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  • #4469

    A few weeks back now, a visitor had come to the forest. A visitor dressed in the clothes of a tramp.

    “I’ve come to speak with Glynnis,” he said, when Margoritt answered the door of the cottage.

    “And who might I say is calling?” asked Margoritt. She looked intently into the eyes of the tramp and a look of shock crossed her countenance. “Ah, I see now who you are.”

    The tramp nodded.

    “I mean no harm to you, Old Lady and I mean no harm to Glynis. Tell her to come to the clearing under the Silver Birch. Tell her to make haste.”

    And with that he hobbled away.

    It was no more than a few minutes later, Glynnis came to the clearing. She strode up to the tramp and stood defiant in front of him.

    “What is it you want now!?” she demanded. “And why have you come disguised as a homeless wanderer dressed in rags, you coward! Is this more of your trickery! Can you not leave me in peace with my fate! Have you not done enough harm to me already! And all because I could not love you in return! she scoffed at him, her voice raised in fury and unable to halt the angry tirade though she knew caution would be the more prudent path to take.

    The tramp stood silent in the face of her anger.

    “I have come to say I am sorry and to undo the harm I did to you,” he said at last. “I was wondering would you like me to remove the scales from your face?”

    Glynnis could not reply. She stared at him in shock, trying to comprehend what his words meant.

    “My father left this dimension a short while ago,” he continued. “When he left, something changed in me. A dark mass had obscured my vision so I could feel only hatred towards you. When my father departed, so did the hatred. I realise now he cursed me … since then I have seen clearly the wrong I did to you and hastened to make amends. I came dressed as a tramp … well to be honest I thought it was quite a fun costume and I did not want to cause undue fear in those I met on my path.”

    He reached into his tattered cape and pulled out a small package. “Apply this lotion every night for a week. It will dissolve the scales and as well will heal the scars within as you sleep.”

    #4432
    Jib
    Participant

      Roberto had gone to the swimming pool. He was mostly puzzled by how reality had shifted into those broken pieces that didn’t seem to fit together since he had come back from that strange tunnel with all the roots spawning strange characters from glowing pink bubbly growth.
      It must have something to do with the pink liquid leaking frrrrom those strrrange pouches, he thought.

      He looked pensively at the swimming pool. Half of it was covered by thick ice while the other half was boiling with micro bubbles rising from the bottom and the walls, and steam slowly rising in the cool spring air.

      Roberto had first thought there might be something wrong with the water cleaning mechanism of the swimming pool, but he had checked it and nothing was wrong, except the cleaning bot was stuck in the icy part of the swimming pool.

      His second thought had been that it was a fancy pool cover installed by la señora Liz. But he didn’t find the retracting mechanism. La señora Liz and la muchacha Finnley, his colleague, seemed busy with the man with the moustache. Roberto had the impression the man wanted to find a wife, he didn’t want to intrude and say anything. He had tried to talk to el mayordomo Geoffrey, but he was busy again preparing another viaje de negocios for la señora.

      So Roberto was there pondering in front of the swimming pool. That’s when he noticed the entrance of the green maze just on the other side of the pool, at the junction between summer and winter. He didn’t remember if it was there before.

      #4404
      Jib
      Participant

        Liz left her bed at 8:30am, wearing only her pink and blue doubled cotton night gown, a perfect hair and her fluffy pink blue mules. She had been thinking about her characters while the sun was trying to rise with great difficulty. Liz couldn’t blame the Sun as temperatures had dropped dramatically since the beginning of winter and the air outside was really cold.

        When Liz was thinking about her writings and her characters, she usually felt hungry. Someone had told her once that the brain was a hungry organ and that you needed fuel to make it work properly. She didn’t have a sweet tooth, but she wouldn’t say no to some cheesy toast, any time of the day.

        She had heard some noise coming from the kitchen, certainly Finnley doing who knows what, although certainly not cleaning. It might be the association between thinking about her characters and the noise in the kitchen that triggered her sudden craving for a melted slice of cheese on top of a perfectly burnished toast. The idea sufficed to make her stomach growl.

        She chuckled as she thought of inventing a new genre, the toast opera. Or was it a cackle?

