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  • #2989

    In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      car looking cat link far started physical trip question katarina late energy
      taking door moment once odd purple bee others matter…

      #2963
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        “Looks like Ed Steams’ own impetus was his downfall Janet said solemnly after she covered the mustacheless body with a white bedsheet.
        “Damn right you are, Janet.” Riff Raff nodded. “I wouldn’t have recognized him without his mustache though…”
        “I think it’s safe to say that Pearl and Mari Fe’s plan was nearly a fiasco, but in the end, he took the surge full blast. Not quite the end we had in mind for him, but what’s done is done.”

        The zombies hadn’t been difficult to subjugate however, and although Riff Raff nearly had his brain eaten out, there had been no spread or civilian loss to deplore. That much was good, Janet didn’t like the whole body moving business one bit. The Moreguest Facility was such a drab place, at least she could go straight back to her post in beautiful sunny West Coast.

        On the table, an egg-shaped translucent gem was beaming bright green. Janet took it thoughtfully, carefully placing it in the diplomatic case. “Strange that Ed died from the surge while the others recovered once the zombie energy had been sealed into the rote.”
        Riff Raff was more pragmatic. Or maybe eager to get back home too. “He was a man consumed by his quest for artifacts, let’s not dwell on things past.”

        Using the portal from the bathroom once she decontaminated and recalibrated it, she’d sent everyone, their clothes doused in moonshine to some dark alleys in Granada, where they would probably be picked by local officers alerted by the usual racket made by the transspace portal, with no memory at all and alcohol breath. At least the nosy auditor would be in for a trip.

        “Hey Riff, give my regards to Midgenta” Janet bear-hugged her friend, throwing the diplomatic suitcase with the pocket-sized forklift into the glove box of the red car, and disappearing in a trail of fine caliche billowing behind the vehicle wheels.

        #2944
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Waking up (again) without the others noticing, Ed Steam mechanically went for his waxed mustache as he did whenever something like a haywire silly plot perturbed him, before realizing he was sorely missing this part of his definite features that earned him so much success with the ladies (and a few favors from the other gender as well, he wasn’t shy to admit). Anyway, rendered dejected by this, he grabbed his carefully concealed genuinely old pocket sundial dating back from the Egyptians, and turning with precise movements its gnomon to put it back to when it indicated a few hours ago, was brought back at the precise moment before he started to cut his signature waxed mustache.

          #2926
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            On their way to the car for more convenient tools for the job, Janet continued to counter Pearl’s objections: “Oh, let’s do it and be done with it, we’ve got other fish to fry. Now that the plan to make Ed disappear and extort all his secrets from him is nothing but a fiasco, we’ve got at least to cover our tracks. ‘No guarantee where they’ll end up?’ Fine! Works great for me if you should ask! Wonderland? All the better!” Janet vituperated.
            “Yeah, you probably right. Better be done with it before the next surge…”
            “Shall you elaborate?”
            “No time for this, deary, we’ve got work to do, bring on the pocket-sized forklift before others come out of this bleeding-though portal!”

            #2857

            In reply to: scattered grasps

            F LoveF Love
            Participant

              The air was filled with anticipation. Phurt was feeling it for a few days and it was not the usual intuition stuff. It wasn’t conveyed by the silky threads or her web or of the other webs of the others like her… it was in the air, and it was very exciting.

              #2750

              In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Eliza took the lead with a whopping 111 points for the word fuckwit, and grinned impishly at Flinella. “Beat that!” she said. “I’m going for a swim”.

                “Watch out for the dragon”

                “Oh bugger off”

                And then in unison, “what the fuck? What was that noise?”

                “The horns of Gabriel” suggested the nun.

                Flinella and Eliza spun round. “Where did she come from?” they whispered. “I thought we were alone on this island.” “Where’s the sound coming from, anyway?”

                “It’s coming from Detroit” claimed the man in the plaid trousers. “The objective insertion of the shift just started.”

                The two women clutched each others arms as they spun round again. “Where did he come from?”

                “And where did he get those trousers!”

                #2747

                In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  “a continual weaving of marvelously coloured threads” seemed like as good a place as any to pick up some loose threads and resume narrating the tale of the Tw’Elves. The narrator, who thus far remains nameless, continued to read:

                  “Some threads were gaily coloured silks, some were rough and coarse, some were woolly and comforting, and others were plain and functional. There were threads of the most unusual and unexpected fibres, other worldly threads tying the myriad dimensions and chapters together somehow. It really was the most fabulously intricate and absorbing construction.”

