He was a dusty old slipper, the kind of slipper a dog would favour for its developed bouquet and for all the right fraying around the toe and heel. But with a good sole, definitely, oh yes, the kind that could handle the linoleum, but also catch all the delight of a happy dog's drool. Those are important qualities in a slipper.
And his wife, she was an embroidered, beige cushion, filled with rice for weight because down was too expensive for her pallid appearance. Her edges were covered with faded, ruby frills, some threads loose. On the front she had redwine stains, blurred from a night of intense scrubbing with every possible remedy, salt, mineral water - white wine, shampoo. But the cushion was not to be saved, her presentation made even sadder by the fact that the stain wouldn't go away.
They rarely met on weekdays. She spent her time lodged between two moss-green pillows (to hide her decay) in the plastic covered sofa that creaked when sat on.
While the slipper travelled a lot. On a good, floor-cold day. he could be pulled out from under the bed (who put my slippers under the bed?), travel all the way to the bathroom, visit the kitchen, go out for the newspaper, watch the weather on the tellybox, visit the bathroom again and be kicked off in the hallway. On particularly difficult days the dog would feel like having something to do, find the slipper and dig him down in the yard. However dreadful - this was not exactly the worst bit about the dog predicament. It was the washing machine that wore him thin.
They met in the sofa, naturally. The lady of the house was in Paris, and the owner of the slippers enjoyed a full weekend alone on the plastic covers - feet up, resting them right on top of her, the cushion. They both blushed. He was funny, she was even funnier, they fit like a jigsaw puzzle.
They rushed it. that's what everyone said. The house rules would never allow their relationship to last, slippers on the sofa. There was no way. But they were all proved wrong, all the way to the end, because they loved each other so much they didn't care if the house heard their whispers. Or that the sofa or the rug constantly witnessed their feverish kisses. Their life was a passionate one, their hearts made even more tender by all the longing.
They were destined for each other. And there was nothing anyone could say to prevent it.One day, the lady of the house scooped them both up in a cardboard box together, she turned around even, when the ashtray of the coffetable made an indiscreet gasp. She took them away, and nobody in the house ever saw them again. But that is not the morale of the story, because - what truly mattered was that they could be together.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
1
F5
Need to get a few new images into your head? Stuck with "I'm in love with a fairytale" again? Need to leave the planet instantly, but have no time to do so? Try THIS!
I wrote it April last year, don't ask me why. It hardly makes any sense. I had saved it in a folder called "Scribling" under "Scraps and drafts", which was fairly accurate to say the least.
"She had neglected the caramel coloured curls, she had dust in her eyebrows and tealeaves between her teeth. Yet she astounded him so much, and he couldn’t help but notice that she read everything like a book. She squinted as well, a pair of glasses was left on her desk, nobody had ever seen her wear them, though according to the thickness of the glass, she probably needed them direly. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he asked her why the chandelier was so dusty. She said that to clean it properly, one had to take all the pieces apart and dust them separately. He knew this, but he looked interested. She told him to go read about aquariums, there was a particularly good book on guppies that he might be interested in. He didn’t like fish. He didn’t even eat fish. But for the rest of the evening, he sat absorbed in the book. Because she was as always right when it came to books, it was a good book."
Interestingly, I wrote the next piece in April this year, and I must say it was extremely disturbing to read. Reader's discretion is advised, contains very strong mental images.
"Breeze from the rushing river whipped up whisks of morning fog, licking the trunks of the massive trees with gentle kisses of moisture. Sunrise tainted the green moss that covered most of the forest surrounding the riverbed -- the sun made everything glow like gold, even through the thick mist. A cool breeze rushed briskly between the treetops, making the leaves whisper gently high above the damp ground. A bird screeched suddenly, without purpose, sending a group of smaller ones fluttering frightened to a different branch. It was a hushed morning in the forest, only the sounds of nature’s activity could be heard dimly, overshadowed by the roar of the waterfalls.
They were the prisoners of the trees, their bodies wrought unnaturally into the bark, branches erupting through their skin, sending gushes of hot blood surging thickly over crooked roots in the dark below. Many of them were long since dead, but their flesh remained tortured as the forest tightened its brutal hold on them, crushing bones – squeezing marrow out between the leaves and pathways of ants collecting breakfast. None of them were murderers, or criminals in any sense – they were victims of the laws that the forest practised without the humans consent. Most of them had just wandered into the forest aimlessly, just taking a stroll for the sake of clearing their mind. Now they usually found their wrists speared through by a spruce, or birds nesting in their ears. The bodies that were still warm attracted all kinds of attention. Mostly because of the rusty scent of blood that surged through the nostrils of the local carnivores, and the heat that their hearts still radiated. But obviously it was hard to avoid on hearing on such a peaceful morning –the piercing screams of a young man getting ripped in half by a birch. Exactly 372 bodies hung shapeless above the ground, half devoured by trees and beasts, suffering prisoners, every visible or recognisable face contorted in unnaturally convincing animations of pain. "
I wrote it April last year, don't ask me why. It hardly makes any sense. I had saved it in a folder called "Scribling" under "Scraps and drafts", which was fairly accurate to say the least.
"She had neglected the caramel coloured curls, she had dust in her eyebrows and tealeaves between her teeth. Yet she astounded him so much, and he couldn’t help but notice that she read everything like a book. She squinted as well, a pair of glasses was left on her desk, nobody had ever seen her wear them, though according to the thickness of the glass, she probably needed them direly. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he asked her why the chandelier was so dusty. She said that to clean it properly, one had to take all the pieces apart and dust them separately. He knew this, but he looked interested. She told him to go read about aquariums, there was a particularly good book on guppies that he might be interested in. He didn’t like fish. He didn’t even eat fish. But for the rest of the evening, he sat absorbed in the book. Because she was as always right when it came to books, it was a good book."
Interestingly, I wrote the next piece in April this year, and I must say it was extremely disturbing to read. Reader's discretion is advised, contains very strong mental images.
"Breeze from the rushing river whipped up whisks of morning fog, licking the trunks of the massive trees with gentle kisses of moisture. Sunrise tainted the green moss that covered most of the forest surrounding the riverbed -- the sun made everything glow like gold, even through the thick mist. A cool breeze rushed briskly between the treetops, making the leaves whisper gently high above the damp ground. A bird screeched suddenly, without purpose, sending a group of smaller ones fluttering frightened to a different branch. It was a hushed morning in the forest, only the sounds of nature’s activity could be heard dimly, overshadowed by the roar of the waterfalls.
They were the prisoners of the trees, their bodies wrought unnaturally into the bark, branches erupting through their skin, sending gushes of hot blood surging thickly over crooked roots in the dark below. Many of them were long since dead, but their flesh remained tortured as the forest tightened its brutal hold on them, crushing bones – squeezing marrow out between the leaves and pathways of ants collecting breakfast. None of them were murderers, or criminals in any sense – they were victims of the laws that the forest practised without the humans consent. Most of them had just wandered into the forest aimlessly, just taking a stroll for the sake of clearing their mind. Now they usually found their wrists speared through by a spruce, or birds nesting in their ears. The bodies that were still warm attracted all kinds of attention. Mostly because of the rusty scent of blood that surged through the nostrils of the local carnivores, and the heat that their hearts still radiated. But obviously it was hard to avoid on hearing on such a peaceful morning –the piercing screams of a young man getting ripped in half by a birch. Exactly 372 bodies hung shapeless above the ground, half devoured by trees and beasts, suffering prisoners, every visible or recognisable face contorted in unnaturally convincing animations of pain. "
Picture I took in Lisbon.
