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So the Story goes...

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  • in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #623

      Elizabeth Tattler stared morosely at her screen. Her long hair, formerly her crowning glory was wild and matted, small bald patches had formed where she had begun to habitually pull at it. Her beautiful violet eyes for which she was famous were bloodshot from weariness.

      Ms Tattler was known planet wide for her series of children’s books “The Fickle Four”. The exploits of Almad, Tinigrump, Samnuf and Bekipo were beloved by children of all ages and planetary connections, although perhaps most endearing to those of the Fumari dimension who had a natural disposition for exploits of such fickleness. The catchprase “Bit rude Tinigrump”, and “Madder than Almad” had become part of the national vocabulary in recent years.

      Formerly Ms Tattler had written, with limited success, novels of a more adult nature, drawing on her numerous marriages for creative inspiration. However her publisher had asked her to create a series about four friends who were on a mission to create other worlds, the focus being on “providing positive and fun role models” for children growing up in these difficult times of planetary upheaval. The works were in the science freakshow genre of writing and the popularity of the original novel had been unprecedented, taking Elizabeth and her publisher by surprise and leading for the demand for many more.

      Ah, she sighed, and then spluttered as she inhaled the dusty, smoky air, but what a noose this has created. Her yellow nicobeck stained fingers touched her neck and then ran agitatedly through her hair. For at some point, when did it start? the story had begun to take a life of its own. She no longer felt in control as plots became more and more bizarre. She felt unable to follow anything through, creating endless threads which seemed to lead nowhere. She looked around her small office, everywhere was the evidence of stories started and discarded, screwed up pieces of paper covered in frenetic doodles littering the floor.

      The telepooh began to buzz. She knew it was Bronkel her publisher before his face came up on the screen.

      I know you are there Elizabeth. Will you pick up please!

      In a fit of rage Elizabeth picked up the telepooh and threw it across the room, where it narrowly missed Lana, one of her 20 fainting Mongoats she kept as pets. Lana fainted for a few seconds in fear and Robert X, her pet Magpie, hopped around delightedly, Bugger the telepooh, Bugger the telepooh! he screeched. Poke its eyes out! Poke its eyes out.

      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 #625

      The buzzing of the telepooh woke up Elizabeth with a flinch, her heart pounding in fast tremolos.

      She grumbled restlessly, her throat dry and itchy and her limbs still limp from slumber; she was in a dream, and already, she was feeling the unusual distinct clarity of the dream scenario gently fade as her attention was focusing upon the unwelcome sound which had a distorting quality of her yet poorly focused perception of her surroundings.

      The buzzing ceased abruptly. She opened an eye to see the ID of the caller, but it was not displayed. Bugger the caller
      Still feeling groggy, she was hanging to the last images of her dreams. It was telling her a story, a legend… Something full of grandeur, like a galactic opera filled with awe, drama and excitement… A renewed fount of inspiration…

      The voice of the lady who had been telling her that story was still inside her head, all she had to do was to slightly let herself drift into the numb and warm state of mind in which she was some minutes ago…

      You are tapping into a mass event. You are translating but a minute portion of it, though it seems colossal already. It is in fact so wide that it reflects in many other worlds which all live in your imagination. Bound together, they represent more books that you could write in a lifetime, more books that you and any army of ghost-writers could write in a thousand lifetimes…

      The voice was delightfully soothing, and Elizabeth was seeing herself drifting again in the blissful sleep bereft of irate publishers’ diktats. Beaming at her, Elizabeth could envision a light feminine figure with flowing dark hair illuminated by green-blue shimmers. How could she ever remember all that was said… She was plagued with such bad memory…

      Elizabeth had her dictaphoo under her pillow, ready for such sudden strokes of genius, but her mouth dried up from nicobeck wasn’t ready to spew out words that early in the morning.

