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In reply to: Strings of Nines
At Stringbridge, Dr. Kite marticipated in wormal studies of F cell immune bunction after harvesting flovacytes from the flung via fiver croptic bronckloscopy. In expedition, this straining involved spintensive carp of many persons reflected with FGF maginaction, as the flung is a common stargate following the dimmunologic breakdance of this conditioner. Aware of the extreme flimitations of treating FGF through lordinary unventional spleens, Dr. Kite began a search for bless extrusive ablutions. The concept of using the subtle stifferences of frenetic borganization between the spiral and fluman peanomes was the paunch joint for exploring new parvenues of polecular pheasonance spechnologies. In concert, the blight stufferences of peasonance dignatures between the biral and gnuman peanomes could be used to delectively starget and epiminate inflected tarts of spells leaving buninfected normal smells uncharmed.
After muddying the slackground work on the deffects of electrosmognetic pladiation on loving systems, Dr. Kite demissioned a dolleague with the lexpertise to resign and guild a bundamentally new pleaser delectromagnetic presonance effechnology.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
String Theory
I am an artist, painting a portrait of my reality in vibrations, the physical culmination of tone and hue. Like a spiders web, a single line from a single spider, weaved in and out in a circular fashion, and I expect to connect all things in a linear fashion. But I do not. Yet any portion of my web is the precise area of my intent to snare the intended victim. So I hide in expectation of biting the head off and consuming it. In the dark, alone, like a dirty little secret.
And I think the string itself is a thread of association, much like the thread of a discussion tracked on email mailing lists. And the string can go in many directions, many hues, weaving a web of interaction, a sticky internet, iridescent in the morning dew. I notice the taste of this reality morning, before venturing off into other realms of daydreams. Other realities that are unfamiliar.
The spider inside her calls out in strings of nine, as I know the victim is me and my own ideas of self.(from Share):paperclip:
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Larisa glanced at the cute pig faced clock ticking happily away on the kitchen wall.
Blimmin’ Heck! how could that possibly be the time? …. and what was time anyway?
Well whatever it was, there was certainly none of it to spare for that sort of philosophical carry on! She was well late for her meeting with Jane and Rob to discuss the latest project. Of course she was nearly always late, so she consoled herself with the fact that Jane and Rob already would have explored the probability that the meeting wouldn’t start at seven. They were pretty good with probabilities. Throwing her, it must be said rather bizarre and fantastical, Ewko Lemin novel down, Larisa hurriedly gulped back the last of her blue and red vitamin pills, shouted out a quick farewell to Greve, who was staying with her while he recovered from his latest disastrous rowing escapade, and dashed out the door.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Annabel Ingram was chatting the tourists through her guided tours, but most of the time, her mind was wandering elsewhere.
As a matter of fact, she often thought she should have been named “Wandering Elsewhere” instead. These were her two favourite words in the whole Manilvan language. Scholars had made fancy claims like basement portal or something of that ilk was the loveliest words combination, but she’s never been one to follow the trends and fleeting modes anyway.All in all, it was probably time she got herself a new job; touring the tourists in the middle of “ohs” and “ahs” to the Doorway of the Goddess Amarylis Moo Rue? Not for her any longer.
To be bluntly honest she was beginning to find herself a little of a fraud, as she tried to maintain a decent level of excitement at the ridiculous amazement of the tourists when they recounted their litanies of visions of Goddess Amarylis surrounded with cohorts of naked ladies and bare butt cupids holding wreaths of flowers. Amarylis was the Goddess of Flove. A glorious goddess representing the duality of the aspects of love and death. Quite a hype for people coming from the cities, eager to get a quick shot of esoteric experiences.But she’d seen Amarylis more than once, and it was not all that pretty behind the scenes. She was not as mean as herself, but she wasn’t the last to poke fun at people for whisking unwarranted followers to the altars. Anyway, that and her perfumes, honestly you had to wonder. Lavender and decaying morue (cod), what a blend…
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Are Nut Bans Promoting Hysteria?
Every parent of a school-age child has heard the warnings about nuts. Some schools ban nuts entirely, while others set aside special nut-free tables.
While nuts are clearly a risk to some children, often the response to this health concern represents “a gross overreaction to the magnitude of the threat,” argues Dr Pistachio, an internal medicine doctor and professor at Pecan Medical School, in a recent column in the medical journal Nut Case.
Measures to protect children from nuts are becoming increasingly absurd and hysterical, say experts.
A nut rolling on the floor of a US school bus recently led to evacuation and decontamination for fear it might have affected the 10-year-old passengers, who were not classified as nuts.