        As she was lost in her morning musings, her mules gave that muffled slippery sound on the floor that Finnley found so unladylike. Liz didn’t care, she even deliberately slowed her pace. The slippery sound took on another dimension, extended and stretched to the limit of what was bearable even for herself. Liz grinned, thinking about Finnley’s slight twitching right eye as she certainly was trying to keep her composure in the kitchen.

        Liz, all cheerful, was testing the differences between a chuckle and a cackle when she entered the kitchen. She was about to ask Finnley what she thought about it when she saw a small person in a yellow tunic and green pants, washing the dishes.

        Liz stopped right there, forgetting all about chuckles and cackles and even toasts.

        “Where is Finnley?” she asked, not wanting to appear the least surprised. The small person turned her head toward Liz, still managing to keep on washing the dishes. It was a girl, obviously from India.

        “Good morning, Ma’am. I’m Anna, the new maid only.”

        “The new… maid?”

        Liz suddenly felt panic crawling behind her perfectly still face. She didn’t want to think about the implications.

        “Why don’t you use the dishwasher?” she asked, proud that she could keep the control of her voice despite her hunger, her questions about chuckles and cackles, and…

        “The dirty dishes are very less, there is no need to use the dishwasher only.”

        Liz looked at her bobbing her head sideways as if the spring had been mounted the wrong way.

        “Are you alright?” asked Anna with a worried look.

        “Of course, dear. Make me a toast with a slice of cheese will you?”

        “How do I do that?”

        “Well you take the toaster and you put the slice of bread inside and pushed the lever down… Have you never prepared toasts before?”

        “No, but yes, but I need to know how you like it only. I want to make it perfect for your liking, otherwise you won’t be satisfied.” The maid suddenly looked lost and anxious.

        “Just do as you usually do,” said Liz. “Goddfrey?” she called, leaving the kitchen before the maid could ask anymore questions.

        Where was Goddfrey when she needed him to explain everything?

        “You need me?” asked a voice behind her. He had appeared from nowhere, as if he could walk through the walls or teleport. Anyway, she never thought she would be so relieved to see him.

        “What’s that in the kitchen?”

        “What’s what? Oh! You mean her. The new maid.”

        He knew! Liz felt a strange blend of frustration, despair and anger. She took mental note to remember it for her next chapter, and came back to her emotional turmoil. Was she the only one unaware of such a bit change in her home?

        “Well, she followed us when we were in India. We don’t know how, but she managed to find a place in one of your trunks. Finnley found her as she had the porter unpacked the load. It seems she wants to help.”

        #4396
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          “You had one job to do! One job!” Alex’s mother shouted at him. “One job, that could hardly have been any easier for a shiftless layabout like you, and you balls it up!”

          “Oh Mom, it was so boring! Sitting there for years and nothing ever happened! And we only left once, it was such rotten timing…”

          “You were supposed to stop that kind of thing ever happening and now its too late. You and Albie will never get another job now.”

          “Well actually you’re wrong, mother. I have been offered a job with the guys who planted all that funny stuff all around the entrance. It involves travel and adventure, they said, and good money, better money that a guard makes!”

          “Oh, dear god,” replied Lottie. “Please say it isn’t true.”

          #4320
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            “Well, the backdoor was opened, you see, like my wife says…” Inspector Melon started to explain Finnley how he managed to be in the house no sooner had she turned back to dusting duties, or rather turned her back to the door and said duties.

            “Stop it!” she interrupted, “and put those shoe covers on your muddy shoes, damnit, I’m not going to do the floors again on your behalf, you miscreant.”

            Finnley, what’s this racket about?” Godfrey appeared from behind the massive last last century clock licking his fingers off the peanut butter.

            Finnley put her fists on her hips with a defiant air, not gone unnoticed by Godfrey, “Well, THIS dripping wet gentleman pretends to be a policeman investigating on the Jingly girl disappearance… Not that we know anything about that anyhow.”

            Inspector Melon couldn’t help but say “Interesting you should mention it, did I say I was looking for Ms Jingle Bells?”

            Godfrey couldn’t help but give a sideway look of “what have you done” to Finnley, who replied by her usual “why look at me like I did something wrong” look.