                  It must be noted that it was also full of holes, some of which were in the process of embellishment by the tatting goddess, Queenie.

                  #2091

                  In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    late
                    looking already far tunnel
                    random open cave suddenly
                    eventually strange taking fun photos
                    whistling garden white front
                    entirely others
                    odd

                    #2840

                    In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

                    White Panther
                    Participant

                      Falling…
                      Falling…
                      Falling…
                      Like an overdue meteorite that suddenly usurps the earth’s unaware atmosphere, Jennifer and her greatly interested boyfriend suddenly found themselves on the filthy ground, after the tree in which they were concealing their frivolous touches of childish passion gave in to the ground on account of an astonishing hole manifested the earth.

                      “Canaria,” Jennifer whispered as she dusted herself, resurrecting her fallen self from the earth. Jon had informed her that it was due to rise any moment after the great meeting of the Tw’Elves, but she wasn’t expecting it to occur so suddenly. Jon was the physical host of a channeled entity that synchronized itself with the initial dimension and the alterversity. She had first encountered this entity while wandering around in a dream, looking desperately for lucidity. It was like a vision: there was a blinding flash of purple light, and then when it fizzled, a gentle, yet booming voice manifested itself in the atmosphere and enlightened her of the shift in physical and metaphysical consciousness that was going to occur in the form of risen continents (five in total)- a shift in consciousness that would even out the blurring lines between illusion and reality.
                      The young, nameless one stood up, uttered an awkward cough and muttered: “What?” but Jennifer was already walking in the opposite direction, towards a large, circle rock she termed “Sepritrella”, meaning “place of silence” in the language of the Tw’Elves. “Jenni-” the young man called out hopelessly, thinking that somehow his voice would bring her back to him. Little did he know…

                      “I must call an emergency OOB meeting at the library,” she whispered as she placed herself upon the rock of Sepritrella and begun her meditative state. She fell into a relaxed trance, and suddenly her token colour of blue beamed itself loudly, zooming towards the Vatican Library to meet the others.

                      #2480
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        The pear shaped alien bodies began to falter one by one, treading on each others appendages, and bumping into each other.

                        #2707

                        In reply to: Strings of Nines

                        F LoveF Love
                        Participant

                          “W-a-t-e-r-f-r-i-n-g-i-n-m-e-l-o-n … yes still way too short!” Yikesy wasn’t really the party type and felt ridiculous wearing a bowler hat. While the others were engaged in general merriment precipitated by the arrival of the champagne, he surreptitiously removed the map from Minky’s backpack.

                          He scanned the map till he found what he was looking for.

                          Meanwhile ….

                          Arona giggled. “Look at that sign! Waakaawaakawaawaawaawaawaawaawahuhun! I want to go there!”

                          Mandrake raised an elegant eyebrow. “I suppose it is as good as anywhere, considering we have no idea where we are going.”

                          “I will run ahead and make sure it is safe.” announced Vincentius melodically. “You rest Arona, and eat these delicious sandwiches I whipped up earlier.”

                          “And shall I lick her feet for you while we wait?” asked the sarcastic Mandrake.

                          “Splendid idea. Thank you Mandrake!”

                          #2815

                          In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            There was no place like home, notwithstanding that home could be considered to be anywhere at all. Home in this case was Blithe’s patio one balmy September evening. Citronella candles flickered on the table, and coloured fairy lights strobed in strings along the facade of the house. A rosy glow emanated from the bedroom window and Blithe took a snapshot, noticing later the fly screen visible, overlayed onto the bedroom scene. Not only was the view of the bedroom limited by the width of the camera lens, it was also limited in the sense that the wire screen was obscuring almost half of what would have been visible if the photograph had been taken from the other side of the screen, or, with no screen at all in between the lens and the view of the room. However, despite having such a partial view of the whole, the remainder that was viewable was still identifiable as a bedroom.

                            Blithe wasn’t about to remove the screen however, because it was doing its job of screening, or filtering out, the unwanted insects. That wasn’t to say that she was denying the existance of those insects, or that they weren’t welcome on the other side of the screen, just that she was selectively screening the unwanted items from a particular scene. If, for example, the room was full of insects, Blithe might have been preoccupied with them, to the exclusion of whatever else she might have preferred to focus on within the bedroom. Out on the patio, however, the insects were, if not always entirely welcome, appreciated. The praying mantis and the dragonfly were welcome, and the butterflies and moths were always welcome, because Blithe had associated the energy of those insects with familiar welcome energies. The wasps, flies and ants were not translated in the same way, but were appreciated for entirely different reasons, being an aid to exploring such issues as irritation (and occasionally, pain). Blithe had to admit that despite the praying mantis and dragonfly being welcome, it would not be true to say that they were welcome in the bedroom, however.

