|
Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law Is the creed of the mage and the witch But it's still understood That fast judging is good Cognitive dissent's such a bitch
|
#
¿
Dec 14, 2015 19:30
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 01:29 |
|
|
Fumblemouse posted:Cognitive dissent's such a bitch Fuschia tude posted:God drat it mouse, where did you learn to write? QED.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 15, 2015 04:41
|
|
|
/sigh If I must. You are such a Thranguy.  PS - You totally gave Muffin an advantage because, f'reals, does that boy like dick.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 16, 2015 23:04
|
|
|
Crits for Nonsense week #174 - Ladles and Jellyspoons So - the one thing I mentioned previously is that very few of these stories had a clear idea of what nonsense is. Possibly this was my fault A number of you fell foul of the wrong-headed assumption that a single fantastic element made a story nonsense. Nope - that makes something fantasy. The illogic of nonsense needs to be brought to the fore, and more often that not - that is where a number of you were marked down. More by me than sebmojo, probably, because he thinks of prompts as ephemeral guides and suggestions that hold your hand as you skip through fields of punctuation toward lovely stories, whereas I think of them the tenets of your writing religion over the course of 1000 or so words - and I despise apostasy and have a meticulously constructed system of punishments ordained by the God of Whiskers and Cheese. Into the Mineshaft The first thing is; I have no idea what a sabina is. Sembmojo thought it might have been some exotic ninja weapon. I googled it and it’s juniper bush. To be fair you do mention a sword later on, which someone then charges a cave with it hugged close to their chest, like a teddy bear. But until I actually did some more advanced googling I had this entire story pictured involving your protag carrying shrubbery. This could have been a cool nonsense bit - but then I discovered it was a small personnel sword, and was less impressed, because that reduced your nonsense component to one character, who wasn’t particularly nonsensical, being quite readily understandable in motive. Some clumsiness in construction. “When I thrusted the blade at him” How about thrust? “A green, vine-like abomination.” Right. I can picture it, but it’s the centerpiece of the entire story, so I am not being carried away by your description. What was abominable? I don’t think the word knave means what you think it means. Knights and knaves are opposites (honour and chivalry vs selfishness and discourtesy), rather than one being the embryonic form of another. On the plus side, there was a beginning, middle and end, and the character kind-sorta had an arc. On the minus side, the nonsense was basically a magical fantasy goblin, which had nonsense factor of -2 and the arc was he was frustrated, so threw a sword in a cave and knocked out some bats who flew away, and then he yelled out “Goblin is distracted” to someone else (which would have been fairly noticeable to the goblin), but really it was all a secret plan of the magical fantasy goblin so he didn’t actually achieve anything by his own efforts. Selene Selene starting off cute, and interesting, but by the time I’ve gotten three paragraphs in the cute is starting to wear off and the interest is diminshing. You’re clearly going for a mood piece (which is risky under this prompt) She’d fracture space and time and probably warp her bones into another dimension, but if she could just see what life was really like in the mines, it would be worth it. Because not knowing was unbearable. I love this sentence, but I have no reason why she actually wants to know what life is like in the mines. How do you stifle a yawn and sound apologetic? I wondered. then I got to the end, and stifled a yawn. Sorry. This mood piece, while relatively moody as these things go, just kind of wimped out on the nonsense aspect. It’s that last comic of calvin and hobbes, where they put him on ritalin. The protagonist has a small degree of agency, but it’s largely futile. Which is the message of the story, but so far off the prompt that I’m kind of lost as to what it’s doing here. This was a ton of no-fun. Sugarplum Fairyland Home for the Insufficiently Exuberant “The mellifluous, if perhaps cloying voice of the nine foot tall bear shaped honey container crooned at Jeff” - ouch - that’s an ambling sentence. It just kind of wanders along looking at things that may or may not be the subject of the sentence. Much like this story is kind of ambling aimlessly towards some exposition and no action. Initially I was intrgued by in this story and where it is going. Please don’t be crap, I said. I even liked the reveal. It got a chortle out of me. But I was worried that there won’t actually be an arc - there weren't not enough words left. Jeff is just sleepwalking through exposition. ...And, at the end, there wasn’t an arc. Crap. Dammit - this was a good idea, kind of readable, but Jeffypoo is just wandering along being led to an explanation and then it ends. There are no stakes, no