World of Warcraft®

While the rest of the Crew played a brief game of dice before their lunch break ended, Dorgot polished off his briarthorn and stranglekelp sandwich, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then pulled a pencil and a grocery receipt out of his dirty gray work shirt pocket.

For a minute he gathered his thoughts, recalling what little he could of how sonnet poems were built. Was it twelve lines or seven? Had to be seven; who ever could write 12 full lines?And they all had to rhyme. And they had to go Bum de Bum de Bum. He swung his short legs back in forth in rhythm with the Bum de Bum de Bum, swinging as hard as he was thinking. Then he put pencil to back of receipt and wrote (over the course of 10 minutes):

Her lovely eyes of color
Her hair so long and

He scratched out this first go, realizing that he'd never find 6 other words to rhyme with color. He started again and another 10 minutes later had:

Her lovely eyes so blue
Her hair so long and true
She fishes better than I do

He scratched out this second go; it just wasn't catching the Sentiment, although it did have a lovely rhythm.

He realized: This was much harder work than it appeared. He didn't even know what color her eyes WERE, and had to use a poetic license that he was pretty sure either was expired or (more likely) he didn't even have.

There had to be another way, for a not quite illiterate orc to express an interest in someone else. Of the female sort. Who may or may not know and reciprocate some, um, interest.

Maybe there was a teacher who could help him? Or perhaps there was a business that specialized in writing sentiments down on paper for people? Now That sounded like a shop you might could find, either in the goblin slums or in the elf city. Dorgot decided he'd swing by the slums after work and plan a weekend trip to Silvermoon City after that. Maybe ask around the Crew; see if any of the guys knew of, or had heard of, such a place.

Noticing that the dice game was winding up, Dorgot quickly stuffed the receipt in his pant's pocket. This was not something he wanted the guys to know about, not yet. He'd have to be real careful asking them about the Sentimental Shop place. Maybe he'd say his brother was on the outs with his wife and needed to make up. Yeah, that would do the trick.

((I was scared to open this thread, but it made me laugh. :D ))

((CC needs more poets. *nods*))

Several days later, Dorgot pulled a crumbled sheet out of his pocket, unscrunched it, and deliberated. It wasn’t as polished or purty like what he’d read in books. Someone else could surely write a better piece but this, well, he was pleased, not elated, but pleased, with this bit of his own writing.

He paced the room then went to the kitchen to pour and drink a big glass of water. He paced some more.

Then Dorgot pulled his pack to his side of the table, opened it and extracted the notebook that he’d purchased at the stationery store. Taking a deep breath (and the new pen he’d purchased as well), he transcribed his poem from the sheet (that he’d crumbled and almost thrown away) onto the first page in the fresh new book.

The secret life of Dorgot began.

The Pine Tree

A tree, with a hollow in its trunk, stood by a stream.
The wind blew its top, the stream wet its toes.
The hole was filled by neither the wind nor the water.

Squirrels and birds visited the tree,
Yet none built a nest in the hole.
None called it home.