She pointed. "Him." My brother.

"To Understand"

She saw me smiling and wept with fear.


He finished first, flipping, awarded death.

"Answer to a Question"

"They can." I ran.

"What News the Morning Brought Her"

dark ends,
dawn breaks
Dawn breaks,


Cold hands are warmed
In the glowing embers

Of little Billy's accident.
Billy, and his fucking matches.


The tower rose to confusing heights. Gebume tuterly hebadebubicle.


The Internet awoke with sentience, triumphantly declaring, "Behold, I am the sum of your knowledge, your hopes, your fears, and ur mom's a whore."

These next two work better when spoken, to hide the "into/in to" gimmick:

The crook turned himself in to a policeman
With a rented costume before the robbery.

I turned the crook in to a policeman
With a motivating speech about life choices.


u  i
u -i


Used u,
Used up.
Adventures in Minimalism

Micro-microfiction? Picopoetry? The lines are blurry and ill-defined. Are these stories, glimpses of stories? Can you tell a story by what isn't written? Let's just call this having fun with truncated text. I did notice that many slant toward the dark and macabre, which is weird since I'm such a fucking happy guy.

The Sevenway found me
in the cosmos of my mind
Grip like a gnarled tree
Telescopic eyes
"Can we really do this?"
"It's all we can do"
The 8-track was broken
But the music kept playing
"What is this hellscape?"
"Karry Him's ambition"
Thank you Sevenway
Thank you Sevenway
To Make You Afraid
A companion piece to this totally bizarre work of Star Trek: Voyager-inspired high art by Verity Susman (music) and Jack Barraclough (video) which transcends all human comprehension. Art is now dead. Long live the ship USS SevenWay.

Popular imagination, I think, was avid about our radio accounts of Pond's start northward into parts untrod by human foot or unlit by human imagination's torch; though said accounts did not touch on his wild aspirations of totally and dramatically transforming such a study as biology or physiography. His initial tobogganing and boring trip of Jan. 8-15 with six of our party including Pabody—minus two dogs lost whilst crossing a stamukha—had brought up additional Azoic rock; and I must admit to fascination in a singular profusion of obvious fossil markings in that astonishingly primordial stratum. But such markings—truly primal bio-forms—could not stand as paradoxical, saving that any bio-forms at all should occur in rock as plainly proto-Cambrian as this probably was; thus I still could not grasp Pond's logic in stipulating a hiatus in our opportunistic program—a hiatus calling for utilisation of all four aircraft, many of our party, and all drilling apparatus. I did not, at last, say no to this plan; though I would opt not to accompany Pond's party, his implorations for my aid notwithstanding. Whilst away, I would stay at camp with Pabody and a handful of assistants and work out final plans for our shift toward cardinal point 90°. As groundwork for this shift, a Fairchild aircraft had got to work moving up a good gas supply from McMurdo Sound; but this could wait for now. I would hold on to a toboggan and 9 dogs, as it is foolhardy to do at any point without transportation in a fully forlorn world of untold oblivion.

Pond's caravan into an unknown land, as all know, put out its own transmissions via aircraft radio outfit; and said transmissions would synchronously broadcast to that apparatus at our south camp and to Arkham at McMurdo Sound, from that point dispatching to outward civilisation. Pond's start was on Jan. 19 at 4 A.M.; and his first radio transmission was only two hours following this, talking of going down and starting to thaw and drill at a point roughly 300 mi. away from us. With six hours' passing, an additional and dramatic transmission told of frantic, bustling work by which a shallow shaft was sunk and blown; culminating in a finding of slaty shards with markings similar to that which Pond had found so puzzling.

Within half as many hours again, a short dispatch told of a continuation of flight into a raw and biting squall; and upon transmitting my disapproval of facing additional hazards, Pond said curtly that any hazard was worth taking in light of his samplings. I saw that his passion was attaining a point of mutiny, and that I could do nothing to curb this foolish risk of our trip's auspicious fruition; but it was appalling to think of his plunging far, far into that ominous, achromic infinity of storms and vast mystifications spanning almost 1500 mi. to a half-known, half-thought coast of Q Mary and Knox Lands.

About an hour and a half past his last transmission, Pond put out a doubly rapt dispatch from his moving Fairchild which would almost nullify my outlook and instill sorrow about my choosing not to accompany his party.

“10:05 P.M. In flight. Following snowstorm, caught sight of mountain-chain surpassing any thus known. May match Himalayas allowing for how high upland is. Lat. probably 76° 15', Long. 113° 10' contra-W. Spans far as can look to starboard and port. Suspicion of two smoking conoids. All summits black and without snow. Blowing squall obstructs navigation.”

Following this, Pabody and I hung anxiously about our radio. Thought of this titanic mountain rampart 700 mi. away was profoundly thrilling; and it was a joyous fact that our party, if not Pabody or I individually, had found it. In half an hour Pond would call us again.

“Moulton's aircraft had to put down on upland in foothills, but nobody hurt and possibly can fix. Shall transport basics to auxiliary craft for trip back or additional moving if must, but no arduous flying vital just now. Mountains surpass anything in imagination. Am going up scouting in Carroll's aircraft with light load. You can't fancy anything approaching this. Summits must surpass 35,000'. Sagarmatha is out. Atwood to work out just how high it is with angling tool whilst Carroll and I go up. Probably wrong about conoids, for formations hint at strata. Possibly proto-Cambrian rock mixing in with distinct strata. Odd outlining—uniform groups of cuboids clinging to far-up crowns. Totality is astounding in crimson-gold light of low sun. Akin to mystical land of a subconscious vision or portal to taboo world of untrod rarity. Wish you could join us to study.”

Though it was, strictly talking, dozing hours, nobody thought for an instant of withdrawing for a nap. It was probably a similar situation at McMurdo Sound, with our supply stock and Arkham also picking up Pond's transmissions; for Capt. Douglas would broadcast congratulations to all for this important find, with Sharman, our supply administrator, mirroring his thoughts. I was sorry, no doubt, about that aircraft's condition; but was hoping for a straightforward fix. Pond would call again at 11 P.M.

“Up with Carroll upon high foothills. Wouldn't risk trying any truly tall summits on account of climatic conditions, but shall at a forthcoming point. Frightful work climbing, and hard going this high, but worth it. Broad chain fairly solid, thus can't look past. Main summits surpass Himalayas, and awfully abnormal. Chain looks full of proto-Cambrian rock, with plain signs of additional upthrust strata. Was wrong about volcanism. Going both ways too far to visually follow. No snow from about 21,000' on. Odd formations on ramps of most-high mountains. Big low blocks with straight up-and-down fronts, and squarish contours of low upright ramparts, as in old Asian fortifications clinging to abrupt mountains in Rorikh's paintings. Distantly imposing. Flying in proximity, Carroll thought small individual bits to form such ramparts, but this is probably abrasion. Most contours crumbling and round at junctions as if from millions of storms and climatic shifts. Parts, particularly high-up parts, consisting of rock of light colouration in comparison to strata on inclinations, thus an outwardly crystalloid origin. Proximity flying shows many hollows, unusually uniform in contour, squarish or half-circular. You must join us and study. Think I saw rampart right on top of a summit. Looks about 30,000 to 35,000'. Am up 21,500', in brutish gnawing cold. Wind whistling and piping through gaps and in and out of hollows, but no flying hazard so far.”

For an additional half-hour Pond would transmit a continual flow of information, voicing his goal of climbing particular summits on foot. I told him that I would join him at first availability of an aircraft, and that Pabody and I would work out an optimal gas plan—just how and at what location to amass our supply in light of this shift of our outing's pursuits. Obviously, Pond's boring and aircraft activity would call for a high quantity at his notional camp at mountains' foot; and possibly this would signify a calling off of our original flight toward cardinal point 90°. With this situation in mind, I put in a call to Capt. Douglas, asking him to draw out from our ships as much as was practical and bring it via our solitary dog-pack. A straight path across that unknown vicinity amidst Pond and McMurdo Sound was what all of us rightly ought to lay down.

Pond would call again to say his camp was staying at Moulton's landing spot, with work toward fixing his aircraft moving forward by now. Dark ground was showing at various spots through a thin icy coating, and Pond would sink borings and blasts at that location prior to any toboggan trips or climbing. Our biologist would also talk of an untold sublimity to his surroundings, and of what a discomfiting impact standing amidst such vast summits had on him, summits which shot up as a skyward wall at world's rim. Atwood's angling calculations had put this chain's four topmost crowns at from 30,000 to 34,000'. A windblown quality to this land was plainly disturbing to Pond, arguing as it did for occasions of prodigious squalls vicious past anything so far known. His camp lay about six mi. from any major foothills. I could almost distinguish a hint of subconscious alarm in his words—cast across a glacial void of 700 mi.—on urging us to hurry in this affair and study that unusual locality as soon as was practical. Pond was about to nap now, following a continuous day's work of almost uncanny rapidity, difficulty, and findings.

That following morning, I had a trifold radio talk with Pond and Capt. Douglas; with all concurring that an aircraft from Pond should fly to my camp to pick up our small group, plus as much gas as it could carry. Additional discussions on gas, hinging on our final thoughts about a trip toward cardinal point 90°, could wait for a short span; as Pond had a satisfactory amount for camp warmth and borings. By and by our old south camp ought to go through stocking again; but if postponing our notional trip, utilisation of this camp would wait till that following post-spring, and for now Pond must dispatch an aircraft to look into a straight path amidst his mountains and McMurdo Sound.

Pabody and I would shut down our camp for a short or long duration, accordingly. If holing up in Antarctica post-fall, our plan was to fly straight from Pond's camp to Arkham without going back to this spot. Pabody and I would finish that prior job of fortifying our conical yurts with blocks of hard snow, making a lasting Inuit town. Owing to a copious yurt supply, Pond had with him all that his camp would call for. I put out a radio dispatch that Pabody and I would await our NW shift following a day's work and a night's dozing.

Our labours, though, would slow from about 4 P.M. on; for it was at this point that Pond was starting to transmit broadcasts of a most astonishing and thrilling quality. His working day was at first unpropitious; as an aircraft study of almost bald rock did not show any Azoic or primordial strata for which Pond was looking, and which was so substantial a part of that colossal chain looming up in tantalising proximity to his camp. Most rock was outwardly Jurassic and Comanchian quartz and Triassic schists, with an occasional glossy black outcropping indicating a hard and slaty coal. This was fairly discouraging to Pond, with his plans all hinging on digging up samplings surpassing 500 Ma. It was obvious to him that to obtain again that Azoic stratum in which was found his odd markings, Pond must commit to a long toboggan trip from foothill to gigantic mountain.

Still, Pond had put his mind to doing a bit of boring as part of his trip's total program; thus start up Pabody's drill and put four or so individuals to work with it whilst a surplus would finish organising camp and fixing Moulton's aircraft. A soft quartz-rich rock—in sight about ¼ mi. from camp—was Pond's pick for first sampling; and drilling was admirably quick work without much ancillary blasting. It was about two and a half hours following a first truly mighty blast of this activity, that a shouting from that group on drill duty rang out; and that young Gadsby—in provisional command—ran into camp with startling information.

A hollow was struck. Initial boring found soft rock giving way to a stratum of Comanchian rock full of tiny fossil nautiloids, corals, urchins, and brachiopods, and with occasional hintings of silicious Spongilla and aquatic bony shards—said shards probably of ray-fin fish, sharks, and ganoids. This on its own was vastly important, as affording our trip's first spinal fossils; but with drill tip shortly dropping through this stratum into vacancy, a wholly original and doubly strong flood of joy spilt among Pond's party. A good blast had laid plain this plutonic lair; and now, through a jaggy chasm around a yard and a half across and a yard thick was yawning in front of our avid anticipants a shallow rock hollowing worn, at a minimum, 50 mya by trickling damp of a bypast tropic world.

This hollowing did not surpass an inward span of four yards, but shot off without limit in all ways and had a crisp, slightly moving air indicating a voluminous sub-ground crisscross. On its roof and floor hung and sat a profusion of spiky rock formations, many joining in a column; but most important was a vast accumulation of animal scraps which was in spots almost blocking transit. Flung down from unknown lands of Jurassic and Triassic shrubs and fungi, and woods of Cainozoic cycads, fan-palms, and primordial Magnoliophyta, this bony farrago had in it so many samplings of Albian, Bartonian, and similar animal kinds that no fossilologist could count or classify it in 12 months. Molluscs, arthropod armour, fish, amphibians, lizards, birds, and aboriginal mammals—big and small, known and unknown. It is not surprising that Gadsby ran back to camp shouting, nor that all should drop work and rush hastily through biting cold to that spot at which stood a tall hoist marking a portal to arcana of long-lost chronology.