            #4293

            The night was almost there, the dwarf would come out of his heavy daysleep any minute now. Fox had been collecting mushrooms along with twigs and branches to make some fire. He hoped the constant drizzle of these last few days had not rendered them too wet.

            The differences of his needs and cravings depending on his being a fox or a human had always amazed him. When he was a fox, he feared fire and would avoid it at all cost. When he was a human, he couldn’t spend a night out in the cold without a fire. His body was simply not good at keeping warmth inside when he had no fur. Today was no exception and Fox was certain the dwarf would also appreciate it to get rid of the cold of the stone.

            After piling up the wood for the fire, Fox smelled his harvest of fresh mushrooms. He imagined them accompanying a good rabbit stew and felt saliva water his mouth. His diet as an animal was mostly meat, whereas as a human he was oddly attracted to vegetables, and even enjoyed the taste of mushrooms. He might not enjoy them so much had he not met a girl once, so long ago when he was a still a cub learning to transform into a human. He remembered the girl had said she was called Eleri, which he had found amusing because in French “Elle rit” means “she’s laughing”.

            “How do you know French?” she had asked.
            “Oh! My master Gibbon teaches me French, he says it would give me another way of thinking the world.”
            “Your master must be fond of Romance stories,” she giggled.

            Fox didn’t really understood what she meant by that, and he thought it was not so important because what she had in her bag smelt so funny.

            “What’s that?” he asked.
            “You want some?” She handed a bunch of butterstache fungi to the handsome redhead boy. “I realise I don’t know your name.”

            “I’m Fox,” he said his eyes fixed on the strange looking things in her hands. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Is it safe?”

            He remembered the look of incredulity in her eyes, her beautiful eyes. She was the first girl he had seen. He didn’t know much about humans except what Master Gibbon had told him in French, which didn’t really make sense at that time.

            “It’s totally safe, you might only have some funny experiences if you take the wrong ones in the forest,” Eleri laughed and Fox remembered the meaning of her name in French. He thought the name suited her well. He accepted her gift, for her eyes, and for her sincere laugh.

            Since that time, eating mushrooms was always coloured with joy and a sense of daring. The last rays of the Sun faded away.

            “It smells like mushrooms, and butterstache if I’m not mistaken,” said the raspy voice of the dwarf.

            #4225

            Preparing the pages for the arrival of the Elders had taken him the best of the last two days. The younglings were rather immature and in need of training in the complex rituals and protocols. Most had come from good families, so they did possess the principles well enough. However, they often carried about them an indistinct arrogance that would be sure to irritate the Elders. Rukshan himself wasn’t good at being humble, but over the years had learned to dull his colours, and focus on his own centre.

            He had hardly any time to think about the dreams, the book or the trees, although at times he could feel almost carried away, as though a swift and clear wind had swiped his head light, suddenly relieved from any burdening thought, almost ready to fly or disappear. Those moment rarely lasted, and quite frankly were a little unsettling.

            And there was still his repressed memories about what he had discovered hidden under the Clock’s hatch. He wanted to believe there was nothing to worry about that, that the silent ghosts were part of the original design, but his intuition was fiercely against it.
            In fact, his guts were telling him the same things as when he’d found out the pocket from his coat he’d just mended was originally wrongly attached inside the lining, (creating the rip at that exact spot, as if to catch his attention). Although he would usually have happily ignored it, this time he couldn’t let go, and felt almost forced to redo it, first unpick the seams he’d just sewn, then to finally detach the pocket from the inner lining and redo the mending —another indication that the living force that breathed through all wouldn’t let him eschew troubles this time.

            #122

            It felt as if all hell had broken loose this morning. Everyone seemed to look for their heads, and all in the wrong places.

            What he was really looking for, was his heart. Taking about other people, they used to say things like “his heart’s in the right place, you know”, as a form of apology, as if they knew what was the right place. Maybe they all were wrong, and nobody knew for sure.

            In the morning, the ginkgo trees in the lane leading to the fortified city had all started to turn to gold, glittering the path with golden flecks. Magic comes from the heart they all whispered in the cold wind telling tales of first snows. Autumn had arrived late this year, and the weather was playing all kinds of strange choreographies.

