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  • #4501

    Granola allowed herself a few moments to bask in the glow of satisfaction. At least Lucinda had noticed the side bar suggestion she had implanted on the Face It web page, and had perused the ideas sufficiently to motivate her to try out one of the missions.

    “Invite a random stranger to join you,” it had said, “to join you for coffee in a nearby cafe, or invite them home for dinner, or to see a movie.” The page had included numerous other suggestions, but that was the gist. They did warn the reader that often, people were suspicious and expected a scam of some kind, and if the random stranger exhibited more that a token display of wary caution, to leave them with a cheery wave, and thank them for helping you to practice your confidence boosting exercises. Under normal circumstances, providing the level of fear and distrust wasn’t too high, this approach usually rendered the random stranger more amenable to an approach in future.

    In truth this wasn’t a difficult exercise for Lucinda, for she often spoke to random strangers and quite enjoyed it, although usually she didn’t extend that to personal invitations. But the Ask Aunt Idle Oracle had been droning on and on about interconnection being the primary factor in reducing signs of aging ~ yes, strange, but true: nothing to do with food or toxins or exercise after all ~ so the coincidence of Aunt Idle’s advice mirrored in the side bar suggestion registered sufficiently for Lucinda to actually remember it, and try it out on the bored looking fellow in the supermarket.

    Only hesitating slightly before extending his hand to grip hers in a surprisingly firm handshake, he responded: “I’m Jerk. Pleased to meet you.”

    Granola grinned from behind the pyramid of baked bean tins, and faded out of the scene. There was work to do on the side bar method for the next clue.

    Jerk’s eyes flickered over to the baked beans, registering the peripheral movement, just in time to see a disembodied foot wearing a red sandal vanish into the somewhat heavy air of the canned goods aisle.

    #4450
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Starting from the end of the story, Albie finally understood where the traveler had come from, and why.

      In retrospect, it explained a lot. Why the story was going nowhere for enders.
      It begged to be turned around! — back to its origin. Otherwise, readers of the pages of the story couldn’t help but be taken by bouts of anterograde amnesia.

      All the forward looking thinking, the futurists, bound to become caught in a loop! Fighting for a patch of the present, while the expanse was to be discovered in the expired. Truth was in the return. Funny how regression seemed a word tainted of passéism, while it could in turn evoke seismic progress — regression therapy!

      So let us start from the end. The traveler had arrived, she’d come from the other side of the page. Turning that back, a whole new story was to be written of what led her to the Doline.

      #4292

      “Dammit,” said Yorath, “your lyrical way of talking about those old decrepit things reminded me that I’ve promised a fresh load of provisions to the old woman in the forest, what’s her name already.”
      “Margoritt Loursenoir?” ventured Eleri, who usually was the one who couldn’t remember names too common. It did help that she was an avid reader, and that Loursenoir happened to be an author that she’d liked.
      “Yes, her. You could come with me you know. There’s surely plenty to pique your interest on the trip to the forest, surely a few discarded things you’d like to grab for a later tinkering.”
      “You know how I hate snow and the cold…” she mused for a while. “But at least some dry air will be welcome…”

      #4082
      rmkreeg
      Participant

        At first, I think the continuity will, by design, seem to be disjointed. The reader will start off confused. But yes, I think there will start to be things that carry over as he begins to remember and assemble a personality that transcends the individual stories. This eventual personality, may or may not match up with his original personality from before the coma…probably not…but he’ll definitely begin to remember who he was. And perhaps there will be a meaningful contrast between his new transcending personality and his old real life personality.

        The idea is that each story puts him/her in a situation and there’s always something about that situation that resonates with him/her. That resonating is a clue to their original real life from before the coma started.

        And so the aspect that resonates becomes a part of the transcending personality and begins to carry over into the next stories.

        There’ll probably be situations where there’s a conflict between the transcending personality and the story personality that he/she naturally wants to flow with.

