Search Results for 'nov'
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Search Results
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In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves
The enormous freshwater lakes that had formed on the new continent of Canaria during the land changes were attracting alot of visitors, and indeed many travellers displaced by upheavals in other locations. The largest of these lakes, named Lago Restinga in remembrance of the tiny coastal village of El Hierro which had been the first to see the emergence of the new land, was like a magnet, and people from all over the world flocked to its shores. Small communities emerged, exhibiting all manner of innovative building methods and materials and novel designs, including a number of floating dwellings upon the lake itself. The climate was perfect ~ very little rain and plenty of warm sunshine, but abundant fresh water. A previously unknown type of freshwater seaweed flourished in the lakes, which could be dried and ground into flour, or eaten fresh as a vegetable, and when boiled with bananas and left to set, made a deliciously sweet pudding. Miraculously, coffee shrubs had seeded themselves on the rolling slopes, and cannabis and tobacco plants, too. Never before had such an abundance and ease been experienced with regard to food, which was one of the major attractions of the freshwater lakes of the Canaria.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
Blithe Gambol’s report was a trifle unexpected. She had advised her clients to take a closer look at Share’s Novel Attempt and the interesting new developments there before proceeding with the “case” which had rather cleverly turned into a picnic hamper
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Sadness, whilst not being entirely unheard of, was alot more uncommon during the days of the Gardenation. The weather was kindness itself, and everyone, naturally enough, was at liberty to grow whatever they wanted in their gardens. There were no rules and regulations in the Gardenation; it worked on a sort of expanded “pay forward” system, not that there was any pay, or forward thinking for that matter, involved. The genesis of the new collaberation of independant garden nations (although it was actually more of a renaissance, simultaneous time notwithstanding) had come about as a result of the widespread discontent of the populace with all of the political parties, in just about every nation on the planet.
During a particularly wild and raucous bridge tart birthday party (they were always having birthday parties; it was always somebody’s birthday somewhere, after all) the avant garde shift pioneers, as well as the twelve Wisp rats, came up with a plan ~ of sorts. It was more of an imaginative play really.
One of the children had been bemoaning the fact that his friend in another nation could grow whatever he wanted in his garden, and he couldn’t, in his own nation. He asked the bridge tarts if they could create a new nation, from all the independant garden nations all over the world. The bridge tarts decided that it was a fine idea and set about bridging the independant garden nations all over the world together, in energy.
Some of the bridge tarts worked on the connecting links between the garden nations all over the globe, and some of the bridge tarts were instrumental in innovative new gardening ideas. One of them experimented with pulling funny faces at the seedlings, which resulted in bizarre comical blooms. New ideas bounced from one gardenation to another, originating you might say in all gardenations at the same time, so connected were they in energy.
Given sufficient motivation, the Gardenation might have started sooner ~ notwithstanding simultaneous time. Or perhaps they already did.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Lilac was rendered momentarily speechless by Nastytart’s words. Picking up her Lee Mon novel, “Making Sense in a Crazy World” she opened it at random:
Maybe you’re not ready for the profound revelation of utter sense?
Of course! That was it. She was not ready!
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
“Hang on a minute Harvey,” said Lavender excitedly, “Ann is trying to telepathically communicate with me! …… Oh, she wants to know who YOU are!”
“What did you say?”
“The truth of course. I told her I have no idea. Why that rude tart! She says I have been bashing her … well, have I been bashing her do you think Harvey?”
Harvey looked thoughtful. “Well you were a bit I suppose. You called her tortured. That wasn’t very kind was it?”
“hmmmmph, torturous more like. Oh well fair point, but I did try praising her last novel over lunch, and she went all green in the face and said if I didn’t stop being so nice she would throw-up in her spaghetti! …. anyway who are you Harvey and how come we are living together?”
“No idea, who are you?”
“It is a bit of a mystery isn’t it … remember how we were best friends and you didn’t even know my name for years? How ODD!”