                            There had been times when Blithe wished that the whole patio was enclosed in screens, but the trouble with screens was that they tended to filter out everything of a certain size, although perhaps that was more a beleif about physical screens than anything else. Was it possible to filter out flies and wasps, but allow dragnflies and butterflies? Possible surely, she thought, but perhaps not with physical wire screen devices and associated beleifs.

                            A few days previously Blithe had cleaned the mesh filter on her kitchen tap, unrestricting the flow. Coincidentally, her friend had also had a tap mesh restricted flow incident, and had removed the mesh filter altogether. Another friend had removed a window screen for cleaning, and had chosen not to replace it, as she was appreciating the allowance of much more light. And then another friend had mentioned a dream, of dragonflies under a screen that was covering a pool. She had lifted the screen in the dream, to allow the dragonflies to escape, and yet some of the dragonflies chose to stay under the screen.

                            Intrigued with the words screen and mesh, which meant the same thing in one respect, but not in others, Blithe investigated the definitions. To screen could be to filter out the unwanted, but to mesh was to weave together. But were they so different, really? A screen was also a blank place on which to project images ~ meshed and woven selectively screened and filtered images, perhaps.

                            {link ~ weaving}

                            #2813

                            In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              Whether or not Arachne was actually better at weaving than Athena is still a mystery, or perhaps it is a moot point and no mystery at all. Weaving is by no means a solitary endeavour, as Blithe found early one summer morning. The river mist was rising and the air itself was dancing in droplets. It was hard to determine if the droplets were falling or rising, or simply milling around on the air currents. Hard green oranges (clearly oranges had been named in winter, or they would likely have been called greens) were festooned with silver threads, linking orange to orange, orange to tree and tree to wire fence, and back again. It was debatable whether or not the individual spiders were aware of the grand overall design of the early morning web links of the orange groves, just as it was equally debatable whether or not the inhabitants of the various Gibber realities were aware of the network of waterpipes that connected the other inhabitants to themselves and each other, and to the other Gibber worlds. Individuals were individuals, whether they be spiders, or Gibblets, and individuals generally speaking were focused on their own part of the tapestry (and often those of their immediate neighbours). Spider 57 on the east fence might be positioned to catch the first rays of sunshine in the mornings, but Spider 486,971 over near the dung heap was in a better position to catch the afternoon flies. And so on, as somebody famous once said.

                              As Blithe prowled around the orchard capturing potential clues on her Clumera she inevitably became part of the laybrinthine web of sticky threads herself, as they attached themselves to her hair and clothing. All of the gaps between the solids in the field were joined together with spun filaments, just as the Gibblets were joined together with fun spillaments (although leaking waterpipes were sadly misinterpreted as not-fun all too often, despite that they could be used as an opportunity to view the connections of the Waterpunk more comprehensively.)

                              The individual spiders lacy parlours were framed in wire squares, several hundred, if not more, along the perimeter fences. Not every wire fence square was filled; there were many vacant lots between established residences ~ whether by practical design or mere happenstance, Blithe couldn’t say. Many of the individual webs were whole and perfect, like the windows of Lower Gibber whose inhabitants kept their lace curtains clean and neatly hung. Many of the webs on the wire fence were not perfect in the symetrical sense ~ some had gaping holes, and there were those that appeared to be unfinished, despite showing great potential. Others appeared to be abandoned, hanging in shreds, not unlike many of the residences in Upper Gibber.

                              The wire framed residences of the field (and likewise the peeling paint framed residences of Upper Gibber) that appeared to be defunct were not quite as they seemed, however. They were simply being viewed from a different timeframe. It was quite possible to view each wire or peeled paint framed en-trance side by side, notwithstanding that they were, so to speak, located in varying timeframes. All that was required was a more flexible viewpoint, and an ability to view more than one timeframe simultaneously. It was all a question of allowing an entrance to en-trance ~ which was, after all, its function.

