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In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
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.
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
The myopic Finnley DIDN’T wear fishnet stockings.
Unable to resist the library, and in a tutu, he was just hoping that he did the right thing in sending the staff before dinner to the stables.
Finnley, in the library, before dinner, waited.
“Damn it!” Finnley muttered. “I can’t do it alone”.
A master in karate, a surge of adrenaline overflowed his mind and all he remembered was he was bald.
NOTE : Well. By the time I took out all the pornographic stuff there wasn’t much left to work with.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
New Venice, October 2117
Now, where were we? Midora suddenly felt that the need for an agenda was called for. Spread out in front of her were a few collages and some balls of energy from all the links and connections she had found in the stories of her ancestors and gathered so far.
Since her fathers Oscar and Bart had adopted the twins Hari and Jacq, her usually tidy room had been a mess. Fortunately, the adoption was almost complete, and in a mere week, the twins would then be able to choose another family, which they made clear they intended to do. She felt so appreciative that adoption was no longer bound by traditional laws of responsibility of the parents and ridden by culpability; instead, it was a healthier cooperation between the parents and children, and children were free to go with other families if they felt the desire for a different experience.
When they’d adopted Hari and Jacq, Bart and Oscar had wanted for a continuation of the experience of bringing up children, which they did not have for a long time with Midora, as she was quite independent from an early age. And in truth, Jacq and Hari were very interactive and playful, and to be perfectly honest, quite a handful; in a few weeks, the apartment would surely seem deserted and empty.So, during that time, Midora’s researches on the stories had been put to a halt, and a lots of her energy balls which were usually neatly ordered on her lightboard were now merged for some, changed of forms for others… all thanks to her half-bros. She barely knew were to start to get a better view of it now.
Let me see… there were a few threads going on there, and all we need is untangle some of them…
She’d had fun reconnecting with the “Island of Dr Transvestite” theme, but now she found out, her favorite characters Shar and Glor, were now disembodied, stranded in transition, and perhaps waiting to be reborn to a nine-titted alien in the Worseversity after failed attempts of channeling. So far, no signs of developments for them though.
As far as the Ooh-dimension was concerned, the shift of Vowellness was probably complete, and she couldn’t find anything new being published by Ms Tattler in all now probable directions she was looking into. She was of course ignoring the disrupted echoes from the Jumbled Eights thread, which were probably the brainstorming board of ideas of the writer, which she had the greatest difficulty to follow (she wondered if even the writer could).
Her own thread and the details of the history of the Wrick family was always sketchy and full of holes; she’d attempted at learning more about the elusive Becky , but she kept blinking in and out of continuity, too quickly for her to follow her anywhere in her explorations.
Oh, and the Alienor dimension was still going on, though most of its development wasn’t yet showing up. What had happened of Arona, Franiel, Irtak’s father, the gripshawk? And now that Malvina was gone too… She’d found Mrs Chesterhope after her strange amnesiac shapeshifting accident however; and that was encouraging.
So strange, all of these characters are so alive, she thought fondly, and yet none of them seem motivated enough to project themselves out with force and steadiness into her energy balls which still had a sort of blurriness and haphazardness to them.
She made the intent to project more energy in the direction of stabilizing the currents of the strands of stories, and the energy balls’ colors started to shimmer lightly. That was certainly the way to go. Which one would be the most alluring to explore and follow?
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
the voice was feeling liquid. Leörmn wouldn’t change the exit of that egg.
Since many of his abilities were quite perfect the only difficulty was to follow any egg.
And the egg was in another one from which the girl drifted off to sleep, despite the sounds of the camels, and then it turned into one of those heart shape!
“BUGGER THIS” Dory was singing ‘Bugger this’ to Arona rolling around laughing.
This is a new game: choose from the current random comment, and its following comments, and only deleting some words, sentences, letters, bits here and there… let a different story be written. You have to incorporate at least a few words from each comment you’re passing through. Only one daily entry per writer (reusing another writer’s current random thread is allowed though taking turns is encouraged), so that it keeps weaving a new story. Of course, if you don’t like the rules, you can play in other threads instead. Don’t forget this is the Del’Eight thread, where DEL is key.
#1664 Elizabeth was beginning to realize that there WAS no road.
Whenever she found herself following another, she didn’t want it.
Perhaps it was rough and coarse, plain and functional. Some were together somehow.It really was the most fabulously absorbing babbling,…
“How long now?”
Yann couldn’t help but laugh. She would choose… some of them are so slippery…
SPLASH! warmly as Flove was.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Though the more Ann thought about Monica, the funnier it seemed. Guilt was such a tiresome emotion.
