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In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens
It was hot, although not as hot as usual for the month of August on the southern slopes of the Serrania de Ronda. It had rained, the black clouds and thunder a welcome respite from the searing dry heat of an Andalucian summer, plumping up the blackberries and washing the dust from the leaves of the fig trees. Blithe Gambol hadn’t seen her old friend Granny Mosca for months, although she wasn’t quite sure what had kept her from visiting for so long. Blithe loved Granny Mosca’s cottage tucked away in the saddle behind the fat hill and there had been times when she’d visited often, just to drink in the magical air and feast her eyes on the beauty of the surroundings. Dry golden weeds scratched her legs as she made her way along the dirt path, and she was mindful of the fat black snake she’d once seen basking on the stone walls as she reached into the brambles to pluck blackberries and take photographs.
Rounding a corner in the path she gasped at the incongrous and alarming sight of a bright yellow bulldozer just meters from Granny Mosca’s cottage. The bulldozer was flattening a large area of prickly pear cactuses. Unfortunately for the cactuses, it was fruiting time, and Blithe wondered if Granny Mosca had first picked the fruits and suspected that she had, those that she could reach. Nothing that could be eaten was left unpicked ~ Blithe remembered the many sacks of almonds that Granny had given her over the years, very few of which she had bothered to shell and eat.
The bulldozer was making an entranceway to the tiny derelict cottage that was situated next to Granny Mosca’s house. Granny had asked Blithe if she wanted to buy it, and she had wanted to buy it eventually, but the purchase of a derelict building hadn’t been a priority at the time. Now it looked as if she was too late, that someone else had bought it, perhaps to use as a holiday home. Horrified, Blithe called out for Granny, who was often in the goat shed or away across the hidden saddle valley cutting weeds to feed the poultry, but there was no sign of her. Two alien looking turkeys gobbled in response, and the black and white chained dog barked menacingly.
As Blithe retraced her steps along the dirt path it occured to her that whoever was planning to use the derelict cottage might be a very interesting person, someone she might be very pleased to make the acquaintance of in due course. After all, she had noticed that the holiday guests staying at the casitas on the other side of the fat hill were all sympathetic to the magical nature of the location, many of them arriving from a previous visit to a particularly interesting location in the Alpujarras ~ a convergence of ley lines. When questioned as to why they chose the fat hill casitas, they simply said they liked the countryside. Either they weren’t telling, or they were simply unaware objectively of the connection of the locations. Blithe could sense the connections though, both the locations, and that the people choosing to vacation at the fat hill were connected to it.
For one hundred and forty seven thousand years, Blithe had had an energy presence at the fat hill, although it was half a century of her current focus before she remembered it. She had felt protective of it, when she finally remembered it, as if she had a kind of responsibility to it. This place can look after itself quite well on its own, she reminded herself. The fat hill had watched while Franco’s Capitan looted the Roman relics, and watched as Blithe stumbled upon the remains of Roman and Iberian cities, and the fat hill had laughed when Blithe first tried to find the entrance to the interior and got stuck in thorn bushes. Later, the fat hill had smiled benignly when Granny Mosca led her to the entrance ~ without a thorn bush in sight. The cave entrance had been blocked with boulders then. Blithe had given some thought to an excavation, wondering how to achieve it without attracting the attention of the locals, but now she wondered if one day, when the time was right, she would find the entrance clear, as if by magic. Magic, after all, was by no means impossible.
{link: feast for the birds}
In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens
Yann had been in a box for quite some time, and the feeling was really not one of comfort. He wondered about the reasons for a moment but it seemed his mind was more on his new acquisitions, the bee hive and the sunflowers, they were quite busy and buzzy of course, but it was giving him a sense of warmth and of comfort he’s been lacking for so long.
He’s seen his sister the other day and she’d told him that she’d been on a revolution lately, she’d been throwing books away, something hardly possible to think of before, as books represented knowledge and were mostly revered in her family. That had made him think of his own rampages when he was young and the high respect and almost awe that he’d had about them before. But well it suddenly ended one day when he’d bought a book about biogeology… reading that book was one of the most wonderful experiences he’d had, very empowering actually. The content of the book was quite inept in itself, if you’d ask him, and he was so upset and angry that he’d bought that book that it gave him the guts to tear it apart and express those feeling of rage he’d been holding. He’d felt forced to adore books and show some respect for too long. Well that was old memories and now Yann was more in tune with what he wanted to read or not and also was more accepting of the myriad of opinions and ways of expressing them too.