        Like, the story that they’re in might have them as a female in Greece, and he/she wants to flow with that story, but the transcending personality is there in the back of the mind, resonating as a male, for instance.

        This would be like an allegory for multiple lives, perhaps, but without bringing up reincarnation, and encapsulating it into a story that any reader can believe and resonate with. Almost like tricking the reader into learning something about multiple lives and essence.

        F LoveF Love
        Participant

          NOTES FROM GROUP DISCUSSION:

          [unnamed protagonist] finds themself in a coma, but they don’t realize it. It’s like they’re in a dream state, moving through worlds, gradually discovering their past and what’s happening. The person knows that they’re trying to find their way home, which in reality is them trying to wake up.

          Once they remember their past and what happened leading up to the coma, they wake up…but remember nothing.

          So, as I was trying to structure this, I initially wanted the first book to be their normal waking life and the second book being the coma and the third book being post coma and relearning stuff. But then I figured it would be best to combine the first and second books.

          I wanted the reader to start out confused, just like they would be and gradually learn the back story as they went

          The only thing is, that would mean that this thread has to remain written as coming from their perspective

          we are all writing about ONE character essentially. obviously there are gonna be other characters, but the main thread is this one person

          feel free to incorporate any and all previous characters and locations from your other threads. The protagonist will be moving through them. So he/she finds themselves in these other worlds.

          They’re being swept up into an adventure right from the start without knowing a thing

          let’s drop them into the middle of something exciting

          It’s any time
          It’s a big dream
          In real life, the protagonist is in a coma right now

          But, also, you’ll have a lot of freedom to create those on the spot because neither you nor the reader nor the main character knows them until you write them

          The characters in this story won’t have too much staying power because the main character is moving through so many worlds. Nearly everyone is incidental,

          unless characters appear that are central to the main characters ongoing story, like a nurse for example or family

          At max, there might be two or three reoccurring characters that tend to pop in more often than not as helpers
          Oh, yeah, family from the back story would come in to play a lot

          #4036

          Ricardo had finished cleaning the tea cups in the empty office. He liked the job alright, it was a bit silly of him to surmise people would clean their own cups, and do their own teas. That was what he’d meant with the team job comment.

          Connie and Hilda were right, totally right about it; he couldn’t expect too much, he’d just arrived, he was just a simple intern in a prestigious journalistic establishment. He’d come here to learn the tricks of the trade, when he’d answered the wanted: secretary and cleaner ad of last week.
          So far, there was only so much golden nuggets of weirdo news he could find. You’d need some serious training to get to the level of Hilda and Connie, the dynamic duo.

          For now, he was content to being put to menial tasks, it helped know the colleagues better, support them as he could with the pressure on the deadlines. And also, improving the typos and legibility by cleaning up the loose letters dropped during typesetting.
          His own headline baiting skill was still rather low —it was an art to create the perfectly sexyied up heading, not too tacky, but enticing enough to captivate the readership’s attention.
          If Hilda was the queen of headline fishing, Connie was undoubtedly the empress of headline baiting.

          #3997
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            “Cheer up, old bean,” Liz said kindly, reading his mind. “There’s a rendezvous at the Absinthe Cafe soon. Aunt Idle (and I do often wonder why you all insist on calling her Dido; it’s nothing more than a deliberate confusion tactic for the poor reader) will teleport over. It’s a fancy dress party, and my suggestion Godfrey is that you dress up as a particularly dashing superhero, in tights. She won’t be able to take her eyes off you.”

            #3954
            F LoveF Love
            Participant

              “Stop muttering, Godfrey. What are you not in the mood for?” She winked at him *lasciviously.

              Godfrey glared. “Stupid ignorant fool of a bossy boss and look at this will you!” He pointed dramatically at his letter. “A typo! He spelt my name Dear!

              LIz was unperturbed.

              “Well, I will tell you what I am in the mood for!”

              
She pirouetted around the recalcitrant Finnley who was still standing in the middle of the room and defiantly not making a start on **getting the cabbages.

