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  • #877

    Oh for foocks sake, Finnley grumbled, does that woman never go home?

    Elizabeth Tattler was passed out on the desk, two empty wine boottles on the floor beside her chair.

    Foock you too! Foock you too! Screeched Robert X

    She grinned, she quite enjoyed Robert X, or MrX as she liked to call him.

    So what’s our Elizabeth been up to eh Mr X? Finnley picked up the messy pile of papers on the desk and carefully put them in order. They looked sort of interesting. Maybe it was time for a rest break. She pulled out her vegemoot sandwooches on chunks of rye bread, and, carefully dusting it first, she sat down on a big armchair in the corner of the office to read.

    Twenty minoots later she threw the pages on the floor in disgust, but then, disturbed by the mess it made, picked them up again.

    The character Veranassessee left her particularly disturbed. What a name! And what a Wishy Wooshy Noomby Poomby. Whats all this YES YES YES businoos! That Agent Gabriele was a selfish and dictatorial bastood as far as she could tell.

    She would see about that! She was no writer but she was sure she could do better than this load of old mongoat droppings.

    Well she would if she could find a pen on Ms Tattler’s shamboolic desk anyway.

    :fleuron:

    Veranassessee (V) drew back from his sloppy kisses. Wait! Have you got protection? she asked, imperatively and sensibly.

    Protection? … my gun is under the pillow … oh right I see what you mean, stuttered Agent Gabriele apologetically, reluctantly pulling himself from making suction noises on her breast to rummage for a condom in his suitcase.

    Great, now say that stuff again. You know all that crap about how beautiful I am. I sort of liked it.

    Agent Gabriele willingly obliged. Of course V recognised it for the lustful rubbish it was … still might as well have a bit of fun. He was damn good looking.

    Perfect, she said. Now, what position do you prefer?

    He was momentarily speechless, stunned, and even more aroused, if that was indeed possible, by her forthrightness.

    She rolled her eyes. Yes, you know POSITION … on top … underneath ..front … back… through a hole in a blanket …? myself I like to keep things simple, don’t want to make too much mess around the place.

    Anything you want Darling Agent V.

    A little bit later he sighed contentedly. You are by far the best lover I have ever had.

    Thanks, everyone says that. Hey! Put out that cigarette, there’s no smoking inside you know. She looked critically around the room. You know this room could do with a damn good clean, I could see dust on the headboard, you know, while we were doing it.

    I’ll make sure I clean it next time, he murmered huskily, kissing her, and saying that stuff again, about how perfect she was.

    :fleuron:

    Finnley giggled to herself. Much better! Well who’d have thought she would have a bit of a gift for writing. Carefully she replaced the pages under the telepooh and made her exit. With a bit of luck Ms Tattler would never notice.

    #818

    Veranassessee was not in a happy mood.

    The sight earlier in the day of Dr Bronkelhampton wearing his yellow wig, a bright pink dress which was several sizes too large for him, and carrying a chinese porcelain doll had disturbed her profoundly. She sighed, remembering how he had glared at her suspiciously and muttered to the doll he was holding in front of him as though it were some sort of a shield.

    He has totally lost it, but what to do?

    She had also spent much of the morning trying to avoid Sha and Glor. The pair seemed rather distressed about something … a missing dress was it? Veranassessee shook her head in annoyance. Good grief! She had neither the time nor the patience to deal with another of their foolish and pitiful concerns.

    Perhaps I should tell those stupid nincompoops that to get hit on the head with a coconut is another special beauty treatment.

    To top it off, Agent Gabriel kept slipping into her thoughts in a most disconcerting and bothersome manner. And where the hell is he anyway? she thought miserably, cringing at the memory of their last encounter. Avoiding me, no doubt.

    Bugger! she swore, suddenly remembering the arrival of the new guests and feeling a growing sense of foreboding.

    :fleuron:

    Twenty minutes later the disturbing vision of a fat woman in a tiny pink bikini waving at her gleefully did nothing to dispel her concerns.

    #812
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Ella Marie put the encounter to the back of her mind, and whistled loudy and kept her eyes averted when dusting the mummy case during the following months. It wasn’t until the floods of the following spring that she heard Elioctyl’s voice again, urging her to take action, that now was the perfect opportunity.