Looking for people with time
I've always loved to tell stories, and despite the fact that I have never really finished any of my started "works", I'm constantly thinking of stories or characters or ideas for twists and turns. This gets terrible bothersome after a while, so I have to sit down and jot the idea(s) down on paper in the form of a story. The problem is that I wear my eyes out on these things. I read, re-read, I edit, re-edit, I change something, remove lots, write a character out, add a new one, invent something, add a chapter or ten and so on and so on, but then I feel alienated from my own plot, right? I can no longer think of what's reasonable to happen next. And even if I DO create a disposition of the plot, everything I write just becomes unnatural. So I was wondering if I could call out for some assistance here, if only you would bother to read a page or maybe 26 or how many as you'd like and give me some feedback on it - I'd be in debt to you. Seriously. Because I get stuck and it's annoying because I really want to finish my stories!
Here are the beginnings of the four ones I am having particular trouble with, see if you can find one that is appealing in one way or the other and let me know, and I'll let you read the full story. I wont publish it here because it would be a dangerously long wall of text.
Pretty please?
"P Lot" - 7 pages
Eve worked in a large shopping mart. Every single morning, when the sun was still a pinkish haze through the pollution -she drove the short route through the concrete maze and parked in front of the neon-flashing chaos that was the liquor store. With the click of worn, cheap shoes she strode over the vast parking lot and around to the back of the mart, where it smelled rotten and fishy. The following bit she never remembered, because she was usually too tired. But before she knew it she was seated beneath the penetrating ceiling lights of Shop Smart Super Mart, bipping groceries past the cashier and watching people fumble for their wallets.
In addition to getting half an hour for lunch, five minutes for smokes and special offers on Shop Smart Super Mart’s own brand products (like the “Smart Shopping Super Easy Chicken Pastry Pasties 0.79$” and such) – she also got to wear their striped, red uniform. And she had been particularly lucky to get one that was at least two sizes too big, and a little stiff. So when she sat down by the cashier it looked like she was wearing a striped, red tent with “It Makes Sense to Be Smart - Choose Super Mart™” printed on the back.
Eve worked in a large shopping mart. Every single morning, when the sun was still a pinkish haze through the pollution -she drove the short route through the concrete maze and parked in front of the neon-flashing chaos that was the liquor store. With the click of worn, cheap shoes she strode over the vast parking lot and around to the back of the mart, where it smelled rotten and fishy. The following bit she never remembered, because she was usually too tired. But before she knew it she was seated beneath the penetrating ceiling lights of Shop Smart Super Mart, bipping groceries past the cashier and watching people fumble for their wallets.In addition to getting half an hour for lunch, five minutes for smokes and special offers on Shop Smart Super Mart’s own brand products (like the “Smart Shopping Super Easy Chicken Pastry Pasties 0.79$” and such) – she also got to wear their striped, red uniform. And she had been particularly lucky to get one that was at least two sizes too big, and a little stiff. So when she sat down by the cashier it looked like she was wearing a striped, red tent with “It Makes Sense to Be Smart - Choose Super Mart™” printed on the back.
"AGXH - 3" - 36 pages
”This swamp is disgusting!” she hollered to nobody in particular. She stood to her knees in the semi-yellow, slimey substances that covered the surface underneath the low ferns and the stalked flowers enveloping the misty wetness of the planet Schloorg. With much difficulty she managed to haul herself up from the sucking mass that bubbled with mysterious appetite. Small insects whirred and zoomed in and out of sight in the clampy mist. The sky was grey and empty, though still – mostly wet. Her shiny spaceship stood parked some way off, she had managed to steer it down on a patch of ground that didn’t immediately sink into the muddy masses below. Her cook, Flatch Estavado was unsuccessfully attempting to pick an eggplant-like vegetable from through an open window in the ship. -“Captain!” He shouted, though the fog seemed to devour most of the sound. “Captain! The- what is that?- Eew! –The roasted Uqail is ready!” He tried to shake off the pink slime that had covered his arm when the eggplant had exploded without warning.
”This swamp is disgusting!” she hollered to nobody in particular. She stood to her knees in the semi-yellow, slimey substances that covered the surface underneath the low ferns and the stalked flowers enveloping the misty wetness of the planet Schloorg. With much difficulty she managed to haul herself up from the sucking mass that bubbled with mysterious appetite. Small insects whirred and zoomed in and out of sight in the clampy mist. The sky was grey and empty, though still – mostly wet. Her shiny spaceship stood parked some way off, she had managed to steer it down on a patch of ground that didn’t immediately sink into the muddy masses below. Her cook, Flatch Estavado was unsuccessfully attempting to pick an eggplant-like vegetable from through an open window in the ship. -“Captain!” He shouted, though the fog seemed to devour most of the sound. “Captain! The- what is that?- Eew! –The roasted Uqail is ready!” He tried to shake off the pink slime that had covered his arm when the eggplant had exploded without warning."Forever Autumn" - 44 pages
It was at the dodgy end of Begonia lane, the lane edged with pumpkin patches and old, crooked oaks. The worn down, muddy street in the district of continuous autumn, where the crisp, dry leaves from the trees always flutter aimlessly in the wind.
In Forever Autumn the trees blush in fiery colours, wilt, then blush again – without ever sprouting or blooming. You see, this is because Forever-Autumn is the origin of everything that represents autumn and reflects the image of the world’s way to display the process from summer to winter. There is never summer in Forever-Autumn, there is no spring, no time for blossoming flowers and bird song. Forever-Autumn has no winter either, no frost, no snow, no starry clear winter nights and, there is never Christmas. All year around the trees will grow leaves that are already golden or red, apples will appear on the branches - though no flowers will have to blossom first, the pumpkins are always fat and reap and the crops a glistening yellow. None of the farmers ever have to plough or plant, the crops will appear over-night, and if they are not harvested, they will just stay there, nobody knows for how long, nobody have dared to test it.
It was at the dodgy end of Begonia lane, the lane edged with pumpkin patches and old, crooked oaks. The worn down, muddy street in the district of continuous autumn, where the crisp, dry leaves from the trees always flutter aimlessly in the wind.In Forever Autumn the trees blush in fiery colours, wilt, then blush again – without ever sprouting or blooming. You see, this is because Forever-Autumn is the origin of everything that represents autumn and reflects the image of the world’s way to display the process from summer to winter. There is never summer in Forever-Autumn, there is no spring, no time for blossoming flowers and bird song. Forever-Autumn has no winter either, no frost, no snow, no starry clear winter nights and, there is never Christmas. All year around the trees will grow leaves that are already golden or red, apples will appear on the branches - though no flowers will have to blossom first, the pumpkins are always fat and reap and the crops a glistening yellow. None of the farmers ever have to plough or plant, the crops will appear over-night, and if they are not harvested, they will just stay there, nobody knows for how long, nobody have dared to test it.
