📚 › Quotes of Depth

References from the prolific philosopher E.P. Lemone, known under various names in nearly all dimensions for his pithy and cryptic comments, idolized by famous author Elizabeth Tattler —oft quoted, much less understood…

So the Story goes...

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  • in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #624

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Poke its eyes out! screeched Robert X exuberantly.

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

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

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

    in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #737

    Finnley, you let me in right this mooment! commanded Elizabeth Tattler imperatively.

    I am sorry, Ms Tattler, I am under strict instructions from Mr Arak that I am under no circumstances to let you in until this office has been cleaned. I will lose my job if I let you in.

    Now there’s an idea! she thought, toying with the idea momentarily

    Why that pompous, arrogant, supercilious proot ….. Elizabeth paused midflow to admire her vocabulary.

    Finnley was quite enjoying the change of routine, and Ms Tattler’s office really was a treasure trove of interesting bits and pieces. The thick layer of dust, and were those magpie droppings? were a little off-putting mind-you. She plucked a book randomly from the shelf, and lifting the visor of her protective faceshield in order to see better, gently wiped the title clean. “I am Perfect Indeed” The author was some fellow named Erwin P Lemone who Finnley had never heard of. She picked another one, “Basic Flying Massage Techniques of the Ancient Kuzhebar, Book One for Beginners” by Jibberish E Shrale

    Finnley, Elizabeth’s voice had taken on a wheedling tone from the other side of the door. Be a sweetie-pooh will you and put this note in my clooh-box. Finnley watched intrigued as a piece of paper inched its way under the locked door.

    Sure Ms Tattler, where is the clooh-box?

    On my office desk, next to the daily quotes. Don’t mess anything up Finnley dear, you be careful, I have very precious things in my office.

    Finnley could not resist a peek but the scribbled words made no sense to her

    Amanita muscaria intoxication typically produces macroopsia – Beckipooh?
    13th gate and the 13th skull FEBRUPOOH 20TH 2008
    The Snoot – who is he really?
    supercilious proot! Arak Dr Bronkelhampton? ? ? ? WHAT IS PLAN B?????????

    Her eyes fell on the daily quote for the day, that Lemone chappie again!

    rainy wedding, merry marriage

    She snorted derisively, He must be madder than Almad that Lemone, how silly! No wonder poor Ms Tattler seemed a bit mindblown sometimes if she reads stuff like that

    in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #747

    What a francitic woman thought Elizabeth, a bit less distressed now she had secured her last insights into her clooh-box.
    Hopefully, she could happily forget about those, and go for a walk to have some welcomed cooffee.

    Wishing she would not bounce into some unwelcome apparition, she trod her way to the outside world.
    How long it had been? With all that pressure from her publisher, she had almost forgotten how exquisite it all was outside.
    So simple, and yet so brilliant.

    It didn’t have the complexity of the Worlds of which she intuited things, nor the same amount of excitement it aroused in her, but nonetheless it was appeasing, and that was perhaps all she needed for the moment.
    Perhaps a walk to Garden Centrool would do her great.


    Sitting on a bench near the dribbling foontain where cuckoos were drinking at the sound of woodpeckers’ holes drilling, she became entranced by the sound of water, and almost felt like dancing at the cuckoos and woodpecker’s cooing and drumming beats…
    All this Lemone quotes were now far away… She’d had enough of them, and wanted simpler truths. Lively ones.

    She could feel inspiration flow back into herself, as she envisioned her favorite depiction of inspiration, the mangeloose Pigoosus. Elizabeth was reeling in its wonderful aura, seeing the squinting eyes of the creature, the magnificence of its sprawled wings, its awe-inspiring moose antlers, and the slick body of a foxy mongoose with a protuberant snoot.

    It all was symbolic of herself of course, the best depiction of all her awesome features. The snoot for curiosity (and nose in general), the wings for imagination, the antlers for connection, and the mongoose for the fearlessness and sex-appeal.

    Pigoosus, or Pigooh, as she called him, was telling him tales, tales that were spun between the gapping holes of her clooh-box items, and that were weaving them together in beautiful macramooh patterns.

    The Shift in Earth-dimension awareness is coming and it is revealing long-lost hidden things, that is the reason of these other-dimensional bleed-through on the islands. Where those having hoped to bury some artifacts away of consciousness, in that dimension where all was so separated that even Pigooh would have had trouble getting throoh. The skulls gates one by one open now.

