The men are standing in a way that can be fashioned, like roses on pinstripes and backwards cars with glasses. They speak in a manner of red risen gentlemen and write to the letter like they had chaperones and medicine. The people of the manor teach like little roses on shades of grey. This is to say that they speak highly of little red champions or mortal symbols of an illogical and chaotic world.
This place is a spoken tone, sent rhyming and stepping like a soviet strike, crass like a drop jaw and speaking in tongues. The little man steps on his snide apple cart when the yellow suit of the mortal speaks lights and the right one. They do not laugh nor shape the little pink slips of fighting traditions that need to be spoken of. These are the shapes that leave men in their shadow for all that can be seen is a light in the attic.
These are the poems that are written by a man who seems very pure and a trifle bit crass. These are the people that speak to each morning with the same resentment they leave for their hats. The little red markings were crushed and spaced inward for the folk that had let the men mark their minds would tell only some the truth behind pedals as the marched and walked slowly away.
The first was a man name Co Shu King Said One, he was a short, fat, broad shouldered gent who spoke with a lisp and some kind of virtue. This letter was written in starry-eyed wonder in the middle of the night and read something like poetry. The greatness, he was told, lay in the eye of the reader. This shook Co Shu King to his core.
The man that he sat with was Poet San Gilbert, man not a saint he was named for. The man loved his palace, a cheap rented apartment, and the light that shone before the morn broke through the shadows. These cheap lifted southern pan-fried tomatoes we shook all the seeds out and drafted their parents. When we ate them, we ate them in pasta with meat. The kind didn’t matter, as it was free.
The peaceable sorts sent their open letter like little peg legged drafts that spoke highly of insult. These spectacled members of potential mishceivians were wrapped in a letter that needed to speak. There were three open caskets and none that saw light, for the shape of the world kept a man up at night. The creaking at the window was creeping rather softly and the shape of the morning to come was so bright. These little cracked roots that spell a rather soft dream came running and marching far away from these walls. The tapping tip or term that spoke like a matter was of foreign radicalism and steps from these walls.
These little managers had modern dilemmas and when these people spoke they did so like this:
“Red light is the answer.”
“Levo tamtre ston, lal hatt termat soplibes os tafe fardt ptos gouhbr kame ni.”
So the men were on their way to march to war, but not the sort that had any relevance or would have made the news. Their speak was of revolution, but they were without anything near a dilemma or column that could be used to spark such revolt. The minds that were careless and without adaptation saw the little spark that had the light redder than before. The man spoke too softly and could not let the others lead them in fighting for something they could not see. But some of the people let the higher spirit conduct them in such a way that the light was on in the attic for deceit.
The highway was littered with gold canes and perfect round stones that told that the people loved their land with a little light that shone from a round stick and sold those poor demons down the river like a settling part of some greater good. The final song came for a leader that spoke softly in rambling sentences with structure that silently haunted the mission that these people were on.
The light in the attic sung so perfectly wound, and the man in the hat, which was both yet was neither, spoke a little more in a way that the other could listen and wonder why have we not been rattled by stars and pages such as the other men have. Why did they watch and wait for people to march over and laugh when they told the spear the light that they knew they had, so the people could be settling in a hounds tooth cocktail that lit up their wanderlust for middle class workers and their children?
This was the question that had no reasonable prequel and shone like a mission that walked over their wands. These were the reasonable people who liked them and those that could speak like they wanted to hear. Why could they write it like such a drafted supposition or bitter tasteless coffee that spoke like they had waves? For these were the people that wondered rather slowly and never passed judgment of those that they hate.
He wrote the piece like a wandering tribe and used every word that he could to describe a hopeless bit of nonsense that doesn’t make and sense.
And it followed and sounded something like this:
10.2.11
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.
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.
What this book is about.
The next morning began like any other. Kimberly waked the prodigy at seven thirty. Silver Lodges was already up, enjoying a cup of tea and watching the sun begin to shine over the street below his window. The writer awoke with a fright as he had died in his dream, creating a worried state in which he had reincarnated and was his own son.
