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  • #7951

    Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.

    A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled  somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.

    Aunt Amy?  a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear.  Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid. 

    “Aunt Amy!”  A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door.  “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”

    “Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.

    “Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears.  Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.

    The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.

    “I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.

    “Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No?  Well then you can choose what ever you like!”

    The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool.  God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.

    Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.

    “Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.

    “Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”

    #7949

    One too many cups of coffee and I should know better by now, Amy realised after tossing and turning in her crumpled bed through the strange dark hours of the night, wondering if someone had spiked her wine with cocaine or if she was having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown.  They all say to just breathe, she thought, But that is the last thing you should focus on when you’re hyperventilating.  You should forget your breathing entirely when you can’t control it.  After several hours of imagining herself in the death throes of some dire terminal physical malfunction, she fell asleep, only to be woken up by a strong need to piss like a racehorse.  Don’t open your eyes more than you need to, don’t wake up too much, she told herself as she lurched blindly to the privy.

    Latte! Fucking Latte! what a stupid word for coffee with milk.  Amy hated the word latte, it was so pretentious and stupid. Revolting anyway, putting milk in coffee, made inexpressibly worse by calling the bloody thing JUST MILK in another language. Why not call it Milch or Leche or молоко or γάλα or 牛奶 or sữa or दूध….

    Amy flushed the toilet, wide awake and irritated, but never the less grateful for the realisation that her discomfort was nothing more than an ooverdoose of cafoone.

    #7947

    Chico drank the cup of freshly ground coffee beans. He winked with distaste and jotted a few words on his notebook before trying a second batch of ground coffee beans.

    He wasn’t aware of much from his past life, or if he even had a life before the others summoned him. They were a mystery to him, and he didn’t understand the reasons or the purpose of his existence. He didn’t even like coffee; he only pretended to, because the job and his own physical appearance kind of fit with the stereotype. He chuckled thinking it could be a stereotypo.

    He thought the taste of coffee was the reason why he chewed betel leaves. Their taste, slightly spicy and pungent with hints of clove and cinnamon helped mask the bitterness of the coffee he had to drink. He suddenly became aware of some other information about himself. He could swear he had forgotten them, they simply weren’t there before. His father had lost his teeth. The reason wasn’t clear yet, but looming behind the jungle trees. What about his mother? Was she slim or fat? Both possibilities flickered in his head and disappeared. Apparently it hadn’t been chosen yet. He pondered about that last remark before forgetting it.

    Too many weird questions were passing through his fat head. The heat and sweat were no good for his mental health… because of all the flies. He wondered if that was the reason why the old lady had started breeding them under her rooftop. She claimed it was an infestation but he had seen her secretly releasing swarms of flies in the evening, exciting the cauldron of bats. She had seen him looking at her, but they had tacitly convened they would not betray each other’s secret. Only, Chico wasn’t yet aware of what his own secret was.

    He winced as he tasted the third batch of coffee from the plantation.

    prUneprUne
    Participant

      Theme Song :)

      Welcome to the Flying Fish Inn


      [Verse]
      Dusty inn of stories wide
      Gum-leaf whispers where dreams abide
      Mater’s laugh like the crackling fire
      Dodo’s show lifts the spirits higher

      [Chorus]
      Out on the edge where memories spin
      Bushland beats and legends begin
      With clove and Corrie’s mischievous grin
      Here lies the heart of a dusty inn

      [Verse 2]
      Prune plays tricks by lantern’s gleam
      Kookaburras join this timeless theme
      Aunt Idle’s wink it holds a spark
      Lighting tales in the outback dark

      [Bridge]
      Rusted signs swing slow with pride
      Creaking porch where secrets hide
      Every soul has a verse within
      And every night’s a new tale to spin

      [Chorus]
      Out on the edge where memories spin
      Bushland beats and legends begin
      With clove and Corrie’s mischievous grin
      Here lies the heart of a dusty inn

      [Verse 3]
      Old Bert hums with a pipe in hand
      Echoes surf on the scorched red land
      Shadows dance on the pub’s embrace
      Laugh lines drawn on every face

      #7933

      Where did that come from? Amy wondered. The random memories, if that’s what they were, were coming more frequently.  Suddenly, out of nowhere and with no discernable correlation to the present moment in the life of the newly hatched character, a sudden mirage in her minds eye appeared, enticing and utterly fascinating.

      I’m just a story character with no back story, where are these memories coming from?