            He could do well with a bit of magic, but magic was tricky to harness these days. All the good practitioners of old seemed to have been replaced by snake oil merchants. But the trees still knew about magic.

            He had a theory, that some pockets of old magic remained, shrouded in nature, oblivious to the city-life encroachments, ever-alive and ripe for the picking. He had heard the term “area of enchantment”, and that was to him the perfect description. He knew some sweet spots, near derelict places, gently overgrown with foliage, sitting side by side with the humbums of the busy city life.
            He would ask the trees and vines there if they could help with the unusual wreckage of this morning.

            #4189
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              “You see,” Godfrey pointed out with the rolled paper “Finnley’s got a point here.”
              “And what point pray you say?” Liz’ looked outraged at the lack of encouragements.

              “Oh, I don’t know, I just said that to grab your attention for a minute.” Godfrey smiled from the corner of his mouth.

              Liz’ could not think of something to say, suddenly noticing with amazing details the tense silence, and the small gathered crowd of people looking at her in a mix of face expressions. A scene from her last hospitalisation came back to her, and the horror of trying to seem sane and not utter anything strange to those so-called experts, who were gauging her sanity like hyenas laughing around a tentfull of human snacks.

              “You have my full attention.” she heard herself say unexpectedly.

              “That’s really the first step in rehabilitation” the doctor opined with a pleased smile.

              “Did, did I relapse again?”

              “What are you talking about Liz’?” Godfrey was back looking at her with concern in his eyes. She had never noticed his eyes before. Only the furry moustaches above them.

              “I think I got lost in the story’s threads again…” Liz’ felt like a little girl being berated by the teacher again, and by her mother for not standing for herself.
              “Yeah, it’s a bit of a dumpster…” Haki said snarkily, to which Liz quickly replied mentally “go away, you’re just a character, I fired you many threads ago.”

              Liz’, you have that vacant expression again, Liz’!” Godfrey was waving at her face.
              “Stop DOING that, you old coot! What’s wrong with all of you!”

              Felicity took a reprieve from her observation post ogling the gardener’s backside, on the guise of bird-watching, and snickered “told you it wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

              “Hold on” Godfrey stopped her in a conciliatory tone. “your attitude isn’t really helping Felicity. And Liz sharing her dream recall is a good thing, honestly, we could all do with a bit of getting in touch with our magical self.”

              “Oh, I’ve had enough of this loads of bollocks” Felicity said, and she packed and left for good.

              “That was a bit abrupt ending, but I like it” opined Godfrey at second reading. “Actually like it better than the version where she jumps through the window, probably pushed by the maid she criticized about the hair in the pea soup.”

              “That’s about as magical as I can muster for now, Godfrey, give me time.” Liz smiled relieved that the mummy ordeal was behind her. “Fuck murmality” she smiled impishly, “let’s start a new fantasy thread.”

              “With dragons in it?” Godfrey’s eyes were beaming.

              “Oh, you and your damned dragons…”

              #4134
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                The front door rang at the same time.

                Elizabeth was in the mood to let it ring until whoever was there finally let it go, but there was an imperative and distinct sting in that ring.

                She wrapped her night gown around her waist, carefully adjusted her towel beehive coiffe, and sluggishly slid on her rabbit slippers to the door. That summer heat was just too unbearable.

                COMING!” She yelled at the door, estimating her arrival there at another good minute of bunny slipper sliding and slaloming around the scattered mess.

                When she finally managed to open the door, her worst fears proved true.

                Elizabeth! What sort of attire is that?! Are you sloshed already?”

                Liz’ managed a pitiful smile “ Mother, how lovely seeing you here.”

                “Damn bloody right it is, and not a minute too late, by the look of that place. Having another of your barmy spells haven’t you? I knew something was wrong when that delightful maid of yours stopped phoning in for her daily report. Now, budge up, let me in, take care of that mess of yours.”

                #4125
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Corrie:

                  I’m getting a bit worried about Aunt Idle, she’s been in Iceland ages and we haven’t heard from her, and nothing on her blog for ages, either. When I found this, I did a bit of research into the Bronklehampton case. That’s another story.

