Untitled

The change in the pens from the main office so all the other pens change too. It is because they bought the Imperial set from Bic Lighters. It is the divine pen that is never created nor destroyed making every pen the same pen. It is the eternal pen. When a pen vanishes and reappears it could be another person's pen by the time you pick it up. As it were only sometimes the pen you think it is when you look at it. The other times it becomes another pen. Because there is only one pen. Or are there many pens?

A million delusions pass before the sea weeping, and there were a million delusional ghosts gliding across a landscape specked with poplar and fir trees. The snow covering the hillside did not reach all the way to the sea, but it was apparent that this part of the world was in the icy grip of winter.

But this scene is not a question or matter of fact. It is delusion pure and simple, a published piece written by Craft Creasemore in a state of panic that told him he could not live this as a man. The first two pages are utter nonsense, only there to set a tone.

So he wrote:
“Is ‘why do we feed on life’ the eternal question?
So a silhouette stork eating should be in the opening phrases.
These are the opening movie shots.”

When we saw him writing furiously, vines ran up along the wall beside him, but they had not yet grown enough to cover the building. He sometimes claimed supernatural powers. He felt little, like he could never have his way. The meeting he was waiting for was an hour away. It would be in a personal laboratory. Everything was somewhere out of order and is functioning simply as a brief overview of what will become a book.

He made an appointment to meet a scientist who invented something grand. It was a new potion that could grow forest when the gel contacted air.
It grew so fast it struck awe in the hearts of all the first viewers.

So moreover, this wise turtle says something smart like, “I feel awestruck as I recall an awful falafel I ate five years ago. And if somebody turns off a fan the changing pressure could create a vacuum that in turn is filled with outside air. This is the only time I can think that one should say they created wind.”

Passersby’s should represent somebody else but they were just movement.
They were creating wind. The experiment is measuring different areas of a city in a closed environment like a warehouse, so that we can measure the complex formulas that are the wind. This would create a study in interpersonal relationships, because we can create a spiral behind us by turning left and that moves the hair on a stranger’s head.

Our people existed in a small inner garden of a very tall building. A writer named Craft sits and makes two henchmen walk to the top of the stairs that line one side of the narrow building. They listen to the sounds of feet on stairs all the way up.

The other two are a prodigy, Little Red Vegas and a scientist named Silver Lodges.
Nonsense came back from a listing mood at noon. The meeting felt like a toast by a man who wrote of motorcars, or hoped to. They found the writer drafting the ideas of a new bestselling novel, until his hopes dissipated and I pretend to go. These are their dreams and though it does seem though sea salt is spelled of right wing were dancing before. This is nonsense, so have no formula that secedes it.

And this paragraph ruined the writer’s life because he could not tell the reader what he meant. He knew that this thought left little mercy for him. And it was ok; he had time to do many rewrites.

But I will make broad statements about this book, though the writer I am telling you about will not, nor did he write this.

I feel this book will save the world, creating and pausing grown-ups and children alike for a moment of innate bliss. Because these phrases stand alone on the first page without anything too discriminating, but perhaps readers will make their own way to this. Perhaps the readers will be children. The key to character development is creating names in the first place.

So lets think of the characters in those first paragraphs.
First, there is the writer, who is a grey haired man in his early fifties. He should have been a teacher, but worked as a laborer while writing absent ramblings that he promised himself he would mold into masterpieces. His books took many years to write and even after they were written, only his friends read them. They knew about his wishes to be read worldwide and promised that when he asked they would help him. He kept saying that the work was not done. Perhaps it wasn’t.

The writer believed in newspapers, bureaucracy and tax-cuts. That is why he wrote that his delirium sought to dilapidate my good name. That’s because he wanted to copy something from a comic strip. Though transmogrify is a word that is used in places other than Creasmore & Hobart, a company that is investing time in something astounding.

The writer is used to the radio switching channels on him while he waited on speakerphone for somebody who will guide him to other spirits in makeshift places idling around a heaven set for them. He will one day write, “When the leaders talk like they have no violence suspect people did not have recourse for their hope. People settle and a basic hope is that I have a personal conquest and a man takes their old glory.”

Next we come to the passersby. They are mulling about simply walking past Craft as begins discussing pottery with Little Red Lining and Silver Lodges.
This was of course what he was talking about. But Craft Creasmore was scared and it hurt him before he could lay awake in a home like a leader.

He wanted to know why he asked of writing, “Who exactly are these people? What are they doing here and why do we care?” It was tearing him up inside. At least the coffee was good. It was better than usual. There was funky music playing quietly and Red and Silver were settling in and turning sable under what would soon become a Thursday moon that settled in the city sky and as a saint Silver said, “A strange thing happens to me. I invented something wonderful. Would you like to see it?”