              “Nick, nack, paddywack! I’m in the mood for LOOOOVE!” sang LIz loudly and tunelessy.

              Finnley grimaced and made a hasty exit.

              notation* trying to sexy things up for our readers.

              notation** being a euphemism for not writing a comment, of course.

              #3651

              In reply to: The Hosts of Mars

              TracyTracy
              Participant

                The idea of having her own robot appealed to Lizette, and she was already starting to feel an affectionate soft spot for Finnley 8. It ~ was it a he or a she? would do nicely as a personal servant and dogsbody. She wondered if the management would loan the robot to her for the duration of her stay, as a personal assistant and proof reader.

                #3606
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Finnley got a book out of her bag and started reading, rather rudely, Elizabeth thought.

                  Liz leaned over so that she could read over Finnley’s shoulder, in the absence of anyone to talk to as all the characters had been written out of the script.

                  “…full of misinformation and wrong opinions.” she read.

                  “Then sir, you may say so. The ruder you are, the more the editors will be delighted.”

                  (A point worth bearing in mind, Liz thought)

                  “But it is my own opinions which I wish to make better known, not other people’s.”

                  “Ah, but, sir, it is precisely by passing judgements upon other people’s work and pointing out their errors that readers can be made to understand your own opinions better. It is the easiest thing in the world to turn a review to one’s own ends. One only need mention the book once or twice and for the rest of the article one may develop one’s theme just as one chuses. It is, I assure you, what every body else does.”

                  “Hmm, you may be right. But, no. It would seem as if I were lending support to what ought never to have been published in the first place.”

                  When Elizabeth had had enough of reading, she wrote Godfrey back into the script.

                  #3307

                  Sanso was tied securely on a Louis XVI chair, inside an ornate room kept mostly in the dark by heavy embroidered curtains that smelt of celery.
                  He was craving for a tomato juice to go with the smell, and could hardly focus on an empty stomach.

                  He could have easily escaped from his predicament, but he was curious about his captors, and the reason why they had him abducted after he went back to his little love nest in the R&R B&B where he’d hoped to meet again the mysterious Lady Cucumber. That was his name for her.
                  He was hopeless with names, and although he was sure he had heard hers before, he preferred to remember people by associations. With Irina, that was Cucumbers. There! he thought, another proof of the brilliance of this method, as I remembered her name… Iris? Eyrin?, well, Lady Cucumber.
                  He’d made love to many a lady in his life, a lady in Salmon, even a Lady Mermaid, a Lady Gingerale, a Lady Panty, a ladyboy even. He could go on for hours thinking about them, but the lady Cucumber had spun a spell around his head it seemed.

                  After his last mission on a rescue with Miss Bob and her Sponges Squarepanties team, he’d run back for the 2222 B&B.
                  No sooner had he arrived that heaven and hell broke loose and things went to rules and “do that or else”‘s, all things he abhorred with a passion. The links, and keys for his chains, that he could suffer, so he focused on it for awhile.

                  He was woken up by a splash of ice cold water on his pants and a raucous voice in his face. Better that than the reverse, he chuckled to himself.

                  “Something funny now? Tell us, where did she go?”

                  He knew better than to feign ignorance, so he preferred to feign knowledge, which he’d found usually worked miracles.

                  “Of course. She stole something from you…”
                  “Damn right, she steal it, and we want back it.”

                  The accent was difficult to place, he’d known so many inter-dimensional dialects that sometimes it was hard for him to remember.
                  He would have said some northern Chinese dialect accent, with a bit of kiwi.

                  He needed to know a bit more before disappearing. His curiosity was aroused by the implication that what she stole was certainly valuable. What could it be, a revolutionary hairsplitter, a butt-fluffer, a fringe freckler, ah! his head was teaming with great possibilities it was making him dizzy.

                  “Don’t be silly Mister Sanso, she steal it robot very precious and advance technology.”
                  and before he could reply:
                  “Yes we read your mind, I confirm… You have silly thinks Mr Sanso.”