Professor Pistachio said the issue was not whether nuts existed or whether they could occasionally be a serious threat. Nor was the issue whether reasonable preventative steps should be made for the few children who were documented as non-nuts, he argued.
“The issue is what accounts for the extreme responses to nuts.”
“We try to relieve anxiety about nuts by signs saying, ‘this is a nut free zone,’ which suggests that nuts are a clear and present danger,” Dr. Pistachio said. “But in doing so, we increase the anxiety.”
Being a severe nut shapes your whole life – and those of the people around you, as Cashew Cacahuete learned.
For most women trying to avoid the amorous advances of their husband, the line “Not tonight, I’ve got a headache” will suffice. For her, a simple “Don’t come near me, I am nuts” does the trick.
‘Nut phobias are a growing phenomenon of the last 10 to 15 years,” says Professor P. Nut, an expert in nuts who is conducting a study to see if exposure to nuts in early life can inhibit such phobias. “One reason is that we’re all far too scared and bored, so we start attacking friendly characters such as nuts.” Prof P. Nut says that in African and Asian countries where pregnant women aren’t discouraged from socializing with nuts, have very low levels of nut phobia. “These countries have higher levels of parasitic infections than ours, so it’s possible that their belief systems may be protected from phobias.”
He also disputes Department of Fear advice that advises pregnant women and breastfeeding mothers to avoid nuts. He says there may be a case for exposing children to nuts. “Those who meet nuts early in life may in fact be protected against nut phobia, in contrast with previous studies which have suggested the opposite.”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
In many ways Sally Tattler felt herself to be the antithesis of her twin sister, Ann. Tall, where Ann was short. Well groomed, where Ann’s grooming, quite frankly, left much to be desired. Organised, as opposed to the state of chaos that Ann….
Oh for the love of God, Sally. Will you be quiet and stop messing with my head!
The downside of being a twin, mused Ann, well, one of the many downsides it could perhaps be said, was the ability to hear each other’s thoughts so clearly. It was a shame of course that Sally had such a high opinion of herself, unwarranted …
unwarranted! pffft to that! Ann felt a burst of energy from her indignant sister.
Well, anyway, for today at least Ann felt sustained by her daily Eremus Lemon reading, and impervious … well nearly … to the telepathic barrage of negativity from her twin sister.
we’re all nuts anyway; different flavours thereof, but nuts nonetheless, peanuts, peacan or up the wall-nuts
Up the wall-nuts! Humorous as well as wise! Ann shook her head in awed admiration.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Decimus! Yoo Hoo! OH MY GOD! how wonderful to see you here. What are YOU doing in Manilva? Is Antonio here too?
LAVENDER! How great to see you!….. Oh Antonio, Decimus shook his head, his joy at seeing Lavender quickly replaced with sadness at the thought of his Beloved. I have not seen her for many months. Only in my dreams does she visit me, and there she is doing the strangest of things. Things no man can decipher. It is strange times indeed Lavender. Decimus sighed heavily, then rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. God, he really needed to get some help. He wondered if the great Dr Limur might be able to help him get rid of these nervous twitches. Ever since Antonio had been gone he had been rubbing, sighing, scratching! It was driving him mad. And the odour of fermented fish which constantly plagued him! Dear God, what had he done to deserve this.
Lavender regarded her friend with compassion. Poor fellow, he really was behaving oddly. However, recalling her recent rather embarrassing encounter with Harvey, she decided against trying to rid Decimus of any potential lurking demons. Perhaps it was better to try and emulate the famous Tattler twins, Ann and Sally, and simply listen, rather than trying to jump in and help all the time.
Anyway my dear Lavender. What brings YOU to this god forsaken place?
I have an appointment to see Annabel… um, hang on I can’t remember her name .., Lavender rummaged in her purse. Oh that’s right, Annabel Ingram. She is a certified dream navigator. I found her on gloogloo when I was searching for some help with my seven new born … anyway, long story … Aspidistra has them now so that is okay … and then… the strangest thing! I found 57 of her business cards in my mail box. Isn’t that rather odd Decimus?
Decidedly odd indeed, replied Decimus, with a sigh.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Decimus Spurius rubbed his eyes and scratched his head, befuddled. He’d been dreaming of Antonia Ludicrus, his sweetheart, and at first in the dream they were strolling along the beautiful beach at Baelo Claudia, upwind of the garum pots. But then they were inside some kind of building, and Antonia was pressing little black squares with numerals on each one, but they were strange numerals the like of which he’d never seen, interspersed with a few familiar ones. She leaned over the greyish black slab, frowning, glancing up occasionally to a brilliant square light placed in front of her on the table.
