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In reply to: Coma Cameleon
A man needs a name, so they called him Tibu. It wasn’t that anyone chose the name, they had started calling him “the man from the back of the Tibu” and it got shortened. It was where they found him sitting next to an empty suitcase, by the back entrance of the Tibu nightclub, in the service alley behind the marina shop fronts.
The man they called Tibu had been staying with the street hawkers from Senegal for several months. They were kind, and he was grateful. He was fed and had a place to sleep. It perplexed him that he couldn’t recall anything of the language they spoke between themselves. Was he one of them? Many of them spoke English, but the way they spoke it wasn’t familiar to him. Nothing seemed familiar, not the people he now shared a life with, nor the whitewashed Spanish town.
Some of his new friends assumed that he’d been so traumatized during the journey that brought him here that he had mentally blocked it; others were inclined towards the idea of witchcraft. One or two of them suspected he was pretending, that he was hiding something, but for the most part they were patient and accommodating. He was a mystery, but he was no trouble. They all had their own stories, after all, and the focus wasn’t on the past but on the present ~ and the hopes of a different future. So they did what they had to do and sold what they could. They ate and they sent money back home when they could.
They filled Tibu’s suitcase with watches, gave him a threadbare white sheet, and showed him the ropes. The first time they left him to hawk on his own he’s walked and walked before he could bring himself to find a spot and lay out the watches. Fear knotted his stomach and threatened to loosen his bowels. Before long the fear was replaced by a profound sadness. He felt invisible, not worth looking at.
He began to hate the ugly replica watches he was selling, and wondered why he hated them so. He had never liked them, but now he detested them. Hadn’t he had better watches than this? He stared at his watchless left wrist and wondered.
In reply to: Coma Cameleon
At first he’d stayed in the same spot. Waiting, for what he didn’t know, but for someone or something to provide a clue, or a reminder. He’d given up checking his pockets, hoping he was mistaken and that of course he had a wallet, some keys, a phone. But there was nothing. Nothing but that suitcase, lighter than it should have been for its size, because there was nothing it in except a few pairs of underpants and a couple of ties. A toiletry bag, unzipped, with nothing in it but a toothbrush.
He closed his eyes. Stay in the same spot if you’re lost. Had his mother said that once, long ago? His head hurt with the effort to try and recall.
He’d found himself sitting in an alley next to a rubbish container, sprawled on the suitcase. Squinting in the shaft of bold sunlight, he automatically reached into his shirt pocket for sunglasses. The pocket was empty. He checked his other pockets, his alarm and confusion growing. Why was he wearing socks but no shoes? He elbowed himself up to a sitting position and noticed the suitcase. A wave of relief washed over him: everything must be inside the suitcase. Relief gave way to horror. It was almost empty. I’ve been robbed! he thought. But what did they take? What did I have in there?
And then the full realization hit. He had no idea where he was. And no idea who he was.
Someone will come looking for me, he thought. But who? He weighed up his options. What could he do? Go to the police? And tell them what?
He shrank back as two women approached, looking down as they glanced at him. They walked past, continuing their conversation. Why were they speaking Spanish? He looked around, noticing a number of signs. Most of them were in Spanish, but some were in English. For a brief moment he was inordinately pleased at the realization that he was English speaking. The first puzzle piece. He was thinking in American English. Therefore, he must be an American. He rubbed his eyes. His headache was getting worse.
In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud
finnley blue try food
towards case indeed nose
heard watching program worry ago
help helped immediately
nor knew next identity othersIn reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“M’am, I am quite honoured to meet you” Godfrey felt the need to add a creeping “Your daughter always speaks highly of you…”
“Don’t be silly, dear” cooed the mother “You can call me Felicity, no need to make me feel like a granny.”
“Traitor” muttered Liz’ between her teeth. She was spread across the sofa while monitoring the developments of her Mother’s coup and trying to gather her wits and plan her next move. Mother wouldn’t be easily defeated. Last time, Liz’ had to resort to a rats and roaches invasion. Made the house unlivable for months. But quite worth it.
“Has your latest gigolo grown tired of you and thrown you out… again?” she interrupted the amiable chatter of her mother and Godfrey.
“Dear, dear, don’t brood like that, it makes you look like your father. You know my mother instincts have always been very strong. Call it my antennas if you shall — I can always tell when you’re not right, and I can’t let you down this slope.” She retorted, queenly ignoring the rude comment.
