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  • #2863

    In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      She was right. Maybe he needed a job as a janitor instead, and draw on walls, or write some sotteries pardon my Medieval French.
      “I’m leaning towards valuing the imagination parts of me.” he’d answered, not quite convinced, as though it were told by someone else, or something he’d read earlier somewhere, on a wall probably.
      The vole was still there when she’d left. She’d kept moving back to give it space to run off up the dry road, but no, the little thing even held its hand up when she tried to pick it up as if to say NO! thank you I’m fine.
      He too was fine, surrounded by converging ripples of emotions, but oddly calm.
      “Too neatly organized stuff gets dusty and boring” he’d said to her.
      “I know,” she’d answered, ending their brief encounter with a limerick

      The housekeeping lady of China,
      Said she’d never seen anything finer,
      than a wacom of dust,
      that she sponged and brushed,
      that housekeeping lady of China…

      #1302

      In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Once upon a fucking time
        A writer tried to tow the line
        And then got struck
        Like Oh my fuck
        Ing god I’ve got Tourettes

        And once upon that fucking time
        No it bloody didn’t rhyme
        He tried to shout
        Could only prout
        And mutter bugger all the time

        #1513

        In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

        F LoveF Love
        Participant

          “My word, I don’t know who that writer is, but her historical accuracy, not to mention her ability to maintain continuity in the face of such … such … such … “ the voice trailed off, at a loss to find words for such brilliance.

          #1843

          In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

          TracyTracy
          Participant

            “No wonder my shoulder’s aching, trying to tow the continuity line, Godfrey, I’m not going to even try anymore. I’m going to have a soak in Musadek Bath Salts, and from now on (notwithstanding you can’t see future sequence unless you’re misinformed, unless I was misinformed about that) I’ll write whatever I want, and I have the Invisible Story Characters behind me!” And with a dramatic flourish, she swept out of the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

            #2802

            In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              After having had a wheel ride in the garden, Grandpa Wrick came back a little less in-tense.

              “Mmm, I suppose this game isn’t as much fun as I expected. I want to give it another try, adding a little something more.” he said to the kids when their cartoon had finished. India Louise, Cuthbert, and their friends Flynn and of course Lisbelle (who had been quiet in the background, playing with her pet rabbit Ginger) started listening with a mild interest —the whimsical Lord Wrick having proved countless times he had no qualms at making a fool of himself, and thus at entertaining children.

              “What I want to achieve, by playing this game of snowflakes,” he said after a pause “is paying more attention at your stream of consciousness.”

              “You see, I’ve been reading the classical Circle of Eights countless times in my young age, and dear old Yurara didn’t have much interest in creating links between her narratives. This is what I want to do with this game: pay attention to the links.

              In this game of snowflakes, the stories (flakes) matter less than the links you build between them, and thus the pattern that is created.
              We have the choice to continue and detail the previous story, in which case, the link is obvious, or we may want to start another one. But we need to know what, from the previous entry, prompted you to create that special new story you are about to write or tell.

              Just like in a dream, when you explore a scene, some object will jump at your attention, and propel you to another dream story. Just like that, I want to spend more time exploring the transitions between each scenes and story blurbs that we tell. The links don’t necessarily have to be an object, of course not.
              It can be an idea, a theme, a music, virtually anything, provided that it can make some sense as to why it is used as a transition…”

              Seeing the children waiting for more, he pursued: “a good introduction to this game would be for you to try to follow your train of thoughts during the day. Try to do mentally that small exercise before you go to sleep, and remember the transitions of your whole day, and you’ll see how complex it can become, how often you pass and zap from one thing to another.

              Take even one event that lasts a few minutes like eating a honey sandwich at breakfast, can make you think of dozens of things like the texture of the bread, the fields of wheat, or the butter, the glass jar filled with honey and the bees that made it, the swarm of bees can carry you even further into another time, or towards a bear or into a movie maybe.

              I want that you pause to take time to break this down, so that your audience can follow the transition from one story to another, and that it makes perfect sense for them.”