      Pssst! Ella! Do it now, NOW!

      NO! shouted Ella Marie.

      Suit yourself, Honey, replied her husband Arthur, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a thermos and screwing the lid back on.

      Ella Marie spun round, saying HUH? Yes, I mean yes, please.

      Arthur raised an eyebrow and tutted. You said No, Ella, who was you talking to anyway?

      Oh Lordy, Art, I was just saying NO to all the flooding, NO more rain, and all….Ella Marie replied, but her mind was racing.

      Art Honey, why don’t you wade round to your mothers and see if she’s ok, why dontcha, and I’ll start moving stuff up into the attic. River’s gonna burst its banks tonight, I reckon, we oughta do what we can now.

      Don’t get lifting nothing too heavy, ya hear? Leave anything you can’t manage for me, I’ll do it when I get back, Arthur replied.

      As soon as Art was out of the door and down the porch steps, Ella Marie raced out the back door and into the garage. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins, and she felt light as air, and fit as a twenty year old. Her flashlight beam swept the garage…she didn’t know what, precisely, she was looking for, but she knew she’d find it.

      Aha! Ella Marie spotted a coil of washing line rope, and a tarpaulin. Stuffing the flashlight into her pocket, she grabbed the surfboard off the hooks on the wall and dragged it outside, the rope and tarpaulin under her arm. Quickly she tied the tarpaulin to the surfboard, tethering it to the garage door handle while she went back inside for the oars out of the uninflated dinghy. The flood water was past her ankles now, inching towards her knees, as she set off for the museum, pulling the surfboard behind her, thankful for the power blackout and the dark streets.

      #639
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        One for sorrow, two for joy, when the moon shines bright or not at all…..what WAS that book, Becky wondered. Years and years ago in an adventure book, a children’s book; was it the famous five? The intrepid six? A clue, a magpie silhouette on a loose brick….the treasure hidden behind the brick…..the adventurous seven? The jingle, the magpie jingle….. in a children’s adventure book…..

        Becky, are you alright? asked Sean. You’ve been sitting there staring into space for hours.

        Twenty minutes later Becky replied, Huh? Haha, I seem to be in slow motion today, it’s really rather pleasant.

        Three and a half hours later, Becky smiled drowsily and said, It wasn’t the famous five, it was the wandering one……the wandering one, after all….

        #624

        Instantly Elizabeth regretted her spikey, voodish behaviour and scrambled to retrieve the telepooh. Her mother was Vood by nature, a particularly dysfunctional personality type, and Elizabeth had struggled all her life to avoid similar behavioural patterns. Her friends, and certainly her ex-husbands, would say perhaps with only partial success.

        Apologies Bronkel, I was engrossed in my writing. How can I help you?

        Bronkel appeared to be covered in bandages from what she could see of his upper torso, giving him the appearance of a rather odd mummy like creature. He was constantly searching for new beauty treatments to extend his youthful goodlooks, however at 167 years more and more desperate measures were being called for.

        Elizabeth! Thank God, Where in Flork’s name have you been? he shouted at her. His pudgy, prouty little face was scrunched in peevish vexation. I can’t talk for long, I am on the Island for a month and the connection is flork. Where in the name of Fock is the story you promised me?

        She could not find the words to reply to Bronkel. I wonder if I am mindblown? she mused. She had read of this horrible phenomenon, and seen the sad pictures of those thus afflicted. Poor wandering creatures, strange erratic behaviour, always travelling, always seeking. But for what? Hell on Dearth indeed. She shuddered.

        It is getting urgent you know, spluttered Bronkel. Every day I am reading of new treatment centers opening for those undergoing crisis due to the prolonged absence of the Fickle Four in their lives.

        She sighed, Pull yourself together Elizabeth, her bloodshot and tired eyes were drawn to the planetary horrorscope on the monthly calendar. Todays “Words of Comfort for the Descending” quotation was from the famous philosopher Lemone. She particularly loved Lemone’s ideas. Many considered him a nutter, a few thought he was a genius ahead of his time. For herself, she did not really know, only that his profoundly beautiful words offered a kind of solace or balm to her tortured soul at times such as this :

        Sometimes it takes a single sniggly thorny path to go through to reach Elysian avenues much more efficiently ~ Lemone

        Absolutely fantastic Bronkel, I think this is going to be the best novel yet! My God what an effort it took to say that, but for some reason Bronkel appeared to believe her and began to calm. Thank you Lemone, I could kiss you! she breathed an inward sigh of relief.

