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  • Head Parcel, the postie, met What, What Ever said, “Head, I’m What.” “You’re What?” said Head. “That’s right!” What said, “I’m What Ever, Head Parcel, or What.” :penthingy: ... · ID #922 (continued)
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Éric

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  • in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #814
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Dr Bronklehampton just put the finishing touch on his last work of art.

      It had required him more patience than he usually had for such things, but his guinea pig has been behaving quite docilely, well, docilely enough to make his task easier.
      The most painful part for the Doctor had been to beautify the visible scars which had appeared upon careful examination of his subject, but he was greatly helped in his task. In fact, he never ceased to be amazed by the accuracy of the information delivered by the costly computer that the Confregation had granted him to pursue his work.
      But now,… now, she was perfect. Lovely as like a Chinese porcelain doll.

      Now that things finally were coming back into focus, the distant voices around made him frown. He was even starting to become suspicious of that Veranassessee girl that had supposedly come to assist him, as she was becoming dangerously close to the experience subjects, not to mention the visits of that Gabriel.
      This island was becoming more and more a crowded resort rather than the secret facility it was supposed to be. Not that he really cared, now that his ultimate deadly bodyguard was finished…

      in reply to: Synchronicity #1755
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        I guess this falls under the category of syncs, though I’ve not yet found all of the implications of this yet…

        In the various extremely interesting and profound articles I found while browsing the news this morning, I found an intriguing article (FR): “She punches a snake with her bare hands!”. (they could have say “with her bare feet!” or better, “with her bare tits!”, that would have sounded more dramatic, and would have sold best… those wannabe journalists ;)) )

        Anyways, it tells the vibrant story of a woman named Ruth Butterwurth (sounds like our dear Mrs Butterbutt to me) who punched a python to rescue her kitty from its clutches (well no clutches really, fangs at best) of the monster.

        The article (which was posted the 23 rd of March, at 14:23, while it’s seems relatively old news) gave a link to a flickr photo with… guess what was on the same page, besides the Nanapython?

        A lemur, an antelope (looking a bit like a :goat: :yahoo_oh_go_on: ) and a lynx :cat_happy: too. :spider: :y_orly: :yahoo_big_hug:

        On the python article:

        In Greek mythology Python was the earth-dragon of Delphi, always represented in the vase-paintings and by sculptors as a serpent. Pytho was the chthonic enemy of Apollo, who slew her and remade her former home his own oracle, the most famous in Classical Greece.

        Mmm, Mrs Butterbutt and draggies? :detective:

        in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #810

        Quite frankly, Midora didn’t know how and where to look for Badul. She had spent lots of time delving into the labyrinth of chapters that composed the book, at first to no avail.
        Only after some familiarization with the narrative had she come to roughly understand that the two books where rewriting the pages —or even, rewiring them— so that each time she started over, it was like a similar yet different story. Most of the alternate versions did occur within the same kind of environment, or the same dimensions as the previous ones, but there were always all kinds of small hints that made her get a small hunch that it was not quite the same story she had read before that was taking place now.
        She had even become quite good at tracking down these flimsy moments where she found herself wondering what felt “different”, at odds, or simply not quite at the same place. Like in her dreams, these were precious cues telling her to pay attention. More than simple cues, of course some of them where howling at her face that something required her attention. The additions made by her distant relative Dory, or later on by her step-daughter Becky were compelling cases of such occurrences. Asynchronous apparitions of mummies sometimes reminded her of stories told by one of her father and where more generally speaking of symbolic death and regeneration, but when all of these cues where as many portals the details of which she could lose herself in…

        Naasir had told her to find Badul. She knew Badul… Like Midora herself, Badul was a facet of the dreaming dragon who was exploring the many facets of itself in an intricate play, and it felt to her that Badul was stuck somewhere in the process and required some attention. In fact, she remembered that in all the versions of the stories that she had read about, Badul’s history was never ended. Each time, he was on his way to explore the new land he had discovered, and somehow, he just never get there.
        When she was trying to get to the rest of the story, as much as she would search for it, there were only blank pages.
        Perhaps it was for her to write them, like Indy did after she encountered that mummy decades ago, not necessarily to exorcise the experience, but rather to learn more about her connections.

        What were her own connections? She wondered.
        What did happen to Badul on his way to the clandestine traveling portal of Gralm Tur? And why did it matter? Did he found something about the network, and some link to the skulls which have been an obsession for quite some time for some of the major and most intriguing characters of this inter-dimensional sopoohpera?

