Search Results for 'talk'

Luigi, preoccupied with worried thoughts about Flinella who he still hadn’t heard from, didn’t see the eu de nil motor scooter haring round the corner until it was too late. The scooter swerved, avoiding a head on collision, but clipped his shoulder, spinning him around. Luigi crashed into a signpost and fell to the ground. Shocked and dazed, he lay sprawled on the ground, unable to get to his feet. The narrow street was deserted, apart from a couple of tourists strolling along, looking upwards, as tourists so often do in foreign cities.

“Stupid irresponsible motorscooters, they should watch where they’re going” Luigi was saying, “Knocking old men to the ground like that, they should be more careful!”

This caught the tourists attention, so they stopped for a moment to look at the old man lying bruised on the ground. “You shouldn’t blame the motorscooter you know” said the woman. “You created that yourself”

“What are you talking about?” Luigi replied. “Please give me a hand, I can’t get back on my feet.”

“Well you created it, chum. I’m not going to give you a hand until you stop blaming the motorscooter and admit that you created it yourself.”

“Oh piss off, you vacuous fuckwit” replied Luigi, looking desperately around to see if there was anyone more helpful in the street.

The old man screeched to a halt, his car fishtailing wildly. His bad tempered frown at the slow moving traffic morphed in an instant into slack jawed eye popping amazement. The road had literally disappeared into an enormous hole. Good Lord! he shouted. Although he wasn’t a religious man he considered himself to be a gentleman, and didn’t swear in front of his wife. What the dickens is that? he asked her, but she was speechless with shock. The sports car they had been following, and the unmarked bus in front of it that had been holding the traffic up were nowhere to be seen.

~~

Connie Leadbetter was nervous. It was her first date with Chad Pickins and the first time she’d been in his flashy sports car. They were on their way to a festival in Hot Springs to celebrate the magic of nature, oddly enough. Connie’s nervousness had manifested itself as a digestive system upset, and to her horror, she farted and followed through on the soft pink leather seat of Chad’s car. Mortified, she passionately wished that the ground would open and swallow her up.

~~

The Tw’Elves, who weren’t allowed to talk on the bus, were busy discussing their situation telepathically. The previous week they had been arrested by Homeland Security as a threat to the nation, and were being transported to a detention camp in North Dakota. This eventuality wasn’t really part of their plan, but as so often happens, it slotted in nicely, albeit unexpectedly, with the Perforation Plans. Sink Holes had been appearing for some time in the middle of the north American continent, neatly following a north south line, stretching from Hudson Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, so the Tw’Elves mentally punched another hole in the perforation line to fascilitate their exit from the doomed bodies they were wearing at the time. Thus, the separation of the two halves of the continent came one hole closer to fruition.

~~

The Energy Leprechaun gave himself a cake for another splendid synchronicity, seamlessly connecting Connie’s wish with the intention of the Tw’Elves.

“Do leaves really talk?” she wondered as the smoke of the herb tea dissipated off the kitchen’s mirror credence. “Let’s see about that,” she continued, carrying the tray with the cup of tea and the scones to the computer room, from where a few oink sounds were beckoning her.
Probably her friends asking for a chat, some random rubbish or the last juicy news about the president’s wife who happened to be visiting in the area. In truth, she wouldn’t have even known, had it not be for her foreign friends. The local neighbours really couldn’t give a fig. That was figuratively speaking of course. The fig trees were already full of green fruits, that if odds were good wouldn’t turn up as half-sodden half-rotten food for snails on the cobblestone pathway this year.

She added a zest of fresh lemon to the tea. She liked it bitter. The leaves were starting to settle at the bottom of the cup while she lit up a cigarette, throwing a cursory glance at the tens of messages waiting for her to peruse. Which was more interesting? She could figure out wavy things as feeble and changing as her cigarette’s smoke in between the leaves patterns, as well as in between the lines of haphazard messages from all the contacts. But those she loved the most were the pages she leafed through her books.