In reply to: Mandala of Ascensions
Floverly looked at her agenda, it was pretty busy in this week of now.
Medlik had assigned her more blessing tasks and her aura cleaning duties were lagging behind.
She had also agreed to take an extra soul in need of enlightenment, a recommendation. Normally recommendations worked best, but sometimes they could be extra demanding.She sighed contentedly, looking at the pile of squeaky clean auras. She’d finished just in time, as always.
Her appointment was there and ready now. The little card in her sleeve just stated a name, James, and a little tag to indicate the time and space. She focused inwardly into the little red dot of light on the card.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
Corrie’s findings from elsewhere:
“Then she collapse, her body rigid like stone. Actually her skin began to take on a shade of grey, and several colonies of moss found their way into the wrinkles and meanders of the granite like hair.
Mater arrived at that moment.
“Oh! my! Dido, what did you do ?”
The old lady looked at the table, saw the empty jar, the lines of ants already pillaging the sweet spots on the table and on Idle’s fingers. Some of them had already turned into stone. Mater tried to forage into the jar to find the small package. It contained the mantra to release the hungry ghost from the stone trap of the termite honey.
The jar was meant for rats, Mater would feed them with termite honey to change them into stone and sell them on the market. A little hobby. She would never have thought Idle would eat that stuff. It smelled quite awful.”
““Well thank goodness for that!” exclaimed Liz, heaving a sigh of relief. “The teleport thread jump was a success, and Aunt Idle is safe.”
“What are you doing here?” said Mater, aghast.
“I might ask you what YOU are doing here, Mater, I left you under a sapling in the woods not a moment ago!” retorted Liz.”
““Are you following me, cousin ?” added Liz with a snort. “I never understood why you chose to hide yourself in that stinky town with your dead fishes. Maybe you are looking for a way out. There is nothing for you where I come from. I’ll never give you the teleportation ab-original codes.”
“Oh you never understood anything about me, or did you ?” said Mater, “You were too preoccupied by your followers. Is Big G still with you ? And that suspicious maid of yours. Is she still moulding dust critters ?”
“Dust critters ? What are you talking about?”
“What codes ?” asked Mater, squinting her eyes.
“Nothing,” said Liz, realizing she might have talked too much. But she couldn’t help it, her body was unable to contain all the words in her mind, they had to get out. She tightened her lips, trying to resist the outburst.
“What was that ?” asked Mater looking around, “did you hear that noise ?”
“Nope”, said Liz, “maybe an earthquake, or a storm approaching.” It had to get out one way or another she thought.
“Don’t talk nonsense with me, I tell you I heard something.”
Devan interrupted them. Liz looked at the young man, her cougar senses on alert.
“I got the paper”, he said.
Paper, with words.
“May I ?” she asked, showing the paper.
“Don’t try to seduce my boy”, said Mater, “I know you.”” Corries further findings from elsewhere continued HERE
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
Corrie’s findings from elsewhere:
“Mike wasn’t as courageous as his former self, the Baron. That new name had a cowardly undertone which wasn’t as enticing to craze and bravery as “The Baron”.
The idea of the looming limbo which had swallowed the man whole, and having to care for a little girl who surely shouldn’t be out there on her own at such an early hour of the day spelt in unequivocal letters “T-R-O-U-B-B-L-E” — ah, and that he was barely literate wasn’t an improvement on the character either.
Mike didn’t want to think to much. He could remember a past, maybe even a future, and be bound by them. As well, he probably had a family, and the mere though of it would be enough to conjure up a boring wife named Tina, and six or seven… he had to stop now. Self introspection wasn’t good for him, he would get lost in it in quicker and surer ways than if he’d run into that Limbo.
“Let me tell you something… Prune?… Prune is it?”
“I stop you right there, mister, we don’t have time for the “shouldn’t be here on your own” talk, there is a man to catch, and maybe more where he hides.”“Little girl, this is not my battle, I know a lost cause when I see one. You look exhausted, and I told my wife I would be back with her bloody croissants before she wakes up. You can’t imagine the dragon she becomes if she doesn’t get her croissants and coffee when she wakes up. My pick-up is over there, I can offer you a lift.”
Prune made a frown and a annoyed pout. At her age, she surely should know better than pout. The thought of the dragon-wife made her smile though, she sounded just like Mater when she was out of vegemite and toasts.
