📚 › The Cycle of Eights

Archives from the Great Lost Potential.

So the Story goes...

Viewing 25 replies - 26 through 50 (of 94 total)
  • Author
    Replies
  • August 9, 2008 at 5:40 am in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1023

    4:21:44 PM 8-8-08 1da Geolocation Time.

    sometimes the flow climbs a mountain.

    pause. step. quick step. pause again. step. upstream another step. the stones solid, smooth, settled beneath my feet with the timeless passing of water. the path of gravity. the rising of a mountain. a rapid, considered, going on pace. sand between the stones. the moments of time. light on the rippling waters flickering. the air transparent, timeless, crisp, cool.

    knowing i’ve passed this way before, i pass again for the first time.

    it’s good to be back. returning. beginning.

    knowing my destination. the cave far above beneath the ancient pine. the boulder near the rough and gnarled trunk, slick and smooth. so hard the sense is of softness gliding with my fingers over the iridescent surface. soft to sit upon, to watch the valley far below extending forever into the distance. soft to recline upon, arcing my back. the warmth of the day in the stone, lingering far into the night to heat my bones. …knowing my destination, i take the next step into all that is new.

    sitting near the water. deep transparent pools of green/blue. the setting red sun. a shelter beneath driftwood high on the bank. a myrtle tree draping a blanket of scent over me, opening my soul. with each breath. i watch the light fading into the words echoing through my skull… life is hard… the song…

    Life is hard
    Anyway you cut it
    Life is sweet,
    Like a berry from a tree
    Life is temptation, baby,
    Every single day
    Life is hard

    Life is funny,
    I dont mean ha-ha
    It‘s not always sunny,
    When it needs to be
    Life is frightening,
    Nothing lasts forever
    Life is hard

    My time
    Is next to nothing
    My time
    Falls on you, yeah
    Everything
    Is in motion
    Life is hard

    Life is precious,
    No matter how you see it
    Life is crazy,
    Like yellow fishes in the street
    Life is lonely
    When you‘re not with me
    Life is hard

    Gentlemen
    Is that you story?
    Hanging religion
    From a tree, yeah
    My time
    Is next to nothing
    Life is hard

    My time
    Is next to nothing
    My time
    Falls on you, yeah
    Everything
    Is in motion
    Life is hard

    My time
    Falls on you, yeah
    Life is hard
    Life is hard

    – J. Mellencamp – while on the planet earth.

    ok. life is also beautiful. – 1da

    it’s a cruel crazy beautiful world – J. Clegg – also while on the planet earth.

    stars flickering in the fading twilight. the silence of a light breeze as pine boughs begin to whisper. the ache of tall trees swaying in the night with a moan like countless masts on the tall ships of a planet. blink. and i sleep.

    August 10, 2008 at 1:24 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1028

    12:54:07 AM 8-10-08 1da Geolocation Time.

    wait. an entire day disappears. no matter the stars and crickets go on just the same. no waiting. on this journey there are places, wind and the night. stepping through the darkness I move slowly into the moonless night.

    the driftwood shelter far away. thirst becoming noticeable. the clear water is enough for now.

    rain begins to slash down. large drops that soak to the skin in a few moments. a hard driving rain at the front of the storm. leaves thrash about as if to escape from the earth bound trees.

    Stumbling into the brush, i press close to the trunk of a tall redwood and sink down. the dust of the day remains here. even the crickets seek shelter. The shivering slows. i begin to relax, slipping into a dream.

    an island. far away. the last moments of sun warm on my skin. a rabbit the shade of pink clouds against the fading light. the cave far away from my dream as i drift deeper into sleep.

    August 15, 2008 at 10:04 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1039

    Fumbling through the huge pile of paper, Elizabeth cried in anguish “it’s oowful, there’s too much stuff in those jumbled foolders!

    Her cry had made some of the tiny goats faint and as she started to look around, she found herself in the middle of what looked like a battlefield from the Rooman times, with Robert the magpie dancing gleefully on goats all four legs in the air.:goat: :yahoo_silly: :yahoo_sleepy:

    Nervously, she reached for her cigarettes, only to send the pack flying in the trash with her chaotic movements. “booger, booger!”. As she went crawling under the desk, she saw that tooday’s newspaper had a chubby statue on the front page ( Oostrians fete voluptuoos, prehistoric Venoos ).
    “What’s that? She looks familiar that one” thought Elizabeth, the form of the statue vaguely reminding her to go check with her aesthetic surgeon if any more work needed to be done since the last time, three weeks ago.