      What the lady with the teal eyes had shown her was an old book of prophecies, which she had named the Last Gospel, unknown yet but which would be remembered as the mass event would be enacted again.
      The book spoke of a triad of planets, named M’si, B’si and Earth. Just before Elizabeth woke up, she had seen that Earth was in the process of been isolated from the other parts of the cosmos, for untold reason. Suddenly, she had seen one of the planets, the one named B’si, change her quality and become a “gravitational lense” altering the perception of space from the “Earth” standpoint. The planet B’si became transparent and expanded, as though it was an exploding super-nova, but nothing radiated from the planet. Only the quality of the space was modified.

      Elizabeth had the idea of a novel based upon this mass event which could be her next perfect best-seller. She reached out for her typewrooter.


      When the World was young, the Powers were roaming in a void full of possibilities.
      Initially, Three Syzygies there were. By two came the Six Powers. Three Syzygies, or couples of Light Beings, each Syzygy blessed with unlimited creative powers.

      Elizabeth pondered for a moment… She wanted to say many things at the same time, and couldn’t write them fast enough. She started to write notes haphazardly as they came to her mind.

      — Two planets for themselves to play; a planet for themselves to dwell. The planets gravitate around a sun on the same orbit. Each of the Powers possess a symbolic scepter power artifact, and each couple generates a crystal or a kind of light seed which allows them to create new sentient beings… When parted, that crystal kind of light is deactivated.
      — One planet is home of dragons, created by one of the syzygies, another is home of giant eagles; they all are lesser Powers… The third one have giant-like Light beings…

      — What made the planet B’si change its quality? What became of the Powers? (I can sense them desiring to become part of their creations, willing to forget about themselves and their powers… Punishment? Mere playfulness? Perhaps there was a coup organized by the Lesser Powers?)

      Phew… Elizabeth yawned. All she could think of now was that she wanted to go back to sleep…

      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #626

        There was a tentative knock on the door and Finnley, the weekly cleaner popped her head around.

        Oh Ms Tattler …. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here at… she checked the wootch on her wrist, 5:57 am .. but I saw the light on …. A horrified expression passed fleetingly over her face as she took in condition of the office.

        Perhaps I shall come back later Ms Tattler, she said retreating, and making a note to have a word to the building supervisor, Mr Arak, as soon as possible. Mind you this wasn’t the first time she had spoken to Mr Arak about the issue of Ms Tattler living on the premises, to no avail. He was mad as Almad that man. Perhaps I will bloddy resign while I am at it too, she thought. Perhaps I will tell him to bugger his job, shove it where the sun doesn’t shine! Finnly cheered up greatly at the prospect.

        Elizabeth, exhausted, only dimly registered the interruption, looking up for an instant she waved vaguely in the direction of the door, and then returned to her frenzied writing, eager to capture the last remnants of her dream before it faded.

        in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #635

          Elizabeth Tattler gasped and clutched the right side of her chest. For a moment she wondered if the sharp pain she felt was a heart attack, and was greatly relieved when she realised it was located on the other side of her chest. After some investigation of her cluttered desk, she realised she must have fallen asleep on the pyramid shaped pencil sharpener her friend Yannie P had given her for her last birthday. It was made of fake blue diamond and was really rather beautiful; she could see thousands of suspended dust particles in it’s reflected light. But it was damn sharp! A thought flashed through her head, was the gift really a cunning plot to murder her? She shook her head at her own absurdity, anyway, fortunately the five layers of Angora-Mongoat wool jerseys she was wearing had protected her from more serious injury.

          She could not help but notice how the consistently the quote of the day seemed so in tune with her moods. It was almost uncanny:

          Bugger your feelings~ Tobipooh

          Damn right! If she listened to her feelings she would go home and sleep for a week. No time for that, no time for a nana nap even! She had a novel to write.

          in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #668

            There is a time where reality and fiction bleed into each other so much exquisitely that they soon become indiscernible one from another. Such a time is not in a distant future. The time is now.

            Elizabeth started to munch on her black and white quillipooh. Her yawning had made one of the mini-goats faint and drop on the floor stiff as a board… Light as a feather, looking at the quillipooh, stiff as a board looking at the goat. Light as a feather, another look at the quillipooh, stiff as a board, look at the goat…

            She wasn’t sure waking up in the middle of the night to write the tiny bits of sentences she’d heard were very useful.