              #2083

              In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                perhaps age under dream
                yeast speak waiting hot
                replied himself dear head
                chance heard spiders stoll quote years
                writer already headless

                #2470
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  “What would you have me do, Lizzie darling?” Godfrey asked slightly puzzled, as he was still longing for a good cup of anything to get him into the present and into the morning.
                  “You could start a new thread if it would help, I would even reopen the very first one, yes I would do that…” Godfrey continued
                  “Truth is, things are never quite the same during Finnley’s winterly vacations” He said to the cup that Elizabeth just brought him “She was the one with the brilliant rewrites and scissors magic…”

                  #2075

                  In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Although done,
                    Stranger, mother, everyone, creature
                    looks attention:
                    Girl, perfect black.
                    Ask, perhaps himself free?
                    Smile rude.
                    Notice Leormn Fellowship Idea,
                    “Eye write”
                    Box teleport.
                    Heard wonder, let Sharon replied.
                    Random asked matter:
                    Strange sudden (usually inside) particular finally… surely feeling sound, following home… clear…

                    Realized, somewhat
                    Hear happy laugh
                    Mention hot ones
                    Magic voice
                    :creating_magic:

                    #2073

                    In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      “Green years help often book!”
                      Elizabeth hand surprise.
                      Head Sanso: “Let dragons…..”
                      Finnley: “Dory fishes quickly!”
                      nothing answer…..
                      notice appeared remembered spiders,
                      speaking raucous Dolores:
                      “Stranger bird gift,
                      looks deep matter!”
                      “Write”, supposed young Phenol, whether himself less knows inside.
                      “Monica bloody apparently, probable cow”.

                      :yahoo_cow:

                      #2072

                      In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        manner: half remember
                        feeling: leo mean knows write dark
                        meaning: waiting sudden ones teleport arona soon
                        create enjoyed: smiled poor silly pee thank large
                        remarked: choose beautiful wish
                        details: alien

                        :yahoo_alien:

                        #2791
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Write any rubbish, dance across the page, gesticulate wildly and enthusiastically from rubbish! Oh My God! That sounds Brilliant! and so incredibly freeing!

                          She had been suffering from the Fiction Writer Within, her true identity.
                          Now to write about any good week, and see fiction idea in the depths under that reluctant thought, a great time to decide to do a slobber drip gag kiss.

                          Her new favourite philosophy was that everything was top marks for everything: such an encouragement to creative urges. Full credit for the flow!
                          Beam brightly, a surprise gift you may use if you wish ~ and have fun!

                          :bounce:

                          #2065

                          In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Eyes previous threads ~

                            Nobody!

                            Finnley free rather real string writing;
                            Strings tell attempt;
                            Lack experience.

                            Dragons, whatever…

                            Stop!

                            Wondered…
                            Attention certainly taking,
                            Mused write somewhat ~
                            Seem face thinking…
                            Taken, wrote silly, shouted dancing!
                            Enjoyed!
                            Exclaimed comments ~
                            Voice life thread!

                            #2341
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              As far as the Ooh-dimension was concerned, the shift of Vowellness was probably complete

                              “Thank Flove for that!” Ann (or was it Elizabeth?) exclamied. She continued to read the contents of the large manila envelope that had been delivered several weeks late due to the postal strike.

                              “Postal strike?” Gordon (or was it Godfrey?) inquired sarcastically. “Ann ~ or is it Liz? ~ surely you just made that up! Do you need an excuse?”

                              LizAnn chose to ignore her old freind Pig Littleton and continued to read.

                              And she couldn’t find anything new being published by Ms Tattler in all now probable directions she was looking into.

                              LizAnn snorted.

                              She was of course ignoring the disrupted echoes from the Jumbled Eights thread, which were probably the brainstorming board of ideas of the writer, which she had the greatest difficulty to follow (she wondered if even the writer could).

                              Reaching for her handkerchief, LizAnn snorted again. “No the writer bloody can’t follow it” she muttered. “But does it bloody matter!”

                              Her own thread and the details of the history of the Wrick family was always sketchy and full of holes;

                              “Aha Ha Ha Ha”

                              she’d attempted at learning more about the elusive Becky , but she kept blinking in and out of continuity, too quickly for her to follow her anywhere in her explorations

                              “Yes, where the devil IS Becky, Gordfry? or is it Godon?”

                              #2640

                              In reply to: Strings of Nines

                              New Venice, October 2117

                              Now, where were we? Midora suddenly felt that the need for an agenda was called for. Spread out in front of her were a few collages and some balls of energy from all the links and connections she had found in the stories of her ancestors and gathered so far.

                              Since her fathers Oscar and Bart had adopted the twins Hari and Jacq, her usually tidy room had been a mess. Fortunately, the adoption was almost complete, and in a mere week, the twins would then be able to choose another family, which they made clear they intended to do. She felt so appreciative that adoption was no longer bound by traditional laws of responsibility of the parents and ridden by culpability; instead, it was a healthier cooperation between the parents and children, and children were free to go with other families if they felt the desire for a different experience.
                              When they’d adopted Hari and Jacq, Bart and Oscar had wanted for a continuation of the experience of bringing up children, which they did not have for a long time with Midora, as she was quite independent from an early age. And in truth, Jacq and Hari were very interactive and playful, and to be perfectly honest, quite a handful; in a few weeks, the apartment would surely seem deserted and empty.