Prune started to have a sense of when characters appearing in her life were just plot devices conjured out of thin air. Mike had potential, but somehow had just folded back into a self-imposed routine, and had become just a part of the story background. She’d better let him go until just finds a real character. She could start by doing a stake-out next to the strange glowing building near the frontier.
“It’s OK mister, you go back to your wife, I’ll wait a little longer at the border. Something tells me this story just got started.”
“Aunt Idle was craving for sweets again. She tip toed in the kitchen, she didn’t want to hear another lecture from Mater. It only took time from her indulging in her attachments. Her new yogiguru Togurt had told the flockus group that they had to indulge more. And she was determined to do so.
The kitchen was empty. A draft of cold air brushed her neck, or was it her neck brushing against the tiny molecules of R. She cackled inwardly, which almost made her choke on her breath. That was surely a strange experience, choking on something without substance. A first for her, if you know what I mean.The shelves were closed with simple locks. She snorted. Mater would need more than that to put a stop to Idle’s cravings. She had watched a video on Wootube recently about how to unlock a lock. She would need pins. She rummaged through her dreadlocks, she was sure she had forgotten one or two in there when she began to forge the dreads. Very practicle for smuggling things.
It took her longer than she had thought, only increasing her craving for sweets.
There was only one jar. Certainly honey. Idle took the jar and turned it to see the sticker. It was written Termite Honey, Becky’s Farm in Mater’s ornate writing. Idle opened the jar. Essence of sweetness reached her nose and made her drool. She plunged her fingers into the white thick substance.” “But wait! What is this?
Her greedy fingers had located something unexpected; something dense and uncompromising was lurking in her precious nectar. Carefully, she explored the edges of the object with her finger tips and then tugged. The object obligingly emerged, a gooey gelatinous blob.
Dido sponged off the honey allowing it to plunk on to the table top. It did not occur to her to clean it up. Indeed, she felt a wave of defiant pleasure.
The ants will love that, although I guess Mater won’t be so thrilled. Fussy old bat.
She licked her fingers then transferred her attention back to the job at hand. After a moment of indecision whilst her slightly disordered mind flicked through various possibilities, she managed to identify the object as a small plastic package secured with tape. Excited, and her ravenous hunger cravings temporarily stilled in the thrill of the moment, she began to pick at the edges of the tape.Cocooned Inside the plastic was a piece of paper folded multiple times. Released from its plicature, the wrinkled and dog-eared paper revealed the following type written words:
food self herself next face write water truth religious behind mince salt words soon yourself hope nature keep wrong wonder noticed.”
““What a load of rubbish!” Idle exclaimed, disappointed that it wasn’t a more poetic message. She screwed up the scrap of crumpled paper, rolled it in the honey on the table, and threw it at the ceiling. It stuck, in the same way that cooked spaghetti sticks to the ceiling when you throw it to see if it’s done. She refocused on the honey and her hunger for sweetness, and sank her fingers back into the jar.”
“The paper fell from the ceiling on to Dido’s head. She was too busy stuffing herself full of honey to notice. In fact it was days before anyone noticed.”
“The honeyed ball of words had dislodged numerous strands of dried spaghetti, which nestled amongst Aunt Idle’s dreadlocks rather attractively, with the paper ball looking like a little hair bun.”
““Oh my god …. gross!“ cackled the cautacious Cackler.”
““Right, that does it! I’m moving the whole family back to the right story!” said Aunt Idle, invigorated and emboldened with the sweet energy of the honey. “Bloody cackling nonsense!””
In reply to: Mandala of Ascensions
“And what does it mean?” James asked Gelly.
“2. The Receptive, ach, es means quietness is gut, ja. Und es ist a good time to ask yourself ‘Am I sincerely pursuing the gut für its own sake, or do Ich have ein hidden agenda?’.”Gelly was drawing the I-Ching to help James about his question. He still had doubts about his decision to enroll.
“Did you have any chance to reach Floverley?”
“Ach, She is tricky Master, very subtle energy, difficult to draw in, but yes, she has manifested herself a few times. She seems to like my owl sehr much.”
“I would be interested in connecting with Her, can you setup an appointment?”
“Oh, that would be interesting, why not, let me put you in… what about… next week? same time?”
“That would be great thanks.”
Edward removed the VR helmet from his head, and looked at Florence’s pod on the surveillance cam with a forlorn look on his face.