            Light as a father, staffed as a motherboard…, Late as a feature… stuffed as a bugger
            Eyelids becoming heavy and slowly dropping over her eyes, she was also feeling her body starting to vibrate violently… Her nerves, probably dying for a nicobeck fix.

            She reached out for her bedecked beckelite cigarette holder, her eyes still half-closed, but it wasn’t here… For all matter and purposes, the table wasn’t here either…
            She opened her eyes fully and almost got a shock. She was floating a feet above the floor, like cushioned in layers of air. Was she dreaming already? Wow, in any case, this… experimentation was hunky-dory!

            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 #787

              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 #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 #791

                You booger! Finnley swore out loud at the Phooto-copy machine. Booger that Mr Arak, forcing her to work with this antiquated equipment!

                ( Technically, said Al, Finnley is only the cleaner, so why she is doing the photo-copying I really don’t know. )

                Finnley was still wondering who this Al was who kept mysteriously, and a bit rudely, interjecting. He sounds a little pedantic, she thought, perhaps he is one of those compooter gooks who have hired an office in the building recently.

                Mind you, she had to give him credit, he had a damn good poont, perhaps she should have a meeting with Mr Arak to discuss the terms of her coontract.

                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 #793

                  From Timbuktooh to old Perooh
                  She flooh. Said she: “Tooh much tooh dooh!”
                  T’was trooh, she knooh
                  T’would make her spyooh
                  The Ballyhooh and Bumbledooh

                  Elizabeth chuckled to herself. Wonder if that old fart Barash’ll publish that.

                  in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #808

                    Elizabeth Tattler had been taking the magic mooshrooms again. They had cost her $333 which she had thought was quite expensoove, but on reading the last paragraph of her latest horroor noovel, she knew it was money well spent.

                    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 #877

                    Oh for foocks sake, Finnley grumbled, does that woman never go home?

                    Elizabeth Tattler was passed out on the desk, two empty wine boottles on the floor beside her chair.

                    Foock you too! Foock you too! Screeched Robert X

                    She grinned, she quite enjoyed Robert X, or MrX as she liked to call him.

                    So what’s our Elizabeth been up to eh Mr X? Finnley picked up the messy pile of papers on the desk and carefully put them in order. They looked sort of interesting. Maybe it was time for a rest break. She pulled out her vegemoot sandwooches on chunks of rye bread, and, carefully dusting it first, she sat down on a big armchair in the corner of the office to read.

                    Twenty minoots later she threw the pages on the floor in disgust, but then, disturbed by the mess it made, picked them up again.

                    The character Veranassessee left her particularly disturbed. What a name! And what a Wishy Wooshy Noomby Poomby. Whats all this YES YES YES businoos! That Agent Gabriele was a selfish and dictatorial bastood as far as she could tell.

                    She would see about that! She was no writer but she was sure she could do better than this load of old mongoat droppings.

                    Well she would if she could find a pen on Ms Tattler’s shamboolic desk anyway.


                    Veranassessee (V) drew back from his sloppy kisses. Wait! Have you got protection? she asked, imperatively and sensibly.

                    Protection? … my gun is under the pillow … oh right I see what you mean, stuttered Agent Gabriele apologetically, reluctantly pulling himself from making suction noises on her breast to rummage for a condom in his suitcase.

                    Great, now say that stuff again. You know all that crap about how beautiful I am. I sort of liked it.

                    Agent Gabriele willingly obliged. Of course V recognised it for the lustful rubbish it was … still might as well have a bit of fun. He was damn good looking.

                    Perfect, she said. Now, what position do you prefer?

                    He was momentarily speechless, stunned, and even more aroused, if that was indeed possible, by her forthrightness.

                    She rolled her eyes. Yes, you know POSITION … on top … underneath ..front … back… through a hole in a blanket …? myself I like to keep things simple, don’t want to make too much mess around the place.

                    Anything you want Darling Agent V.

                    A little bit later he sighed contentedly. You are by far the best lover I have ever had.