decisions. Protagonist has no agency. And hang on - Dr Snuggles. That’s a thing. A living, breathing character that bears a superficial resemblance to the character mentioned herein. DQ or DM? It should really be a DQ, but there’s no reference to flying airships or anything else, so it could be a genuine mistake. We’ll let you off, but google is your friend if you don’t want some editor to blacklist you because you think Gamgee as a character name has a nice ring to it. Obvious phallic symbol I lolled. I revelled in its sheer exuberance. This was a very strong contender for the win, and the Blood Queen only pipped you because, while her story was not as joyous, it handled the nonsense better. Our Most Illustrious Lady of Science Ok - I quite like this one. It holds together, the nonsensical aspects of it are kind of fun, there’s a complete arc. I wasn’t super in love with it being called science - for some reason that left me wanting to know what kind of science it was - and the weakness of Our Illustrious Lady, when revealed, seemed like something you had pulled out of you arse - had that actually been deducible from the story or from the intersting elements of 'science' that yu chose to mention, the piece might have been stronger. Rotten at the Core At one point in this story, Jimmy’s truck turns into a horse. Unless trucks can canter. Can truck’s canter? I don’t think so - stop making your trucks canter. Also, Jimmy is a prick. Protagonist starts as unlikeable and then gets moreso by the end. I always used to think that making characters unlikeable was an OK choice, if it fitted the story, but I am moving away from that opinion. In every bastard, you need something the audience can identify with, otherwise you lose them, and your lovely story that you sweated buckets over, gets ignored or hated. Even Draco Malfoy gave the tweenyboppers something to identify with, because his parents were sooo totes unfair. Not so here. Juimmy is a prick who says things like ““I will eat an apple today, you dastardly beasts!”, because he has never heard of the grocery store or normal patterns of speech among people who drive trucks. Also - he hates all food except apples, which strikes me as somewhat unrealistic right off the bat. Does he hate apple sauce? Apple pie? As a motive - this is terrible, because it’s literally the case that you just made up some bizarre thing about hating all food besides apples. Did an apple kill his dad? We’ll never know So here - the story had an arc, but the story just wasn’t very enjoyable. The simple style of it faltered in places. Sebmojo hated it more than I did, if I recall, but I had been drinking so whatevs. This one too, fell to the wrong headed interpretation that a single fantasy element (here, a talking tree) makes something nonsense. It doesn’t. It really doesn't. Who Ordered That? It is probably worth noticing at this point, that for the purely poetical efforts, Sebmojo and myself hooked up on our Steamamophones and read alternate verses aloud to each other, to make sure our sense of syllable count and scansion was correct. It was interesting to note that where we’d seen flaws while reading, we often found things went better reading aloud, and in general this wasn’t a problem for the poets this week. Good work on that, Rhymers. Who ordered that - this was, perhaps, eight tenths of the way there to quality. I really liked the conceit - the general idea. Rhyme, however is hard, and in one or two places the scansion was off - which added a sour note to an otherwise delicious nonsensical feast. Are gym and dojo interchangeable? Perhaps they shouldn’t be. To look at this in terms of nonsense - it does a great job because there’s a glorious illogic to it - and once understood, that illogic is played to the full, and the situation and circumstances derive from it. On the other hand - quite disliked the last line. Went from clever to a pun. Nothing against puns, but this one only worked with one interpretation, and so wasn’t so much a play on words as ...words. there was also perhaps a little too much middle. You stertche the concpet as far as it could go, and then some. Perhaps the narrator's actions could have tied in more, or something, to feel like he had a greater stake in the outcome. Barrel of Fun That was not a barrel of fun. Random, disjointed and pointless. But not in a good way. The by the one third mark I was profoundly uninterested and started to skim, then forced myself to keep going. It didn’t get any better. Sebmojo saved this from the loss. I just couldn’t see the point of it. I have bounced off stories before, but this one really did nothing for me. Not sure why this needed to be in the present tense. Or why it needed to almost rhyme, but couldn’t quite decide that it was a poem. Neither seemed to contribute much except make it feel less well put together than it might have been. Everything was just so matter-of-fact, and twee. Oh, no! Someone has called the parrot useless. Now she feels useless. But wait, someone had done the opposite. Now she feels pretty. The characterisation is so simplistic that I can’t help but think even a child would complain. If they