The writer thanked him for his reaction. It was too simple. That could not cure the whims of these paragraphs. These words made notions stir in Little Red Lining. He was a true small “L” liberal. He wanted to make change that mattered. Silver Lodges was different. He had the lesson certificate, “Save the Safe Souls.”
This bound Silver Lodges to science because it was all he had ever done. It was all nonsense. He meant nothing by it.

The writer didn’t want to know about that sort of thing. He drank his coffee black with lots of sugar. He worked for Near-Far and thought often of his legacy. He owned many groo-groo trees and grumbled when he talked.
Groo-groo trees are real and all the names of things in this book should be real and fantastical.

When Craft Creasemore sat at the Festin coffee shop the other two were about to play minimax on a recently bought board. There were many distractions on this city street. It was perfect for practice. Their beverage was a digly-smalter, under the stress of Aruba. These were some of the leaders of Festin.
Digly-Smalters are not real and maybe should be omitted.

I made a joke for the friend. It was a silly little jest and too absurd to be annoying. Neither man laughed. Spoken or written letters sent to C. S. Lewis and wondering why these are there. Just signal words to miniature mineral jelly and mind readers like Dopperhouer…

Without much extra nonsense and in a much clearer way than this, a man working on mineral rights and also as a local Government official strides past them like a man with things to do and places to go. They had known him for years. They were on top of a building so he changed his mind and paused and told the wise man some English and non-Shakespearean equivalent of, “I know nothing.”
Silver Lodges said to him, “What are you saying, old man? Lighten the briefcase for a while.”
And his friend replied, “I’m trying to say that I can’t get ahead in this government, because I want real change. I want to make a difference like when I ran for mayor when I became leader of the sun party.”
“You went to Spain last May.” Silver Lodges said, “That was your first vacation in five years.”
“I met a mind reader there that told me I would never gain leadership of a federal party, let alone become the leader of his nation. This made me very distraught. Later in the night we spoke to Gregory, a Spanish innkeeper who spoke sly English and had a room above a restaurant that they could stay. He had gone to Spain and he was going to Spain again.”
“He ate nothing for weeks, I believe.”
“I have been waiting about a week and I owe money to someone, I was hoping you could pay what you owe me.”
“I won’t mingle with that mink but I’ll get you the money.”
“Tell them they don’t want it, me in their shirts, the backs of their heads.”

And with that the man left. Neither Little Red Vegas nor myself knew what was discussed and these brief marigold-infused partisan war games like they had something interesting and so violent the conversation had to be secretly passed from one recipient to the next. Something was lost in the translation, of course, but he could tell from the eyes what these men needed him to do. It was good the other two did not understand.

Little Red said to the next man that he knew the person would be a little on the weak end but rather intelligent and maybe a bit too proud. They often wondered about the child.
He was a friend’s child. Silver Lodges did not have children.

The older two men, Craft of about 40 and Silver of about 56 were wise enough to give advice to politicians, but we know nothing of their accomplishments. The writer had written books and was a member of the Multi-Discipline Intelligence Society, working in media mostly and remembering names of people who were not famous, but had made the news in strange and fascinating ways. He could spell like nobody else, but always got “necessarily” wrong, so he rarely used it in his articles.

Little Red Lining was a prodigy. By the age of eight he had read many classics of English literature. By ten he was the champion Minimax player in Festin. He used a round dance defense to defeat the former champion, striking up a conversation about how bees return to their hives and dance with the others. It was true. Science was the recording.

And now they begin a practice match of the game of kings, minimax.
Silver could not beat Red even at his best. Sometimes Red would make intentional errors for practice in losing important pieces, but if Silver beat Red once, he would become champion. So they kept playing, game after game for months on end, and Red continued to win every match. Today would be no different, but they enjoyed the friendly rivalry.

“A cereal man knows that Vicky cannot produce human language.” Silver said, making his first move, a daring cross board leap that left his Cage piece far from any fortressing. It could trap most pieces, though only if the cannon was on the square next to it. Red quickly brought an aggressive clover over the cage and took the piece.
“A cereal man can’t leave his cage open like that.”
After another move written later,
“Can we play this game later?” Silver said. “I have a meeting.”

Just as Little Red Lining moved his dock there was a flash of light. Level sprite, the water spirit, came to him and said to all three of us, “Sit, we must talk about these papers.”
“Silver has a meeting,” Red said.
“I only have to talk to an old friend about my new invention. I can be here a moment.”

The papers were maroon in color, held together by a folded piece of gilded metal.
Level Sprite was a serious person, never a moment late and definitely taking control of the situation.