    And now, look at that, it’s almost like in dear Harry Pooh’ter
    That Venoos is made from oolitic stone (meaning egg stone)… “ :yahoo_thinking:

    But seeing the cinders of her freshly lit cigarette were almost lighting up a fire from her notes, she almost forgot to put that new thing in her clooh box.

    August 19, 2008 at 9:58 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1040

    7:33:59 AM 8-19-08 ∞1da Geolocation Time.

    days of sleeping slip by. the light on the peaks soft, golden in the cool dawn. a shiver. the water would be cold but thirst is a motivating factor. movement would mean warmth. birds flitting from branch to branch…

    stones to perch on. river jade at my finger tips. the babble of a quickly flowing stream. scooping with one hand to drink from a clear pool, the musky scent of cedar and low water.

    across the wide stream, a river. actually. no. the amount of water between a stream and a river. a young buck, head bent low also drinking. antlers. how are years marked again? two prongs on each side. is that two years after reaching mating age? or four. no matter. eyes latch across rapidly flowing water. we watch each other. both still, both quiet. both recognizing in each other another survival being of dreams.

    dream memory extending into long ago. no. longer than that. the rules to colonizing a planet. simple universal rules. one band of survival beings with a limited number of nuclear families from any survival being group that wishes to expand into livable planets. set down in one place – with nothing. no food. no implements. not even clothes. if they survive they colonize. if not. well. the universe is full of tried and failed experimentation. The pulse of all that is drawn into a black hole. drawn in and back out through tunnels of light that are trapped within the black hole…

    the fact that more than one form of survival being can attempt to colonize one planet at any given time is both an advantage and a disadvantage. they become resource for each other as well as competition – resource and competition, as is all that is within and upon the planet.

    still that cave, that First Cave. on the tip of the continent in the southern hemisphere… blue ocean view… a beginning that is long ago. how long ago? 160,000 planet years? 200,000 thousand planet years? late arrivals as we are, this is where our colonization is now. Digging to find those memories and what is left of that initial arrival…

    walking up this valley on the other side of a continent, an ocean away from First Cave… funny how time advances forward and backward in both directions – in all directions – and remains the same. This now is the same now as that now and remains the same in both directions as it passes around each of us.

    the sun trickling across the tips of trees lower and lower into the valley. another half an hour and it will be in my face.

    might as well eat breakfast while I walk. thimble berries, currents, oh! yarrow. i could make tea. – if I made fire. If I had fire… or i could make yarrow tea because i have sun. . .

    at peace within because i know i am returning to the High Portal Cave on the mountain, near the timberline. the central entrance, near the ancient pine. The safe harbor of the High Portal Cave, the entrance to a multitude of passageways, interconnecting chambers and stunning connecting points that open beyond this time and beyond this continent – before and after this continent. probably, through the right passage way opening beyond this planet. I don’t know that, it makes sense that it does. I believe I will find out in my memory or in my future. i remember some of these things and places. not all of them. i remember entering, finding the stone trough of water with the wooden drinking bowl on the damp ledge. i remember passageways that lead to incredible places and times. why return now? without knowing i know. this is the way it is because this is the way it will become.

    warm sun on my chest. warm from walking. birds, quiet as i approach, resume their constant foraging as i pass. along the shore the constant sound of the river stream like the white noise of the universe, beautiful and ever present so that if i am not mindful i no longer hear it.

    a walking stick. ok, a broken branch caught between boulders. still green enough to be strong, almost as thick as my forearm with little taper and altho it is not straight, it is a head taller than i am – perfect. a walking stick. a walking staff. i work it loose from the rocks. strange markings… the hand of an intelligent being – a gift then.

    do images become visible on these pages or only the thoughts and sights from within my mind, i wonder. i try to remember not to believe all that i think… if i wonder… then do i attempt to find out? yes, often enough, yes. and why is short hair exciting, new, a sign of adventuring? changes. oh. perhaps. or perhaps it’s a way of changing breath. I smile. I walk on.

