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In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Allow me to explain about loom weights,” said the man in the elaborate blue turban. “You create a type of pattern, so to speak, a tapestry. The picture of the tapestry is created in the style, so to speak, of the qualities of the family that you align with. The details and the background threads of the tapestry are the expressions of qualities of the family that you are belonging to.”
“I knew this tapestry and weaving stuff would fit in somewhere” interrupted LizAnn.
“Shh!” said Finnley.
“In this” the man in the blue turban continued, “You may notice certain qualities and expressions throughout your focus that appear to underlie all of your directions that you choose within your particular focus. This is the influence of the family that you are belonging to – in this situation, that of Sumafi.” He looked pointedly at Godfrey. “You shall notice throughout your focus what may be expressed as an attention to detail in the qualities of the Sumafi family, and at times this may be associated within your societal beliefs and definitions as a type of perfectionism.
“This is counterbalanced by the Sumari” he said with a glance at LizAnn, “Who do not concern their movement with tremendous attention to detail.”
“Tell me about it” remarked Godfrey drily.
The man in the blue turban grinned and continued, “The expression and qualities of the Sumari are merely to be creating new directions and offering challenging information which shall spark new explorations of your reality. But the attention of the Sumari does not concern itself with outcomes or endings or detail.”
“Yes, we had noticed” interjected Finnley, who stuck her tongue out at LizAnn. LizAnn made a rude gesture to Finnley and said “See, I told you I couldn’t help it.”
Godfrey sighed in resignation and reached for the peanuts. “I suppose the point of all that is that there’s no point in fighting your warp. Or is it weft?”
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
Arona got imperiously brave, or stupid, and moved slowly out into the light.
Holy Arona found herself always flattered at the reaction.
“I heard the music, and enjoyed the distraction. If this riddle will allow to listen” at last a box with no corn or a gold tree inside?
she leapt up on the eggs too, all morning eggs had been coming to her hungry right now, but maybe Dory was her animals in her life. She had a quite funny thing Fiona noticed. She had a box of Angel cards, and had the music card guide herself, beautiful music …
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
Margaret reckoned she’d made a rather amusing essence, whose vibrational tone translated as the name Pigoosus. A dirty park littered with pigeons droppings had been so full that she had barely noticed the “ubiquitously absent” Finnley…
The inspiration to take a break from that strange coollage of magpies was full of surprises, indeed still in fairy land, apparently with some invisible being that she was considering working with. Hesitant at publishing her book, Finnley swore out loud at that Mr Arak, forcing her to work with Al.
Finnley was still wondering who this Al was. Perhaps he had a damn good coontract.
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
Sanso, flushed, was certainly an eye opener.
The little girl starting to understand, replied with a very good question.
“How do you know the center of everything?”
Sanso was grinning. “I love goldfish!”
“What do you mean?” Zhaana wasn’t sure.
“They just appear so i notice them”, said Sanso. “Then you have some more peanuts”.
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
“Jig up in a tree!” Armelle said quickly, scratching her wings on top of the grinning Snoot.
“The Snoot has been expecting those nasty buggers”, Gloria said sadly as a magpie started to wave.
“STAY CLEAR!” the magpie giggled. She beamed at Gloria. The confusion was now clear. She could feel it. She could consume it and become one with Armelle and the Snoot and Yuki and Rafaela , Anita, the spiders, Akayli, the werelynx, the mummified parents, Claude.
“The good thing is”, the Snoot whispered to Armelle, “you may have noticed i am twice my usual size and I may be more than happy to lend Al Becky’s children, ingested a few days before the conception”.
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
#1198
Al was visibly deranged finding Becky scantily clad. Well, wait for him to shave, he smiled. Becky might eat some nuts, wondering why she had not thought of that in the first place. Becky had always been reluctant, or perhaps just forgetful.A clap made her moan in a silky voice, she felt energy crawl underneath her sabulmantium. It was Man, a distinctive pack of magic. What an impossible florid and baroque little marmoset playing a mouth harp.
Arona felt like beating dragons. She almost stopped in anticipation of a pile of conic shaped dirty sand, soil from the cave, the dragons doing. They are disagreeable kind of creature, made her dizzy.