                  Aunt Idle was going to visit her old friend Margit Brynjúlfursdóttir. It was all very hush hush: Margit had intimated that there was to be a family reunion, but it was to be a surprise party, and she mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Margit had sent her the tickets to Keflavik, instructing her to inform her family and friends that she had won the trip in a story writing competition.

                  It was Idle’s first trip to Iceland. She had met Margit in a beach bar near Cairns some years ago, just after the scandalous expose on the goings on of a mad doctor on a remote south Pacific island. The Icelandic woman had been drowning her sorrows, and Idle had been a shoulder to cry on. The age old story of a wayward son, a brilliant mind, so full of potential, victim of a conniving nurse , and now sadly incarcerated on the wrong side of the law.

                  Aunt Idle didn’t immediately make a connection between the name Brynjúlfursdóttir and Bronklehampton, indeed it would have been impossible to do so using conventional means, Icelandic naming laws and traditions being what they were. But the intuitive Idle had made a connection notwithstanding. The maudlin woman in the beach bar was clearly the mad doctors mother.

                  Idle had invited Margit to come and stay at the Flying Fish Inn for a few weeks before returning to Iceland, a visit which turned out to last almost a year. Over the months, Margit confided in her new friend Idle. Nobody back home in Iceland knew that the doctor in the lurid headlines was her son, and Margit wanted to keep it that way, but it was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone. Idle wasn’t all that sure that Margit was fully in the picture regarding the depths to which the fruit of her loins had sunk, but she witnessed the womans outpourings with tact and compassion and they became good friends.

                  The fasten your seatbelts sign flashed and pinged. The landing at Keflavik was going to be on time.”

                  ~~~

                  ““I wish you’d told me about the 60’s fancy dress party, Margit, I’d have brought an outfit with me,” said Idle.

                  Margit looked at her friend quizzically. “What makes you think there’s a fancy dress party?”

                  “Why, all the beehive hair do’s! It’s the only explanation I could think of. If it’s not a 60’s party, then why…..?”

                  Idle noticed Margit eyeing her long grey dreadlocks distastefully. Self consciously she flung them over her shoulder, inopportunely landing the end of one of them in a plate of some foul substance the passing waiter was carrying.

                  Margit jumped at the chance. “Darling, how horrid! All that rams bottom sauce all over your hair! Do try the coconut shampoo I put in your bathroom.””

                  ~~~

                  And that was the last I’d heard from Aunt Idle.

                  #4123

                  Corrie’s findings from elsewhere:

                  “Mike wasn’t as courageous as his former self, the Baron. That new name had a cowardly undertone which wasn’t as enticing to craze and bravery as “The Baron”.

                  The idea of the looming limbo which had swallowed the man whole, and having to care for a little girl who surely shouldn’t be out there on her own at such an early hour of the day spelt in unequivocal letters “T-R-O-U-B-B-L-E” — ah, and that he was barely literate wasn’t an improvement on the character either.

                  Mike didn’t want to think to much. He could remember a past, maybe even a future, and be bound by them. As well, he probably had a family, and the mere though of it would be enough to conjure up a boring wife named Tina, and six or seven… he had to stop now. Self introspection wasn’t good for him, he would get lost in it in quicker and surer ways than if he’d run into that Limbo.

                  “Let me tell you something… Prune?… Prune is it?”
                  “I stop you right there, mister, we don’t have time for the “shouldn’t be here on your own” talk, there is a man to catch, and maybe more where he hides.”

                  “Little girl, this is not my battle, I know a lost cause when I see one. You look exhausted, and I told my wife I would be back with her bloody croissants before she wakes up. You can’t imagine the dragon she becomes if she doesn’t get her croissants and coffee when she wakes up. My pick-up is over there, I can offer you a lift.”

                  Prune made a frown and a annoyed pout. At her age, she surely should know better than pout. The thought of the dragon-wife made her smile though, she sounded just like Mater when she was out of vegemite and toasts.

                  Prune started to have a sense of when characters appearing in her life were just plot devices conjured out of thin air. Mike had potential, but somehow had just folded back into a self-imposed routine, and had become just a part of the story background. She’d better let him go until just finds a real character. She could start by doing a stake-out next to the strange glowing building near the frontier.

                  “It’s OK mister, you go back to your wife, I’ll wait a little longer at the border. Something tells me this story just got started.”