                              So, during that time, Midora’s researches on the stories had been put to a halt, and a lots of her energy balls which were usually neatly ordered on her lightboard were now merged for some, changed of forms for others… all thanks to her half-bros. She barely knew were to start to get a better view of it now.

                              Let me see… there were a few threads going on there, and all we need is untangle some of them…

                              She’d had fun reconnecting with the “Island of Dr Transvestite” theme, but now she found out, her favorite characters Shar and Glor, were now disembodied, stranded in transition, and perhaps waiting to be reborn to a nine-titted alien in the Worseversity after failed attempts of channeling. So far, no signs of developments for them though.

                              As far as the Ooh-dimension was concerned, the shift of Vowellness was probably complete, and she couldn’t find anything new being published by Ms Tattler in all now probable directions she was looking into. She was of course ignoring the disrupted echoes from the Jumbled Eights thread, which were probably the brainstorming board of ideas of the writer, which she had the greatest difficulty to follow (she wondered if even the writer could).

                              Her own thread and the details of the history of the Wrick family was always sketchy and full of holes; she’d attempted at learning more about the elusive Becky , but she kept blinking in and out of continuity, too quickly for her to follow her anywhere in her explorations.

                              Oh, and the Alienor dimension was still going on, though most of its development wasn’t yet showing up. What had happened of Arona, Franiel, Irtak’s father, the gripshawk? And now that Malvina was gone too… She’d found Mrs Chesterhope after her strange amnesiac shapeshifting accident however; and that was encouraging.

                              So strange, all of these characters are so alive, she thought fondly, and yet none of them seem motivated enough to project themselves out with force and steadiness into her energy balls which still had a sort of blurriness and haphazardness to them.

                              She made the intent to project more energy in the direction of stabilizing the currents of the strands of stories, and the energy balls’ colors started to shimmer lightly. That was certainly the way to go. Which one would be the most alluring to explore and follow?

                              #2639

                              In reply to: Strings of Nines

                              It was not before Leörmn suggested at Irtak the overlooked possibility that Irtak seriously considered the option.
                              After all, the batty toothless woman who had come forth (almost in jest it had seemed at first) wasn’t really an obvious choice to make a dragon rider of the twin Heckle and Jeckle.

                              Well, who was he to judge anyway? He was even starting to find the idea less and less incongruous. She would perhaps make for a good companion.
                              As they said, dragon breeders may just be failed dragon riders, but Irtak wasn’t sure that it was close to the truth, or any truth for that matter.

                              As his choice was finally made, he took a carrier fincheon from a cage smelling of bird’s droppings and started to write on a piece of torn and pissy parchment with a crow’s feather to Lady Peackle Handlebut.

                              #102
                              ÉricÉric
                              Keymaster

                                This is a new game: choose from the current random comment, and its following comments, and only deleting some words, sentences, letters, bits here and there… let a different story be written. You have to incorporate at least a few words from each comment you’re passing through. Only one daily entry per writer (reusing another writer’s current random thread is allowed though taking turns is encouraged), so that it keeps weaving a new story. Of course, if you don’t like the rules, you can play in other threads instead. Don’t forget this is the Del’Eight thread, where DEL is key.

                                #1664 Elizabeth was beginning to realize that there WAS no road.
                                Whenever she found herself following another, she didn’t want it.
                                Perhaps it was rough and coarse, plain and functional. Some were together somehow.

                                It really was the most fabulously absorbing babbling,…

                                “How long now?”

                                Yann couldn’t help but laugh. She would choose… some of them are so slippery…

                                SPLASH! warmly as Flove was.

                                #2338

                                Though the more Ann thought about Monica, the funnier it seemed. Guilt was such a tiresome emotion.

                                “Fancy old Bronkel deciding to go for a sex change! I must have sensed something when I wrote him in as the crazy, brilliant, cross dressing Dr Bronkelhampton in the Island novel!”

                                She thought for a moment, “did I ever finish that novel?”

                                Ann sighed. What was she like eh! Always starting novels, never finishing them. No wonder old Bronkel, ahem, Monica, got so fed up with her.

                                Anyway, perhaps she would give Monica another chance as her pooblisher? He … she… was certainly much kinder and easier to deal with now. That Godfrey, or whatever the heck his name is, wasn’t doing much for her career.

                                The writer wondered again how to strike out text and correct the inadvertent slip into the Ooh dimension.

