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In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann was having a nightmare. In her dream she was an olive in a catering sized saucepan of spaghetti. The oily sauce made it impossible for her, especially given her round shape and lack of useful appendages, to gain purchase on the slippery strands.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Sincerely Bodry,” Walter was saying to Bodry, Becky’s brother, a high-ranking member of the Sisterhood, “I think the issue is not really about Continuity, it’s more about Expansion.”
Bodry frowned as if perplexed beyond mesure by the words of the wise man.
“Don’t be ludicrous” he said “that would be tantamount to saying Lavender the cleaning lady would look divine even if sporting a mohawk, were it pink notwithstanding.”
“Actually, I daresay she would. But let us not sway off the subject. You see, by no manner is it an issue whether things are continuous or not —and I know it’s almost blasphemous to say that— but the crux of the matter lays in the measure with which things are expanded and linked together.”
“Mmm, I’m afraid an expansion of the Sisterhood of Continuous Universal Meditation on the world would not be such a bad thing, even if we would have probably to merge with the Sisterhood of Human Infinite Technology.”Walter was in fact speaking of things far more metaphysical, and was hinting at the fact that the writer wasn’t taking good care enough of resolving some of the blatant or lingering contradiction by taking the time to properly express and connect to the world the writer was writing (some would say, but not the writer, babbling and raving) about.
All of these of course were once again lost to the poor soul he was talking to.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“I never knew anyone have so many haircuts!,” Becky said huffily to Tina. “I suppose your latest one is okay though, it has that sort of casual, sexy … I just got out of bed and can’t even be bothered combing my hair look.”
Tina smiled kindly at Becky. Poor old Becky, her hair never really grew back properly after all the stress of the wedding fiasco.
“Well, we will both need new haircuts if we are going to Paris in June for the Be Free, Be Me! conference”, she said cheerfully.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Harvey had enjoyed tremendously the underwater experience with the air bubble blowing dolphins and orcas …
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Lavender was a little peeved she did not win the trip to the Worserversity for her fine limerick. She was wondering if she may drop out of Gubby’s course and enrol in one of Prof Moosy’s underwater dolphin experiences.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann sighed. She suddenly realized that she’d spent the summer time travelling, back to the Summer Before the Great Shift Trauma. She’d completely forgotten that the Worserversity was Post Shift. Oh well, she would write a historical account of The Times Before The Great Trauma Started.
“What Great Trauma?” asked Monica, who had been reading her mind again. “There was no Great trauma in MY shift experience.”
“Really?” Ann was momentarily puzzled. “There wasn’t in mine either.”
“If you’re going to write about trauma, you’ll have to make it all up.” Monica replied.
“Why would I want to do that?” Ann was still puzzled.
“For the fun of it?” Monica suggested.
“Oh yes, of course…for the fun of it…”
Ann was still puzzled.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
The summer Holidays were nearly over, or the Hollow Days, as they were known to some. The last days of summer had been a bit hollow for Ann at any rate, rattling around inside her own head, not really knowing whether it was full or empty. Ann had spent most of the summer sleeping, and with virtually no dream recall, it seemed as if half of the summer was missing. Probably just as well, what with it being such an odd summer. She wondered if she would simply sleep through the shift, like Ned Young slept through the mutiny. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
“Normally” the Worserversity students started rolling back towards Poubelleville round about now, but the word “normally” was becoming obsolete. What was normal, what could be expected? Ann didn’t know. She packed her coloured pencils, her detachable hand and her wooden men, and fished out her homework assigments for the holidays that she had only just remembered.
Alliteration. Bugger bollocks and blast, blimey but what a bother, too bloody hot and bored.
That’s a bit bloody depressing, she muttered to herself, try another letter.
Sweltering summer of sweat and sand, sleeping and sleeping, sublime surruptitious snooze, sail away in the sunset swell, sunrise surrender, ships ahoy!
Fan the flames, far sighted fellows! There’s a flash in the funnel for fast falling fishermen. Far flung, fun fueled, oh fast fleeting fantasies, follow the folks with the flags! Flounder not, fresh fishies, for fun feels fantastic!
Ah, wallow in wisps of wordless wonderings, weather the winds of wandering whispers, while weighty wells of wishes work winsome wonders, woven with worn wool and worrisome white weathered windows. Whether we will, whether we won’t, who will win, what will work, will we watch it water the weeds….
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
That unexpected call from the Dean had put the Fisherman in abyss of perplexity.
The fishes weren’t really his prime concern. He only needed to paint a little red nose on one of the cloud fishes to stir the others out of their unerratic routine.