                  He was starting to think now was a good time to get lost, and started to confuse their mindreader with energy patterns otherwise called gibberish thoughts.

                  The chains and ropes gave way easily.
                  His next move was to phase out of the room, but instead he managed to fall on his butt, in the middle of mocking looking Chinese in tuxedos and purple bow ties.

                  “Ah, I see, you have some antiportation technology…” Sanso was a fair player. The temptation was big to run for another exit, if only for the exhilaration of a chase in the corridors of that strange place, but his stomach was thinking otherwise.

                  “I see you are vely fond of kewcomber, we are no animawls, we will give you delishius kewcomber.”

                  Minutes after, he was thrown with a certain form of Chinese ceremony in a small cubic windowless room. On a table next to the door, was his meal apparently.

                  He recoiled in horror when he opened the lid covering his plate. The strong odour of garlic pricked his nose.
                  “No way! Fucking jokers!”
                  That was even worse than to eat boiled cucumber chunks in spicy sauce.
                  Swimming in soy sauce were slices of chewy sea cucumbers that looked more like fat juicy leeches from a filthy bog.

                  He ate reluctantly, arguing with his stomach about the benefits of the collagen in said sea cucumbers, and at the same time realized the Chinese mobsters were probably from the Chinese Robot Incorporated Mission Eternal, a renowned corporation that had managed to free countless people from menial jobs thanks to prodigious advances in robotics.
                  The Lady Cucumber was suddenly more than a mysterious beauty, she was also a mysterious wanted beauty, and he couldn’t wait to… But he had to guard his thoughts for now.

                  He looked at the bamboo chopsticks with a sly smile. He had not said his last word, and the person who could boast of having Sanso detained was not born yet.

                  #3232
                  F LoveF Love
                  Participant

                    Queens Team and 2121 originated time-travellers

                    Reginald / Maurana Banana
                    Cedric / Consuela Winnie
                    Amar / Terry Bubble
                    Sadie Merrie
                    Linda Paul

                    Supporting team

                    Pseu, Maria del Mar, Janice (from the City, around 2257)
                    Sanso (from other dimension, multi-dimensional travel contractor)
                    Frindle, Trumble, Jingle (fuck knows who they are)
                    the Hawai’i techromancer

                    Management team (around 2222 and later)

                    Irina, mermaid Russian spy and parrot whisperer

                    Jonbert, the orchestrator of the time-travelling arcs, wanting to retrieve key information from St Germain which were collected in 1757. En route back to 2222 to intercept the whales’ crystal with help from Linda Paul’s team, and his luxury submarine

                    1757 King’s Versailles

                    The Queen
                    Madame de Pompadour
                    her maid Nicole du Hausset, coming from a line of time-smugglers
                    Mr Aliette the wigmaker and finger reader
                    Count de St Germain
                    Giacomo Casanova (pseudonyms Monsieur de St Galle / Jacques de Seingalt)
                    Father Balbi, Casanova’s travelling companion
                    Theater du Soleil actors (Lison Tailleur, Jean Pastisse, Geoffroy du Limon, Francette Fine)
                    Robert-Francois Damiens, the assassim
                    Jean-Pierre Duroy, the Grand Intendant, his wife the Pastry Chef Annie
                    Cook and Helper
                    ghost of Marguerite Isabeau

                    The 1757 originated time-travellers

                    Mirabelle the oldest and bossiest, Adeline the youngest (thief of the first ferret) and Fanetta, the French maids
                    Igor Popinkin, Boris and Ivan the Russian con-artists and saboteurs hidden with the Russian Ballet troupe visiting Versailles
                    Huhu the parrot
                    The Whale ghost, the ghost ship (died/sunk around 1600s) and time-travelling fin whales of 2020s
                    Belen, the whale
                    Santa Rosa, the galleon
                    the ghost obese gardener-captain Peter Pugh Petit Pois, from Peasland

