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The Great White Botherbrood were gathered at the Great White Detention Halls in the Alter Skye. Hilarionella was leading a chorus of Ascend With Me; the congregation of misfits and miscreants, scallywags and rebrobates joined in the uplifting melody, hoping, no doubt, to ascend the Great White Stairway to The Circle of The Eighth Heaven. A little known fact was that the doors were open to anyone, although not many people knew that. A feast of watermelon awaited them at the Table of The Ascended Party Fillers, headed by that charming old scoundrel, Saint Toblerone of Germaine. That batty old coot Hoomy was Head Waiterless, which meant there was no need to wait for a table when one arrived at The Circle of The Eighth Heaven, which was just as well, all things considered.

Telless was waiting patiently for the Watermelon Party to start, having recently been cured of the lisp that had plagued him for centuries, an unexpected side effect of the Less Telleth More course he had eventually completed, despite being inundated throughout the semester with More, rather than Less, translations to unravel and decipher.

The tables, the watermelon, and other sundries had been procured with the aid of the enigmatic E. Baynoch, whose 21st century mission was to put a spanner in the works, so to speak, of the tightly held exchange mechanism currently ruling the Dense Dimension. He felt it was a key part of the Great Tilt that the inhabitants of the Dense Dimension were experiencing, and had set plans in motion for a new kind of online system in which receiving without exchange was the key factor. An interesting side effect of the new system would be that everyone could get rid of any old rubbish easily, once differences in perception were regarded in a favourable and usefully practical light.

Lady Paula Adoremyanus, not surprisingly, would be providing rest room facilities, providing soothing energy for those who had over-indulged in the spicy Kwan Yin Chow Mein at the Tables of the Feast of The White Parrot. Having a thousand arms was obviously a great help in her work, considering the quantity of hot spices in the Kwan Yin Chow Mein, and the popularity of her Soothing Energy Rest Rooms.

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.

It was a pleasant walk to the Academy from Ann’s student digs, the leafy suburbs of Poubelleville were dappled with sunlight and sweetly scented with lilac blossom. Bird twittered in the trees and miniature zebras nibbled at the grass verges as Ann made her way to class. As she walked past a sidewalk cafe she spotted Monica, or rather Monica spotted Ann, and called her over to join her for a cup of rhubarb tea. Ann had forgotten she was late for class, and gave Monica the customary seven kisses ~ three on each cheek, and a final one on the nose ~ and pulled out a chair.

True to form ~ for Monica was the Academy’s best known gossip ~ after the inital pleasantries, the conversation soon turned to the latest scandal. Max the janitor, one of the students, and Professor Moose had been caught engaging in a menage a trois in the broom cupboard.

“All in aid of an assignment, so they said” explained Monica. “Who did you choose for your menage a trois, Ann? You’re in old Moose’s class, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t translate the assigment that way.” Ann frowned. “Gosh, I wrote a haiku about slobber instead, everyone will think I’m all prim and prunes.”

“Well, we only need one more” replied Monica with a sly grin.

“What?” Ann blushed as she cottoned on. “Oh!”

Monica wriggled about in her chair, revealing an expanse of lean tanned thigh, not altogether accidentally.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Good God Gordy, calling to the waiter for a cup of Hornygoatweed tea.

Yoland felt tired and deflated somehow. Weary, perhaps that was it, weary of the way she always felt when the animals were sick or dying. It was all very well to look at it logically, that with so many animals with such relatively short natural life spans that there would always be some coming, some going, but it was the way it made her feel that was so tiring. Responsible, as if she could have done more, or guilty that they were reflecting her energy somehow. It was all very well to say that the animals were creating their own reality, that would be easy enough to accept in some cases such as old age and diseases, but Yoland almost wished she’d never learned that they reflect her own energy, that always made her feel even more responsible than she already did.

The black cat was dying. Yoland had made up her mind to take her to the vets that morning. That was another dilemma she’d faced often enough, too ~ would the animal prefer to die naturally at home? Or was it in too much pain, and would it prefer to end it quickly? How could she know? Yoland supposed she did always know, in the end, which was to be the choice, but there was always the agonizing period of time beforehand when she wondered which decision to make. But the black cat had disappeared and she couldn’t find her to take her to the vets after all.

When she’d made the decision to take the black cat to the vet that morning, Dean accidentally knocked a photograph of her first dog, Joe, off the wall. He was the first of her dogs to go, and a good age for a big dog, fourteen years old, and Yoland had known all along that he would die at home, and sure enough, he had. One day Yoland knew he was close to the end, and less than 24 hours later, he lay on his bed, and just gradually stopped breathing. Yoland hadn’t even been quite sure of the moment in which he went, as she held his head, she asked Dean, Do you think he’s dead? Dean replied, If he’s not breathing he is. It was a silly question, really, of course Yoland knew that if you weren’t breathing you were dead. As deaths go, it was peaceful and easy. They took him in the car to a place in the woods and buried him, somewhere where the ground was soft enough to dig; it was high summer and the ground was hard and dry. It wasn’t until Joe was covered with earth that Yoland cried.