        Poke its eyes out! screeched Robert X exuberantly.

        A sniggly thorny path indeed, she thought, hanging up on Bronkel. She had fun using him and his island getaway for inspiration in her last novel. Fun, what happened to the fun? Is this what descended beings do, sit around in a dank, dusty office writing trashy novels?

        She began nervously smoothing out pieces of paper and tried to decipher the scribbled notes; …big soup party …..pointy teeth like cannibals…..tribal wedding ….

        Elizabeth put her head in her hands and groaned in abject despair. Twelve of the twenty mongoats fainted at the fearful sound.

        #493

        Valparaíso, Chile, November 1997
        Cillian Mc Gaughran was finding that dying was longer than he expected. Since Fidelma’s death, twenty years from now, he would have vouched pain would get him on the other side quickly. But it was as if every object his wife had touched was letting him know of her presence. Perhaps they were holding him here…
        He couldn’t wait to be reunited with his dear wife. Sixty six year-old wasn’t old enough to die for many people, but it was enough for him. The world was changing too fast. He decided he had to let go of all these objects. By and by, he had released every one of them… But one.

        Of all of them, this one was very dear to him. An old family artifact that was handed down in the family for as long as he could remember. It was said to have been the property of a famous dancer during the Gold rush period and was rumoured to bring good luck… Lord knows how it came into the family…
        It was dear to him because he had given it to Fidelma when she was having her chemotherapy, battling the blood cancer she had been diagnosed with. It looked wonderful on her delicate features. The wig had not aged since all these years.
        It would surely finish him off to release that last object.

        Cillian had heard some exuberant stories of a new company named eBargey where things were auctioned on the Internet. New technology he was finding a bit hard to follow the progress though he was not ignorant of it due to his years spent as a high rank officer in the US Army.
        That could be a great way to release the wig. Auction it off, and see how high and how far away it could sell… Perhaps it would find a perfect match.

        :fleuron:

        Chris Bronkelhampton had always loved to cross-dress since he was a child. He was a fine collector of wigs and had many lined up in his secret closet.

        He had just managed to do a risqué plastic surgery operation on a kingpin that would grant him all he had ever dreamt of. He leaned comfortably on his chair, rubbing his hands gleefully.
        Something on the computer screen caught his eye. On the newly auctioned items there was something that he wouldn’t have dreamt of acquiring in his wildest dreams.

        #424

        — The legend of Mævel — (Part VII)

        Today was the Day of the Forgotten. Mævel had slept well, nestled into the soft and warm depth of her dreams, her head resting on the short blue fur of the fox.
        In sharp contrast with the lovely night, she awoke strangely irritated. Even the birds songs were like noise to her ears, and every sound of the forest she heard with acute intensity and a sense of being submerged by many sensory inputs.
        Hopefully, the blue fox voice was still very comforting, and she started to wonder how they could come across a Forgotten One in need.

        — I think I know where we can find some Forgotten One in need.
        — Where? asked Mævel

        The fox paused, then answered her question:
        — Near your human parents’ home.

        Mævel was surprised. She trusted the fox, and never had really questioned him, because more than that she trusted her own feelings, but now her feelings were telling her that there was something the fox had not told her. Or had told her partially. She was silent, pondering the unseen implications.

        — Mæ, I’ll try my best to answer your questions, but remember I cannot tell you everything. I can help you remember some things, but there are things that my curse does not allow me to reveal. You have to find them by your own, in order to free us…
        — Free us? I thought you were the one Cursed?…
        — Yes I am, and…
        — How do you know my parent’s home? How much do you know about me?
        — I know you since you are a baby actually. And even before…
        — Before? I don’t understand a thing… I feel there are some unseen links, that I cannot decipher, yet they are so close to…
        — You’re right, there are links, links that are important, and that I cannot reveal.
        — Why can’t you reveal them?
        — Let’s go to your human parent’s home…
        — Why do you always say my human parents?