The dragons had disappeared. Arona snapped to no one in particular, you will see how easy it is to come back if you feel so inclined.
At her touch, the dragon started to enclose a circle of sand, a curvy symbol.
The interior of the cave was out of focus, in all its splendor…
Fuck the babbled excuses, her own sloppy children wearing a potatoes sack. Sure Gabriele had noticed that nurse Bellamy in my room. Professional women made silky rope disappear.
Sure, more security, she had to be more careful about Barbella Bee-hive. I don’t like that Barbella. Perhaps it’s the kinky wrists tying games…
In reply to: Random RewrEights – The Del’Eights thread
Al woke up deranged. He was in the middle of the bushes, unable to move and scantily clad.
Good thing too that the joggers in the park noticed!
Embarrassing, he reckoned.
Moments later, after some voice messages on his telephone from Becky, he was still incapacitated.
Just as Becky was retorting to Al to please become completely transparent, Becky giggled, suddenly seeing the Wet Tarty Nun.
“My God, what the fuck is that?”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“So how was your lunch date with your new best friend?” Harvey sounded distinctly sarcastic, even to Lavender’s forgiving ears.
“Oh, you know …”
Harvey raised his eyebrows. No mean feat when you have a book balancing on your nose. He sighed, and let the book fall. A few months ago he was balancing four poster beds, and now he could barely manage a Lemoine novel. Heavy as they are! He sniggered to himself. Oh well, at least I havn’t lost my sense of humour, along with my sense of smell!
“Well, to be honest Harvey .. I think I may have been possessed by those pesky aliens. I suddenly came to and I was talking all this rubbish about ‘random quote generators’ and using words like ‘dear’.
Lavender shuddered in horror at the memory, and then rolled her beautiful eyes and sighed. “Poor Ann, I think she is a really tortured soul.”
The writer wondered if it was time to add a dark side to Lavender’s personality. All this beautiful eyes business was getting a tad irritating, the beauty of Lavender’s eyes not withstanding. Not to mention her lips which she painted a bright shade of amaranth for every day wear, and on special occasions, rose madder. The writer wondered if the last thought made sense and wondered again how to strike out text. The writer decided to try that last line again.
Lavender shuddered, and then with an enigmatic smile which even her good friend Harvey found hard to decipher, she said softly, “I ate olives for lunch. They were yummy.”
The writer sighed and then noticed the random quote generator said “mean cleaner coming soon.” The writer wondered if it was a sign.
In reply to: Significant Random Quotes?
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
Gremwick was glad the Fisherman had come to repair the Cloud Fishes of the Inner Aerial Pool of the Worseversity.
It’s been a few days that he’d noticed an unusual lack of randomness in the swimming patterns of the little Cloud Fishes.
As they were usually used for the divination courses, no sooner was the issue identified than the students had to temporarily recourse to the use of pigeons for their assignments —which sadly left a stinking trail of devastation on the usually pristine marble floors that greatly infuriated Charity, the cleaning lady, otherwise known for her great patience and candor, who’d kept cursing like a sailor against the winged demonic creatures the last past weeks.The incident in itself was not of immense consequence in the grand scheme of things, but it felt worrisome for the Dean that these swimming creatures known for their quite reliable and, yes, totally unfloundering randomness had suddenly decided to adopt a monotonous pattern.
In that disposition, they were merely echoing the requester’s requests in a manner of a mirror instead of evoking strange and obscure meanings from the depths of the universe.It had amused the students very much, as it was making their assignments apparently far easier —there was no thing left in need of deciphering, unless the students’ requests were themselves incoherent, which could on occasion happen especially after the Special Crop Circle Lessons. As no incident was without meaning, the Dean had pondered this one, but without any satisfactory answer as of yet.
At least, it had been the occasion to meet the Fisherman, and to ponder on the plainness of a world without unpredictability.
Topic: Probably Real
She woke up at noon and it was 100 degrees, or 37 degrees, whichever you prefer, but whichever way you look at it, it was not a good temperature to wake up to. Everything was pointing in the direction of going solo, playing the game on her own for awhile, or at least until she was in a regular habit of giving herself priority, giving more attention to her own creative pursuits, and less time to the futile attempts to keep group projects going. She supposed for a moment that making a start whilst hot, tired, discouraged and confused was not the most ideal mood for a start, but at least it was a start. She wasn’t even entirely sure what it was she was actually starting, but suspected that it didn’t much matter, in the grand scheme (or lack thereof) of things.