weren’t aleady in a state of disbelief from the time when the snail cut them off at the pass. When writing these up, I had another look at it. There is a level of detail that I perhaps missed the first time, because I was bored. But the sense of "this happened, because this needed to happen, then this happened," was still pervasive, and the rationalistions for what was happening was relatively weak. We need to tidy up the stuff so we need the glasses so we neeed to get the acrobat to find them, or something. Felt like components of a Scott Adams adventure game from the 80s, rather than a sotry, at least in its construction. I would have been happier with more character and fewer item driven plot requirements. Emil, Who Climbed The Mountain To Find His Face The nonsense here is in the fantastical creatures, but also in the plot driving the protag - wanting to change his face. Makes a nice sort of illogical sense. Not a bad effort, all told. I liked the ‘years of experience avoiding his own reflection’ and I loved the bone spider that spun its own face as a concept. I don’t think the ending rang true, for some reason. The fact that it was a random face, one that doesn’t sound particularly good looking, when not-good-lookingness had been the driving force to set the story off, didn’t ring true. (Or lack of storiedness / everydayness, if that was Emil’s problem with his original face, that needed to be more clear, somehow.) A good test of a story is how much you can remember of it. I still had the bone spider in my head a week later. You should totally write more about that spider. I need backstory! The Gardener A congealing mist is pretty yucky when you think about it. the biggest problem with this one is, again, the protagonist is forced into a situation and then just limps along with it. At no point does he do anything beside politely enquire as to whether or not his current situation can be changed. The only thing resembling action, driving in the dark, swerving to avoid an animal, getting lost in the magical woods, all happens offstage. And is also a gigantic cliche. You might have developed some sort of arc for the main character by having him become more tree-like as time progressed. As it is, he just suddenly turns up and decides it’s time to be a tree full time. Comes a bit out of left-meadow, if you catch my drift. For the Price of Postage Now that is some good nonsense. It’s a clever mix of the familiar with the strange, it holds together just enough conceptually for the conceit to work, and it all comes from the protagonists desire and her actions to accomplish that desire - so it works as a narrative too. As an added bonus, there’s the twinge of sadness in the setup, though Ferny the fern is possibly just a little too twee. So let’s have a look at the nonsense that actually goes on here, so see what made this the best type of nonsense on display this week: travelling dismembered is too horrible so Sending yourself by mail is an option By writing your core concepts and memories down Memories vying for your attention literally Losing your name one letter at a time The world of envelopes, addresses where you go when you are lost The concepts flow one from the other, they are none of them logical, but they form their own traceable stream of thought, and together form a nonsense narrative that just works. If I had one criticism, - the final transition from envelopes to parent’s house is not quite as well defined as the others, and could use a little tightening. Other than that - definitely the best example of nonsense on show. Well done. Joey Romaine's Live House of Wax Good lord. That was certainly a story, all gritty urban decay and the sadness of the peeples, but it had nothing to do with the prompt. I don’t event hink there was anythig fantastical in the story - except the slight paradox of live wax, which just seems like human tableaux, which I believe is an actual thing. Congrats - you are serious writer who cannot read a prompt. Blergh. That Jerkface Moon Hmmm. So - this was competent, and perhaps a little twee. Could have done with some bite - some element of danger or unpleasantness worse than the moon being a jerkface.. some kind of conflict. The poem scanned quite well, with the line ”They flew toward Fred's nemesis on a straight path.” being the only one we stumbled over.. Good effort, but lacked the something special that took it into HM territory. PErhaps the fact that fred’s rancour is pretty flimsy. the moon is ‘smug’. It hasn’t actually done anything, so when the opinion is changed, there is no sense of any real achievement (frederick realises he is wrong, but not why he is wrong. That might be asking a bit much for something which wears its feelgood child suitability on its sleeve - but it needed something extra in the mix to really spark.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 19, 2015 11:54
|
|
|
