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In reply to: Pop﹡in People Tribulations
The light in the apartment darkened and Lucida glanced up from her book and noticed the gathering clouds visible through the glass doors that opened onto her balcony. Frowning, she reached for her phone to check tomorrows weather forecast. The weekly outdoor market was one of the highlights of her week. With a sigh of relief she noted that there was no expectation of rain. Clouds perhaps, which wasn’t a bad thing. It wouldn’t be too hot, and the glare of the sun wouldn’t make it difficult to see all the the things laid out to entice a potential buyer on trestle tables and blankets.
Lucinda had made a list ~ the usual things, like fruit and vegetables from the farms outside the city; perhaps she’d find a second hand cake tin to try out the new recipe, and some white sheets for the costumes for the Roman themed party she’d been invited to, maybe some more books. But what excited her most was the chance of finding something unexpected, or something unusual. And more often than not, she did.
She added birthday present to the list, not having any idea what that might be. Lucinda found choosing gifts extraordinarily difficult, and had tried all manner of tactics to change her irrational angst about the whole thing. One Christmas she’d tried just picking one shop and choosing as many random things as people on her gift list. In fact that had worked as well as any other method, but still felt unsettling and unsatisfactory. The next year she informed everyone that she wouldn’t be buying presents at all, and asked friends and family to reciprocate likewise. Some had and some hadn’t, resulting in yet more confusion. Was she to be grateful for the gifts, despite the lack of her own reciprocation? Or peeved that they had ignored her wishes?
Birthdays were different though. A personal individual celebration was not the same thing as Christmas with all it’s stifling traditions and expectations. It would be churlish to refuse to buy a birthday gift. And so birthday gift remained on the shopping list, as it had been last week, and the week before.
A birthday gift had already been purchased the previous week. Lucinda glanced up at the top shelf of the bookcase where the doll sat, languidly looking down at her. She felt a pang of emotion, as she did each time she looked at that doll. She loved the doll and wanted to keep it for herself, that was one thing. That was one of the things that always happened when she chose a gift that she liked herself: she talked herself into keeping it; that it was her taste and not the recipients. That it would be obvious that she’d chosen it because SHE liked it, not keeping the other person in mind.
But that wasn’t the only thing confounding her this time. The doll wanted to stay with her, she was sure of it. It wasn’t just her wanting to keep the doll. It wasn’t any old doll, either. That was the other thing. It seemed very clear that it was one of Maeve’s dolls. It had to be, she was sure of it.
When she got home with her purchases the week before, her intention had been to go and show Maeve what she’d found. Then something stopped her: what if it made her sad that one of her creations had been discarded, put up for sale at a market along with old cake tins and second hand sheets? No, she couldn’t possibly risk it, and luckily Maeve didn’t know the birthday girl who was the doll was intended for, so she’d never know.
But then Lucinda realized she had to keep the strange gaunt doll with the grey dreadlocks and patchwork dress. She couldn’t possibly give her away.
I hope I don’t find another doll at the market tomorrow, and have to keep that as well! thought Lucinda, and immediately felt goosebumps rise as an errant breeze ruffled the dolls dreadlocks.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
Inquisitive Bert
A Short Story
by trove flacy
Bert had always loved rambling Fish Inn with its boiled boarders. It was a place where he felt happiness.He was an inquisitive, depressed, tea drinker with skinny ears and tall sheep. His friends saw him as a moaning, mashed monster. Once, he had even saved a nasty old lady that was stuck in a drain. That’s the sort of man he was.
Bert walked over to the window and reflected on his brooding surroundings. The rain hammered like jumping dog.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Mater . Mater was a bigoted flower with attractive ears.
Bert gulped. He was not prepared for Mater.
As Bert stepped outside and Mater came closer, he could see the lovely smile on her face.
Mater glared with all the wrath of 1553 honest hilarious hippo. She said, in hushed tones, “I hate you and I want information.”
Bert looked back, even more ecstatic and still fingering the new-fangled car. “Mater, I own the inn,” he replied.