He was well aware that, like many “normal” people in the Great Simulation, Gelly was just another program developed and maintained by the central system, REYE itself. But sometimes REYE’s programs managed to get buggy, glitchy or a bit on the fringe of the acceptable parameters. Gelly was one of those programs, not completely autonomous, but sort of aware of the beyond of her parameters. In any case, Ascended Master would look for no lesser caliber of persons to enlighten. So, she was quite a potential lure to Floverley, or even Dispersee.
James was Edward’s completely virtual avatar, and James’ online meetings with Gelly could fit undetected within the acceptable boundaries of the whole program and go beyond the radar of the ever-looking REYE.
Edward couldn’t wait to meet with Flo next week.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Liz’! We’re all waiting for you now, it’s been nearly a week you’ve been soaking in that bath of yours, I’m dreading how wrinkled you may look now, and the amount of virgin coconut oil you will need to moisturize everything, but I digress. Liz’ get out now!”
Godfrey was supervising an unusual and unexpected commission.
The Anthology of Her Works.
It was a working title, but the idea was simple enough, and yet completely nuts and daunting. Put together the massive material that Liz (and her ghostwriters) had amassed all those years.
That someone would want to sponsor the adventure seemed completely crazy, so they would have to hurry before the anonymous donor came back to his or her senses and realize the whole futility of the adventure.“LIZ’!” There was urgency in his voice.
“COMING, FOR BLUBBER’S SAKE! STOP THAT RACKET AT ONCE GODFREY OR I’LL HAVE YOU FIRED.”
Liz’ finally emerged out of the room, in full regalia, with her silk dragon-patterned black bath-gown, definitely a bit wrinkled at the scalp, but overall looking completely re-energized and ready to embraze the magnitude of the work to be done (meaning: ready to boss everybody around to get it done).
“So what’s that all about Godfrey? Have we run out of peanuts?”
“Good Lord no, perish the thought.”
“So why are you here at the table with Finnley and the handsome gardener, what’s his name already?”
“ Roberto “ ventured Finnley, modestly rolling her eyes at such pathetic attempt at continuity.
“Yes, that’s right,… Alberto. Thank you Finnley, you’re a dear. So what is it, that has you all here plotting around? I’m not paying you to roll blubbit’s droppings in batter…”
“Liz’, it’s serious. We have to start…” Godfrey was about to explain the whole thing to Liz’, but suddenly realized she had just given her approval.
“So that settles it: the Peasland’s story!” He, Finnley and Roberto acquiesced and nodded at each other conspiratorially.
In reply to: Newsreel from the Rim of the Realm
Meanwhile, Hilda was hot on the escaped Orangutan’s trail.
Ricardo’s indications to lure the ape out of hiding, and coax it with fruits had been rather un-fruitful. She would have said his advice was rubbish, but he’d told that they’d come from Bossy, and if someone was to be trusted on the details of wildlife, well, that would be Bossy.
After some long trailing and stakeout in the parking lot at the back of the mall where she’d had that first encounter, she’d started to consider other strategies. It wasn’t really in her character to doubt about herself, nor about her instincts. Although something was clearly askew about that orange ape, she could feel the pull of a good fringe story.
For one, no nearby zoo had reported any loss or evasion of their animals. That was strange enough.
Second, she’d started to suspect that the animal was not an animal at all. It was too deft at evading her. She could have sworn she’d seen it walking around last night in a trenchcoat, hiding under a well-worn baseball cap, looking through the garbage cans at the back of the grocery store.
Obviously, that could only mean one thing. It was a well-educated ape, a tad self-conscious about its hairy nudity, with tastes for more palatable food than apples and carrots.Hilda couldn’t wait to corner him for an exclusive interview.
In reply to: Newsreel from the Rim of the Realm
“Is that lamb head on the menu?” asked Connie with a grimace on her face. “I can’t believe it.”
“It looks like it, dear”, retorted Sophie offhandedly. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ve seen and eaten worse.”
“Ewh”, said Connie, “I don’t want to know.” She was not quite honest, her reporter blood was thirsty about good and juicy stories. But she was not here to interview the temp, and the menu was leaving her perplexed. “What’s Hrútspungar ?”
“You don’t want to know”, said Sophie, “Trust me.”
Connie craved some vegan food and they didn’t seem to have any vegetables in the hotel restaurant. She pouted and finally gave up. “Take whatever you want, I’ll follow.”