He was looking for more creativity in his life and the hive was reminding him of that, a constant activity and buzzing, no question, but action… and that strong feeling of warmth and honey.
Quintin has planted some lavender too and a bush which name was like the word choice in French… very symbolic maybe, and also connected to his past. The very fact that he could allow his friend to plant that bush in their garden was a good reflection that he’s been more accepting of all the connections and that they existed and didn’t need to bear a strong influence on his actions now.
[link:buzz,bees,leaves,book]
In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens
Everything was white, from the sky to the ground and the limit between them was not even discernible. Despite the lack of visibility, he felt confident that the house was near. His small feet were making crunchy sounds, and at times, between two gushes of wind, he could almost see the fur at the top of his boots.
At a distance, some woolly beast, a yak maybe, was making a muffled sound that resounded in the landscape, and like the beast, he was feeling strong against the elements. On his left were some black shriveled trunks of some small deciduous trees, and it looked like the only life around.
This was far from the truth; even if most of it was frozen in a deep slumber, there still was a lot of life underground.
He had been chasing a few rabbits, and though he had to compete with the lynxes at that game, he had managed to get one. That was why he was feeling so strong and proud. He could feel the still warm little soft creature against his belt, dangling at each of his steps. Soon he will be home…[link:white]
In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens
After having had a wheel ride in the garden, Grandpa Wrick came back a little less in-tense.
“Mmm, I suppose this game isn’t as much fun as I expected. I want to give it another try, adding a little something more.” he said to the kids when their cartoon had finished. India Louise, Cuthbert, and their friends Flynn and of course Lisbelle (who had been quiet in the background, playing with her pet rabbit Ginger) started listening with a mild interest —the whimsical Lord Wrick having proved countless times he had no qualms at making a fool of himself, and thus at entertaining children.
“What I want to achieve, by playing this game of snowflakes,” he said after a pause “is paying more attention at your stream of consciousness.”
“You see, I’ve been reading the classical Circle of Eights countless times in my young age, and dear old Yurara didn’t have much interest in creating links between her narratives. This is what I want to do with this game: pay attention to the links.
In this game of snowflakes, the stories (flakes) matter less than the links you build between them, and thus the pattern that is created.
We have the choice to continue and detail the previous story, in which case, the link is obvious, or we may want to start another one. But we need to know what, from the previous entry, prompted you to create that special new story you are about to write or tell.Just like in a dream, when you explore a scene, some object will jump at your attention, and propel you to another dream story. Just like that, I want to spend more time exploring the transitions between each scenes and story blurbs that we tell. The links don’t necessarily have to be an object, of course not.
It can be an idea, a theme, a music, virtually anything, provided that it can make some sense as to why it is used as a transition…”Seeing the children waiting for more, he pursued: “a good introduction to this game would be for you to try to follow your train of thoughts during the day. Try to do mentally that small exercise before you go to sleep, and remember the transitions of your whole day, and you’ll see how complex it can become, how often you pass and zap from one thing to another.
Take even one event that lasts a few minutes like eating a honey sandwich at breakfast, can make you think of dozens of things like the texture of the bread, the fields of wheat, or the butter, the glass jar filled with honey and the bees that made it, the swarm of bees can carry you even further into another time, or towards a bear or into a movie maybe.
I want that you pause to take time to break this down, so that your audience can follow the transition from one story to another, and that it makes perfect sense for them.”
In reply to: Strings of Nines
With a temper he may have inherited from his mother (albeit adoptive), the shanghaied boy was proving to be quite a hassle to contend with. Minky was exhausted.
