Search Results for 'era'

A cinematic, low-angle shot inside a flooded, ancient brick sewer tunnel that looks like a mix of Roman catacombs and Victorian industrial plumbing. The water is dark and murky, reflecting the light of a flickering lantern.

In the center of the frame, floating precariously, is a bright yellow, cheap inflatable dinghy.

Inside the dinghy are two men:

1. Spirius: An elderly man with a nervous expression, wearing a high-vis vest over ancient saintly robes. He is clutching an antique musket that is clearly too heavy for him. A faint, golden neon halo flickers erratically behind his head like a faulty streetlamp.

2. Boothroyd: A grumpy, weather-beaten gardener in a tweed cap. He looks completely resigned to his fate, lazily paddling with a plastic oar in one hand and holding a sharp garden spear in the other.

Action: The dinghy squeaks as it bumps against the wet brick walls. Spirius jumps at a drip of water falling from the ceiling. Something large ripples the water in the foreground—a menacing shadow moving beneath the surface.

Atmosphere:

• Lighting: Chiaroscuro—deep shadows and warm lantern light, contrasting with the synthetic yellow of the boat.

• Mood: Tense but ridiculous. High-stakes fantasy meets low-budget reality.

Movement:

• The camera tracks slowly backward as the boat drifts forward.

• The water ripples ominously.

• Spirius’s halo buzzes and dims when he gets scared.

A continuous, fast-moving FPV drone shot.

The Start: The camera zips through a sterile, white modern reception area with a sign reading ‘Sanctus Training Ltd.’ It flies over a bored receptionist’s desk and straight through a pair of unassuming double doors.

The Reveal: The moment the doors pass, the world expands impossible. We are now inside a massive, cathedral-like Grand Townhouse built of glowing golden Cotswold stone.

The Hoard: The drone dives into a ‘canyon’ of hoarded objects. It weaves perilously between towering stacks of yellowed newspapers, piles of 17th-century furniture, and a mountain of washing machines.

The Architecture: As the drone speeds up, we pass tall, elegant Georgian windows on the left (showing a blur of an overgrown orchard and stables outside). On the right, the architecture shifts to heavy, rough stone arches—the Medieval Norman wing.

The Details: The camera narrowly misses a hanging chandelier made of plastic coat hangers and crystal, zooms over a grand dining table buried in Roman pottery and taxidermy, and finally flies up towards the vaulted ceiling of a Norman Chapel, where a beam of purple stained-glass light catches dust motes dancing in the air.”

Yvoise gaze was transfixed on the brittle yellow document held reverently in the old barristers hands. Her eyes widened when she saw the pile of similar written sheets on the desk. I simply must have them, she thought, I simply must. What an addition to my collection of written records!  Unique document, absolutely unique. Listen to old Bart, she admonished herself, and with an effort she focused on the old barristers reading of the will.

Cerenise had noticed Yvoise practically drooling over the written paper type matter, and suppressed a grin (in consideration of the occasion), and smiled fondly at the saint she’d known for so very long. Such a confident capable character, despite her private mysteries. As saints go, she’s been a good one really.  And as the holy mother of all saints surely knows, the organisers above all should be revered, for where would be be without them. Amen.

I hope this is being recorded so I can watch it later, Yvoise and Cerenise simultaneously thought, Because I haven’t paid attention to Bartholomew since my mind started wandering. 

It must be two hundred years at least since we’ve heard a will read at number 26, Cerenise thought to herself, still in a mild state of shock at the unexpected turn of events. She allowed her mind to wander, as she was wont to do.

Cerenise had spent the best part of a week choosing a suitable outfit to wear for the occasion and the dressing room adjoining her bedroom had become even more difficult to navigate. Making sure her bedroom door was securely locked before hopping out of her wicker bath chair  (she didn’t want the others to see how nimble she still was), she spent hours inching her way through the small gaps between wardrobes and storage boxes and old wooden coffers, pulling out garment after garment and taking them to the Napoleon III cheval mirror to try on.  She touched the rosewood lovingly each time and sighed. It was a beautiful mirror that had faithfully reflected her image for over 150 years.

Holding a voluminous black taffetta mourning dress under her chin, Cerenise scrutinised her appearance. She looked well in black, she always felt, and it was such a good background for exotic shawls and scarves. Pulling the waist of the dress closer, it became apparent that a whalebone corset would be required if she was to wear the dress, a dreadful blight on the fun of wearing Victorian dresses.  She lowered the dress and peered at her face. Not bad for, what was it now? One thousand 6 hundred and 43 years old? At around 45 years old, Cerenise decided that her face was perfect, not too young and not too old and old enough to command a modicum of respect. Thenceforth she stopped visibly aging, although she had allowed her fair hair to go silver white.

It was just after the siege of Gloucester in 1643, which often seemed like just yesterday, when Cerenise stopped walking in public.  Unlike anyone else, she had relished the opportunity to stay in one place, and not be sent on errands miles away having to walk all the way in all weathers.  Decades, or was it centuries, it was hard to keep track,  of being a saint of travellers had worn thin by then, and she didn’t care if she never travelled again. She had done her share, although she still bestowed blessings when asked.

It was when she gave up walking in public that the hoarding started.  Despite the dwellings having far fewer things in general in those days, there had always been pebbles and feathers, people’s teeth when they fell out, which they often did, and dried herbs and so forth. As the centuries rolled on, there were more and more things to hoard, reaching an awe inspiring crescendo in the last 30 years.

Cerenise, however, had wisely chosen to stop aging her teeth at the age of 21.