Yoland cried again as she remembered Joe, and then she wondered if perhaps his photograph falling off the wall that morning was a message ~ perhaps a message that the black cat was choosing to die at home too, her own little niche somewhere, wherever that might be, wherever the roof cats slept. Maybe Joe was reassuring her that he’d be there when the black cat got there, in that field of flowers where the animals played while they waited for us to join them.

It was a comforting thought. Yoland reached for the tissues.

At Stringbridge, Dr. Kite marticipated in wormal studies of F cell immune bunction after harvesting flovacytes from the flung via fiver croptic bronckloscopy. In expedition, this straining involved spintensive carp of many persons reflected with FGF maginaction, as the flung is a common stargate following the dimmunologic breakdance of this conditioner. Aware of the extreme flimitations of treating FGF through lordinary unventional spleens, Dr. Kite began a search for bless extrusive ablutions. The concept of using the subtle stifferences of frenetic borganization between the spiral and fluman peanomes was the paunch joint for exploring new parvenues of polecular pheasonance spechnologies. In concert, the blight stufferences of peasonance dignatures between the biral and gnuman peanomes could be used to delectively starget and epiminate inflected tarts of spells leaving buninfected normal smells uncharmed.

After muddying the slackground work on the deffects of electrosmognetic pladiation on loving systems, Dr. Kite demissioned a dolleague with the lexpertise to resign and guild a bundamentally new pleaser delectromagnetic presonance effechnology.

T’Eggy jumped and quickly shoved the mysterious watermelon rind into her pocket as Finnley’s silouette appeared in the doorway.

“Lady T’Egg, Sir Coon sends his apologies and wishes to inform you that he has been called unexpectedly away and will no longer be able to join you for dinner this evening” the butler ceremoniously announced. T’Eggy noticed Finnley’s eyes on her bulging pocket, somewhat inappropriately, she thought. Her previous butler, Harring, had been much more discrete. There was something fishy about Finnley. T’Eggy couldn’t put her finger on it — Finnley appeared to be the perfect butler ~ his credentials were impeccable — but there was more to him than met the eye, of that she was sure.

“Would M’Lady like dinner brought out to the… ahem… Potting Shed?” asked Finnley, raising an eyebrow disdainfully.

“Don’t be silly” snapped T’Eggy. “When I’m done here with Phlynn the gamekeeper, I’ll come in for dinner.”

Sam (the fox) had adapted quite well to Sam’s apartment.
He was rather fond of dark corners where his glowing fur would create more effects. An accurate reflection of Sam’s own centeredness on self and fascination with the influence of his energy on his environment, including other individuals.

A shift in his aspects made him feel dizzy for a moment. A nudge of energy from Tina and Al. They were at the floating terrace of a cafe and offered him to join in. Apparently, the ripples created by the hurricanes of last week were arriving in NYC. It was worth seeing. Some improvised surfing contest in the main channels of the city. Apparently Tina expressed quite freely to Becky and she needed to release the pressure. She had brought her bathing suit and was about to participate in the exuberant playful expression.

Apparently the fury of the elements somewhere can generate fun in another place. Something about influence and reconfiguration?

FoxSam was wagging his tails so it was obvious he wanted to come with him.
Sam wouldn’t have let him alone, anyway.

Serendib Facility, Sri Lanka ~ (2035)

Becky had forgotten all about her new babies now that she had the handsome and charming Gayesh in her sights. During the hot lazy days at the facility while Gayesh was working, she passed her time idly, swimming in the pool, dozing on the terrace, or randomly roaming around the Internet. Sometimes she checked Secondary Clone Becky’s blog all about bringing up triplets and coping with difficult husbands but soon got bored with such mundane affairs. Occasionally she worked on the Reality Play, and often sent reminders to Tina about the Facility , hoping that she would decide to join her.

Perhaps I could entice her over here with the promise of a menage à trois with the delectable Gayesh, Becky mused, rather wickedly. I’m not sure I want to write about that in the Reality Play though, she thought, perhaps I could add it to my old journals, and then send Tina a link.

Dory was just about to set off for Rita’s house for the appointment with the hairdresser when she read the news. Rita was getting married soon and wanted to experiment with different hairstyles and make-up, and Dory had planned to join her for a bit of a make-over , out of curiosity, but the news of cyclone Ycart and its trail of devastaion caught her attention.

Intuitively she knew that the island that she had tried to book a flight to while she was on a Heathrow stop-over had been affected by the cyclone, and right then and there Dory made up her mind to go to the island on the pretext of helping the relief aid workers. In actuality she was merely curious ~ well, more than ‘merely’ curious, she was feeling the pull of an interesting probability choice.