    August 20, 2008 at 11:26 am in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1041

    “I want to go home”, sighed Jose. “I just want to go home.” He sighed again as he stood looking out of the cabin. What a mess it all was. Cyclone Ycart had left a trail of mangled wreckage in her wake, but it wasn’t just the devastation on the island, it was the atmosphere, the feeling of chaos, the sense of hidden turmoil permeating the place that made him weary and homesick.

    “Ah, Joselito” Paquita whispered softly, stroking his hair gently “Why do you want to go home? What about the treatments?”

    “Oh, bugger the treatments!” Jose frowned. “I don’t think I want the treatments any more, you know.” He looked at Paqui’s face. “I never even notice your skin anymore, I like it just the way it is. I don’t even worry about my scars any more, either.”

    “I know what you mean” Paqui smiled. “I’m not worried about it either, anymore. I’d like to go home too now. The question is, though, how do we get off this god forsaken island?”

    Jose sighed again. “God only knows”

    Paqui took Jose by the hand and led him back inside the cabin. “Remember what I was telling you about the ancients dreaming together? How the tribe would dream together, plan where to go next? How they would work things out in their dreams? Let’s try it. Let’s go to sleep and when we wake up we’ll compare notes, and see if we can come up with a solution”

    Jose smiled a crooked smile, thinking that sleep sounded as good as anything else he could think of to do. Well, perhaps there was one other thing. Jose winked at Paqui as he closed the door behind them.

    :fleuron2:

    When they woke up the sun was low enough on the western shore to cast long umber shadows across the cabin floor, and dust particles danced in the golden sunbeams. Jose woke first and lay still, savouring the remnants of dream images. He felt good; the indescribable sense of having accomplished some meaningful communications with known but elusive others that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, yet couldn’t deny the validity of. It was some minutes before he remembered the plan to dream of a solution to the problem of how to get off the island, and in an instant the well-being evaporated as he struggled to recall any useful details, and frustratingly found that he couldn’t recall a thing.

    “Focus on the feeling, Joselito” a voice in his head said. The voice had come through loud and clear, a deep male voice with a hint of a merry chuckle. “Ha ha ha!” The voice boomed again, as if in response to Jose’s awareness of him. An image of dusty reddish skin, swathed in indigo blue cloth flashed through Jose’s mind, and then vanished like a particle of dust moving out of the sunlight into the shadows.

    Paqui was beginning to stir, and started mumbling. “The pool, the rock pool, there’s a cave under the pool, hold your breath it won’t be long and out the other side…” She opened her eyes and sat up. “There’s a pool, Jose, and under the pool there’s a tunnel. That’s how we get off the island.”

    Jose frowned. “Paqui, this island is in the middle of the ocean, miles from anywhere. Even if there is a tunnel, and even if it goes anywhere at all, it would take months to get to the mainland on foot!”

    “Focus on the feeling, Joselito ~ Ha ha ha!” That voice in his head again! Jose was starting to think he was going mad. Suddenly he was filled with doubts and hopelessness. Everything seemed so utterly ridiculous. God, what was he doing here on this island! Everything was crazy here. If only he could just go home!

    “Focus on the feeling, Jose.” The voice was gentle now, and kind. “The feeling will take you home”.

    “I don’t know what you mean!” cried Jose in exasperation. “How can a feeling take me home? It’s not logical!”

    Paqui smiled a wise old smile and said “If you can’t trust yourself, dear one, then trust me for now. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

    “But we don’t even know where the pool is! What if we can’t find it?”

    “Focus on the feeling Jose, and trust that we will.”

    August 29, 2008 at 3:51 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1053

    “What are we going to do now, Bea? This is dreadful news! I can’t bear the thought of moving again!” Leonora started to cry. “I can’t believe the landlord is coming back so soon. I like it here! I thought we were settled, for once, just for once, settled, stable….”

    Bea groaned. “Don’t, Leo! Stop snivelling for god’s sake, get a grip woman! We’ll just throw our stuff into some plastic bin bags and move somewhere else! How difficult is that, fer chrissake? I bet there’ll be another finca right close to here and it won’t be any trouble at all.”