Yesterday, she started to do something purely daft, as she liked — a sort of challenge, if you will; or perhaps, a strong repressed desire. Sometimes it takes you years to do things you were thinking about when you were but a child. The moment you allow yourself the pleasure to indulge and overcome the resilient beliefs that it’s something forbidden or insidiously wrong is all the sweeter.
And she was tasting it like a sour sweet, with a touch of forbidden and the zest of excitement. Or more like horseradish. Ooh, does she live the green stuff too. Prickly at first, going up to your nose, and living you crying but begging for more. She makes a note to buy some next week (note that she’ll probably forget).
So what did she do? She took some of her precious books and started to tear up and cut through the pages. A blasphemy almost, for someone like her who revered books. Of course, at first she only took the bad ones, the romantic rubbish and the dog-eared now useless kitchen books, but then realized, what would be the point of gathering new information by assembling random pages cut off from a variety of books, if it wasn’t made from quality ingredients. Well, it surely stands to reason, even though her culinary reason had been on voyage the last twenty years as far as she knew. Anyway. Those leafs were starting to talk better than any bloody tea leaves could.

[link: talking leaves]

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.
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.

Phurt was vaguely aware to have been alive in different times, and in different surrounding. The memories kept coming at the oddest and less practical of all times, like this one when she’d jumped through the talking glass. They were nevertheless precise and vivid enough to be more than just strikes of fancy. Besides, she was but all a fancy spider.

The last one she remembered (and the ten previous ones before it) was being admonished and crushed (literally) by the words (and the one uttering them) “you and your kind are not welcome here!” Actually, if you wanted to be precise, the previous to last time, she’d been drowned in the pipes —but still, she could hear the fateful “you and your kin… gurgle gurgle.”

She didn’t know for certain when and where she’d vowed to gain dominion over these Crushing Others, and all her failed attempts and these strange karmic glimpses that had her reincarnated over and over certainly did help, if so slightly, to get closer to this goal.

Now she needed a nice dark and clean place (yeah hence the stupid tub of last which proved to be clean enough, but barely dark for long enough) to spin a nice thin web and gather enough food for her dear little ones.

“What?” The Majorburgmester of Peasland almost laughed of surprise at the incongruity of Fwick con Troll’s idea. “You’re telling that this…”

“Little spider, yes”
“Contains a potent venom that could wipe the blubbits off the face of Peasland?”
“Absolutely, dear Majorburgmester”
“Are you out of your Fwicking mind, Fwick? What breading this nasty spider could possibly bring us any better than a plague of crop-eating blubbits in rut?”
“I was actually talking of breeding them, sir” Fwick objected
The Mayor continued unperturbed “Besides, we already have our fierce constable Stoll drill the mythic Eight Dimension for answers.”
“That would be placing a lot of trust in that foolish venture, I’m afraid to say, Majorburgmester. To date, very few people have managed to return safely.”
“Oh, who cares if they ever bloody come back Fwick! Come on! All we need to do is extort the answers from his spouse who’s kept all their heads in a safe place, I have no doubt of that.”
“Well… I wouldn’t place my head on this bet if I were you…”

“Ah, bugger off then with your stinking spider, and do your bloody experiments… As long as it doesn’t involve my name, and especially in case any misguided and sad assassination should occur, ahahaha. I’m joking of course.” The Mayor’s face (which was framed and hanged on the wall of the Majorburgmester Hall’s main office) suddenly shut any hint of humanity that could have been left on it.

“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.

“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.

sam reality mark sharon talking mind jorid
order bea starting baby map open flooh
write side done jane circle feel past

When Phoebe had recovered all her memories she’d felt particularly annoyed at the Baron snatching her prize from her.
So far, that crystal skulls quest had been only a disaster. She’d been warned, but the temptation had been too great for her.

Now, she wanted to get back as soon as possible (which was her nicest way of saying “NOW”) to her dimensional interstitial home —that place that uninformed people would have called her evil lair, but that she preferred to think of as her little cottage.

However, to be able to travel through interdimensional puddles would have required to gain some speed, and without something like a tuned motorbike, it wouldn’t be easy nor practical. She hadn’t got that much time to spend on recreating her tools from scratch.
Brilliant as she were, it would still have required at least a few weeks, and the days she’d spent at this place had already been far too much to her taste for her to suffer one more —handcuffs entertainment notwithstanding.

Her hopes were high that Vincentius, her talking parrot would find her and bring her the key that was needed.

Then she would focus on her next quest. The artifacts of Rumbold the Pale, the famous Byzantine architect from the Renaissance.