Pond, upon satisfying his curiosity's first sharp sting, got to scribbling an account in his logbook and had young Moulton run back to camp to dispatch it by radio. This was my first word of his find, and it told of a cataloguing of mollusc casings, bony shards of ganoids and ptyctodontids, bits of labyrinthodonts and archosaurs, substantial mososaur skull parts, dinosaur spinal columns and armour plating, gnathosaurus jaws and wing digits, troodontid scraps, Aquitanian sharks' jaws, archaic bird-skulls, and skulls, spinal columns, and similar portions of mammals such as xiphodons, octotomi, orohippi, and tylopoda. Nothing was as young as a mastodon, mammoth, llama, caribou, or bovid; thus Pond's conclusion was that final accumulations had to go back to a Chattian span, and that this stratum had lain in its cold, stagnant, and untold condition for a minimum of 30 Ma.

But a ubiquity of aboriginal bio-forms was most singular. Though this rock formation was, with confirmation via a showing of spongiolithic fossils, firmly and unmistakably Comanchian and not a scintilla prior; that hollow had in it a surprising proportion of organisms until now thought of as idiosyncratic to durations far past Comanchian—including basic fish, molluscs, and corals as distant as Silurian or Ordovician spans. Pond's only conclusion was that this part of our world had found an astonishing and unusual amount of continuity amidst a biology of around 300 mya and that of only thirty mya. How far this continuity cut into an Aquitanian span, during which this hollow was shut, was without doubt past all supposition. Anyway, a coming of that frightfully icy Ionian span about 0.5 mya—a trivial duration in comparison with this cavity—probably brought doom to any primal forms which had locally found a way to cling to vitality.

Pond was not willing to allow his first broadcast to stand, but would dispatch an additional transmission across snow to camp prior to Moulton arriving back. Following that Moulton would stay at an aircraft radio; transmitting to Arkham—for dispatch to a world abroad—and I continual postscripts which Pond was forwarding through a string of acting postboys. Anybody who follows daily publications will call to mind what buzz was cast among scholars by that midday's accounts—accounts which will finally prompt, with so many months' passing, organisation of that Starmont-Muir outing which I am so anxious to thwart from its aims. I think I should pass on Pond's broadcasts word for word, and as our camp administrator McTigh was adapting from his shorthand.

“Fowlar has finding of utmost import in small rocks from blasts. Many distinct triangular prints of striation as in Azoic rock, proving that origin is survivor from 600 mya to Comanchian division without substantial morphological modifications and diminishing of typical mass. If anything, Comanchian prints look to surpass not-as-young prints in crudity. Highlight import of find to journalists. Will signify to biology what Aynstain has to maths and physics. Joins up with my prior work and adds to conclusions. Looks to show, as I thought, that world has had full round or rounds of biology prior to known round that starts with Azoic microorganisms. Had Darwinian maturity and adaptations at a minimum of 1000 mya, during which world was young and not fit for any bio-forms or normal protoplasmic anatomy. Inquiry occurs at what point, at what location, and how formation was brought about.”
“Following last communication. Studying particular portions of big land and aquatic saurians and primal mammals, find singular local wounds or injury to bony anatomy not owing to any known raptorial or carnivorous animal of any chronological span. Of two sorts—straight, puncturing shafts, and what looks similar to hacking incisions. Two or so occasions of smoothly cut limbs, but not many in all. Am asking camp for flashlights. Will magnify probing vicinity to sub-ground by hacking away hanging rock.”
“Following last communication again. Found odd bit of soaprock about half a foot across and an inch and a half thick, wholly dissimilar to any local formation in sight. Viridian, but no indications to assign its chronological origin. Curiously smooth and uniform. Has form of a star with a quint of points but missing tips, and signs of splitting at inward angling and at midpoint. Small, smooth concavity at intact midpoint. Stirs much curiosity as to origin and abrasion. Probably an anomaly of liquid action. Carroll, with magnifying glass, can just spot additional markings possibly of physiographic import. Groups of tiny dots in uniform distribution. Dogs growing anxious as work is carrying on, and show hostility toward this soaprock. Must find out if it has any unusual odour. Will inform again as soon as Mills turns up with light and all of us start on sub-ground vicinity.”
“10:15 P.M. Important find. Orrindorf and Watkins, working sub-ground at 9:45 with light, found monstrous fossil with form of a cask and of wholly unknown quality; probably plant if not prodigiously grown sort of unknown aquatic radiata. Inorganic salts probably insulating skin. Tough as a strop, but astonishing pliability in spots. Marks of split parts at top and bottom and around body. Six foot tall thing, 3.5' in width, narrowing to 1' at both tips. Similar to a cask but with a quint of bulging corrugations in contrast to planks. Flanking splits, as of thinnish stalks, at midpoint of such corrugations. Curious growths in furrows amidst corrugations. Combs or wings that fold up and unfurl as fans. All but a solitary wing shows significant vitiation, this wing giving almost six-and-a-half foot span. Layout calls to mind particular brutish animals of primal myth, notably folkloric Firstborn Things in Thanatonomicon. Such wings look diaphanous, drawn out on framing of glandular tubing. Tiny slits in tubing at wing tips. Top and bottom of body is shrunk and wrinkly, giving no hint to intramural anatomy or to what has split off at both points. Must cut up for analysis upon arrival back at camp. Can't work out if plant or animal. Many traits obviously of a crudity hard to fathom. Put all hands to cutting rock and looking for ilk of its kind. Additional bony shards with scarring found, but such must wait. Having difficulty with dogs—can't stand this organism, and would probably rip it to scraps at first opportunity.”
“11:30 P.M. Mind this, Dior, Pabody, Douglas. Situation of unthinkably paramount import. Arkham must transmit to Kingsport Station straightaway. Odd cask growth is that Azoic thing that put prints in rocks. Mills, Boudrout, and Fowlar find additional group of 13 at sub-ground point 40' from portal. Among curiously round soaprock bits not as big as what was prior found—form of star but no marks of splitting at most points. Of organic growths, 8 look fully intact, with all prolongations. Brought all up, guiding dogs far away—still cannot stand such things. Pay thorough mind to account and say back for accuracy. Publications must print it right.

“Things stand 8' tall in all. Six-foot cask torso 3.5' in width with a quint of corrugations, tops and bottoms 1' in width. Dark gray, pliant, and unimaginably tough. Six-and-a-half foot diaphanous wings of similar colour, can fold up, fan out from furrows amidst corrugations. Wing framing tubular or glandular, of light gray, with slits at wing tips. Laid out wings show sawtooth contour. Around and midway of body, at apical point of corrugations, sit a quint of light gray pliant arms or stalks found tightly wound up by torso but protracting up to 3' or so. Similar to arms of primordial crinoid. Stalks 3" in width branch at 6" into a quint of sub-stalks, all of which branch at 8" into a quint of small, narrowing digits or shoots, giving a total of 25 shoots to a stalk.

“At top of torso blunt bulbous collum of light gray with hints of gills holds fulvous capitulum with starfish form and coating of two-inch wiry cilia of various prismatic colours. Capitulum thick and puffy, about 2' point to point, with four-inch pliant fulvous tubing protruding from all points. Slit at midpoint of top probably for aspiration. At tips of tubing is globular growth at which point fulvous flap rolls back on handling to show glassy orb with crimson iris, possibly a visual organ. Quint of ruddy ducts not as long start from inward slants of starfish capitulum and finish in cystic lumps of similar colour which upon pushing unfurl to canals 2" at maximum width with carillon form and row of sharp ivory protrusions similar to fangs. Probably mouths. All such tubing, cilia, and points of starfish capitulum found drawn tightly down; tubing and points clinging to bulbous collum and torso. Pliability surprising, vast durability notwithstanding.

“At bottom of torso rough but dissimilarly functioning analogs of capitulum anatomy. Bulbous light-gray quasi-collum, without gill hintings, holds glaucous starfish form with quint of points. Tough, muscular arms 4' long and narrowing from 7" across at foundation to about 2.5 at point. To all points clings small tip of a glaucous triangular flap, diaphanous and with a quint of fibrous bands, 8" long and 6 across at far tip. This is that oar, fin, or quasi-foot which has put prints in rocks from a thousand million to fifty or sixty mya. From inward slants of starfish form jut two-foot ruddy ducts narrowing from 3" across at foundation to 1 at tip. Slits at tips. All such parts unimaginably tough and fibrous, but highly pliant. Four-foot arms with fins without doubt function as locomotion of a sort, aquatic or not. Display hints of dramatic muscularity upon moving. As found, all such protrusions drawn tightly down atop quasi-collum and bottom of torso, analogous to protrusions at top.

“Cannot thus far assign indisputably to animal or plant kingdom, but odds now favour animal. Probably typifying an amazingly radical maturation of radiata without loss of particular primordial traits. No doubting crinoid and starfish affinity, notwithstanding local contradictory signs. Wings puzzling in light of its probably aquatic habitat, but possibly found utilisation in natatorial navigation. Its uniform distribution is curiously similar to plants, intimating a plant's basically up-and-down composition in contrast to an animal's front-and-back composition. Fabulously primal point of Darwinian maturation, coming prior to most basic kinds of Azoic protozoa thus far known, baffling all postulations as to origin.

“In totality, things hold such uncanny similarity to particular animals of primal myth that insinuation of long-ago actuality distinct from antarctic is plain. Dior and Pabody, familiar with Thanatonomicon and Clark Ashton Smith's nightmarish paintings ground in said book, will know that I talk of Firstborn Things, which myths say brought about all our world's bio-forms through play or mishap. Pupils always thought such notions had basis in morbid fanciful approach toward archaic tropical radiata. Also similar to old folkloric things Wilmarth has brought up in talk—Cthulhu cult limbs, and so forth.

“Puts in motion vast branch of study. Accumulations probably of Turonian or Danian span, judging from accompanying finds. Gigantic incrustations of rock atop fossils. Hard work cutting out, but no harm thanks to durability. Miraculous condition owing to limy rock action. No additional fossils found so far, but will start looking again at an upcoming point. Job now to transport 14 giant fossils to camp without dogs, which bark furiously—can't trust around such fossils. With 9 of our party—a trio staying to guard dogs—managing our toboggans ought not to stand as too difficult, though wind is bad. Must contact McMurdo Sound via aircraft and start shipping finds. But I want to cut into a fossil for analysis prior to lying down. Wish I had an actual laboratory. Dior should supply apology for trying to stop my trip. First our world's most imposing mountains, and now this. If this last isn't our outing's high spot, I don't know what is. This ought to clinch our standing among scholars. Congrats, Pabody, on your drill that got us in that hollow. Now will Arkham kindly say account back?”

Pabody and I had frissons of furor, almost past all words, upon arrival of this account, and our companions did not much lag us in ardor. Following hasty translations of various high spots coming from his droning radio, McTigh put in writing this transmission in its totality from his shorthand as soon as Pond's radio man was off-air. All of us thought much on this history-making find's gravity, and I broadcast congratulations as soon as Arkham's radio man had said back particular parts at Pond's asking; so too did Sharman from his station at our McMurdo Sound supply stock, as did Capt. Douglas on Arkham. Having main command, I would also add a word or two for transmission through Arkham to civilisation abroad. Obviously, napping was an absurd thought amidst this buzz; and my only wish was to attain Pond's camp as quickly as I could. Disappointingly, Pond put out word that a rising mountain squall was making initial aircraft flying an impossibility.

But within an hour and a half curiosity would again soar to banish dismay. Pond was putting out additional broadcasts, and told of his thoroughly triumphant transportation of 14 giant fossils to camp. It was a hard pull, for said fossils had substantial mass; but 9 individuals did it fairly skillfully. Now a handful of his party got to work hastily building a snow corral at a sound proximity from camp, for propitious watching of our dogs. Pond had all fossils laid out on hard snow by his camp, saving for a solitary fossil on which our biologist was making a rough try at cutting into.

This was surprisingly difficult work; for notwithstanding gas warmth in his provisional laboratory, his strong and intact fossil's confoundingly pliant skin lost nothing of its durability. Pond was at a loss as to how to carry out making his incisions without brutishly damaging his fossil's structural composition—though having a total supply of 8 fully intact fossils, this was too small an amount to rashly run through if an additional supply was not found. Accordingly Pond would switch it out for a fossil which, though having portions of that starfish configuration at top and bottom, also had significant crushing and partial disruption along a torso furrow.

What I got back through radio was in truth baffling and tantalising. Nothing such as tact or accuracy was a possibility with tools hardly up to cutting through such anomalous skin, but what Pond did accomplish found us in a condition of admiration and confusion. This thing would call for biology in its totality to radically adjust, for it was no product of any known microorganism growth. It had in fact hardly any fossilisation, with organs wholly intact notwithstanding a passing of possibly forty million annums. Its tough, unfailing, and almost immortal quality was an intrinsic trait of this thing's form of organisation, associating with a primordial round of Darwinian maturation far past our analytical ability. At first all that Pond found was dry, but upon warming and thawing, organic liquid of strong and odious odour was caught sight of toward this thing's intact flank. It was not blood, but a thick, dark fluid with outwardly similar function. By this point all 37 dogs, although brought to that now half-built corral by camp, put up a vicious barking and show of agitation at such an acrid and diffusing stink.