                              {link: misty morning; entrance}

                              #2812

                              In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                The entrances to Faerie (and indeed to other alternate realities and dimensions) had been shrouded in disbelief for several centuries, but times were changing and the fog of scepticism was dissipating, evaporating like river mist on a hot summer morning. Looking for the entrances deliberately, Blithe found, wasn’t the most efficacious method. Sat Nav alone would be unlikely to reveal them, unless the locating device was used in conjunction with impulse and intuition. Any device and method could be used effectively when combined with random impulse, even Google Earth or Google Moon. Blithe’s friend and colleage Dealea Flare was making good use of this device on her travels, using it as a personal non physical airline and space shuttle service. Dealea could get from A to B and back again in no time at all, or even from A to well beyond Z and back again in no time at all using this device in conjunction with impulse and large dose of intention and focus. Blithe had the impulse down pat but still had difficulty with the focus, which was largely a case of having too many intentions at once, most of them somewhat vague.

                                The more random and impulsive Blithe was, the better her investigations went, often leading her into a new and exciting exploration which may or may not be linked to the current intention. Such was the case when she went on a mundane shopping trip to the Rock of Gibber. As she sat sipping coffee at the Counterpart Cabana sidewalk cafe listening to the locals conversing in Gibberish, she noticed the extraordinary tangle of pipework on the building opposite. It reminded her of the steampunk world she had been investigating in her spare time. The text book steampunk world was intriguing to say the least, but rather grim, and tediously full of victims and fear. The inhabitants always seemed to be running away from someone. The steampunk world she was beginning to sense in Gibber was quite different in that it was a sunny cheerful alternate reality held together with a vast labyrinthine network of water pipes, scaffold, and connecting cables.

                                Blithe paid for her coffee and strolled off, noticing more and more scaffolding and tangles of pipes as she climbed the warren of narrow winding streets. The air was different the higher she climbed up the winding uneven steps, the sunlight was sharper and the shadows denser, and there was a crackling kind of hush as if the air was shimmering. Cables festooned the crumbling shuttered buildings like cobwebs, and centuries of layers of crackled sun faded pastel paint coated the closed doors. Open doors revealed dark passageways and alleys with bright rectangles of light glowing in the distance, and golden dry weeds sprouted from vents and windowsills casting dancing shadows on the uneven walls.

                                The usual signs of life were strangely absent and present at the same time; an occasional voice was heard from inside one of the houses, and there were pots of flowers growing here and there, indicating that a human hand had watered them with water from the pipe network. There was no music to be heard though, or any indication that the cable network was in use, and there were virtually no people on the streets. A lady in a brilliant blue dress who was climbing the steps from Gibber Town below paused to chat, agreeing with Blithe who remarked on the peaceful beauty of the place. The lady in blue said “Si, it’s very nice, but there are many steps, so many steps. If you are coming from below there are SO many steps!”

                                There was a boy watching a white dog watching an empty space on the pavement, so Blithe stopped to watch the boy watching the dog watching nothing. Eventually Blithe inquired “What is he looking at?” and the boy shrugged and continued to watch the dog watching nothing. Blithe watched for a little while, and then wandered off. A small child was giggling from inside a doorway, and a mothers voice asked what he was laughing at. The child was looking out of the door at nothing as far as Blithe could see.

                                As the sun climbed higher, Blithe began to descend into Gibber town, winding and weaving through the alleys, wondering how she had failed to notice this place half way up the Rock until now. She came to a crumbling wall with a doorway in it that looked out over the bay beyond the town below. This must be one of the entrances, she deduced, to this alternate world in Gibber. “Entrance”! Blithe had a revelation. “I never noticed that the word ENtrance and enTRANCE are spelled the same.” Later, back at the office, Frolic Caper-Belle said she thought it was probably a very significant clue. “I’ll file that in the Clue Box, Blithe”, she said.

                                {link: entrance}

                                #2810

                                In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                                ÉricÉric
                                Keymaster

                                  Phlora was gathering sunflowers as she always did when they were at their yellowest in the midst of summer. Just before they started to wither and become a feast for the birds.
                                  Her brothers Floywn and Hywrik were busy hunting with the family winged horse, and would be gone for the day. Maybe she’d bake a cake for when they’d return… She wondered were Phinny her sister had gone for so long. It had been almost a season she was off the green.