    Pen! She needed a pen!

    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.


    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: Circle of Eights, Stories #792

    Elizabeth Tattler gazed at herself in the mirroor and sighed. Of course she was still stunningly bootiful, but since dear Eddie Foosher, her fourth husband, had decided to descend, she had lost the will to really care for herself. Day in and day out she had been focused on her writing, at first to ease the pain and loneliness, however increasingly she was finding real joy in her work. She looked lovingly towards the stoove where she was hardbooling a couple of mongoat oogs in preparation for some more Oogleton exploits.

    She turned back to the mirroor. I really do have glorioos eyes she reflected, even if still a tad bloodshot. She remembered the one occasion she had met the philosopher Lemone, many years ago now. What was that little loomerick he had written for her?

    Slowly it came back to her.

    There was a Young Lady whose eyes,
    Were unique as to coloor and size;
    When she opened them wide,
    Poople all turned aside,
    And started away in surprise.

    She smiled at the memory, how she would love to meet Lemone again! She remembered fondly how his air of kindly wisdom had far outshone his rather odd appearance and garish taste in cloothing.

    in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #876

    Oh what absoloote rubbish, giggled Elizabeth Tattler, taking another large sloorp from her 4th glass of red wine and putting large determined scribbles through the last chapter of the latest Noovel. It was the continuing saga of the Tifijikoo Island story. She really had to finish it, old whats-his-face was on the telepooh to her daily now, demanding to know when it was to be finished.

    More Sex! he had shouted at her last time. More sex, we want the bloody thing to sell don’t we!

    Well I have shut you up haven’t I, she snorted to herself, thinking happily of Dr Bronkelhampton passed out on the couch wearing a pink dress and mascara running down his face.

    More sex eh? Hooommmm, Elizabeth did not particularly believe in putting extraneous sex in her noovels. At the same time that character Veranassessee was annoying her a bit with all her indecisiveness. And what a bloody mouthful that name was. Was it too late to change it? hooommm probably. She had modelled her roughly on the cleaner, Finnley, quite an attractive girl despite her pooty face and superior, bossy ways.

    She vaguely remembered something a tutor at writing school had said to her once about writing sex scenes … what was his name? Emonel … no that was not quite right … Meenol! That was it!

    Make your writing detailed, with accurate depiction of suction noises

    Elizabeth broke into fits of laughter, slamming her fist on the desk gleefully and startling Robert X. (Unfortunately the fainting Mongoats had been banned from the building by that nasty Mr Arak)

    You know Robbie-pooh what is wrong with this?

    Robbie-Pooh, Robbie-Pooh, cackled Robert X.

    IT’S BOORING, The damn characters never do anything. Right well, time to fix that. She took another few slugs of her wine.


    Oh God, said Agent Gabriele. Who gives a shit about the Doctor or bloody magpies. I can’t stand this any longer. I must have you Agent V. He lunged towards her, ripping open her robe and exposing her naked body.

    You are so beautiful. All I ever wanted is you. That’s why I demanded this assignment on the Island … to see you again. I have not been able to get you out of my head. You’ve been driving me crazy

    NO NO, cried Veranassessee weakly, but her body said YES YES


    Agent Gabriele kissed her on the mouth, making strange and passionate slurping noises, and, unable to resist any longer, she gave in to his need for her.

    ( Yes, Yes, YES! snorted Elizabeth, momentarily unable to write for laughing. Hooommm what about that Mahiliki? He was pathootic. Did he want the girl or not for God’s sake? )


    Mahiliki stared anxiously out at the storm. He could think of nothing but his darling Veranassessee. He must know if she was alright. He must go to her. He grabbed his car keys and drove like a madman to the airport.

    ( Hoommm, thought Elizabeth, I really don’t know anything about small island airports and planes. Well booger that, I will research them later on the internoot )

    You must fly me to Tifijikoo Island! demanded Mahiliki, holding the pilot (who had been sitting out the storm in a little airport building thingy ) at knifepoint.

    Are you mad? said the pilot. There’s a freakin cyclone, or hadn’t you noticed?

