Whose pen am I holding?

JunkMonkey said:
Bingo! I was starting to think I was the only person who still read van Vogt.
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I cut my SF teeth on Van Vogt after finding a stray copy of Voyage of the Space Beagle around the age of 12 or 13. Will always have a soft spot for him.
 
Peter V said:
Will probably have to throw it open due to time (and inspiration) constraints
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Just to keep things going:

A Sparrow lit -- upon my Grave
And sang -- a single Word
But I -- was restless -- as a Wave
And so -- I never heard
And then the Light -- eternal Spark
Sank deep -- into the Earth
And I -- with empty Eye -- grown dark
Knew all -- the sounds of Birth
 
Prince Engelbert awoke when it was dark, which worked well for him because in the dark no one could see the horrible disfigurements that had claimed his face from a young age. It was hard to tell which part of Engelbert was uglier, his face or his mind. His face bore the scars of inbreeding, but it was only one act of a three ring circus where center stage was his horrible mind (This was after circuses). His mind was a honed blade when it came to scheming and outthinking those he considered his enemies, which included a great many people. Engelbert had one of the great tactical minds of all time, and it had served him well both at war and at court. For instance...

Me again. What follows is page after page of Vandaagmaan giving examples of the rapier-sharp wit of ol' Engelbert as he outthinks his opponents both on the battlefield and in the boardroom. It is, to put it bluntly, quite boring. Sixty-seven pages of Vandaagmaan's classic satire, poking fun at Engelbert even as he supposedly extolls his virtues. Needless to say, this would have gone way over my head at ten years old.
 
If you want to know the truth, this whole craziness business started on the bus. I was on my way to play tennis with Elaine Greer, a girl who had these terrible braces and glasses but who was a real person, not one of these phonies you see walking around everywhere. She was a good tennis player, too. She really was.

Anyway, I was on this bus in my new tennis shoes and new tennis shorts and new tennis racquet and all, thinking I was really something, when this old bum got on the bus. I looked at his dirty coat and all, and I felt like he was thinking I was some kind of big snob. I really did. So I got off the bus at the next stop, leaving my stupid new tennis racquet right on the seat next to this old bum, and I ran. I ran until I couldn't run anymore.

There was this park full of little kids playing and screaming and all, and I stood there watching them. I wanted to grab them and hold them tight and tell them to stay little kids and not grow up into phonies and snobs. I just wanted them to play and scream and all forever. I really did. Then it got late, and the little kids' mothers took them home, staring at me like I was some old bum who shouldn't be looking at their little kids. So I just stood there, until the sun went down and this cop came and took me home. He was a real person, not some phony who thought his uniform made him God or something. He really was. So that's what happened, and I had to call Elaine and tell her I was sorry, but I could hardly talk because I just kept thinking about those little kids and the old bum and all. I really did.
 
I will throw this open if I may. Struggling with both work load and inspiration, sorry
 
Okay, I'll give it another go to keep the ball rolling.



La Rochelle is a charming French seaport located on the Bay of Biscay. It was also once home to the Knights Templar; that is until their fleet set sail in the Autumn of 1307, never to be seen again. However there still remain the ruins of a large Templar preceptory, a fact not lost on Professor Johnson when choosing the destination for his annual sojourn.

Having arrived safely and unpacked his luggage, he hired a bicycle and made his way through the old part of the town and along the Rue des Templiers to the gateway of the ruined preceptory. Looking up at the stone archway in the fading daylight, he could just about make out the faded inscription on the keystone: In Hoc Signo Vinces. "In this sign though shalt conquer" he mumbled to himself, and as he did so a gleam caught his eye.

The last rays of the dying sun had ensnared a metallic object wedged into the stonework above the letter 'S' in the inscription. Determined to investigate further, Johnson carefully placed his bicycle against the archway and proceeded to climb onto the frame and thence onto the saddle. Balanced precariously thus, and with one arm outstretched, he just about managed to grab the object and put it into his pocket before a voice came seemingly out of nowhere "Can I help you my son?"
 
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