"Maid in Buttermilk" - 4 pages
In a little dip between the fields lay a brick house. It was surrounded by blooming roses, purple and white lilac and some little scarlet begonias, all this foliage, the fuzzed, uncut lawn and the house were confined by a low stone fence. A warm June sun embraced this ripe summer afternoon and covered the landscape like golden drapes. The brick house was what by size I assume you’d call a small villa, or a minuscule mansion, because it was quite a pleasurable rust red size to it. You could tell from outside that most of the wobbly old windows had white lace curtains on the inside, and traditional, clean shutters neatly bolted on to the exteriority. All in all it was a very delicious countryside home, all heartily and delicately luscious.
In a little dip between the fields lay a brick house. It was surrounded by blooming roses, purple and white lilac and some little scarlet begonias, all this foliage, the fuzzed, uncut lawn and the house were confined by a low stone fence. A warm June sun embraced this ripe summer afternoon and covered the landscape like golden drapes. The brick house was what by size I assume you’d call a small villa, or a minuscule mansion, because it was quite a pleasurable rust red size to it. You could tell from outside that most of the wobbly old windows had white lace curtains on the inside, and traditional, clean shutters neatly bolted on to the exteriority. All in all it was a very delicious countryside home, all heartily and delicately luscious. Pepper Desert
It was a very simple plan, but it was also a very good one – this because it had been made by none other than capt’n Seabeard, and he had an impressive moustache as well. A plan of this calibre had to be split into three stages and be simplified as much as possible so that every crew member could understand it. Even young Cross-eyed Jimmy with the asparagus cauldron over his head.
Firstly the most crooked crew of YARRHR (Yellow Association for Retired and Rehabilitated sea Hulks, sailors, Rebels and pirates) would have to attack random moose trams throughout the Pepper Desert. Secondly they would have to scare the passengers to bits to make sure they regained their once extremely fierce reputation. Then third, start hosting events such as guided tours “Desert Extreme Safari” and pirate spotting throughout the desert, both in the amaretto ponds and all along the sandbanks. This would without doubt not just increase the sale of postcards and sandtrolls, but it would also open up for new possibilities in the tourist fashionetta business. Printed t-shirts, miniature trams, little pirate action figures that you could yank in the arm and they’d go “Yaaaarrgh!” In other words, this was a desirable future.
This was the first of the attacks they’d planned for the day, and it was such a disappointment that their trusted ship, Lady Catherine, or their crew (for that sake), wasn’t having a good day. Sailing over the foaming peaks of Pepper Desert was a past profession that had somehow gotten a little lost over the years with penthouse parties, young models, and excessive rum abuse. The retired and rehabilitated pirates had simply forgotten how to steer their ship and had been forced to rent a moose to drag it through the dunes. Sadly, this made them about half as terrifying and kind of ruined the whole point.
From inside the blue tram they could hear aggravated barking, but it got fainter and fainter until the tram disappeared over the horizon. They obviously had to think of something different. They were also getting a little vain, if only they hadn’t fought over the mirror – maybe they could have intercepted the tram in time.
by
Tora
Pepper Desert
It was horribly early in the morning and the other girls had warned her to stay clear of any local crooks, it was said that they could dismantle your ears fairly easily if you didn’t do as they wanted to. She was used to that sort of thing and pulled a hat down over her face before boarding the tram, just in case someone’d have a jab at her ears.The sweaty businessman had suddenly deflated and fallen asleep as he finally got on board, so the only creatures awake on the tram were her and a snail on the floor, closely examining a giant truffle. It was a funky snail, it had DVNO printed in gold on its back, and was humming an electronic tune. And there was a dog, with a squint.
The sun was still very red and was still colouring the entire sky in a kind of pink fashion. It was nice and warm inside the tram, there was no chauffeur – it was one of the resources that had been cut back on after the launching of the Pepper-moose Expressway Tram Services. The moose then steered the trams through the hot vastness of the desert all by themselves, they knew every grain of pepper, and every oasis – and every refreshing pond of amaretto.
The Pepper desert had many names whom which it was impossible to know the official one. Casually it was usually just named “The Pepper Desert”, to make it as simple as possible, because there was just one pepper desert.
The desert looked like a large dark stain on maps, so the old hairplane pilots referred to it as “The Coffee Splash”, the shepherds named it “The Grand Sneeze” while as the dyslexics in the want of their own name for it, called it “The Splash of Sneeze”. Either way, it had become extremely famous in the countries abroad, thousands of pepper desert postcards were printed each year by the Yellow Association for Retired and Rehabilitated sea Hulks, sailors, Rebels and pirates (YARRHR), a grand manufacturer and distributor of tourism fashionetta. Obviously no one ever came to visit the desert, it was large and hot and boring, and it made you sneeze a lot. A fitting description that also meant you weren’t likely to come visit. But it looked good on postcards, at least.
All of a sudden the squinting dog had barked furiously out the window, it was now standing on its back paws and squinting towards the rising sun. What was going on? She made sure her ears were kept safe underneath her hat.
by
Tora
Pepper Desert
Alongside the platform ran a white line – like someone had wanted to leave a mark, but had been carried away, drawn a line along the whole thing and before they knew it forgotten why they were even there and left. Because there were no lines anywhere else on the platform, just right there, by the edge.A platform of this calibre was considered quite uncommon – though obviously, it did occur at times, like here for example. It was the entrance to the station known as Bronze Hairpyn, a delicate little bronze oasis set in the middle of the vast pepper desert. The Pepper-moose Expressway Tram Services had several stops in the pepper desert, this because moose have a distinct sense of smell that make them unable to sneeze – even when surrounded by entire oceans of pepper, and of course that people needed to get to places.
Moose have never been considered an ideal ingredient in transport, not even the Vikings rode them even in their time, because they have antlers and hunchbacks and they don’t know how to count, unlike horses, who can. But desperate times had called for desperate measures, even as desperate as these – when the cities of Alphybette and Slingalongtong had become important destinations for trade and tourism, seal clubbing and other hobby featuretta, a transport system across the desert had been essential.
“FFfzzzttt …. ---krrxxxzt-- … tzzap-kkrz- Tram number fourtheeen to Alphybetteh is noow –fzzt- approaching the plathform –xtzap— soh pleaseh stand back frohm ‘fzzzhh- white secyrity line –fzz- thank youuh”. A voice announced loudly and unprofessionally.
Bronze Hairpyn had once been an important pit stop for the giant haircrafts that delivered important goods and mail way cross the vastness of the country. This industry had more or less been taken over by the moose-trams, the trained moose pulling old, blue trams transversely over the pepper. But even so a few of the elder haircraft companies still remained and allowed passengers to transfer between a hairborne haircraft and a moose-tram depending on their final destination.
There were only two people waiting for the moose-tram today, they had come by Ryanhair from Buenos Haires and had now both taken a step back, to make sure they didn't cross the white line. One of them was a sweaty businessman from Spawnhog, he had a curly beard and a busy face and lots of other things, but I wont tell you seeing it really isn't important. The other passenger was a girl with the largest behind you have ever seen, she wasn't even wearing a lot of clothes.
by
Tora
Maid in Buttermilk III
Part I
Part II
It was a cool afternoon and that felt nice after such a warm and sunny day. They had moved into the parlour, which was bathing in the relaxing flickers of the ruby embers in the fireplace. The Lord of Buttermilk was smoking his pipe and was wearing his most comfortable slippers, every now and then he sneezed and threw a few random belongings in to the fire. His friend, Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea was sitting next to him and helping Giles sort out assorted items into two piles; one for keeping and one for burning.
