Tracy

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  • in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #310
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Allow me to explain, George said kindly. But first, come with me. We’ll have our chat somewhere bright and sunny, we’ve spent long enough in this dark cave. Waiting for who knows what, he added with a wink. If you hold my hand and allow me to guide you, we’ll have a picnic on the banks of the Little Brook.

      Dory hesitated. After all, it was George who had given her that drugged coleslaw. The thought of the Little brook and the sunshine was appealing though, and Dory decided to take her chances and go with George.

      She held his hand and closed her eyes, and sank herself back to the back of her mind and relaxed. She felt her body buzz a bit and a ‘falling into a vortex’ kind of feeling, not at all unpleasant, and in no time at all felt the sun warm on the top of her head and the bright sunlight lighting up the back of her eyelids. When she opned her eyes she was surrounded by ferny bracken and dappled silver birch trees and sheep nibbling the close cropped carpet of grass.

      in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #308
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        When Dory finally woke up from her coleslaw induced stupour, she felt quite befuddled. What a peculiar trip it had been! I’ve taken some recreational drugs in my time, Dory thought, but I’ve never had a trip quite like that one. She wondered what on earth George had drugged the coleslaw with. Dory closed her eyes again, recalling snatches of the hallucinations.

        Being chased by bandits on hairpin mountain roads with a small baby girl in the car; being held at gunpoint by Idi Amin in an Afrian court; running, running, gasping with terror, chased by old fashioned Bobbies on pushbikes, and dough faced bowler hatted debt collectors…..

        Dory’s heart was pounding again as she recalled the images that rolled along like a crazy movie montage, a psycho thriller, a horror movie…..

        ……being held down under the bathwater as a baby with a vicious scowling face looming above her; fighting with a witch in the garden shed for tense petrifying hours; monstrous demons snaking blacky out of ouija boards, and madness and asylums; a man lying in a double bed dying from self inflicted stab wounds and she was shouting and calling and nobody hearing; running, running and gasping, shouting for help and no-one was there…..

        Well, Dory pulled herself together, No point in dwelling on it, it was just a freaky bad trip.

        Coffee? George asked.

        Dory’s head snapped round. Huh? Oh! Gosh, YES please! You’re still here are you? Dory rubbed her eyes and shook herself a bit. Just the mention of coffee had already started to snap her out of her unpleasant reverie.

        Of course I’m still here, Dory, George said kindly. I am always here. I was with you during you trip, every step of the way, but you were not focused on me.

        You WERE? Dory was momentarily non-plussed. And then, Well why did you let all that awful stuff happen then? Why didn’t you help me? You just stood there and watched?

        in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #303

        Becky woke up in a sweat. Her bedclothes were tangled and what remained of her pillow was on the floor. The room was full of downy feathers.

        Sheesh, said Becky, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of her eyes and reaching for her cigarettes.

        What a dream! Wow, I wonder what that witch did to deserve that! Becky couldn’t quite believe she’d had such a violently aggressive dream. All she could really remember was attacking a witch, and slapping her repeatedly, and punching her, screaming all the while DON’T…EVER….DO THAT AGAIN Wangwangawanga…… DON’T DO IT wangawanga… then the witch had turned into a goose, but still Becky kept punching her, causing the poor gooses feathers to fly everywhere, and all the while Becky kept shouting WANGAWANGAWANGA……

        I can’t believe I did that, even in a dream! Becky hated violence so much that she walked out of the room if a violent scene was showing on the television, and she loved witches and geese.

        That poor goose! Becky decided to go back into the dream, to smooth what was left of the gooses ruffled feathers, and apologize.

        She stubbed out her cigarette, and settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Now the goose was looking at her reproachfully, in between straightening her plumage, and huffing and tutting a bit.

        I’m awfully sorry about that! I don’t know why I did it. Becky hoped it was a forgiving kind of goose, and not a vengeful one.

        It matters not, I suppose, grumbled the goose, I must have created being slapped around by a sweaty madwoman, though gawd knows why.

        Were you a witch in another focus? Becky asked. Because I was angry with a witch initially, not a big white goose and I don’t know how I came to be pummeling you. Come to think of it, I don’t know why I was attacking the witch either. The witch did look unpleasant though, but you look nice enough….

        Well I don’t look very blimmen nice with my feathers in this state, dearie! And don’t remind me of that dratted witch focus, gawd, I was horrid. Not surprised you lashed out at that one!

        Becky started to relax. Things were looking promising. The goose was turning out to be rather sweet.

        But as you can see, continued the goose, I am not a witch, I am a big white goose now, a rather sweet one too, even if I do say so myself, so let’s hear no more about it.

        Becky smiled broadly at the goose. I appreciate that very much! Oh by the way…what’s your name?

