Announcing the Return of the Carol Challenge! After some brainstorming with Leah, we decided upon a more efficient method of running this thread; starting in November, and posting a carol a week.

What is it? Every week I'll post a Christmas Carol. Your job is to write a short story, poem, drabble, or other literary creation based off of it. How you interpret it is completely up to you. You can find examples on last year's challenge thread.

I know, it's November, and you all have your NaNo novels to work on. But not everyone has a Nano novel, and sometimes you need to take a break and work on something short and sweet and different. So hop to it!

Your challenge this week is: O Come, All Ye Faithful

I like this challenge!

I just whipped up a sestina. I don't know how good it is, but please enjoy!

Come Nearer, Come Very Near

Come, come the wind seemed to whisper
As the wise men trudged on.
Urging them to continue on their journey
To see the ultimate reward.
They knew they must be near,
For a strange night ‘twas.

Nearly a year ago ‘twas
When these men would whisper
Late at night on when the Christ child would be near.
Now these wise men trudge on
Carrying a vast reward
Towards the King of the Jews, the reason for their journey.

Little did they know that others also had made the journey;
What a strange first night ‘twas.
Watching sheep for a small reward,
Shepherds suddenly heard a whisper.
An angel appeared and told them it was time to move on.
These shepherds marveled as a host of angels appeared to them so near.

“Come nearer, come very near.”
The young woman welcomed the strangers, “Come and end your journey.”
The wise men responded with a question, “What can we put our gifts on?”
A man and the young woman showed them ‘twas
Best to lay the gifts on the hay softy, and said they needed to whisper.
A baby in a trough awoke and looked at them; the men saw their reward.

“Now for the little King’s reward!”
And the wise men opened the gifts that were near.
Gold, frankincense, and mur appeared, causing the mother to whisper.
This was the end of their journey,
And a wonderful ending ‘twas.
But as the men left, they thought of something and it they acted on.

Their knees the men fell on,
And there they received a great reward.
A new, powerful, and wonderful experience ‘twas,
To be to the Christ child so near,
Worshiping and adoring him after their long journey.
To him soft words did they whisper.

The man and women together stood near
And also thought of their journey.
All the while, the wind continued to say, “Come, come,” in a whisper.

*subscribes* You should have told me you started this thread, Katie! *shakes scolding finger*

I... meant to. But you weren't around that day and then... things happened. And other things. and stuff. And I sort of forgot.

Anyway, you found it now.

Heehee. I also discovered you mentioned it in the letter I just got in the mail.

*pokes thread* How soon can I expect a new challenge?

*grumbles*

*has been meaning to do this*

*will catch up after the holiday week*

*forgot about this*



*meant to post a new challenge Monday*

Um, um, um.... How about this?

Jingle Bells

I'm so doing this when I get a chance...

Okay. Sounds good. I'll work on it during the break.

I'm still trying to see how this is related to the challenge myself. It references bells once, but that's it. The idea came from the song though, so...

It's the reference to the sleigh ride.
I love it. It's very pretty.

I love this! *subscribes to topic* Will come back when I have a better idea!

Ohhh! This looks fun! BELL CAT TIME~!

Would it be enough to name my character Jingle?



Yes... I like cats. *meow*

Thanks, Jaynin.

Go ahead, Seabird. The reference can be as direct or indirect as you want it to be.

Well, here is my short story.

Its called Jingle meets the Newbloods. Enjoy!

“Who? Who are you?” Jingle questioned. His splothed black and white pelt quivered as the figures crept out from behind old crates, the dumpster, and the ally beyond. The scent of stale blood and something sweet stuck to his mouth.
One of the cats approched him, her icy green eyes narrowed and glowing in the dark night, save a few streetlights pouring dirty light a ways off. She gave no hint of expression besides this as she spoke in a feminie yet athorative voice.
“We,” She paused, “Are the Newbloods.” The she-cat stepped closer, dog’s teeth now clearly visible on her soft, brown paws. “And you are on our territory.”
He bristled. “The streets have never belonged to anyone! Bloodclan is dead! Either you are dumber than a pigeon or you have gone competly mad!” Since when did this young tortiseshell think that she owned this place?
She responded, her voice just as calm, annoying the heck out of him. “Bloodclan was never dead. But you will be soon.” She flicked her tail. A white tom with equally cold green eyes was suddenly standing next to the she-cat. “I suggest you run.”
He did, but not for the reason they thought he did. Jingle ran down the street and when he found what he was looking for, he locked on his target. Amber eyes narrowed, he pounced at the brick wall and then jumped back, springing over his pursuer.
Skidding to a halt on the asplalt and a smirk grin on his face, he unsheathed his claws. When the white tom turned to face him, he got a fistful of sharp claws. He drew back screeching and ears flattened.
Not far off, the rest of the Newbloods were watching the battle. This newcomer was quite the show, dashing out of harm’s way again and again, while delivering nasty blows and letting out furious screeches of fury. Something about it probbed the leader of the group however, irritating her like a stubborn flea.
“I’ll take care of him myself.” One of the cats in the gloom came up to her, a thin and lithe black she-cat, her blue eyes sparkling.
“Vine, I’m sure that Toad is fine. Let him be.”
“Stand down Iris,” she ordered, her pupils slits. She obliged, her head down and ears flattened.
The Newblood’s leader, Vine, stalked over to the fight where Jingle and Toad were clawing at each other’s pelts, anger within their eyes. Without as much as a yowl she lunged at the amber eyed tom, slashing his shoulders.
Jingle hissed and drew back. There are too many of them... He ran off at the quickest of speed in the opposite direction. But I’ll be back... I’ll be a thorn in the Newblood’s side, they can count on it.
Meanwhile, Vine sat with narrowed eyes as she watched the dapple pelted tom run off. Something about this one... is different.
She flicked her ear. Her followers immedietly came to her side. “Keep your eyes out for that one. If you see or scent him, notify me,” she spoke without emotion as the Newbloods stalked into the darkest allies, shadows within the night.