She’d had a moment of inspiration when she started reading a book. She’d only read a few pages and had no idea how the book would turn out, but the format was interesting. Julie had had an idea, simmering on a back burner for years, to write a book. It always seemed to want to be an autobiographical book, and that’s where she always came unstuck because she couldn’t see the point of that, not that she was overly concerned about whether anyone would want to read it or not, but she often came unstuck when she wondered about how all the characters in the book might feel about it, which is why that moment of inspiration in the bathroom the other day seemed like such a good idea.
She could write a book about a probability party, perhaps called ‘Probably Real’, (maybe with the subtitle ‘Probably Not’.) There would be an occasion, the details of which she hadn’t worked out yet, in which various (not all, she soon realized!) of her probable selves met ~ such as in the Atkinson book, in some quiet desolate place with no interruptions (obviously somewhere with no internet connection, although there was always the danger of picking up a freak broadband WiFi), where they had all the time in the world to tell their tales, compare notes as it were.
Which was where the fiction idea came in ~ of course! Just call it fiction! Would just one of the probable selves be telling the truth, relating the only true version of Julie’s life? And if so, which one was the real probable self? All the characters in the book would have probable selves and probable lives; which of them was the real probable self, the official version? No-one would ever know.
Of course, anyone versed in the metaphysical mechanics of probabilities and such would realize that all probable versions are real, at the same time as all being, in a certain sense, fiction ~ made up. The only question was, would that be too unlimiting to contain within the confines of one book, but time (so to speak) would tell.
Procrastination had set in, as usual, not that that is a bad thing, and things pretty much carried on as usual for a few days. Julie noticed the puppy tugging at a particular magazine from the bottom of the magazine rack over the course of those few days, and eventually the magazine was rather pointedly poking out from the bottom of the pile, it’s title clearly showing: a booklet on How To Write FICTION, with FICTION in big letters.
Never the less, the procrastination continued, although the clue was duly noted. It hadn’t been the first time a Writing A Book incident had occured.
It was easy, in this case, to remember that date, because it was right around the time of the 1999/2000 milenium party, right around the time when that particular roller coaster had derailed. While unpacking the boxes of books and putting them on the shelves of yet another rented house ~ a particularly garish and tasteless monstrosity, a drug baron’s dream of unfunctional largeness with hideous coloured glass windows (it’s the sheer randomness of the colours that’s so awful, G had remarked) ~ a book flew off the shelf, quite literally, and landed alone in the middle of the floor some distance away from the bookshelf.
Becoming A Writer was the name of the book, and the funny thing was that she had been thinking of writing a book but didn’t know where to start, and had been toying with the idea of buying a book on writing a book. So she read the book and started writing, a little bit every day, following the books advice to just start writing, even if it’s just ‘I can’t think of what to write’. There was plenty to write about as it turned out, but circumstances changed, another sudden move of house ensued, another rollercoaster ride, and the writing stopped for awhile.
But back to the book, Becoming A Writer. For a long time, Julie had no recollection of buying that book, and wondered by what magic had it appeared at her feet. Many years later she perhaps would have simply accepted the magic, and would have known that she created the book in that moment. But at the time she didn’t, and in due course constructed a memory of buying the book some years previously at a car boot sale somewhere along the coast road.
(We did buy the book, piped up PSJ2, and I actually read it, unlike you, as soon as I bought it. My 5th book is about to be published, a lightweight comedy/detective series about the Costa del Crime)
PSJ2’s interjection reminded PSJ1 (Good grief, we’ll have to think of a solution to the probable self names, she noted) that she had in fact started writing a book about the Costa del Crime, called Peregrino’s, or perhaps that was the name she’d given to the bar, the central hub, of the book. Of course, that was in the days when bars had been her central hub; she doubted very much if she would choose a bar as the central hub of a book now. She hadn’t got very far with the book, and had burned it when PSA1 got busted, just in case. What to do first, bury the (probable, it must be remembered) pump action shotgun, or burn the book. She had buried the gun, under cover of darkness, in the back garden, wrapping it in plastic bags and blankets, making it look for all the world like the body of a dead child. It was dark, it was raining, and there weren’t many neighbours out there in the orange groves, and she could do no more than hope for the best that she hadn’t been seen.