Physically, she was in surprisingly good shape for an apparent invalid but she spent hours every day behind locked doors, clambering and climbing among her many treasures, stored in many rooms of the labyrinthine old building.  There was always just enough room for the bath chair to enter the door in each of her many rooms, and a good strong lock on the door. As soon as the door was locked, Cerenise parked the bath chair in front of the door and spent the day lifting boxes and climbing over bags and cupboards, a part of herself time travelling to wherever the treasures took her.

Eventually Cerenise settled on a long and shapeless but thickly woven, and thus warm, Neolithic style garment of unknown provenance but likely to be an Arts and Crafts replica. It was going to be cold in the library, and she could dress it up with a colourful shawl.

Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.

“I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”

Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”

“I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”

“Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.

“I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”

Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.

“Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”

“Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.

Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”

For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.

Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.

It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”

At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.

The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.

Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.

Is that how character building works?

“Solar kettle, my ass,” Chico muttered, failing to resist the urge to spit. After wiping his chin on his tattood forearm, he spoke up loudly, “That was no solar kettle in the gazebo. That was the Sabulmantium!”

An audible gasp echoed around the gathering, with some slight reeling and clutching here and there, dropping jaws, and in the case of young Kit, profoundly confused trembling.

Kit desperately wanted to ask someone what a Sabulmantium was, but chose to remain silent.

Amy was frowning, trying to remember. Sure, she knew about it, but what the hell did it DO?

A sly grin spread across Thiram’s face when he noticed Amy’s perplexed expression. It was a perfect example of a golden opportunity to replace a memory with a new one.

Reading Thiram’s mind, Carob said, “Never mind that now, there’s a typhoon coming and the gazebo has vanished over the top of those trees. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you can be thinking about tinkering with memories at a time like this! And where is the Sabulmantium now?”

“Please don’t distress yourself further, dear lady, ” Sir Humphrey gallantly came to Carob’s aid, much to her annoyance. “Fret not your pretty frizzy oh so tall head.”

Carob elbowed him in the eye goodnaturedly, causing him to stumble and fall.  Carob was even more annoyed when the fall rendered Sir Humphrey unconscious, and she found herself trying to explain that she’d meant to elbow him in the ribs with a sporting chuckle and had not intentionally assaulted him.

Kit had been just about to ask Aunt Amy what a Sabulmantium was, but the moment was lost as Amy rushed to her fathers side.

After a few moments of varying degrees of anguish with all eyes on the prone figure of the Padre, Sir Humphrey sat up, asking where his Viking hat was.

And so it went on, at every mention of the Sabulmantium, an incident occured, occasioning a diversion on the memory lanes.

Another one!  A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind.  Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo.  Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.

“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.

“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.

Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival.  “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”

“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing?  A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat!  How do I know that’s what they’re called?  Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.

“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.

Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.

“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend.  If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”

“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.

Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile.  “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”

Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.

“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.

“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”

Sir? what’s he on about now?  wondered Amy.  Does that make me a Lady?

“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.

Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it.    Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.

Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers.  Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald

“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters.  “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee!  A good range of beverages. And snacks.”

Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail.  I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently.  The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?

“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Key Themes and Narrative Elements

Metafiction & Self-Reference: Characters frequently comment on their own construction, roles, and how being written (or observed) defines their reality. Amy especially embodies this.

Lucid Dreaming & Dream Logic: The boundary between reality and dream is porous. Lucid Dreamers are parachuting onto plantations, and Carob dreams in reverse. Lucid Dreamers are adverse to Coffee Plantations as they keep the World awake.

Coffee as Sacred Commodity: The coffee plantation is central to the story’s stakes. It’s under threat from climate (rain), AI malfunctions, and rogue dreamers. This plays comically on global commodity anxiety.

Technology Satire & AI Sentience: Emotional AI, “Silly Intelligence” devices, and exasperation with modern tech hint at mild technophobia or skepticism. All fueled by hot caffeinated piece of news.

Fictionality vs. Reality: Juan and Dolores embody this—grappling with what it means to be real. Dolores vanishes when no one looks—existence contingent on observation.

Rain & Weather as Mood Symbol: The rain is persistent—setting a tone of gentle absurdity and tension, while also providing plot catalyst.

“Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it.  “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”

“What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”

“Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her.  Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama.  There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”

“Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.

“Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.

“I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.

“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.

“Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.

“Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”

To Whom It May Concern

I am the new character called Amy, and my physical characteristics, which once bestowed are largely irreversible, are in the hands of impetuous maniacs. In the unseemly headlong rush, dangers abound. 

Let it be known that I the character called Amy, given the opportunity to choose, hereby select a height considerably less imposing than Carob.

“Juan, was it wise to speak to that man?” Dolores asked her husband.  “The cat’s out of the bag now, when Chico tells his friends…”

“Trust me, Dolores,” Juan Valdez implored, “What else can we do? We need their help.”

“But you’ve been fictional for so long, Juan. Nobody knew you were real. Until now.”

“You worry too much! It’s hardly going to make headlines on Focks News, is it, and even if it did, nobody believes anything anymore.  We can just spread a rumour that it was made up by one of those artifical story things.”

“But he took a photo of you!”

“Dolores,” Juan said with exaggerated patience, “Nobody believes photos any more either. I’m telling you, they make fakes these days and nobody can tell.  Trust me,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“So we’ll still be fictional, Juan?” Dolores asked in an uncertain tone. “Because I’m not ready to be a real character yet, it seems so….so time consuming, to be real every day, all day… doing all those things every day that real people do…”

“No, no, not at all!  You only have to play the part when someone’s looking!”

“I hope you’re right. Too many things changing all at once, if you ask me.” And with that Dolores vanished, as nobody was looking at her.