“You like to live dangerously”, said Sophie.
“Whatever”, retorted Connie with a sigh. She put a hand on her round belly. “It may be an opportunity to begin that diet.”Sophie snorted. She never believed in diet. She had tried them all, just for fun, but she eventually found the rules boring and just forgot about the whole diet business.
“Nice beehive hair Ladies”, said the waiter with an appreciative look at their heads. “What will you order?” he asked opening his small notebook.
Sophie smiled at the compliment and closed the menu. “I’ve been told you had a special”, she said.
The man tilted his head and looked at the old woman with a hint of surprise in his eyes. He shrugged as if it wasn’t his problem after all. Connie gulped, expecting the worse.
“Two Svið with Gellur”, he said scribbling something in his notebook. “May I suggest some Brennivín?”
“You may”, answered Sophie. “It can help us gulp the whole thingy”, she explained to Connie.“The common error is to go for the head and dismiss the eyes”, said the waiter. “They may surprise you”, he added before leaving.
Connie looked murderously at Sweet Sophie, whom she would have renamed Sour Sophie in that moment. The old woman had an air of satisfaction on her face. “Why on earth would you pick that ?” asked the reporter.
“Oh! That was part of the instructions in the letter”, answered Sophie with a shrug that made her beehive tremble.
In reply to: Cakletown and the Lone Chancers of Custard
“You!”, said Jeremy Duncan Jasper before jumping on the woman. “You stole my cat! What have you done to Max ?”
“I don’t have your cat”, said Funley loudly. She was trying to protect her face as an instinctive reaction and pushed on the ground with her feet. The chair had little wheels which allowed her to escape the man’s grasp, but it bumped on Ed’s desk. She was cornered. She jumped out of the chair and ran behind Ed’s desk followed closely by an angry Jeremy.“I assume you already know each others”, said Ed, tugging at his mustache casually.
“Of course I know her”, said Jeremy in a short breath. He showed his fist angrily. “She was supposedly from the hygiene inspection bureau when I worked at the veterinarian clinic. She stole my cat!”
“I don’t have your cat”, repeated Funley.
“What have you done with him old crone ? You gave me all those papers to read and sign and when I came back you were gone… with Max.”
“Tsk tsk”, said Ed. “We have more important matters to attend to.” He lifted his hand to prevent any objection. “You may or may not have noticed, but I have and that’s the more important. Reality has been rebooting repeatedly, and each time people… or animals”, he said looking at Jeremy, “are disappearing.”
“You see”, said Funley, “I don’t have your cat.” Jasper snorted and showed his teeth.
“We need to do something”, concluded Ed.
“Excuse me”, said Duncan, “but what does that have to do with us ? I’m just a bank employee.”
“A bank employee, who was a veterinarian, a plumber, a taxi driver, a tech guy at the phone company… and more importantly a map dancer. I need a team of gifted people to maximize our chances of survival.”
Funley raised an eyebrow. “Mr Steam, à propos”, she said brandishing the paper she had found in the trash can.
In reply to: Cakletown and the Lone Chancers of Custard
Funley sniffed loudly as she unhurriedly emptied the trash can in Ed Steam’s office, pausing to read any interesting correspondence which may have wound up there. Looking over towards Ed and finding that his attention was still fixed on the computer monitor, she followed her sniff up with a small snort and then a throat clearing noise. When her sniffs and snorts didn’t capture Ed’s attention, she proceeded to blow her nose explosively.
This did the trick. Ed jumped and looked at Funley in alarm.
“Whatever is the matter, Funley? Are you ill?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you,” apologised Finnley, pulling up a chair in front of Ed’s desk and seating herself comfortably on it.
“Actually, if you are not too busy, there is a small problem I’ve been wanting to speak with you about. I promised I would untangle the threads for you however the entanglement situation is worse than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. Or nightmares for that matter. I don’t know who has been doing the record keeping — although I would hazard a guess at Evangeline — but the cross referencing, where it exists, is appalling and … “
A tap on the door and the new employee, Duncan Minestrone, popped his head into the office. “You wanted to see me, Mr Steam?” he asked.
Funley glanced towards the door in exasperation at the interruption and then her expression changed to one of horror.