No doubt there was a probable self who did choose to create being seen, but if so she hadn’t arrived at the probability party (yet, at any rate) with her tale.
That it had been a major probability junction was certain. Not just the gun burying incident, which had turned out to be no more than merely incidental, but the events leading up to it.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Dear Lavender, there is something awkwardly odd to the World Clooh’d. It looks like it’s stuck to this one sentence, a thing never seen before.
I wonder what’s the special meaning of it, as there surely is a special meaning for it wouldn’t be the same otherwise: ”“attempt movements inner communications
arona less escape later
nobody dream dancing god
side needed work
shar sort beauty strings thread reality”But Lavender was oddly silent to Harvey’s pleading intonation. A long silence during which Harvey seemed to notice that she had changed her hair… She looked nice in mauve.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
The word flounder popped into Yolands head, and for want of the inspiration to do anything meaningful, or even useful, she googled flounder. She was astonished to find so many varieties of flounder, and recognized that she was counterparting with quite a number of them.
There was the Crosseyed flounder that she felt an affinity for, at the end of an evening of trying to sort out her photos; Alcock’s narrow-body righteye flounder, which was what she felt like in a bed full of male dogs every night, and she could relate to the Antarctic armless flounder when she couldn’t keep track of the Antarctic thread. Barfin flounder reminded her of the green icon and her friend Finn; Bigmouth flounder ~ Yoland sighed, she definitely felt a connection to that often enough. Blotched flounder, well that sounded a bit like botched ~ there were many occasions when Yoland felt that everything she did was botched, half done and messy. Chain-mail wide-eyed flounder when she dabbled a bit in past lives, and the Disc flounder when she got her music in a muddle. The Dark flounders were the worst, when everything seemed to take on the tone of a horror movie, but they were often followed by a Deep flounder, which sometimes contained a few insights, more often than not promptly forgotten.
Yoland sighed. Imagine counterparting with just about every flounder known to man! She decided she wasn’t the only one counterparting the European flounder, which was a releif, nor was she the only one counterparting the Fantail flounder, although at least it could be said that she wasn’t a complete fan of anyone in particular, dead or alive, she was a fantail of quite a number. There were long spells of resonating with the Finless flounder; Finn was always disappearing, or so it seemed to Yoland. Very rarely she felt an alignment with God’s flounder, thankfuly she wasn’t often prone to dwelling on God things.
Ah, the Gray flounder, yes she’d had a bit of a flounder when Gray sent all those photos of the Beltane Dance, she’d had a flounder for sure in amongst all those. Looking back though, she’d had fun with the mummy and Ella Tindale in the Gulf flounder…
Yoland had to laugh when she came across the Intermediate flounder. Yoland wondered if the majority of her foundering was counterparting with the Intermediate flounder and decided she was probably too intermediate to work it out objectively anyway. She often had a tussle with the Large tooth flounder, lordy, she was always floundering with dental issues. And the Largescale flounder, that really was the biggest ongoing flounder of them all, the sheer vastness of everything.
Every now and again, less than previously though, Yoland had a Melbourne flounder on Saturday nights, and rather enjoyed it, but not as much as she enjoyed a good old New Zealand flounder.
Another flounder Yoland always enjoyed was an Olive wide-eyed flounder, roaming around the ancient olive trees of Andalucia, wide eyed and awestruck with the beauty and history of the place. She also enjoyed a Peruvian flounder on occasion, too ~ she’d even had a dream recently about floundering around by the mysterious doorway of Amaru Muru. The next night she’d had a River flounder, dreaming of the river in the Grand Canyon.
Sand flounders were the best of all though, Yoland recalled many happy flounderings in the world of sand and all its Subulmantium configurations. The trouble with the sand flounder was that it often morphed into the largescale flounder, and got quite out of hand.
Yoland sighed, it had been ages since she’d felt connected to the Seven pelvic ray flounder, what with Dan working nights. She was beginning to feel like a Shelf flounder. However, at least thanks to her new diet of replacing meals with flans, chocolate mousses and ice cream, she was closely aligning now with the Slender flounder.