Obviously it was both very very complicated and exhausting, there were so many items worth keeping, like treasure maps, biscuits, tree elephants, books, umbrellas, bent encyclopedias, stools, socks with feathers on them, light bulbs, sausages, panties, curtains, mouldy boxes with copper treasures and strange carved items from distant corners of the world. There were also seeds for unknown plants, sheets, tin tubes, small car models, photographs, tea warmers, markers, filt pens, rusted nails, some strange pumping mechanism, glass frames, old paintings and hand knitted mittens. In all this mess there was also a million other things, and resting on the bookshelf there was a heap of more scrap just waiting to have an avalanche and possibly put the end to them all.
The atmosphere was one of a concentrated tension, the exact kind which is created by the male ability to focus on one task with every cell in their immensed body. In the flickering light the only break of the quiet was the irregular "poofs" from the fireplace, and the fervent nostrils of the three, pulsating noisily like the lungs of a terrified rodent. Eyes remained rapt on the task at hand, sometimes with an overpowered critical stare, other times with a look of nostalgic recollection of something long gone.
It was obvious that the three devoted men were prepared for both nights and days of hard work throughout July to get the house cleared out for the arrival of Lady Plethora Clarcy of Pea.
Giles had married a plump german creature during the spring, a woman Lord Buttermilk named "The Thing" in his mind, but galantly called "Mrs. Giles" whenever Giles was around. She was small, pink and stumpy, with every attribute of a pig - but was made human through her rubber boots and the flowery outfits she wore. Most of the time she wore swimsuits, and unnecessary to say this was not the most flattering choice for a woman her shape and size. It was also quite strange to be walking around town in a swimsuit, even in Buttermilk.
This flowery and also revealing sense of style radically enhanced her nickname "The Thing" further. Either way, her real name was however not "The Thing" her real name was Gretchen Ödschönlind Haudenschild-Krähenbühl Niederbippftz, which was another name that Lord Buttermilk found to be extremely tongue-twisting. Giles called her "Gibbly-nibbly", something Lord Buttermilk thought was way easier to say, but unfortunately it was indecent for her husbands employer to call her by that. So her name in his house was "The Thi-Mrs. Giles" correcting himself midway almost every time.
The Thing made a wonderful cook, she could cook the wheels of bikes, or even tobacco and make it taste just like the sweetest chocolate pudding. Lord Buttermilk had every intention of hiring her, but he knew that she - like most germans, was a complete soup-nazi that would insist on having it sterile around her at all times. attributes his home had not had since he moved in, basically. So until they had cleaned out (at least the kitchen) this was an impossibility that bothered him at night.
Part II
It was a cool afternoon and that felt nice after such a warm and sunny day. They had moved into the parlour, which was bathing in the relaxing flickers of the ruby embers in the fireplace. The Lord of Buttermilk was smoking his pipe and was wearing his most comfortable slippers, every now and then he sneezed and threw a few random belongings in to the fire. His friend, Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea was sitting next to him and helping Giles sort out assorted items into two piles; one for keeping and one for burning.
Obviously it was both very very complicated and exhausting, there were so many items worth keeping, like treasure maps, biscuits, tree elephants, books, umbrellas, bent encyclopedias, stools, socks with feathers on them, light bulbs, sausages, panties, curtains, mouldy boxes with copper treasures and strange carved items from distant corners of the world. There were also seeds for unknown plants, sheets, tin tubes, small car models, photographs, tea warmers, markers, filt pens, rusted nails, some strange pumping mechanism, glass frames, old paintings and hand knitted mittens. In all this mess there was also a million other things, and resting on the bookshelf there was a heap of more scrap just waiting to have an avalanche and possibly put the end to them all.
The atmosphere was one of a concentrated tension, the exact kind which is created by the male ability to focus on one task with every cell in their immensed body. In the flickering light the only break of the quiet was the irregular "poofs" from the fireplace, and the fervent nostrils of the three, pulsating noisily like the lungs of a terrified rodent. Eyes remained rapt on the task at hand, sometimes with an overpowered critical stare, other times with a look of nostalgic recollection of something long gone.
It was obvious that the three devoted men were prepared for both nights and days of hard work throughout July to get the house cleared out for the arrival of Lady Plethora Clarcy of Pea.
Giles had married a plump german creature during the spring, a woman Lord Buttermilk named "The Thing" in his mind, but galantly called "Mrs. Giles" whenever Giles was around. She was small, pink and stumpy, with every attribute of a pig - but was made human through her rubber boots and the flowery outfits she wore. Most of the time she wore swimsuits, and unnecessary to say this was not the most flattering choice for a woman her shape and size. It was also quite strange to be walking around town in a swimsuit, even in Buttermilk.
This flowery and also revealing sense of style radically enhanced her nickname "The Thing" further. Either way, her real name was however not "The Thing" her real name was Gretchen Ödschönlind Haudenschild-Krähenbühl Niederbippftz, which was another name that Lord Buttermilk found to be extremely tongue-twisting. Giles called her "Gibbly-nibbly", something Lord Buttermilk thought was way easier to say, but unfortunately it was indecent for her husbands employer to call her by that. So her name in his house was "The Thi-Mrs. Giles" correcting himself midway almost every time.
The Thing made a wonderful cook, she could cook the wheels of bikes, or even tobacco and make it taste just like the sweetest chocolate pudding. Lord Buttermilk had every intention of hiring her, but he knew that she - like most germans, was a complete soup-nazi that would insist on having it sterile around her at all times. attributes his home had not had since he moved in, basically. So until they had cleaned out (at least the kitchen) this was an impossibility that bothered him at night.
by
Tora
What happened on tuesday
As I came running like a rocket, like a peanutbutter-fuelled spinster, this small midget character stops me in the very middle of my stride, and looks at me.
And he nods all midgety and cheesy at me, and I don't know what to say.
He inspects me with his tiny little guinea pig eyes, and then go:
"Come on, you brassy shrew, get in my hamper."
It had been quite a long time since I was ordered into a hamper, must've been yonks:
so I need a moment to think, and I say to him:
"Easy now, linty little man-cherry".
But as I wait I realize that he has the face of a toffee-licked bickie, and in the end his greasy tache makes my knees go weak.
And I stumble over the little midget, and he screams and waves with his stumpy little arms while he flail his short feet.
But it was too late, I could feel him get squeezed down into the asphalt like an outchewed piece of gum, and I am too confused to do anything about it.
When I finally get up, he looks like a small, purple poptart. All curdly and crumbly, like he was never moist at all.
That is when I remember: Oh! The lobsters! And I rush off towards the mountains again.
Sad stuff
Oooooh! I've got some drama for you! Some really depressing stuff. It is part of my new writing project, which is complicated. I've got most of the synopsis ready, so if you want me to I'll post it over at Fiction Chickens. (This piece of text is actually a part of "Ae ou oey").
He pressed her bird-like skeleton hard against him, her cold, white, shivering skin against his coat. The mute snowflakes rained slowly down on her hair, her chapped lips muttered, and even though it was silent – he could not hear what she said. Underneath her swollen eyelids he could see her dark eyes, tears emitting from them like walls of hot glass. And he could hear her now, with her dark hair wet and messy, clinging to her face, frozen lips saying his name.
She was shaking, her heart beat slower than he remembered, maybe because she had grown, maybe because she was dying.