                    The Spanish farm and fat mermaid dolphins

                    Lisa, Jack
                    Pierre and Etienne
                    The Italian cruise ship
                    pink Amazonian dolphins

                    #2905
                    ÉricÉric
                    Keymaster

                      The package was labeled in Sinese. Goat was fluent in a few languages after many a travel, and although Sinese wasn’t his mother tongue — he was only half-Sinese from his father’s side, he could read it well enough, and make himself passably understood in most of the Colonies.
                      It was a code, or more precisely, a reference. It said 时间舱23号, which you could probably translate as “Time capsule #23”. Back in the days, the Surge Team would bag and tag any strange artefact they confiscated during their missions, and usually would archive them in such capsules.

                      Although the concept of Time-capsule in itself for the old teams was soon to become somewhat of a mind puzzle if you thought too much of it, it still held value of… archaeological, rather than historical sorts for their descendants, such as himself. Of course, if you’d like some wild flowers, you’d rather pick them directly in the dewy meadows or mossy forests where they grew instead of taking them from the interstice of an old moldy book between the pages of which it had been laid down to dry, wouldn’t you. Now, anybody could easily become an historian with complete immediate sensory experience of past times at their perception tips —much like how it started, back in the twenty hundreds, with everyone able to become an amateur geographer in minutes with instant access to the satellites maps of Earth.
                      But being a map reader would never suffice to make you a sailor.

                      So, of course, Time capsules somewhat felt like such old dry plants if you were an historian. But if you were looking for ancient treasures or secret powerful artifacts, you knew you couldn’t just bring them from the past lest you disrupt the chain of events leading you to it. Many had gone madder than Lord Elmed trying to figure out safer ways. Time capsules were such a way.

                      “Now, I guess that fishy stench was there for a reason after all,” he sighed: to keep intruders and medlers off of its content, surely.

                      #2825

                      In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        Racy Mc Tartshall had been absent for so long that it was hardly any wonder that nobody remembered her, despite the importance of her mission which had long since been forgotten. Mc Tart, as she was affectionately known (or would have been if anyone had remembered her) was a tartist of the highest calibre, consistently producing hugh class tart (which was of course three grades higher than high, and 2 grades higher than hagh, and so forth). Mc Tart had been investigating Nosebook, sniffing out potential distortions, claritortions, connectortions and myriad other contortions, for the distortium, claritortium, connectortium and contortium, respectively ~ focusing mainly on the connectortium, naturally enough.

                        While researching something or other that was no doubt relevant at the time but had long been forgotten, Mc Tart met Alfred in the Library. ““Aha! Alfred in the Library with a Book, was it!” she exclamined. “I knew I’d find a clue here”. “It wasn’t me!” he retorted, aghast. “It was Albert in the Chapless Pants club with a Rolling Pin!” Mc Tart, feigning an all knowing expression, replied “Ahhhh” and made a mental note to investigate.

                        Mental notes, known as m’otes for short, floated like wisps in the air currents and occasionally sparkled in the sunbeams, although more often than not, they clumped together under the bed in bunny shapes, slowly dying of boredom. Thankfully the sheer pointlessness of mental notes ~ m’otes ~ made not a whit of difference in the grand scheme of the connectortium investigation because of the abundant nature of Fluce’s ~ (fucking lucky chance encounters), notwithstanding the heated debates continuing in the Distortium about the precise nature of Fluce’s and their relationship to M’Otes ~ or not, depending on the point one wished to make at any particular time.

                        And so it was by Fluce that Mc Tart met Blithe, Heck and Walty in “le Tunnel” one dreary grey Noremember afternoon. There was nothing to suggest, on first inspection, any thing of interest for the Connectortium mission, but Mc Tart was not discouraged. “Many a moth maketh maths marbles” she reminded herself as she perused the nenu (which, the reader will deduce, is a hugher class of menu).

                        [link: high class]

                        #2823

                        In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          The tunnel, dear mindful reader(s), was used by the members of the Distortium for covert operations into the Claritorium. That was the original purpose of the tunnel; however, it had been such a long time since anyone had visited the Claritorium that the very idea of Clarity had been forgotten, and the tunnel had been misappropriated for other less clarifying purposes.