                  ~~~

                  Aunt Idle was craving for sweets again. She tip toed in the kitchen, she didn’t want to hear another lecture from Mater. It only took time from her indulging in her attachments. Her new yogiguru Togurt had told the flockus group that they had to indulge more. And she was determined to do so.
                  The kitchen was empty. A draft of cold air brushed her neck, or was it her neck brushing against the tiny molecules of R. She cackled inwardly, which almost made her choke on her breath. That was surely a strange experience, choking on something without substance. A first for her, if you know what I mean.

                  The shelves were closed with simple locks. She snorted. Mater would need more than that to put a stop to Idle’s cravings. She had watched a video on Wootube recently about how to unlock a lock. She would need pins. She rummaged through her dreadlocks, she was sure she had forgotten one or two in there when she began to forge the dreads. Very practicle for smuggling things.

                  It took her longer than she had thought, only increasing her craving for sweets.
                  There was only one jar. Certainly honey. Idle took the jar and turned it to see the sticker. It was written Termite Honey, Becky’s Farm in Mater’s ornate writing. Idle opened the jar. Essence of sweetness reached her nose and made her drool. She plunged her fingers into the white thick substance.”

                  ~~~

                  “But wait! What is this?

                  Her greedy fingers had located something unexpected; something dense and uncompromising was lurking in her precious nectar. Carefully, she explored the edges of the object with her finger tips and then tugged. The object obligingly emerged, a gooey gelatinous blob.

                  Dido sponged off the honey allowing it to plunk on to the table top. It did not occur to her to clean it up. Indeed, she felt a wave of defiant pleasure.

                  The ants will love that, although I guess Mater won’t be so thrilled. Fussy old bat.
                  She licked her fingers then transferred her attention back to the job at hand. After a moment of indecision whilst her slightly disordered mind flicked through various possibilities, she managed to identify the object as a small plastic package secured with tape. Excited, and her ravenous hunger cravings temporarily stilled in the thrill of the moment, she began to pick at the edges of the tape.

                  Cocooned Inside the plastic was a piece of paper folded multiple times. Released from its plicature, the wrinkled and dog-eared paper revealed the following type written words:

                  food self herself next face write water truth religious behind mince salt words soon yourself hope nature keep wrong wonder noticed.”

                  ~~~

                  ““What a load of rubbish!” Idle exclaimed, disappointed that it wasn’t a more poetic message. She screwed up the scrap of crumpled paper, rolled it in the honey on the table, and threw it at the ceiling. It stuck, in the same way that cooked spaghetti sticks to the ceiling when you throw it to see if it’s done. She refocused on the honey and her hunger for sweetness, and sank her fingers back into the jar.”

                  ~~~

                  “The paper fell from the ceiling on to Dido’s head. She was too busy stuffing herself full of honey to notice. In fact it was days before anyone noticed.”

                  ~~~

                  “The honeyed ball of words had dislodged numerous strands of dried spaghetti, which nestled amongst Aunt Idle’s dreadlocks rather attractively, with the paper ball looking like a little hair bun.”

                  ~~~

                  ““Oh my god …. gross!“ cackled the cautacious Cackler.”

                  ~~~

                  ““Right, that does it! I’m moving the whole family back to the right story!” said Aunt Idle, invigorated and emboldened with the sweet energy of the honey. “Bloody cackling nonsense!””

                  #4072

                  Aunt Idle was going to visit her old friend Margit Brynjúlfursdóttir. It was all very hush hush: Margit had intimated that there was to be a family reunion, but it was to be a surprise party, and she mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Margit had sent her the tickets to Keflavik, instructing her to inform her family and friends that she had won the trip in a story writing competition.

                  It was Idle’s first trip to Iceland. She had met Margit in a beach bar near Cairns some years ago, just after the scandalous expose on the goings on of a mad doctor on a remote south Pacific island. The Icelandic woman had been drowning her sorrows, and Idle had been a shoulder to cry on. The age old story of a wayward son, a brilliant mind, so full of potential, victim of a conniving nurse , and now sadly incarcerated on the wrong side of the law.