He too –now shaking, whispered her name, squeezed her tight, tucked her wet hair behind her ears, held on to her small, freezing hands. The snow was as white as her, like porcelain. And he knew he would always love her. And no matter how long he would have to wait for help – he would not give up waiting this time. He would wait until they came, even though the blizzard would take his life, he would wait. And he would find no rest until they came for her. Came and helped her, warmed her up, made her laugh again. And at that point he refused to let go, so he stood up – with her shivering body in his arms. And on what was left of his exhausted feet; he started walking towards the city.
It was so strange because he could see the lights of the thousands of people that lived there.
But he knew none of the thousand people were looking at them, where they stood, even though she shone as the brightest light of them all.
He pressed her bird-like skeleton hard against him, her cold, white, shivering skin against his coat. The mute snowflakes rained slowly down on her hair, her chapped lips muttered, and even though it was silent – he could not hear what she said. Underneath her swollen eyelids he could see her dark eyes, tears emitting from them like walls of hot glass. And he could hear her now, with her dark hair wet and messy, clinging to her face, frozen lips saying his name.
She was shaking, her heart beat slower than he remembered, maybe because she had grown, maybe because she was dying.
He too –now shaking, whispered her name, squeezed her tight, tucked her wet hair behind her ears, held on to her small, freezing hands. The snow was as white as her, like porcelain. And he knew he would always love her. And no matter how long he would have to wait for help – he would not give up waiting this time. He would wait until they came, even though the blizzard would take his life, he would wait. And he would find no rest until they came for her. Came and helped her, warmed her up, made her laugh again. And at that point he refused to let go, so he stood up – with her shivering body in his arms. And on what was left of his exhausted feet; he started walking towards the city.
It was so strange because he could see the lights of the thousands of people that lived there.
But he knew none of the thousand people were looking at them, where they stood, even though she shone as the brightest light of them all.
Her Sunshine
Soundtrack: Thomas Dybdahl - Adelaide
His hair curled in a certain direction behind his ears, she had noticed that. His eyes would mostly stare with a modest and mild intensity, so it was hard to tell when he was really interested in something. In a way he wasn't all that confident, she thought she would always go with someone very sure about himself, but it was something about his uncertainty that attracted her, strangely. She found herself hopelessly lost in his stunning gaze. She could stand there for minutes just staring into his eyes, even when he wasn't looking at her, something he rarely did.
To her their distance was insignificant, the large space between them was just empty matter, it was just loose, transparent liquid that parted them indifferently. What the distance was to him she didn't know, she knew very little, not just about the distance, but also about him and about many other things. It was not as if she was slow, it was just that the world never mattered much to her, she was not alive to gather as much knowledge as possible, it never concerned her. Her eyes were windows into a world created around him, around his smile, around his eyebrows, around his ears, his hands, his magnificent eyes, around his nose, his cheeks, his feet and his rounded, mellow voice. What else of life unravelled, she never took note of.
Every precious, golden moment she saw him, she saved inside her, like a secret box she opened every now and then, to let the sun shine upon her. The life she had lived before she loved him she couldn't remember, she never had many real friends. The teachers at school had forgotten the sound of her voice, she never did her chores at home, she never did her homework, she just sat, for hours, little glass tears prickling down her pale cheeks, staring into her secret box of him, letting the sun warm her up. Like a soft hand around her heart, making it beat like it was supposed to.
The only thing she could see was the flawlessness in him, the beauty of his existence, the importance of his life, and the only thing she truly treasured was her secret box of sunshine, kept safe within the shell of her pale skin.
One day, it was a rainy day, but she had not noticed, she was on her way to school. The streets were grey, covered by a thin layer of ocean, making them glisten with the darkness of the clouds above. She did not know any of this, because inside her the warm sun was shining, her everlasting summer safe within her ribs. Before her the bus came out of nowhere, and she ran to catch it so she would not be late to see him that day. She ran so she would not miss him, and running through the rain her eyes were blurred, but she saw him there, at the back of the bus she saw the back of his head, she knew what way his hair curled. Every cell of her paleness knew it was he, for no reason she waved while she ran, hoping he would see her.
He did nothing as she stumbled in her own wet boots, as the sea of the streets enveloped her, as she became one with the grey, as the speed of a car hit her with force. Drenched with cold rain and sun warm blood she lay there, the sun inside her was put out silently, and nobody had known it shone at all.
His hair curled in a certain direction behind his ears, she had noticed that. His eyes would mostly stare with a modest and mild intensity, so it was hard to tell when he was really interested in something. In a way he wasn't all that confident, she thought she would always go with someone very sure about himself, but it was something about his uncertainty that attracted her, strangely. She found herself hopelessly lost in his stunning gaze. She could stand there for minutes just staring into his eyes, even when he wasn't looking at her, something he rarely did.
To her their distance was insignificant, the large space between them was just empty matter, it was just loose, transparent liquid that parted them indifferently. What the distance was to him she didn't know, she knew very little, not just about the distance, but also about him and about many other things. It was not as if she was slow, it was just that the world never mattered much to her, she was not alive to gather as much knowledge as possible, it never concerned her. Her eyes were windows into a world created around him, around his smile, around his eyebrows, around his ears, his hands, his magnificent eyes, around his nose, his cheeks, his feet and his rounded, mellow voice. What else of life unravelled, she never took note of.
Every precious, golden moment she saw him, she saved inside her, like a secret box she opened every now and then, to let the sun shine upon her. The life she had lived before she loved him she couldn't remember, she never had many real friends. The teachers at school had forgotten the sound of her voice, she never did her chores at home, she never did her homework, she just sat, for hours, little glass tears prickling down her pale cheeks, staring into her secret box of him, letting the sun warm her up. Like a soft hand around her heart, making it beat like it was supposed to.
The only thing she could see was the flawlessness in him, the beauty of his existence, the importance of his life, and the only thing she truly treasured was her secret box of sunshine, kept safe within the shell of her pale skin.
One day, it was a rainy day, but she had not noticed, she was on her way to school. The streets were grey, covered by a thin layer of ocean, making them glisten with the darkness of the clouds above. She did not know any of this, because inside her the warm sun was shining, her everlasting summer safe within her ribs. Before her the bus came out of nowhere, and she ran to catch it so she would not be late to see him that day. She ran so she would not miss him, and running through the rain her eyes were blurred, but she saw him there, at the back of the bus she saw the back of his head, she knew what way his hair curled. Every cell of her paleness knew it was he, for no reason she waved while she ran, hoping he would see her.
He did nothing as she stumbled in her own wet boots, as the sea of the streets enveloped her, as she became one with the grey, as the speed of a car hit her with force. Drenched with cold rain and sun warm blood she lay there, the sun inside her was put out silently, and nobody had known it shone at all.
by
Tora
NEED PLIX
I need this nightgown to wander and frolick around a delicious Jane Austen landscape, overlooking a romantic lake mirror-like and silvery. I will walk along a path from my cottage where I spend my time reading poetry and drinking tea. As I walk I will be touching the grass with my fingertips and look at the turbulent weather while looking pale and scrumptious, my hair flowing over my shoulders like a silky waterfall.
Now, all I need is
all of that.
Get on with it.
Bear and Mousse
Did you know that a bear can actually gain as much weight as it wants without ever becoming dangeriously obese? The bear will continue to grow in size, of course, but it will not be a hazard to its health - in fact it is crucial for it survival! That is why bears eat honey and porridge, also they like to munch on a sleek filet o' salmon, preferably smoked on toast with a bit of scrambled egg.The king of the forest, also known as my sister Hagrid (Sigrid), has a lesser servant, much like a 'Lord', or a 'Sir', if you like, called a Mousse, a Chocolate Mousse. Much like a stag, the mousse has corny braids on its head, made of whipped cream. The Chocolate Mousse also likes to paint his toenails and wear bracelets.