They looked at each other with annoyed feelings, like two delicious, damaged donkey laughing at a very free house sale, which had piano music playing in the background and two sanguine uncles shouting to the beat.
Bert regarded Mater’s attractive ear. “I feel the same way!” revealed Bert with a delighted grin.
Mater looked puzzled, her emotions blushing like a loud, little letter box.
Then Mater came inside for a nice cup of tea.
THE END
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
FLACY TROVE COMMENT
“What on earth do you mean, Bert?” asked Mater. She sounded a tad irritated and stared at Bert intently for a few moments. “Are you losing your mind perhaps?” she said in a more conciliatory tone.
Bert glared at her. “YOU know, Mater. If anyone knows it is MY inn, it is you.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about!” said Mater backing away from Bert nervously. “And you will have to excuse me but my bladder calls!” And Mater sprinted inside at great speed. Faster than the speed of light, said Devan later when he recounted the story to Prune.
“The inn is mine and you can’t sell it!” shouted Bert after Mater’s retreating back. He grabbed the FOR SALE sign and threw it violently into the bushes.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
Devan came back from Brisbane to help them plant the sale sign in front of the Inn. He was not sure how his sisters would take the thing, but the twins have been gone, and Prune was planning to go to Mars, her latest fad since she had seen a TV program about the Mars mission. Devan couldn’t believe they were talking about colonising Mars, but he couldn’t believe his family has stayed so long taking care of the old Inn.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
In reply to: Seven Twines and the Dragon Heartwoods
Eleri hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Yorath for several weeks, not since the last supermoon.. Her stocks of elerium were depleted, but she knew he would return in time. What was time anyway? The timing was always perfect, that was really all one could say about time.
When the timing was right, she knew that the right people would be drawn to her crafts. It was not a matter of advertising her magical wares in the usual way, no, it was a matter of allowing the magnetic pull. She was a magician after all, not a salesman, and her creations were not for everyone.
Her suppliers of materials were not the usual ones, although she did use ordinary common or garden ingredients as well from the local builders merchant. Yorath had appeared as if by magic ~ it was true, these things did happen ~ just at the right time. Her method had been perfected, but the recipe was missing one vital ingredient although at the time she had not known for sure what that ingredient might be. Then her old friend Yorath appeared, returning from his travels in the greenly mist drenched mountains of the far east.
“I thought those temples had claimed you forever, dear one,” she said. “How good it is to see you! And how fetching that red silk is,” she added, eyeing his jacket. “I must give further consideration to the colour red. That really is a most appealing shade of cherry.”
Yorath smiled his famous smile, the smile she had missed so much. “I have something for you, Eleri, something more fascinating than my red silk jacket.”
And that was how it started.
In reply to: Cakletown and the Lone Chancers of Custard
Someone had told him once : “Catastrophes are like meteor shower, they come in flocks.”
Jeremy looked with dread at the smoke coming out of his computer. He had been writing an important e-mail to his new boss at the bank and was about to click the send button when it happened. The tech had said there was a current surge affecting the whole building. Everyone was in deep shit at the moment, they had to close the building to angry customers, and someone in high place was certainly worrying about the intangible money the bank was manipulating daily.
Oh! and concerning all his data, considering the smoke coming out of the machine, it was certainly irremediably lost.Jeremy sighed. His last relocation a few hours ago had made him a 36 year old salesman in a not so well known bank. His ID said he was called Duncan Minestrone, but he couldn’t let go of his old identity and kept on thinking of himself as Jeremy. And he didn’t feel that old.
His memory of his former life, before the relocation, was fading away. He didn’t remember well what he was doing and what were his passions. The only thing he was sure is that they had confiscated his cat, Max, when they gave him his first identity and he had been on the look for him ever since.
It wasn’t easy, especially since every other day he was receiving a new identity in his mailbox. At first he had found it odd and not so easy : as soon as he got accustomed to a new persona, he would have to change again. He feared he would soon lose track of who he really was. And he wasn’t sure about what all this was about.