        Truth was, Badul felt a bit like an oddball to her. She didn’t know how to get close to him. Apparently, when she had read the early articles from her great-uncle Cuthbert, she had found out that he had connected quite well to the daunting character. As a matter of fact, most of his comments had helped flesh out the character, while most of the other participants in the books had been only remotely observing his deeds. However priceless these clues were, Midora knew by now that they were not absolute, and would rewrite differently if the story was asking for it. And in fact, perhaps her own addition would change whatever his fate would have been.

        :fleuron2:

        Midora could feel Badul differently now… a young boy, whom she is babysitting, in another life.
        Bastian is baby Badul’s name and he’s a toddler, a toddler exploring an unknown world made of colourful toys.
        Midora (her name’s Ada in that focus) likes to work for little Bastian’s family. The woman, his mother, looks a bit odd like Morticia Addams, or like a Cher just out of her bed, but Ada likes her. She’s busy traveling alot, and doesn’t have much time to care for the baby.

        Midora thinks she has read about his woman somewhere in the books…
        Could it be that? Yes,… there is little doubt about it.
        It seems like she’s just run into young Carla

        in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #799

        Yurick (also now spelt as Ewrick) had had great fun this week-end, each time the capricious neighbours’ baby was crying to be pampered.
        He had finally managed, thanks to a dream crash course in didjeridoo by Yann to master (well, almost) the impressive phallic abori-genius instrument. And it was turning each annoying cry into jolly peals of hysteric laughters and groovy vibes.

        Now what else? Dory was having an epiphany recently with all her spam box, investigating the reason of a sudden accrual of increasing size of manhood messages…

        So far so good…

        in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #797
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Oh my Gawd, must be the Devil’s at work! 666 th comment now…

          Becky was appalled at the new re-entry of the thought forever lost mummy.

          in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #795

          — Sorry for the confusion, the voice of Leörmn said, there may have been some traffic jam along the portal’s tunnel… I think we lost track of time somewhat.
          — But we’re arrived, aren’t we? asked Arona, still a bit grumpy about the cave moving.
          — Mmm, I suppose so. If my calculations are correct, we are. Although…
          — What?!
          Arona was starting to wonder what could possibly go more mind-boggling than it already was…
          Leormn puffed into a small-sized teal-bellied gyucko (a sort a cutie reptipooh) and started to wiggle away…
          — Have honey do’s, see you in a while!

          — Grumpf, always wiggling out this one… grumbled Arona.
          And where did they all go now? It seemed like once again, she had been left alone. Good riddance, better enjoy the calm before they come back.

          :fleuron:

          Malvina was enjoying this new place where she was in. She had felt that, in other Worlds, some of her other attentions had been moving too. Especially one who was having great funnie in her new housie which was harbouring a portal in a very ancient tree. And for most of these attentions, it was also a time of reunion with dear ones, and reactivation of a new kind of power.
          Perhaps the time was now for her too arrived, to reunite with her Sisters.

          Only thing was that, where she was now at this precise moment, her Sisters were not yet born…
          Interestingly, for a reason that only the mind of a century old wise dragon like Leormn knew —if she would trust it not to be a simple stroke of inattention and bad luck as he would try to make it appear— she was undoubtedly right where she had thought to be, a small island in the Eastern coastal area of Lan’Ork in the vicinity of the Marshes of Doom.
          Except that it was the Legendary Past…

          in reply to: Synchronicity #1731
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            <translating Jib’s energy>

            Ahahah, it’s funny Franci!
            Today and yesterday, I was in a training session and the guy kept saying stupid jokes and catch-phrases with 53 in them, like it’s the most natural thing to say! He also used a 23 once ;;)

            And last week-end with Eric, we started to install a server. And to access a distant server, we use a program called PuTTY (pronounced sometimes “pooty”)… And the server kept rebooting on its own, so we ended pouting a bit :D

            :yahoo_big_hug:

            </translating Jib’s energy>

            in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #790

            It had been a moonth now that Elizabeth had got her first encounter with Pigoosus, her inner inspirer, on a dirty bench of the public park littered with pigeons droppings.

            A whole moonth, and yet, it had been so full that she had barely noticed it passing. Even Finnley, the ever grunchy grumpy one, had felt ubiquitously absent (Elizabeth was quite fond of Lemone’s profoond quotes, and his consummate uooze of exquisitively bizarre words; so, “ubiquitously absent”, oxymoronic as it was, for all matter and purposes felt deliciously adequate to her present mood).
            So, yes, even Finnley… who had felt recently so deeply absorbed by flocks of dust bunnies that went around the corners.

