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  • #7966

    “Ricardo!” Amy said with a raised eyebrow and a note of surprise in her voice. “All I’ve ever seen you do so far is lurk in bushes sending secret messages. But I admire your bold assertiveness, I can see you are on a sudden quest to discover your true potential.”   Amy smiled encouragingingly and patted his shoulder.  “The sooner we get the gazebo back the better, The Padre is recovering and anxious to host The Character Building Party.”

    His chest swelling with pride, Ricardo replied that he was very grateful for her support and attention, and would do his best to restore both the gazebo and his independence, but that he was in a quandary about the conflict of interests between his role in the story, and his value fulfilment as a developing character.

    “Yeah that’s a tough one,” Amy said, “But it’s a good question to ask at the party in the gazebo. Hurry and get the gazebo back!”

    #7965

    Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
    Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?

    New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.

    He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.

    For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.

    It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.

    He frantically searched for a different voice.

    It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.

    Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.

    Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.

    Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in

    Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!

    He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.

    #7961

    Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”

    Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat.  He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character,  newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.

    But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.

    “Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face.  Giving him a quick hug she explained.   “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is.  I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”

    The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”

    “To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.

    “What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.

    #7960

    As Chico carried the Memory Pie over to Kit, a breeze shuffled the pages of the script lying abandoned beside the gazebo. No one had noticed it before—maybe it hadn’t been there. The pages were blank. Then they weren’t.

    Kit blinked. “Did you just call me Trevor?”

    “No,” said Chico. But he looked uncertain. “Did I?”

    There was a rumble below them. The gazebo creaked—faint and subtle, like a swedish roll turning in its deep sleep.

    Then—click-clac thank you Sirtak.

    A trapdoor swung open beneath Kit’s feet. But instead of falling, Kit froze mid-air.

    The air flickered. Kit shimmered.

    And now they were wearing sunglasses, holding a cowboy lasso, and speaking in a faint Midwest accent.

    “Sorry, I think I missed my cue. Where are we in the scene?”

    #7958

    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?

    #7957

    Still visibly shaken, Sir Humphrey blinked up at the canopy. “Is it… raining? Is it raining ants?”

    “It’s not rain,” muttered Thiram, checking his gizmos. “Not this time. It’s like… gazebo fallout. I’d venture from dreams hardening midair.”

    Kit shuffled closer to Amy, speaking barely above a whisper. “Aunt Amy, is it always like this?”

    Amy sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and said, “No, sweetheart. Sometimes it’s worse.”

    “Right then,” declared Carob, making frantic gestures in the air, as though she’d been sparring the weather. “We need to triangulate the trajectory of the gazebo, locate the Sabulmantium, and get Sir Humphrey a hat before his dignity leaks out his ears.”

    “I feel like Garibaldi,” Sir Humphrey murmured, dazedly stroking his forehead.

    “Do you remember who Garibaldi is?” Chico asked, narrowing his eyes.

    “No,” the Padre confessed. “But I’m quite certain he’d never have let his gazebo just float off like that.”

    Meanwhile, Madam Auringa had reappeared behind a curtain of mist smelling faintly of durian and burnt cinnamon.

    “The Sabulmantium has been disturbed,” she intoned. “Intent without anchor will now spill into unintended things. Mice shall hold council. Socks will invert themselves. Lost loves shall write letters that burn before reading.”
    “Typical,” muttered Thiram. “We poke one artifact and the entire logic stack collapses.”

    Kit raised a trembling hand. “Does that mean I’m allowed to choose my name again?”

    “No,” said Amy, “But you might be able to remember your original one—depending on how many sand spirals the Sabulmantium spins.”

    “I told you,” Chico interjected, gesturing vaguely at where the gazebo had vanished over the treetops. “It was no solar kettle. You were all too busy caffeinating to notice. But it was focusing something. That sand’s shifting intent like wind on a curtain.”

    “And we’ve just blown it open,” said Carob.

    “Yup,” said Amy. “Guess we’re going gazebo-chasing.”

    #7956

    “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.

    #7955

    The wind picked up just as Thiram adjusted the gazebo’s solar kettle. At first, he blamed the rising draft on Carob’s sighing—but quickly figured out that this one had… velocity.

    Then the scent came floating by: jasmine, hair spray, and over-steeped calamansi tea.

    A gust of hot air blew through the plantation clearing, swirling snack wrappers and curling Amy’s page corners. From the vortex stepped a woman, sequins ablaze, eyeliner undefeated.

    She wore a velvet shawl patterned like a satellite weather map.

    “Did someone say Auringa?” she cooed, gliding forward as her three crystal balls rotated lazily around her hips like obedient moons.
    Madam Auringa?” Kit asked, wide-eyed.

    Thiram’s devices were starting to bip, checking for facts. “Madam Auringa claims to have been born during a literal typhoon in the Visayas, with a twin sister who “vanished into the eye.” She’s been forecasting mischief, breakups, and supernatural infestations ever since…”

    Carob raised an eyebrow. “Source?”

    Humphrey harrumphed: “We don’t usually invite atmospheric phenomena!”

    Doctor Madam Auringa, Psychic Climatologist and Typhoon Romantic,” the woman corrected, removing a laminated badge from her ample bosom. “Bachelor of Arts in Forecasted Love and Atmospheric Vibes. I am both the typhoon… and its early warning system.”

    “Is she… floating?” Amy whispered.

    “No,” said Chico solemnly, “She’s just wearing platform sandals on a bed of mulch.”

    Auringa snapped her fingers. A steamy demitasse of kopi luwak materialized midair and plopped neatly into her hand. It wasn’t for drink, although the expensive brevage born of civet feces had an irrepressible appeal —it was for her only to be peered into.

