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In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
As the bride and groom were exchanging the rings, Al was brought back a few weeks earlier, when Becky had announced the little group she and Sean would get married. The initial excitement gone, Tina, Sam and Al had been given the honor to organize that very special day, while Becky surely wouldn’t care to be bothered by such petty things.
I think she’s already getting that distinguished snobbish style of the Wricks muttered Tina who was not so fond of being handed down these kinds of unprompted crottes.
Al, who was probably thinking as much managed a Don’t be so hard on her, that’ll be a mighty fine wedding, after all, marrying a Wrick has its advantages, we don’t have to be measly on the expenditures
Sam, a bit lost in circles, had acknowledged.Well, that had been fun after all, at least Al was thinking, he had not needed to deal with Becky’s own mood fluctuations. As the only Sumafi of the group, he had willingly taken care of the list of the guests, and all the catering orders, while Tina was taking care of the decoration (bride included), and Sam was arranging for the organization and rental of the places and hotels for the wedding and its slew of guests.
Of course, as intimate Becky had first required the wedding to be, she had soon changed her mind, and had not resisted long the temptation to gather lots of people she had almost forgotten over the years.
Al could almost see clear as day — now the weather had brighten up a bit — in his mind his notepad full of Becky’s recommendations:— Becky’s family and friends
Sam, Tina & Al (of course)
Sabine Baina (mother) and Patel Mahapushtra, her new husband (a child’s toys mogul)
Dan (father) and Dory (step-mother; might fear a trip to New Venice, you’ll have to use some extra coaxing with her)[long list of friends, snipped for reader’s comfort]
— Sean’s family and friends
(mother deceased, father unwilling to come, pretexting his rheumatisms and not being able travel so far, but most likely unwilling to see Sean)
Sean’s children, Perry and Guiny
(aunt and cousin, Deirdre and Dorean Wrick) — Al’s update: they have unexpected guests coming back from Russia at their home, wonder if they could come? Becky: Sure!… Mmmm, Russia you said?Now, finding some great gift for someone as easily distracted as Becky, and as spoiled as Sean was another ball of wax…
In reply to: Synchronicity
Bubbles, skull, 3d software and other miscellaneous type synchs …
When I left for my walk yesterday, Eric said to me “happy bubbling”, as I left cafe I picked up newspaper off the rack and there was a big photo of a little girl blowing bubbles on the front page. It was a lovely photo, one which had won a photo competition, the child looked very happy. I was wondering what bubbles meant to me, did not think of the 8 thing, but that is a good point.
Yesterday I had a hair appointment. As I left the house my atttention was caught by a picture which came up on my computer of a skull Dusky Moana (children’s story about a photographer, treasure etc) Later I saw that Eric had started writing about the crystal skull again in the story. Eric’s comment
As I leafed through a magazine at the hairdressers I was interested in a story about an artist who does his work using 3d software, (I don’t know much about it computer 3d stuff, so was interested to see Jib had been playing with 3d software yesterday. ahahah also George and I are obsessed with flies at the moment, is this a synch? I would love to see the image you did Jib!). It caught my attention because of another image of a girl blowing bubbles. Also because the artist started off saying:
I was born in London, England on October 26 1958, the youngest of four and much to my parent’s surprise, I was born a dog.
which I found very funny really, in fact I found his whole Bio very amusing. (ahaha also very amusing none of our numbers in his birthdate, that makes an intriguing change )In the interview it talked about how he worked as a photographer in a children’s ward for a number of years, and this greatly influenced his work, endowing his subjects with surreal otherwordly qualities to help them cope with life. Quite a few of them have sort of insect type appendages.
also, just on the off chance anyone interested Ray Caesar’s Bio
The other image which caught my eye in the magazine was this one of the world’s most valuable skull, made of diamonds: The Diamond Skull (Interesting I was getting the skull imagery I thought, because I have not really been able to quite follow the whereabouts of this skull in the story, it has perplexed and bemused me a bit.)