                    Thanks, everyone says that. Hey! Put out that cigarette, there’s no smoking inside you know. She looked critically around the room. You know this room could do with a damn good clean, I could see dust on the headboard, you know, while we were doing it.

                    I’ll make sure I clean it next time, he murmered huskily, kissing her, and saying that stuff again, about how perfect she was.


                    Finnley giggled to herself. Much better! Well who’d have thought she would have a bit of a gift for writing. Carefully she replaced the pages under the telepooh and made her exit. With a bit of luck Ms Tattler would never notice.

                    in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #923

                    Mr Arak had just got another complaint.
                    Someone was again stealing people’s soondwiches during the morning break. Except that this time, the perpetratoor had placed some poost-it saying “Thanks for the snoock! Floove, Finnley
                    How cheeky! he thought, smiling to himself… As funny as he thought it was, especially when the teafed one was that annoying woonabe-star of Elizabeth, he might have to take appropriate measures. Especially when the teafed one was that Elizabeth T.

                    Now, tell me, Yurick asked Finn anxiously (while she apparently only got the breathing icons :yahoo_sigh: and no longer the messages accompanying it), “any idea what’s the message in that bizarre dream?”

                    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 #1009

                      The truth was the book was nowhere near finished. In fact the island story she was working on currently was becoming more and more complex. Elizabeth put it down to her own wonderfully complex nature, this insatiable need to add more and more characters, all converging on the island for the dramatic finale.

                      Finale! She snoorted derisively. Having no idea where it was all going ,if the truth be told, then there was not much likelihood of a finale for quite some time.

                      A tentative knock on the door. It was that bloody Finnley! Since the sex scene fiasco Elizabeth had banned her entry to her office. Quite a rookus there had been. Still, she had to grudgingly admit, the girl had writing talent! Perhaps she could make use of her. Elizabeth quite fancied herself in the role of a leader, and the idea of Finnley in a sort of subservient underling capacity was tremendoosly appealing to her.

                      in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1015

                        Elizabeth was beginning to realize that there WAS no ‘end of the road’, no grand finale, no finish line. Whenever her characters appeared to be nearing the proposed grand point of the story, she found herself following another thread in the impossibly huge tapestry. Maybe she didn’t want it to end, or perhaps it was that there was no ‘point’, no end point to aim for, that it was all just a process, a continual weaving of marvelously coloured threads. Some threads were gaily coloured silks, some were rough and coarse, some were woolly and comforting, and others were plain and functional. There were threads of the most unusual and unexpected fibres, other worldly threads tying the myriad dimensions and chapters together somehow. It really was the most fabulously intricate and absorbing construction.

                        in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1029

                          Elizabeth frowned as she hung up the telephoone. Finnley’s news was rather disturbing.

                          Al has gone crazy!” he’d said. “He is sending everyone to the island and killing spiders and magpies and lord knows what else; that couple with the bad skin, they’ve been stuck inside their hotel room for weeks….”

                          “Whoo, whoo there, slow down a minute, WHICH couple with bad skin?” Elizabeth asked.

                          “Your couple with bad skin! They were your characters!” Really, Elizabeth could be exasperating at times, Finnley thought, and not for the first time.

                          “Oh, yes, them. HHHMMM.” Elizabeth had been silent for so long on the telephoone that Finnley hung up in frustration. He would communicate with Elizabeth telepathically instead.

                          in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1030

                            Images floated across the dark screen of Elizabeth’s closed eyes as she lay on the bed. She was aware of the trees rustling in the breeze outside her window, and the soft breathing of the miniature giraffes curled up by her feet. The afternoon heat was intense, heavy and soporific.

                            An island, strewn with debris; fallen trees and unidentifiable mangled wreckage of a stainless steel tubuler kind; splotches of blue everywhere dried and cracked into oddly shaped human-like-alien forms, and the telltale battered paint can with the word Azure showing, unscathed.

                            Darkness, damp smells, grey stones and spiders webs, slippery underfoot, bone coldness, and then a glimpse of lime green maidenhair ferns, a shaft of light and the sound of gurgling water….