The prodigy began by reading a book about the struggles of France. He wondered what the radio was playing and where they broadcast. Were these the kind that help people pitch in and help the station? He believed that when he thought he was seeing other people in his mind, connected in some fashion to a world beyond his wildest dreams before connected again to a scene far from his home. These were the basis of some of his ingenious conclusions and how he became so fluent in minimax.
Silver Lodges wondered why he became so close with the Little Red Vegas. He had met him through his friend Craft Creasmore and his girlfriend, the child’s mother. The kid was now torn between the world of a child and the world of great men, told that he was special and could hold some great secret. He found peace in this thought. The child had once told him that there was nothing more to know. So he invented something new.
The writer lay awake in bed scared and feeling the mattress to resolve that he existed and the grisly scene he left had been a dream. He smelled smoke and saw Kimberly smoking a cigarette near the window that curved at the top. She was wearing a cream colored silk robe and peering out at the sunshine flooding the yard.
And fare thee well that morning, as none of them walked backwards and if they worked wonder it fixated on dreams. The strength of his love and the moldable world that lay in front of him said strongly that he had not written one note that mattered yet. He felt a deep despair and asked Kimberly why. She smiled and told him that he was getting older and one day would realize that nobody ever really felt very good. He was a successful writer and had many books to be published yet. The job provided for he family and she loved him, so that was what mattered. So Craft stood naked from the bed and got dressed.
As he walked down the stairs, mail came through the door and he picked it up. He saw that there was a note from Level Sprite. He opened it with zeal, as she always spoke in riddles. The poem read:
If right while they roam
Pass not what they know
Ask left the time
Level Sprite says to me
Writing a day away from London
The little lights are true in time
And the world is getting electric
It’s the light of these designs
Spell right of the ego
The discontent and rain
Nights and filled spaces
Just dreams of lights design
But I have found my shelter
Lined paper and a pen
If it is right they know
Level Sprite says to me
And because of this Craft Creasmere began to write this book. He was tired, but he wanted to make an entire pile of paper to show to girls. He claimed he was a writer. The newspaper usually had a story by him. They would ask for one today. But it wouldn’t be this prose that he whispered to his pen and scribbled illegibly in a notebook.
It was at university that my path changed, he would relate. I wanted to make a difference and I thought tattletale might be a good path. That thought escaped from him magically. It serendipitously led this man to a particular outlet he remained in touch with from that point forward. It gave him the idea that something peculiar would happen today.
The writer drank some juice and had a cookie as breakfast. He looked disgruntled so Kimberly Vegas walked towards him. He told her that something was going to break today. He dreamed that he was dieing. That meant his life would change. She put her hand on the table and said, “Just let me get that napkin from you. I hope the best for all your dreams. We both do.”
There are neighbors who only come out at night.
One of the two has to go away on a trip. And what is this trip? It is a label left open for a massive prequel explaining why they must. These patrons are detailed in many fashions because they become a leader of the free world. These people explain that they cannot spell their hard formulas and the prodigy maybe goes for a chess tournament and comes back or something. Who knows, this is of course, the beginning stage of a communal book written by at least three people.
“Maybe talk to that councilor you know, he’s always sucking the government teat. He knows what the new plans are and what needs to be said.”
“I need something bigger than that. They are paying me to be ahead of the game.”
“Would you like me to call him for you? I can always get a story out of him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll see him at the coffee shop. We have a good repoire.”
She began to press the buttons on the phone. Craft stopped her and took the phone from her hand. He hung it on the wall with a clang. Instead of arguing she began to make the morning coffee. The poor sap was acting crazy. He was using the last of his charisma to charm her. The lady smiled. He winked, cartoon sized. And he left the room, holding his cookie. There were a lot of crazies in this town, but a successful eccentric made his own philosophies. She had seen him walking up the street singing and expected something like that from today.