Two wondrous facts of nature, given to you byMental™ - The Freshmaker.
Protect thy child
"Excuse me?" he said, because as nobody else had reacted, he felt obliged to.
-"Yes?" she said, and did a little jump to move the baby to a more comfortable position on the side of her waist.
"May I ask why your child is wrapped in plastic-bubbles and tinfoil?" He pointed at the baby, though she probably did know where it was already, he felt it made the question seem more natural if he pointed.
-"It is in case I drop him of course, so that he wont break".
He took a discreet step backwards.
"Ah, of course. I see, er, I was just... Curious".
And he felt helpless, because he had no idea what to retort. Quite honestly he didn't see why it couldn't make sense either.
-"Yes?" she said, and did a little jump to move the baby to a more comfortable position on the side of her waist.
"May I ask why your child is wrapped in plastic-bubbles and tinfoil?" He pointed at the baby, though she probably did know where it was already, he felt it made the question seem more natural if he pointed.
-"It is in case I drop him of course, so that he wont break".
He took a discreet step backwards.
"Ah, of course. I see, er, I was just... Curious".
And he felt helpless, because he had no idea what to retort. Quite honestly he didn't see why it couldn't make sense either.
by
Tora
Maid in Buttermilk II
Part I
The plump little Lord's voice filled the garden as he read steadily to Sir Clarcy of Pea:
Dear Lord Ainsley of Buttermilk
I am writing due to your solitary ad concering an open position
for a maid in Doffle Daffodil Weekly the 1st of June.
If this position is already taken, I regret to have been wasting
your time and wish to apologize profoundly for this.
If, though, incidently, the spare room for a maid is still not
taken, or any vacant position in your household is in fact,
unattended - I wish to show my most ecstatic enthusiasm.
I am a mother of two little girls and live in east ToffeeMuffin,
very close to your respected residence. My family have been
servants for the past six generations, serving everyone as far
up as her Majesty the Queen™ herself. I have been the maid
of Colonel Biscuit- may he rest in peace, cleaning and cooking
for him and his pleasant wife, God bless her, for the past
thirteen years, until they both passed away a few months ago.
My husband left me as a widow shortly before the birth of my
second child, and as a result of this I have to find a way to
provide me and my family of the necessities. I am extremely
realiable, thorough, quiet and skilled in my trade, there is
absolutely nothing within a home I will find impossible or
difficult to do, I have been trained by the very best.
Hope to hear from you as soon as possible.
I will be available to start with immediate action after your
correspondence.
Regards
Oki Iola Isles
PS. I make the most deliciously naughty Imam Bayildi's.
As the Lord finished his read, he just sat with the letter in his hands, looking oddly around in his generous garden. The birds were still making peeping sounds from within the lilac, hopping delightfully from one branch to the other. His eye caught the old fountain, now being raped by a giant, heavy and quite grand rhododendron, covering not just the fountain, but also major parts of the scrummy lawn. Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea was snoring pleasantly in the chair beside him, now and then his nostrils pulsating with a high-pitched whistle. The Lord of Buttermilk sighed, smiling blissfully in the June silence, thanking whatever of higher beings that had blessed him with this letter.
He immediatly proceeded to holler for Giles, inappropriately ignoring Sir Jarvis's unpleasant awakening, even his dissatisfied hiccup as a result of his jump in between two snores. Sir Jarvis gave the Lord a disgruntled stare as he in his surprise had landed belly up on the lawn, his garden chair and pillows spread around him. The Lord of Buttermilk was way to expectant to take notice of this, and rather asked the butler loudly if he could bring an encyclopedia, some paper, a pen, his hat, some stamps and some more tea for Sir Jarvis. A moment of distorted silence followed, Sir Jarvis got on his feet and with his hands he straightened the creases on his tweed suit, he put the chair back on its four wobbly feet and fluffed the pillows back into it before sitting down in it again. When Sir Jarvis was done moving about, the two of them merely sat there in mellow muteness, listening to the racket of things being moved about in the kitchen before Giles appearing in the backdoor.
Giles was balancing a teapot, a plate of raspberry tarts, a grey hat, a case with filt pens, a sheet with faded stamps, a few pieces of paper and a stack of envelopes on top of a very heavy encyclopedia. Determined, but careful he made his way past the sprouts in the kitchen garden, following the randomly paved cobblestone path across the unkept lawn to the sunny fleck on which the Lord and the Sir were sitting in a quiet anticipating state of apathy. Sir Jarvis helped the butler unload the pile of things on to the table and the Lord of Buttermilk immediately seized the encyclopedia, turning pages like mad. Giles emptied their cold tea on the bushes beside them, refilling the china with some freshly made tea, little threads of smoke dancing in the sunlight. Sir Jarvis helped himself to some raspberry tart while reading the letter that the Lord had shoved in to his hands.
After refitting the minuscule garden table by taking out all the dirty dishes and placing out the pens and paper, fluffing the lord's pillows patiently with one hand, Giles asked to be excused. "Hold on just a second Giles" Lord of Buttermilk replied, his nose still furiously caught in the encyclopedia. -"It is nearly teatime milord, would you like me to make you some 'omelett' before supper? I bought some very pleasant 'skinke'... er.. ham for the occasio.." he was interrupted mid-sentence by a an exctited -"Aha!" coming from his master. "Imam Bayildi -" Lord of Buttermilk said interested "A Turkish dish of stuffed aubergines, with the name translating roughly as 'the imam fainted'. I see, interesting. We like aubergines, don't we?" he said, for the first time getting the two others involved -"I suppose, sir, but what about the 'skinke'?" Giles retorted, apparently not really replying to the question. Sir Jarvis had just had time to nod confusingly at both the others as Lord Buttermilk waved Giles into the kitchen with an inpatient -"Yes, yes, make some of your 'omelett'".
With consummate enthusiasm the Lord started writing a reply, once in a while licking his lips and squinting into the sunlight, murmuring to himself. Sir Jarvis sat meaninglessly in his crooked chair, looking at the insects spur around as little specks of gold in the low sun, the shtick little birds still singing idiosyncratic.
The plump little Lord's voice filled the garden as he read steadily to Sir Clarcy of Pea:
Dear Lord Ainsley of Buttermilk
I am writing due to your solitary ad concering an open position
for a maid in Doffle Daffodil Weekly the 1st of June.
If this position is already taken, I regret to have been wasting
your time and wish to apologize profoundly for this.
If, though, incidently, the spare room for a maid is still not
taken, or any vacant position in your household is in fact,
unattended - I wish to show my most ecstatic enthusiasm.
I am a mother of two little girls and live in east ToffeeMuffin,
very close to your respected residence. My family have been
servants for the past six generations, serving everyone as far
up as her Majesty the Queen™ herself. I have been the maid
of Colonel Biscuit- may he rest in peace, cleaning and cooking
for him and his pleasant wife, God bless her, for the past
thirteen years, until they both passed away a few months ago.
My husband left me as a widow shortly before the birth of my
second child, and as a result of this I have to find a way to
provide me and my family of the necessities. I am extremely
realiable, thorough, quiet and skilled in my trade, there is
absolutely nothing within a home I will find impossible or
difficult to do, I have been trained by the very best.