Sorry to mess up the order of your next comment Eric. I often whisper my comments to myself when I don’t finish writing them in one go, and I was not expecting anyone else to be up writing. But I think that is a tremendous synch, particularly in relation to Tracy’s comment about the 888th comment and a huggy is a nice one for it to be. Tracy’s comment mentioning the 888th comment (Is this a synch or did Tracy already know about the 888th mark having been hit? oh who cares, lovely synch, that was evil twin popped in for a minute)
I had a Sam synch, well this is getting long. But anyway I was thinking about spiders as I left the supermarket (long story as to why I was thinking about spiders), Anyway Jib and I had talked about spiders in the story earlier, and as I looked up I saw the car plate coming towards me was X SAM X ….. (what does this mean? is it sam surrounded by X’s? or kisses from Sam ? hahah well I think I will go with that one )
In reply to: Synchronicity
Great it works now
earlier today it wasn’t working, error 500!!!
and it’s 14:53 that’s again a demonstration of my great power
well a few synchs… since a few days, we are having with Eric synchs with the name Fletcher, related to Fletcher, the chief of the mutineer in the bounty…
there is also Jessica Fletcher in a TV series, who’s a novel writer… like crime books and so on… I don’t remember the name of the series in English but it’s “Arabesque” in French. (Murder, She Wrote In English)well yesterday I was looking for something… I don’t remember what it was and only the synch
I found that a new movie called Fletch would be created, and apparently Fletch is a series of books, about a man called Fletch , well actually Irwin Maurice Fletcher… who’s a journalist.
What I found funny again was that the writer created a spin off of the series of books after the introduction of a character named Flynn In the first movie the actor George Wendt plays Fat Sam
Well that’s all about Fletcher.
Going to work this morning, as we moved to a new building I took another way… and crossed a Celine Robert Street
and a Massue Street (massue is a club).I found that funny
In reply to: Synchronicity
I just read T’s comment in the story: one for sorrow, two for joy (Malvina's Dragon Rookery # 509). As I was out driving along the road a little bit earlier, I noticed the number plates of a couple of cars coming towards me, 157 and then 257. I particularly noticed the “1” and “2” in sequence, and mentally laughed wondering if Tracy was playing a game and what we were counting too. Shortly after that 557 passed me.
These comments really are very funny, the way they are lining up. I was going to write another comment in the story just now, but decided it was too hot, must be the hottest day ever I thought, and then laughed at myself because it is not really that hot ( hottest day this summer though I bet ). Next thing I looked at the daily quote and it is the one where Tina says:
“Icy” is an exaggeration of course, said Tina, “it just meant I had to put a jacket on again today”.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Finn decided to go and sit in the park at the playground over the road. She needed to feel the grass under her feet, and the warm sun on her body. There had been a small shower of rain earlier, the orchardists will be pleased, she thought, but it had cleared up now, and everything had a newly washed feel. She felt the gentle breeze on her skin, and sighed happily. At least I know this this feels real to me.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Dory’s stopover at Heathrow airport was longer than expected, due to the knock on effect of delays caused by the air traffic controllers strike in Paris. She bought coffee in a paper cup and went and sat in the cramped smoking room. A couple of middle aged overweight women were sitting opposite her, their chubby knees almost touching Dory’s in the unpleasant little nicotine yellow room.
Dory couldn’t help but listen to their conversation, and had to bite her lip on several occasions to prevent herself interjecting questions. Dory wanted to ask where this Tikfijikoo Island was. There was something about the sound of it that caught her attention, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on the strange feeling it gave her to hear the name.
The two women, who appeared to be named Shah and Glaw, were apparently on their way to an island to participate in some kind of experimental treatment, Dory gathered, organized by a Dr Bronklehampton. On hearing the name of the doctor, Dory had a series of images flit through her mind. One of them was of an impish looking redhead with an incredibly large head, doing the tango.
When the two plump ladies left the smoking room, Dory followed them. They bought magazines in the airport shop, and boiled sweets ‘in case their ears went’, and deliberated over sunscreen lotion, and then after some inaudible whispering, in which Dory heard only the words ‘treatment’ and ‘skin’, apparently decided against purchasing any of the skin care products.
Dory followed them into the public lavatories, and learned that ‘our Mavis’ would be joining them for the treatment, and listened to a great deal of rather unkind comments about ‘our Fred’ and his bullying ways. On the way out of the Ladies Room, the bleached blonde named Shah collided with a bag lady, at which point Dory saw a shower of bright blue sparks in her peripheral vision. The bag lady looked up and laughed at Shah and her friend and said ‘It matters not, my friend….HA! HA! HA!’, and winked at Dory as she shuffled past.