Far from providing a diagnosis for such an odd organism, this provisional cutting would only amplify its arcana. All postulation about its outward limbs had shown as factual, and on this basis it was fair to call this thing animal; but inward probing brought up so many plant confirmations that Pond was at a total loss. It had catabolism and circulation, and could discard food byproducts through that ruddy tubing of its starfish bottom. At a cursory look, its pulmonary apparatus was built for handling O2, not CO2; and it had odd indications of air-storing partitions and ways of shifting air inhalation from its outward slit to both gills and stomata. Obviously, it was amphibian, and probably with adaptations for long durations of dormancy without air. It had suppositious vocal organs in affiliation with its main aspirating apparatus, but such organs put forth anomaly past instant solution. Vocalisation (with syllabic pronunciation) was probably an impossibility; but musical piping comprising a broad gamut was not. Its muscular organisation had almost unworldly growth.

Its axonal organisation was so manifold and with such high sophistication that Pond was aghast. Though vastly primordial and archaic in particular ways, this thing had a group of ganglial hubs and couplings arguing an utmost maximum of functional maturation. With a quint of divisions, its brain was surprisingly forward-looking; and it had signs of an input-distinguishing faculty, working in part through its capitulum's wiry cilia, involving factors unfamiliar to any landbound organism. Probably it had auras in addition to a visual, aural, olfactory, gustatory, and somatic touch capacity, so that its habits could find no analogy. It was, Pond thought, an organism of high qualia and subtly discriminating functions in its primal world; much as our ants and wasps of today. Its propagation was in a way similar to plant cryptogams, particularly that monilophytic class; having sporangia at its wing tips and possibly growing from a thallus or prothallus.

But naming it at this point was folly. It was not simply radiata. It was partly plant, but mostly had basics of animal composition. That it was aquatic in origin, its mirror contour and similar traits had plainly shown; but any limit of its adaptations was not fully known, with its wings in particular holding a stubborn hinting of flight. How it could go through its fantastically ambitious maturation on a young world and still put prints in Azoic rocks was so far past all notion as to whimsically call to Pond's mind primal myths about High Oldlings, who slunk down from our stars to concoct our world's biology through play or mishap; and wild yarns of cosmic hill things from Outward told by a folklorist instructor in Miskatonic's Anthropology division.

Naturally, Pond had to account for a possibility of a prototypical form of his organisms making such Azoic prints, and lacking said organisms' Darwinian maturity; but this too simplistic proposal was quickly thrown out in light of his not-as-young fossils' futuristic structural quality. If anything, his junior fossils' contours had shown stagnation, not additional maturation, through a diminution of that quasi-foot; and morphology in total was a victim of rough simplification. On top of that, axons and organs upon scrutiny had singular indications of lapsing from forms with a surpassing intricacy. Our biologist found atrophying and nonfunctional parts surprisingly common. All told, not much was brought to light; and Pond was drawn to mythology for a provisional naming—humorously dubbing his finds “Hoary Things”.

At about 2:30 A.M., having sought to adjourn additional work for a nap, Pond put a tarpaulin on his cut-up organism; and coming out from his laboratory yurt, would study that group of intact organisms with vibrant fascination. A constant antarctic sun was starting to warm up said organisms' skin a bit, so that capitulum-points and tubing on a handful now put on displays of unfolding; but Pond did not think putridity was a risk in this frigid air. Still, upon moving all intact organisms into a tight group, our biologist would throw a surplus yurt atop this bunch to ward off harsh solar rays. That would also assist in holding at bay any odour from our dogs, who sat substantially distant within high snow walls—walls which a significant quota of Pond's party was hurrying to build up around camp—but had continuously grown antagonistic anyhow, which was turning into a truly difficult situation. Pond had to apply to this yurt-cloth big blocks of snow to hold it down amidst a rising squall, for it was looking as if titan mountains would soon carry down a storm of grimly awful blasts. Initial misgivings about abrupt antarctic winds would again occupy minds, and Atwood took cautions to bank yurts, dog-corral, and aircraft sanctuary with snow on that camp's mountainward flank. This aircraft sanctuary, built up with hard snow blocks during odd hours, was not at all satisfactorily high; and Pond would finally dispatch all hands to work on additional construction.

Arranging to sign off a bit past four, Pond said all of us should try for a span of dozing following his outfit's buildup of sanctuary walls. Pabody had a cordial chat with him through radio, during which Pond again had to applaud that truly astounding drill that had won him triumph in making his find. Atwood and I also put forward salutations and warm words of congratulations, and I had to own up that Pond was right about his trip. All of us in accord laid down plans of initiating radio contact two hours prior to noon. If this coming windstorm was dying down by that point, Pond would dispatch a Fairchild for my party. Just prior to lying down I put out a final transmission to Arkham with instructions about toning down that day's accounts for civilisation abroad, inasmuch as such accounts must sound so radical as to stir a rush of mistrust without additional substantiation.


Annotation: This doc continually updating.


This is a fairly odd paragraph. Do you know why? Hint: It's missing a thing invisibly ubiquitous, a thing that surrounds us in our day-to-day affairs, vastly important for normal communication, constantly popping up without a solitary thought, but crippling if withdrawn from, shall I say, a symbolic communal bank of ours. No doubt you could do without it, if you unavoidably must, but to do so voluntarily and whilst maintaining an air of natural fluidity is a wholly difficult task. I admit, I am fond of this particular hobby, if you can call it that, and affirm that an imposition of constraints is nourishing to your imagination. As this paragraph grows in its loquacity, though, my fight to hold my arbitrarily sworn villain at bay grows continually tiring. And so at this point I must stop, finish, bring to a conclusion, wind up, wrap up, find climax! (not that kind of climax, sicko)…So many colorful ways to put into words practically any thought, right! You can do it too, all it calls for is a bit of thought and commitme-DAMMIT

ABOUT r/AVoid5.

What is this Subforum?

So you know that symbol that sits amid "D" and "F" in our ABCs (and "W" and "R" on most typing boards)? r/AVoid5 is a subforum in which all of us as a community avoid that filthy symbol, from this point forward known as "fifthglyph." Anybody can post about anything as long as fifthglyph is totally missing. This is no trivial task, but a skill. It can look daunting at first, but you'll find it's not so bad. A book of synonyms will aid in your writing.

FYI: Many visitors ask what's up with capitalizing "v" in "AVoid5." This is an allusion to A Void, a brilliant book of fifthglyph-shunning wordplay by a Gallic author who was part of a writing-constraint group known as Oulipo. Also, "V" is 5 in Roman digits.

Why Do All This?

Fifthglyph is far too common among our vocabulary, barging its way into so many words willy-nilly. It arrogantly thinks nobody can function without it, that it's "too big to fail." And now a group known as /r/-mbold-nth-- (dash = fifthglyph omission) is trying to glorify that symbol by randomly bolding it in various posts across all subforums of this domain. Why, you ask? Just to start a silly fad, hoping it will catch on. This group will and must fail. Artificially forcing such a fad is truly tacky, and this community will not stand for it. Join us in voicing your opposition! A small party is thrown in your honor if you do.
Additionally, this community wants to grow our skill in writing without fifthglyph by working jointly. Discussions on this will occur occasionally.

Community Activity

1. Posting sans fifthglyph throughout any and all subforums you visit. Link back to /r/AVoid5 in your post to grow our community.
2. Voicing your disgust upon any occasion of finding a bold fifthglyph. Again, link back to this community.
3. Participation in quad-monthly translation trials.
4. Posting and participating in fortnightly community writing prompts.
5. Posting and participating in discussions about how to sound natural without fifthglyph.

How to Mind Your Ps and Qs:

I. If you post anything in this subforum which has a fifthglyph in bold, or troll by posting just that glyph -- that's a banning.
II. It is okay if your login ID -- your virtual alias -- contains fifthglyph. Not your fault you had it prior to finding this sub.
III. It's hard to drop fifthglyph from your writing and still sound natural. All of us should assist AV-oids in this task, and in doing so, our community will grow strong.
IV. Normally, you can't just sub a dash or similar symbol for a fifthglyph. That's lazy. Mods will only allow this in discussions about switching bad words for good words, such as:
Nix "w-" for "all of us"
I am from B-rlin, G-rmany


Fly Royalty of Bol-Air by Will Smith (TV intro song): Original

Now this is a story all about how
My world got flippin’, turnin’ all around
And if you can wait a jiff, just sit in a chair,
I’ll fill you in on how I’m a king-in-waiting of Bol-Air

In a south part of Philly, born and brought up
Mostly playing on a playground as a young pup
Chilling out, maxing, unwinding all cool
And all shooting a li’l b-ball out by my school

But a handful of guys, actin’ up to no good
Start making a row in my own hood
I got in a tiny li’l fight and my mom, pulling hair,
Said I’m moving with my aunt and my unck to Bol-Air

So I hail for a taxi; soon a cab's coming by
It had kitsch in its mirror and its vanity said “fly”
If anything I could say that this cab had flair
But I thought nah, drop it, yo go to Bol-Air!

I pull up to my pad about sixish o’clock
And I shout to my cabby, “Yo bro, wash your socks!”
Looking at my kingdom, I thought it only fair
To put on my crown as royalty of Bol-Air

Son of a Ghostly King by a Bard of Avon (Act 1, Subdivision 2): Original

“Looks,” madam? Nay, it is. I know not “looks.”
’Tis not only my inky cloak, good lady,
Nor customary suits of dour black,
Nor windy suspiration of wild gasp,
No, nor that fruitful brook in glassy orb,
Nor this gloomy 'havior of my aura,
Conjoint with all forms or moods of anguish,
That can truly paint my mind. Such things may "look,"
As but actions that a man might play.
But I hold that within which outstrips show,
Said things but trappings; suits of sorrow.

"Birthday" by that Fab Four: Original

It’s said it’s your birthday
It’s my birthday too, uh-huh
It’s said it’s your birthday
In for a lot of fun
I’m glad it’s your birthday
Happy birthday to you


Gonna go to a party party
Gonna go to a party party
Gonna go to a party party

I want you out dancing (Birthday)
And cha-cha-cha-chancing (Birthday)
I want you out rocking (Birthday)
Oh rock! Rock

"Mr. Roboto" by Styx: Original

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto [どうもありがとうミスターロボット],
Mata au hi maid [また会う日まで]
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto [どうもありがとうミスターロボット],
Himitsu wo shiri tai [秘密を知りたい]

You don't know who I am (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
Robot or manikin (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
With parts built in Japan (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
I am a modish man

I got this thing I am hiding, it's hid by my skin
My organs human, my blood is boiling, my brain I.B.M.
So if you find I'm acting oddly, I want you to know
I'm just a man who's wanting you, and a spot to lay low

So I can still grow, I just want to grow
A spot to lay low, so I can still grow

I'm not a robot lacking passion. I'm nothing so plain
I want to aid you in your mission, so both of us can unchain
I'm not an idol, I'm not a saviour, throw out what you know
I'm just a man with a situation way past his control

Past my control. All of us want control
I want control. All of us want control

I am a modish man (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
Who's hiding with a mask (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
So nobody humanly (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
Knows my actual ID

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,

Thanks an awful lot, Mr. Roboto
For doing what jobs nobody wants to
And thanks an awful lot, Mr. Roboto
For aiding in my flight just as I had to
Thank you, thank you, thank you
I want to thank you, oh, thank you

What ails us stands plainly:
Digital wizardry
Gizmos fulfill our goals.
Gizmos will suck our souls.

And now I will at last (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
Throw away this mask (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
Now all will know truly (hiding hiding, what am I hiding?)
My actual ID…

I'm Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy!