    Yes, I am mad, I am mad with love. Fly me there or you are a dead man.


    ahahahaahah, laughed Elizabeth happily.

    in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #995
    F LoveF Love

      Elizabeth knew there must be something profoond in today’s “Words of Comfort for the Descending” quotation, after all, it was a Lemone quote:

      Better speak nonsense than be dead or sorry

      But for the life of her she could not find the significance. She sighed. Her brain felt so lifeless lately.

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1008

      Where in the name of Floove is it?

      Elizabeth Tattler held the telepooh away from her ear, and reflected serenely on the dust particles illuminated by the sunlight streaming in the window, while she waited for Bronkel to end his tirade.

      She was proud of herself for managing to keep her voodish nature in check and attributed this new found calm to the latest book by Lemone, although unfortunately, with all the brain foog she was experiencing lately she was unable to recall the name of it …. Wisp Away Your Energy Balls?

      Well no matter, something like that anyway ….

      And what was that bloody man going on about? WHAT deadline for her book! 8/8/08 ???

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1012

      Elizabeth just had a brilliant idea actually.
      Why not just print her rumbled heap of scattered notes… just as it is. In four volumes if needed.

      What Lemone was saying in his Words of Comfort for the Descended already?

      It’s not the writer’s job to piece the stuff life is made of together, it’s the job of the reader.

      “Bloody good point,” she’d be keoon saying.
      Trust the reader to take what they want, read on impulse… Whatever or not… She had a feeling that in the future when people are reading her stuff, that it will make more sense to them than to current day average readers.
      She was so leading-edge.

      Of course, her editor would make a fuss, but he would have no other choice than recognize her genioos.

      How exciting it all was.

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1110

      Elizabeth Tattler giggled to herself as she recalled her escapades of the night before. Why, it was years since she had been out dancing, and let alone in foom! Surprisingly it had been Finnley’s idea. A bit of a dark horse really that Finnley. Apparently she went to the foom parties regularly, on the pretext of dancing, but in reality to save on her laundry costs.

      Oh what a gloorious feeling! The techtonook music blaring, stroobe lights flashing, wet bubbly foom up to her neck. It wasn’t long before she had cast all her inhibitions aside, along with her cloothing, and was mooving and grooving along with the best of them.

      Who said dirty dancing couldn’t be good clean fun?

      Even Finnley’s rather disparaging sideways glances had not been able to diminish her exooberant joy.

      Elizabeth wondered what Lemone’s “Words of Comfort for the Descending” quotation was for that day. His words were always so appropriate it was almost eerie.

      When it’s too elaborate, it’s too weirdo, and when it’s pure delirium, it’s increasingly rubbish

      Well, perhaps the connection was not straight away obvious, but the sheer genius of the man’s mind never failed to render Elizabeth almost speechless with admiration.

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1161

      Perhaps I was a bit hasty in firing dear old Bronkel, poondered Elizabeth with a twinge of guoolt. Sure, he was mad as Almad and obsessed with deadlines, but at least he didn’t do my head in with all this psycho-booble like Godfrey PigLittleton.

      She sighed, and cast her eyes towards Lemone’s quote of the day for the descending. All morning she had been pondering the implications of his words:

      Clarify certain aspects, and take responsibility for how your energy is displayed, and do not rely on the machine to do it.

      Do not rely on the machine! Of course, herein lay the answer to all her diloomnas! She had been relying far too heavily on the machine.

      Which one though?

      She strongly suspected the compooter but she also knew he was a tricky booger that Lemone. Always talking in riddles.

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1166

      Elizabeth’s strange new way of spoocking Ooglish was starting to become oorie.

      That is, until she found a recoonforting quote from Lemone, as usual:

      “You all notice a change in vowellness of your Ooniverse. Even those who are unaware notice a changing shift in vowellness. This is a new emergence into a wonderful vowellness that you have all agreed and decided to accomplish.”

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1205

      Frankly, Elizabeth didn’t know what had prompted her to start this little fable about talking animools.
      It seemed so ridiculoos, and yet, she couldn’t help continuooing.

      She sighed a breathe of relief thinking of all the amount of twooddle she’d written in the past and managed to boost into best-sellers. Of course, that was probably thanks to the commercial genioos of dear ol’ Bronkel. She may have been making a dear mistake in firing him just because Piggy Sooffleston (she couldn’t even write his name prooperly) had a catchy name and a nice smooking suit.