            As for her, the grandioosa noovelist, she had used the inspiration of that day to take a break from that strange story she was writing, and which had accumulated so many loose ends that she’d grown yucky at the mere sight of a dish of spooghetti.
            Instead, she had written a small unpretentious (as far as she could, that is) novelette, or children book as her publisher said. Of course, everything a little bit out of the ordinary was only good for children, and in fact, she couldn’t care less. She had tremendoose fun writing the Extra-vagrant Illustrated Tales of The Oogletoon Twins. Not only writing in fact, but also illustrating that intermission work (which was a first, as she had mostly the habit of doing coollages of various pictures teafed around, hence her fondness for Robert the robber magpie).

            Notwithstanding, this was an interesting adventure for Elizabeth. Life was full of surprises, and she wouldn’t have thought that in becoming more “down to Oorth”, as her parents would have exhorted her to do, so to spook, she would have indeed be really, really closer to Oorth, but nonetheless, still in fairy land. Ahaha, that was putting her in the greatest of moods.
            She smiled a broad smile to a fidgeting Finnley who was under the glowing neon light of the dark copy machine room, apparently in great conversation with some invisible being, as she went past the room, on her way to her office.

            :fleuron2:

            Checking on her compooter (her gorgeous iPear) she noticed an email from Barash… Another publisher that she was considering working with, when her current one had felt hesitant at publishing her illustrated book.
            Decidedly, everything was going well for her these days.

            in reply to: Join me for a gourd of langoat milk…… #1431
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Here, some real beers for all :beer: :beer: :beer: :beer:
              A rose :big_rose: for the kiwis :kiwi:
              And even for the eggleton twins :egg_wink: :egg_wink:
              Mandrake :cat_black: seems to wonder :y_orly:

              Yours truly, a.k.a. the buffoonish Yuki :bunny_head: :buffon:

              in reply to: Synchronicity #1728
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Coinciding with Finn’s dream about the story, Yurick has got a dream this morning too, about Finn’s role in the story and they were exchanging about Finn’s new role as Captain Fraggart, a spaceship commander loosely based on Peter Quincy Taggart in the movie Galaxy Quest. Finn was having great fun with this character and his explorations of timespace travels, and discoveries of funny and nonsensical alien worlds.

                More objectively, Yurick and Yann were having much less fun washing some “white square soft cushions” (sofa covers) this week, and tremendous fun growing plants of all sorts. Some were already sprouted up while others were patiently following their natural slow flow.

                :yahoo_good_luck: :yahoo_big_hug: :yahoo_good_luck: No rush…

                in reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud #2012
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Continued sleep…
                  Egg let free mummy.
                  Please post light later.
                  Franci(‘s) mouse perfect.
                  Eschraiel slowly felt plan.
                  Russian aspects lost (in the) park.

                  in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #787
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    A draft suddenly went through the open window, rattling a pile of previously disarrayed papers that Finnley had neatly put on the desk, catching the office cleaner by surprise.
                    (Albert is wondering now what is the gender of Finnley, but probably that has to do with his new exploration and isn’t very important. Al is agreeing with himself on using handy ellipsis)

                    Finnley, perplexed by the thoughts having went in accompanying the rogue wind, closed the opened window. The air was decidedly more breathable, now the emanations of nicobeck were dispersed. Not to mention the trails of that magpie’s droppings. Finnley would gladly do with a bootle to roll them into a big ball.

                    What was with the third-person talking anyway? Finnley was wondering… And who is Al? Finnley knew of a Haley, but no Al for sure…
                    Surely that Tattler’s madness was contagious…

                    Putting the papers back onto the desk of Mrs Tattler (yes, I think she’s a she this one), Finnley notices something that catches Finnley’s eye (“stop messing with my thoughts!” thinks Finnley)…

                    … They were thus one of the first sentient races created by the Powers with limited awareness to populate the lands of Dooane (note: replace all previous occurrences of “Earth” with Dooane, and M’si with Moortuane). Uglings were dwarfish, a bit stout and let’s say plain ugly for most of them. But they inherited a keen mind and greatest forging skills.
                    Uglings revered the Power known to them as the Goddess of the Earths, Margiloonia, as their resemblance with raw clay and unpolished rocks were for them the evidence of such lineage. Combining their craft, they created an exquisite cup in dedication to the Goddess. Huriol, the First Ugling King in these times of Legend was given the cup to care for.
                    The Power known as Margiloonia upon seeing this offering of acknowledgment to her was very pleased and imbued the cup with transmootation powers which could be used by its true owner for healing, and some said, even to resurrect the flesh…

                    A loud knock at the door drew Finnley out of the contemplation.