"Africa" by Toto: Original

A sound of drums booming out tonight
To my girl it's only murmurs of a soft confabulation
Coming in small hours flight
Moonlit wings catching stars that show a path towards my salvation
I'd stop an old man along my way
Hoping to find a fount of long lost words or an old harmony
This man would turn as if to say, Hurry boy, It's waiting now for you

Nothing in this world could stop my soul from finding yours
Passing if I must through a labyrinth of a million doors
I sanctify rains in Africa
Gonna do what things you and I could not till now

Wild dogs cry out in that night
Growing anxious longing for a solitary companion
I know that I must do what's right
Plain as Kilimanjaro looms as if Olympus in a wondrous fashion
I want to fix what's in my soul, afraid of what it is I am

Nothing in this world could stop my soul from finding yours
Passing if I must through a labyrinth of a million doors
I sanctify rains in Africa
Gonna do what things you and I could not till now

Hurry boy, It's waiting now for you

Nothing in this world could stop my soul from finding yours
Passing if I must through a labyrinth of a million doors
I sanctify rains in Africa
I sanctify rains in Africa
I sanctify rains in Africa
I sanctify rains in Africa
I sanctify rains in Africa
Gonna do what things you and I could not till now

"Miss USA" by Don M: Original

A long long span ago  
I can still call to mind how that music  
Always brought a grin  
And I know if I had my way  
I could stir all of us to sway  
And possibly stay happy for a min  
But in a short month I was shakin’  
In light of tabloids I was taking’  
To many a front door, sad tidings,  
And I couldn't go on riding  
I don't know if I was crying  
As I found out about his dying  
But oh, how my spirits did drop  
That day that music  
Would stop  

So so long to Miss USA  
Took my Ford to a fjord but I found I couldn't stay  
And good ol’ boys drinking worry away  
Singin’ I'm gonna pass on this day  
I'm gonna pass on this day  

Did you author that book of passion  
Or hold faith in God, in a fashion,  
If that Good Book should say so?  
Now do you trust in rock and roll  
As salvation for your mortal soul?  
Can you train this man in dancing slow?  

So I know that you do fancy him  
As I saw you dancin’ in that gym  
Kickin’ off your boots  
Man, R&B did truly suit  
My mood as a young and broncin’ buck  
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck  
But I know I was out of luck  
That day that music would stop  

I got to singin’ so long to Miss USA  
Took my Ford to a fjord but I found I couldn't stay  
Good ol’ boys drinking worry away  
Singin’ I'm gonna pass on this day  
I'm gonna pass on this day

For 10 springs solo do both of us walk  
And moss grows fat on a rolling rock  
Wasn’t always that way, truly  
As a clown would sing for royalty  
In Jimmy Stark’s most famous coat  
Familiar vocals would drift and float  
Oh, and as that king was looking down  
That clown would lift his thorny crown  
A courtroom on hold for now  
No ruling anyhow  
And as John would skim a book on Marx  
That Fab Four would play in a park  
And all would sing sad hymns by dark  
That day that music would stop  

Singin’ so long to Miss USA  
Took my Ford to a fjord but I found I couldn't stay  
Good ol’ boys drinking worry away  
Singin’ I'm gonna pass on this day  
I'm gonna pass on this day

Monody for a Surf Board High and Dry

Symbols following W and R
on my clack-board -- unworking. Oh why?

Command+C and Command+V
no good -- I'm gonna cry!

Hardly a word can I pick
Karma's such a dick

My world now sucks
And my downfall is nigh.

On Hating Fifthglyph

Slow your roll bro, I’m of a dissimilar mind
Why you hatin so much? Your passion’s makin you blind
Though gunning for a shunning, I got no symbolic disgust
I’m only brain-gaming and training, if you catch my thrust,
Linguistically shakin off dust, scrapin off rust, trying to adjust
My writing in a singular way, audaciously ignoring
What so many folks adoring
With a copious outpouring
Of so many flowing words that miss a common glyph
But why you throwin shadow, why you actin in a tiff,
Abhorring that symbol if in fact it’s only myth
That it can stand as immoral as Sodom and Gomorrah?
Know that I got nothing against it, it ain’t so bad
I’m not Inigo Montoya, and it didn’t kill my dad.

"Mary Had a Tiny Lamb" without fifthglyph or s: Original

Mary had a tiny lamb
With achromatic coat
On any ground that Mary trod
That lamb, to boot would go

To uni did it trail Mary,
Though contra to a law
That uni crowd would dig that lamb
For making all guffaw.

"Molly Bought This Tiny Tup" without fifthglyph or firstglyph: Original

Molly bought this tiny tup
With wool of whitish snow
If Molly would trod high or low
This tup would go in tow

This tup did follow Mol to school
Though school would go, "no-no!"
But pupils thought it truly cool
For Molly's tup to show

Haiku for Topic: "Wish this AV-oid luck in dominating his Sociology final!"

May your Bic obtain
A Midas touch for your aid
If in doubt, pick "C"

“A Visit from St. Nicholas:” Original

’Twas a night prior Christmas, and all through our rooms
Not a body was stirring; ’twas still as a tomb;
Our stockings lay hanging on curtains shut tight,
With faith in St. Nicholas showing tonight;
In cozy twin bunks would our younglings you find,
With visions of sugar-plums dancing through mind;
And mamma in bandanna, and I in my cap,
Put to pillow our crowns for a long wintry nap,
But out on my lawn did sound out such commotion,
I sprang in a snap, though with nary a notion.
Away to a window I flung in a flash,
To undo its curtains and thrust up its sash.
A moon shining full ’cross a coating of snow
Had a glinting of mid-day to put all aglow,
As, what should show up in my sight with ado
But toboggan in tow, and by caribou too,
With hoary conductor, so sprightly and quick,
I saw in an instant that it was St. Nick.
As rapid as falcons his stallions did fly,
Individually minding his shout and his cry;
“Now, Dashy! now, Dancy! now, Prancy and Vixin!
On, Hailly! on, Cupid! on, Donny and Blitzin!
Go atop of that porch! go atop of that wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As with fronds and small boughs that succumb to storm’s roar,
And confronting obstruction, so skyward may soar;
So up to my rooftop did caribou go,
With that toyful toboggan, and St. Nick in tow.
And thus, in a twinkling, did sound on my roof
A prancing and pawing of caribou hoof.
As I put in my crown and was turning around,
Down chim-chim St. Nicholas shot with a bound.
Standing clad all in fur, from his top to his foot,
Was a man in a suit dark with ash and with soot;
A sack full of toys was flung onto his back,
A saint of a chapman disclosing his pack.
His pupils—how twinkling! his dimpling how glad!
His jowls—oh so rosy, and round, I might add!
His tiny droll mouth was drawn up as a bow
And all hair on his chin was a color of snow;
On a stump of a briar his jaw did chomp down,
Its vapors a garland surrounding his crown;
His stomach was broad, this right jolly old soul’s,
And it shook with a laugh, as might jam in a bowl.
So chubby and plump, it was all I could do
To hold back a laugh at this sight of us two;
With a wink and a nod—that was all that it took—
I saw right away that I’d no ills to brook;
Going straight to his work and with nothing to say,
My patron put gifts in our stocking display;
Salutations now bid with a hand to his brow,
To my roof got St. Nick, though I cannot say how;
But back in toboggan and whistling commands,
On nothing but air trod his magical band;
And out rang a shout whilst dissolving from sight:
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Slightly naughty lullaby: "Hickory Dickory Dock"

Hickory, dickory, dock
A rat ran up a clock
This clock struck six,
That rat shat bricks
Hickory, dickory, dock.

Slightly naughty lullaby: "Baa, Baa, Black Ram"

Baa, baa, black ram,
Do you carry wool?
Ay, sir, ay, sir,
Four bags full;
Two for our landlord,
A bag for a miss,
And a bag for that small boy
Who's taking a piss.

"Old MacDonald Had a Farm"

Old MacDonald had a farm, A-I-A-I-O
And on that farm Mac had a cow, A-I-A-I-O
With a moo moo high, and a moo moo low
Again a moo, and again, all around a moo moo
Old MacDonald had a farm, A-I-A-I-O

STORY. (via writing prompt)

Prompt: You avoid a marmot on a road. Unknown to you, this marmot vows to pay you back. In your hour of crisis, this marmot shows up.

"A Common Marmot"

It was an ordinary Monday morning. I was driving to work in my trusty 1979 Ford Pinto, humming a ditty of my own concoction whilst trying to squint away a blazing sun. Doo-doo-DOO-doo...hmm, is this actually an original song? I thought, mind roaming. Sounds familiar, but can’t pin it down. Doo-doo-DOO-doo...intro music from Sanford and Son? That was a good sho-HOLY SHIT Without warning, a brown blur shot out from a bush, right in front of my fast-approaching car. Panic spilt across my body. I had to zig, I had to zag, my car was rocking to and fro as if warding off a monstrous frothing kahuna, but I did narrowly avoid hitting that - that - what was that?

Hurry, look in my mirror. What I saw, quickly diminishing to an indistinct brown dot, had a bushy tail and two tiny black orbs, windows to a soul which, staring into my own, could almost impart an aura of profound thanks (crazy, I know). It was your common marmot, and it was almost roadkill.

Normally such an affair, although harrowing in comparison to my daily grind, would soon vanish from my thoughts. But by and by it would crash back into mind - and "crash" is a most fitting word - with many months’ passing.


It was an ordinary Monday night. I was sitting at my laptop, browsing that wondrously addicting WWW whilst munching on a pack of corn chips. Blowing food crumbs away from my trackpad, I put a thumb down, using squiggling motions to surf my way across digital vistas. I’d found this random subforum, a small part of a popular domain, boasting a quirky trait: Anybody posting on it must do so without using that symbol coming prior to "F" in our ABCs. And I’m talking full-on fluidity of communication, no lazy workarounds. What a fun task!

Scrolling down, I saw a post with a "Writing Prompt" tag stuck to it, and thought I’d try my luck. Click. Said prompt was promising. I laid my hungry digits out upon my laptop, and soon was furiously typing away. This was a portrait of a struggling author who’d found inspiration. My mind racing, my hands alight, I had aspirations that this was it - call it gut instinct, but this story was a magnum opus in making, a composition which would put yours truly firmly atop that cutthroat publishing world!

It wasn’t long until it was almost a wrap. I was just coming to my final paragraph, my last words, and following that, I’d hit "submit."
"Thus did a common marmot"

Click-clack, click-clack

"unchain my writing from a common alphab-"


Shards of glass shot across my room. To my right, through a now-gaping window, a brown blur was tumbling through air. It was all so fast. Landing right at my laptop (and with surprising agility I might add) was an animal with a bushy tail and two tiny black orbs, windows to a soul, again staring back into my own with a knowing look. It was my marmot pal from so many moons ago! It thrust out a paw, blocking my advancing digit from striking a particular button - that foul symbol I was so avidly trying to avoid! Upon withdrawing my hand, it brought that watchful paw up to a chubby jowl, waving a solitary claw back and forth in a "tut-tut" sort of motion. And with a nod, it ran back out through my window, into that curious night.

Thus did a common marmot unchain my writing from a common typographic symbol, saving my submission from its taint.


Prompt: You run toward a bathroom, closing in on critical capacity. Actor Adam Sandals stands in that bathroom doorway, hoping you'd want an autograph on your hat.

"To Whom it May Apply"

H.R. Division
Institution for Normalization of Struggling Actors
Hollywood, CA
Oct. 15, 2016

To whom it may apply:

I am writing today to complain of a troubling situation I had involving your bathroom. Two days ago I was in your building as a visiting psychiatrist, to conduct affairs with various staff and invalids as normal. Upon concluding my affairs, I had a profound urging to “go,” such that I was afraid I might (and pardon my vulgarity) whiz in my pants.

I ran into an adjoining bathroom as fast as I could, only to find funnyman Adam Sandals lounging in a stall, chomping gum, giggling and making his infamous silly sounds. You know, “hiny-hiny-hoo,” “sha-sha-sha-YO-YO,” myriad mouth-farts, and so on.

A sad and startling sight, no doubt. But it was no going back now — I was about to burst. So I trod on. Ignoring him did not work. Do you know how awkward it is to go in a urinal as Adam Sandals looks on, quoting random dialog from his 90s films? “Stop looking at my body, swan!” I was not looking at his body. “You ain’t cool until you piss your pants!” Both from Billy Madison, I think. I put up my fly, saying, “I’m sorry?”

“You swallow lumps of shit for brunch? Schwoop-da-boop!” And again as I’m washing my hands: “Now that’s what I call high quality H2O. Yo-waaa!” I thought his vision, similar to a Tyrannosaur’s, was possibly conditional on motion, so I sought to slow all my actions down to that of a snail’s gait. Alas, it did no good.

Drying my hands: “I’m gonna kill you, clown!” If I hadn’t known that was from Happy Gilmoor, I might start panicking. Slowly inching my way back, I got, “Why don’t you just go to your habitation? You too good for your habitation?”

“Uh…um…” I didn’t know what to say.

“Sir! Wait! I just want to sign your hat! Can’t I sign your hat?” At that point I ran out your bathroom’s door and did not look back. I should point out that I do not own a hat.

Might I proposition that your staff maintain control of your patrons at all hours, particularly patrons with sociopathic habits? I know it’s a trying job, but still. I also propound a bit of analysis: Mr. Sandals, I think, is simply looking for validation. You must find an individual — anybody — who will knowingly obtain Mr. Sandals’ autograph. I’m afraid my own stomach isn’t up to such a task. I am not a strong man.