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: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“That perhaps is your task” Virginia was whispering in Ann’s ear”…to find the relation between things that seem incompatible yet have a mysterious affinity, to absorb every experience that comes your way fearlessly and saturate it completely so that your poem is a whole, not a fragment; to re-think human life into poetry and so give us tragedy again and comedy by means of characters not spun out at length in the novelist’s way…”
“Did you catch that, Walter? ‘Not spun out in the traditional lengthy continous way’ she’s saying.”
“…but condensed and synthesized in the poet’s way—that is what we look to you to do now.”
“I didn’t know you channeled Virginia Woolf, Ann,” replied Walter. “Doesn’t mean she is necesarily right, though, notwithstanding.”
“I didn’t say she was ‘absolutely right’, Walter. I’m just pointing out what’s right for me.”
Walter popped another anchovy stuffed olive into his mouth.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
Franlise was unusually despondent. She flicked half heartedly through the last pages of Ann’s novel, looking for some sort of common thread which she could cleverly take hold of and expand upon, in order to provide the necessary continuity.
Daunted by the formidable proportions of her task, her thoughts turned instead to the strange man who had followed her that afternoon. Her attempts to lose him had failed, and, in the end, she had thought it best to delay her appointment with the Fellowship. Perhaps the man was just lured by her beauty, but she knew she could not risk exposure.
In reply to: Strings of Nines
These past few months away from home had been the occasion for a great deal of introspection.
For one, indulging fully into that somewhat frowned upon habit of his, regarding peanuts, had allowed him to gain a great deal of understanding and acceptance as well. Now his daily ration had dramatically decreased and he didn’t fancy as much as he used to the little round things.Another thing that Godfrey had noticed was the reorganisation that had taken place in all aspects of his life, and to be perfectly honest, his life was still a bit messy in places, but he was slowly getting there. How could a publisher publish anything of common interest without a bit of presentation, henceforth order?
Ann wasn’t too keen on the “O” word —especially when doubled— and surprisingly it always managed to give good results so far. So perhaps now he was settling down, and she was getting her own flamboyant creative juices all ablaze, they would manage to get somewhere. Or anywhere, for that matter.
A Tramway to Elsewhere was Ann’s debut novel, and had made her known to Godfrey. It was a brilliant short story about three tourists lost in a huge hotel in Europe, and trying to get an easy escape to Anywhere. And by some uncanny and hilarious succession of events, they were led nowhere but to Elsewhere.Now, something else was giving him a strange feeling. He didn’t know if that was because of the lack of peanut oil in his bloodstream (or the accompanying whiskeys for what was worth), but he was starting to get slightly paranoid.
He didn’t know where he’d got the idea, but he started to suspect the cleaning lady to not just be a cleaning lady. She was doing her best to keep a low profile, but somehow she wasn’t that good an actress. A thing that started his suspicion was that name… Franlise, eerily reminiscent of the obnoxious yet efficient Finnley in Noo York. Elizabeth had told him they’d suspected her for a long time to have inserted some paragraphs in Elizabeth’s novels, especially the most torrid parts that would have made a pimp blush like a nun. What had saved the cleaning lady was that in addition to being rather forgiving, Elizabeth suffered from frequent strokes of forgetfulness and bipolarity which made the investigation difficult if not moot altogether.But there, Godfrey was rather surprised at Ann’s sudden interest in continuity. He’d known of a covert organization known in the milieu as the Fellowship of Unification and Continuity in Knowledge.
Over the years, the hearsay had amounted to just a few deranged people, but recently there had been an increase in mentions of such nature in reports of the Guild of Authors. Strangely, there was less and less books that were published which had not an impeccable sense of continuity.
In a way, it had been perceived at first in literary circles as a blessing for the authors who had not to contend with fans and geeks of all kind who were hunting down each and every detail to prove or disprove unsaid theories. But Godfrey was starting to see some not so perfect points in that. It would be like wanting to string together all the eyelets of your shoes even if they do not belong to the same shoe (or the same pair of shoes). Soon, you’d be embarrassed to find a way to walk without looking like a penguin.Anyway, though all allegations made as to the existence of such secret organization had been mostly derailed as utter nonsense, he couldn’t help but find some inexplicable appeal to them as sound explanations for all the glitches he kept noticing.