“Fancy old Bronkel deciding to go for a sex change! I must have sensed something when I wrote him in as the crazy, brilliant, cross dressing Dr Bronkelhampton in the Island novel!”
She thought for a moment, “did I ever finish that novel?”
Ann sighed. What was she like eh! Always starting novels, never finishing them. No wonder old Bronkel, ahem, Monica, got so fed up with her.
Anyway, perhaps she would give Monica another chance as her pooblisher? He … she… was certainly much kinder and easier to deal with now. That Godfrey, or whatever the heck his name is, wasn’t doing much for her career.
The writer wondered again how to strike out text and correct the inadvertent slip into the Ooh dimension.
An idea for another novel was forming in the murky convoluted depths of Ann’s brain, something about a gorgeously cuddly big teddy bear man, with his unruly tumble of brown curls and his colourful FairIsle sweaters, who had flown the nest from a potato farm in deepest darkest Idaho to pursue his dream of being an Elsespace Guide at the Worserversity.
“Brilliant, Moonica will loove it!”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann felt a bit guilty for being so rude to Monica, but it had made her laugh, so it was worth it. She had made it sound as if it was a big secret why she was feeling odd, but the fact of the matter was she wasn’t really feeling odd anymore, and was bored with talking about it.
As well, she was remembering what Walter had said to her (or was it Harvey? The gorgously cuddley big teddy bear man, with his unruly tumble of brown curls and his colourful FairIsle sweaters, who had flown the nest from a potato farm in deepest darkest Idaho to pursue his dream of being an Elsespace Guide at the Worserversity.)
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Let’s put it this way” Ann continued, “Tis better to allow the snippets to flow out than to bottle them up, which is where the expression ‘to rack ones brains’ comes from. Rows and rows of bottles of thoughts on metal racks in a dusty cellar, contained within the confines of the glass, denied freedom of expression, and all because the Bottle Rack Attendant, or BRA for short, refused to set them free to find their own way in the world of infinite individual storylines.”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“You see, by no manner is it an issue if things aren’t continuous” Walter was saying, which immediately brought to Ann’s mind the latest development at her end of the group project. For some reason lately she found that she was permanently signed in, as opposed to previously, when she’d had the dickens of a job to stay signed in long enough to make an entry. Permanently connected, as it were.
“….and I know it’s almost blasphemous to say that” Walter continued, causing Ann to raise an eyebrow, “…but the crux of the matter lays in the measure with which things are expanded and linked together.”
“If I may be so bold as to interrupt, sir,” Ann couldn’t restrain herself from interjecting, “Surely that is what readers are for? Is not the purpose of the writer, or indeed any artist, to simply offer particles, or pieces, for the viewer to add, or not, as they choose, to their own continuous storylines?”
Walter opened and closed his mouth like a godfish. (Ann had to laugh at the typographical error.)
“For example” Ann continued, warming to the subject, “When I random read book pages, then channel surf the TV, followed by a random roam around online, interspersed with perhaps a few phone calls, or various incidents throughout the day, I’m making a continuous story of my own, with pages and screenshots and conversation snippets borrowed, if you like, from many external sources (and before you say anything, I am aware that no source is external, but don’t let me start digressing). The era of being ‘told’ a story to beleive in its entirety is over! Everyone knows these days that we each make our own story, with a bit of this, and a bit of that. It’s The Age of Random Tips & Snippets, after all, everyone knows that! It’s T.A.R.T.S. time now!”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Oh well, the problem is Harvey, I can’t actually swim”, Lavender confessed. “So I didn’t see the dolphins blowing rings. But thank you so much for the movie. I think it was probably lying around in the rain pretending to be a mermaid which got me this cold. Last time I am doing one of Moosy’s daft classes”.
Lavender rolled her beautiful eyes and sneezed again.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Harvey had enjoyed tremendously the underwater experience with the air bubble blowing dolphins and orcas …
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
The summer Holidays were nearly over, or the Hollow Days, as they were known to some. The last days of summer had been a bit hollow for Ann at any rate, rattling around inside her own head, not really knowing whether it was full or empty. Ann had spent most of the summer sleeping, and with virtually no dream recall, it seemed as if half of the summer was missing. Probably just as well, what with it being such an odd summer. She wondered if she would simply sleep through the shift, like Ned Young slept through the mutiny. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
“Normally” the Worserversity students started rolling back towards Poubelleville round about now, but the word “normally” was becoming obsolete. What was normal, what could be expected? Ann didn’t know. She packed her coloured pencils, her detachable hand and her wooden men, and fished out her homework assigments for the holidays that she had only just remembered.
Alliteration. Bugger bollocks and blast, blimey but what a bother, too bloody hot and bored.