Two green men from before, these shaded spheres with legs and eyes marched barefoot in front of him. The changing colors of the road around him and speaking to the man he knew. The creatures spoke in clear tongues. Craft shifted in his chair, his imagination was running away. He was enamored by the creatures and wanted to put them in a book. His breathe became tight and he needed to travel, maybe write a book. This man knew and never mentioned his in words. They laughed and crossed in front of him. Had he wronged his girlfriend? She was a soul at his service. It was tearing him up inside. He felt certain it was something in the heart. They made pills for that. He knew he had a heart because he felt it bump. The two pulses were muscles. Muscles were skin. Skin was replaceable. He knew the reasoning made no sense. And now she had to leave town. He would keep her with him over the month she was gone. He would write her letters, and teach the prodigy everything he learned. Though the child was often wiser than he. Those words were just filler.
And he needed this story to keep his job. So when his friend Silver Lodges tells him of his new invention he says he must report on this story. He protests, because he has not tested it enough to go public. Craft goes ahead with it anyways. He will lose his job if he does not. It is a self-centered move. Once the world knows, he must demonstrate the invention and it seems wonderful. The machine is built. Logging changes.
Shit hits the fan.
The momentum carries the whole situation far out of control. Other parties are using his patents to create machines that make cow worlds, for growing and harvesting cows, but I think I said that. The tree-growing machine our heaven, and we don’t even know it. The cow-growing machine must be visible hell. We are creating visual God. The visual eternal soul, the computers that regulate and measure levels in these machines are measuring the very essence of life.
The forests outside become giants and these giant cows are in charge. These giants are the visual world of the Gods. We have created our destruction, but it is benevolent.
These benevolent giants become normal in the world. We are like ants and airplanes are wasps and stuff. This is a funny story. Giant hippies and cattle.
They must ask advice from the Wise Turtle.
This cat lives on an island in the south Pacific. His cave is just big enough for him to weather storms in and he spends most his time on the beach, in a grove. He doesn’t move much as he is near 400 billion years old. The all seeing and all knowing tortoise explains that nobody really knows anything and that any statement by a creature is not a divine statement thus, any statement is false including this statement. Because there are some true statements, most are created in the human experience. The world can be viewed in many ways so no one way can be true. But he is probably wrong to most people’s reality.
This is the reality of an old tortoise.
He would like to become a giant, to move to the giant world and transcend his form. He accepts that he must stay to guide these people through the visualization of eternity that is newly happening to this group of souls. These people stay far from this reality, basing the inferences on their natural environment, and only overtones of spirituality should be said.
These people are thinking clearly and not wanderers nor wonder about these questions but the child, with his mind filled with fantasy, finds solace in these quandaries and the answers of the tortoise. It is just him in the woods with the turtle. This should deal with these issues in a children’s literature manner. It would give the effect it was like Alice in Wonderland… Just thinking. IT should be something that can be loved by children and actually understood by adults. Two stories, one about magic turtles and science and one about string theory, genetic modification and visual heaven and hell.
There is also a lady who sells plants. She is in tears right now because she sold a plant that was a dear friend. These are the advantages of being a flower. I can’t publish that in both we have to be here so this city is a pyramid somewhere and book three. But I think of that lady today, as I bought a plant that was large from a small shop and the lady seemed to need the money more than the companionship of her friend. This must be make-believe though, right? She sold me the plant for 5 dollars.
Deliverance of conscience holds no fortitude for one who has wronged another. Steeped in guilt he fretted all night, tossing to and fro in the chains of remorse. There is no moral course for the hedonist that will satisfy, nor is there release for one who is unjustified by consequence though surely reaps a deeper love due to his fallacy.
What rose could endure mistrust, or breach of trust what hope is there in the false promise of repentance?
“The possibility, in return, of a soverigen place for us to rest, is founded by the relinquishing belief that we can and must hold a likeness to our kin.”
“What is it that we are left with now?”
“These sun spots haunted our places as the scientist quietly wrote notes of lonesome moral soltitude like it was a ghastly misfortune, brought upon a vanquished king as sunspots lacking the effort to burn his eyes. Where are we now?”
“We are here, in this room.”
“I understand we are in this room, but where is the room.”