The phone hanging on the wall rang. It was one of those old public phones. Jeremy had thought it was only for decoration. The tech was looking at him.
“Are you going to pick up ?” he asked.
“Me ?”
“Of course! The phone is in your office, isn’t it ?”Jeremy hesitated but eventually got up from his desk. The phone was calling him, but he didn’t really want to take the call. What if it was more problems. They come in flocks.
It was one of those old ringing tone caused by a mechanical bell inside. The speaker was shaking furiously. Jeremy couldn’t help but notice the dust on the machine.“You’d better take the call”, said the tech.
Jeremy picked up the apparatus which a greasy feeling in his hand.
“At last! Duncan, in my office! Now!”
It was the voice of his new boss, Ed, and he didn’t seem very happy.In reply to: Cakletown and the Lone Chancers of Custard
Gustave Butterworth cackled delightedly. The crowd control custard gas formula experiments were looking promising. The first batch, all being well, should be ready for a trial run in time for the bake sale at Lemoine Meringue Hall. If only he could deduce that vital missing ingredient in time!
Gustave looked at his watch and decided to call it a day. He was the last one in the laboratory as usual; before turning the lights out and locking the door, he made a quick tour of the lab rats accommodation. There were no cages like in the old days: scientists in this partially enlightened age were not allowed to keep rats and beagles against their will, and only volunteer creatures were used in modern laboratories. Thus, no actual physical abuse was administered, but the energy the creatures reflected off the experiments, and the scientists themselves, was monitored; and human “animal whisperers” were employed to communicate directly. Gustave was a scientist, not a whisperer, but he had been developing his whispering skills secretly, while observing the staff.
Most of the rats has nestled down for the night in their miniature studio apartments, but one comfortable little abode was empty. “I say, Rodean,” said Gustave to the neighbouring occupant, “Has Penelope gone for an evening stroll again?”
Rodean shuffled around in his tiny bean bag chair to look at the scientist.
“What, gone to visit her cousin Patty, you say?”
In reply to: Cakletown and the Lone Chancers of Custard
“Oh, what a perfectly splendid idea.You are a genius.” Evangeline smiled to herself as she imagined Ed fingering his moustache—a sweet little habit he had whenever he felt embarrased— and blushing at her praise.
“Well I don’t know about that; let’s see if it works first,” said Ed gruffly. “Insanitization en masse at a bake sale is no piece of cake.”
He paused significantly but when nothing was forthcoming from the lovely Evangeline he added a little impatiently: “No piece of cake. Get it?”
Evangeline (who had not got it) quickly tried to make amends. “Hahahahahaha you are a droll fellow!” she chuckled, just a tad too loudly. It almost sounded like a cackle and if there was one thing Ed Steam was renowned for it was his ability to sort out the chuckles from the cackles.
There was a strained silence.
“Anyway, Evangeline, who made this latest cackling complaint? Are they going to cause any trouble or are they just your usual run of the mill cackle complainer?
“Bea somebody. She just moved to Cackletown recently and we don’t know much about her yet. Or what she is capable of. I think we need to keep a close eye on that one.”
In reply to: Cakletown and the Lone Chancers of Custard
Evangeline Spiggot admired her long crimson polished nails before pressing the button for the Noise Control Officer, Ed Steam. He answered the call with a muffled “hwellflow?”
“Ed, are you eating peanuts again? Vangie here, just had a call from Muffin Mews, another complaint about the cackler, over in Cakltown this time.”
“Cakltown! I say, she’s frightfully efficient, she must have finished Bunbury already, I must see the boss about giving her a bonus.”
“Oh, I don’t think Bunbury’s finished yet, Ed, you know these freelancer chancers, they don’t usually stick to the plan. Hedging her bets, I expect, covering her trail. Most of Tartlett Terrace has been insantizied, but I haven’t had a single call from Croisssant Crescent in Bunbury yet, nor Pieman Park.”