*Pokes nose in* Don't expect me as regular for this challenge, but I wrote a quick, on the spot poem for Jingle Bells.

Sleigh Ride

Jingle, Jingle, the bells do tinkle,
As we ride, snow does sprinkle
Over the land, a horse’s neigh
Is muffled by laughter from the sleigh.

Pulled along by horses fast
We forget the worries from the past,
As joy is spread, and laughter shed,
Decorated with colors, green and red.

A merry night, nothing amiss,
Faster we go, and fall into bliss.
Friends and family, by my side,
We all enjoy a sleigh ride.

~Azlyn Rose

*applauds*
Very well done, Azlyn!

Once again I didn't get to it... Maybe now that I'm ahead on my Nano rather than behind...

Anyway! The carol I'm posting today is a very special one. It's doubtful that anyone else will have heard it before. It's in a Christmas sheet music book we have, and it became one of our favorites once we found it. It deserves better than this obscurity.

Ring Out, Ye Wild and Merry Bells

Find the link, and there's sheet music and MIDIs to be had for all.If anyone wants the actual piano version, contact me and I'll send it to you.

Ring out, ye wild and merry bells,
Ring out the old, old story,
That first was told by angel tongues,
From out the realms of glory.
Peace on earth was their sweet song,
Glory in the highest!
Echoing all the hills away,
Glory in the highest!

Ring, sweet bells, ring ever more,
Peal from ev'ry steeple,
Christ the Lord shall be our God,
And we shall be His people.

I've heard that song! 'Tis a good one.

I've honestly never heard of that song...

Oh well. Here is my short story. Hope you like!

He took the candle, careful not to get the wax onto the parchment. "So tell me... what's so special about this? I cannot even read what is inscribed."
Another voice answered him. "You will find that being literate has it's advantages."
"You know that is impossible in my standing Yaraf. I am a blind dragon." The small creature curled his body around his master's neck.
"It's a shame your kind are crippled by such ailments but I'm sure that the Creator gave them to you for His own specific purposes."
"I only wish that He would show these to me before they take place."
The man sighed. "You will get what you seek Jangiabin. The Creator does not break his promises."
The blind dragon ruffled his feathered wings. Clinging to his master's neck like a ferret, he continued to feel the paper while giving back the spilling candle to Yaraf. "I hope you are right old man. I trust your judgment. We have had many adventures together, but I hope this is the last."
"I hope so too friend. These quests and such begin to wear down on my weary bones."
Jangiabin laughed. "Spoken like a prophet."
Yaraf laughed in return. "One might consider me a messenger from God."
"Well of course, with that attire and wise look most civilians from foreign lands would think of you as an angel."
"Yes, yes my old companion. Be still. We must get out of here without being caught."
The dragon shut his mouth and folded his wings sung against his side while Yaraf travled through the dusty archives of the palace. How dreadful that such wonderful words had to be locked up! But now, some of those ancient writings would be given back to the people of Tilin. It was a terrible shame that Lord Ribis had ordered religious papers to be locked up. What an atheist tyrant! Just because the lord didn't partake in the Truth didn't mean he had to starve Tilin of her spiritual bread.
Yafar moved through the corridors as swiftly as his old earthy body would let him. Torchlight dotted the sides of some corridors while others were pitch black. Jangiabin could tell by the heat that radiated off the fire. Speaking of heat... The small white dragon could detect heat signatures. Big ones.
"Be still!" He whispered horsely. Yafar halted. Jangiabin hopped off his neck and fluttered to the dry floor. Too dry he noted. Weren't these underground passages moist? The fact that this area was noticably drier gave him his conclusion. The dragon picked up a sizable stone next to his front paws and threw it. It hit the ground and then slipped through a trap door.
For a moment Jangiabin felt the intense heat from the pit. "Rilli pit," He commented. When something walked onto the trap-door, it would give way so that the victim fell into a lethal pit of boiling rilli nut oil. The dragon flicked his tail in disgust.
"So... Lord Ribis really doesn't want intruders here. Figures," Yafar commented.
"If I may... I would like to lead the way now."
"By all means... take us back." Jangiabin opened his wings, shook his horned head, and lifted off the ground. He followed heat signatures that matched up with sunlight, warm and comforting against his nose instead of the harsh inferno than had scorched the heat-sensing pits on his face. The walls carried a cooler temperature than the air, which made navigation quite simple. These were the times that being one of his kind was an advantage. Yafar followed from behind.
How long had it been? An hour? Two hours? A week? A month? It felt like an eternity had passed before the two finally made it out of the dank underground. A single passage had sloped upward, and Jangiabin suddenly found himself smelling trees and the soft scent of rain.
"That'll do my friend. A well done job."
"Indeed." The blind dragon flicked his tail. "Where are we?"
"Hmm... It appears that we have come out a different way than we came in. This must be a last-resort escape should the lord need to depart from his palace. I believe we are now in the woods outside the city." Jangiabin hopped back onto Yafar's shoulders.
"Then we must go back to the city and give the people these parchments. What are they anyway my good human?"
"They are songs, the manifest of worship and a balm for the aching soul."
"Then we must deliver."
"That we will my friend, that we will," the man promised with a confident voice as he strode through the forest back to the city, breaking through the fog like a terracotta mountain.