        Angela, answered the goose, Angela Wing.

        REALLY? Becky said, rather rudely, and then caught herself and said: Angela! What a lovely name! Angela Wing, would you like to be in our play?

        in reply to: Join me for a gourd of langoat milk…… #1352
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          :weather-few-clouds: :pirate: :weather-clear: :pirate: :world: :pirate: :pirate:

          in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #301

          Illi was quite pleased with the sand dragons.

          HHHMMM, they don’t repulse me like dragons usually do. I think it’s because they are sand dragons, and sand is so much nicer than slimy cold scales. Well! Illi thought, I really wouldn’t know if they are slimy or cold, because, for the love of all-that-is, I would not choose to venture that close!

          Illi chose to ignore her rather paradoxical musings on loving all that is, which would by definition include the beastly dragons, and turned her attention to the sand giant slouching patiently at the end of the beach.

          Now giants, that’s another thing entirely. I am quite enamoured of giants, and this one looks so familiar!

          Illi leaned back against the sand dragons bulky body and closed her eyes, reminiscing about her early years as Illi Fergusson, and her eccentric family.

          ~~~

          When Illi was a young child she rarely saw her parents, the eccentric Lord Gustard Willoughby Fergusson and his charmingly batty second wife, Floribunda Chaiise-Loriket. Illi stayed at home in the anscestral country pile in Dorset, Rubbingdon Hall, with Nanny Chraddock while her parents travelled the world in search of giant bones and artifacts. Their travels took them far and wide, from the jungles of South America to the deserts of North Africa; from the mountains of Spain to the arid eternity of the Australian outback.

          Illi used to play a game with Cranky (as she affectionately called nanny Chraddock) in the long months while her parents were away, called Wish House. Every room in the sprawling Elizabethan house was a different time and place, and the moment they entered the room they imagined themselves to be different people, in other times. Petunia Duster the maid loved to join in too; consequently not alot of housework got done, but with Gus and Flora always off travelling, nobody minded. Playing was, after all, so much more important than dust. In fact, a thick layer of dust made the rooms all the more mysterious and magical.

          in reply to: Talks on the latest Instalments #1448
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            http://www.north-of-africa.com/article.php3?id_article=418

            This might be a better link for the comment about the connection between Egypt and Tuaregs :) :weather-clear:

            as well as the Egypt connection :

            At Jabbaren, he found a city with alleys, cross-roads and squares. The walls were covered with hundreds of paintings. Jabbaren is a Tuareg word meaning “giants” and the name refers to the paintings found inside the city, some of which depict human figures that are indeed gigantic in size. One of them measured up to eighteen feet high. Several of these paintings depicted “Martians” and for Lhote, it was the first time he discovered paintings of hundreds of oxen. Jabbaren was soon labelled one of the oldest sites of the Tassili.

            I think the mummy may be 6 meters tall………(Rahim told me that the tombs there were extraordinarily long….and we did have a giant enter the story ….) :yahoo_thinking:

            ~~~~~~~~~

            AND: The Tassili n’Ajjer

            …..the Hoggar Mountains and the Tassili n’Ajjer, one of the most enchanting mountain ranges on this planet……

            There were largely two forms of rock paintings, distinguishable by the location in which they were found. Some were found in rock shelters, such as at Aouanrhet. These sites were where the shaman performed his divination, as the face of a rock was often seen as a doorway to another dimension (another parallel with the paintings in the French caves).

            (this reminds me of Oversoul Seven! # book by Jane Roberts)

            Though one could interpret their location as the work of a nomadic people, Lhote’s team also found several urban settlements.
            He found small concentrations of human activity around Tan-Zoumiatak in the Tin Abou Teka massif. It was a little rocky citadel that dominated the gorge below. The citadel was cut through with a number of narrow alleys. Lhote described the art he found here as: “There were life-size figures painted in red ochre, archers with muscular arms and legs, enormous ‘cats’, many scenes with cattle, war-chariots and so forth. Up to this time I had never seen figures of this sort in the Tassili and the mass of paintings that I managed to view that day quite put into the shade all those I had seen up to then.”

            more:

            http://www.philipcoppens.com/tassili.html

            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            ENORMOUS CATS?????? :yahoo_surprise:

            in reply to: Yurara Fameliki’s Story ~ Glossary #1516
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Clueslaw…..an exciting abundance of clues :bounce:
              Cluverload……an overwhelming abundance of clues :yahoo_hypnotized:

              in reply to: Synchronicity #1525
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                There was an article in todays newspaper about a mummy found in the 1920’s (Tut comes back to London) :yahoo_skull:

                in reply to: Synchronicity #1524
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  :yahoo_skull: :yahoo_applause: :yahoo_skull:

                  in reply to: Synchronicity #1522
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Another wonderful and bizarre sync! I have no idea why I said ‘coleslaw experiment in the desert’ haah!:yahoo_good_luck:(closest thing to a cabbage icon)

                    in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #297

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

                    Love,

                    Becky.