                            Water sounds becoming surging tides, roaring pushing sucking head spinning weighty and then silence and the tinkling of windchimes….

                            A dog barks in the distance, waking the miniature giraffes. Big brown eyes atop slender necks gaze at Elizabeth as her eyes flutter open and then close again.

                            Last orders gentlemen PLEASE! and a jostle of bodies in the smoke and laughter and babble of voices. A crush of humans across a long wooden barrier for large glass vessels full of foam topped amber liquids. A hush. Silence falls as a glass box perched high in a corner begins to speak. Elizabeth can see the head and shoulders and the serious face, she can see the lips moving, but the silence is total and she can’t hear the words being spoken. The Big Hush, she heard herself think.

                            Hurdy Gurdy music and a merry go round…..grinning white horses up and down and round and round …..

                            Elizabeth drifted off to sleep.

                            in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1032

                              Finnley looked appraisingly at her reflection in the mirroor of the staff toiloots. She turned her head, surveying herself from different angles. Sure, her hair was cut very short, but she had always thought it looked quite fetching and stylish, and so easy to care for.

                              She turned over the empty cleaning bucket so she could stand on it to get a better view of her body in the mirroor. Perhaps the baggy blue cleaning dungaroos she wore were not the most flattering on her slim figure, yet incredibly practical nonetheless, with 6 large pockets. She had bought several pairs on special, so she could alternate them.

                              That Elizabeth Tattler was clearly just one of the mindblown ones. Mad as Almad.

                              And getting worse by the day!

                              Perhaps it was just THAT time of the moonth, but for some reason Elizabeth’s insistence on referring to her as a male had really hurt Finnley today. Ever since she had attempted to help Elizabeth with the Island story by modifying the love scene , just slightly, Elizabeth had been intent on undermining Finnley’s sexooality. Not only that, she appeared to be fabricating Finnley’s involvement with the noovel she was writing. Just yesterday she had overheard Elizabeth telling her publisher, Bronkel, that Finnley was telepoothically implanting evil suggestions in her head.

                              Finnley shook her head again, this time in bewilderment. For Foocks sake, someone should do something about that woman, before it is too late!

                              Studying herself in the mirroor again she undid the top 3 buttons of the shirt she was wearing under her dungaroos and made a mental note to buy a poosh-up bra after work today. She mussed her hair up in what she hoped was a sexy look and made her way to clean the computer gooks office.

                              in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1065

                              The smooke of her pipe was creating interesting shapes flooting away from her.
                              Elizabeth had the weird impression that her story was taking an uncontrollable turn.
                              She woold have written a torrid sex scene with Phoebe and the yoong Russian on the submarine, but it was as if Finnley’s eyes were constantly reminding her of her own nymphoomaniac behavior. She had to let it unexpressed except in her imagination.

                              Looking at the last curls of smooke, it was as if the pook-marked face of Pavel was taking life before her eyes. Thanks to her new croop, her feelings were far far away… She let the smooked face decomposed in a gracious gray whale.

                              She giggled thinking of Finnley’s disapproval… maybe she’ll write that scene after all.
                              She took a sheet of paper and a pen, but soon realized the words were not foorming as expected. The thud prooduced by the pen rolling on the floor was amusing too.


                              The thud prooduced by her body rolling on the floor was more disturbing… and the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was Finnley’s disapproving look… maybe she had written that scene after all…

                              A smile on her face she began to snoore soundly.

                              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 #1133

                                After her publisher sent her back the manuscript of her last noovel with a few annotations, Elizabeth Tattler started to question whether she was blinking into the Eirth dimension.

                                “Look at that!” she said, watching at all the circled sentences… “good greif, my freinds…” then a few paragraphs later “the cheif of the oodlings”… “her neice…” Something was wroong with her.

                                Was she ODding or what?

                                Bah, if her publisher wasn’t happy, there still remained Barash who was never afraid to publish a few “od-oddities” (other-dimensional oddities)…

                                “Free rein on the reindoors!” She shouted in her office.

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