That’s a bit bloody depressing, she muttered to herself, try another letter.
Sweltering summer of sweat and sand, sleeping and sleeping, sublime surruptitious snooze, sail away in the sunset swell, sunrise surrender, ships ahoy!
Fan the flames, far sighted fellows! There’s a flash in the funnel for fast falling fishermen. Far flung, fun fueled, oh fast fleeting fantasies, follow the folks with the flags! Flounder not, fresh fishies, for fun feels fantastic!
Ah, wallow in wisps of wordless wonderings, weather the winds of wandering whispers, while weighty wells of wishes work winsome wonders, woven with worn wool and worrisome white weathered windows. Whether we will, whether we won’t, who will win, what will work, will we watch it water the weeds….
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
For her new course, Pr. Moose was a dolphin.
It was a fancy-dress course entitled: ‘Act out your characters’.Pedro was naked, and when she asked him in what kind of disguise that could be, he told her “I’m the Universe”. She was, a moment, hypnotized by his so blue eyes that she’d forgotten her question. She gulped, speechless and looked at him more closely, appreciating the physique of his body…
— Is it real? she asked.
— It’s the Universe.
— Well, ok then, go get a seat and let’s begin our course.Following him with her eyes, or more precisely following his butt with her eyes, she also noticed a few other students. Ann was wearing a nine-titsed alien costume and there were two glowing ladies with fishes stuck to their ghostly bodies…
This butt, she thought again, her attention distracted from the other students.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Yann had been working on a transcription all the afternoon, only accompanied by some mysterious musicians using pneumatic drills not so far outside.
Though he had managed to make it flow quite easily most of the time, the attention and the tension required to make it possible were now getting on his nerves… he had one more pass through the audio to do. He was wanting to do it now in order to get it over, but he realized he was pushing his energy…
A weird thought… he would enjoy diving into a pond full of little fishes that would massage his skin.
he chuckled thinking of that, imagining that the fishes were some kind of imagery of his energy field.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
That unexpected call from the Dean had put the Fisherman in abyss of perplexity.
The fishes weren’t really his prime concern. He only needed to paint a little red nose on one of the cloud fishes to stir the others out of their unerratic routine.
The matter wasn’t really worth his coming back to the Worseversity, but he and the Dean knew better. If the fishes had snapped into that randomless routine, it was most probably a protective reflex to anticipate some trauma.Trauma hadn’t really been seen in ages —in fact, not even once since the Great Shift, which had been an orgiastic experience of trauma of all kinds for people prone to indulge into this emotional drug. The coincidence had not been lost on the two old men. Of all the Worseversity’s, there were very few true artifacts remaining from before the Great Shift; barely a handful of them. Most of the known artifacts were in actuality clever re-creations from older designs, but not the “real” thing. And for good reason actually; most of the laws of physics had changed since, and made almost all of the older designs broken and unusable.
The pool was hiding one of these few artifacts that had mysteriously gone through the Great Shift without decaying. Furthermore, this very artifact was quite old, and signed by the visionary architect Rumbold the Pale boasting in carved letters which had once been golden, now mostly erased by the passing of times: “The real game is only played whence it started”.
That fishy omen seemed so dire that it couldn’t help but put the Fisherman out of his lifelong passion questing for the great Trouts of the Universe.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Sha and Glo were looking at the Aerial Pond of Cloud Fishes in their blobby glowing spectral form.
“A shame we’re dead… That school of fish is sure somethin’”
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking Shar?”
“Well, of course; we’re dead and psychic, bloody hell Glor!”Glor was glad that she was dead sometimes, and this was such a time. She’d found Sharon’s usual rude rebuking was far easier to handle in that state.
“Well, I would love to dive in that pool too, like in that documentary…”
“Exactamundo! Have the school of fishes eat dead skin and give it back its young fresh and peachy glow.”“I think we better find some quick way to get back in Shar…”
“Not to bloody worry Glor, it already looks like our subliminal sex enticements have worked very well; would be a shame no one would get preggers with all that fornication going around!”
“I’m starting to wonder what it would be like if that’s the nine-titted alien going first though… I’m told their pregnancy is quicker than human’s…”In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“To be perfectly honest dear, I wouldn’t be very outwardly lovely if I were to be honest.”
“Another of your convoluted ways to say it’s rubbish” Lavender said with a smile “But that’s fine, you know. It’s also meant as a test of honesty… And as I’m not sure you heard it properly anyway, a little honesty wouldn’t have hurt you know.”But it seemed Harvey’s attention had already gone somewhere else. “Are you even listening to me?” Lavender said with a lovely voice practicing the delicate guttural accents of Sloopernoff, snapping back Harvey’s attention to the conversation.