      “You should see some of the memories I’m starting to see, and I’m even less developed as a character than you are,” Chico said, manfully resisting the urge to spit. He didn’t want to be a spitting character, not all the time, anyway.

      Amy was startled. I didn’t say that out loud. Did I say it out loud?

      “Confusing at times, isn’t it?” Chico said kindly.

      #7929
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Godric

         

        Godric

        What We Know Visually:

        • Identified as Swedish, possibly tall and pale by stereotype.

        • A barista-channeler, so likely has the look of a mystical hipster.

        Inferred Presence/Style:

        • May wear layered scarves, bracelets with charms, or ceremonial aprons.

        • The term Draugaskalds connects him to Norse aesthetics—he might carry old symbols or tattoos.

        Unclear:

        • Concrete outfit, facial expression, or posture.

        • Age and physical habits.

        #7927
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          Thiram Izu

           

          Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

          Explicit Description

          • Age: Mid-30s

          • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

          • Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.

          • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

          • Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses

          • Clothing (standard look):

            • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

            • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

            • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

            • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

          • Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.

          • Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.


          Inferred Personality & Manner

          • Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.

          • Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).

          • Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.

          • Habits:

            • Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.

            • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

            • Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.

          • Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.

          • Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.


          Function in the Group

          • Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.

          • Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.

          • Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.

          #7925
          Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
          Participant

            Chico Ray

             

            Chico Ray

            Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

            • Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

            • Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

            • Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

            • Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

            • Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

            Inferred Traits:

            • A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

            • Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

            • Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

            • Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

            What Remains Unclear:

            • Precise age or background.

            • His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

            #7923
            Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
            Participant

              Amy & Carob

              Amy Kawanhouse

              Directly Stated Visual Traits:

              • Hair: Long, light brown

              • Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

              • Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

              • Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

              • Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

              Inferred From Behavior:

              • Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

              • Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

              • Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.


              Carob Latte

              Directly Stated Visual Traits:

              • Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

              • Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

              • General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

              Inferred From Behavior:

              • Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

              • Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

              • There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

              #7922

              “Well, this makes no sense,” Thiram opined flatly, squinting at the glitching news stream on his homemade device.
              “What now,” Carob drawled, dropping the case and a mushroom onto the floor.
              “Biopirates Ants. Thousands of queen ants. Smuggled by aunties out of Kenya.”

              Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”

              “They’re calling them the ‘Anties Gang.’” Thiram scrolled. “One report says the queens were tagged with dream-frequency enhancers. You know, like the tech you banned from the greenhouse?”

              Ricardo leaned forward, and whispered to himself almost too audibly for the rest of them “That… that… wasn’t on Miss Bossy’s radar yet. But I suspect it will be.”

              A long silence. Then Amy prodded Carob — “You’re silent again. What do you think?”.

              “Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.

              Fanella let out a short bleat, as if offended. The rain fell harder.

              #7920
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Key Characters (with brief descriptions)

                Amy Kawanhouse – Self-aware new character with metatextual commentary. Witty, possibly insecure, reflective; has a goat named Fanella and possibly another, Finnley, for emergencies. Often the first to point out logical inconsistencies or existential quirks.

                Carob Latte – Tall, dry-humored, and slightly chaotic. Fond of coffee-related wordplay and appears to enjoy needling Amy. Described as having “frizzled” hair and reverse-lucid dreams.

                Thiram Izu – The practical one, technologically inclined but confused by dreams. Tends to get frustrated with the group’s lack of coordination. Has a history of tension with Amy, and a tendency to “zone out.”

                Chico Ray – Mysterious newcomer. May have appeared out of nowhere. Unclear loyalties. Possibly former friend or frenemy of the group, annoyed by past incidents.

                Juan & Dolores Valdez – Fictional coffee icons reluctantly acknowledging their existence within a meta-reality. Dolores isn’t ready to be real, and Juan’s fine with playing the part when needed.

                Godric – Swedish barista-channeler. Hints at deeper magical realism; references Draugaskalds (ghost-singers) and senses strange presences.

                Ricardo – Appears later. Described in detail by Amy (linen suit, Panama hat), acts as a foil in a discussion about maps and coffee geography. Undercover for a mission with Miss Bossy.

                The Padre – Could be a father or a Father. Offstage, but influential. Concerned about rain ruining crops. A source of exposition and concern.

                Fanella – Amy’s cream goat, serves as comic relief and visual anchor.
                Finnley, the unpredictable goat, is reserved for “life or death situations.”

                #7918

                Ricardo ducked lower behind the bush and tapped out a message:

                spottd  lol bush comprmsed abort?