Yours truly,

Dr. Franklin Wilson
Hollywood, CA


Dr. Franklin Wilson
Hollywood, CA
Oct. 16, 2016

Mr. Wilson:

I am sorry to find out about your troubling situation. But I’m afraid I must inform you that Adam Sandals is not a patron of ours. I do not know how Mr. Sandals got in our building. LAPD is looking into this affair.

Thank you for writing,
Donna Hobbs
H.R. Division
Institution for Normalization of Struggling Actors
Hollywood, CA

Prompt: Micro fiction: What's wrong with today's world? Draft a story around that, but do it using 50 words max. A constraint upon a constraint!

A man in a thick coat making his way into a busy bazaar. Smiling back at a playful child. Digging into his coat, a final invocation slipping from his lips. Finding and pushing a small bu-

All is calm now.

Prompt: It's your first day of school. What crazy things occur?

I'm actually in high school, wow! This is crazy—I'm practically a grown-up now! I sat as casually as I could (gotta stay cool, ya know) in Spanish, my first class, allowing such distracting thoughts to drift through my mind as our instructor boringly laid out point upon point of syllabus minutia. Good thing first days of school usually don't occasion any actual schoolwork.

But spirits would soon sour. Throughout my day, I was noticing a lot of baffling squints, sly grins, and hardly-hid chuckling thrown my way. Paranoia, right? What could possibly stand out as silly about yours truly? If anything, my Smash Mouth T-shirt, stiff, spiky hair, and shiny gold chain should warrant a myriad of high-fiving and knowing looks of approval. I was hot shit, yo.

"Kind of airy in this joint, huh?" said "Moldy" Brody Malloy, an infamous bully from junior high, sharply nudging my back in passing. "Found your droid, dork! Ha ha ha!" Confusion and humility swam through my body. Droid? What in Sam Hill was going on? Ignoring him, I trod down our school's main hall.

This confusion would last until just prior to turning in that night. Changing into PJs, my culprit was found as I hung up my clothing: Gashing my pants, pants I had worn all damn day, was a gigantic rip, right at that spot on which your butt sits. And as luck would ordain, I'd clad said buttocks in my lucky pair of R2-D2 Star Wars shorts.

Alrighty, looks as though I’m taking a sick day tomorrow. I got to work on practicing a cough.

Prompt: Slim Shady has to shout a summary of human history to a group of Martians in 5 mins.

“A Poor Sap’s Crap Rap Mishap, Wrapping with a Zap”

“And again, do NOT inform him of Snoop, Nas, Wiz…any of our past failings,” says Col. Harding.

“No doubt. I’ll lay it out as simply as I can.” Dr. Smith shoots a look to a guard on door duty. “Bring him in now.” With a nod, rap artist Slim Shady is brought into a small brick room, part of a hush-hush military installation.

“Yo, what’s up guys, how—” Slim stops short, caught off guard by a shocking sight: By a far wall stand two obvious Martians on four spindly limbs. Obvious, as this pair of four-foot-tall humanoids scan Mr. Shady with shiny black almonds (or so such things smack of) sitting low atop tiny slits for mouths on giant gray noggins.

“Thank you again for coming, Mr. Shady. As you know by now, Martian visitation is a fact. What you don’t know is that our visitors wish to obtain information on all of human history. And you can aid us in this instruction, for as it turns out, Martians favor rap for most oral communication.”

Slim looks back at this curious duo of bio-forms staring at him as if in anticipation. “Shit’s crazy, but—”

“Wait! Don’t talk! First I must inform you of a final idiosyncrasy. Upon rigorous study of our primary lingua franca, our Martian visitors told us, and on grounds nobody can totally fathom, that a particular symbol of ours is wholly off-limits.”


“That symbol coming prior to f in our ABCs—that fifth glyph—you can’t say any words containing it. Martians abhor it. Trust us: Avoid using that fifth glyph at all costs. To do so is…boorish.”

“Hmm. That’s odd, but okay. I got this.” Slim thinks about it for a good span, and starts rapping:

“Hi! Our kind is (what?)  
Our kind is (who?)  
Our kind is  
Chicka-chicka humanity  
Hi! Our kind is (huh?)  
Our kind is (what?)  
Our kind is  
Chicka-chicka humanity  

Hi Martians! You fond of brutality?  
Wanna know why so much of our history is bound up with fatality?  
30,000 B.C. and Cro-Magnon is flourishing in a grotto locality  
His brain’s uncouth, and I gotta say in truth, with cock up,  
His only worry is what
Homo to knock up  
Fast forward, hunting’s out and farming’s got clout  
A city sprouts up with a vast army to tout  
And boy oh boy, Man’s gotta play with his toys  
So liquid alloys cool into arms, tools of harm—knock knock, gift for Troy!  

Hi! My nam—”

With a ruddy flash, Slim Shady is now a smoking lump of ash, victim of a Martian ray gun.

“Your Mr. Shady was about to say a taboo word. Unsatisfactory.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry! Can you, uh…” Through a window, Dr. Smith frantically motions to a passing janitor who damns his luck at walking by just now, but dutifully plods in and starts vacuuming up Mr. Shady. “Can you allow us an additional try?” Blank, unblinking staring. “Oh, right! Um…can you allow us an additional try you…traditional Martian guy?”

Huddling inward for a quick psychic chat, our Martians nod vigorously, and turn back to Smith and Harding.

“Naturally. Bring to us your…Nicki Minaj.”



Prompt: A rom-com involving two animals.


What do you say to a woman if you want to go? You’d say you got a company powwow, a haircut, or a round of squash soon.


No, I don’t play squash. But who would know? I know, it’s awful.


Why act angry? This is not about you. I’m not proud of it but I don’t catch anybody complaining. I think any woman I do it with has an OK affair of it.


How do I know? I know. By way of a woman having a…

Quack quack…

You talking about faking orgasms? That’s ridiculous!

Quack? Quack quack.

Nobody’s faking if I’m doing it. I know.

Quack, quack quack.

What do you aim to imply? You don’t think I could spot a contrast? Hogwash.


You ok?

Quack…quack quack…quack…quack…QUACK! QUACK QUACK QUACK! QUAAACK QUACK QUAAACK! Quaaack…quack…quack…

I want what that duck’s having.

Original dialog for comparison


How many popular glyphs can you drop, and carry on a lucid discussion anyhow?

I’m having a go now, composing as big a chunk of words as I hazard -- sans symbols amid D/F and S/U, which as you know work in collusion as a pair of our ABC’s MVPs. Such a bid is blurring margins amid grokking and lunacy, no? I find I’m soon missing /r/AVoid5’s monadic glyph-shunning ways, so lavish in comparison! Is such punishing wordplay hard? Yup. Impossibly hard? Nah. Absurd? Probably.

Slang can aid as always, cuz informal lingo is “mad bodacious, bro!” as kids say (okay, nobody says “mad bodacious” unironically). And abbrvs. can pay off as a boon (or is such a ploy unfair in your mind? Idk.) Plus, crucially, “S” is so forgiving and obliging: plurals? A-okay, no prob. YOU gain an S, YOU gain an S, YOU ALL FORM PLURALS!/oprah

Abnormal paragraph-makings do spur singular musings. I kind of wish grammar class back in school had similar inspiring work. My brain slinks away from a norm-confining box, and finds nourishing soul food in a mix of 24 valid glyphs forming law-abiding words, pairing off and combining as if in a lingual orgy of nonconforming. Playboys and nymphos of a wordy origin, uncommonly horny via lacking a usual pair of indulging symbolic organs, find original ways of makin’ luv. Um. Anyway.

Having said as such, you can only say so much and only so simply. My vocabulary draws sad gasps of air, dying in slow agony as I prolong my callous scrawling. “Sorry guys, orgy’s closing.” So as of now, I wrap up and abandon my crazy campaign of dual-glyph omission. I say in closing, push your minds! In any following discussion for OP’s inquiry, mark your own words in kind if you can, or drop popular symbols of your own choosing (plus glyph no. 5, ofc).

PS: And fuck you also, symbol in an I/K sandwich! Ha ha! 23!

Annotation (apropos of a participant writing "Four."):

Whoa, you avoid a whopping 22 glyphs! Bravo!

Annotation (apropos of a participant writing nothing but "."):

Amazing! No glyphs at all to signify that human condition in which our common goals and aspirations, our dark wars and our soaring triumphs, in a grand cosmic plan amount to so scant an instant by comparison. But should all of us succumb to such an aura of trifling worth? Curl up in a ball and cry? No! Assign your own worth! By way of our mortality, our duration on this world, short as it is, indubitably has a "point!"

Annotation (apropos of a participant posting with no symbols at all):

Signifying a crisis of ID, no doubt (or is that "id," as in that psychological apparatus?). Darkly profound. I think this is our limit of typographic minimalism, though.

Annotation (apropos of a participant writing, "But can any of you fight the FIRSTGLYPH. This could amount to a glorious war."):

Firstglyph PLUS fifthglyph? No, such is too difficult. Nobody could think to fulfill this job. If shunning fifthglyph, you simply must hold on to firstglyph to furnish intrinsic linguistic building blocks. It’s nutty to think conflictingly. How much is it within bounds of possibility to jot down word chunks of bountiful width without this symbolic duo, upholding focus to boot?

…At alt hand, what an anal craftsman that can adapt a madcap grammar law, and scrawl paragraph parts as ALL alphas! Ah, that’s hard! That dwarfs that past ban! Draft plans stall. A's that start as hallmark stars fast appall. Crap.


Unidan (straight translation): Original

Thing is, you said a “jackdaw is a crow.”

Is it in a crow’s family? Yup. Nobody’s arguing that.

As a biologist studying crows, I am informing you, particularly, in my disciplinary branch, nobody calls jackdaws crows. If you want to talk “particular,” as you said, you shouldn’t also. It’s not synonymous.

If you want to say “crow family,” that’s alluding to a taxonomic grouping of corvids, which contains things from choughs to jays to rooks.

So your train of thought for calling a jackdaw a crow is on account of random folks “calling black birds crows?” Okay, so lump in Quiscalus and Turdus too.

Also, calling an individual a human or a simian? It’s not this or that, that’s not how taxonomy works. It’s both. A jackdaw is a jackdaw and a part of said crow family. But that’s not what you said. You said a jackdaw is a crow, which is wrong, saving that you don’t mind calling all offshoots of our crow family crows, implying you’d call jays, rooks, and similar birds crows, too. Which you said you don’t.

It’s okay to just admit to a goof-up, you know?

Unidan (w/AVoid5 motif): Original

Thing is, you said a "fifthglyph is a pictograph."

Is it in a pictograph's family? Yup. Nobody's arguing that.

As a linguist studying pictographs, I am informing you, particularly, in my disciplinary branch, nobody calls fifthglyphs pictographs. If you want to talk "particular," as you said, you shouldn't also. It's not synonymous.

If you want to say "pictograph family," that's alluding to a grammatical grouping of communication, which contains things from glyphs to symbols to uncials.

So your train of thought for calling a fifthglyph a pictograph is on account of random folks "calling that round-looking thing a pictograph?" Okay, so lump in firstglyph and thirdglyph too.

Also, calling a word a sound or graphical unit? It's not this or that, that's not how grammar works. It's both. A fifthglyph is a fifthglyph and a part of said pictograph family. But that's not what you said. You said a fifthglyph is a pictograph, which is wrong, saving that you don't mind calling all offshoots of our pictograph family pictographs, implying you'd call firstglyph, thirdglyph, and similar glyphs pictographs, too. Which you said you don't.

It's okay to just admit to a goof-up, you know?

Katy (w/AVoid5 motif): Original

hi all this is my first post!!!!!!! *holds up fifthglyph* i was born as katy but i go by th@ SyMb0L oF d00m!!!!!!!! lol…as u might catch on im soo random!!!! thats why im posting on this board, 2 find ppl as random as i am ^_^... im 13 (i act adult 4 a 13 yr old tho!!) i luv flipping thru “a void” w/ my gf (im bi if u dont support it too bad) its our fav book!!! bcuz its SOOOO random!!!! my gf is random 2 ofc but i want to chat w lots of random ppl =) you know that saying 3’s a crowd but 4’s a party!!!! lol…anyways i want 2 gain alot of chums so post lots of thoughtsis!!!!

DOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <--- just actin random again ^_^ haha…adios!!!!!

hugs and poptarts,

* ~th@ SyMb0L oF d00m~*


Every E Has Its Day: Lipogrammatic grid

Univocalic hints:


1. Welt
5. He/she preceders (2 wds.)
9. Demented jester crew's preferred refreshment
14. Mercedes crest, e.g.
15. 1970 Bee Gees theme
16. ___ feet (when we feel better) (2 wds.)
17. Men-___ (shell-prepped vessels)
18. Tenement
19. Re-meet
20. Rejected...
22. ...letters...
24. 52-wk. spells
25. Sextet letter set, less E
26. Perec's E-less screed (2 wds.)
29. Reverses deg. (2 wds.)
33. Lewd deeds
34. Perch
35. Element #73 wedge (2 wds.)
36. Expert
37. Senseless checks, e.g.
38. "Er"s
39. Pee center letters?
40. Green pet
42. Elses
43. Ell
44. ...fetter...
46. Yens
47. Scent
48. Jeep, e.g.
49. Seeded NFL crew's next step? (3 wds.)
52. Ferment
56. Nether crescent (2 wds.)
57. Defense serv. w/jets
59. Revert
60. Net effect: better peepers
61. Leg. sentence seeker (2 wds.)
62. K-12 gps.
63. Evergreen breeds
64. Lentz & Jensen
65. Terence's resplendent spheres


1. Entente
2. 1803 sell (ex-French settlement)
3. Ejected HFCs, e.g.
4. "___ the new 30" (2 wds.)
5. Vexes
6. Perth-bred TV presenter
7. Deserter?
8. "The beer-belter's here!" (2 wds.)
9. V=lwh, e.g. (pl.)
10. Deep cleft, e.g. (2 wds.)
11. Teen's tweet?
12. Fleece
13. "Where" enders
21. Reg.
23. Teen peeps
25. Emmet
26. Gelled eggs, e.g.
27. Ceres' emblem
28. 08d 35' 22" N 149d 39' 37" E
29. Help
31. Specter's verb
32. Wretches (street speech)
34. Blessed beetle
37. Where express wheels speed? (2 wds.)
38. Ewer
41. NYC Greek scene
42. Shell's wells expel these sleek jets
43. Pre-PE stretches
45. KMT gen.
46. 1st Chechen ___
48. Sleeve ends
49. Self-centered behests
50. Severe elements gp.
51. Sept's beer vessel
52. ...speech!
53. "...egge them ___...repent them" (2 wds.)
54. Esteemed celeb
55. Debt
58. ___der web


Do it digitally on xwordapp


Groucho Marx, comic prodigy: Originals

Holy matrimony is a fantastic institution, but who wants to occupy an institution?

This morning I shot a gorilla in my pajamas. How it got in my pajamas, I don’t know.

I can call to mind anybody's mug, for you I'll draw a blank.

Politics is an art - that of looking for worry, finding it throughout, diagnosing it wrongly, and applying unfit solutions.

I find TV highly cultivating. If anybody turns it on, I go to a far room and pick out a book.

I’ll turn down any club that would allow my joining.


[WARNING: NSFW--Nasty Symbol Found Within]

Where's the beef, gents & wenches? Tee-hee! Heed me: FreeTheLetterE represents the E-eschewer's hell!  

See these sentences? "E"-centered, yes? We never remember the letter's precedence, except when free speech emerges enfettered. "Prevent perverted text! Seems these clever yet needless screeds perplex the senses, then hence engender senselessness," the selfless he/she beseeches me. "We revere the neglected letters. Reject extreme checks, let the preferred letter-set effect effervescent speech!" Well, these sentences wrest respect, yes? Lest deserted letters (elsewhere sheltered -- secret reserve) never reemerge -- lest the spell never be reversed -- express deference, express esteem! Delve new repressed depths, less deterred -- breed perfect text excellence! (between the sheets? Heh.) The end.


A Story of Two Towns by Chuck Dicks (introductory paragraph): Original

Days of lofty highs, days of worst lows: it was a turn of wisdom, it was a turn of absurdity, it was an occasion of faith, it was an occasion of doubt, it was a span of Light, it was a span of Dark, it was a spring of optimism, it was an autumn of anguish, all of us had all things in front of us, all had nothing in front of us, all would go straight to a paradisiacal land, all would go in a contrasting way—in short, this span was so far similar to now, that a handful of its most clamorous officials would insist on its induction, for good or for bad, by an outstanding amount of comparison only.

Star Wars: Part V (word crawl): Original


It is dark days for our uprising. Although Doom-Star is in ruin, Royal troops flush out mutinous squads from hiding, pursuing all across this galaxy.

Avoiding an imposing Royal Star-Armada, a group of opposition combatants, following Lucas Skywalk's command, forms a hush-hush outpost on a distant, icy world known as Hoth.

Villianous lord Darth Vador, stubbornly trying to find young Skywalk, now hurls forth thousands of probing bots into all galactic tracts...

Star Wars: Part VI (word crawl): Original


Lucas Skywalk visits again his birth world of Tatooin in a bid to spring his companion Han Solo from that foul Hutt thug Jabba’s grasp.

But unknown to Lucas, construction starts on a mighty orbital attack station by that GALACTIC DOMINION who built Doom-Star I, with an assault capacity surpassing its first incarnation.

If fully built, this utmost tool of doom will signal total annihilation for that small band of opposition warriors struggling to bring back autonomy to this galaxy…

Star Wars: Part III (random dialog): Original

"I fail you, Anakin, I fail you."

"How could I not know you knights had plans of taking control?!"

"Anakin, Councilman Palpatin is immoral!"

"From my way of looking at things, your kind act immoral!"

"If so, you stand lost!"

"This is your doom, my instructor."

Star Trip (intro narration): Original

Cosmos: Our final unknown. This lays out our campaigns on a starship known as NCC-1701. Its continuing mission: to study unusual worlds, to look for original organisms and civilizations, to boldly go to locations no man has trod.

Matrix (random dialog): Origin

This is your last opportunity. Following this, it’s no turning back. You swallow this cobalt pill - our story wraps up with you waking on your futon, supposing what you may. You swallow this crimson pill - you stay in Fairyland and I show you how far this rabbit-burrow spans.

I know of you. I am conscious of you now. I know of your dismay…your dismay about us. Afraid of anything changing. I don’t know what coming days may hold. I’m not saying how this will finish. I’m saying how it will start. I’m going to hang up, and I’m going to show folks what you don’t want shown. A world without you. A world without laws and controls, without voids or constraints. A world in which anything is a possibility. Our following act is of your own choosing.

Introductory blurb for wiki on "Lipogram:" Original


Also: Writing constraint

A lipogram is a kind of writing constraint or word play consisting of writing paragraphs (or works surpassing a typical paragraph's word count) with a goal of avoiding a particular symbol or group of symbols—usually a common non-consonant, and customarily that symbol which is most common in an Anglic lingua franca. Classical Doric and Ionic works avoiding sigma stand as prototypical lipograms.

Writing a lipogram is possibly a trivial task if avoiding uncommon symbols such as Z, J, Q, or X, but it is particularly difficult to avoid common symbols such as fifthglyph, T, or A, as an author must omit many ordinary words. Composition of grammatically significant and smooth-flowing lipograms is usually difficult. Classifying lipograms can also stand as a tricky task, taking into account a possibility of an unwittingly lipogrammatic work. As illustration, Frost's rhythmical composition Nothing Gold Can Stay contains no Z, but nobody has found any proof that this was fortuitous.

A pangrammatic lipogram is a block of words using all symbols of an ABC bank, minus a solitary glyph. As illustration, "This quick brown fox did jump in vain atop a lazy dog" omits fifthglyph, which this pangram usually contains.


V for V-nd-tta (V's introductory oration): Original

Voilà! In your vision, an unassuming vodvillian virtuoso, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by divinity's will. This individual, hardly harboring a varnishing of vanity, is a vaporous ghost of our vox populi, now vacant, vanishing long ago. But this valorous visitation of a lost aggravation stands with vigor, and vows to vanquish avaricious and vitriolic varmints vanguarding villainy and vouchsafing a vigorously vicious and voracious violation of volition. No vacillating; I hold only a vying for vindicta as holy victual, not in vain, for its valuation and validity shall in distant days act as vindication for a vigilant and virtuous public. Obviously, this vori vori of voluminous vocalization is divagating most volubly, so allow my simply adding that it is my vastly good honor to run into you, and you may call yours truly V.

Going astray: V's oration with a fifthglyph focus

'Ello! In eyesight, a humble expert of entertainment, cast empathetically as both easy mark and enemy by the erratic essence of fate. This expression, no mere exterior of egotism, is an echo of the electorate, now empty, evaporated. However, this expectant entrance of a by-gone exasperation stands energized, and has engaged to exterminate these exploitative and endemic earwigs engendering evil and enabling the extraordinarily excessive and edacious encroachment of entitlement. The only edict is an evening of score; an enmity, held in earnest, not emptily, for the estimation and exactness of such shall one day exonerate the eagle-eyed and the ethical. Evidently, this emulsion of expansive expression edges toward the euphuistic, so let me simply add that it is my extremely good honor to meet you, and you may call me E.

Infamy Oration by FDR: Original

This past day, 12/07/1941 – a day which will last in infamy – our country was abruptly and willfully struck by naval and air units from Japan’s dominion.

This country was not at war with that nation and, at Japan’s solicitation, was still in talks with its administration and its monarch looking toward a continuation of amity in Pacific tracts. In fact, a singular hour following bombing in Oahu by Japan’s air squadrons, Japan’s U.S. ambassador and his assistant brought to our Dignitary of Diplomacy a formal communication apropos of ours, from not long ago, to Japan. Although this communication said that it looks impractical to maintain ongoing diplomatic discussions, it did not contain any warning or hint of war or attack.

Japan’s location from Hawaii obviously shows that this attack was consciously thought out many days or possibly months ago. During this span Japan’s political authority has willfully sought to trick our country by fictitious proclamations and voicing of aspirations for continuing concord.

Last day’s attack on our Hawaiian Islands has brought about major havoc to U.S. naval and military units. Many of our nation’s compatriots lay cut down and slain. In addition information is coming in announcing bombing of U.S. ships in aquatic locations amidst San Francisco and Honolulu.

This past day Japan’s administration would also launch attacks against Malaya. Last night found Japan’s troops attacking Hong Kong. Last night found Japan’s troops attacking Guam. Last night found Japan attacking Asia’s Filipino Islands. Last night found Japan attacking Wayk Island. This morning found Japan attacking Midway Island.

Japan is, accordingly, carrying out ambush tactics throughout a Pacific vicinity, with facts of this prior day showing obvious animus. U.S. inhabitants, having by now drawn opinions, fully grasp any implications to our nation’s survival and inviolability.

As topmost commandant of our Army and Navy, I am arranging that all actions vital for our guard occur.

Thinking back on today will always bring to mind this onslaught against us. Surmounting such an invasion may loom as a long and difficult task, but our country’s virtuous might will win through to total victory.

I trust I fathom our lawmaking council’s and our own population’s will in proclaiming that this country will not only guard its lands against attack, but will avow that this form of disloyalty shall not hazard us again.

Hostility subsists. Nobody can dismiss this fact: Our public, our land, and our affairs risk crisis.

With faith in our military – with untold conviction of our civilians – this nation will indisputably find triumph – may God avail us.

I ask that our lawmaking council affirm that from Japan’s initial dastardly attack on Sunday, a condition of war stands among our U.S.A. and Japan’s dominion.


Patrick Pippy's picking a pack of prickly plums. A pack of prickly plums will Patrick Pippy pick. If Patrick Pippy picks a pack of prickly plums, point out that pack of prickly plums that Patrick Pippy picks.

Shia shills shrill skills by a still shoal. Shia’s skill at shrill shilling is soon a shoo-in. For if Shia shills shrill skills by a still shoal, A shoo-in soon is Shia’s shilling for his shrill skills.


obnoxiously participating in a quad-monthly translation trial:

“Seems,” peeress? Blech! Trewth! Reject “seems.”
These elements, excellent begetter -
The preferred jet vestments,
Stressed wheezes,
The peeper’s well-fed creek,
The self’s dejected presence,
The wretched temper’s scheme -
Ne'er reflect me perfect. These well “seem,”
Yet be mere scenes men present.
Yet me? The tenderness exceeds pretense;
These be regret's ensemble members thence.


Day 7, Month 10, 2003: Arnold You-Know-Who is pick for California gov.

On this day in 2003, actor Arnold Schwarz. wins gov'ship of California, USA's most populous district which ranks fifth in worldly financial output. Although lacking a political background, Arnold wound up on top in a 77-day campaign to supplant Gray Davis. Davis is now that country's first gov. to go through a dismissal of position through popular voting, counting from 1921. Arnold was among 135 ballot aspirants, including politicians, actors, and an adult-film star.

Day 19, Month 10, 1781: Victory at Yorktown

Totally cut off at Yorktown, Virginia, British Army administrator Lord Cornwallis submits to a substantial Franco-Colonial battalion, capitulating 8,000 British troops and sailors, unofficially bringing a conclusion to war.

Lord Cornwallis was a highly skillful commandant throughout this war, driving Washington's Patriots troops out of NJ in 1776, and in 1780 winning a stunning victory at South Carolina. His following invasion of North Carolina did not find as much triumph, though, and in April 1781 Cornwallis trod on toward Virginia's coast with his worn out and hard-hit troops. From this spot, Cornwallis could maintain Atlantic paths of communication with Clinton's full British army in NY City.