Hope to hear from you as soon as possible.
I will be available to start with immediate action after your
correspondence.
Regards
Oki Iola Isles
PS. I make the most deliciously naughty Imam Bayildi's.
As the Lord finished his read, he just sat with the letter in his hands, looking oddly around in his generous garden. The birds were still making peeping sounds from within the lilac, hopping delightfully from one branch to the other. His eye caught the old fountain, now being raped by a giant, heavy and quite grand rhododendron, covering not just the fountain, but also major parts of the scrummy lawn. Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea was snoring pleasantly in the chair beside him, now and then his nostrils pulsating with a high-pitched whistle. The Lord of Buttermilk sighed, smiling blissfully in the June silence, thanking whatever of higher beings that had blessed him with this letter.He immediatly proceeded to holler for Giles, inappropriately ignoring Sir Jarvis's unpleasant awakening, even his dissatisfied hiccup as a result of his jump in between two snores. Sir Jarvis gave the Lord a disgruntled stare as he in his surprise had landed belly up on the lawn, his garden chair and pillows spread around him. The Lord of Buttermilk was way to expectant to take notice of this, and rather asked the butler loudly if he could bring an encyclopedia, some paper, a pen, his hat, some stamps and some more tea for Sir Jarvis. A moment of distorted silence followed, Sir Jarvis got on his feet and with his hands he straightened the creases on his tweed suit, he put the chair back on its four wobbly feet and fluffed the pillows back into it before sitting down in it again. When Sir Jarvis was done moving about, the two of them merely sat there in mellow muteness, listening to the racket of things being moved about in the kitchen before Giles appearing in the backdoor.
Giles was balancing a teapot, a plate of raspberry tarts, a grey hat, a case with filt pens, a sheet with faded stamps, a few pieces of paper and a stack of envelopes on top of a very heavy encyclopedia. Determined, but careful he made his way past the sprouts in the kitchen garden, following the randomly paved cobblestone path across the unkept lawn to the sunny fleck on which the Lord and the Sir were sitting in a quiet anticipating state of apathy. Sir Jarvis helped the butler unload the pile of things on to the table and the Lord of Buttermilk immediately seized the encyclopedia, turning pages like mad. Giles emptied their cold tea on the bushes beside them, refilling the china with some freshly made tea, little threads of smoke dancing in the sunlight. Sir Jarvis helped himself to some raspberry tart while reading the letter that the Lord had shoved in to his hands.
After refitting the minuscule garden table by taking out all the dirty dishes and placing out the pens and paper, fluffing the lord's pillows patiently with one hand, Giles asked to be excused. "Hold on just a second Giles" Lord of Buttermilk replied, his nose still furiously caught in the encyclopedia. -"It is nearly teatime milord, would you like me to make you some 'omelett' before supper? I bought some very pleasant 'skinke'... er.. ham for the occasio.." he was interrupted mid-sentence by a an exctited -"Aha!" coming from his master. "Imam Bayildi -" Lord of Buttermilk said interested "A Turkish dish of stuffed aubergines, with the name translating roughly as 'the imam fainted'. I see, interesting. We like aubergines, don't we?" he said, for the first time getting the two others involved -"I suppose, sir, but what about the 'skinke'?" Giles retorted, apparently not really replying to the question. Sir Jarvis had just had time to nod confusingly at both the others as Lord Buttermilk waved Giles into the kitchen with an inpatient -"Yes, yes, make some of your 'omelett'".
With consummate enthusiasm the Lord started writing a reply, once in a while licking his lips and squinting into the sunlight, murmuring to himself. Sir Jarvis sat meaninglessly in his crooked chair, looking at the insects spur around as little specks of gold in the low sun, the shtick little birds still singing idiosyncratic.
by
Tora
Maid in Buttermilk
I suppose this all belongs over at Fiction Chickens, but nobody reads that - so it feels unsatisfying in a way, you know, to leave it over there, alone.
Where it is now it is a whole lot more safe, a whole lot more loved and appreciated, you will all scroll past it looking for pix of my beautiful sister! That is something, at least that is better than nothing.
In a little dip between the fields lay a brick house. It was surrounded by blooming roses, purple and white lilac and some little scarlet begonias, all this foliage, the fuzzed, uncut lawn and the house were confined by a low stone fence. A warm June sun embraced this ripe summer afternoon and covered the landscape like golden drapes. The brick house was what by size I assume you’d call a small villa, or a minuscule mansion, because it was quite a pleasurable rust red size to it. You could tell from outside that most of the wobbly old windows had white lace curtains on the inside, and traditional, clean shutters neatly bolted on to the exteriority. All in all it was a very delicious countryside home, all heartily and delicately luscious.
The toffee-sweet village of Buttermilk was not far away from this brick mansion, a rickety road was paved from the brick house and all the way there - and even further, as far as Thistleshire.
The lord living in the brick house was a jolly, excited man, round as a peach and most of the time quite well-dressed. He was the lord of buttermilk and also a slightly messy person. Now and then he would let things lie around, just carefully thrown about, in the office wading knee-deep in papers, in the kitchen to his hip in gravy and potato-peel. The greenhouse was filled to the very brim with gardening tools, and he couldn't ever remember whether he'd ever seen the floor in there.
Despite being a... er.. untidy person, the Lord was extremely punctual, and though he was the one and only lord of Buttermilk - he had a hard time replacing his rapidly emigrating maids. They came and went faster than his watch, and trying to make them stay was not short of being as hopeless as to endeavour to drink light.
This June, Lord Buttermilk had two visitors in his brick house. They were Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea and his son, Edward Clarcy. The two of them resided in two of the several guestrooms, partly away from the Lord's outrageous mess. The Lord had in fact, attempted, though poorly, at cleaning the house, but the moment he started tidying he had to make a further mess to put the things in the right place again.
To help them keep away from the unflattering chaos of the house, in the lack of a maid, the Lord had hired a part-Norwegian butler named Geir. The name apparently, had proven to be way too difficult - so the Lord had decided to rename him Giles. Mr. Giles was a tall, silent man, he looked good in a suit and made little fuss about himself- therefore he was perfectly suited to be a butler. He would pour the gentlemen tea in the garden, fluff the pillows on their rickety garden chairs, and he made a quite nice omelette too.
The need for a maid, obviously apparent in all the mayhem of the mansion - became even more obvious as Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea announced his wife was coming to visit by late August. It had been so hot in the city, and she quite enjoyed the silence and comfort of the countryside, especially in August.
As Sir Clarcy of Pea had made this known, Lord of Buttermilk went double-cream pale, and stared silently into his cup of tea. His short legs couldn't reach the grass from the decaying chair he was balancing on, and once again he tried to resist the urge of dangling his polished shoes. -"I do suppose that means I have to do something about the raging hodgepodge inside the house!" Lord of Buttermilk said, he didn't sound thrilled at the idea. Edward Clarcy was currently visiting the town of Thistleshire because of business, so the only one sitting near the Lord of Buttermilk was Sir Clarcy of Pea himself. All he did was to chuckle, and he grinned at the Lord of Buttermilk; -"Clearing the turmoil will do you nothing but well anyway, Ainsley". And he leant back in his stick chair, closing his eyes.