The matter wasn’t really worth his coming back to the Worseversity, but he and the Dean knew better. If the fishes had snapped into that randomless routine, it was most probably a protective reflex to anticipate some trauma.Trauma hadn’t really been seen in ages —in fact, not even once since the Great Shift, which had been an orgiastic experience of trauma of all kinds for people prone to indulge into this emotional drug. The coincidence had not been lost on the two old men. Of all the Worseversity’s, there were very few true artifacts remaining from before the Great Shift; barely a handful of them. Most of the known artifacts were in actuality clever re-creations from older designs, but not the “real” thing. And for good reason actually; most of the laws of physics had changed since, and made almost all of the older designs broken and unusable.
The pool was hiding one of these few artifacts that had mysteriously gone through the Great Shift without decaying. Furthermore, this very artifact was quite old, and signed by the visionary architect Rumbold the Pale boasting in carved letters which had once been golden, now mostly erased by the passing of times: “The real game is only played whence it started”.
That fishy omen seemed so dire that it couldn’t help but put the Fisherman out of his lifelong passion questing for the great Trouts of the Universe.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“To be perfectly honest dear, I wouldn’t be very outwardly lovely if I were to be honest.”
“Another of your convoluted ways to say it’s rubbish” Lavender said with a smile “But that’s fine, you know. It’s also meant as a test of honesty… And as I’m not sure you heard it properly anyway, a little honesty wouldn’t have hurt you know.”But it seemed Harvey’s attention had already gone somewhere else. “Are you even listening to me?” Lavender said with a lovely voice practicing the delicate guttural accents of Sloopernoff, snapping back Harvey’s attention to the conversation.
“Oh, you were speaking… I’m sorry, I’m starting to worry that Ann’s narcolepsy is contagious.”
“Always the worrywort…”As they were talking surrounded by the soft dusty specks of the library (which every time annoyed Lavender quite extensively, as she wasn’t so fond of the taste of dust bunnies and didn’t see with the same eye as Ann the archaeological value of burying useful things in dust), Gremwick the mad Dean of the Worseversity passed by with a yellow sticker stuck to the back of his trench coat.
“Looks like mad old Gremwick isn’t doing so good recently hey… Seems like he was droning about taking the students’ courses to check on their quality last time we heard of him…” Lavender looked empathetic.
Harvey was smiling “If you ask me, he might just be wanting to know if the rumor of Prof Gubby’s nine nipples were true or only sheer fantasy”
“I wonder which perverted mind’s fantasy it could be” sighed Lavender unimpressed.In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“What do you think Harvey? It is my first assignment in the new writing course. I really think I have made progress with my limericks.” Lavender beamed proudly at Harvey. “It is written in Sloopernoff and is full of rich symbolism, indeed, it cleverly elaborates on the symbolism in a coded form inherent in the precise rhyming structure required for the pure art form of the limerick poem. I think Gubby will be impressed. Okay, put down that zebra and listen:
They made a fine statooe of Melon
which pissed off his thirteenth wife Ellen
When a pigeoon stoopped by
She said with a cry
That man was a nasty oold felon!”In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Is old Gubby male or female?” whispered Lavender. To be honest, she didn’t really care much, but she did want to maintain the conversation with the gorgeous Dieter.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“BLING!”
Yurick and Yann jolted up from the couch at the sound of the crashing pot.
“What on Earth are they on about… again!”
Their two new cats Eeckup and Eelas were practising their new hops and jumps, reaching for the topmost shelf of the cupboard, where the pot full of earth, and topped with the remains of a dying dry plant was put —they’d thought, out of reach of the little beasts.
“You know what?” Yurick said after having vacuumed the remains of dirt on the carpet “it may sound a bit strange (perhaps completely nuts even), but I had the impression Eeckup was making something with the plants just before I surprised it…”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“Yes, sorry Sir, can you repeat the assignment please Sir?” asked Lavender, politely. Having just recently enrolled in the writing class, at Harvey’s suggestion after the appalling Limerick fiasco, she was finding Professor Gub’s strong Slooperniff accent rather hard to decipher.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
“And anyone” continued Professor Gub “who hands in their assignment written in Slooperniff instead of English will be eligable for the draw for the trip to the Worserversity in September. Any questions?”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Godfrey stood looking up the pigeons sitting on the statue of the Academy’s founding father, Walter Melon, pondering the symbology.
“What do you reckon the symbology of that is, Aaeiulie?” he asked his colleague, this years alien-Xchange visiting professor, Aaeilulie Gub, from the Worserversity in the Slooperniff Dimension.
“No idea, God, I’ll use this as my next class assignment, see what the students come up with. Anything else, or just the statue and the pigeons? Keep it simple, profound? Or convoluted but with lots of options?”
“Oh keep it simple, if I know those students, they will manage to convolute even the simplest ideas.”
“If they didn’t, we’d be out of a job” said the alien.
“We don’t call them ‘jobs’ anymore, we call them S.M.I.L.E.S, or Something Marginally Interesting, Lucrative & Enlightening.”