“This mission is taking a good deal longer that I imagined,” replied Ed. “Might have to see if we can insantitize en masse at the bake sale next week at Lemoine Meringue Hall.”
In reply to: Rafaela’s Random Ramblings
Livy and Me
– a suspense novel
by Flove“I’m going to need expensive Italian real estate, big, expensive Italian real estate.”
He had not known love or loss until he risked losing his brave basket ball player Livvy.
His contented life is shattered when he learns that the lazy Dead Kennedys plan to bankrupt Livvy and he knows he has to stop them or his heart will die.
At 40, the Exercise Mat Salesman from Belgium is both delightful and friendly. But will it be enough to protect Livvy?
He goes to a Basket ball tournament in Hawaii where he acquires some expensive Italian real estate and Scooters. It finally seems that he will be able to stop the Dead Kennedys that wish to bankrupt Livvy.
However, when Livvy calls, begging him to come home, he is forced to decide what is more important: stopping the lazy Dead Kennedys that bankrupting each other, or preserving his relationship with his basket ball player?
Flove delivers a brave and poignant story that explores the love between a Exercise Mat Salesman and his basket ball player.
“Never have there been more chilling villains than lazy Dead Kennedys that bankrupt each other.”
– The Daily Tale
“Are we seriously supposed to find a delightful and friendly Exercise Mat Salesman from Belgium heroic?”In reply to: The Surge Team’s Coils
At approximately 11:11 Pearl heard a whoosh and a whoot, and then a loud thump. “Hop in, Pearl! toot! toot! Oh, and sorry about the porch swing, didn’t see it under all that snow” Bee was grinning from ear to ear. “First time I’ve used the snowmobile ski option, it’s a riot, haven’t quite got the hang of it yet though, but boy is it ever fun!”
Pearl laughed and hugged Bee. “It’s great to see you! I love your hat!” It was an elaborate blue turban, over the top with feathers and jewels. “Looks fabulous against all that snow, very delft. You know, you could have just used the portal to avoid all that snow! Janet!” Pearl spotted Janet in the back of the red car, who was picking herself up off the floor, and adjusting her pointy hat.
“But the journey was so much fun!” Janet said. “We bumped into Skolt, the travelling reindeer pee salesman, in Minnesota.”
“I hope you saved some for me!” replied Pearl. “I’ve got the moonshine, let’s party!”
In reply to: The Surge Team’s Coils
Baltazar made a face as he swallowed the time travel sickness pill. “Could have made them smaller” he grumbled.
Intu rolled her eyes. “Stop being such a jess and take this” she said, handing him a smoking frothing potion in a tall silver cup. “For the side effects of the Replicator.”
“I hate this time of year. Trying to be in a hundred places at once, all because of that stupid tradition.”
“How do you think I feel?” asked Jesus. “At least you don’t have to wear a nappy.”
“It’s not a nappy, it’s swaddling clothes. Haven’t they finished with all that religion stuff yet?” said Baltazar. “Maybe if we just don’t turn up, it will bring the end forward? Can’t we just stay here in Tartessos? Bugger their parades, I’m not going again.”
Intu gasped. “Baltazar, you can’t let me down now. This might very well be the last time, if everything goes according to plan. I tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll arrange for you to meet the reindeer pee travelling salesman on the way.”
In reply to: The Eights’ Shift, Stories
The shopping trip during Prof Less’s class time was indeed fun. Ann purchased a cruet set with a dragonfly motif, half price in a sale. Just one more class to attend before the weekend, Professor Godfrey Gordon’s class, or Good God Gordy as he was affectionately known.
“Ann, I must congratulate you on doing so VERY well with Continuity.” Gordon said, with much appreciation and deep sincerity. “You’re doing very well indeed. A toast!” he raised his glass, and smiled warmly at Ann.
Ann found herself blushing at the unaccustomed praise. “Gosh, Gordy, thanks!” she gushed. “And what fun to have champagne in class! Cheers, everyone!”
