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  • #2839

    In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

    AvatarWhite Panther
    Participant

      “Yet another splendid piece of synchronicity!” The Leprechaun praised himself, while eyeing the delicious-looking chocolate cake with three layers of vanilla cream that simply willed itself into different flavours before his delighted, excited taste buds. Just as he was about to take his first bite into the scrumptious cake, a multi-coloured portal opened before his very eyes. Unsurprisingly, the host of elves, each in a different physical manifestation, jumped out of the portal and dusted the stardust off their garments.

      “Mr Leprechaun,” one elf began. He took the form of a Spanish gentleman by the name of Raul Iniesta. “Raul” (as he will be called for the time being until he shifts shape) had long, black hair that he had no intention of bounding, instead allowing its blackness to flow freely upon his neck and over his shoulders like a nightly waterfall of moonlight and starry gazes. He had an almond-shaped face, and his skin was gently golden-brown, as if his physical birth took place on a beach at sunset. His eyes were sea-blue, glimmering gently in the luminescence of his own aura. He spoke in a gentle voice that was mightily influenced by a touch of spanish mixed with french accents.
      “I see you have taken the form of a Leprechaun-” Raul stepped closer to observe the essence’s current physical. “How quaint.”
      The Leprechaun dryly stared at Raul. “I don’t see anything wrong with my physical form Mr INIESTA,” he replied, placing emphatic strain on ‘Iniesta’. “Would it have made any difference if I were a flower?”
      “If you were a flower you’d fit perfectly with my body of hair!” Raul exclaimed. The Tw’Elves laughed heartily at the joke, and an iridescent beam of energy simultaneously rose from their esoteric beings, giving forth a ray of happiness, albeit for a short while, towards the inhabitants of the sleeping dimension.

      #2483
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Lilac stealthily inched closer, curious to see how the Forehead shaved, and what it was that he felt the need to shave, notwithstanding the apparent difficulties. Unfortunately the Forehead was hidden behind the Pate, which was gleaming in the moonlight, but otherwise quite expressionless, giving away nothing.

        #2808

        In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

        AvatarJib
        Participant

          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]

          #2690

          In reply to: Strings of Nines

          Evangeline Spiggot sat outside the DDT bosses office, nervously twiddling her pony tail. She had no idea why she’d been summoned, but the tone of the memo was ominous. Eventually her boss, The Right Honourable B. F. Deale, was ready to see her.

          “What ho!” said Evangeline, in an effort to sound breezy and efficient.

          B.F. Deale glared. “Can you explain yourself?” he asked grimly.

          “Why, yes, sir! Sumari belonging, Ilda aligned, politic….”

          “I’m talking about DDT!” he shouted. “You’ve been diverting all our disaster damage calls to that ridiculous channeling show!”

          “Ah” she replied, “Yes, well, it seemed much more fun.”

          “Ah” replied B.F. Deale, momentarily non plussed. When he’d finsished unnecesarily shuffling some papers around on his desk, he continued. “Well, what about the disaster damage team? Hhhm? How are they supposed to, er, deal with disasters if they don’t even know about them?”

          Evangeline paused, giving the impression that she was deep in thought. In actual fact, she was deep in no thought, due to the influence of the Dead Dick Tracy channeled messages.

          “Well, sir, perhaps this indicates a changing trend towards having more fun and less disasters? Perhaps we could diversify, start our own Fun Department?”

          “By George, I think you’re on to something, Spiggot! I will hire someone to investigate this trend.”

          “Might I suggest Blithe Gambol, P.I.? Very hightly recommended, so I hear.”

          #2076

          In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

          TracyTracy
          Participant

            portal word
            giving pee
            sudden needed
            lost shar seen away able
            shall laugh
            gone ancient stop
            mother ones
            clue whispered
            nothing

            #2413

            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.

            #2068

            In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

            EricEric
            Keymaster

              reminded cow sharon harvey strange times
              dark flow magpie cave certainly giving help
              somewhat fellowship continued choose
              certain nobody within otherwise

              #2067

              In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

              EricEric
              Keymaster

                nonsense help remembered creating
                fellowship yurick worry prof class obvious
                create details wanted mention stay
                assignment moment family god giving
                somewhat

                #2779
                F LoveF Love
                Participant

                  The sky was most unusual. Something definitely weird was happpening.