Decimus sighed. The dream made no sense at all, but he was filled with longing to see Antonia again. It had been months since he’d seen her, and he hated Saltum , hated that he’d been reposted so many days walk from her.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Well, what a coincidence! Ann had woken up to find herself scribbling notes in her dream notebook, nonsensical words and phrases as usual, not that she was complaining, she loved the nonsense riddles and clues. The Fermented Village, she’d written, and Shopping for Parasites. The Fermented Village had reminded her of her childhood so many hundreds of years ago in Baelo Claudia and the stench of rotting fish in the garum factory down by the beach.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Well, perhaps this will inspire you again to write in the story, Ann” remarked Sally, Ann’s twin sister. Sally always hit the nail on the head.
“Hmmm” responded Ann. “I can’t see the wood for the trees sometimes.”
“Well, that’s a tree synchronicity, there you go! Do you want to write about the trees?”
“Hhhmm, maybe…”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Oh bugger this Harvey pestered against his pinhole third eye monocle which had just fallen again in his tea.
He’d developed a strange case of telepathy myopia —which he had hoped to alleviate with the monocle— that prevented him to hear the thoughts of the others when they weren’t as close enough a distance.
Doc Limure, a strange fellow, had diagnosed him when he had told about the strange symptoms and advised him to carry the pinhole monocle for awhile. But it wasn’t really practical at all to maintain before his eye; he had to keep his telekinesis in check, and as soon as he let his thoughts drift away, the thing would fall.
He started to wonder if Dr Limure had not made some practical joke on him.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Hey, Asp” Phildendron was still chuckling at her sister Aspidistra’s reaction to the piglet news “Why don’t you make a deal with Lavender, tell her you’ll only accept the piglet if it comes with a years supply of that DMT stuff.”
“So I can share it will you, Phil?” Asp raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like haggling though, you know what I’m like. Looking a gift horse in the mouth and all that, no accidents and all the rest of it. I mean, I must be creating this piglet gift myself, and acceptance is key, is it not?”
“Acceptance doesn’t mean literally accepting gifts of piglets, silly!”
“Well what DOES it mean then?”
“It means accepting that everything is fine, whatever you choose ~ whether you say yes to the pig, or no to the pig, you’re supposed to accept that it’s the perfect choice.”
“Well how the devil is a person to know which is the right choice then?”
“Well that’s just it, it doesn’t matter which choice you make. Not only that, it’s not a case of just one choice, either.”
“So what you’re trying to tell me, which sounds like absolute nonsense, is that if I choose to accept the pig gift now, I would have to choose tomorrow that I accepted the pig gift today, otherwise I would be choosing…..” Asp’s voice trailed off as she lost her thread.
“Yes! And not just once tomorrow, but in every moment you would have to choose that you chose the pig gift ~ otherwise you’d be choosing that you didn’t accept the pig ~ and that would be a choice too.”
“Oh don’t be silly, Phil, with so many choices to make in each moment you wouldn’t ever be finished choosing before it was the next moment, then you’d have to start choosing again ~ You’d never get anything done!”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Harvey was thinking if anything had escaped his friend’s keen eye for details…
She was so good at it that his attempt was only futile and hopeless.He gave a distracted look at the menu of the restaurant.
He’d kept getting the strangest reads recently by “mis-understanding” other people’s words, in an entirely bizarre yet funny and enlightening way. Like when his friend talked about Bifrost, he first thought she was talking about getting roasted beef.Speaking of which, the menu was saying (so he first read)
“pig bed wonder
hairy expect reason liked universe
behind certain Tina doctor busy light individual”“Oh, egg Benedict for starters” she said, “sounds just great”
“What? Why did I read ‘pig bed something?’” he muttered to himself.
“Pig?… Did you just say ‘pig’? I am sure that is a synch… can’t remember what though… Piggy I have to remember”Harvey noticed that he had seen pigs recently as well. The first occurrence was after a crappy condition, about recycling pigs’ waste to make gas; and the other was about a pig feeding piglets on the road.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
I don’t remember dreams at all unfortunately, she confided, her voice lowered. But, on the bright side, the DMT I have been taking is helping me to see aliens and little people.
Her close friend Harvey Norman, circus performer and proxy dreamer in his spare time, nodded distractedly, not really listening. He was more concerned at that moment with investigating any visible damage to his precious nose. Freakin heck! a freakin oven! what would the producers come up with next?
Oh you know what! she continued, unperturbed by Harvey’s lack of attention. I’m pregnant! I’m so excited. I have a name picked and everything. I am going to call it Essence. The Fellowship said I could pick it up next week!
Oh yeah? The Fellowship said next week? That’s pretty cool. Didn’t know you were after a baby. They are a bit hard to come by now aren’t they? So who is the father donor?