He would carefooly spy on Franlise.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Larisa glanced at the cute pig faced clock ticking happily away on the kitchen wall.
Blimmin’ Heck! how could that possibly be the time? …. and what was time anyway?
Well whatever it was, there was certainly none of it to spare for that sort of philosophical carry on! She was well late for her meeting with Jane and Rob to discuss the latest project. Of course she was nearly always late, so she consoled herself with the fact that Jane and Rob already would have explored the probability that the meeting wouldn’t start at seven. They were pretty good with probabilities. Throwing her, it must be said rather bizarre and fantastical, Ewko Lemin novel down, Larisa hurriedly gulped back the last of her blue and red vitamin pills, shouted out a quick farewell to Greve, who was staying with her while he recovered from his latest disastrous rowing escapade, and dashed out the door.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann Tattler groaned. Perhaps listening wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The latest novel was degenerating rapidly into trivial nonsense, in large part thanks to the collaborative writing efforts of her publisher, and the cleaner, Daisy. It was hard keeping quiet when confronted with such an outpouring of nonsensical rubbish.
She wondered despondently whether even the erudite Eremurus Lemon would be able to help her this time. She opened his latest book, “How to Sing Like a Bird in Fifty Three Relatively Easy Lessons” at random.
Take advantage of the Beast’s sleep to have some.
Of course! Duh! How could she have doubted Lemon. Didn’t he always come through? She should be taking advantage of this time of silence! While her inner noisy beast was sleeping she should be having some.
But some what?
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Siobhan was settling into her new job at the Freakus, fitting like a duck to water into her position as Head Cage Rattler. It wasn’t an easy job to do which was why the rewards were so high; it certainly wasn’t everyones cup of tea, and good Cage Rattlers were hard to find. Oh, there were plenty of Cage Rattlers, true, but not good ones. A good Cage Rattler had to have a certain “je ne say kwah”, an impermeability, much like the oily feathers of a duck, enabling the Cage Rattler to glide easily through troubled waters without sinking ~ without even getting wet, if they were very skilled.
The success of the Freakus show depended on new ideas and inspirations. The audience, as well as the participants of course, wanted something new, something challenging, something inspiring, something ‘out of the box’ for each show, not the same old boring routines. There was nothing entertaining about the same old tricks rehashed over and over again, even if they were well known and easy to perform. True, there were many of the general public who preferred the familiar acts, but they generally weren’t fans of the innovative and forward thinking Freakus show. Freakus was new, exciting, thought provoking and entrancingly different, hence the importance of the Cage Rattlers.
When the performers and cast members of Freakus got too complacent or too boring, it was Siobhan’s job to disturb them, to rattle their cages, yes, to upset them. Clearly it was undeniably important that Siobhan not take their retaliations personally; after all, she was just doing her job. She was shaking things up purposefully for the overall benefit of the show, it was a simple as that. It wasn’t her job to direct or lead those in the rattled cages, simply to disturb them from their boring old routines. Freakus, after all, wasn’t about the old and boring, it was about the new and exciting, and it was up to the individual performers to come up with a new act.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Alizabath Tittler took another draw on her fag of nicoback.
Passing her hand through her wild and matted hair, she noticed there were mare and mare bald patches hare and thare instead of her former lusciaas mane… and her ayes a tad blaadshat, but she trusted she was beautifaal.Taking another slaarp off her glass of dark red clarat wine —her faarth? she had lost count…— she sighed remembering the gaad old days. Not that she missed her dazen of previaas hubbas, nah.
She was comfartable tonight. Orok the building manager, one had to concede it to him, had decided to heat the building earlier this year, due to the falling temperatures, and it was all very warm and cosy inside. Traath was, she barely wanted to get out of the building at all, having Fannley order Chaanese faad for her, under the pretaxt to fanish her next novel. But end was never nearly in sight.
Her pablisher, Brackel, was still asking her about her next manuscraapt, and Fannley, the claaning-lady of the office (she only figured out recently that she actually was a ‘she’) was thrawing suspiciaas laaks on her every time they met.
All in all, life laaked almost the same. Not the same without a Lemane quote though.