                  Yann was looking at a TV show in which a clown was trying to juggle with his clothes.

                  Yann switched off the tv set and chose to go the cat in her basket.

                  “There you are!”

                  “Absolutely Sir”.

                  “Good very Good.”

                  Taking deep puffs of his pipe, he looked like a botle green velvet sofa, and that, combined with the crazy Baron of the nearby village, was the surest way of being left alone.

                  “The curious police want to know the details?” asked the Baron

                  “Not really … well now you make me think of it .. I reckon a bit.”

                  ahahahahaha!” the manic laughter was infectious. Strange bugs were dancing. little dark skinned performers, tickling like an army of ants.

                  Rather than laughing, he’d taken a moment to consider the options. Obviously he couldn’t refuse help as his business had recently been pregnant, giving birth to conjoined twins.

                  So to speak.

                  #2759
                  F LoveF Love
                  Participant

                    (same random quote as above link #87)

                    Actually, thinking of Dory made Quintin remember:

                    “They are really bit rude around here”.

                    :fleuron2:

                    Dory stretched and yawned, and took in in a cloud of dust.

                    Dory wondered out loud if she should have an older man with curly grey hair and a long maroon djelaba and a tall narrow brimless black hat and watch him get laid.

                    I am so easy really, she thought giving it a last fond stroke. She finally surfaced from the flapping tangle of cloth just in time to see a group of people squatting next to a large oblong hole in the ground.

                    PFFFFFT! Deserted again.

                    Dory was getting bored waiting for this motley crew, looking slightly bemused, but smiling happily, she set off in search of Dory.

                    #2328

                    Ann spent the morning (or a mere half hour, if truth be told) enjoying her physicality in the gentle autumn morning sun before returning indoors. The drop in temperature was still new enough to remember to appreciate fully. She felt at peace with her world, a happy balance of words and sunbeams, that is until she perused the latest additions to the BA (Bash Ann, by the looks of things) group project.

                    Ann frowned. Who the heck was Harvey? It was almost the last straw, despite Ann’s sunny mood. The very idea of trawling back through the paperwork to find out who he was, and indeed who everyone else was, was too daunting. “If it’s not fun don’t do it!” That’s what they all said. Over and over again they said “if it’s not fun don’t do it”.

                    The writing was fun, and the random reading was fun, but it wasn’t fun ~ in fact, it gave her a headache ~ to try and remember who and when and where everyone was. Perplexed, Ann wondered if she simply wasn’t cut out for working in a group. On the other hand, she simply wasn’t a loner either.

                    “Be remebering,” the disembodied voice whispered in her left ear, “That they are all YOU.”

                    Oh! Right, yes….herm….well where does that leave me?

                    “Right at the centre of it all, as always,” the voice replied.

                    Er, so it’s all MY story, then? The whole thing is all me, all mine? All the characters are ME?

                    “Quite!”

                    So I can do whatever I want, then?

                    “Of course!”

                    Right then, so I can write whatever I want, which is fun, and not write what I don’t want, which isn’t fun, and that will be quite alright, will it?

                    “Correct!” the voice chuckled indulgently. “And it may behoove you” it continued in a conspiratorial tone, “To remember than any flak from the others in the group, is in fact, YOU giving YOURSELF a flakking reflection.”

                    Oh. Well Right Ho, then. Toot! Toot!

                    #2327

                    “So how was your lunch date with your new best friend?” Harvey sounded distinctly sarcastic, even to Lavender’s forgiving ears.

                    “Oh, you know …”

                    Harvey raised his eyebrows. No mean feat when you have a book balancing on your nose. He sighed, and let the book fall. A few months ago he was balancing four poster beds, and now he could barely manage a Lemoine novel. Heavy as they are! He sniggered to himself. Oh well, at least I havn’t lost my sense of humour, along with my sense of smell!