    “What about the door!” hissed Leo. “Have you forgotten the door?”

    “What door?” asked Bea.

    September 4, 2008 at 11:58 am in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1060

    Today was the commemoration of the fifth anniversary of the first transmutation made on Earth.

    Of course, it didn’t take into account previous attempts (or successes), because they were of the domain of science-fiction and dubious history facts. But now, not only was it rock-solid proven feasible, but also it had change people’s lives like the invention of electricity had about two century ago, in the mid 1800s.

    At first, people had not grasped the profound implications of that discovery. It was another funny science experiment from researchers, and didn’t seem to have any more practical usage as did goat cloning, and creation of phosphorescent pigs. However, to mark the consciousnesses of the importance of the event, the government hadn’t skimped on the showcase. Not that it was of any importance after what evolution was bound to happen afterward, but still, huge sums of money were spent brilliantly.

    The symbolic aspect of choosing what object to transmute wasn’t unnoticed. It could be virtually anything physical: garbage, contaminated soil… But it had to mean more.
    Someone whose name was forgotten came with a suggestion and it slowly came up as the most natural thing —to close this area and open on the new one.
    There had been many people still left to convince, the die-hard fanaticism, but it had to be it. And for good measure, the involvement of other nations was asked.

    Sept. 4th, 2044, the ceremony opened with the display of what was left of Enola Gay that plane who had dropped the first atomic bomb, which had been almost forgotten in the West, but not completely in the East. And many nations came afterward, each carrying a symbol of what they wanted to recycle, to free themselves off.

    Then all of these heterogeneous elements entered the P-Machine, a distant relative of the Z-Machine which had been adapted and enhanced to produce aneutronic fusion at its core —highest temperatures of the universe thought unreachable by human means, harnessed to change the elements at will, and producing no harmful radiations as the atomic towers of the past.
    After a silent moment of unbearable expectation, melted gold started to flow out of the machine, making people wonder if that was all of it?

    Yes, it was merely it. Transmutation could be done, and it was not so impossible as people thought in the past. It meant free resources, recycling of garbage, abundance for all… at people’s grasp.
    What people had failed to recognize at the beginning, apart from the immense possibilities that were lying before them was that the machine could only transmute matter. And even if it could virtually free them of greed (because everything from gold to rocks was basically of the same value now), people’s own values were now made prominent, there was no camouflage left: no victims, no shortages, no lack of.

    Even five years after, it still meant huge challenges, but there was hope.

    October 19, 2008 at 12:27 am in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1160

    broadcasting seeds of absurdity in the cornfields and the meadows of the hay hoo down dooly…” Baked Bean Barb opened the book at random again and read a few lines. It was an odd book for sure, but strangely compelling. You never knew what you’d find on rubbish tips. Baked Bean Barb liked the sound of that, broadcasting seeds of absurdity.

    November 29, 2008 at 4:23 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1222

    “Oh no! Last night’s frost has killed all the blibilong plants!” exclaimed Snettie, shivering in the unnatural cold. “Honestly, this global freezing is spoiling everything. If blibilong plants can’t stand this cold, then nothing will grow here anymore, and I am sick to death of eating leopard seal with no greens.”

    “Ugh, don’t remind me. What I wouldn’t give for a nice fresh sun warmed bobbit fruit. All the smikkerts have migrated north as well, I haven’t seen one for months” replied Snooter. “I don’t know if I can stick around here for much longer myself.”

    “But this is our home, Snooter!” Snettie started to cry, her tears freezing on her cheeks. We’re Sprealians, we’ve always lived here. Where will we go?”

    Snooter hugged Snettie. “I suppose we’ll have to go north, like the rest of them.”

    Snooter and Snettie gazed around at the deserted city. Alabash had been built around the shores of Lake Flom, in the mild and temperate regions of central Spreal (later, much later, Spreal was referred to as Gondwana, but Snooter and Snettie didn’t know that. And they certainly didn’t know that the remains of their civilization was to disappear under masses of ice for so long that all memory of them was long forgotten, and that anyone mad enough to suggest that they once existed would be considered a bit of a nutter).