        The fox blew in front of him, creating a wobbling sound into the air in the form of a ring large enough for them to go through it. And he hopped inside, disappearing in mid-air.

        Mævel was perplexed, but did not hesitate. She hopped too into the watery ring in front of her and found herself falling into a void, to reemerge on a bed of dry leaves in front of her parent’s home. Blohmrik the blue fox was seated in front of her, observing a shadowy form at a distance in front of them.

        — Is that the Forgotten One we will help?
        — Yes.
        — Why do you need me? You could help her, couldn’t you?
        — She wouldn’t see me, Forgotten Ones are usually obsessed by a few people, those who they feel can remember them, and don’t usually see other people. Their perception is quite different than ours.
        — Hang on a minute… Why do you think she will see me?

        Mævel looked into the eyes of the fox, and she knew.

        — We are linked.

        It was more an affirmation than a question.
        Mævel wondered who that shadowy figure was. When she focused on her, the form was getting more solid, and she could catch glimpses of how she looked like. And she was surprised. She was about her age, with long blond hair as hers.
        Mævel’s voice was broken:
        — My parents had told me I was about to die when I was a baby, then by a sort of miracle, I became healthy… Was that true?… I mean… Was that a gentle way of telling me that I had a twin who died or…
        — No, Mæ. She is not you. She is not linked to you by blood. You can talk to her, she will listen to you.

        So Mævel went to see the shadowy figure. She had stopped wandering and trying to find an opening around the house, for there were none for spirits: all openings were locked by stripes of red cloth hung onto the doors and windows.
        Mævel felt the pain of the Forgotten One as she approached her.

        — Who are you? she suddenly asked Mævel, raising her head at her approach.
        — I am Mævel.
        Mævel… It means marvel of Maÿ… I was born in Maÿ…
        — What are you doing here?
        — This is my parents’ home.
        — How is that possible?
        — Twenty one year ago, I was taken away from them, given to Shaint Lejüs in place of a fairy princess. But Shaint Lejüs was no fool, he had sent his apprentice to spy on the fairy king.
        — Blohmrik?!
        — Yes, Blohmrik… But Blohmrik disobeyed the Elder God, and when he saw the exchange that was about to happen, he let it happen. He wanted to protect the fairy princess from his master. Because Shaint Lejüs wanted the princess as a bride. Ahahaha, how disappointed Lejüs was when he saw that I could not perform the most basic magic spells. I was good at nothing, so he let me go wandering into his Realm. He’d just thought the half-fairy princess had inherited no magic from her father.
        — How do you know all that?

        — I told her, the blue fox said. I was hoping to bring her relief. But she started to look for her parents, and Lejüs discovered the truth… Because she was not looking for a fairy king. She was heading here, year after year.
        — That’s the reason of your curse, is it?
        — Yes. She can’t see me because I was Forgotten too, in that form of a blue fox. But as Forgotten Ones don’t forget, I didn’t forget. I couldn’t tell her, because she couldn’t see me.
        — So, I am that fairy princess you are talking about… that strange idea was starting to dawn on Mævel.
        — Yes. When Lejüs discovered who you were, he wasn’t interested in you any longer, because he thought your magical potential had been irremediably damaged by all those years spent in human company.

        — Who are you talking to? the shadowy figure asked, bemused.
        — Blohmrik, he is here. But it’s untrue, Mævel said, there is magic in me.
        — Yes there is, answered the blue fox, and you can undo what has been done with it.

        Mævel remembered the useless key she had manifested when she had tried to go out of her human parents’ house. She had not even looked at it closely.

        — You can manifest it again Mæ, said the fox. It is with you. You are its lock.

        And no sooner had Mævel thought of the big rusted key, than it appeared in her hand again. But this time the rust on it was crackled, and it started to disintegrate, and a brilliant shiny metal started to show beneath it.

        Scratching what was left of the rust, Mævel started to look at the beautiful key, it was shaped as a musical note, and it had some word written on it, in an ancient language she didn’t know how to read. But she knew the sound when she ran her finger on the surface of the word.

        « Araoni »

        That was her. She was remembering, and everything started to change.