                    “Well, to be honest Harvey .. I think I may have been possessed by those pesky aliens. I suddenly came to and I was talking all this rubbish about ‘random quote generators’ and using words like ‘dear’.

                    Lavender shuddered in horror at the memory, and then rolled her beautiful eyes and sighed. “Poor Ann, I think she is a really tortured soul.”

                    The writer wondered if it was time to add a dark side to Lavender’s personality. All this beautiful eyes business was getting a tad irritating, the beauty of Lavender’s eyes not withstanding. Not to mention her lips which she painted a bright shade of amaranth for every day wear, and on special occasions, rose madder. The writer wondered if the last thought made sense and wondered again how to strike out text. The writer decided to try that last line again.

                    Lavender shuddered, and then with an enigmatic smile which even her good friend Harvey found hard to decipher, she said softly, “I ate olives for lunch. They were yummy.”

                    The writer sighed and then noticed the random quote generator said “mean cleaner coming soon.” The writer wondered if it was a sign.

                    #100
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      She woke up at noon and it was 100 degrees, or 37 degrees, whichever you prefer, but whichever way you look at it, it was not a good temperature to wake up to. Everything was pointing in the direction of going solo, playing the game on her own for awhile, or at least until she was in a regular habit of giving herself priority, giving more attention to her own creative pursuits, and less time to the futile attempts to keep group projects going. She supposed for a moment that making a start whilst hot, tired, discouraged and confused was not the most ideal mood for a start, but at least it was a start. She wasn’t even entirely sure what it was she was actually starting, but suspected that it didn’t much matter, in the grand scheme (or lack thereof) of things.

                      She’d had a moment of inspiration when she started reading a book. She’d only read a few pages and had no idea how the book would turn out, but the format was interesting. Julie had had an idea, simmering on a back burner for years, to write a book. It always seemed to want to be an autobiographical book, and that’s where she always came unstuck because she couldn’t see the point of that, not that she was overly concerned about whether anyone would want to read it or not, but she often came unstuck when she wondered about how all the characters in the book might feel about it, which is why that moment of inspiration in the bathroom the other day seemed like such a good idea.

                      She could write a book about a probability party, perhaps called ‘Probably Real’, (maybe with the subtitle ‘Probably Not’.) There would be an occasion, the details of which she hadn’t worked out yet, in which various (not all, she soon realized!) of her probable selves met ~ such as in the Atkinson book, in some quiet desolate place with no interruptions (obviously somewhere with no internet connection, although there was always the danger of picking up a freak broadband WiFi), where they had all the time in the world to tell their tales, compare notes as it were.

                      Which was where the fiction idea came in ~ of course! Just call it fiction! Would just one of the probable selves be telling the truth, relating the only true version of Julie’s life? And if so, which one was the real probable self? All the characters in the book would have probable selves and probable lives; which of them was the real probable self, the official version? No-one would ever know.

                      Of course, anyone versed in the metaphysical mechanics of probabilities and such would realize that all probable versions are real, at the same time as all being, in a certain sense, fiction ~ made up. The only question was, would that be too unlimiting to contain within the confines of one book, but time (so to speak) would tell.

                      Procrastination had set in, as usual, not that that is a bad thing, and things pretty much carried on as usual for a few days. Julie noticed the puppy tugging at a particular magazine from the bottom of the magazine rack over the course of those few days, and eventually the magazine was rather pointedly poking out from the bottom of the pile, it’s title clearly showing: a booklet on How To Write FICTION, with FICTION in big letters.

                      Never the less, the procrastination continued, although the clue was duly noted. It hadn’t been the first time a Writing A Book incident had occured.

                      It was easy, in this case, to remember that date, because it was right around the time of the 1999/2000 milenium party, right around the time when that particular roller coaster had derailed. While unpacking the boxes of books and putting them on the shelves of yet another rented house ~ a particularly garish and tasteless monstrosity, a drug baron’s dream of unfunctional largeness with hideous coloured glass windows (it’s the sheer randomness of the colours that’s so awful, G had remarked) ~ a book flew off the shelf, quite literally, and landed alone in the middle of the floor some distance away from the bookshelf.