First Yikes (that was the given name of the boy) had cried, pouted, and when gagged enough so that he wouldn’t be heard, he had then refused to walk, and even threatened to hold his breath till he would die. Good luck with this one, had laughed Minky (who had tried it before, but it never worked, and bossy old Messmeerah had promptly kicked him back to work). Actually, he was more annoyed with the refusing to walk kind of tantrum, because that meant he had to trudge with the boy on his back or on a luge, all the way to the evil lair —which wasn’t that evil, by the way, if you managed to focus away from the bloody stained altar…
But there was something more serious he was quite anxious about —besides his bossy and irritable, though everlastingly beauteous, boss. He feared a certain purple dragon was on their trail…
If I were you, came the ruffled sound from the makeshift luge that wouldn’t be the dragon I’d be worried about… Yikes was inwardly beautifully laughing (a trait he may have inherited by osmosis from Arona) thinking of how terrible Mandrake could be if asked to fetch something —a task he was too proud to refuse, and yet that he loathed to accomplish, as it was more fit to a canine than to his subtle feline standard.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
They were thick as theives, freinds for thousands of centuries, or even more; sometimes thick, sometimes theives, and anything else you might imagine. They got together again and again in this time and that, here, there and elsewhere, just for the fun of it. There was nothing they liked more than a puzzling occurance, or a riddle, or a basket full of clues to ponder over, unravel, and turn around and around, toying with meanings until they found one they liked. They had a home in The City, sort of a home base so to speak, where they met regularly each night in the dream state, regardless of which time or place they spent their waking hours. It was sometimes a releif to meet up at home in The City and always a pleasure: sometimes it was hard to stay under the radar back down on the ground, it was part of the job to stand out in the crowd, which often resulted in a lynching, or a ducking, or the stocks, at the very least. All too often it ended up on top of a bonfire, tied to a stake.
One day in one of the Decembers, in amongst all the sweet dreams they often shared, they started having some unsettling group dreams, where they all felt like they were betwixt and between, falling through the cracks you might say. It was a feeling similar to dying of thirst, although it wasn’t really a physical thirst, it was more than that, a hungry yearning sort of thing. Some of them had strange nightmares, of a monstrous beast, and some of them actually saw beasts in the daytime too, especially on those falling through the cracks days. When they met up at home in The City, they compared notes about the beasts, and not always, but sometimes they found they were mirroring each others beasts. That often ended up in a heated debate, because the more mirroring that occurred, the more real the beast seemed. Some said that the beasts that appeared when you fell through the cracks were in a deep ravine, in a manner of speaking, and not of this plane at all. Others argued that if the beasts appeared through the cracks, then they were on this plane.
And so it went on, and on. There were many more puzzling occurances to come, and lots of meanings to be considered, rejected, or taken on board for the friends, as thick as thieves, to turn around and around, and hold up to the mirror for closer inspection and dissection. They were making a tapestry, a huge rich colourful tapestry, and all the puzzling occurences, and even the beasts, were depicted in the colourful threads and patterns. They were the warp, you might say, of the weave. Love was the weft.
“Congratulations, Liz” Godfrey remarked drily. “Are you supposed to use three months worth of creative writing challenges in one entry?”
“Don’t be silly, Godfrey, of course not. Rules are meant to be broken, that’s what they’re for.”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“You know, I could sit on a beach til the end of time” Shar remarked, letting the sand run through her fingers as they watched the sun go down over the sea, “and I’d never really understand how we started off as Sand ~ A Shard is nothing like Sand. Window, yes, I can see how a Shard came from Window, that makes sense ~ but SAND?….”
In reply to: Strings of Nines
Messmeerah (Winky) Maymhe, High Priestess of the Pendulous and Loose Otherworldly Threading, was going for a bath into the Pool of Rejuvenation. Her ineffable beauty had started to show the early signs of time tampering —signs she’d learnt to notice as soon as they’d appear. Luckily, the moons were in perfect alignment for the rituals of Spring Beautusk*.
News were good, very good indeed —which would certainly help in maintaining her perfect brow and forehead in pristine smoothness.
News were so good that she’d sent her minion Minky fetch the boy just right after her white crow Saggin had came back with news of finding him… after all those years (not that years did matter to her anyway, she prided herself on that).It’d been close to an eternity, and she weighted her words… (in actuality it was a few teens and futile years at most) that she’d been trying to recover the boy, but the dwarfs had played her, and had managed to hide him from her sight.
She had not thought he could be concealed by anyone powerful enough, and it was surely not by the magic of that headless Malvina and her pesky dragons. In fact, the boy had been concealed even after Malvina and her menagerie had left the boy and his caretaker. She was thinking the caretaker in question had a concealment charm far more powerful she thought could exist.But Minky would surely take care of that.
—
- It should be said that one of the effects of the rituals of Spring Beautusk were a slight stiffness of the overall face (and other dipped body parts), which earnt Messmeerah the cute and albeit ironic sobriquet of Winky, as she hardly managed to blink and was often victim of bouts of winking when she tried too hard.
In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud
In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Fwick’s bladder was boiling, and pressing him for a release. That was that little minute of inattention that cost him the equally little spider, and nearly his life.