Mouse and Muffin Have Fun All Day With Dicks Brawl wordcount: 1421 Pocketing the proceeds No mercy. He had stolen from me, made gobs of money from the sweat of my brow, and now, at last, he had practically admitted it. Swearing to myself that he would not leave until I’d had a piece of him, I gave the fucker both barrels. “I’m sorry,” I said, without an ounce of apology polluting my voice. “You are aware, aren’t you, that you have just confessed to plagiarism.” The literature festival audience, already sodden after too many between-panel wines, wakened just enough to hold its collective breath. “I have,” said Timothy, simply and in a quiet voice. “Your work is depressingly easy to identify, from its tired themes and its lacklustre characters. I meant what I said, and I will stand by it. I stole structures, plots, descriptions, and characters in whole cloth from your work, dressed them in barely-distinguishable clothes, and claimed them as my own.” I gave the audience as arch a look as I could possibly muster. “Are you saying that you, with malice and forethought, deliberately plagiarised my tired themes and lacklustre characters? I’m simultaneously flattered and looking forward to the payout from the enormous civil claim I am about to bring to bear.” I turned to the audience. “Any lawyers here not currently billing enough?” “It needed to be done,” said Timothy. “Oh, did it?” Timothy stood up behind the panel table. “It did! What was once a genre of ideas has become nothing but the endless re-heatings of last century's leftovers, suffocating in the shrinking midlist. I tried to address this in my own work, but remained ignored until I hit upon the plan of deliberately stealing from Mr Rattigan’s endless, dreary body of shite that...” I had heard enough. I pounded my fist on the table. “Please! Have a little self-respect. You’re embarrassing yourself.” “Erm, yes,” said the convenor of the panel, a nebbish editor from Puffalo brought in at the last minute. “Do please try to behave. All of you.” Timothy pretended nobody had spoken. “...Endless, dreary body of shite that should be pulped, en masse, and gifted as toilet paper in the nations of the third world. And like rubbing the genie, ripping off your crap has allowed me a measure of wealth, fame and a far greater audience from which to launch my challenge upon those tedium-clad bastions where Mr Rattigan dwells.” I looked at the convenor in exasperation. He looked at me, then at Timothy, and then at the audience who, I must admit, seemed far more interested in the proceedings than at any panel I’ve attended that didn’t have something to do with television. The convenor, cowardly lickspittle that he was, said, “It seems you have something to say. And what is the purpose of the Hayton-On-Lassics festival, but to hear the words, thoughts, and occasionally diatribes of the authorial profession?” “Thank you,” said Timothy. He gave a little cough. “I believe the time has come for a new honesty in our beloved genre. A new truth. We must free our words, go far beyond what Mr Rattigan has ever dared to achieve. We must break through. Take the bull by the horns and say ‘You’re full of bullshit, and I’ve got bigger horns than you.’” His voice, which had ramped up to near shouting, suddenly quietened. “In the spirit of this departure from the inexorably crapulent - I hereby offer to Mr Rattigan all royalties and proceeds, now and in the future, from my obscenely derivative trilogy ‘Monk In Darkness’, if he will, right here and right now, join me in flopping out our penises so we can see, once and for all, whose is bigger.” “Oh, for gently caress’s sake,” I said, as the room erupted...well, exhaled... in shocked, intrigued, gasps. “This is some kind of stunt.” “Desperately dreary times call for desperate measures,” said Timothy. “This can’t be legal,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Public nuisance, indecent exposure, conduct unbecoming of abso-loving-lutely anybody with half a brain.” “Not at all,” said Timothy, grinning like an insufferably smug, plagiarising idiot. “The festival is a private event, with a restricted entry owing to adult themes and alcohol on premises. No laws will be broken. Anyone in the audience of a sensitive disposition is hereby warned that, assuming Mr Rattigan is brave enough to accept the challenge, that penises are in their immediate future. They are welcome to leave.” Nobody moved a muscle. This was all going terribly wrong. I had just got him to admit his criminal wrongdoing, he should be being booed and hissed from the stage like a pantomime villain, yet somehow this had become about my bravery? “But...this will prove nothing. Nobody wins this pissing contest. You’re still a plagiarist - a filthy loving plagiarist.” “Language,” said Timothy. “We are all adults here. My challenge stands. I have here all the necessary documentation - which, I note, states the current value of the property in question at near a million pounds. All yours - and bear in mind, this is not a competition, Like kindergarten, everyone who competes, wins.” He slammed a small sheaf of papers down on the table in front of me. For once I was speechless. I knew he’d done well with his monkish twaddle, but...that was a lot of money for a middle-aged cranker-outer of potboilers hanging desperately onto the mid-list with well-chewed fingernails. And taking him to court - that wasn’t a sure-fire thing, despite his confession. He