                      Becoming A Writer was the name of the book, and the funny thing was that she had been thinking of writing a book but didn’t know where to start, and had been toying with the idea of buying a book on writing a book. So she read the book and started writing, a little bit every day, following the books advice to just start writing, even if it’s just ‘I can’t think of what to write’. There was plenty to write about as it turned out, but circumstances changed, another sudden move of house ensued, another rollercoaster ride, and the writing stopped for awhile.

                      But back to the book, Becoming A Writer. For a long time, Julie had no recollection of buying that book, and wondered by what magic had it appeared at her feet. Many years later she perhaps would have simply accepted the magic, and would have known that she created the book in that moment. But at the time she didn’t, and in due course constructed a memory of buying the book some years previously at a car boot sale somewhere along the coast road.

                      (We did buy the book, piped up PSJ2, and I actually read it, unlike you, as soon as I bought it. My 5th book is about to be published, a lightweight comedy/detective series about the Costa del Crime)

                      PSJ2’s interjection reminded PSJ1 (Good grief, we’ll have to think of a solution to the probable self names, she noted) that she had in fact started writing a book about the Costa del Crime, called Peregrino’s, or perhaps that was the name she’d given to the bar, the central hub, of the book. Of course, that was in the days when bars had been her central hub; she doubted very much if she would choose a bar as the central hub of a book now. She hadn’t got very far with the book, and had burned it when PSA1 got busted, just in case. What to do first, bury the (probable, it must be remembered) pump action shotgun, or burn the book. She had buried the gun, under cover of darkness, in the back garden, wrapping it in plastic bags and blankets, making it look for all the world like the body of a dead child. It was dark, it was raining, and there weren’t many neighbours out there in the orange groves, and she could do no more than hope for the best that she hadn’t been seen.

                      No doubt there was a probable self who did choose to create being seen, but if so she hadn’t arrived at the probability party (yet, at any rate) with her tale.

                      That it had been a major probability junction was certain. Not just the gun burying incident, which had turned out to be no more than merely incidental, but the events leading up to it.

                      #2251

                      AH HA! shouted Harvey, with his distinctive nasal twang. I KNEW it was you really you Heliptrope! This is about W.A.R.P.E.D. and the dreaming fiasco isn’t it!

                      Dreaming fiasco? I can assure you that this is not about any dreaming fiasco. Although I shall be sure to mention this “dreaming fiasco” to the Fellowship upon my return, said Heliptrope, snarkily, feeling a little put out that his cover had been blown so quickly. No this is a message for Lavvie.

                      What is it? Is it about the piglets? I still feel guilty about giving them away.

                      Heliptrope sighed. Quiet both of you. The message is this: “Eau de Nil”

                      What? Eau de Nil? What in the name of Flove is Eau de Nil?

                      Heliptrope smiled mysteriously and took his leave.

                      #2587

                      In reply to: Strings of Nines

                      Phoebe popped her head back in the room where Mark was waiting.

                      “I am ever so sorry, Sheila must have left for the Cayman Islands already. Anyway, here, I found these lovely cufflinks, but really, as I am sure you will appreciate, have no use for them myself. Would you like them dear?”

                      Without giving the visibly bemused Mark time to refuse, Phoebe was off again.

                      She wondered if she had been wise giving away the cufflinks. Not to worry, she thought philosphically, I still have the handcuffs. They might come in useful at some stage.

                      #2569

                      In reply to: Strings of Nines

                      EricEric
                      Keymaster

                        Largely concealed by his trenchcoat and his large pinhole glasses, peering through the other pinholes he’d made in his copy of that outdated rag of the Old Reality Times newspaper in front of him, Godfrey was spying on Franlise who he could see trotting on the cobblestone pavement at a fast pace —and rather elegantly for a cleanlady, he should add.
                        She was wearing a pair of posh fishnet stockings which would on occasion raise a few whistles from the bystanders. All of which was making his staying incognito rather impracticable.