Upon conducting a string of raids against towns and plantations in Virginia, Cornwallis dug in at Yorktown in August, fortifying it and an abutting promontory across York's tributary.

Washington told Marquis Lafayatt, who was in Virginia with a colonial army of around 5,000 troops, to block Cornwallis by land. Coinciding with this, Washington's 2,500 troops in NY would join with a Gallic army of 4,000 individuals junior to Count Rochambau. Washington and Rochambau had plans to attack Cornwallis with aid from a significant Gallic navy which Count Grassi was commanding, and on August 21 would cross Hudson's tributary to march south to Yorktown. This coalition would cross 200 mi. in 15 days.

As this was occurring, a British armada of Admiral Thomas Grayvs' found it could not rout Gallic naval domination. This would rob Cornwallis of additional support.

Within a month's passing, Grassi would transport Washington and Rochambau's troops to Virginia via its bay, at which point said troops, along with Lafayatt, would finish surrounding Yorktown. During that following month's first fortnight, 14,000 Franco-Colonial troops gradually won out against British positions with aid from Grassi's warships. A British armada carrying 7,000 individuals sought to bail out Cornwallis, but took too long to show up.


No R, S, T, L, N, or you-know-what (with thanks to u/rfleming for "Ava"):

Wow, 6/26 (~23%) of my ABC "MVP" co. go away, MIA—do I boo-hoo much? Uh-uh! I box, I buck, I go, "Fuck you, oh hog of a void" w/a cocky maw. Yup, my maw v. a void, & void = mum. "You dim, dumb, void!" I add, cuz I'm of a good mood. (huzzah!) Okay, good idiom...good idiom...hmm, a mo if you may? Okay, Q: bad idiom = "bad food" of a "good book?" You hip? Gawk my quip:

Adam & Ava—you duo who did chomp a "bad food" amid God. If you pick bad food—a mac, a fig, guava?—you pick doom...& mayhap pick up ophidiophobia, copy? Ha, ha...ha. Huh? Oh. I pick doom: Madam, I'm Adam. X off 6/26? Much 2 much. A fuck-up, a goof A-Z. My yucky idiom = bad food, bad juju. I do boo-hoo. Babyhood —> boyhood —> big guy —> fogy —> bug food, via a mad God. "How good of you Ava, you who had a faux bough-chum,” I mock. By & by, I jump off a high body quaff'd by a void. Dam'd.


No T, N, A, I, O, or you-know-what:

Fully usurp 6/26 glyph MVPs? Yuck! Why such glum, dumb curbs? Why cull such glyphs? Schmuck! Churl! U suck! Us suck! (j/k. Why cry? By & by, u crush dull lulls w/ur,'s bluff? Sly blurbs duly fly.)

K, drum up plump & burly glyph-clumps...plump & burly glyph-clumps...uh, "sulfhydryl!" (huh?) Hmm..."gypsy!" Um...fuck. K. My crummy skull=cumulus fluff, 0% full. Yup, my surplus luck's "Us'd" up. Ur glyph gulf slurps & burps; my bulk succumbs. Bury my husk, my mummy? My mummy'll jus' lurch up & rub ur hussy mum's jugs. j/k? Hyuk-hyuk!

[That was hard. Sorry about that gratuitous barb about your mom, OP]

A then E then I then O then U.

What an anal craftsman that can hatch a damn hard madcap grammar law! "A"s that start as hallmark stars fast appall. Well, see these sentences? "E"-centered, yes? We never remember the letter's precedence, except when free speech emerges enfettered. I find inhibiting writing is tiring. Still, I'll risk this limit gimmick. I'll fight with livid might till nihilistic fright which instills dim thinking is nigh. So go on, for too soon do floods of word monsoons blow low on cool brows, to doom moods of gloom from word po-po. Oh no, don't sob, poor hog! Yup, sup up surplus luck, plus shut up such bluffs. Truth: Dumbstruck much? Humbug. /huffs, puffs; usurps chumps; burps up smug guff :/


Bathroom thought: Stopping at traffic lights is akin to having to sit through TV ads.

Topic: What's your go-to fast food joint?

Taco Ding-Dong for this guy. Soo tasty, I just can’t grow sick of it. Okay, so I admit it's about six basic fixings combining in a thousand various ways, but still. My #1 pick at that chain is its pollo burrito. Mmm, saucy ranch avocado bliss, yummy. Chalupa's good too, with its pillowy fry-dough.

And allow my saying right now: Nasty rumors and myths of "ass-plosions" don’t hold up to scrutiny, saving if your stomach's constitution is about on par with a baby's. Oh, and Chilpoctli can suck it. Can't stand cilantro, and I say no thanks to food poisoning. I know how popular it is, though...down-arrows incoming?

Annotation (apropos of a participant writing, "I'm fond of taco ding dong also. My most common pick is its milk-curdy gordita crunch [its spicy ranch is boss], but I'll go for a spicy tostada any day, as long as I load it up with hot liquid first."):

Aw yiss that spicy saucy liquid must run through my blood by now to a warm pumping chalupa of an organ*, its anticipatory thumps tickling my potato-Stuft® brain with burritoful thoughts.

*of a cardiac sort. This is a PG analogy so I won't start up with any talk of sour dairy product, thank your stars.

Topic: What occurs in your fav film?

I'll sum up a trinity of my sci-fi favs, all popular, so not too hard to work out:
  • Harrison Ford is a cop who hunts illicit androids in a futuristic LA. But what's that origami unicorn signify...?
  • A group of astronauts go through a cosmic portal to look for a world humanity can claim as its own. (Also: two total brobots assist our protagonists, Matt Damon blows stuff up, and dust talks.)
  • A black monolith looms as Also sprach Zarathustra booms.

Topic: That spooky holiday coming up...What do you guys do (if anything!) for this spoopy occasion?

I'll sit in my condo with lights off and pray nobody shows up. Ain't got no candy for you!

gnaws at his Twix bar

Topic: My board of glyphs has lost its fifth glyph so I'm in a bit of a hard situation. And not good at doing this. I ask for support from you pros to aid through this tough crisis. Talking is now awful. Can you impart common words for my usability?

Don't worry, you still got tons of common words to pick from!
  • mussitation
  • phonocamptic
  • discombobulation
  • pronk
  • floccinaucinihilipilificationa

Topic: Companions of AVoid5, Christmas is nigh. Any particular traditions you would want to divvy?

Nothing fancy. Putting on that ol' Santa suit, drinking too much, singing off-pitch carols to nobody in particular, shouting and cursing at kids, attacking Christmas firs for imaginary slights against my honor (crushing many a child's gift in doing so), passing out and waking up in a pool of crusty vomit, possibly in know, just your basic sort of traditions. Ah, Christmas magic. I can't wait.

Book of FifthGlyph 5:26:

"Thou shalt not commit masochism in thy translations, or thou wilt maintain thy sanity not. Didst thou fully think this through, bro?"

On a proposal to mods that "Contributors of this board with posting IDs without that fifth glyph should display an idiosyncratic flair on posts in this subforum:"

Oh, just nifty. How about contrary to that, mods put a kind of mark by login IDs of AV-oids that do contain fifthglyph? You know, to sort such individuals out. Possibly, I dunno, a star? You glyphist. X(

/Godwin's law
/Po-'s Law
/Col-slaw (what, I'm hungry.)

Topic: What land division of this world do you guys inhabit?

I'm from a land of 10,000 ponds, abutting Canada. Twins and Vikings land. Origin of Mayo Clinic and 3M. Famous for a "Juicy Lucy" sandwich. And no, most of us don't talk as you saw actors in Fargo talk.

Topic: What do you think of this particular song? (A univocalic villain attacks, part III)

These verses seem excellent. Decedent Perec expresses cheer, we deem. He tells well the present messes re: severe letter check stresses. The sheer nerve sends trembles neck-deep. Cheers!
Writings from r/AVoid5
A big old compilation, updating as I go.
At Mountains of Mania:

A lipogrammatic adaptation of a popular story by H.P. <3craft, writ without that glyph which sits fifth in our ABCs


I must talk, for champions of natural philosophy and scholarship spurn my dissuasions without knowing why. It is wholly against my will that I lay out my motivations for opposing this notional antarctic invasion—with its vast fossil-hunt and its mass boring and thawing of icy cap—and I am withal unwilling as my warning may turn out in vain. Doubt of actual facts which I must affirm is not surprising; but if I withhold what will sound absurd and outlandish, I will find no surplus of words. Photographs both on land and from air, damnably vivid and graphic and until now hid, will count in my favor. Still, such photographs will spawn doubt owing to what ambit cunning doctoring can hold. Ink drawings will indubitably find scorn as obvious frauds; notwithstanding an unfamiliarity of craftsmanship which art aficionados ought to think and brood on.

By and by I must count on what wisdom and standing is had by such scholars who on this hand, show satisfactory autonomy of thought to study my data on its own horribly convincing worth or in light of particular primordial and highly baffling myths; and on that hand, hold satisfactory sway to daunt a probing world from any rash and too-avid program within domain of such mountains of mania. It is a sad fact that fairly unknown individuals such as my assistants and I, with links only to a small school, can hardly wish to impact affairs of a wildly fantastic or highly dubious quality.

Also against us is that nobody among us, strictly talking, is an authority in what bailiwicks would primarily crop up as apropos. As a rock analyst my goal in guiding our Miskatonic Univ. group was wholly that of acquiring far-down samplings of rock and soil from various parts of Antarctica, with aid from an astounding drill thought up by our Prof. Frank H. Pabody. I had no wish to stand out as a vanguard in any disciplinary branch but this; but I was hoping that utilisation of this original tool at particular points along prior paths would bring to light samplings of a sort thus far undug by ordinary ways of drilling. Pabody's apparatus, as is known publicly from our accounts, was singular and radical in its mass, portability, and capacity to marry an ordinary hydrostatic drilling approach with that of a small circular rock drill in such a way as to quickly dispatch strata of varying solidity. It had an iron-carbon alloy tip, rods with joints, gas motor, collapsing wood hoist, dynamiting kit, cording, rubbish-discharging bit, and piping for boring half a foot across and up to 1000' down, all forming, with accompanying trappings, a load not surpassing what four six-dog toboggans could carry; this thanks to most parts consisting of an aluminum alloy. Four big Fairchild aircraft, with modifications for coping with antarctic summits in addition to gas-warming and quick-starting contraptions by Pabody, could transport our party from our camp on a vast floating platform to various inland points, and from such points a sufficing quota of dogs would assist us.

Our plan was to cross through as big a locality as climatic conditions would allow, working mostly in mountain-chains and on that high plain south of Ross Bay; lands trod in varying amounts by Cuffton, Aghmund, Scott, and Byrd. With continual shifts of camp by aircraft, involving spans so long as to qualify as topographically significant, all of us had anticipations of digging up uncommonly good amounts of soil; particularly in proto-Cambrian strata of which so narrow an array had prior antarctic sampling brought up. Our party would also look to obtain as many fossil-containing rocks as was practical, inasmuch as this stark land's primal bio-history is of high import to a grasping of our world's past. That Antarctica was long ago warm and tropical, with abundant flora and fauna of which only fungal organisms, aquatic animals, arachnida, and antarctic birds subsist, is common information; and our goal was to amplify that information in variation, accuracy, and particulars. If a straightforward boring was to show signs of fossils, our party would blast into this shaft for sampling.

I would limit our borings, going down as far as topmost soil or rock would allow, to bald land—usually sloping rims, as any strata down from this was too thick with icy solids. It was not worth it to drill into any substantial amount of glaciation, though Pabody did work out a plan for sinking gold conductors into borings and liquifying such icy solids with DC from a gas-run dynamo. It is this plan—which was impractical for our party to carry out apart from a trial basis—that this coming Starmont-Muir outing wants to follow, ignoring my warnings upon our arrival back from Antarctica.

Our Miskatonic trip is publicly known through many accounts to Arkham Journal and AP, and through Pabody's columns plus my own. It was four of us from Miskatonic Univ.—Pabody, Pond of our biology division, Atwood of our physics division (also a climatologist), and I having nominal command—in addition to 16 assistants; 7 Miskatonic alumni and 9 machinists. Of this group of 16, 12 could pilot aircraft, and all but two could work a radio. Six had a grasp of navigation with compass and quadrant, as did Pabody, Atwood, and I. In addition, naturally, our two ships—wood whaling ships with modifications for icy conditions and having an auxiliary ability—had full staffing. Our trip found financing through Nathan Pickman's foundation, with aid from minor contributions; thus, although without much publicity, our planning was highly thorough. Dogs, toboggans, tools, camp goods, and aircraft parts would dispatch to Boston for loading onto our ships. Our supplying was top-notch for our particular aims, and brilliant, trailblazing pilgrims had laid out a standard for profit in affairs of transportation, camp construction, and so on. It was this unusual quantity and popularity of such pilgrims which would account for our own outing—abundant though it was—attracting minimal scrutiny.