                    PS, Becky added as an afterthought in her letter to dear old Wrick, Al’s so looking forward to meeting you in the ‘Amusement Park’ in Central Park, I hope you will disillusion him gently as to the nature of projecting and out-of body excursions……I will leave it to you, Wrick old boy, to decide how best to handle it. Ah, you wise old buffoon, I can hear you saying it now: Al’s choices are perfect, as are yours. Becky smiled fondly and added to the postscript: Wrick, you’re a brick, old stick.

                    in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #295

                    Becky had decided to take her friends out for the day. Poor Al needed a break from scratching his head in confusion, and dear Tina needed a break from rubbing her aching temples. She knew Sam would enjoy a day out too.

                    Becky was enjoying preparing the itinerary.

                    Champagne breakfast at the Droles de Dames cafe in Le Touquet~Pu first, a table reserved under the gaily striped awning overlooking the sea. Fresh croissants and hot coffee, Bavarian cream donuts, tangy fresh squeezed Tesorillo orange and Tiki kiwi juice, scrambled dragon eggs on French toast, and Moroccan mint tea.

                    The exhibit of Sand Sculpture was next, a pleasant stroll on the beach after breakfast would be just the ticket, Becky thought.

                    Next, a little side trip to place a few hibiscus blooms on the grave of Oscar Wilde. He was buried at the Father Chase Memorial Garden on a mossy knoll overlooking the sand sculptures, a short stroll from the beach.

                    A golden coach and six dappled grey horses would meet them at Father Chase gardens and take them to the lawns of Sandlebright Hall, for the hot air balloon ride. The big red balloon would land on Isla de los Perdidos, a magical island in the Rift Straits, for a picnic lunch under the coconut trees and a relaxing swim in the deliciously warm lagoon. Balti had agreed to provide head massages for the little party of day trippers, and had suggested a big iced jug of crop juice as the perfect accompaniament.

                    A paddle steamer would arrive to take them back to the mainland after the sojourn on the magical isle. There were comfortable whicker steamer chairs on the deck with cosy tartan blankets for those wishing to snooze a little, or raucous poker games inside the red plush interior for those who chose to exercise their creating skills on the green baize tables.

                    The Cirque de Paradoxia matinee was on the agenda for the afternoons entertainment, with the new sonic stone juggling as one of the highlights.

                    A theatre supper in Covent Garden, Becky had decided, and the Orient Express was the perfect way to get there. Hercule Poirot had kindly agreed to serve drinks and nibbles on the journey. Becky perused the entertainment section of The Reality Times, wondering which play to take her freinds to. Aha! Salome, of course!

                    Becky considerately booked rooms at the Hogwarts Hotel on Queen Street for her friends to freshen up and change, ready for the evenings festivities. A hot pink stretch limosine would call for them and escort them to the Blue Man Group show, and then on to the party at the Dragondrome Stadium.

                    Becky booked rooms at the Taj Mc Fal Hotel for her friends to retire to after the party, whenever they so wished…the pink limo would be available all night.

                    There, said Becky in satisfaction, they will love it.

                    in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #294

                    Illi was beginning to really appreciate being dead and the freedom it provided to create whatever she wished at a moments notice. She’d enjoyed being a shape shifter while she was alive, often changing into a rather odd cat-like creature which was one of her favourites. She’d had tremendous fun over the years, confounding people with that one! Is it a cat? Is it a person? Is it a goat? A mongoose? hahaha what fun she’d had!

                    Illi surveyed the long glittering white beach on her paradise island. There must be a million billion grains of sand here. I think I will conjure up some sand sculptures, fill the beach with fantastic magical creatures….

                    Illi picked up a bambu cane to use as a magic wand ~ not that she needed a wand in order to perform magic, but she rather liked waving a stick around.

                    Abracadabra the magic palabra, fairies and goblins and sprites!

                    In an instant the beach was full of sand sprites, a veritable sea of impish little figures as far as the eye could see.

                    HHHMM, though Illi, they are all so small, I’d like something big I think, for contrast and added dimension.

                    Abracadabra the magic palabra, centaurs and unicorns and giants!

                    Lordy, the giants had flattened whole tribes of sand gnomes. A few less giants, I think! Illi waved her magic wand of cane again, and disappeared all but one of the giants. RaFa the Giant, you may stay on my beach, Illi graciously declared to a kindly looking character of monstrous proportions who had considerately appeared at the very end of the beach so as not to flatten the sand sprites.