“On the street.”
“I understand we are on the street, where is the street?”
“In this city.”
“I know we are in the city, where is the city?”
“The city is in this country, sir.”
“That is not what I am asking. For how can we be sure that we are in any particular place at a given time? That is a great mystery of life. Where, truly, are we?”
WE HAVE ONLY Holy GIANT COWS and Infinite trees that continue to grow until they are too massive to stay on this planet. The symmetry of this world will be abruptly altered. We may have to worry about the balance of our rotation. We must plant these trees directly across the world from those that are growing, and fast.
The world is vast, and the mountains are not directly balanced. We are fine. There nothing to worry about but those gigantic trees”
“BUT THE GIANT COWS! What will become of us, will we become their cud?” intervened a fearful Fred Brown, a noted voulenteer fire fighter in the town of Steeple House
Nay, if it weren’t for the cows which will feed in the grove and keep balance under our trees our toes would be to big for our mouths.
“But the cows are only over here!” Shouted another affrighted fellow
Not to worry they will breed.
THEIR KIND WILL SPREAD! THEIR KIND SHALL SPROUT! Shouted the crowd.
Just then the scientist realized what he had down and bowed out leaving the crowd to their own devices.
Lights flickered and groaning air breathed in waves.
It was as if pillars were collapsing his mind.
The prickling woods stood open and tall.
Level sprite enters intent on telling the people, “What’s done is done.”
The prodigy began by reading a book about the struggles of France. He wondered what the radio was playing and where they broadcast. Were these the kind that help people pitch in and help the station? He believed that when he thought he was seeing other people in his mind, connected in some fashion to a world beyond his wildest dreams before connected again to a scene far from his home. These were the basis of some of his ingenious conclusions and how he became so fluent in minimax.
Silver Lodges wondered why he became so close with the Little Red Vegas. He had met him through his friend Craft Creasmore and his girlfriend, the child’s mother. The kid was now torn between the world of a child and the world of great men, told that he was special and could hold some great secret. He found peace in this thought. The child had once told him that there was nothing more to know. So he invented something new.
The writer lay awake in bed scared and feeling the mattress to resolve that he existed and the grisly scene he left had been a dream. He smelled smoke and saw Kimberly smoking a cigarette near the window that curved at the top. She was wearing a cream colored silk robe and peering out at the sunshine flooding the yard.
And fare thee well that morning, as none of them walked backwards and if they worked wonder it fixated on dreams. The strength of his love and the moldable world that lay in front of him said strongly that he had not written one note that mattered yet. He felt a deep despair and asked Kimberly why. She smiled and told him that he was getting older and one day would realize that nobody ever really felt very good. He was a successful writer and had many books to be published yet. The job provided for he family and she loved him, so that was what mattered. So Craft stood naked from the bed and got dressed.
As he walked down the stairs, mail came through the door and he picked it up. He saw that there was a note from Level Sprite. He opened it with zeal, as she always spoke in riddles. The poem read:
If right while they roam
Pass not what they know
Ask left the time
Level Sprite says to me
Writing a day away from London
The little lights are true in time
And the world is getting electric
It’s the light of these designs
Spell right of the ego
The discontent and rain
Nights and filled spaces
Just dreams of lights design
But I have found my shelter
Lined paper and a pen
If it is right they know
Level Sprite says to me
And because of this Craft Creasmere began to write this book. He was tired, but he wanted to make an entire pile of paper to show to girls. He claimed he was a writer. The newspaper usually had a story by him. They would ask for one today. But it wouldn’t be this prose that he whispered to his pen and scribbled illegibly in a notebook.
It was at university that my path changed, he would relate. I wanted to make a difference and I thought tattletale might be a good path. That thought escaped from him magically. It serendipitously led this man to a particular outlet he remained in touch with from that point forward. It gave him the idea that something peculiar would happen today.
The writer drank some juice and had a cookie as breakfast. He looked disgruntled so Kimberly Vegas walked towards him. He told her that something was going to break today. He dreamed that he was dieing. That meant his life would change. She put her hand on the table and said, “Just let me get that napkin from you. I hope the best for all your dreams. We both do.”