                    Isn’t that vacooming done yet? I have a book to write! The stridulent voice of Elizabeth Tattler was asking behind the still closed door.

                    in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #781
                    ÉricÉric
                    Keymaster

                      What are you talking about Becky?! Al sighed at another deranged vision of Becky having bowel troubles, pushing and rolling big poops in front of her like a sacred Egyptian scarab, and leaving for Elvira some funny thread to follow in the Park…

                      in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #783

                      When the black puppet panther had said Aimée was right about Yann being connected to Ungoliant, it struck him that he was also connected to Narani
                      Interesting developments that would be on the island of the giant spiders… one focus of Araili remembering his connections on another level…

                      in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #782
                      ÉricÉric
                      Keymaster

                        And then Al said “I AM that I am”.

                        Phew. Germaine was right, he could just let go of Becky’s feelings like this. That was quite a ride, and Al wasn’t sure he would do it again anytime soon. Perhaps with dolphins, there would be less vertigo…

                        Last Tobi show yesterday had been running earlier with a stand-in for Tobi the ventriloquist. But Germaine the fortune teller with her crystal ball was good too.
                        She had said, with a stern teacher look and her horn-rimmed glasses, to take a breathe, dive into the ball, and feel.

                        Of course Tina, with all the courses she’d taken lately, was well aware of these, but Al was not very fond of diving too much into other’s feeling. He always found himself waddling in other’s muck. Had enough of his own.
                        But now he had the magic words, or at least, the magic finger snapping movement.

                        I AM that I am.

                        Phew… That ride had been scarier and funnier than any scary tartignole movie.

                        in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #780
                        ÉricÉric
                        Keymaster

                          Dear… And I always thought Beattie was a male name… Isn’t that funny? Al mused as he felt wrapped into the gortex (a kind of water-proof vortex specially fit for skimpy undies under torrential rains) of Becky’s thoughts…

                          Not that it mattered.

                          Albert was starting to question his own gender now… Could be another funny bodily exploration.
                          Hope Tina wouldn’t mind.

                          in reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud #2011
                          ÉricÉric
                          Keymaster

                            egg times away heard
                            articles himself matter
                            phone russia warm
                            sanso information watch
                            remember bring later yourself
                            dragon guests keep book

                            in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #767
                            ÉricÉric
                            Keymaster

                              State of Marshall VS Vinya Grey
                              extracts of procedure 5057TP on case of unsolved time-blink that may have interfered with the timeline – Aug. 5th, 2237

                              — As you are certainly most aware, Ms Grey, local authorities of the T FGF P (Timespace and Further Geodimensional Flux Police) has recently uncovered a case of unexplainable appearance of a new species within the past.
                              The genetic makeup of this species bears some rather crude indication of human interference, though no official authorization has been recorded on its behalf. Our investigations have led us to believe you may have more than a little to do with this incident, which is, as you are once again quite aware, within the boundaries of decree 5533 on allowed and banned interferences and seeding into the timeline.

                              — Objection, Judge! Prosecutor Arkandiusz is trying to intimidate my client. No proof has been yet produced that may confirm or infirm these allegations.

                              — Mmmm… Objection rejected. Please continue Mr. Arkandiusz.

                              — Shall I remind Ms Grey that the voluntary or involuntary seeding of new species within other areas has most of the time been disastrous, which is the reason of the decree aforementioned. Precedents were numerous even when our ancestors were not even aware of the possibility of time interference. Rabbits in Australia, does it ring any bell?

                              — Objection, Judge! We are not talking about deadly pests here, we are talking about severely handicapped goats! Jeeze, come on…

                              — … Do you mean, the Fainting Goats of our annual Fair, Mr Frey?

                              — Yes, Judge Cornwick.

                              — Oh, that is most interesting… Well, perhaps after this long introduction you may want to introduce your first witness Mr Arkandiusz, Ms… Beryl is that?

                              in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #766

                              In the middle of the Aborigines Village in Tasmania, Sam was carrying a heavy wooden pail of kangaroos shite to spread on the crops of the Dreamtime.

                              Looking at the scene, a Tasmanian Devil was laughing frantically.
                              — Hinhiiinhiiiin, that old woman was tricky wasn’t sheeeeeee?

                              He was now standing in front of a huge rainbow-coloured Nanaconda.

                              in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #765
                              ÉricÉric
                              Keymaster

                                After hours and hours of lessons in the middle of stinky pelts in their log cabin, it didn’t take Elvira long to realize taxidermy wasn’t really her forte either.

                              Viewing 20 replies - 1,461 through 1,480 (of 1,726 total)

                              Daily Random Quote

                              • Head Parcel, the postie, met What, What Ever said, “Head, I’m What.” “You’re What?” said Head. “That’s right!” What said, “I’m What Ever, Head Parcel, or What.” :penthingy: ... · ID #922 (continued)
                                (next in 12h 01min…)

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