                        Maybe she had detected something, but suddenly as well as inexplicably, she altered her course to dive into a dark alley on the side of a tall building. From there, she seemed to have vanished. She was certainly inside that building… all of this was getting suspicious and suspiciouser.

                        Godfrey decided to wait patiently for an hour or so. After all, the autumn breeze of Hoowkes Bay was doing good to his flooh. He ordered a coughee latte at the terrace of a nearby café, throwing occasionally a few side glances in case the mysterious inner-lovely cleanlady would suddenly reappear. He was quite enjoying being here, taking a break from Ann’s often incoherent streams of thoughts his flooh was giving him a hard time to piece together. He’d been better at that than he was now, he was the first to admit.
                        Now, he wondered, why was he continuously attracting such extravagant authors such as Elizabeth and Ann. Perhaps he loved the thrill posed to him by the labyrinthine tendrils of imagination these two had the curious ability to spread afar and entangle beyond hope… Or perhaps it was simply a curse.

                        A that point, the screech of a magpie pierced the mid-afternoon sunlight bathed and calm balmy air, interrupting his thoughts. An omen?

                        Maybe also, and more simply, he was taking a liking to the mysterious cleanlady and was envying her apparent natural ability at streamlining those nuggets of thoughts into seemingly coherent patterns. If such a thing as a Fellowship of Unification and Continuity in Knowledge existed, it couldn’t really be a terrorist organisation… it seemed more like a flovesend relief group to him.

                        But frankly, he didn’t even know what he was talking about.

                        #2546

                        In reply to: Strings of Nines

                        EricEric
                        Keymaster

                          These past few months away from home had been the occasion for a great deal of introspection.
                          For one, indulging fully into that somewhat frowned upon habit of his, regarding peanuts, had allowed him to gain a great deal of understanding and acceptance as well. Now his daily ration had dramatically decreased and he didn’t fancy as much as he used to the little round things.

                          Another thing that Godfrey had noticed was the reorganisation that had taken place in all aspects of his life, and to be perfectly honest, his life was still a bit messy in places, but he was slowly getting there. How could a publisher publish anything of common interest without a bit of presentation, henceforth order?

                          Ann wasn’t too keen on the “O” word —especially when doubled— and surprisingly it always managed to give good results so far. So perhaps now he was settling down, and she was getting her own flamboyant creative juices all ablaze, they would manage to get somewhere. Or anywhere, for that matter.
                          A Tramway to Elsewhere was Ann’s debut novel, and had made her known to Godfrey. It was a brilliant short story about three tourists lost in a huge hotel in Europe, and trying to get an easy escape to Anywhere. And by some uncanny and hilarious succession of events, they were led nowhere but to Elsewhere.

                          Now, something else was giving him a strange feeling. He didn’t know if that was because of the lack of peanut oil in his bloodstream (or the accompanying whiskeys for what was worth), but he was starting to get slightly paranoid.
                          He didn’t know where he’d got the idea, but he started to suspect the cleaning lady to not just be a cleaning lady. She was doing her best to keep a low profile, but somehow she wasn’t that good an actress. A thing that started his suspicion was that name… Franlise, eerily reminiscent of the obnoxious yet efficient Finnley in Noo York. Elizabeth had told him they’d suspected her for a long time to have inserted some paragraphs in Elizabeth’s novels, especially the most torrid parts that would have made a pimp blush like a nun. What had saved the cleaning lady was that in addition to being rather forgiving, Elizabeth suffered from frequent strokes of forgetfulness and bipolarity which made the investigation difficult if not moot altogether.

                          But there, Godfrey was rather surprised at Ann’s sudden interest in continuity. He’d known of a covert organization known in the milieu as the Fellowship of Unification and Continuity in Knowledge.
                          Over the years, the hearsay had amounted to just a few deranged people, but recently there had been an increase in mentions of such nature in reports of the Guild of Authors. Strangely, there was less and less books that were published which had not an impeccable sense of continuity.
                          In a way, it had been perceived at first in literary circles as a blessing for the authors who had not to contend with fans and geeks of all kind who were hunting down each and every detail to prove or disprove unsaid theories. But Godfrey was starting to see some not so perfect points in that. It would be like wanting to string together all the eyelets of your shoes even if they do not belong to the same shoe (or the same pair of shoes). Soon, you’d be embarrassed to find a way to walk without looking like a penguin.