      “Always the troolloop you little devil”, she chuckled to herself.
      “But now, look at this… The critics will lacerate me if I can’t make it more appealing… I can’t really resort to that old soox trick again; it will all start to look a bit oosy; ahhaah, oozy poosy, she was funny…”

      Let’s see what Lemone had to say for tooday:

      It’s all what the plumbing part is about actually; why it feels significant to me now: it’s the connective aspect…

      It was in his last inspirational work “Tools for the Cooties” and it had the wooirdest drawing together with it. Something looking like a woman’s broo, or a piece of white plastooc ploombing… She would have preferred some coonnected watermeloons instead…

      Oh this one looks better; her to a Tooh!

      Modesty is when you know you are perfect, but you never go further than telling that.

      in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2270
      F LoveF Love

        Just write anything. Anything you want! It is all rubbish anyway. Let your words dance across the page without thought for meaning! Prof Frantic Moose gesticulated wildly and enthusiastically from the front of the classroom.

        It is all rubbish anyway! Oh My God! That sounds like something Lemone would have said, thought Ann. Brilliant! and so incredibly freeing!

        She had been suffering from the dreaded ‘Writers Block’ for some weeks now and was secretly doing a Free the Fiction Writer Within, evening course. Disguising her true identity with a long red wig, dark glasses, and going under the pseudonym of Tracy Hoop, she was already feeling tremendously pleased with her decision.

        in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2420

        “There is one man to whom I am indebted,” said Shar, with a faraway look in her eyes.

        “Blimey, who’s that then Shar?”

        “Enric Lemoon is his name. One day he said words to me I will never forget, and at that moment, I knew that the most important thing in the world was that I learn to speak like him.”

        “Oh you do tell a good story, Shar. Go on then! I am all goggle eared. What’d that Enric chappy say to you?”

        “He said, the grumpy old cat must be white of old age by now.

        “Cor!” said Mavis in awe. “Bloody marvelous! Was it a code? You know, one of them brain teasers like?”

        Shar looked at Mavis pityingly and shook her head. “It was poetry, Mavis. Poetry.”

        in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2456

        Lilac was rendered momentarily speechless by Nastytart’s words. Picking up her Lee Mon novel, “Making Sense in a Crazy World” she opened it at random:

        Maybe you’re not ready for the profound revelation of utter sense?

        Of course! That was it. She was not ready! :yahoo_whew:

        Just at that moment, Sadie’s lemon quote pinged through on the e-zapper.

        Just don’t stop bringing your impulses because they make up for wonderful unexpectedness, twists and turns and plot rebondissements.

        Finnley, there you are!” Elizabeth snickered at the new Filipino maid, “don’t balk at me like that, darling, and read me a quote of dear ol’ Lemone, from his inspired words of wide wisdom in his new compilation of aphorisms Reduction of My Broad Thinking .”

        The new nurse was looking desperately around the nursing home’s room. She’d been warned her patient was a tough cookie, or that’s probably what they meant by ‘tart pickle’ anyway.

        “Yes, yes, that book!” Liz shrieked of delight. Since Godfrey left her for Marcella, she never quite recovered.

        She could hear the words pouring in her head like an earworm symphonie of words in knots, and of naughts in wad.

        Prunella started to read the phonebook with painful anguish, while Elizabeth was writhing in pure delight at the words she was hearing :

        “Pas de lieu Rhône que noue… Etymologically, the French word dénouement is derived from the Old French word desnouer, “to untie”, from nodus, Latin for “knot.” It is the unravelling or untying of the complexities of a plot. But can we unknot the knot we know not? Hence the need for good plot knot development. My denouement should be done in accordance with swift Japanese johakyo style, but never shy to include a few Dei ex machina, some toasted honeyed MacGuffins, or a tartine of marmite and red herring, washed down with Chekhov’s gunpowder tea.”

        “What was in the bag, Finnley, tell us!”
        Everyone was looking at the maid after the Inspector had left hurriedly, under the pretext of taking care of a tip he had received on the disappearance of the German girl.

        Godfrey was the most curious in fact. He couldn’t believe in the facade of meanness that Finnley carefully wrapped herself into. The way she cared about the animals around the house was a testimony to her well hidden sweetness. Most of all, he thought herself incapable of harming another being.
        But he had been surprised before. Like when Liz’ had finished a novel, long ago.

        “Alright, I’ll show you. Stay there, you lot of accomplices.”