                  Aunt Idle didn’t immediately make a connection between the name Brynjúlfursdóttir and Bronklehampton, indeed it would have been impossible to do so using conventional means, Icelandic naming laws and traditions being what they were. But the intuitive Idle had made a connection notwithstanding. The maudlin woman in the beach bar was clearly the mad doctors mother.

                  Idle had invited Margit to come and stay at the Flying Fish Inn for a few weeks before returning to Iceland, a visit which turned out to last almost a year. Over the months, Margit confided in her new friend Idle. Nobody back home in Iceland knew that the doctor in the lurid headlines was her son, and Margit wanted to keep it that way, but it was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone. Idle wasn’t all that sure that Margit was fully in the picture regarding the depths to which the fruit of her loins had sunk, but she witnessed the womans outpourings with tact and compassion and they became good friends.

                  The fasten your seatbelts sign flashed and pinged. The landing at Keflavik was going to be on time.

                  #4010

                  In reply to: Mandala of Ascensions

                  Dispersee couldn’t stop thinking about the carbonite, feeling that there must be more to it than just a master tricksters method to slim down the graduate class. She wasn’t even all that surprised when, within moments of research, she had chanced upon the Villa Poppacea in Italy, although it wasn’t the carbonized apple that interested her.

                  Some of her students were studying their Roman connections, assuming not altogether wrongly that the explorations would assist their ascension process. It appeared that one of the individuals that had come to their attention, Lucius Crassius, had owned the neighbouring villa.

                  #3985
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    “There’s a visitor in the drawing room by the name of Bubbles, your highness,” Finnley said with a mock curtsy.

                    “What on earth are you doing down there, Finnley, pretending to be a red dwarf again? Do act you age and get up at once! Now then, never mind old Bubbles, just make sure she has plenty of carrot champagne and peanuts while she waits. There is something we need to discuss.” Liz was uncharacteristically businesslike. “Something has gone horribly wrong and it will only get worse if we don’t nip it in the bud.”

                    “Oh?”

                    “This,” said Liz with a grand sweep of her arm, “This is my haven. This thread is sacrosanct. This is where the stories come from. This is not,” she glared sternly at the diminutive personage before her, “Not where the stories come TO. I’ve just about had enough of stories and other threads knocking on my door and sitting on my threadbare sofas quaffing carrot champagne at the expense of the tranquility I require in which to direct my characters.”

                    “I see. Shall I tell her to bugger off then?”

                    “I haven’t finished my diatribe!”

                    “Oh, right ho then. Carry on.”

                    “How am I supposed to keep the characters entertained and productive, not to mention in their own stories and not blundering about haphazardly, with all these interruptions?”

                    “If I may be so bold as to interrupt Madam,” interrupted Finnley with another curtsy, “Why don’t you just delete them all?”

                    “Don’t be silly, I never delete.”

                    #3983

                    In reply to: Mandala of Ascensions

                    Dispersee sat on a fallen tree trunk, lost in thought. A long walk in the woods had seemed just the ticket to release her from her turbulent thoughts, but alas, she had been unable to stop thinking about the ramifications of the new message from the popular ghost.

                    At first she had been delighted to see it. She had agreed with it. But then she wondered why. Because she already knew all this, and in fact, it was information that could so readily be gleaned by anyone at all simply by engaging ordinary common sense, and run of the mill human compassion. Nothing esoteric was needed. No enlightened messages from the great beyond. In fact, she had said the same as the ghost, and on many occasions. The truth of the matter was that one had to be dead these days to be heard. Nobody was interested in the wise words of the living anymore. It could almost be said that nobody was all that interested in living at all: everyone wanted to be in the future, or the past, or in some other dimension, or planet, or not even physically alive at all anywhere. The individuals in the ascension process were particularly infected with this strange disorder: many of the ordinary uninitiated public were already quite well aware of the contents of the message and were already actively engaged in the process. It was as if the interest in so called shifty matters was an obstacle, an ugly carbuncle over the heart.

                    Dispersee seriously wondered if the whole shift thing had been a good idea. She was beginning to doubt that it was. The alacrity with which people relied on messages from ghosts at the expense of exercising their own powers of deduction and intuition had caused the whole plan to do disastrously wrong. People didn’t even know how to behave like people anymore. Not only were they afraid of other people, afraid of their governments, afraid of their food, of the sun and the water and the very earth itself, they were afraid of their own human responses, or had forgotten them altogether.