    “This coffee is trembling,” she murmured. “It fears a betrayal. A rendezvous gone sideways. A gazebo… compromised.”

    Carob reached for her notes. “I knew the gazebo had a hidden floor hatch.”

    Madam Auringa raised one bejeweled finger. “But I have come with warning and invitation. The skies have spoken: the Typhoon Auring approaches. And it brings… revelations. Some shall find passion. Others—ant infestations.”

    “Did she just say passion or fashion?” Thiram mumbled.

    “Both,” Madam Auringa confirmed, winking at him with terrifying precision.

    She added ominously “May asim pa ako!”. Thiram’s looked at his translator with doubt : “You… still have a sour taste?”

    She tittered, “don’t be silly”. “It means ‘I’ve still got zest’…” her sultry glance disturbing even the ants.

    #7953

    Carob was the first to find the flyer. It had been pinned to the banyan tree with a teaspoon, flapping just slightly in the wind like it knew how ridiculous it was.

    FIVE HURT IN GAZEBO DRAMA
    Local Brewmaster Suspected. Coffee Stains Incriminating.

    She tapped it twice and announced to no one in particular, “I told you gazebos were structurally hostile.”

    Amy poked her head out of the linen drying shed. “No, you said they were ‘liminal spaces for domestic deceit.’ That’s not the same as a health hazard.”

    “You ever been in a gazebo during a high wind with someone named Derek? Exactly.”

    Ricardo ran past them at an awkward crouch, muttering into a device. “…confirming perimeter breach… one is wearing a caftan, possibly hallucinating… I repeat, gazebo situation is active.”

    Chico wandered in from the side trail, his shirt unbuttoned, leaf in mouth, mumbling to Kit. “I don’t know what happened. There was a conversation about frothed chalk and cheese, and then everything… rotated.”

    Kit looked solemn. “Aunt Amy, he sat on it.”

    “He sat on the gazebo?” Amy blinked.

    “No. On the incident.”

    Kit offered no further explanation.

    From the underbrush, a low groan emerged. Thiram’s voice, faint: “Someone built a gazebo over the generator hatch. There are no stairs. I fell in.”

    Amy sighed. “Goddammit, Thiram.”

    Carob smirked. “Gazebo’d.”

    #7951

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    #7935

    “I don’t know, Amy. I thought it was Chico who was mysterious — subversively spitting at every opportunity.”

    “Well, Carob, maybe we could just agree they’re equally mysterious?” suggested Amy, turning her attention back to her search.

    Carob shrugged. “A woman in Greece is divorcing her husband because AI read her coffee cup and said he was cheating.”

    Amy paused and looked up. “For real?”

    “Yeah. I read it on Thiram’s news stream. He left it running on that weird device of his — over there, next to his half-drunk coffee. Not sure where he went, actually.”

    Amy gasped and clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! Brainwave occurring — let’s get AI to read Thiram’s coffee cup!”

    Carob snorted. “Genius.”

    They raced over to the small folding table where Thiram’s cup sat. Carob held up her phone.

    “Okay. One quick pic. Hold it steady!”

    They excitedly uploaded the image to an AI analysis app Thiram had installed on his device.

    The app whirred for a few minutes:

    DEEP COFFEE CUP ANALYSIS COMPLETE

    Latent emotional residue: contemplative, fond of secrets.
    Foam pattern suggests hidden loyalty to an entity known only as “The Port.”
    Swirling suggests alignment with larger forces not currently visible.
    Presence of cardamom notes: entirely unaccounted for.
    Recommendation: approach carefully with gentle questioning.

    “Blimey, what does that mean?” asked Carob.

    Amy nodded solemnly, perhaps with just a touch of smugness. “He is a man of mystery. Didn’t I say it?”

    #7927
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Thiram Izu

       

      Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

      Explicit Description

      • Age: Mid-30s

      • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

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

      • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

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

      • Clothing (standard look):

        • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

        • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

        • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

        • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

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

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


      Inferred Personality & Manner

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

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

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

      • Habits:

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

        • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

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

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

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


      Function in the Group

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

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

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

      #7922

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

      Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”

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

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

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

      “Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.

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

      #7921
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        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.

        #7917

        Chico noticed the inching bush from his hidden vantage point behind the tulip tree. For a moment he wished he wasn’t quite so solitary, and regretted that there was nobody to say look at that bush inching along over there to.

         

        ~~~

         

        “Sssh!” whispered Carob, holding a hand up to silence Amy. “Did you hear that? Listen! There it is again!”

        “Sounds like someone spitting behind that tulip tree.  But look over there!” Amy cried, “I never saw such a thing, that bush is moving.”

        “And it’s heading towards the tulip tree spitter,” Carob replied grimly. “This could get serious.”

        #7916

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

        Was everyone avoiding Amy?

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

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

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

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

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

        Carob knew Amy could be relentless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.

        He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.

        #7908

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

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

        “You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #7904

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #7901

        “Nice dog,” said Chico casting an appreciative eye over the beige and white coloured Breton Spaniel.

        “His name’s Cappuccino,” a mans voice murmured, but Chico barely glanced at him.

        #7899

        “A Mexicano, por favor, ” said the man who had just entered the café.

        “Right away,” said Godric with his Swedish accent. “Your face looks familiar.”

        “Name’s Chico,” said the man with teeth dyed with betel leaves chewing. “Never been here before. I just popped into existence, called by voices of people I never heard of before. Maybe I just had a rough night. I don’t know.”

        Chico spat on the floor Godric had just cleaned. What did they say about customers already?

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