Dory followed the ladies to the baggage check-in desk. Yukailli Airlines. Dory had never heard of it; new airlines starting up all the time, she thought, and such silly names, like that Be My Baby one…what a daft name for an airline. Dory sauntered past, as she couldn’t really stand behind them without arousing suspicion. She was momentarily swallowed up in a swarm of Italians, there must have been two coachloads of them. By the time they’d passed her, Dory had made a decision. She would book a ticket to Tikfijikoo, hopefully on the same plane as Shah and Glaw.
She turned around briskly, fleetingly wondering what to say to Dan and Becky about her sudden change of plans, and made her way back to the Yukailli Airlines desk.
That’s funny, she said out loud, It was right here!
She scanned the names above the row of desks….British Airways, Monarch, Air France, Qantas…..but no Yukailli Airlines. Dory asked at the Airport Information desk.
I’m sorry madam, there’s no airline of that name here, the young man behind the desk informed her, looking at her quizzically.
Dory opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish, and wondered for a moment if she had imagined it. Just then someone bumped into her shoulder, causing her to spin round. It was the bag lady she’d seen earlier in the Ladies room.
Leaving at Gate 57 and three quarters, the bag lady whispered, and winked conspiratorily.
Dory’s mouth fell open. She was about to say Oh now really, what is this, Harry Potter Airport? but something stopped her. Instead she asked, But what about tickets and baggage check? But the bag lady had gone.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
The unusual overwhelming heat, which had begun with the spring equinox had finally temporarily receded with the appearance of big opaque cumulonimbus filling the sky with a mute thunderous sound. The flickering glow was no longer enough for Raphael to distinguish the small dark characters dancing before his eyes, the storm having let the night pounce on them earlier than it should have.
So, Raphael closed his thick leather-bound book and put it back into his burgundy backpack bag, inhaling deeply the air of the dusk, mollified by the music of the raindrops that ricocheted now discreetly on the rusty steel plates.The remaining passengers began to hurry around a meager dinner wrapped in dirty newspaper sheets, displaying energy resources that he felt incapable of. Feeling no hunger at all, he decided to go on the pontoon to taste the moisture exuding in the evening, this celestial water, soothing down the fever of this trip, which drew to a close. The boat continued to rend imperturbably through the obsidian sea, and the thick enveloping fog prevented them to distinguish the lights of the city that he could feel at a distance.
This was not the first time, but at each of his return, the city seemed changed, this time ghostly apparition, once glittering pearl. This was undoubtedly one of the reasons which had him leave it, as others would have done with a lover, to better appreciate this fleeting moment of reunion.
The book had been given to him by a stranger he had met, and was part of his mission; he didn’t usually accept assignments in this city where he was too obvious, but the stranger had assured him nothing illegal would be required of him, just delivering a book.
He had leafed through the book, just to make sure there was no foul play on the part of this strange man with amber eyes that seemed to keep changing colours. But the book had seemed innocuous. Even worse, it did not make any sense for Raphael. The chapters were randomly numbered, and the text seemed to keep changing. Perhaps it was Raphael’s mind which played tricks on him, but it was baffling for him, as he was accustomed to keep his senses sharp as a dagger. Whatever,… The man had paid, and a plump pile of money even.The insistent rumors of a mysterious illness which had already claimed fatalities within the walls of the city had not deterred him to go there —knowing that the few people caring about him would have preferred to see him flee this destination, so certain as they were to be themselves immune to the contingencies of life. Even the bald adipose captain of the ship, Fat Yong Choi had seemed wary of having a pale-skinned foreigner coming on board of his boat, but he had quickly seen that Raphael was no common traveler.
But there was no longer time to rehash those turpitudes, the harbour finally appearing, like a halo glow from the contours of which some faint sounds escaped, soon to be stifled by the purring and cracking of the bulging vessel.
The winds began to sweep the docks violently, causing the cargo, now anchored, to oscillate wildly, like a huge weeble at the hands of the elements. Fortunately, due to the alarming news from the city, the boat was only half full, and the unloading was smooth. Raphael, unnerved by the long journey, only wanted to walk, but patiently followed the slow pace of the procession which led him outside of the harbour’s enclosure, even before he had noticed it.
Raphael wanted above all to rest, but didn’t care to be bothered speaking to someone. He preferred to sink deep down in his thoughts while walking through the streets, rather than lose this feeling of freedom. Freedom to choose his own itinerary, without a word to say, entirely open to the silence of the streets.
The fine drizzle had indeed deserted the streets making the city infinitely enjoyable for him. It was indeed just as he liked it best, at dusk, just faintly resonating with the sound of his own steps.