                    Did it really need a ghost to advise people on media propaganda, and remind them to be compassionate to others who were on an incredible journey, an extraordinary movement during these times of change? And more to the point, did Dispersee need to be involved at all in this futile ascension malarkey?

                    #3955
                    F LoveF Love
                    Participant

                      But wait! What is this?

                      Her greedy fingers had located something unexpected; something dense and uncompromising was lurking in her precious nectar. Carefully, she explored the edges of the object with her finger tips and then tugged. The object obligingly emerged, a gooey gelatinous blob.

                      Dido sponged off the honey allowing it to plunk on to the table top. It did not occur to her to clean it up. Indeed, she felt a wave of defiant pleasure.

                      The ants will love that, although I guess Mater won’t be so thrilled. Fussy old bat.

                      She licked her fingers then transferred her attention back to the job at hand. After a moment of indecision whilst her slightly disordered mind flicked through various possibilities, she managed to identify the object as a small plastic package secured with tape. Excited, and her ravenous hunger cravings temporarily stilled in the thrill of the moment, she began to pick at the edges of the tape.

                      Cocooned Inside the plastic was a piece of paper folded multiple times. Released from its plicature, the wrinkled and dog-eared paper revealed the following type written words:

                      food self herself next face write water truth religious behind mince salt words soon yourself hope nature keep wrong wonder noticed.

                      #3932
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        Godfrey, what on earth are you mumbling about now, while that man is running around the grounds with a rubber duck in his hands! Please do focus on the matter at hand! He’s stumbled into the wrong thread, surely?”

                        Elizabeth wrung her hands. “The characters are all running amok!”

                        The Roberto story had been finished long ago ~ or had it?

                        Finnley would know. But where was she?

                        #3928
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Godfrey, shouldn’t you DO something about that? The characters are wandering all over the place, on the wrong threads, wandering right out of stories, whether they’ve been written out or not. They’re all just doing whatever they damn well want, it’s getting ridiculous!”

                          Obligingly Godfrey cackled loudly, in what Liz presumed was a game attempt to restore some order in the threads (mistakenly assuming momentarily that they were in Caketown) .

                          “Are they all turning into anarchists?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

                          “Don’t be daft, Godfrey, you can have characters that are anarchists, but you can’t have anarchists that are characters, where will it end? Who will be in control, and lead the story?”

                          “The writer will have to follow the lead of the characters, then, and support their moves with filler and back story.”

                          Elizabeth felt faint. “What are you suggesting?” she whispered, filled with dread and uncertainty.

                          #3825
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Gustave jumped when the phone rang, his heart hammering unpleasantly. Get a grip! he told himself sternly. Hesitantly he answered the call, expecting to hear an ear grating cackle.

                            “Can I speak to Leonora, please? It’s Bea here,” the voice requested.

                            “Er, sorry, I think you have the wrong number,” replied Gustave, feeling like a fool as he tried to calm his shaking hands.

                            Leonora Butterworth?” insisted the voice calling herself Bea.

                            Startled, he said “Ah, Butterworth’s the name, but I’m afraid I don’t know anyone called Leonora,” and then, astonished, he heard Bea start to sob and mumble incoherently.

                            “I’m so sorry, was it urgent?” he asked, already feeling a responsibility to help the unknown woman. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

                            “It’s the cackling,” Bea answered with a sniff, “It’s driving me mad. I thought a chat with Leo might help take my mind off it, but I haven’t seen her since the fiasco in Spain and I don’t know where she is, I was hoping this Butterworth number would be her and…..” her voice trailed off disconsolately.

                            “It’s driving me mad too,” Gustave was surprised to hear himself say. “I say, er, Bea,” he cleared his throat, “Would you fancy meeting for a drink in the Spotted Dick Inn? To, you know, take our minds off it?”

                            Gustave had regained his scientific composure somewhat, and was considering the benefits of an unexpected opportunity to research the effects of the cackling on the ordinary population.

                            Bea readily agreed, old tart that she was, and said she would be there in half an hour.

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