                          {link: clarification}

                          #2822

                          In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                          F LoveF Love
                          Participant

                            Just in case there are any mindful readers, and for further clarification and continuation, let it be noted that Alfred eventually realised he was not trapped at all. An old tunnel, once used by members of the Distortium for clandestine purposes, had an opening in Alfred’s yard. He was able to use this tunnel make his way out of his yard and continue his journey to the library.

                            {link Distortium}

                            #2709

                            In reply to: Strings of Nines

                            F LoveF Love
                            Participant

                              As any mindful reader, if there are indeed any who have been following this wondrous tale, would surely know by now, the idea that Mandrake would lick Arona’s toes is extremely unlikely. True, Arona did proffer her toes invitingly to Mandrake, however he merely snorted and disdainfully looked away.

                              “That Wawakawakwaka place with about 35 letters in between the “W” and the “N” sounds very odd doesn’t it?” mused Arona.

                              “Thirty four letters as a matter of fact.”

                              Arona rolled her eyes. “Trust you to count them.”

                              #2708

                              In reply to: Strings of Nines

                              ÉricÉric
                              Keymaster

                                Actually, the mindful reader would be glad to know that Waakaawaakawaawaawaawaawaawaawahuhun (or Wakawah-thirtyfour’n) wasn’t quite as safe as its almost twin city Wookoowookawoowoowoowoowoowoohoohoon (or Wookoowooh-thirty-fiv’n), both lying actually quite close for a bird, or a dragon, anchored at the bottom and at each of the sides of the same mountain.

                                While the former’s only attraction was the Kangrawaakaas’ Stadium with its weekly games of morbidly obese people hurling in the mud, the latter was known for its ski resorts and snow trance delixtacies in makeshift melloow yelloow yurts. Of course, W35N benefited from the better sunlight exposure, which made every dweller in the W34N hamlet fiercely jealous of its being favoured by all tourists passing by, while they (they thought) should be instead commanded for their bravery and perseverance.

                                And while Arona had her toes meticulously licked in blissful oblivion, little did Vincentius know what trouble was ahead were he to ask a W34N’er if he was in W35N…

                                #2758
                                TracyTracy
                                Participant

                                  #87 Quintin had a woman near London ~ a strange small replicate, put here for gracious officials. Strangely linked to the story, was Dory. The other participants didn’t really expect this quaint dream…

                                  Dory made Quintin in Madagascar for the first time. Funny, but now they seemed to connect to Arona. Malvina disappeared, and once again Arona found this quite irritating. She could barely remember the music.

                                  Really, things are shifting. In the name of heaven use magic I Scream or something!

                                  A Man emerged from Arona’s lap. This is great, more comfortable than the ground.

                                  Oh cute, said Arona, a talking Man, love your cape by the way.

                                  Arona stroked Man. It was all feeling heat and humidity… and especially her hunger. Man sighed in an eggs sort of a way. She exclaimed delightedly, hugging the Man.

                                  [¹] Note from the editor: Man being a noble reader

                                  ~~~~

                                  Dory was dry, with strange hard shoulders and face. Her shawl finally surfaced flapping in time to a cloud of dust.

                                  PPFFT! I’m all on my own. Dory was momentarily speechless.

                                  #2339

                                  When Harvey Tater left Idaho, he left his childhood sweetheart Goldie Cabillaud behind. Goldie was distraught, having been led to beleive that a lasting union for the pair would result from the many years they had been freinds. There were aspects of Harvey that stayed in Idaho, or probable selves, and some of those probable selves did indeed wed the young Cabillaud girl; however, so as not to confuse the reader, we will henceforth concern ourselves with the Goldie Cabillaud that wept as her beau, Harvey Tater, boarded the FlyBoat at Gibbonsville , for parts unknown.

                                  :fish: :yahoo_crying:

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