    “Snettie, I think the time has come” Snooter said solemnly. “I think we have to go north. There’s only old Spagwan left here now besides us, and his daughter Illiofilly. We’ll never survive here with just four of us, even if it didn’t get any colder, and it is getting colder, every day. Why, the first four floors of all our buildings are iced up now for heaven’s sake. What happens when the ice reaches the top floors? Then what?”

    “We’ll all be dead by then, Snooter” Snettie sighed “By rights we should probably be dead now. When we run out of furniture to burn to keep warm, then what? All the trees are dead and buried in ice.”

    “We’ll come back though, when it warms up again. This can’t last forever, and when it’s over, we’ll come back.” Snooter said optimistically.

    “How long do you think it’ll be?” Snettie asked her husband.

    “Oh, not long, a few years at most. Don’t worry, you’ll be back home before you know it, but for now, let’s go and find some warmth and some decent food, eh?”

    “Ok, but first I want to leave something, some message or clue or something, in case anyone comes back here before we do, so they know we’re coming back”

    December 14, 2008 at 7:13 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1254

    The F.U.N. picnic was rather conveniently located within the Elsespace Arrangement , which in practical terms meant that individuals from any time or space could meet within the parameters of Elsespace without having to worry about continuity or time lines. Elsespace arrangements were located anywhere and everywhere, so to speak ~ being hard, by definition, to define. The Elsespace was gaining in popularity, which was hardly surprising. If anything was surprising, it was that it hadn’t caught on sooner. The result of the surge in favour was that almost all social events were now* held in The Elsespace Arrangement.

    *Note: Any now

    December 17, 2008 at 9:47 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1256

    — We’re running out of coffee!
    — Bloody ran out of cigarettes for days now!
    — There’s a more serious thing here… We’re running out of steam!
    — Are we landing yet?!
    — Where’s my suntan lotion!?
    — Brace yourself, it’s gonna be a crash landing!
    — eeEEEK!

    December 27, 2008 at 9:31 pm in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1277

    Feeling the surge of new energy flowing to them, Sylvandar knew that his suggestions to his “past” focus had been received.
    Apparently they were beginning to lend energy to thin the veils between dream and waking reality.

    January 15, 2009 at 9:24 am in Reply To: Circle of Eights, Stories #1288

    “Blast” exclaimed Elizabeth. “If I hadn’t been so overwrought I’d have noticed the next comment was 57 and written something there myself.”

    Tutting to herself, she wandered off to make coffee, pondering a multitude of feelings.

    January 17, 2009 at 9:06 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2185

    The fact of the matter, if indeed there was a such a thing as a fact, was that Elizabeth needed to sort out her probable selves. They were constantly overlapping and it was causing a great deal of confusion. She decided to reinvent herself completely, starting with a new name.

    She sat quietly chain smoking as she pondered possible names.

    ‘Just choose a short one this time, one that’s easy to write. It really doesn’t matter what name you choose, but in the interests of ease, just make it short.’

    Ann sat quietly chainsmoking, wondering where to start.

    ‘Perhaps you should go back to bed’.

    Ann sighed, feeling tired and disillusioned at the unexpected changes. It felt like too much effort to start afresh, as if the disruptions and changes everywhere were permeating her own private sanctuary, and stray random thoughts now had no easy path towards release, that they would be bogged down and hampered with new details, and new explanations.

    ‘You don’t have to write anything.’

    But there was so much to say!

    ‘Try listening instead’.

    January 17, 2009 at 12:10 pm in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2186

    “Speaking of infinite details,” said Björn who was watching a circus program with a muscular looking man who balancing his contortionist partner who was attempting to balance plants on her face.

    “What?” said Iris who was already dozing on the couch.

    “Sorry dear, I was just talking to myself, have nice dreams”, he said, stroking gently her freckled face.

    He continued in his head, slightly dozing off himself.

    “One two, one two. Testing the acoustics… Sounds good.”

    “Funny how these thoughts come in and out… It occurred to me something funny.”

    :fleuron:

    “Can you add a plush toy in your dream?”
    “Oh sure darling. What kind of?”
    “A baby aardvark”

    :fleuron:

    Björn wasn’t very comfortable yet, he started to toss and turn until he realized he was seated on Iris’ plush aardvark. He fondly placed the little soft thing in Iris’ arms and returned to his thoughts.