        :fleuron2:

        The wedding of the God Blohmrik, son of Mirÿnda, Goddess of Mirth and of Bälias, God of the Sparkles with Araoni, daughter of the Fairy Queen Theÿa and the Fairy King Aldurion was pronounced on a bright day of Maÿ, in a beautiful orchard in the presence of Araoni’s human parents and sisters and brothers.

        Even Lejüs had been invited, even though he would have preferred to be Forgotten…

        :fleuron:

        And so my story ends… said Captain Bone to Tomkin.

        — And was the shadow remembered by her true parents? had asked Tomkin.
        — Oh, yes she was… Of course. She just didn’t want to steal the limelight from Mævel, you see. Her parents were happy of course to find back their true daughter.
        — You didn’t tell me the name of the true daughter, did you?
        — No, I didn’t, said Captain Bone with a wink.

        #323

        — The legend of Mævel — (Part II)

        The young fairy princess, whose secret name had been forgotten, and thus her very existence to whoever had known her, grew up as a beautiful child.
        Mævel she was, and the youngest of the clan too. Her delicate features stood out of the many children that Jorg and Ilga, her human parents already had, and they first saw her as probably their most useless child, being frail and unfit to the works of the woods. But she’d been saved from a sure death, and that had proved to them that the child was some odd gift from the Gods.

        Mævel looking at her brothers and sisters, was constantly reminded of how different she was, as small and fair and fragile as a sparfly’s egg. She helped her mother Ilga as much as she could in the kitchen, preparing meals for the clan. Her parents did not know how she could ever get a husband, as she would never be much of a great cook either.
        So, she was feeling not fulfilled by what she was doing. She loved her parents, and sisters, and brothers, but there was something else that she did not know how to express.
        During the springing and sunny seasons, and even the rainy and icy one, she would go after her works had been done to the little meadow brook, and watch for hours the little rosy trouts dancing in the clear waters.

        And much of her young years passed, and she learned how to cook, how to sew and how to wash clothes and many other tasks that could help the family. She had improved much in her skills and could do wonderful adornments to her sisters and brothers clothes. But noone cared about the adornments, which would be useless for them. But they loved their little sister nonetheless, though they did not understand.
        Soon, all the elder brothers left the house, one by one, and the sisters too. And as Mævel turned twenty one, she was left alone with old Jorg and old Ilga.

        That day, her parents had offered her a pearl white ribbon, for her to tie her hair, and they had thought it would probably please her, as it was as useless a thing as their mind could imagine. And indeed she was delighted by the gift, and to please her parents, she had danced and sung in the night, barefooted on the floorboard, her shiny golden hair swirling around her, as they both loved her to do.

        The next day, Mævel went to the brook to wash some clothes, when she noticed a reddish bluish spark of light coming from the forest nearby. How strange she thought. Perhaps it is only my imagination. But soon, a plaintiff cry came from the same direction, and she was deeply moved by the cry.
        Leaving her clothes to dry up, she went to the forest, knowing she could trust her instincts and that no wild beast would harm her. Calling to see if someone was there, a voice called her, crying “here, here!”

        Behind some fern trees, she was surprised as she saw a wounded blue fox. Was it the fox that had spoken?
        — Yes, that was me, answered the blue fox
        — Oh, a talking fox! You are wounded, aren’t you? asked Mævel
        — Yes, a stupid arrow from a stupid hunter… I can’t extract it, would you help me?
        — Of course, answered Mævel, hold on a second.

        And she leaned forward to draw the arrow from the fox’s leg, holding fast so that it would not hurt the creature. She was just knowing what to do, as if she had done it many times already. Then she drew out her white handkerchief, and bandaged the bleeding wound, tying it tightly with her pearl white ribbon.

        — I must leave now, said the fox, I am greatly indebted to you, young lady
        — Will you tell me your name?
        — I am called Blohmrik. And may I inquire as to your name?
        — I’m called Mævel, but you can call me Mæ
        — Such a lovely name…
        — How come you are a talking fox?
        — I was not always in the form that you see now. This form is due to a curse from the God of the Forgotten, from which I foolishly tried to stole secrets when I was a young god learning magic.
        Ooh, so you are a god? Mævel was amazed
        — Oh, smiled sadly the fox, as you are also, though you probably don’t realize. Gods are not so different than what you think…
        — Oh, really? So there isn’t anything I can do for you, is there?
        — You have already done much for today Mæ
        Mævel was blushing… She dared ask to her new friend
        — And will I see you again?
        — Perhaps sooner than you know.