The ongoing slug issue with the cat food was obviously because she was still strongly aligned with the Slime flounder. Notwithstanding, Yoland was rather pleased to note that despite her morose and petulant mood this morning, it had to be said that she often counterparted with the Smooth flounder; although that was easy to forget in moments of quiet desperation when the floundering got out of proportion.
Smiling, Yoland remembered the dream of feet touching when she noticed there was a Sole flounder too. And how often the Spotted flounder popped up, she was always spotting clues. Well spotted! she would tell herself. Oh, and the Stone flounder, wasn’t that the truth! Yoland was aligning strongly with that lately, smoking more than ever, somehow striving for either inspiration, or perhaps oblivion.
Oh well, I guess this is just a Summer flounder, it will pass, Yoland decided (who was secretly glad that she was nearing the end of the list of flounder names). And sure enough, the next on the list was the Three spotted flounder, surely a good sign! A probability change perhaps! As if to validate Yolands impression, she noticed the Tile-colored righteye flounder. There was even a Warthog flounder, which seemed to ring a bell with a recent entry to the Reality Play.
Best of all was the Windowpane flounder, Yoland felt she would even go so far as to say that this was her new focus animal. Well, she thought, if I am making this all up, I can make that up too!
Thankfully Yoland reached the end of the flounder list, rather pleased that it had ended on such an amusing and encouraging note.
Being closely aligned with flounders wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
In reply to: Strings of Nines
“Godfrey resisted the urge to respoond…”
Ann was initially horrified to notice the Ooh dimension bleethrough manifested in an errant vowel.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
Becky was liking her dancing courses; there was this funny guy with an outrageously bright canary yellow shirt and a funny accent who taught them some Asian-based moves last time, and she’d been puzzled for awhile, frozen in her tracks and speechless for a moment (which didn’t often occur), as the guy was so weird and yet serious looking that she didn’t know if she should laugh hysterically at his preposterous wiggling butt moves, or keep serious like the others.
That’s where she noticed a girl in the class. Like her, she was lost in wonderment while all of the others where respectfully following the teacher’s movements with a polite straight face.As she was feeling bubbles of hysterical laughter desperately struggling to burst at the surface, she quickly exited the classroom, only to find that the other girl was there too.
“Ahaha, is he some sort of wacko or what?” Becky couldn’t help but laugh even if the other one seemed affected somehow, yet not indifferent to the humour of the situation.
“Bloody oath, yeah… Madder than Almad this one”
“You’re not from here are you?” Becky asked, noticing a delicious variation of British accent in the girl’s voice.
“No, from New Zealand. Name’s Tina, Tina Prout. Well you can forget the last name anyway, I’m going to change that.”
“Delighted, I’m Becky Vane. Would you fancy some vegemite on toast?”
“Sure, let’s get out of here quickly.”
“Toot toot! School’s out!… Mmm, looks like it’s ‘pissing down’ outside… Is that how you say in Kiwi?”In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
In reply to: Strings of Nines
“Light will come, can you see it?” Yurick smiled as he was taking note of the latest random quote at the exact same moment his new boss was telling him “for once I’m not asking you to work from the depths of the mine” referring to his past few days of relatively uninspiring work mining for information in unformed sheets of data.
Light indeed was shining from the window in his back, reflecting the blue-sky vista on the shining screen of the laptop. Perhaps it was his friend Finn’s way of reminding him to spread to his colleagues the riches from the ore body of quotes of the illustrious Chinese philosopher Liu Meng.
He wasn’t too sure though they would be too receptive. Time would tell. At least he’d noticed an Abyssinian cat figurine on top of one of his collegues’ computer. The cats were visibly coming soon.In reply to: Strings of Nines
When Franlise reemerged from the building, it was almost dark, and Godfrey was starting to think that after his twenty-seventh drink, he might as well come back home unless he wanted to sleep on the counter.
Curiously he noticed, she wasn’t heading towards home, but she was going to the subway, en route to the red district.That inner lovely Franlise could compromise herself in such a dreadful place was beyond his understanding… well, probably after the twenty first drink, most of reality was now far beyond understanding anyway.
Perhaps she was doing some research work?
Well, what a coincidence.