                    On impulse, Illi found herself chanting the spell again…Abracadabra the magic palabra, DRAGONS appear on my beach!

                    Four splendid sand dragons appeared in the shallows of the lagoon, sensuously sepentine in appearance, and sparkling in the tropical sun.

                    in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #292
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Becky, if the truth be told, was astonished at the lack of logical comprehension of the other script writers on her additions to the reality play. And not only that, they seem to have missed completely the Key Point of her recent addition to the unfolding saga. She sighed.

                      She’d thought Tina might have cottoned on to it, she was always banging on about keys, and sand, but no, she was too obsessed with her ‘alien invasion’ to even notice. And what was ‘reverting back to her own true self’ all about? How ‘real’ was that? In all of Reality Becky had never known an ‘absolute true self’… Reality According To Becky was like… well, like sand….shifting, moving, changing, ever forming and reforming… why, a single grain of sand could even be in more than one place at the same time, shifting and forming and changing in many realities all at once…

                      Becky sighed again. Whoever in all of reality would want to contain all the grains of reality sand inside the confines of one measly sandbox?

                      in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #289

                      The arrival of the noisy pink fairy was the last straw for Illi. She imagined her deserted island again and made sure she paid attention to imagining it completely deserted this time. No more fat nuns appearing from the heavens or squalking fairies!

                      Illi made the new island a paradise….she magicked up staff when she wanted food or a massage, a gaggle of party people for when she felt like dancing, and blithely disappeared them when she was done. Mostly Illi slept. Her favourite spot was near the lagoon on the sand under the coconut trees. She lay and dozed and drifted and dreamed and imagined and dozed some more, trailing her fingers through the sand, pushing little heaps of sand here and there, pulling them back, making channels and watching the sand sift back in and disappear them. She dreamed of sand sculptures, an astonishing variety and all made from…sand! Tiny grains of sand, made into anything at all…..every tiny grain of conscious energy…made into anything at all…..and in comes the tide and washes and ripples a clean new beach….to make anything at all……

                      in reply to: Join me for a gourd of langoat milk…… #1350
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        It was divine:face-angel:

                        in reply to: Talks on the latest Instalments #1447
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          :yahoo_alien: Oh is this wh :yahoo_confused: at the salmon was all about! Eric, the Elias quote you posted in the diary is exactly what I was wondering about yesterday! Interesting….. :world:

                          in reply to: Circle of Eights, Stories #287
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            India Louise and Eugenia momentarily forgot about the gold locket and walked over to the exceptionally long trunk. India dropped the locket into her pocket as she investigated the exterior of the trunk, which didn’t appear to have an opening. It seemed to have been made around whatever it housed, and permanently.

                            ‘How strange’, mused India, ‘it must not be intended to open, ever!’

                            ‘That makes me want to open it’, said Eugenia. ‘Let’s! Let’s open it!’

                            Eugenia was rummaging in the desk drawers for a suitable tool.

                            ‘Wow, look at this, Indy’. She held a heavy black letter opener up to show India, with an elaborate carved dragon on the handle. The dragon had glittering amethyst eyes, and a serpentine line of coloured stones along its back.

                            India shivered involuntarily at the sight of the dragon. Horrid nasty creatures, dragons, she muttered, resisting an urge to cross herself. ‘Peace be with you, now bugger off’ she whispered the spell under her breath so Eugenia wouldn’t hear her and think she was a silly goose. Horrid scaley slimy stinky reptiles.

                            ‘You go first, Genie, try and prise the trunk open.’ India didn’t want to touch the letter opener, but she was rather curious about the contents of the trunk.

                            Eugenia was a strong and capable lass, with a practical methodical mind ~ unlike India Louise ~ and before long the first piece of wood came splintering off.

                            ‘Nice one, Genie, well done.’ India said as Eugenia wrenched off another few planks.

                            ‘Oh MY GOD!’ ‘Jumping Jehosophat!’ ‘What the……’ ‘Holy Moly, Genie, what the….’. After a few initial exclamations, the girls were silent, the hair standing up on their arms.

                            They were looking down at the shrivelled features of a dried up body, covered in bits of disintegrating faded fabric.

                            ‘A mummy! It’s a friggen mummy!’

                            in reply to: Join me for a gourd of langoat milk…… #1348
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              PS Merging group head massage at 4:00PM TRT…join me! :face-angel:

                              in reply to: Join me for a gourd of langoat milk…… #1347
                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                psssttt!!! Change of venue this morning, meet me in Munchies at 11:30TRT :yahoo_coffee:

                              Viewing 20 replies - 2,121 through 2,140 (of 2,205 total)