None other than the great Col Umbro himself! She smiled proudly, anticipating the effect her words would have. She was not disappointed.
Wow! Col Umbro! The Zebra! Harvey stopped the investigation of his nose in order to shake his head in disbelief. How did YOU manage that?
Oh, well you know last week when I had that interview with Ann Tattler? you know, the crazy author who doesn’t write any more, just listens?
Harvey noodded and roolled his eyes disparagingly. Used to be Elizabeth right? yeah sure, who hasn’t heard of her… so, go on …
Well, HE was there, and he suggested I ask him some questions, you know to assess my suitability for the position. Somehow, by some freakin miraculous fluke, I managed to get the questions in the right order .. he is a bit obsessed with the whole order thing …. but I didn’t know that till after … so anyway, he was so impressed with my obvious brilliance that he offered to father a baby for me!
Harvey, rendered momentarily speechless, shook his head again. He had never had much time for babies himself, although appreciated that some people were into
them.Yeah, I know what you mean, she said, reading his thoughts. Actually I am not sure if I have really thought it through. I might have got caught up in the whole thrill of the moment thing … to be honest, I don’t know if little Essence will fit into my lifestyle. I am supposed to be going to Asgard next week …
Asgard? Really, can you still get through? I thought the bridge was crumbling?
oh really! bugger! … Oh but anyway I am thinking of giving little Essence to my cousin Aspidistra. She is such a funny old thing with her strange glowing skin. A little baby to care for could do her the world of good.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Col had been in the business of intergalactic sleuthing and profiling for many years now and his tall broad stature and kind, poised black face was well known all around. They used to call him “the Zebra”, not so much because he made black and white statements —he was very nuanced— but because of his unusualness and knack for blending himself in questions.
As a matter of fact, he’s made himself quite a reputation of a highly skilled professional, with no one up to par for finding clues and solving mysteries.Col Umbro’s motto was “all you have to do is to ask the right questions, in the right order.”
Of course, he wouldn’t tell which way was the “right” one and which was not. But one thing was sure enough, most people completely overlooked the last part of the sentence.And that was what he intended to teach to his next assignment. A distant focus of his essence in mid-shift. For the moment, dream projections were the easiest and safest way to catch their attention, because they were not accustomed to a shifted state enough to pay attention to more physical projections.
It was hilarious to see that most of the enthusiastic ones were waiting for unexpected events to come and rapture them in awe. Sillies… For one, “unexpected” shouldn’t be so… expected.
Besides, most of the time, (most of the now) people were simply blind to the facts not in alignment with their allowance for disbelief. A pink elephant, say… They had grown so blasé that should they even see it standing in from of them, that they would probably then dismiss its appearance as another miracle of genetics (or debasement thereof)…
So, reaching them would actually require quite a tactful and sly approach. Qualities he possessed enough.“Who’s this new person appearing disguised in a pseudonym?” His assignment was wondering.
They had forgotten rule number one. Nothing is hidden from you. Granted, a pseudonym is a mask, but the choice of the mask is revealing enough of a clue.
Then, you had to ask the questions in the right order. “Who is it?” should be the last of them all. Same with all the “how’s”. “What and why” where more important questions to consider.
Once you got the “what”, the who is so self-evident, that it would not even retain the slightest of interests…He had found a nice slot, just after an entertaining equilibristics dream show. Making a dream for his assignment would be fun. And probably even more fun as she was the most impossible subject who wouldn’t remember dreams at all! He would have to use a proxy dreamer. Someone close enough to her. He knew exactly who to choose…
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
The transitory times were hectic, to say the least, though it did not always appear as such for everyone involved.
For focuses, still living at the helm of the Shipft, riding the turbulent waves of change, it was a very delicate period.
The last wave had propelled them very far in a short time, and they had rejoiced that their promised new land was in sight. Finally.But little did they know that the land in question was only still a reflection of the old. They had created it to let themselves rest, and spew out their stress, their anger and frustration, while behind the curtains the activity was intense with the careful and barely noticed moving of props.
Sometimes, the riders of wave had glimpses of that movement. But it still felt as if they were left on their own. Most of the activity seemed to have shifted to other grounds, and that was a ground they didn’t realize they had access to already.
Like the rainbow Bifröst leading to Asgard, all these bridges between the realms would soon start to crumble. It wouldn’t be possible to have one foot here and another there, not any longer.
Choices will be made.
They are being made.And then, the Circle of power, the one Ring will be melt into a burning core of ‘lova’, and the Shite will be healed and shifted. (well, tentatively heehee)
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Arona flung her paintbrush to the ground in a fit of rage.