She opened his last baak at random, laaking for a paarl of wisdam.I think that’s one of the reason why I don’t really appreciate Xmas, because of that sickening tradobligation of buying crappy stuff, but as long as you’re on facegoat, I can send good karma to you.
“Waw!” What an ideaa, this yeaar, she will send gaad karma to her ex-husbaands.
“Anathar wan!” She couldn’t get her hands aff such profaand baak.
Roger-Y, her pet talking white gaase started to screech frantically “Anathar WAN! Anathar WAN!” making her little fainting mongrats collapse to the flaar.
“pftlabaltloup”: that’s the Samari word for what I wanted to say: it may sound a little dismissive, but it’s pronounced fruit-lab-at-loop. Indeed; ‘fruit’ because the emails like snoot fruits, ‘lab’ for the extraction of the quintessence, and ‘loop’ to keep in loop… And we are complete.
“Waw” She was always struggling to kaap in the laap with all her characters; naw, that was something to consider, as she was Samari belonging herself, not at all Vaaldish like her mather. Gad forbads.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
She had to hold her breath a few seconds more…
Very few seconds…
Another one… Oh by the Elder gods! what was this all about the time was stretching like an old rubber bag and she was about to burst out… sshitty lack of air!Calm down Phoebe. You can do it… WHERE IS THE SURFACE!?
All of a sudden she realized she had lost her beautiful motorbike for good — one that took her years to find, and a few more years to insufflate its little particularities.
Oh! MERDE!
Another memory of her time at the Moulin Rouge…
I lost the wand again…
But that wand was a bit more special than her motorbike. Soaked with ancient magic from another dimension… A bit like that ring in that dimension… She shivered… her small intrusion in that one sufficed to disgust her… That giant spider… what was her name again? Well the name won’t help her surface and breathe… She remembered… she had stolen an egg from that spider… she had to get rid of it very soon afterward in a garbage dimension, but…
What is this light… and where is the direction of the surface… it was like she was floating in no space, no gravity…
That’s not gooood…
I’m loosing…
…conscious…
…Nessy!
A big flushing sound and she could breathe again… it was painful as the water in her lungs was looking for a way out.
Coughing and aching… She had no idea of the boundaries of her bodies as she was as wet as the ocean…
But her friend of old times had saved her! She never regretted to help her in her youth, during a trip to Scotland…
The contact of the… cold skin?
It was a bit too cold to be her friend… and it sounded quite metallic.— Oye! Therrre you arrrre!
What was that again!? A submarine? A Russian accent?
She couldn’t accommodate her vision, she was still too busy to breathe loudly.— Deaaarrrr Pheobe! The Barrrron told me you’d be therrrre.
Pavel Orgeanov!!! Oh not him now! He was the last one she expected to meet.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Becky visited the nursery at The Facility every day, and smiled vaguely at the triplets, relieved that they were thriving and being well cared for. She had spent several happy hours ordering a new wardrobe online, charging it all to The Facility, whose staff were being wonderfully kind and accomodating. She spent the days reading historical novels, lounging on the recliners on the numerous patios and balconies, or strolling through the colourful leafy gardens, or floating in the cool lotus filled pools, without a care in the world.
The past few months had been draining, exhausting. The unexpected break from everything that was familiar was doing her a power of good.
One hot still afternoon, Gayesh, the director of the facility, called her into his large airy office. The antique ceiling fan ruffled the papers on his desk. The papers were part of the antique decor, giving the room a nostalgic 20th century air.
Becky, we have been observing you while you’ve been staying with us, Gayesh said kindly. And we would like to make you an offer.
Observing me? asked Becky, feeling a trifle violated.
Oh, you know, at the essence level, dear, replied Gayesh, with a gentle smile. Your essence did agree, we couldn’t be intrusive, of course, as you know.
Oh well, if my essence agreed that’s ok I guess, answered Becky, mollified. What’s your offer?