could hire actual lawyers. I could barely pay a parking ticket. And come to think of it, no one had ever accused me of being a slouch in the trouser department. I looked at the papers - they bore the FreshFields imprimatur of expensive legal advice. “Ah...what the hell,” I said to the audience. “You’re all witnesses. I reserve my right to later litigate, but for now… who’s got a ruler?” We tossed a coin to determine who went second. I lost. I thought about Mrs Bentley, my English Grammar teacher, who had always been my go-to-girl for a quick response. A ruler was found somewhere, and after some dickering as to where the ruler should be placed (thigh or testicles - thigh won), I came in at a seven inches and a not unmentionable quarter. Timothy took his turn at the table, walking for all the world like he had a hammer swinging between his legs. He unzipped his fly, and pulled out his penis. The head emerged, shyly at first but then kept coming. Like a poisonous snake emerging from the grass, his length extended and extended - semi-erect, as if filling completely with blood would deprive his larcenous brain of necessary fluids. I stopped looking by the time the ruler read ten full inches, but by the expression on the faces around me there was still more to come. “It is done!” screamed Timothy, one hand gripping his phallus beneath its helmet, the other whipping the air like a pornographic cowboy. With his free hand he grabbed the ruler, one of those steel ones that nuns are inordinately fond of rapping knuckles with, and slammed it down on his gigantic prick, perpendicular to his protrusion, slicing right through and severing himself. Blood spurted out across the table in a pulsing jet. He screamed an agonised scream, grabbed his at his crotch, ran off the stage and up the central aisle, still screaming and dripping vast, bloody gobbets as he went out the auditorium’s double doors. Everybody watched him go. The doors swung shut behind him. Everybody turned toward me. Nobody spoke. Awkwardly, I looked down to the several inches of circumcised penis lying on the table, its one eye gazing outward as if searching for its departed owner. It was oddly grey and covered in splotches of red. Weirdly thick splotches, I noticed. On an impulse, I reached out and touched one - it had a surprising viscosity. The audience watched horrified as I put a dab on my tongue and tasted, not the bitter iron of writer’s blood, but goddamned tomato sauce! I grabbed the severed dick. Prosthetic rubber. That bastard! That lying, thieving, scum-sucking, clever-arsed, profile-lifting, brilliant, loving bastard. I needed a drink, and my agent. Timothy had just guaranteed his own immortality, as a performance artist if not a writer, but played correctly this whole shebang could be the best thing that ever happened to my career. Without a word, I grabbed the papers, put Timothy’s dick in my pocket and left the auditorium.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 21, 2015 04:40
|
|
|
Thranguy posted:So the victory goes to Muffin for actually reading the prompt. Thanks for the prompt and the judgin'. I have never been more uncomfortable writing anything, so it was probably a good one, regardless of my inability to keep things under the top . But if you consider plagiarism and self-mutilation comedic, I am never coming to your stand up show, matey, let me tell you.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 22, 2015 23:02
|
|
|
In but on phone. Could someone please send me a merman?
|
|
#
¿
Dec 26, 2015 02:48
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 01:29 |
|
|
wordcount: 1199 Inland Dreaming Sean O’Hennessy heard the sound of the ocean roaring like a million voices. He pulled his pillow against his ears and kept his eyes screwed shut, but the comforting silence of dreams escaped him. There was only the crash of waves against his second story window, the call of circling gulls and the taste of salt on his lip. Then, amongst the million voices, one. From the ocean depths impossibly outside his room, calling his name, demanding to be answered. In frustration, Sean threw his pillow at the window and sat bolt upright in his tiny, single bed, his fists clenched. “Mother Mary, leave me in peace!” The sea rolled away and the gulls departed, leaving Sean alone in his room, naked and perspiring. But there was still salt on his lip. He touched his face and found he had been crying. In the room below, someone banged the ceiling with a broom handle, yelling at him to keep it down. “Sorry,” he yelled back, “just another nightmare.” The banging stopped. Sean lay back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling until his heartbeat slowed. He felt a wreck. Tonight’s dream had been the worst yet. So loud and so real. He sighed and decided that, seeing as he was awake anyway, he might as well get ready for work. *** Sean walked down Harbour Road, rare sunlight sprucing up the flaking paintwork of the terraced buildings. The door to the Annie Kelly’s was wide open. As he lumbered up the front steps, the familiar odour of beer-and-cigarette-laden carpet greeted him, spiced with an unmistakeable hint of