-“There’s a letter for you, sir” Giles said, and he placed a silver tray with an envelope on it on the garden table. He then removed the plate with biscuit crumbles, and poured both the gentlemen a new helping of tea. “Oh, that reminds me, sir…” he said, trying to get the Lord of Buttermilk to open his closed eyes. “…I am quite sure I saw a bit of the surface on the kitchen table, but I am still working on it. Oh, and I found this… ‘globus’” he said, and held up an earth globe “… in the fridge, do you have any preferences of where I should ‘stappe’ it?” The Lord finally opened his eyes, the sunlight forced him to squint at the butler, and he held up a hand to shade his face. -“Erhm, you could put it, hmm, how about the library?” he suggested dimly, and was still suffering from black spots in his vision. The butler merely just nodded at his response and then disappeared.
The little, round Lord proceeded to open the letter, and he looked over at Sir Clarcy of Pea. “Should I read it out loud, so you can hear it too, Jarvis?” Lord of Buttermilk asked, Sir Clarcy of Pea nodded gratefully from his garden chair. Around them in the blossoming garden, the birds were singing confusingly in the lilac. Lord Buttermilk cleansed his throat and started to read from the stiff yellowish paper.
by
Tora
The Motherboard Anguirr
In this particular post you just have to think of the narrator as a white-haired, enthusiastic old man that speaks with a voice full of passion and fascination. You have to work with me here – or this just isn’t going to work out!
For over thousands of ye... er... for centuri ... er.. for ... for... for decades mankind have been tormented and frustrated because of their "computermachines" behaving odd. As with many other things, these rather unpleasurable fits of frustration all have roots deeper down than just the competence of the machine. It is in fact based on something biological, oddly enough, and also one of the world's million wonders.
The Mater-Matris Tabula Turbatus, which is the latin name - is better known as The Motherboard Anguirr. By many this fascinating creature is classified as a bacteria,*laugh* or even a tiny insect.
But the intriguing little Anguirr is actually, peculiar enough, in fact related to the dog! Of course that is only when narrowed down to the mere skeletal structure and the anatomy of the Anguirr. The lifestyle and the way it provides itself of nutrition is very similar to any other pest, like lice - or fleas.
The Anguirr, you see - is fed by hunting down screen-snails from the very screen of your computer, screen-snails, or the Fenestra Lentus breed only underneath a computer motherboard, yet live most of the year at the back of screens. The Anguirr therefore keeps its hunting grounds between the tincy little bitsy pieces of your computer - mostly the motherboard.
Of course, actually quite inevitably - the wild chase of pregnant screen-snails by angry little suction-feet Anguirrs across your motherboard - can lead to quite a ruffle sometimes.
*chuckle* So whenever you feel like defenestrating your "computermachine" - just be still with it, my friend - and wash your screen instead, because a clean screen will make all the little snails hurry away from their nests towards the light, and the Anguirrs, with them. *wink*
For over thousands of ye... er... for centuri ... er.. for ... for... for decades mankind have been tormented and frustrated because of their "computermachines" behaving odd. As with many other things, these rather unpleasurable fits of frustration all have roots deeper down than just the competence of the machine. It is in fact based on something biological, oddly enough, and also one of the world's million wonders.
The Mater-Matris Tabula Turbatus, which is the latin name - is better known as The Motherboard Anguirr. By many this fascinating creature is classified as a bacteria,*laugh* or even a tiny insect.
But the intriguing little Anguirr is actually, peculiar enough, in fact related to the dog! Of course that is only when narrowed down to the mere skeletal structure and the anatomy of the Anguirr. The lifestyle and the way it provides itself of nutrition is very similar to any other pest, like lice - or fleas.
The Anguirr, you see - is fed by hunting down screen-snails from the very screen of your computer, screen-snails, or the Fenestra Lentus breed only underneath a computer motherboard, yet live most of the year at the back of screens. The Anguirr therefore keeps its hunting grounds between the tincy little bitsy pieces of your computer - mostly the motherboard.
Of course, actually quite inevitably - the wild chase of pregnant screen-snails by angry little suction-feet Anguirrs across your motherboard - can lead to quite a ruffle sometimes.
*chuckle* So whenever you feel like defenestrating your "computermachine" - just be still with it, my friend - and wash your screen instead, because a clean screen will make all the little snails hurry away from their nests towards the light, and the Anguirrs, with them. *wink*
How it is holy
It is, in fact, nothing short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not yet entirely strangled the holy curiosity of inquiry.
Albert Einstein.
In many ways are many things portraited as holy. For some people holy means that the holiness should not be touched, for some it means you should touch it. The holy can be there for you to protect, or the holy may be there to protect you. Whatever is your bag, baby, the holy is shown through our human passions - and anything, absolutely anything can be holy to someone.
How about the Hardware store?
What about it? Which one of them?
it is obvious and real as it is true. There is nothing more holy than Clas Ohlson.
In a way you could say that Clas Ohlson is much like church, and that you could spend hours touching the softness of lightbulbs, or the weight of the battery-drill - just like you could spend hours reading the holy bible - or praying to the lord. I can't seem to make my mind up, what is more fascinating? Screwdrivers or religion?
That is a trick question of course, because they are indeed pretty much the very same thing.
Albert Einstein.
In many ways are many things portraited as holy. For some people holy means that the holiness should not be touched, for some it means you should touch it. The holy can be there for you to protect, or the holy may be there to protect you. Whatever is your bag, baby, the holy is shown through our human passions - and anything, absolutely anything can be holy to someone.
How about the Hardware store?
What about it? Which one of them?
Clas Ohlson.
it is obvious and real as it is true. There is nothing more holy than Clas Ohlson.
In a way you could say that Clas Ohlson is much like church, and that you could spend hours touching the softness of lightbulbs, or the weight of the battery-drill - just like you could spend hours reading the holy bible - or praying to the lord. I can't seem to make my mind up, what is more fascinating? Screwdrivers or religion?
That is a trick question of course, because they are indeed pretty much the very same thing.
Quote by Frank Lloyd Wright
Turn the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.
- Frank Lloyd Wright
- Frank Lloyd Wright
And I who think they are so pretty
Today I was looking for references to the Twilight Zone episode from 1969 named "To Serve Man" as part of the background work for our film in Media Class at school. After looking for a bit I found a very strange website filled with odd conspiracies and madness, all based on crosswise interpretations of the bible.After shuffling through it for a bit and rummaging up and down - I found This. An entire website devoted to the "viciousness" behind so-called "Chemtrails". Let me give you a brief excerpt:
These aren't contrails, the normal vapor that follows a plane then dissipates and disappears, these are Chemtrails. They criss cross the sky all day long and these vapor trails don't dissipate and disappear, they linger in the skies for hours and they contain viruses, aerosols and cancers to purposely kill you and make you sick.
A conspiracy you might claim? How about intentional and premeditated murder?
How about a hideous plan to alter your DNA caused by the very air you breathe so you can become possessed and controlled by aliens?
How about a new change of atmosphere so that aliens can visibly inhabit the earth and make humans their slaves?
Think it's a conspiracy? What do you call a conspiracy when it's been proven true?
Look UP....
There's a secret plan underway by our government, military, and their alien friends to destroy, kill, and enslave you! Their New World Order is a world without 5.5 billion people!! Their depopulation program is running all day every day in every country!
Think that sounds crazy and funky?
That is only the beginning!
And I who think those trails look so nice!
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