She began, “They have been drawn up rather quickly, there is a lack of consideration for another side. With a sense of urgency I come to you. Silver, the job is important, we need to reconsider these words before we send them away. This could cause more trouble than it is worth. They would be much worse than a moment’s later delivery than planned. All trouble would be forgotten and we would dance our night away like a child. The stage is set for us now.”

Silver’s car rolled up a few seconds later and he insisted that he must leave but invited her to come with him. She politely declines and he says simply, “We must trust these grand neighbors to the North, and they must be able to trust us.” He smiled and took the papers in his hand. “I will return these to you, and also a key. I believe you, and by the end of the day these will be yours. He bowed and backed away, stepping in the opened door and thanking his driver.

He sat in the back a small man and shook his head, thinking he may need some help.
He glanced at the feigning sun and squinting in a moment of realization. The papers were factual representations of the political system in numbers and symbols. They were math, geometric shapes and divine rights to the kind leaders that were being bastardized.

Good men were remaining out of power, partially because they didn’t want to seek it over people and partially because they balanced the equation of those who wanted to choose where they put the road signs to feel that they made where people should turn.

Silver was headed eastward through the city and going home. The meeting he would be in his personal laboratory. He had made a new potion that could grow forest when the gel contacted air. It was fast so it seemed rather awe-inspiring.

The car dropped Silver off outside the hard candy shop at the end of his lane. The next building was his laboratory and the second was his home, a two-story townhouse along a narrow street that ducked into the city only one block. There was a gate before the block began and each person had a key. Across the road there was another row of houses like this, and one on either side of each of them.

Silver liked the sameness of his neighborhood. Each interior could be personalized.
It was an fun contrast.

Teenage boys sauntered carelessly towards his car and were expressing something loudly, and Silver thought they might be drunk, but the doors muffled the sound of their voices. They passed and then he opened the door and came outside to the street, walking quickly past the candy shop and seeing the old man he was meeting with.

He came from the desert and his name was Grimson. He lived in Opaque, which could be found many miles west and south of Festin. He had been unsure whether this was Silver Lodges home and was relieved to see him standing next to him.
“Oh, thank you, old chap. This is good. I’m on time and in the right place. I was afraid I was somewhere else, but here I am.” And they went inside.

The teenagers stumbled down the street in a haze, drifting from side to side. The air was soft that night, washed in misdirection they were consuming. The tall slim one on the left threw his empty beer bottle into traffic and the others laughed. The crash as it shattered on the concrete was deafening and the traffic slowed as they tried to dodge the broken glass. One of the friends began to whistle and pulled another beer out of a backpack.



“We cannot observe culture because it is in our minds.” Silver began when they stood inside the landing of his laboratory, under stairs and a banister that guarded the upper floor’s main hallway. “So we must infer culture from behavior we observe. We agree lying is bad, but we all lie. So is evil necessary to this world?”
Grimson told him frankly, “It depends on your ideology, what you have in your garden.”
“Some cultures teach us that evil spirits make us sick. Some cultures teach us that it is bacteria and viruses.”
“What are you getting at?”
They walked into another room that had a long table lined with Bunsen burners and veils of potions and beakers boiling and animated screensavers dancing on a series of screens that once activated showed lists of numbers, algorithms and various effects of chemical compounds when they were mixed together.
“I have made something that creates pure good. Watch!” And he sprayed gel over an empty section of a table and as it stuck to the table it grew grasses, flowers, weeds, leaved bushes and baby trees every two feet. He sprayed until he had filled eight square feet of his table. The plants grew until they were four feet high. Grimson was impressed. Then Silver sprayed another section, so that ten square feet were covered, the plants all grew to be five feet tall. Grimson asked for a bottle of it to keep and take home.

Silver told him, “I only have two more, but I am making more. It will be ready in a week or so. But if you would like one of the two we will share it with you. They both work the same.”

Mohandas Karamachand Gandhi was an omen.
They meet him on the gangway. It is especially rotten the point of an essay is the sapient union of two pieces of lumber and the figurative landing that teach like and essay of those who are against you the wander and teach like a dream that became them when these men are martyred they know what they are. There is another of these books that was and this is the beginning of a normality space. These are the people and that is the arrangement these are the beginnings and do not drive away with speed.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things that I cannot change and the will to change those things I can and this wisdom to tell the difference. Strange ramblings in the days to come. They never said it spoke like wisdom it was not the only truth.

Where do these people come from?
Where are the editors? Where are the spokes? Weasels and forget-me-nots that needed their beliefs took them for certain. Space and time and waste leave this right. They never knew like a wino if they could spell and type. “These spacey epic fantasies come to life when they speak of a riot or a space they tell them nothing they know. And when the public reads I made this, he knows. So that stays and they know.”