                                  [link:sunflower]

                                  #2804

                                  In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                                  ÉricÉric
                                  Keymaster

                                    The wind was blowing strongly between the leaves, making ruffling sounds that were almost intelligible.
                                    The leaves were talking, like a chatter in a room full of people. He could hear them talking, saying various things.
                                    The smell of smoke of a nearby field, and the muffled sound made him long for a fresh beer at the local tavern. :beer:
                                    He could hear the voices becoming stronger, and as he walked under the becoming shade of the evergreens, he was hearing words and even sentences.
                                    That one was talking about her grandchild, this one about the rain and the poor weather this summer, another one about bohaha, whatever that was. Another flute-like voice was softer yet stronger than the others, as though it was directed at him. It said “… and all you have to do, truly, is to feel yourself into the dream, then you’ll know intimately what the next door is, and where it is leading you…”
                                    For him, it was to the pub.

                                    #2797

                                    In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                                    ÉricÉric
                                    Keymaster

                                      Grandpa Wrick interrupted “did I mention that your first story needs a beginning and an end, of course? The snowflake must be complete so that others can expand on it.”

                                      Take an example: Alice in Wonderland. You could start with : “A young girl follows a rabbit, falls down the rabbit hole, meets all sorts of strange people and in the end she wakes up to find out it was probably only a dream”. Then built up from that. Ideally to create something like a book-length worth of clues and details and all… For instance, you could detail the rabbit’s habits, or the strange people, putting it in perspective of the initial blurb or following developments. It would be like re-re-rewatching a beloved movie, only to pay attention to the finer details in the background…

                                      #103
                                      ÉricÉric
                                      Keymaster

                                        “Let’s play a new game, shall we”, Grandpa Wrick said to his hectic and untamable grandchildren.
                                        “We will start a snowflake. Only rule of the game, is that you have to go into the story. You can only insert things inside, and go inwards, and develop what’s already put into place by what’s been in the thread. That’s the only way you can expand the story. By expanding its details.”

                                        “How so?” asked India Louise who never paid attention.

                                        “Just like that”, Wrick said, “if what I just told you was the beginning of a snowflake, you could develop things about the place we’re in. Think about it as a spatial story, frozen in time. And use the objects of events put in places by others as triggers and as portals to a more refined and in-depth view of the story.”

                                        “Shall you start with your story Indy?”

                                        #2466

                                        After his failed attempts to gain control over the Land of Peas, and his being thrown out of the Majorburghouse body first and framed head second by an angry mob of infuriated Peaslanders (which was something to be noted, since Peaslanders were usually quite the happy bunch), the Majorburgmester now bereft of anything but his will, was thinking it was high time for a u-turn in his carreer.

                                        His dear blubbits had apparently mostly vanished out of sight, some said trapped in a blinking giant spider’s cobweb blinked out of Peasland, some others said suffocated under shiny duct tape, and even some said baked in ashes and almonds — those last obviously were the maddest of the lot.
                                        It seemed like all the Dimensions had conspired to his defeat.

                                        Now hardly a Majorburgmester, the title having now been offered by the cheerful crowd to the raucous and unexpected hero (after they hesitated for a good hour if it should be given to the herald of the liberation, that stupid Gandfleur whatever its name of a dog), he was now again known as B. Weazeltweezel (the B. standing for Bartabous, his mother having a fondness for names in “-ous” like Precious, his elder sister, and Pulpous his second sister; a chance his father was a man of more common sense, otherwise he surely would have been named Houmous himself).

                                        The newfound venture didn’t wait long to manifest. In the not so distant past, he had already suspected something fishy about Lady Fin Min Hoot and now he knew. She was a high member of the Bridge Tarts Order, and though it was a secretive and feminine order, he had always loved a challenge.
                                        He felt he could muster all the tartiness and bridginess needed to be granted access to their secrets.

                                        Galvanized as he was, were he to successfully infiltrate the order, he knew he didn’t really stand a chance without something else. By nothing short of a synchronistic chance, Fwick, the saucerer had given him the leftovers of a potion he didn’t know what to make of.

                                        In a gulp (and a few gargppls) Batabous was rapidly changed into a rather convincing dame matron, with slight mustache and ample bosom.

                                        Tarty Bridgies, here I come… he said in a falsetto voice that needed work. … soon everybody will know about Lady… Bartaba

                                        #2459

                                        The ice is melting,
                                        That tart won’t rise,
                                        We’d better off meringuing
                                        To get off this maze

                                        All the others were flabergasted at all the (seeming yet inspired) nonsense Doily would speak by the minute.

                                        They had to admit her Porette syndrome if not getting worse everyday, was making her do the oddest things.

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