                                An idea for another novel was forming in the murky convoluted depths of Ann’s brain, something about a gorgeously cuddly big teddy bear man, with his unruly tumble of brown curls and his colourful FairIsle sweaters, who had flown the nest from a potato farm in deepest darkest Idaho to pursue his dream of being an Elsespace Guide at the Worserversity.

                                “Brilliant, Moonica will loove it!”

                                #2329

                                Harvey wasn’t really annoyed nor offended that Ann couldn’t remember him each and every time they met. In fact, it was quite funny, that her version of Harvey was different every time.
                                He wasn’t bound to be the same old Harvey as with anybody else.

                                Nonetheless, he wished Ann would express more of her own perception of the Harvey she had in front of her eyes, instead of moaning she couldn’t or should remember anything. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time they would then all conspire to make a stretch (sometimes to the verge of rupture) in the fabric of the story to make it all fit.

                                And which Harvey and Ann were they? Were they only bound to be one ‘other’, without any substance safe for the fact that they were probable versions of a Prime Ann, and a Prime Harvey in the First Universal Comments Kosher (or kookish?) dimension? The mere thought of it was rather depressing to this probable Harvey.

                                With all this probable purée, it was as if everything wasn’t really occurring anywhere else but in some even less probable writer’s head… (he couldn’t help to wonder too how this snippet would be interpreted in the near future when it would only be a fragment of a random quote itself…)

                                #2328

                                Ann spent the morning (or a mere half hour, if truth be told) enjoying her physicality in the gentle autumn morning sun before returning indoors. The drop in temperature was still new enough to remember to appreciate fully. She felt at peace with her world, a happy balance of words and sunbeams, that is until she perused the latest additions to the BA (Bash Ann, by the looks of things) group project.

                                Ann frowned. Who the heck was Harvey? It was almost the last straw, despite Ann’s sunny mood. The very idea of trawling back through the paperwork to find out who he was, and indeed who everyone else was, was too daunting. “If it’s not fun don’t do it!” That’s what they all said. Over and over again they said “if it’s not fun don’t do it”.

                                The writing was fun, and the random reading was fun, but it wasn’t fun ~ in fact, it gave her a headache ~ to try and remember who and when and where everyone was. Perplexed, Ann wondered if she simply wasn’t cut out for working in a group. On the other hand, she simply wasn’t a loner either.

                                “Be remebering,” the disembodied voice whispered in her left ear, “That they are all YOU.”

                                Oh! Right, yes….herm….well where does that leave me?

                                “Right at the centre of it all, as always,” the voice replied.

                                Er, so it’s all MY story, then? The whole thing is all me, all mine? All the characters are ME?

                                “Quite!”

                                So I can do whatever I want, then?

                                “Of course!”

                                Right then, so I can write whatever I want, which is fun, and not write what I don’t want, which isn’t fun, and that will be quite alright, will it?

                                “Correct!” the voice chuckled indulgently. “And it may behoove you” it continued in a conspiratorial tone, “To remember than any flak from the others in the group, is in fact, YOU giving YOURSELF a flakking reflection.”

                                Oh. Well Right Ho, then. Toot! Toot!

                                #2327

                                “So how was your lunch date with your new best friend?” Harvey sounded distinctly sarcastic, even to Lavender’s forgiving ears.

                                “Oh, you know …”

                                Harvey raised his eyebrows. No mean feat when you have a book balancing on your nose. He sighed, and let the book fall. A few months ago he was balancing four poster beds, and now he could barely manage a Lemoine novel. Heavy as they are! He sniggered to himself. Oh well, at least I havn’t lost my sense of humour, along with my sense of smell!

                                “Well, to be honest Harvey .. I think I may have been possessed by those pesky aliens. I suddenly came to and I was talking all this rubbish about ‘random quote generators’ and using words like ‘dear’.

                                Lavender shuddered in horror at the memory, and then rolled her beautiful eyes and sighed. “Poor Ann, I think she is a really tortured soul.”

                                The writer wondered if it was time to add a dark side to Lavender’s personality. All this beautiful eyes business was getting a tad irritating, the beauty of Lavender’s eyes not withstanding. Not to mention her lips which she painted a bright shade of amaranth for every day wear, and on special occasions, rose madder. The writer wondered if the last thought made sense and wondered again how to strike out text. The writer decided to try that last line again.

                                Lavender shuddered, and then with an enigmatic smile which even her good friend Harvey found hard to decipher, she said softly, “I ate olives for lunch. They were yummy.”

                                The writer sighed and then noticed the random quote generator said “mean cleaner coming soon.” The writer wondered if it was a sign.

                              Viewing 20 results - 181 through 200 (of 309 total)