With a perfectly straight face the alien replied “What rubbish.”.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann had unexpectedly found herself in the hot seat, so to speak, after using the bidet immediately after chopping up chillis in the kitchen. Pondered the symbology of the mishap, she couldn’t help but think of the word ‘rekindling’ and wondered if this might be of some use for Prof Moose’s assigment. Clearly, had she used a little more dish washing detergent on her long slender fingers, she wouldn’t have experienced the ‘rekindling’ at all.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann knew what Monica was really thinking. Monica was thinking she had chubby fingers. Ann hated that.
“Uppity Tart’” she whispered spitefully under her breath. Then, feeling a tad guilty at her uncharitableness, and wishing she could be as inwardly lovely as old .. what’s her name, she quickly changed the subject.
“Apparently I am a challenge in the Continuity Class!”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
G3 (short for GGG, which was shorter for Good God Gordy) asked as if to himself “Anyone met the Fisherman yet?”
Gremwick put down the Psychic Politics book he’d taken for his assignment, his five words written on a lemon coloured sticker:
Oof… here we go, “state — briefly — fisherman — library — pigeons”… There’s a bit of challenge here. he sighed, mostly uninspired.
“Perhaps I should have stayed with the easy words like ‘more, is, less, think, true’”. “Do you mean the Fisherman’s coming? How long has it been already?” Ann started to count briefly on her chubby fingers.
“Well, I guess if you’d be more assiduous in Pr. Rose’s class in bird divination, you’d found out that the pigeons’ flight was unmistakably precise on that matter.”
“I tried, believe me, I tried to pay more attention,…” Ann said, “but frankly, I prefer direct experience of the broom cupboard to the draughty corridors of the library…”
“Oh, I should say I’m a bit disappointed at you; I’ve always believed the state of dustiness would have been an incentive to you rather than a deterrent.”“Don’t underestimate the incentive of detergent” Monica said almost mischievously under her breath.
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
Ann glanced vaguely over the bookcase, wondering where her dictionary was. Did people still use dictionaries in book form? I suppose any book will do for the purpose, she decided, and reached for the nearest book, a book about Rembrandt. She opened it randomly five times, using a ball point pen as a pointer, and selected five words for Prof Underbaker’s assignment.
…now…excite…
What a coincidence, I might be able to kill two birds with one stone here, Ann thought, with a slight shudder at the bird killing metaphor (if it was indeed a metaphor, Ann tended to skip the Labelling Words classes)…
…someone…
Ah, but who? Who shall I excite?
…pointed…
Pointed in the right direction? Addressed someone pointedly? Not to put too fine a point on it…
….time
Ann was interested to note that her selection of words started with the word NOW and ended with TIME, and popped it into her clue box in an effort to stay on course and finish the assigment.
There was no time like the present. Indeed T’Eggy was well aware that All is Now, she’d heard about that theory in Wicks, the online magazine that she’d found so enlightening. She’d been reading a copy of Wicks (a reproduction, the originals were now collectors items and very valuable ~ in an artifact rather than a monetary value kind of way, monetary value having been devalued in the early part of the century) in the teleport waiting room when she met the handsome foreignor in the dusty blue robes. Of course, it was not unusual to meet foreignors in the teleport waiting room, not unusual at all, but the tall, dark, and handsome stranger had excited her. Perhaps it was the flash of long lean tanned thigh that she glimpsed as his robes caught on the door knob. Of course, even the ‘waiting room’ was a retro touch, because there was no need to ‘wait’ for teleport travel. It seemed ironic in a way that folks in the old days had perceived ‘waiting’ as an onerous thing, an somewhat unpleasant period of clock watching and crossword puzzle books. These days ‘waiting rooms’ were popular places to meet people and choose probability pools. The latest trend was Turtle Nights, and Frog Nights, where men and women gathered in waiting rooms to choose partners, to find that special someone, loosely based on the old Hen and Stag nights.
“Do teleport stations have door knobs, Ann?” Pedro interjected.
“Oh!” Ann was momentarily non plussed.
“Non plussed? Is that a word?” asked Pedro.
“Pedro, stop interrupting! The assigment isn’t to design a teleport station!”
The teleport station had been designed in retro style, a facsimile of the Atocha train station in Madrid. Lack of need for physical details had not resulted in a lack of appreciation for physical detail simply for it’s artistic merit, not to mention historical educational value, and the TRANS (Teleport Relative to Any Now Space) Station was an award winning example of old fashioned detail. Why, it even had doorknobs, even though doors had been dispensed with several decades ago.
“I thought the assigment wasn’t to design a teleport station?” asked Pedro.
“Does it bloody matter?” retorted Ann, with a hint of exasperation. “The overall point is to write rubbish, and that’s what I’m doing!”
“I’m glad you pointed that out, Ann” remarked Pedro helpfully.
“Oh my god, look at the time!” Ann exclaimed. “It’s time for class!”
“Bugger that!” snorted Pedro. “I’d rather hear about what happened with T’Eggy and that tall dark stranger!”