        #248

        New York, October, 4 th 2033

        Albert had opened the newspaper, scanning distractedly through the various pages of text that would read aloud automatically when he was running his fingers through it. He was about to close it, when he noticed that article in the Life Focus section.

        (click for article)

        :fleuron:

        Dublin, October 5 th 2033

        Sean Doran Wrick had received tons of phone calls, emails and voice mails of condolences since the past few weeks, but he had not found the strength to answer any of them. Especially those coming from his father.

        That morning, he had received some letters that he would have left on top of the others, had he not recognized the round and cheerful calligraphy of Becky on one of them.

        He had known Becky when they had traveled together in Syria, and had enjoyed so much the lively young woman that they had kept in touch during all those years.

        He was pleased to read from her, and wanted to enjoy it fully.

        So he took his time to put to bed Guinevere and Peregrine before. Guinevere was the eldest, very mature for her barely 11 year old. She took great care of her younger brother, who was more dreamy and foolish. Peregrine would turn 10 next March… but he was hardly as responsible as his sister when she was his age…

        Dear Sean, Becky was writing

        I would have liked to finally take the time to write to you in better conditions, but I could not delay any longer. I saw the obituary in the newspaper, and wanted you to know that I share your grief and loss, and extend much love and support to you and to your dear little ones.

        I know you’re not the kind of person to be satisfied with banalities, so I will not dwell on this tragedy, and will remember the best moments we shared together.

        I still continue my studies and practices on dramatherapy, and till now it has proved very beneficial, in many ways. I have learned so many things. It’s quite rewarding. We are a close-knit group of fools (or drôles as Al loves to say, as some of his ancestors come from the bayous!), and that is very much enjoyable when things that tragic come to one’s reality.

        In case you feel like talking, don’t hesitate any moment, I’ll be here. Anytime.

        Love,

        Becky.

        :fleuron:

        Orkney Islands, October 4 th, 2057

        This year again, Sean Doran had not answered his father’s calls.

        This September 23 th was the twenty fourth anniversary of the disengagement of Lord Wrick’s daughter-in-law, and this was always a very somber period for the family.

        Hopefully, the twins were here to enliven the old mansion, for as long as their parents, Lord Wrick’s grand-children, would be traveling. And of course, there had been the unexpected return of the books, which had been comforting too.

        Nonetheless, Hilarion Wrick was sad, and Bill the painter was uneasy as to how he could not quite put right the portrait of the old dragon…

        #221

        Bådul was pondering at the bow of his boat.

        His boat was not the largest his people had made, but it was all he had been afforded by the King of Åsgurdy, Swartulf II. Two others vassals who had been very impressed by Bådul’s delivery and determination had allotted him two other smaller ships.

        The ships were tailored for the high seas, and in many ways were not unlike what Quintin’s Viking ancestors would have called a snekkja , or a kind of dragon boat. The three ships had been sailing alongside, for more than forty days now, very easily through the Northern Seas.

        Bådul was pondering, because it had been twenty days more than any known explorer had been allowing themselves to go West (or East, for that matter), and his crew was manifesting some hints of doubts.

        He was pondering also, because for the glimpses of that route that he saw through the boy’s mind, he knew that he was heading towards some kind of passageway in between the Great Rift, a chain of sub-oceanic volcanic mountains, that were showing on the surface, and likely to be treacherous, and full of eddies. Jahiz, his faithful commander in second was a skilled mariner and Bådul knew he could trust him, at least for these sailing matters.

        A myna bird that Jahiz had brought with him was periodically sent as a scout in the vast seas in front of them, to report any trouble that may lay ahead.

        And now, as Badul was still pondering he had still not seen the damn foul-mouthed bird back, some seamen started to shout, as a black point was appearing in the midst of dark clouds.

        And finally, Rudy the myna (which was actually named Mercurius but that had been too long to pronounce for the rough crew) landed like a wet grenade at the feet of Badul howling “Mind your backs! Mind your backs!

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