Topic: Probably Real
She woke up at noon and it was 100 degrees, or 37 degrees, whichever you prefer, but whichever way you look at it, it was not a good temperature to wake up to. Everything was pointing in the direction of going solo, playing the game on her own for awhile, or at least until she was in a regular habit of giving herself priority, giving more attention to her own creative pursuits, and less time to the futile attempts to keep group projects going. She supposed for a moment that making a start whilst hot, tired, discouraged and confused was not the most ideal mood for a start, but at least it was a start. She wasn’t even entirely sure what it was she was actually starting, but suspected that it didn’t much matter, in the grand scheme (or lack thereof) of things.
She’d had a moment of inspiration when she started reading a book. She’d only read a few pages and had no idea how the book would turn out, but the format was interesting. Julie had had an idea, simmering on a back burner for years, to write a book. It always seemed to want to be an autobiographical book, and that’s where she always came unstuck because she couldn’t see the point of that, not that she was overly concerned about whether anyone would want to read it or not, but she often came unstuck when she wondered about how all the characters in the book might feel about it, which is why that moment of inspiration in the bathroom the other day seemed like such a good idea.
She could write a book about a probability party, perhaps called ‘Probably Real’, (maybe with the subtitle ‘Probably Not’.) There would be an occasion, the details of which she hadn’t worked out yet, in which various (not all, she soon realized!) of her probable selves met ~ such as in the Atkinson book, in some quiet desolate place with no interruptions (obviously somewhere with no internet connection, although there was always the danger of picking up a freak broadband WiFi), where they had all the time in the world to tell their tales, compare notes as it were.
Which was where the fiction idea came in ~ of course! Just call it fiction! Would just one of the probable selves be telling the truth, relating the only true version of Julie’s life? And if so, which one was the real probable self? All the characters in the book would have probable selves and probable lives; which of them was the real probable self, the official version? No-one would ever know.
Of course, anyone versed in the metaphysical mechanics of probabilities and such would realize that all probable versions are real, at the same time as all being, in a certain sense, fiction ~ made up. The only question was, would that be too unlimiting to contain within the confines of one book, but time (so to speak) would tell.
Procrastination had set in, as usual, not that that is a bad thing, and things pretty much carried on as usual for a few days. Julie noticed the puppy tugging at a particular magazine from the bottom of the magazine rack over the course of those few days, and eventually the magazine was rather pointedly poking out from the bottom of the pile, it’s title clearly showing: a booklet on How To Write FICTION, with FICTION in big letters.
Never the less, the procrastination continued, although the clue was duly noted. It hadn’t been the first time a Writing A Book incident had occured.
It was easy, in this case, to remember that date, because it was right around the time of the 1999/2000 milenium party, right around the time when that particular roller coaster had derailed. While unpacking the boxes of books and putting them on the shelves of yet another rented house ~ a particularly garish and tasteless monstrosity, a drug baron’s dream of unfunctional largeness with hideous coloured glass windows (it’s the sheer randomness of the colours that’s so awful, G had remarked) ~ a book flew off the shelf, quite literally, and landed alone in the middle of the floor some distance away from the bookshelf.
Becoming A Writer was the name of the book, and the funny thing was that she had been thinking of writing a book but didn’t know where to start, and had been toying with the idea of buying a book on writing a book. So she read the book and started writing, a little bit every day, following the books advice to just start writing, even if it’s just ‘I can’t think of what to write’. There was plenty to write about as it turned out, but circumstances changed, another sudden move of house ensued, another rollercoaster ride, and the writing stopped for awhile.
But back to the book, Becoming A Writer. For a long time, Julie had no recollection of buying that book, and wondered by what magic had it appeared at her feet. Many years later she perhaps would have simply accepted the magic, and would have known that she created the book in that moment. But at the time she didn’t, and in due course constructed a memory of buying the book some years previously at a car boot sale somewhere along the coast road.