While he was blaming and swearing at the bitter butter, he had not noticed that the amount of butter he’d prepared wouldn’t nearly have been enough to bread the spider, since the spider had already ingested the mighty yeast —as much by an insane curiosity as by bouts of bloody hunger— and as it happens, the yeast was starting to take effect.
As the weather was still a tad on the cold side in Peasland, there was a sane amount of logs piled up against the stove, which was roaring in delight well-fed as it was. It was giving the little spider ideas, as well as a newfound strength and breadth (and some beard too, but it didn’t really matter… yet, at least).
So while Fwick was moaning of delight at emptying said bladder into the loo, a bloody blunder was looming more than he could see.
The little spider started to outgrow the little matchbox, which ceded without much resistance, nor any noise.
The middle-sized spider then started to outgrow the table, which in turn ceded in a mild crack.
Finally, the big-sized spider now dying for a breakfast the size of a cow jumped by the window which jarred at the impact and finally, as all objects learn in good time when dealing with the spider, ceded to release the hungry bearded nine-eyed now-not-so-little deadly spider with a squeaking mwahahing voice.That was the voice of the spider by the way, not that of the window, which didn’t have a voice to start with, even in Peasland.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
The Peasland Majorburgmester rubbed his hands with an evil glee.
Fwick was knee deep in kneading for what appeared to be a lunatic idea bound to failure, and more importantly, it’s been weeks that no one had heard back from the expedition to the Eighth Dimension… And frankly, anyone having spent more than a few days in the Eighth Dimension usually was never to be heard of again —or heard speak anything intelligible for that matter, which didn’t make much difference either.
In fact, there had been some reports of sightings of the poor souls’ dog, what was its name already, Gandfleur or something equally ridiculous. But a single dog was hardly a problem, and now he couldn’t see how Peasland would be able to avoid the unavoidable blubbits dominion over Peaslanders.
He’d made that surer than sure; he’d gone again no later than yesterday, concealed under a waterproof floak (a floating cloak for inundated part of the lands), deep into the heart of Peasland’s plains now ridden in burrows to feed the breading mother of all blubbits a healthy dose of blunips. It had cost him most Mungibs he thought he would ever allow to part with, but it was Mungibs well placed. Soon people would plead for a real game changer. And he knew well who would step forward, and it was nothing like those headless twats.He was in such a jolly mood, he’d called for a party. Well not officially called that, of course —Peaslanders were such worryworts about their crops and the famine that may occur… But a little friendly gathering to celebrate their heroes gone to the Eighth for answers. What a masquerade.
He was indeed in such a jolly mood that he took the sinewy and allwardly beautiful Lady Fin Min Hoot by the waist, and invited her to a delirious dance —it was indeed a dandy day for dancing— and for a little after-hour in his carriage when they are done jiggling their bodyparts (at least in public).
That was then, all tied up in leather ribbons and pillows’ owl’s feathers, when he (and Lady Fin) heard the raucous voice calling.
Gnarfle !
Yes, that was it! that was the stupid name of the dog!…How come they’d managed to come back?!
In reply to: Strings of Nines
“We walk, Ia’eh and Minkah, Desher and I,” Elizabeth read the email from Hypatia, “ towards the dark ridge of stone where the books lie hidden, awaiting the day they should be found again…..When Cleopatra ruled, the books numbered 400,000…and this, I think, is true. By the time of Theon of Alexandria, an age in which the books were no loner in the Great Library of the Palace of the Ptolemies, which was also no longer, but housed instead the “daughter” library of the Serapeum, they numbered 360,000. Those lost to the Bishop of Theophilus amounted to a tenth of these. But no matter if full half were lost, that Minkah brought out from Alexandria so many amazed me then; it amazes me still. He not only carried them here, but brought back an account of where each cave was sited, and which jars were placed in which cave.”
“Godfrey, didn’t we know a Minky once, who was a sort of a servant?”
“We did indeed, Liz, you were the one who inserted him into the story, surely you remember?”
“Well, the name rings a bell, Godfrey, but where did we meet him?”
Godfrey snapped his fingers and as if by magic, an excerpt from the Reality Play appeared:
“Just then a funny little man with a huge cheeky grin appeared and held out a tray. Smoothies! Coconut and berry smoothies, and pink cakes, croissants”
“Croissants!” interrupted Elizabeth.