        Godfrey looked at Liz’ sideways, who was distracted anyway by the gardener, who was looking at the nearby closet.

        Liz’, will you focus please! The mystery is about to be revealed!”

        “Oh shut up, Godfrey, there’s no mystery at all. I’ve known for a while what that dastardly maid had done. I’ve been onto her for weeks!”
        “Oh, don’t you give me that look. I’m not as incapable as you think, and that bloodshot-eyes stupor I affect is only to keep annoyances away. Like my dear mother, if you remember.”
        “So tell us, if you’re so smart now. In case it’s really a corpse, at least, we may all be prepared for the unwrapping!”
        “A CORPSE! Ahaha, you fool Godfrey. It’s not A corpse! It’s MANY CORPSES!”

        Godfrey really thought for a second that she had completely lost it. Again. He would have to call the nearby sanatorium, make up excuses for the next signing session at the library, and cancel all future public appear…

        “Will you stop that! I know what you’re doing, you bloody control machine! Stop that thinking of yours, I can’t even hear myself thinking nowadays for all your bloody thinking. Now, as I was saying of course she’d been hiding all the corpses!”
        “Are you insane, Liz’ —at least keep your voice down…”
        “Don’t be such a sourdough Godfrey, you’re sour, and sticky and all full of gas. JUST LET ME EXPLAIN, for Lemone’s sake!”

        Godfrey fell silent for a moment, eyeing a lost peanut left on a shelf nearby.

        Conscious of the unfair competition for Godfrey’s attention Elizabeth blurted it all in one sentence:
        “She’s been collecting them, my old failed stories, the dead drafts and old discarded versions of them. Hundreds of characters, those little things, I’d given so many cute little names, but they had no bones or shape, and very little personality, I had to smother them to death.” She started sobbing uncontrollably.

        That was then that Finnley came back in the room, panting and dragging the sack coated in dirt inside the room, and seeing the discomfit Liz’ with smeared make-up all over her eyes.

        “Oh, bloody hell. Don’t you tell me I brought that dirty bag of scraps up for nothing!”

        She left there, running for the door screaming “I’m not doing the carpets again!”

        And closed the door with a sonorous “BUGGER!”

        “Speaking of philosophical …” said Godfrey

        “Were we? Were we REALLY speaking of philosophical? Or were we talking about that … that … DERELINQUANT, Finnley. And SHE is anything BUT philosophical!”

        “I was speaking of philosophical … it reminded me of something I read recently … about the great philoosopher, Lemone, who as we know is the epitome of philosophicalness. The gold standard, if you will. It seems he has had a change of heart recently.”

        Liz wiped beads of nervous sweat off her forehead and sat down. “Do tell,” she said. “Perhaps he will soothe my troubled and long suffering soul.”

        “He has derogated his previous sayings as rubbish and issued a public apology. ‘Sorry about the nonsense comments,’ he is reputed to have said.”

        “Beautiful,” said Liz shaking her head in wonderment. “So succinct and humble. The man is a genius.”

        “You know, I wasn’t initially fond of this idea, GodfreyElizabeth said, while looking at Roberto doing the dishes. A bit unusual of her to spend time in the kitchen, probably her least favourite room in the house, but she was keen to revise her judgment as the view was never as entertaining.

        Godfrey was finishing a goblet full of cashews while leafing through the “Plot like it’s hot” new book from the publishing house that Bronkel had sent autographed and dedicated to Liz “without whom this book may have never seen the light of day”.

        Godfrey, are you listening to me? You can’t be distracted when I talk to you, I may say something important, and don’t count on me to remember it afterwards. Besides, what’s with the cashews anyway?”

        “Oh, I read they’re good natural anti-depressant… Anyway, you were saying?”

        “You see, like I just said, you made me lose my stream of thought! And no… the view is for nothing in that.” She winked at Roberto who was blissfully unaware of the attention. “Yes! I was saying. About that idea to write Finnley in the new novel. Completely rash, if you’ve had asked before. But now I see the benefit. At least some of it.”

        “Wait, what?”

        “Why are you never paying attention?”

        “No, no, I heard you. But I never… wait a minute.” The pushy ghostwriting ghostediting, and most probably ghostcleaning maid (though never actually seen a proof of that last one) had surely taken some new brazen initiative. Well, at least Liz wasn’t taking it too badly. There maybe even was a good possibility she was trying hard to stay on continuity track about it. Godfrey continued “Benefit, you said?”