“Jasper Grok!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud
hair power exit seem despite themselves muttered attention
bloody future eyes waiting needed
began listen vincentius miss added nor direction itselfTopic: Coma Cameleon Background
NOTES FROM GROUP DISCUSSION:
[unnamed protagonist] finds themself in a coma, but they don’t realize it. It’s like they’re in a dream state, moving through worlds, gradually discovering their past and what’s happening. The person knows that they’re trying to find their way home, which in reality is them trying to wake up.
Once they remember their past and what happened leading up to the coma, they wake up…but remember nothing.
So, as I was trying to structure this, I initially wanted the first book to be their normal waking life and the second book being the coma and the third book being post coma and relearning stuff. But then I figured it would be best to combine the first and second books.
I wanted the reader to start out confused, just like they would be and gradually learn the back story as they went
The only thing is, that would mean that this thread has to remain written as coming from their perspective
we are all writing about ONE character essentially. obviously there are gonna be other characters, but the main thread is this one person
feel free to incorporate any and all previous characters and locations from your other threads. The protagonist will be moving through them. So he/she finds themselves in these other worlds.
They’re being swept up into an adventure right from the start without knowing a thing
let’s drop them into the middle of something exciting
It’s any time
It’s a big dream
In real life, the protagonist is in a coma right nowBut, also, you’ll have a lot of freedom to create those on the spot because neither you nor the reader nor the main character knows them until you write them
The characters in this story won’t have too much staying power because the main character is moving through so many worlds. Nearly everyone is incidental,
unless characters appear that are central to the main characters ongoing story, like a nurse for example or family
At max, there might be two or three reoccurring characters that tend to pop in more often than not as helpers
Oh, yeah, family from the back story would come in to play a lotIn reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Finnley froze as Liz flung her arms around her. Thankfully she was not normally this demonstrative and it was frankly alarming to be in such close proximity.
“You’re an angel to keep reminding me, Finnley. But what am I supposed to DO with the turmeric?”
In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud
situation talking
certain food
themselves short paper comment
nor missed island night self stopped working
lead concrete character help thinking askIn reply to: Newsreel from the Rim of the Realm
“Thanks,” said Bossy taking her cup of tea.
“So, tell me more about this evil fruit-loop doctor,” said Ricardo with an encouraging smile.
Bossy looked intently at him. “It’s no joke,” she admonished him sharply.
“Oh, no. No, of course not. I mean, yeah, I really want to know. It all sounds very … intriguing. And sort of creepy, to be honest. But definitely not a joke.”
Bossy relented and gestured imperatively for Ricardo to be seated.
“The doctor could best be described as a mad genius. He believed he had found the answer to looking eternally youthful but didn’t want to go through the time and expense of clinical trials through the normal channels. So he set up a testing laboratory on a small and relatively unknown Pacific Island. Tifikijoo, I believe it was called.”
“Uh huh. Actually I do vaguely remember something about that story.”
“We got the story first,” Bossie said proudly, “but there was a media ban on publishing some of the information, unfortunately. The Doctor managed to get funding for his tests through an undercover organisation whose hidden agenda was to hide an ancient crystal skull while at the same time providing them with a facility where they could continue their own secret testing into spider genomes. I can’t tell you too much about that — it was all hush hush. So, you wouldn’t have read about that in the news, I bet,” she added with a smug smile.
“Uh, no,” answered Ricardo, privately wondering if Bossy was the mad one. It was all starting to feel a bit surreal to him.
“Did the doctor know about the skull stuff?”
“No, the doctor was genuinely only interested in preserving beauty. Unfortunately, to this end, he killed one of his first guinea pigs. And tried to disguise his crime by mummifying the body. That’s when it all began to implode on him.”
“What happened to him?”
“He had some good lawyers and was found not competent to stand trial on the grounds of insanity. And the fact that all his clients had signed liability waivers helped a bit. He was sent to a high security psychiatric institution but managed to escape by reverting to his female identity—he was transsexual—and hiding in a laundry trolley.
“The doctor hated the way he was portrayed in the media and most of his venom was focused on our people. We had a guy working with us then, John Smith, and he covered the story with Connie. They got the brunt of the hate emails. John nearly had a nervous breakdown with the stress of it and moved to the country. Pity, he was a good writer.”
“So what makes you think Santa Claus and the doctor are one and the same?”
“Call it a very strong hunch. The Doctor was born in Iceland and had strong family ties there. And now I fear he has lured Connie and Sophie there in order to exact his evil revenge!”
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Godfrey kind of liked the silence of late.