(We did buy the book, piped up PSJ2, and I actually read it, unlike you, as soon as I bought it. My 5th book is about to be published, a lightweight comedy/detective series about the Costa del Crime)
PSJ2’s interjection reminded PSJ1 (Good grief, we’ll have to think of a solution to the probable self names, she noted) that she had in fact started writing a book about the Costa del Crime, called Peregrino’s, or perhaps that was the name she’d given to the bar, the central hub, of the book. Of course, that was in the days when bars had been her central hub; she doubted very much if she would choose a bar as the central hub of a book now. She hadn’t got very far with the book, and had burned it when PSA1 got busted, just in case. What to do first, bury the (probable, it must be remembered) pump action shotgun, or burn the book. She had buried the gun, under cover of darkness, in the back garden, wrapping it in plastic bags and blankets, making it look for all the world like the body of a dead child. It was dark, it was raining, and there weren’t many neighbours out there in the orange groves, and she could do no more than hope for the best that she hadn’t been seen.
No doubt there was a probable self who did choose to create being seen, but if so she hadn’t arrived at the probability party (yet, at any rate) with her tale.
That it had been a major probability junction was certain. Not just the gun burying incident, which had turned out to be no more than merely incidental, but the events leading up to it.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
“Ok so now we have time travelling absinthe vampires, who suck the pee out of the time travelling absinthium salesmen?” Becky laughed. “Or would that be the reindeer pee salesmen? Otherwise known as Santa Clauses ahahah.” The idea was starting to sound strangely plausible. “Santa Claus is really a time travelling reindeer pee salesman from the gnome dimension ~ we were getting it so distorted because of our beliefs!”
Al rolled his eyes and passed her a map of the Carpathian Mountains.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
Jacques Schitt and Frank Diddley Squat were time-travelling artemesium absinthium salesmen. Diddley Squat had not returned from his last trip, and Jacques had just been informed that Frank’s phone was being answered by an imposter. The Absinthium Pirates has been unusually active of late, and Jacques was concerned.
The Time Travelling Absinthe Pirates were bright green in colour, and were often mistaken for aliens, depending on the timeframe they were visiting.
In reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories
“We need something new, Felicity, something completely different.” Annabel Ingman had invited Felicity Albright, the star of DDT, into her office. “We’ve got 56 channelers on our books now, and they are all saying the same thing! It’s ridiculous!”
“Well I just say what pops into my head, Annabel, that is my job description…” Felicity was feeling defensive.
“What I’m saying, dear” replied Annabel, “Is that we don’t need another 55 all saying the same thing as you. If you are all saying the same thing, then where is the drama? Where is the conflict? For heavens sake, girl, where are the sales?”
“Well I tell you what Annabel, I’m going to the F.U.N. picnic in the Elsespace Arrangement later, I’ll ask around, ok?”
In reply to: Synchronicity
Two funny number plate interactions this morning on my walk .. my mind drifts all over the place when i am walking, I started thinking about the story and the latest entry from Eric on the Ooh dimension. I looked up and noticed a car going past at that moment .. numberplate POOTY
The numberplate thing intrigues me, sometimes they seem so specific to my thoughts and often they seem to reflect interactions happening in the story and with you guys. On my trip to Auckland there were periods I felt this connection strongly, TEENA1, EGG555, numerous 57s, 23’s and 53’s etc …. although again it was the timing and interaction with my thoughts which felt the significant things. Three cafes in a row I was given the number “12”, the fourth I was not given a number but I noticed the lady at the table next to me had the ’12”.
The next numberplate which jumped out at me this morning was ALQ823, this was following POOTY
While I was away I had found myself in a big book barn with sale books. I had just a few moments and decided on impulse it would be good to have a book. I picked up two books at random and skimmed the back covers. One of the books had main characters Gabriel and Maya. I relate to Maya as being another form of the name May and Gabriel of course being the Arch-Agent introduced on Tikijkoo (sp?) Island recently. All the other books seemed to be reduced to $9.99, this one was reduced to $5 (fun), well i thought i could not go far wrong at that price.
some more on this soon … i have to get dinner