                          Anyway, though all allegations made as to the existence of such secret organization had been mostly derailed as utter nonsense, he couldn’t help but find some inexplicable appeal to them as sound explanations for all the glitches he kept noticing.
                          He would carefooly spy on Franlise.

                          #2235

                          “Uh Oh. I think Gustav’s got his communication centre jammed again. Bloody ‘ell” exclaimed Gloria. “Any idea how to fix it?”

                          “Well, I always fix things by giving them a good slap, Glor.” replied Sharon. “The telly, the keyboard, anything really, seems to do the trick, just shake him a bit and give him a good wack.”

                          #2504

                          In reply to: Strings of Nines

                          The smell of the incense was giving her a sense of comfort and was helping her unfocus her attention in order to let the trance occur. She was one of the Seers of the Crimson Feather Order and when she was in a trance, the Goddess was speaking through her for those priests or priestesses who were seeking directions.

                          The Seers usually had no memories of what was happening when they were speaking for the Goddess and they were usually coupled with a Witness so the message would not be altered by the requester to best suit his or her desire. Depending on the clarity of the message, a period of evaluation and interpretation could be necessary and in case of official communications it was then forwarded to every temple.

                          Though in certain occasions the Witness could be missing as it was the case today. The archbishop Boorla had requested a meeting with no Witness, and in such cases the value of the information was only considered of personal nature. He was late, and she could put off the meeting if she wanted to, but a faint feeling was suggesting her to wait a bit longer.

                          When he entered a few minutes later, introduced by her usual Witness, he seemed furious and having great difficulties containing his anger. He was a red long-haired cat and his collar was particularly imposing in such moments. She had to focus on herself and not let his irritation make her loose her balance for the trance. As the Witness left the room, she took a deep breath and purred gently as she began the ritual. The Requester had to keep silence until being invited to do ask their question and she needed some time to calm him.

                          She felt at first his irritation grow as she was purposefully delaying the beginning of the trance, but he couldn’t resist longer the soothing purr of the Seer, and as she asked the ritual question, she felt her consciousness fading out.

                          :fleuron:

                          When she came out of trance, she was feeling sick, the delivery of the message had been interrupted and though he was silent she could feel the fury of the archbishop flowing like waves. Apparently the message didn’t please him at all, and he barely spoke the ending ritual Thanks to the Goddess before he left the room hissing.

                          Though she was feeling tired and would need some rest, she couldn’t help wondering what had happen.

                          #2232

                          Harvey, I am lost. Completely and utterly lost. I can’t even remember my own name. I have vague recollections of giving away some piglets and little elephants, but …. her voice trailed off miserably.

                          Harvey, saddened to see his friend so upset, put down the four poster bed, and gave her a hug. Damn it, he couldn’t remember her name either. Didn’t she just tell him what it was recently … Lilac?

                          hmmm no that doesn’t sound right.

                          Well, it was a pretty name. He would call her Lilac.

                          Lilac, embarrassed by her display of emotion, laughed and rubbed away the tears from her eyes. Anyway what does it matter? Most of my friends have gone from here now. Apparently they have gone on to the “Ninth World”, and here I am still bungling around in number eight. What is worse, there are parts of this world I no longer seem to be able to access, including memories which are precious to me. Lilac reflected on what she had just said for a moment. Well they would be precious if I could remember what they are. I popped through the portal to Nine when I found my friends had gone, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

                          She shuddered in horror at the recollection of the strange land she had found herself in. She remembered a woman, an artist she had called herself, with a crazed look on her face, trying to unravel a ball of string which seemed to go on endlessly, and all the while rambling in such a way that made no sense at all to Lilac.

                          Never mind, Lilac, I am still here, said Harvey kindly. I can’t make any sense of this place either. I don’t think it matters really. Here, I know what, hop on this four poster bed and I will teach you a few proxy dreaming skills. That will cheer you up!

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