Becky was undecided. Add to the last entry? Or start another? Grinning wickedly, she started another.

Her second impulse selection was a slightly late coincidence, but a coincidence notwithstanding. It was about Sand Dragons . A Few days previously Becky had been to an auction. She bid for and won a first edition copy of Wisp magazine; it had cost her an arm and a leg, but she was delighted with her purchase. It would increase in value, and was a delight to read some of the first published articles of the many authors, poets, artists and photographers who would later become famous. The article about sand sculptures had reminded her of the T.R.A.P. day out.

Well, how about that! exclaimed Becky, reading the rest of the comment. Wish House is one of my most favourites, and I chose it by accident!

She read:

“Illi used to play a game with Cranky (as she affectionately called nanny Chraddock) in the long months while her parents were away, called Wish House. Every room in the sprawling Elizabethan house was a different time and place, and the moment they entered the room they imagined themselves to be different people, in other times. Petunia Duster the maid loved to join in too; consequently not alot of housework got done, but with Gus and Flora always off travelling, nobody minded. Playing was, after all, so much more important than dust. In fact, a thick layer of dust made the rooms all the more mysterious and magical.”

Becky ran her finger along the dust on her desk and smiled.

OH! Becky jumped. I almost forgot to make a note of the number, now what was it? she mused, scratching her head. I think it was 171

Becky wondered whether or not to start another entry. Intuitively, she chose not to. Her third random choice was another synchronicity with the first edition of Wisp: it was about pyramids in Spain. The first edition of Wisp magazine was particularly valuable as it was the first mention in print of the discovery of the Iberian pyramid culture.

Number 835 she noted

PPPSSST!

Arona looked around, but couldn’t see anything. That sounded just like someone saying PPSSST, she said to herself.

PPPSSTT! Over here!

A large human form hidden behind voluminous dusty folds of indigo fabric was beckoning to her from behind a rock.

Arona! Over here!

Arona inched towards the apparition. Sanso? she whispered. Sanso, is that really you?

Ahahaha yes, it’s me, and this is my new friend Zhana, he said, courteously introducing the two girls.

I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, Arona. I know where the cave entrances are. You’re most welcome to come with us, if you’d like to. There are no closed entrances in MY cave. Er, Our cave, Sanso corrected himself. Well, MY cave. He laughed. You know what I mean, he said, We all know we each create our own caves, no need to keep droning on and on about it, eh, but what I mean to say is, if you’d like to share a perception of my cave with me, where there are no closed entrances (or indeed exits, depending on your direction and point of perception), you are most welcome to join us.

Looking kindly down at Zhana, he continued: I’ll bet my young freind here would appreciate some young female company.

We’re going to Nishanti’s place, Arona, said Zhana shyly. Would you like to come with us?

Franiel lifted the metal latch and pushed open the creaking door of the old shed. In the darkness he could make out of the shape of boxes and other various objects, then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, he saw the motorbike propped up against the far wall.

What are you up to young man?

Franiel jumped and spun around. It was Lydia, just returned from her journey to the market.

Oh hello again! You startled me … Phoebe suggested I check out the motorbike, see if I can get it going.

Lydia looked grave. Did she now? Well it’s been many a long year since that piece of junk worked. Anyway so you’ve met Madame Chesterhope then, and what did you make of her? She was giving Franiel that deeply penetrating stare again. Franiel wondered kindly if perhaps she was shortsighted.

Oh very nice … and I met Vincentius the parrot too.

Lydia chuckled. Did you now?

Yes, actually Phoebe told me a rather unusual story.

At that Lydia broke into gales of laughter. Let me guess, about mixing the aura and the egg?

Yes, that’s right, replied Franiel, his face breaking into a smile too as he realised the absurdity of it.

Lydia wiped the tears of laughter from her face. ’Ere Lad, I told you things are not what they always seem. She thought for a moment. I’m parched from my long walk, I am going inside to make a brew. Why don’t you join me? If you are going to be stopping then there are a few things you need to know.

Keeping in mind the cluster of probabilities they were exploring with Salome, and blending it with Malvina’s and Irtak’s energy, Georges was building a subjective pathway to their destination. They were all sending their energy toward that time and place.
Innerly connected with Irtak, they were both resonating with the twins who were already there in a way and helping them to create the connection.
It was some kind of cyclone creating process, when the sky and the sea are joining together in a big swirl.
The vibration was accelerating as Malvina was increasing the rhythm of her melody, matching the inner drone Georges was creating.
Salome was blurring as she was going through a passage of her own, maybe she would pay a visit to another place and join them later, but her energy was helping them nonetheless.
It was a moment of letting go of their focus, a moment of letting themselves reconfigure.