“Oh, you were speaking… I’m sorry, I’m starting to worry that Ann’s narcolepsy is contagious.”
“Always the worrywort…”As they were talking surrounded by the soft dusty specks of the library (which every time annoyed Lavender quite extensively, as she wasn’t so fond of the taste of dust bunnies and didn’t see with the same eye as Ann the archaeological value of burying useful things in dust), Gremwick the mad Dean of the Worseversity passed by with a yellow sticker stuck to the back of his trench coat.
“Looks like mad old Gremwick isn’t doing so good recently hey… Seems like he was droning about taking the students’ courses to check on their quality last time we heard of him…” Lavender looked empathetic.
Harvey was smiling “If you ask me, he might just be wanting to know if the rumor of Prof Gubby’s nine nipples were true or only sheer fantasy”
“I wonder which perverted mind’s fantasy it could be” sighed Lavender unimpressed.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Arona had no idea what dimension she was in. Or indeed, whether she was where she was at all. Oddly enough, and it was not often now that Arona found anything odd, she was finding the experience rather freeing.
“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Hoooooooooooooooooo” she shouted, and holding her arms wide open, began to whirl joyously around, till dizziness overcame her and she landed in a heap on the ground. She expected to land in a heap on the ground in a soft meadow with pretty spring flowers, but to her consternation realised that she had landed on what felt like polished concrete. She was even more concerned when she realised that she had a large audience watching her with interest, although at that stage all she really took in was a sea of feet around her. On further inspection she appeared to be in what looked like an enormous building full of shops, and, shoppers.
“Are you okay?” A kindly gentleman asked her in a concerned voice. At least that is what Arona thought he said. Although the words were familiar, the accent was strange, and not one she had heard before.
“I am fine, thank you,” replied Arona, trying her best to appear composed and rise gracefully from her sprawled position all at the same time. She must have looked convincing because, after a few more curious looks in her direction, the crowd began to disperse.
Good Grief, where am I now? she wondered. Determined not to be alarmed and to go with the flow, however rapid that flow may be, the intrepid Arona set off to explore her new surroundings.
“Wait!”
Arona looked around. It was the strangely spoken gentleman who had first offered assistance. He was brandishing a book towards her.
“Take this book. It is no good for me.”
Arona hesitated. The last time she had heard those words she had ended up with a funny little baby to look after. The man was insistent though, so, thanking him politely Arona accepted the gift.
“Hmmmm, How to Write Fiction, how very peculiar!” Flipping it open randomly she read:
[Random Words Epigraph] Step One: Randomly choose 5 entries from your dictionary. Just flip through the pages, close your eyes, and put your finger down on the page. Copy down the word that is closest to your finger. If your finger lands on a word that you don’t know, you can choose the word just above or just below it. For the purposes of this assignment, count paired words as a single entry (for instance, “melting pot” is listed as a single entry). Step Two: Shape your list of dictionary entries into a poem or story, using all of the entries.
“bugger that,” snorted Arona.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Indeed, Frantic was more than delighted to help out any of her students. It was her desire, her passion even, that they should succeed in her classes. She chastened herself mentally for making the assumption that all her students would be able to find some reference point in their past to assist them with her assignment. However, as she explained to Pedro, it was not essential for a writer to experience everything they wrote about. What was necessary was a willingness to research. Knowing the boy liked to read, she offered him an extensive reading list of appropriate material, plus a few Mills and Boons she just happened to have in her handbag, and sent him on his way.
She was more surprised than anyone when the janitor came to her the next morning and confessed what had happened in the service room. Apparently he had … well lets not go there, she thought, what is done is done and no harm will come of it if they both keep quiet. The little bouquet of flowers he gave her as an apology gift (GIFT – SEE THE GIFT TP) did much to allay her concern. And at least the boy will have something to write about now.
As she put the flowers in water she pondered her next assignment. She could see she would have to give this much careful thought in order to avoid future embarrassing service room encounters.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann Aspect had started the evening course “Free the Fiction Writer Within” without much hope, but much to her surprise, she loved it. She enjoyed it so much that on impulse she quit her day job at the Frozen Flounder Company and signed up at the Fiction Writers Academy as a full time immature student.
After a few weeks of juggling the struggling to look after the children and cook for her husband, keep the house clean, and all the other things a busy wife and mother does, as well as her assignments, Ann decided that it would be much more fun to stay in the students accomodation. She left them a note on the kitchen table saying simply “Have Fun Dears, I’m off!” and left, taking nothing with her but the clothes she was wearing (and the red wig). She called in at the cash point machine on the way to the Academy and withdrew as much money as it would allow her, and then threw her bank card in the gutter. Free! A clean slate, a new life!