“… and oranges, and a box of cadbury’s chocolates…”
“Don’t remind me about Cadbury’s” groaned Elizabeth. “I simply can’t bear it that they’ve blinked into another dimension”
Godfrey continued: “ Dory slurped and munched and gobbled and slurped some more, and underneath where the chocolate was, she saw a brochure.
On the front cover was a picture of a cave. OOHH A CAVE! Dory loved caves! Let’s go to the cave today, Minky! she said to the funny fellow with the impish grin. Minky winked.”“He was going to take Dory to the caves!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Why didn’t I finish that story thread!”
“There’s no need to wring your hands like that, Liz” said Godfrey soothingly. “You can continue it now!”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“These tapas are lovely, eh, Leo, what are they?” asked Bea.
“Arana Rebozada, whatever that is, some kind of squid I suppose, nice and crunchy anyway, whatever it is” replied Leo, who couldn’t remember the names of any of the characters in the new thread either.
Fishing into the depths of her capacious handbag, Bea pulled out a battered Spanish dictionary. “Oh here we are” she said, as she swallowed the last tasty morsel. “Breaded spiders.”
In reply to: Yuki’s Livrary
January 21 st, 2010
About Worlds creating and dreamwalking
Has it occurred to you that your current technologies [such as social websites] are more than a little reflection of what you are doing as essence.
It is more indeed, and very useful as an analogy.
You have, for one, certainly noticed how different the “feel” of certain of these “sites” is, even when you are most of the time surrounded by the same set of friends and relationships? Yes you have.Let us call these sites “dimensions”. Yes, it sounds familiar, doesn’t it. You all participate in some manner into these, and you all have persona of yourself in various of these. They compete for your attention, and some of them are more popular than others —these are the ones which offer you the most fulfilling experience, not necessarily the most pleasant.
In many ways, you connect as essence through these dimensions, which reveal aspects of your personalities, aspects that are not always visible or noticed in a direct interaction. When you congregate through these sites, you also start to realize, you have access to all of the others as essence, either through proxy of friends, or by direct interaction. You are all connected.
They all have different rules, or shall we say, conventions; you can do certain things, certain others you cannot (or not yet), and others, you can, but they are not well tolerated or accepted.
We let you do all the fine analogies, you mostly get the idea. The technical rules behind those sites are like your mass beliefs. They are helpful to maneuver your “avatar” —that focus of yourself inside the system— and without them, there would simply be no interest, no interaction, no experience.
Of course, these beliefs can be bent ; with applications, made by these people wanting to develop new systems plugged into the architecture, to offer new functions, or interactions with others of these sites or dimensions.The creators of these dimensions are similar to dreamwalkers; some of them are bent on technology and development of the system at its core, but not all of them. Many in fact come with other intents, such as making the dimension a more beautiful, interactive, attractive or pleasant place. They all work together to bring the experience of the envisioned dimension to the other essences —and at some point, they also choose, themselves to interact, as a focus, fully part of their created dimension.
Having that in mind, would it not seem natural that you would integrate more functionalities to these sites, if they respond to the promises of keeping focuses interested? What you call “upgrades” are in fact a major part of the conception of these dimensions, and occur quite frequently, either driven by popular demand, or by technical need.
Such is the nature of the shift you are experiencing, which is above all a tremendous upgrade [of mass beliefs] towards a more integrated experience, without simply dropping the current dimension for another.We would finally like you to notice also that even if the biggest of these dimensions are calling for a great part of your attention, you also are attracted daily to countless others, little sites and areas, the purpose of which is different, but not less significant to your whole self.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Meanwhile somewhere else in the Eight’s, where the cuckoo sang the new year’s song
Harvey had been quick to wish his friends Aspidistra a merry new year full of reindeer pee by the gallon dripping from the roof. That’s how they wished the best to their friends here. And sure he wanted the best for Aspidistra.
Now he had to find the shaman, because that shadow leaping on the wall was that much he couldn’t bear. He had to buy that new light sprayer and have it cursed by the shaman of the Space Bar of the Fool Breadth (or was it Foul Breath?) to have it move to the light, and quick, that frigging bugger of a shadow.
In the meantime, he firmly believed that were he to keep being merry, it would repel it away further and further.
So, his mood was twittery, and he felt like singing, and dancing, and hoola hooping with all the furniture and cutlery available in the mouldy cupboards all finely balanced on his nose and appendages, all the way down to the metro.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Almondus Blondor, the Keeper of the Old and notwithstanding Great portal of Nibabuz was on his way to Josephine Moodoo the Great Priestress of OzMoosis, and occasionnally witch-doctoress. It was for this last talent that Almondus had taken his day off. It was actually his first day off since the last century, but his arthretic was now becoming unbearable, and had on many times almost have him become nuts, a fate altogether far more enviable than the one of losing one’s head he would say (as he wasn’t truly a native Peaslander either).