These men are peering at trees 6 feet tall sprout with gremlins faces supplanted amidst the flora. There are flowers of the grandest variety and a mindscape taken and led from the spirit towards a dynamic and a poet laurite that had a month to forget that bump to his head in his youth. It made him dynamic and leaving the man back he lived and he told of a spectacle light they had morning sun tea and left each other to their thoughts.

The old man gamboled and danced a across the room once and said, “Mighty sword, you’ve done it boy.”

“Look, they now must be seven feet high and a half a foot thick tree” I was thinking it could be a new way to produce lumber. I am feeding a sheep with it to make sure it is good for us. The sheep may become very big, because of the growth hormones that make the plants grow like that.”

It was a special kind of proud he wore.

“The trees die once we reach about here, but only because there is no soil that they are planted in. I planted some in the forest a month ago.”

“How big are they?”

“There was a obvious slowing in the growth, but that’s good. I would say they are about 60 feet, and growing quickly.”

There are two things that happen from this point. Cattle eat the forest that is spreading out in their science experiment and a machine is built that creates a fast growing forest and the logging of that forest so that 80 acres of logging is practiced every day as a renewable resource and it is gnome hell, making a brief appearance to notify Silver that he is taking Gnome-dom to a new world, one that they can visit gnomes that have gone to hell. They must use their ingenuity to create a machine like that to visit their heaven, now that the gnomes’ eternal soul is verified.

Meanwhile Craft Creasmore is corresponding in letters with someone idyllic who loves him very dearly. They are in a new romance and the writer does not want to lose her. She is beautiful and everything good for him. She enamors him and we must meet her in her house where she is powdering her nose and believing in God.

It is 7:00 now. The writer and the prodigy are leaving the coffee shop with the prodigy’s mother. She is the woman the writer loves. Her name is Kimberly Vegas. She is a redhead who dresses well and speaks humbly about the accomplishments of her sun. She cares about all that treat her well and has been rather blessed, but that is balanced by her untimely luck as of late. Her father has died young and her mother is heartbroken. They never smoked. Kimberly does. She wants to quit as she feels it is a sign of weakness. She does not know the writer thinks he wrote “Finnegan’s Wake.” She wants a stable man with a good job. He works for the national post, but he is anything but stable. He is not the writer of the book. The “I” in this book is a postman who comes to the same coffee shop and knows these three people in a social way. They do not always look at him with a positive light. She is the nicest to him. The book shows her as a wonderful person listening to religious music. This is book three.

He was running with something of a shining light. This would be a story to cover, once he knew about it. They wanted him to keep quiet and he told the world. They had not yet tested it enough and the world wanted an end to logging. The forest that has been planted keeps reproducing and growing these massively towering trees that are wide enough to hold themselves up at 200 feet tall in a matter of months. This sparks controversy and creates debate among the hippies that genetically engineer feats of nature are at best a horrid mistake and other great arguments for no GE crops in our food supply. An argument for it is that humongous leaves would make lots of air. Forest critters, grass and leave eating ones, begin to gnaw on the leaves of these giant plants and the future generations have mutations in the gene pool. Their children grow like the trees. This gives us giants. Giant cattle.

Some smart guy builds another machine for the cows that are massive; to create and destroy thousands of cows a day. This is the one that the gnomes can see heaven with. The hippies that began in favor of the project protest this vehemently. The gnomes cannot be seen so those that claim to work for them do not know that we are simply creating hell that we can see. The trees are heaven we can see. This is the realization and confirmation of the eternal soul and god. This is heralding a new age but many fight to have it banned with the best intentions.

After a couple of years, the Amish get involved and tell the hippies that they are right to stay on the simple natural path. Hippies begin to live in the forest and one day and ride horses through trails under grass. The picture is painted that they are very small and they come across the giant cows eating the giant hay. It is okay though, they are like ants. Even as a cow steps on them, they fit between the blades of grass and the cow’s hoove because the space between atoms in such that the matter is repelled against the other.

This is how these hippies discover that they can see much smaller than a quark now. They just have to count the levels of splices and create names for those that are smaller, because molecules are much bigger now. String theory is proven. There is, in the end, a giant amish man, peering down from heaven that is the giants kingdom. These giants are we in the near future. We have created the same world, much larger than us.

The prodigy is the one with the answer. He points out that these inventions are creating a whole new science and that within a closed environment they could fix one of the woes of the world. He is against the cattle grower for moral grounds. He feels that it is wrong for a man to create a life to live like that. It was, however, a little less than a fortune that he made helping the scientist.