sick. Collette was out in front already, a bucket of steaming, soapy water beside her. “Morning Sean,” said Colette, not looking round. “Give me a moment, just finishing the worst of it. Bloody Patrick bet he could down a pint of whiskey and have room for a pint of beer.” She scrubbed at the front of the bar, leaving bubbly trails behind. “Now the whole place reeks. There.” She finished with a final polish and threw the cloth into the bucket. A little water sloshed over the side and onto the carpet, making a wet stain. Collette stood to face Sean. “For the love of Pete,” said Colette, “but do you look like something the cat threw up.” “Ocean dreams again,” said Sean Colette sighed. “The ocean, again? In Tullamore? I tell, you, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You can’t get any more inland than here in the whole of Ireland, and yet here you are, on Harbour road, working in a bar named after a ship and being kept awake by the sound of the sea. Do you not think the universe is trying to tell you something?” “The universe can mind its own drat business,” said Sean, heading for the back room where the morning float was kept. “Oh it can, can it?” said Colette. “Well, I can mind mine, too. I can’t have you coming into work looking like a month of Mondays. Effective immediately, you’re on leave. G’wan, get out of town. Meet a nice girl, or a boy, who cares?. Lord knows you’ll never meet anyone special in Tullamore.” “Eh? But you can’t…” “Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do in my own pub, lad. Catch the train, hitch the N80, frigging walk if you have to - but don’t you come back until you get the sea out of you.” *** Sean bought a ticket from the machine at the bus station, and waited along with a small group of fellow sojourners. On the bus, he sat next to a dusty old man with a tangled beard. The bus left Tullamore, taking only a few minutes to leave the town center and enter the crisp, green farmlands. Sean watched the cows go by. He thought they seemed happy, stuck in one place though they were. One grassy meadow blurred into another, and Sean’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier. He placed one arm against the slight sill and laid his head on his shoulder. The bus careered off a pier and into the ocean. The waters rose against the glass windows, panes bulging as the pressure increased. Sean watched in horror as they burst, shattered safety glass invisible against the foaming, briney sea. He struggled to climb from the wreckage, tried to kick his way out and up through the water, but his foot was trapped by twisted metal. In the dark reaches of the deep, beyond the bus’s broken frame, shadowy figures flitted to and fro. Was that his name being said? With the last of the air, Sean tried to call for help, but the salt water rose inexorably, pouring down his throat, filling him. He couldn’t even hear himself scream. The rest of the bus could, however, as Sean found when he opened his eyes to find the entire bus staring at him like a freak. The dusty old man reached beneath his beard, into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask of something, then silently offered it to Sean. It was very warming and very strong. *** Sean stood on the coral beach of Trá an Dóilín. Above him, gulls called to each other across the harbour. Behind him, the lights of Galway shone. Surrounding him were the rocks and boulders where the land met the water, but before him there was nothing but the ocean, breaking upon stone and shore, roaring in his ears like million voices. And amongst the million voices, one. A vast wave came crashing toward the coral beach, all foam and flecks of coral, scintillating in the twilight. It broke before him, leaving in its wake a man, muscularly built and waist deep in seawater. “Welcome,” said the man. Something flicked in the water behind him, like a fish breaching the surface. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure our calls could be heard with you so far inland.” “That was you calling?” asked Sean, incredulous. “The nightmares, the drownings, that was all you?” “I’m sorry, Sean. We were desperate to find you, but it’s been so long. We had to call out strong so you’d be sure to hear us.” Sean began to stammer a reply, but with a shock felt cold saltwater up to his knees. He looked down at his wet trousers, but it was like they were an illusion he had woken up from. A strong, fish-like tail stood in the water, unconsciously undulating to move him deeper into the sea, until he stood waist deep, at arms reach from the merman, whose own tail was now clearly visible. The merman reached out, took his hand, and pulled him towards deeper water. “But Tullamore...the Annie Kelly...My job. I can’t give it up for a dream.” “You have it wrong,” laughed the merman kindly. “Sometimes we dream of land and air, and sometimes we cannot find our way back from the inland dreaming without help. But we have found you now, Henna Sea of the merfolk. Time to wake up.” Sean felt the waters close over his head like a mother’s embrace. He flicked his tail and dove deeper.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 28, 2015 05:02
|
|