Gayesh explained at length the purpose of the Facility, while Becky yawned and studied her new shoes, her mind wandering…
…….and so, in a nutshell, Gayesh was saying, If you give us permission, we can send a cloned Becky back to Galle, and the husband Sean, while you, my dear, do whatever you desire. You can be mother to the essences already lined up to manifest via your, er, the clones, body (and may I point out that none of our undercover clones so far have been uncovered, shall we say), which will facilitate….Gayesh chuckled….your new found freedom! You will be a free Becky that nobody knows exists! Free to wander hither and yon, without any responsibilities…..what do you say?
I accept your offer, sir! Becky said, jumping up to shake Gayesh’s hand.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Aum Geog spent a long time seating motionless before the piece of parchment which had just been delivered by a specially trained fincheon.
Fincheons were not particularly elegant, (not to say downright ugly) one had to admit, but they were very convenient, once you noticed that their feathers were a special shining tint of grey which almost made them invisible. They always knew how to fly back, and this one had made no exception.
But it was a bearer of annoying news for the newly appointed Elder of the Monastery who was trying to curb his irateness by staying still.This… he was at a loss for words. Breathe, breathe he exhorted himself.
A few months ago, when he was appointed Elder, his patient work of diligence seemed to have just paid off. He had thought he would be given the keys, and more importantly, the chalice.
But that sly dog of Hrih had decided otherwise. He had transmitted the chalice to that irresponsible and naïve novice Franiel, while giving him a bunch of rusted keys he didn’t give two poohs about.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before he could get it back, all he had to do was to make Franiel uncomfortable enough that he willingly relinquish the ownership to someone… someone like himself of course!
The annoying thing about this damn chalice you see, is that it won’t properly function with anyone else than the rightful owner (except for small uninteresting tricks). Obviously, Hrih didn’t want him to have access to its powers, but that old monkey was now gone, and there wasn’t much he could do about what was going on.In fact, the plan was nearly perfect. Two birds, one stone. Bring Franiel to have some appropriate spell modifications carved onto that chalice, and have him give it back to the Elder, Aum Geog himself.
Obviously, he couldn’t just let go such a precious artifact in the nature without appropriate stealthy surveillance. Thanks to one of his faithful servants, Brother Derwish, he was kept informed of the progresses. A former master of disguises that a other-Worldly experience had him join the orders, Brother Derwish was no short of brains nor tricks in his bag, and that parchment was another proof of it.
If he had renounced to contact Elder Aum Geog directly through the glowing balls, and take the risks of unexpected delays, it was because they were most probably watched and their communication monitored.So here went the news:
SPARFLY HAS MADE CONTACT WITH BIRD OF PREY. EGG DISAPPEARED. NESTING CHANGED TREE. GNAT STICKS TO THE POOH.Brother Derwish imaginative poetry could mean but one thing. Or two perhaps.
The little twit had been watched by someone else who had showed him some of the powers of the egg… err, the chalice. It would have partly activated the chalice, and make it disappear unless its owner needs it enough to have it appear again. Obviously, without chalice, or thinking it was lost, he had changed his course to another place.
Hopefully, Brother Derwish was following his trail closely.If more disastrous news had to come, Elder Aum Geog would have to summon his char of marmoths (big toothed hibernating woolliphants) and go there by himself.
Leonard was content. It had not happened exactly as he had thought, but as he had explained to Malvina, the only wise thing to do was to teach the boy about the powers of the chalice. That would active its self-protective cloaking power, and have the boy temporarily relieved of this burden.
For if he had been entrusted the chalice by the old Abbot, that was surely for a good reason.As Franiel had been moving, Leonard had had Moufle watch over him. Apparently, Leonard and his dog weren’t the only ones on his trail… The wiry gangly tonsured guy clothed in a potatoes sack didn’t seem to be here by chance either…
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Beattie! called Leonora, who had just returned from an early morning walk. She had an envelope in her hand and was looking at it with a distinctly puzzled expression.
Where did you get that? asked Bea. They had no mailbox, as there were no postmen to deliver to all the outlying cottages and smallholdings; they picked snail mail up from the post office in the village.
Post Office isn’t open yet, where did that letter come from? Let’s have a look, Bea said, reaching her hand out. No stamp! It must have been delivered by hand.