Empty — a few passersby in search of a shelter nearby. He imagined to be a ghost haunting these places without life, enjoying the feeling of being the predator felinely prowling in this scene without spectators, shrouded in the reassuring complicity of the night.In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
When Rudy the myna had come back crashing on the boat, it all became suddenly a huge uncontrollable chaos.
The hovering menacing clouds that were looming in front of them were coming closer at a dreadful speed, and even more concerning were the rocks that were appearing everywhere now, that they had more and more trouble to avoid in betwixt the turmoils and eddies.So they had finally come to the Great Rift, Bådul was thinking. The back of the legendary water dragon that noone was known to have crossed.
But Bådul knew better.
He howled orders to get everybody ready at their posts, and felt reassured when he saw that Austor was maneuvering with dexterity and confidence through the rift.
He ignored the crazy laugh of Razkÿ, the madman who was now shouting with a manic laughter “We all gonna diiie! AHAHAHAH! DIE! DIE!” Then winking at Bådul and laughing again. A few months earlier, Northern Åsgurdy
A huge cloaked figure was riding in the middle of the deserts. The saurhse, a bit small for its rider, was getting tired, but the man wanted to move before the night came. Åsgurdy had a climate which made travels uneasy on land, and only on these bipedal saurians they named saurhses, could Åsgurdians easily travel on the burning hot sands by day. Then, they could gain the high plateaus of rock and ice, where the temperature was kept cold by the high chilly winds. But at night, the deserts would be chilly too, and the cold-blooded creature he was mounting would require a shelter.
He knew that such a shelter wouldn’t be far away now.
That region was mostly uncharted as it was fairly remote from all known cities, but that strange man he had met had said he was a traveler who knew were he could find something priceless.
At that time, Badul had felt he had nothing to lose, and said to himself “when in doubt, go for the experience”.
He had felt he could trust that man known to him only by a strange name, something like Gheorg.
There had been nothing boastful about him, and he had been kind to him. He had been the only person in the World he had known to have given him back his dignity as a human being, and even more, to have given him a reason to live.
He owed him a lot, and perhaps even more as he was now drawing closer to the cave… that same cave which was a mere cross on the torn map he had been drawing hastily before vanishing almost preternaturally, living him a bit of money and that map…
Roselÿn had felt the urge to move somewhere else. This land didn’t resonate with her energy, and that of Rëgkvist, and of the few eggs the dragon had managed to lay, none had actually been able to hatch.
It had affected her so much that she had even retreated from her sisters’ usual talks through the glubolíns.
She needed to move on. When he entered the cave, Badul was disappointed. He could feel there had been someone living here quite recently, but it was like the cave was now abandoned. He hoped he could have found more answers, but now it was again like burning sand slipping through his fingers.
In a fit of rage, he took a boulder as big as him and threw it across the cave with a roar.
Something was brought down by his huge force further down into the cave and he heard it quite distinctly.He tied up the saurhse at the entrance of the cave, and entered it with determination, ducking through the tunnel too narrow for his big baby-faced frame. Then he found something glowing. At first, he thought it was some gold, but what kind of fool had been living here before and had been in such a haste to move as to forget gold?
It was not gold. It was something like a broken shell. The broken bits were like a jigsaw puzzle and he wished he could make it one, as he was attracted by the strange radiance of the thing.
Austor did not believe his eyes…
They had crossed the Rift, all three of the ships.
And it was nothing like the dark void they had nearly expected behind.It was an open sea, glistening in the sun, and all hope had come back through them all.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Arona eventually woke from her sleep, still tangled in the images from her dreams. Unable to remember these images she was left feeling as though she were adrift in a boat on the ocean, not caring where the wind and waves may take her.
She had no feeling that morning. It was as though a door had closed in her mind, shutting out the part that could feel. She did not know, nor care, whether she was shutting out joy or sorrow, only that some part of her wanted to be alone.
She remembered the words of the older woman who had sat with her and soothed her to sleep. Or was she already asleep? Was the woman a dream?
Use your magic, she had said.
When she was young, in the Village, magic had come easily to Arona. When did it end?. She screwed up her eyes trying to concentrate. It hadn’t ended all at once. Did it start to end with the cloak her parents had given her?
Arona shook her head briskly and thoughts, like leaves in the wind, lifted and fell back to earth again in new formations.