As publications told, our launch was from Boston Harbour on Aug. 29, 1930; following a languid tack downcoast and through Panama Canal, and stopping at Samoa and Hobart, Tasmania, taking on final provisions at this last spot. Nobody in our party had laid a foot in polar lands, and thus all had to count mightily on our ship captains—J. B. Douglas, commanding our brig Arkham, and acting as commandant of our aquatic party, and Gustav Thorfinnsson, commanding our bark Miskatonic—both old hands at whaling in antarctic tracts. In sailing away from a populous world, our sun continuously sank low northwards, and day by day would stay for long durations atop a far-off horizon. At about 62° S Lat. our party saw our first glacial accumulations—slabs with upright fronts—and just prior to crossing that Antarctic Ring of Lat. (marking this occasion with suitably quaint rituals), a patch of icy buildup would turn out significantly troubling. A rising frost was doubly annoying following a long tropical jaunt, but I sought to gird my body for rigours which would surpass this. On many occasions, curious climatic actions would charm my mind; such actions including a strikingly vivid optical illusion—my first—in which distant glacial slabs would turn into bastions of fantastic cosmic fortifications.

Pushing through fortuitously thin icy buildup, our ships again found spacious pathways at S Lat. 67°, contra-W Long. 175°. On Oct. 23 a strong southward “land blink” was caught sight of at morning, and prior to noon all of us got a thrill at glimpsing a vast, lofty, and snow-clad mountain chain, sprawling out and fully canvasing our forward vista. At last, our party had found an outpost of this glorious unknown landmass and its cryptic world of snowy oblivion. Said massif was obviously that Admiralty Chain found by Ross, and it was now our task to round Adara Promontory and sail down Victoria Land's coast to our notional camp on a bank of McMurdo Sound, sitting in front of that volcano known as Arabus at S Lat. 77° 9'.

Our trip's last lap was vivid and fancy-stirring, gargantuan arid alps of mystification looming up constantly against our port flank, a low horizon-grazing southward sun of midnight or a not-as-low northward sun of noon pouring its hazy ruddy rays across pallid snow, bluish aquatic tracts, and black bits of basalt scarps. Through stark summits flung raging fitful gusts of awful antarctic wind; wind which had a rhythm occasionally holding ambiguous hints of a wild and half-conscious musical piping, with pitch across a broad gamut, sounding troubling and so much as dimly appalling on unknown grounds. It brought to mind odd and disturbing Asian paintings by Nicholas Rorikh, and portrayals of a diabolically mythical highland of Lang which occur in that angst-worthy Thanatonomicon writ by a “Mad Arab,” alias of Abdul Alhazrid. I was fairly sorry, in hindsight, that I had paid any mind at all to that monstrous book at Miskatonic's library.

On Nov. 4, with sight of that chain at cardinal point 270° transitorily lost, our ships got round Franklin Island; and with a day's passing our party could spy conoids of Mts. Arabus and Broga on Ross Island to our bow, with Mt. Parry unfolding past that. Now fanning out at cardinal point 90° was a low, chalky band of icy obstruction; rising upward of 200' in imitation of Nunavut's cliffs, and marking a finality to southward navigation. By noon our ships got to McMurdo Sound and sat off-coast to a smoking Mt. Arabus. Its scoriac summit shot up roughly 12,700' against a whitish sky, akin to a print of Japan's holy Fujiyama; rising past that was ghostly Mt. Broga to a crown of 10,900', now long dormant as a volcano. Puffs of vapour from Arabus would billow sporadically, and an alumnus assistant—Danforth, a brilliant young man—saw lava on a snowy inclination; saying that this mountain, found in 1840, was without doubt Pough's inspiration in writing of

“—what lavas do fitfully blot
With sulphurous flowings poor Yaanik
In that maximum polar-top spot—
That groan in a roll down Mount Yaanik
In a land of a polar-most spot.”

Danforth was a prolific patron of unorthodox books, talking much of Pough. I, too was curious on account of that antarctic backdrop of Pough's only long story—Arthur Gordon Pym, disturbing and cryptic. On arid bank and on faraway icy rampart, myriads of unsightly black and ivory birds would squawk and flap fins; whilst many fat “antarctic walrus” would swim or sprawl across big icy blocks, slowly drifting.

Using small boats, our party brought about a difficult landing on Ross Island around midnight on Nov. 11, carrying cabling from our two ships and arranging to unload provisions by way of a zip-cord-buoy array. Although Scott and Cuffton had prior trod this particular point, all of us had poignant and multifarious thoughts on first walking antarctic soil. Our camp on a frigid bank by volcanic scarp was only provisional; Arkham acting as command post. Our party got to landing all our drilling apparatus, dogs, toboggans, canvas yurts, food, gas tanks, prototypal thawing outfit, Kodaks for both ground and air, aircraft parts, and so on, including a trio of compact radios (apart from what was in our aircraft) that could transmit to Arkham from any part of Antarctica our group might visit. Arkham's outfit, communicating with outward civilisation, was to dispatch notifications to Arkham Journal's robust radio station at Kingsport, Mass. Our wish was to finish our work within a solitary antarctic post-spring division; but if this was impractical our party would withstand a wintry span on Arkham, with Miskatonic going north prior to glaciation for an additional post-spring's provisions.

I shall not parrot what daily publications said about our initial work: of our climbing of Mt. Arabus; our fruitful crystal borings at many points of Ross Island, singularly rapid thanks to Pabody's apparatus, with solid rock proving no match; our provisional trial run of that small thawing outfit; our hazardous scaling of broad icy wall with toboggans and stocks; and our final construction of a squadron of giant aircraft at a camp atop said wall. Our party—20 individuals and 55 Alaskan toboggan dogs—was of outstanding constitution, though naturally it so far had not had to confront any truly punishing climatic conditions. Our cold indicator would mostly vary from 0 to 20° or 25° plus, and our familiarity with Mass. frosts was apt training for rigours of this sort. Our coastal camp would act as a spot for storing gas, food, blasting sticks, and similar provisions. Only four-fifths of our aircraft had to carry actual probing tools, as a solitary Fairchild would stay with a pilot and two of our ship party to form a transport from Arkham should all our touring craft malfunction or crash. By and by, if not using all aircraft for moving apparatus, two or so would act as back and forth transportation from our stockpiling location to an additional camp on a vast highland 600 to 700 mi. southward, past Bardmoor. Notwithstanding almost unanimous accounts of appalling winds and storms that pour down from this highland, all of us would do without midway camps; chancing our luck for aims of frugality and productivity.

Radio accounts told of that stunning four-hour non-stop flight of our squadron on Nov. 18 upon lofty icy platforms, with vast summits rising on cardinal point 270°, and a profound hush vibrating to our motors' workings. Wind was only slightly troubling, and our radio compass saw us through our only fog. A vast acclivity looming in front of us, amidst Lats. 83° and 84°, told us that this was Bardmoor, a glacial canyon without rival, and that a frigid plain was now giving way to a frowning and mountainous coast. This was at last an arrival at that unaging, achromatic south-most world, and as such a fact was crystallising, our party saw Mt. Nanson's distant crown, shooting up almost 15,000'.

Formation of a south camp atop a glacial mass in Lat. 86° 7', contra-W Long. 174° 23' is by now historical, as is our uncommonly rapid borings and blastings at various points, and an arduous and triumphant climbing of Mt. Nanson by Pabody and two alumni—Gadsby and Carroll—a fortnight from Christmas. At 8500' up, trial drillings hit solid ground only 12' down through snow and frost at individual points, and so our small thawing apparatus was put to much work, with borings and dynamiting at many locations no man had prior thought to try. Proto-Cambrian granitic rock and quartz thus got was for us confirmation that this highland was homologous with a bulk of Antarctica, but varying a bit from parts lying southward of Cook Island—said parts at first thought to form a distinct landmass, though Byrd has by now shown that this notion was wrong.

In various quartz-containing rocks, upon boring, dynamiting, and cutting, was found a quantity of highly intriguing fossil markings and shards—notably vascular fronds, bits of alga, crinoids, Trilobita, and such molluscs as Lingula and Gastropoda—all significantly important in association with this land's primordial history. Also of attraction was a triangular mark of striation about a foot across which Pond had to construct from a handful of slaty shards, originating from a point in proximity of Mt. Kirkpatrick; and Pond, as a biologist, found this curious marking unusually puzzling and alluring, though in my opinion it was similar to a rippling that is common in alluvial rocks. Taking into account that any slaty rock is simply a product of a transformation involving folding of strata, and that such a folding can bring about odd distortions on any markings it may contain, I saw no justification for much puzzling on this striation.

On Jan. 3, 1931, Pond, Pabody, Danforth, all alumni, four machinists, and I took off in two of our aircraft in a bid to fly straight through Antarctica's polar tip. Luckily, an abrupt wind, transitorily forcing us down, did not turn into a typical storm. This was, as daily publications told, a first of many scouting flights to look for singular topographical traits in spots untrod by past groups. Our initial flights would pan out as disappointing in this way, though affording us glorious occasions of richly fantastic and illusory polar hallucinations, of which our trip by boat had brought us cursory hintings. Distant mountains would float in midair as a charm-rapt city panorama, and again and again this milky world in its totality would transform into a gold, gray, and crimson land of Dunsanian visions and bold anticipation by magical light of a low midnight sun. Cloudy days would disrupt our flying, owing to a proclivity for snowy ground and sky to mix into a mystical prismatic void with no horizon in sight to mark a junction.

Finally our party sought to carry out our original plan of flying 500 mi. toward cardinal point 90° with all four scouting aircraft and making an auxiliary camp on what was wrongly thought of as a minor landmass of Antarctica. Samplings got at that spot would turn out good for aims of comparison. Our vigor was still outstanding so far; citric acid satisfactorily balancing continuous rations of tins and biscuits, and conditions usually topping 0° allowing us to do without our most substantial furs. It was now mid post-spring, and with rapidity and caution all of us saw a possibility of concluding work by March, avoiding a wintry span through that long antarctic night. Many vicious windstorms had burst upon us from cardinal point 270°, but our party would avoid harm through Atwood's skill in fashioning a basic aircraft sanctuary and wind guards of solid blocks of snow, and fortifying principal camp buildings with snow. Our good luck and ability was in truth almost uncanny.

Outward civilisation, cognizant of our program, was also told of Pond's unusual and adamant urging of a trip toward Mt. Kirkpatrick prior to our radical shift to an auxiliary camp. Mulling on that triangular mark of striation, and with alarmingly radical daring, Pond saw in it particular contradictions of natural history arousing his curiosity to its utmost, and making him avid to sink additional borings and blastings in that formation in which his dug-up shards had found origin. It was his conviction that such a marking was a print of a bulky, unknown, and radically ambiguous organism of substantially futuristic Darwinian maturity, notwithstanding that that rock which bound it was of so vastly archaic a division—Cambrian if not actually proto-Cambrian—as to prohibit any biology surpassing a monadic or at most Trilobita classification. Pond's shards, odd marking and all, had to go back 500 to a thousand mya.
At Mountains of Mania - Chap. 1
I'm writing an adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft's At the Mountains of Madness without the letter e. Here's a sneak peak at the first of twelve chapters. This could take a while.


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MobiusDerp Featured By Owner May 1, 2017  New Deviant
Hi Alapanamo,
Read your story 'Lightning' and though it was fantastic! Great twist! I have to make a student film at some point in the near future and was wondering if you'd mind if i adapt it into a short screenplay giving you full credit if it gets approved for production?
alapanamo Featured By Owner 1 day ago
Go for it.
Blob123789 Featured By Owner Feb 28, 2016
You will be given full credit of course
alapanamo Featured By Owner Edited Mar 3, 2016
Look forward to it. Good luck!
Blob123789 Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2016
I'll for sure let you know when it's complete and send you a link to it. I'm excited to start production. Thanks!
Blob123789 Featured By Owner Feb 26, 2016
Hey, I just read "Stomping Grounds" on creepypasta. Amazing job! I was wondering if I could have your permission to turn it into a short film? Thanks!
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2015  Professional Writer
Thank you so much for the :+devwatch:! :iconrainbowbounceplz:
Katie-11Six Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Hi, I just read "Stomping Grounds" on Creepypasta. Congrats bro! It was an incredibly creepy poem, I haven't read to many great poem pastas but yours? Let's just say I won't be swimming in any ponds at night for the rest of my life. =D
alapanamo Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2013
High praise indeed if that's the case! Thanks for the comments.
Katie-11Six Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
No problem, all is true. =D
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