No stamp, Bea, but there’s a postmark! How did it ever get past the postmen with no stamp on it?
This doesn’t make sense. It wasn’t delivered by the postman. Where did you find it, anyway?
On the wall along the side of the lane… it was held down with a rock. The rock was a bit funny an’ all, said Leo, Now that I think of it. Didn’t look like any of the rocks round here, it had funny white markings on it.
Bea was rummaging around in her bag for her glasses. She found them and squinted through the fingerprints on the lenses. Glass Hour, she read, 2163. Can’t be the date, 2163… wait! It says Nov 1st 2163!
That’s ridiculous, Bea, lemme see it again. Leo frowned. I’m gonna google this here Glass Hour 2163.
Coffee? asked Bea. But Leo didn’t hear her.
In reply to: Synchronicity
catching up…
After we introduced the Italian Arch-Agent Gabriel to the story, there was a story in our local paper on crime writers with two authors featured.
One of these was Quintin Jardine. The section started with the words:
“If there are such things as angels” the big detective whispered “that’s what they look like.”
The detective who spoke them was an Italian.
The other author featured, was French crime writer Fred Vargas, (who is a woman, also a renowned archeologist). I really enjoyed reading what she had to say in the article regarding her philosophy on life and writing.
The articles were edited by Finlay McDonald.
With some physical health problems which have reared their head the last little while I have also been aware of the number of “angels” in my life, in fact have sort of had a game where I call them angels to myself … the massage angel i met, the cafe angel etc etc etc. Mr X gave me the name of some people who do gardening, as the property was getting out of hand. They went well out of the way, and I was thinking how they were my gardening angels …. later they gave me their business card. Their business name is “Gardening Angels”
The book I picked randomly on my trip to Auckland is The Traveller I had not heard of it before but apparently it is a best seller and part one of a trilogy
There are aspects of it which sort of remind me of our story, travelers who travel between dimensions etc
John Twelve Hawks is the author, I think he is a recluse or something, nobody seems to know much about him.
I love T’s eggs falling from the sky synch .. it felt like abundance and magic
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
It had been a moonth now that Elizabeth had got her first encounter with Pigoosus, her inner inspirer, on a dirty bench of the public park littered with pigeons droppings.
A whole moonth, and yet, it had been so full that she had barely noticed it passing. Even Finnley, the ever grunchy grumpy one, had felt ubiquitously absent (Elizabeth was quite fond of Lemone’s profoond quotes, and his consummate uooze of exquisitively bizarre words; so, “ubiquitously absent”, oxymoronic as it was, for all matter and purposes felt deliciously adequate to her present mood).
So, yes, even Finnley… who had felt recently so deeply absorbed by flocks of dust bunnies that went around the corners.As for her, the grandioosa noovelist, she had used the inspiration of that day to take a break from that strange story she was writing, and which had accumulated so many loose ends that she’d grown yucky at the mere sight of a dish of spooghetti.
Instead, she had written a small unpretentious (as far as she could, that is) novelette, or children book as her publisher said. Of course, everything a little bit out of the ordinary was only good for children, and in fact, she couldn’t care less. She had tremendoose fun writing the Extra-vagrant Illustrated Tales of The Oogletoon Twins. Not only writing in fact, but also illustrating that intermission work (which was a first, as she had mostly the habit of doing coollages of various pictures teafed around, hence her fondness for Robert the robber magpie).Notwithstanding, this was an interesting adventure for Elizabeth. Life was full of surprises, and she wouldn’t have thought that in becoming more “down to Oorth”, as her parents would have exhorted her to do, so to spook, she would have indeed be really, really closer to Oorth, but nonetheless, still in fairy land. Ahaha, that was putting her in the greatest of moods.
She smiled a broad smile to a fidgeting Finnley who was under the glowing neon light of the dark copy machine room, apparently in great conversation with some invisible being, as she went past the room, on her way to her office. Checking on her compooter (her gorgeous iPear) she noticed an email from Barash… Another publisher that she was considering working with, when her current one had felt hesitant at publishing her illustrated book.
Decidedly, everything was going well for her these days.