The candle still burned brightly and her attention was drawn to the heavy wooden door, knowing she could not put it off any longer. In her bag of treasures was a key. It had been given to her at the beginning of her 21 st year, as was custom in the Village. It was no surprise to her that it fitted the lock perfectly.
Thank you for having me room, she said as she left.
No, thank YOU, replied the sleepy glukenitch.
The door led directly into another space, larger, brighter. She could sense someone there, but not in solid form. It was a beautiful woman who Arona felt an immediate affinity with, and then a strange sadness came unbidden.
Why sad?
I have no clue answered Arona briskly, quickly shutting the door back on these pesky emotions.
You always know, just feel it
So Arona closed her eyes tightly and allowed herself to feel the answer.
Because you know who you are, and it made me realise I have no idea who I am.
Mmmmmmm, said the woman, maybe you would care to look at my new paintings. Actually they are some of yours.
Intrigued, Arona felt this would be a suitable distraction and she looked with much interest.
The first painting was of a child, in a beautiful meadow of flowers. The child appeared to be completely absorbed, concentrating on a small blue butterfly which had lighted on her finger.
The picture itself moved and changed shape as though it were a portal to another living, breathing world. In the corner of the picture were some other children who seemed to be playing happily together.Arona, who had felt immediately connected with the young child frowned.
Doesn’t the little girl feel left out?
Go in, said the woman, Go inside the picture and feel the answer.
Oh, and you might want to leave your cloak behind.
So Arona did, and she became the child, but also stayed herself, observing the scene. She felt the child’s happy fascination in her connection with the butterfly. Not just the butterfly. She could feel her connected with the earth, and the gentle breezes and the beautiful flowers … The child was deeply contented, absorbed in the moment, moving happily with the flow of her interest.
I remember feeling like that, thought Arona, before the magic went.
She gently drew the child’s attention to the other children and felt the flow of energy between them. The child was so sure of who she was and where she wanted to be, and Arona could feel the loving acceptance of her playmates.
As the child’s attention went to the others, one of the children looked up and came running over. They sat together and laughed at some funny rabbits which had appeared in the meadow. Arona returned to the cave.
You look troubled
Well, Arona felt a little perplexed. It’s all very well playing with butterflies and rabbits in a meadow, but it is not terribly practical.
On the contrary, perhaps it is very practical. Would you like to see another of your paintings?
Suspended gracefully between two posts was a beautiful, glistening spider web. Little drops of rain hung like jewels on a chain. An enormous spider waited patiently in the shadows. As Arona watched a small insect happened at that moment to be caught, and the spider began to creep along the delicate lines.
Arona shuddered a little. I might not jump into that one .
The woman laughed, Use your magic Arona. Weave your magic web and let it all come to you.
Oh you are the second person to tell me to use my magic. An old lady came to me in my dreams, I think.
Well I gave her the same advice, years ago.
More damn riddles, Arona thought to herself, and the woman laughed.
One final painting of yours I would like to show you. It is beautiful is it not?
Arona stared mesmerised for a moment, and then leapt right in.
She sat among an audience, captivated by the dancers on the stage ahead. Beautiful music played and it reminded Arona of the music she had heard earlier. The dancers leapt and twirled and Arona was enraptured.
Dance Arona, she heard the woman’s voice
I can’t dance like that, I’m not good enough.
It doesn’t matter
And Arona could not hold back any longer and entered the body of one of the dancers. She did not know the dance so she made up her own steps, and strangely this seemed to fit perfectly with the other dancers.
Back in the cave the woman seemed to be listening to something Arona did not think she could hear.
Things are shifting she said
Oh lordy, are they said Arona, What should I do now?
Feel the answer
Arona felt. I am very hungry, eggceptionally so.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
But the brave front Arona had put on for the dragon crumbled as she looked at the door.
She sat down on the ground and started to cry, and once she started she found she could not stop.
She was so afraid. The courage she felt earlier had deserted her and been replaced by a sadness she did not really even fathom herself.
I am tired of this no man’s land, this endless searching. And I am so afraid that behind the door is just yet another dark tunnel. I hate riddles, people should say what they mean, and yes, I am very tired of this heavy black cape.
And so saying Arona angrily took off the cape and threw it to the ground.
She cried and cried and cried, and the little glukenitch lying unseen in the darkest corner luxuriated in the extra dampness her tears added to the ground.
When she had done crying she found her strength again, enough to keep going with the journey