    “There, it’s inserted…”
    “Now, your reality can be viewed to some extent as the most complex, yet the most simple of assemblage. You may liken it if you will to a room with mirrors (*). Ancient Indian mystics have spoken of Indra’s net where droplets of waters are each reflecting all of the other ones; these are the same images.
    It is not new information to you, the fact that you are seeing your reflection in your world, or that it is a sort of illusion reflecting you, but this is not the point we want to highlight here.

    Consider that the room in which you are is reflected an infinite amount of times in every direction. In a sense, they are all the same. They are you. Now, we come to the interesting part. You may very well decide to explore the room next to you with its shining details, by going through one of these mirrors. Some individuals quite enjoy such explorations, they call it past or future or even probabilities, other dimensions etc. And by moving into the next room, it becomes their present.

    You now realize that you have not really moved, since all rooms reflect only you. And you may want to continue in the direction you are exploring and go into more rooms. It’s alright. But some individuals realize that all rooms are equivalent, and that from where you stand, you can view the point you wish to explore in one part of the mirrors reflections. This is being present. You shift your attention, and expand your vision of the tiny part, rather than moving towards it with great efforts.

    Now, when you are dreaming, the very nature of dreams is the same. It gives you a whole fractal hologram to ponder. You may get carried away by wanting to remember all the tiny details, because in doing so, what you are doing is simply opening rooms upon rooms upon rooms. And more details will be created for you! Or you can simply realize that the details are all contained within your feeling of being present, and standing in the middle of one of these rooms, and not one of them is more important than the next.

    Connect to your feeling, and all the natural movements of your explorations will be automagically connected. And we bid you a nice fractal dream exploration.”

    January 17, 2009 at 12:52 pm in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2187

    “The fellowship didn’t know it was possible…”

    What was possible?

    “The fellowship didn’t know it was possible that the publication be suspended for a moment.”

    What does that mean? Where and who am I?

    “A new babe essence… at least in this particular blink.”

    January 27, 2009 at 11:15 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2188

    The transitory times were hectic, to say the least, though it did not always appear as such for everyone involved.

    For focuses, still living at the helm of the Shipft, riding the turbulent waves of change, it was a very delicate period.
    The last wave had propelled them very far in a short time, and they had rejoiced that their promised new land was in sight. Finally.

    But little did they know that the land in question was only still a reflection of the old. They had created it to let themselves rest, and spew out their stress, their anger and frustration, while behind the curtains the activity was intense with the careful and barely noticed moving of props.

    Sometimes, the riders of wave had glimpses of that movement. But it still felt as if they were left on their own. Most of the activity seemed to have shifted to other grounds, and that was a ground they didn’t realize they had access to already.

    Like the rainbow Bifröst leading to Asgard, all these bridges between the realms would soon start to crumble. It wouldn’t be possible to have one foot here and another there, not any longer.
    Choices will be made.
    They are being made.

    And then, the Circle of power, the one Ring will be melt into a burning core of ‘lova’, and the Shite will be healed and shifted. (well, tentatively heehee)

    January 27, 2009 at 11:23 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2189

    “This is a powerful combination, and will do well for this time.”
    “I agree, and they will have a hard time not to notice it.”

    January 27, 2009 at 12:12 pm in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2190

    Col had been in the business of intergalactic sleuthing and profiling for many years now and his tall broad stature and kind, poised black face was well known all around. They used to call him “the Zebra”, not so much because he made black and white statements —he was very nuanced— but because of his unusualness and knack for blending himself in questions.
    As a matter of fact, he’s made himself quite a reputation of a highly skilled professional, with no one up to par for finding clues and solving mysteries.

    Col Umbro’s motto was “all you have to do is to ask the right questions, in the right order.”
    Of course, he wouldn’t tell which way was the “right” one and which was not. But one thing was sure enough, most people completely overlooked the last part of the sentence.

    And that was what he intended to teach to his next assignment. A distant focus of his essence in mid-shift. For the moment, dream projections were the easiest and safest way to catch their attention, because they were not accustomed to a shifted state enough to pay attention to more physical projections.