So, this arthrectic was painful, terribly painful, the result of considerable arrhythmical calculus mixed with jointless restlessness. A few times he had to mend his limbs back together, and feared the witch would blame his indulgence on koomaroo, a variety of sweet potatoes he craved at the expense of following the ancestral Peaslander’s peas and marmite toasts usual diet. For that, he was often call Mr Koomaroo by the little neighbours, those nasty pests.
But as we said earlier (heed, heed, little Pooh), he was no native Peaslander either.So, during his day off, he had appointed his young apprentice, Bentworth Sadnick, a local and remarkably headless fellow, who wasn’t very wise for his seventy-year-young age ; as since the last decades, no one had tried to activate the Great and notwithstanding Rusty portal, he thought he could have that little day off without much trouble happening.
Josephine would surely repair him in a snap of her delicately podgy fingers (they reminded him of delicious sweet potatoes) and everything would be forever again perfect… at least for the next ten decades.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“SOON IT WILL BE REVEALED!” thundered Pickel.
The others, after recovering from their shock, looked at Pickel in surprise.
“What are you on about boy?” asked Pee.
Pickel was as confused as the others. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “It just came from .. no where…”
“Well keep it down will you, you will scare the bird we are taking to the Keeper of the Portal, whose name eludes me but he has a long beard and is old and arthritic, in order to get the bird to sing 4 notes, no more and no less, in order to open the portal and get to ED and save New Peasland from the plague of the Blubbits.”
Pee was feeling a need to clarify. Not for the first time he was wondering if volunteering for this dangerous mission had been wise. He fortified himself with the thought of Mungibbs.
“What are Mungibbs, Daddy?” asked Silly.
Pickel was quiet. He could feel the silver object burning a hole in his pocket.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Almost unperturbed by the sudden distraction coming from the remarkably head-in-the-clouds Doily, despite her seemingly headlessness-lessness, and applying instead his famous adage, Better stick to one’s own nonsense than follow another’s Mewrich thundered “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll explain about the beard, so that we can all get back to our business, and you out to your quest (and off my home)”.
“Yes! Will you finally tell us about the bird, the notes, and all that buggery to get to that Eighth dimension and vanquish the darn blubbits invasion!” Pee Stoll almost cried out.
Carefully, Mewrich reached out for a tiny peacock in his aviary, a poor thing which was plucking its feathers after all that noise, that he may as well have chosen at random from the menagerie.
“Take this bird, and make it sing four notes, I said FOUR! not one more, not one less! in front of the great portal of Nibabuz and you should be able to get past the old Keeper… JUST DON’T try to interrupt me, by the coils of the great Snakipooh, you rude tart!” “You have to get past the Keeper, but he’s old and a bit arthritic, so all you’ve got to do is have him walk on his beard, and get past him.”Dolores was about to add a little flourish, but all of them, the headless Stoll family, and Doily’s eccentric entourage where ushered out of the cave by the angered Saucerer. And every Peaslander knew you wouldn’t anger a Saucerer without having to deal with dreadful consequences. The green wig of Dolores being probably the remnant of one of these consequences.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Oh, Doily dear, there thoo are!” Mewrich Peamon cried out at the sight of Dolores, almost losing his loincloth in excitement. ‘Doily’ was how he affectionately called Dolores, one of the most fervent admirer of his works, though he strongly suspected she didn’t quite understand them all.
However the Saucerer was pleased to know the lady, who wasn’t shy of keeping her heads on her shoulders, a custom that most Pealanders would have found outrageously bold and casual, preferring to have their heads at home, (or) just in (suit)case.
“I was just about to tell your nephews and brother-in-law all about section three twenty one of the Art of Bird Swift Travelling Right Unto Sextion Eight (A.B.S.T.R.U.S.E), but surely you could indulge us in revealing the few caveats I was about to tell them about the beard.”
“Didn’t you mean bird?” Doily said with a interrogative pout which almost had her lovely green wig fall onto her eyes.
“Well, of course I meant beard, dear —and always glad to see we’re on the same page on this one!” “Though I fear we’ll soon have to turn to the next…” He added mysteriously.