Finnley under the guise of regular taichi practice, had been actually quite busy ushering the randomly scurrying forgotten characters out of the house into the wild, with a broomstick and a mild dose of threat.
The Splendor Manor had fell pleasantly silent. Too silent for Liz probably, who had started to notice and launch back into gears her creaking storytelling joints.
In reply to: Newsreel from the Rim of the Realm
John placed himself down on a crooked old chair at the table, with journal in hand, and stared out the window of his cottage. As he sat there, the imperfect glass of the window distorted his view slightly, but noticeably, almost unconsciously, and he swayed in minuscule displacements or perhaps shifted a bit to take a sip of his black coffee, giving the effect of a liquid world – to someone of imagination, of course. To those with no imagination, the window was rubbish and needed to be replaced.
It’s been a relaxing weekend for John, who, on his working days, finds himself as a writer. This is, of course, if you were to think of any days as those in which you might suddenly stop writing or ignore inspiration. In that respect, every day is a working day. However, this weekend was a special one for himself.
The writing that got him money was of the technical sort, dedicated to dry manuals and instructional fare. His passion, however, lent itself to the imagination. No doubt, he still adored the natural world and it’s workings, but he found himself nearly dead inside after completing a project for work. This, invariably, lead him to his personal expeditions.
Every few weeks he’d save up enough money to take a train or bus to another location, picked nearly at random, just so he could get away and bring color back into his life. This cottage, with its imperfect windows, was one such expedition.
So, he sat there for a moment, playing with his perception through the window, and then shifted his attention through it to world outside. A breath of beauty swept over him and he was inspired. In his journal, with no expectation of the entry living beyond those pages, he wrote:
The Wystlewynds (Whistle Winds) or Wystlewynd Forest
The Wystlewynds (Whistle Winds) or Wystlewynd Forest is a forested, mountainous area – if you’re apt to call these green, low laying perturbations in the Earth “mountains”. The cool-yet-comfortable south-easterly winds blow through the Wystlewood trees, whistling as it goes. Some would say the forest sings.
Wystlewood trees “sing”, as it were, due to the way the wind passes through their decomposing trunks. While alive, the trunks of the trees have a hard, fibrous outer wood, while the inner portion is soft and sponge-like, saturated in chemical that simultaneously grabs on to water and repels insects. When the trees get old and begin to die off, they tend to remain upright for some time as the inner sponge decomposes. This leaves a hollow void where a particular caterpillar takes refuge, unaffected by the repellent chemical that a fungus slowly decomposes into an edible source of nutrition.
These caterpillars leave behind a secretion that the decomposing fungus in the tree requires. The relationship between the caterpillar and fungus is symbiotic in that regard, both feeding each other. We call these caterpillars “Woodworms”.
When the caterpillars are ready to cocoon, they climb out to one of the old branches and hang themselves from a cord of twisted threads at least a foot long. When they are ready to come out, they bite through the cord, dropping themselves to the forest floor while still in the cocoon. The cocoon and all drops below the foliage of the undergrowth, where the moth can come out into the world under cover of green leaves and the shimmering violet flowers of the Spirit Flower – a color scheme that the moth shares.
The Spirit Flower is a rhizome with a sprawling root structure that tends to poke it’s way into everything. It has small violet shimmering flowers in umbels that in any other case might be white. The leaves are simple with a jagged margin, alternating. The stem is on the shorter end, perhaps a foot tall, fibrous and slightly prickly.
There are a few flowers that tend to dominate the undergrowth, Spirit Flowers being one. Sun Drops and Red Rolls are additional examples, the former a yellow droopy flower and the latter a peculiar red flower with a single pedal that’s rolled up in a certain way that would suggest a flared funnel with wavy edges.
The flowers and trees enjoy the soil here, a bit sandy and rocky, but mixed with a richness created by the mixture of undergrowth, fungi and bacteria. The roots dig into the soil, slowly stirring it and adding to it’s nutrients. The fungi eat the dead roots and fallen foliage and the bacteria eat the fungi and everything else, of course.
The whole matter leaves a note of scent in the air that cannot be described as anything other than that of the Wystlewynds. It’s perhaps sweet, with Earthy undertones and an addictive bitterness. The whole place seems to elevate one’s energy, sharpening the senses. You want to sing with the trees, or perhaps play along with a haelio (a flute-like instrument created with wystlewood).