    It was hilarious to see that most of the enthusiastic ones were waiting for unexpected events to come and rapture them in awe. Sillies… For one, “unexpected” shouldn’t be so… expected.
    Besides, most of the time, (most of the now) people were simply blind to the facts not in alignment with their allowance for disbelief. A pink elephant, say… They had grown so blasé that should they even see it standing in from of them, that they would probably then dismiss its appearance as another miracle of genetics (or debasement thereof)…
    So, reaching them would actually require quite a tactful and sly approach. Qualities he possessed enough.

    “Who’s this new person appearing disguised in a pseudonym?” His assignment was wondering.

    They had forgotten rule number one. Nothing is hidden from you. Granted, a pseudonym is a mask, but the choice of the mask is revealing enough of a clue.
    Then, you had to ask the questions in the right order. “Who is it?” should be the last of them all. Same with all the “how’s”. “What and why” where more important questions to consider.
    Once you got the “what”, the who is so self-evident, that it would not even retain the slightest of interests…

    He had found a nice slot, just after an entertaining equilibristics dream show. Making a dream for his assignment would be fun. And probably even more fun as she was the most impossible subject who wouldn’t remember dreams at all! He would have to use a proxy dreamer. Someone close enough to her. He knew exactly who to choose…

    February 5, 2009 at 11:37 pm in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2198

    “You can laugh Philodendron, but what on earth am I going to do with a piglet?”

    February 6, 2009 at 9:09 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2201

    “Well let’s assume for a moment that you do choose to accept the gift of pig, Asp, will you change the name?”

    “Well I’m not sure I need to. He’s called Sassafras Sense, and I quite like the name ~ Sassy for short. In fact I like the name so I think I will choose to accept the gift pig after all.”

    February 14, 2009 at 1:25 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2212

    A sudden message popped into the bathtub.
    Opening the capsule, it was obvious it came from the future, as the color code was unmistakable.

    Well Fall is officially here now. Time to get down to business. How would up to 3k extra a week fit into your life? We have alot of fun doing it and you can to. Call the number below to hear how you can get onboard.

    The last part was more intriguing. Probably a code.

    Lester’s ex-wife keeps the milk cold. Batman316 is a nugget.

    He rose from the bubble of now cold goat milk bath for his sensitive skin, and dried his muscular body.
    For this mission, he probably would have to get onto those old generation portals. He always had a spare pants for those missions, as only bio material could travel though. He sure didn’t want his pants to disintegrate in the heat of the action.

    February 16, 2009 at 10:17 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2215

    “Well, perhaps this will inspire you again to write in the story, Ann” remarked Sally, Ann’s twin sister. Sally always hit the nail on the head.

    “Hmmm” responded Ann. “I can’t see the wood for the trees sometimes.”

    “Well, that’s a tree synchronicity, there you go! Do you want to write about the trees?”

    “Hhhmm, maybe…”

    February 17, 2009 at 7:49 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2217

    A strange smell of fish

    Well, what a coincidence! Ann had woken up to find herself scribbling notes in her dream notebook, nonsensical words and phrases as usual, not that she was complaining, she loved the nonsense riddles and clues. The Fermented Village, she’d written, and Shopping for Parasites. The Fermented Village had reminded her of her childhood so many hundreds of years ago in Baelo Claudia and the stench of rotting fish in the garum factory down by the beach.

    February 17, 2009 at 8:17 am in Reply To: The Eights’ Shift, Stories #2218

    Decimus Spurius rubbed his eyes and scratched his head, befuddled. He’d been dreaming of Antonia Ludicrus, his sweetheart, and at first in the dream they were strolling along the beautiful beach at Baelo Claudia, upwind of the garum pots. But then they were inside some kind of building, and Antonia was pressing little black squares with numerals on each one, but they were strange numerals the like of which he’d never seen, interspersed with a few familiar ones. She leaned over the greyish black slab, frowning, glancing up occasionally to a brilliant square light placed in front of her on the table.

    Decimus sighed. The dream made no sense at all, but he was filled with longing to see Antonia again. It had been months since he’d seen her, and he hated Saltum , hated that he’d been reposted so many days walk from her.

Viewing 25 replies - 26 through 50 (of 94 total)