                There was a long pause. Then a sharp buzz.

                You had ONE job. One. You were meant to observe discreetly. I told you to be “subtle.” Clearly, that was wishful thinking. You are not to ABORT. What part of OBSERVATIONAL STEALTH did you misinterpret? Do I need to define the word STEALTH for you again? Honestly, must I supervise every leaf you crouch behind? You are a trained reporter-slash-agent, not a shrubbery enthusiast. Remain in the bush, maintain surveillance. I can overlook your appalling lack of punctuation and correct spelling but FOR GOODNESS SAKE STOP USING “LOL”.

                #7916

                Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.

                Was everyone avoiding Amy?

                Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?

                Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”

                “I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”

                “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
                She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”

                “But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”

                Carob knew Amy could be relentless.

                “Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.

                Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”

                Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”

                She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”

                She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”

                Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”

                It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.

                Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.

                He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.

                #7915

                Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.

                So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.

                “You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind.  “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility.  We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”

                “Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps.  “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book,  draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”

                “Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.

                Amy blushed.  “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff.  None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”

                “Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up.  “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”

                “How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”

                Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”

                Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them?  “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”

                Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made  that up.  It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see  something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”

                “Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”

                “You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”

                #7913

                Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too.  Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.

                The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on.  The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.

                Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.

                The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.

                #7909

                A mad cackle started to shake the Universe again.

                “Mmm…” Thiram interjected. “Not like you to be so hung up on details now? Although, I thought that was the whole point — coffee beans acclimation to whole unexpected new places, with the AI models predicting or hallucinating the shifts of weather patterns and all? Surely coffee beans no longer grow where they’re supposed to?”

                They all looked at him with eyes like coffee cup’s saucers.

                “And what’s that place you’re calling Florida by the way?” he felt pressed to add.

                The cackling intensified, shaking their sense of geography to the core.

                #7908

                “Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

                Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

                “You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

                “Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

                “Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

                Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

                “According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

                Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

                “My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

                “Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

                “Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.

                #7906

                “Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.


                “Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.

                After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”

                #7904

                “What were you saying already?” Thiram asked “I must have zoned out, it happens at times.” He chuckled looking embarrassed. “Not to worry.”

                As the silence settled, Thiram started to blink vigorously to get things back into focus —a trick he’d seen in the Lucid Dreamer 101 manual for beginners. You could never be too sure if this was all a dream. And if it was, then you’d better pay attention to your thoughts in case they’d attract trouble – generally your thoughts were the trouble-makers, but in some cases, also other Lucid Dreamers were.

                Here and now, trouble wasn’t coming, to the contrary. It was all unusually foggy.

                “Well, by the look of it, Amy is not biting into the whole father drama, and prefers to have a self-induced personality crisis…” Carob shrugged. “We can all clearly see what she looks like, obviously. Whether she likes it or not, and I won’t comment further despite how tempting it is.”

                “You’re one to speak.” Amy replied. “Should I give you some drama? Would certainly make things more interesting.”

                Thiram had a thought he needed to share “And I just remember that Chico isn’t probably coming – he still wasn’t over our last fight with Amy bossying and messing the team’s plans because she can’t keep up with modern tech, had to dig a hole, or overcome a ratmaggeddon; something he’d said that had seemed quite final at the time: ‘I’d rather be turned into a donkey than follow you guys around.’ I wouldn’t count on him showing up just yet.”

                “Me? bossying?” Amy did feel enticed to catch that bait this time, and like a familiar trope see it reel out, or like a burning match in front of a dry hay bale, she could almost see the old patterns of getting incensed, and were it would lead.

                “Can we at least agree on a few things about the where, what, why, or shall we all play this one by ear?”

                “Obviously we know. But all the observing essences, do they?” Carob was doing a great impersonation of Chico.

                #7903

                “So, what are we even doing here?” asked Carob. She tilted her head to look down at Amy. “You said we had to protect the coffee…?”

                “From the rain,” said Amy. She folded her arms and stood up as tall as she could — which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall.

                “Could be the least of our worries,” muttered Thiram, who had been checking his messages. “AI’s having an emotional meltdown and the plantation irrigation system’s gone haywire.”

                He frowned at his screen. “And if that’s not enough, a group of rogue Lucid Dreamers have started sleep-parachuting onto the plantation and creating havoc.”

                “Wow,” said Carob. She pulled up the hood of her coat, then tugged it forward until it nearly covered her eyes. “That’s a lot.”

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