        “Yes, don’t make me repeat myself, I’ll sound like a daft old person if ever a biopic is made of me, which by the way according to Bronkel is quite a probability. He’s heard it from a screenwriter friend of his, although his speciality is on more racy things, but don’t get me carried away. The benefit you see, and I’ve been reading Bronkel’s stupid book, yes. The benefit is… it moves the plot forward, with ‘but therefore’ instead of ‘and then’. It adds a bit of spice, if you get what I mean. Adds beats into the story. Might be useful for my next whydunit.”

        Godfrey was finding her indeed lingering a tad too obviously on the ‘but‘ and their beats, but abstained from saying anything, and nodded silently, his mouth full of the last of the cashews.

        Liz pursed her lips “Well, all this literature theory is a great deal of nonsense, you know my stance on it; I made my success without a shred of it…”

        “Maybe you’re a natural” Godfrey ventured.

        “Maybe… but then, they’ve got some points, although none as profound as Lemone’s. His last one got me pondering: finckleways is not a way in, delete it or it’ll get you locked out; only flove exists now. “

        in Reply To: Tart Wreck Repackage #6129

        “Clearly,what we do next, my friend, is free the middle-aged lady,” Tara smiled smugly.”First rule, notwithstanding that I hate rules, if you don’t know what to do, do what you do know what to do, even if you don’t want to do it because at least you’ve done something.”

        “Is that a Lemone quote?” asked Star. “Haven’t heard much of him lately.”

        “No, I made it up myself.”

        “Oh, well … I’m too tired to do anything.You do it, Tara.”

        “No, you do it! Lazy tart.”

        “I’ll do it!” says Rosamund, appearing from nowhere and bounding over to the wardrobe. “I want to borrow her lippy again.” She tugged at the door. “It seems to be stuck.”

        “Let Star try,” said Tara. “She goes to the gym.”

        “It does seem to be rather stuck,” said Star said after a few minutes of fruitless tugging. She knocked on the door of the wardrobe. “Excuse me, are you there? Excuse me … dreadfully sorry about all this.” There was no reply.

        “Dead,” said Tara. “Darn it.”

        Undaunted, Star tried again. After a particularly spirited tug, the door flew open and Star fell backwards. “She’s gone! But she left a note. Thank you, Ladies for your hospitality. This is a clue. At 4pm Thursday, go to the cafe on Main street. Vince French will be there..”

        Tara gasped. “Who was she? That seemingly innocuous middle-aged lady.”

        “Perhaps we will never know,” said Star.

        in Reply To: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn #6624

        I had to meet Devan at the garage; I didn’t want to raise suspicion calling an overseas number that would show up like a sore thumb in the next phone company invoice. Even with the occasional visitors calling for bookings, it was more Idle’s job to call back. She is funny when she’s got her headphones and microphone on, with that look from the 90s, taking her grand air and posh accent to answer people over skype. ‘Sister Idle dot com‘ I call her behind her back. She sounds like a mixture of an investigator and nun who would sell goose feather duvets made by the nunnery.

        Devan was punctual for once; we didn’t have a lot of time to use the phone at the counter while his boss was off for lunch.

        We looked at each other. “You sure you want to do that?” we both knew there was no turning back. It could be a sore disappointment, but how worse would that be compared to a rabbit hole of questions and potential emotional upheavals. Someone wise said (probably Henrich Lyeumon I think) “if you continue going down rabbit holes, you’re bound to find a lot of rabbit poop.”

        Devan nodded silently.

        I punched the numbers from the Gugu search.

        The connection seemed to take forever. Then a click. A gruff “Hello?” in a male voice.

        I don’t know why I blurted it out, but it came out without thinking.

        “Dad? Is that you?”

        “…” Devan looked at me alarmed and also with excitement in his eyes. There was a blank at the other end of the line.

        “Not on this line. I’ll call you back.”

        We looked at each other with Devan. Did we just hear what we heard? Given the look on Devan’s face, I’m pretty sure we did.

        We don’t have time to waste, his boss is already back, smacking his lips all shiny with chicken grease.

        Before I leave my brother to his job, we exchange hopeful glances. So a rabbit hole is it.

        My phone is buzzing.

        A message from [Unknown sender] — why didn’t it go to spam?

        “I’m on my way. ~ F”

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