Vanya, can you do this on the Historical Fiction side, too? I'll probably be more likely to do it if it's over there. That's officially my side now.

*Pokes thread tentatively*

*headdesk*
Apparently my schedule doesn't like this quest.

But! We shall try most valiantly to keep up with it! Since I forgot last week (and this week too, incidentally,) you'll get a double choice.

1. What Child is This?
2. Do You Hear What I Hear?

*loves both of these songs*

*should listen to more Christmas music to get in the mood*

Oooh...

I'll do something on that soon. I might even use both.

I didn't do the last ones, but I did the first two. I'll post them here. The second one is inspired by my band teacher -he was explaining how adding jingle bells to any song makes it a Christmas song. We all had a good laugh.

Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful
It’s Christmas Eve and the church bells call everyone to come. Gather about, crowd in –it’s a time of celebration! Everyone, from the oldest grandparent to the youngest toddler, knows the reason. Christ was born today, two thousand years ago (or close to that, anyhow, thirty-odd years don’t make much difference).
The doors of the church are open, but everyone seems to like it outside. Children delight in the falling snow, catching it on their tongues as their parents alternate between chatting and reprimanding them for the snowballs and the caption below the snowman. Some intelligent child has named the character ‘Pastor Bill’, and the rest of them are now trying in vain to capture the Pastor’s hat –the snowman won’t really be a pastor without a hat.
Now, just as noses are staring to freeze, the choir begins to sing. From inside, a welcoming invitation is heard ‘Oh, come, all ye Faithful, joyful and triumphant,’ True to the song, the Pastor’s hat is being gleefully settled on the snowman’s head. Good thing it’s the old one.
People start to enter the church in twos and threes, parents recapturing their children in order to enter with some semblance of control. But once inside, adults settle into pews and children dash up to the front. ‘Come, ye, oh, come, ye to Bethlehem.’ They crowd now around the nativity set –a miniature Bethlehem for them to visit.
‘Come, and behold Him, born the King of angels.’ As the hatless pastor tells them the old Bethlehem story, the faces of angels seem to smile up at him, glowing in the dim light.
‘Oh, come let us adore Him,’ One little boy touches the little porcelain manger.
‘Oh, come, let us adore Him,’ The young ones press inward as the pastor explains who the porcelain baby is.
‘Oh, come let us adore Him,’ The choir starts to sing again, and everyone joins in. Even the children know the reason.
‘Christ, the Lord.’

Jingle Bells
Christmas is almost here –no doubt about it, the girl thinks. Recitals every couple days, baking and events and Santa Clause funds are scattered about calendars everywhere. That’s not all, though. The sound of jing-jing-jingling bells follows her out of the band room, and the more talented people –and many who aren’t –are singing under their breath in the halls. Only one thing is missing –the snow. The girl looks up to the roof, which offers her no hope of fluffy white snowflakes. It’s a boring brown. Oh well.
Throughout the day, one can hear almost every version of every song floating around. One second, everyone could be riding in one-horse open sleigh, happy and relatively safe, and the next all they have are broken skis –which inevitably lead to red snow and concussions from hitting trees. The girl rolls her eyes at the boys a couple lockers down, singing the wrong version. Very mature of them.
Finally, the day is over. Humming to herself on the way out –refusing to acknowledge that she’s mentally singing the wrong lyrics –she zips her coat up all the way. Her wish has been granted –there’s at least an inch of snow! No melting tomorrow afternoon, not with that much snow. She climbs into the old bus –buses could be brand new, and they still seemed old –and finds a seat. The engine comes to life, roaring not humming, the exhaust pipe spewing black smoke. As they bump along the roads, snow swirling outside the windows, the girl shrugs. It’s no one—horse open sleigh, but at least it’s not some broken skis.