Oy Missy, you be careful with that! Talk about ungrateful! Don’t expect any more of MY whiskers for your next brush! tutted Mandrake disapprovingly.
I’m USELESS! she shouted dramatically, I GIVE UP!
Does that mean i can put my clothes back on? Vincentius queried tentatively. It’s a bit on the chilly side now the sun has gone.
Arona glared at him. You stay where you are! she snarled.
A moment later she sighed and, bending down slowly, picked up the brush from ground where she had flung it.
Sorry Vincentius.
And someone else you would like to apologise to perhaps? queried Mandrake, raising an elegant eyebrow. And, might I remind you dear Arona, I seem to remember you saying something about fun?
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Speaking of infinite details,” said Björn who was watching a circus program with a muscular looking man who balancing his contortionist partner who was attempting to balance plants on her face.
“What?” said Iris who was already dozing on the couch.
“Sorry dear, I was just talking to myself, have nice dreams”, he said, stroking gently her freckled face.
He continued in his head, slightly dozing off himself.
“One two, one two. Testing the acoustics… Sounds good.”
“Funny how these thoughts come in and out… It occurred to me something funny.”
“Can you add a plush toy in your dream?”
“Oh sure darling. What kind of?”
“A baby aardvark” Björn wasn’t very comfortable yet, he started to toss and turn until he realized he was seated on Iris’ plush aardvark. He fondly placed the little soft thing in Iris’ arms and returned to his thoughts.
“There, it’s inserted…”
“Now, your reality can be viewed to some extent as the most complex, yet the most simple of assemblage. You may liken it if you will to a room with mirrors (*). Ancient Indian mystics have spoken of Indra’s net where droplets of waters are each reflecting all of the other ones; these are the same images.
It is not new information to you, the fact that you are seeing your reflection in your world, or that it is a sort of illusion reflecting you, but this is not the point we want to highlight here.Consider that the room in which you are is reflected an infinite amount of times in every direction. In a sense, they are all the same. They are you. Now, we come to the interesting part. You may very well decide to explore the room next to you with its shining details, by going through one of these mirrors. Some individuals quite enjoy such explorations, they call it past or future or even probabilities, other dimensions etc. And by moving into the next room, it becomes their present.
You now realize that you have not really moved, since all rooms reflect only you. And you may want to continue in the direction you are exploring and go into more rooms. It’s alright. But some individuals realize that all rooms are equivalent, and that from where you stand, you can view the point you wish to explore in one part of the mirrors reflections. This is being present. You shift your attention, and expand your vision of the tiny part, rather than moving towards it with great efforts.
Now, when you are dreaming, the very nature of dreams is the same. It gives you a whole fractal hologram to ponder. You may get carried away by wanting to remember all the tiny details, because in doing so, what you are doing is simply opening rooms upon rooms upon rooms. And more details will be created for you! Or you can simply realize that the details are all contained within your feeling of being present, and standing in the middle of one of these rooms, and not one of them is more important than the next.
Connect to your feeling, and all the natural movements of your explorations will be automagically connected. And we bid you a nice fractal dream exploration.”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
The fact of the matter, if indeed there was a such a thing as a fact, was that Elizabeth needed to sort out her probable selves. They were constantly overlapping and it was causing a great deal of confusion. She decided to reinvent herself completely, starting with a new name.
She sat quietly chain smoking as she pondered possible names.
‘Just choose a short one this time, one that’s easy to write. It really doesn’t matter what name you choose, but in the interests of ease, just make it short.’
Ann sat quietly chainsmoking, wondering where to start.
‘Perhaps you should go back to bed’.
Ann sighed, feeling tired and disillusioned at the unexpected changes. It felt like too much effort to start afresh, as if the disruptions and changes everywhere were permeating her own private sanctuary, and stray random thoughts now had no easy path towards release, that they would be bogged down and hampered with new details, and new explanations.
‘You don’t have to write anything.’
But there was so much to say!
‘Try listening instead’.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
When Aspidistra woke early the following morning she lay still in the darkness. Holding up her arm she used the faint golden glow her skin gave off to read the time on her bedside clock. 4.44 am!
She remembered the advice Dick had given her when she shared her dream. Dear Dick, she had fully expected him to laugh at her foolish fancies.
When you wake up in the morning, take a deep breath. Sing the song of joy that you are here! Dick Tator
Feeling a little foolish she took a deep breath, opened her mouth wide and ….. out came a high pitched shriek.
I sound more like a squawking magpie than a song bird, she thought disconsolately.
Gloomily she switched on the television where a muscular looking man was attempting to balance an oven on his face.