There are neighbors who only come out at night.
One of the two has to go away on a trip. And what is this trip? It is a label left open for a massive prequel explaining why they must. These patrons are detailed in many fashions because they become a leader of the free world. These people explain that they cannot spell their hard formulas and the prodigy maybe goes for a chess tournament and comes back or something. Who knows, this is of course, the beginning stage of a communal book written by at least three people.
“Maybe talk to that councilor you know, he’s always sucking the government teat. He knows what the new plans are and what needs to be said.”
“I need something bigger than that. They are paying me to be ahead of the game.”
“Would you like me to call him for you? I can always get a story out of him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll see him at the coffee shop. We have a good repoire.”
She began to press the buttons on the phone. Craft stopped her and took the phone from her hand. He hung it on the wall with a clang. Instead of arguing she began to make the morning coffee. The poor sap was acting crazy. He was using the last of his charisma to charm her. The lady smiled. He winked, cartoon sized. And he left the room, holding his cookie. There were a lot of crazies in this town, but a successful eccentric made his own philosophies. She had seen him walking up the street singing and expected something like that from today.
Two green men from before, these shaded spheres with legs and eyes marched barefoot in front of him. The changing colors of the road around him and speaking to the man he knew. The creatures spoke in clear tongues. Craft shifted in his chair, his imagination was running away. He was enamored by the creatures and wanted to put them in a book. His breathe became tight and he needed to travel, maybe write a book. This man knew and never mentioned his in words. They laughed and crossed in front of him. Had he wronged his girlfriend? She was a soul at his service. It was tearing him up inside. He felt certain it was something in the heart. They made pills for that. He knew he had a heart because he felt it bump. The two pulses were muscles. Muscles were skin. Skin was replaceable. He knew the reasoning made no sense. And now she had to leave town. He would keep her with him over the month she was gone. He would write her letters, and teach the prodigy everything he learned. Though the child was often wiser than he. Those words were just filler.
And he needed this story to keep his job. So when his friend Silver Lodges tells him of his new invention he says he must report on this story. He protests, because he has not tested it enough to go public. Craft goes ahead with it anyways. He will lose his job if he does not. It is a self-centered move. Once the world knows, he must demonstrate the invention and it seems wonderful. The machine is built. Logging changes.
Shit hits the fan.
The momentum carries the whole situation far out of control. Other parties are using his patents to create machines that make cow worlds, for growing and harvesting cows, but I think I said that. The tree-growing machine our heaven, and we don’t even know it. The cow-growing machine must be visible hell. We are creating visual God. The visual eternal soul, the computers that regulate and measure levels in these machines are measuring the very essence of life.
The forests outside become giants and these giant cows are in charge. These giants are the visual world of the Gods. We have created our destruction, but it is benevolent.
These benevolent giants become normal in the world. We are like ants and airplanes are wasps and stuff. This is a funny story. Giant hippies and cattle.
They must ask advice from the Wise Turtle.
This cat lives on an island in the south Pacific. His cave is just big enough for him to weather storms in and he spends most his time on the beach, in a grove. He doesn’t move much as he is near 400 billion years old. The all seeing and all knowing tortoise explains that nobody really knows anything and that any statement by a creature is not a divine statement thus, any statement is false including this statement. Because there are some true statements, most are created in the human experience. The world can be viewed in many ways so no one way can be true. But he is probably wrong to most people’s reality.
This is the reality of an old tortoise.
He would like to become a giant, to move to the giant world and transcend his form. He accepts that he must stay to guide these people through the visualization of eternity that is newly happening to this group of souls. These people stay far from this reality, basing the inferences on their natural environment, and only overtones of spirituality should be said.
These people are thinking clearly and not wanderers nor wonder about these questions but the child, with his mind filled with fantasy, finds solace in these quandaries and the answers of the tortoise. It is just him in the woods with the turtle. This should deal with these issues in a children’s literature manner. It would give the effect it was like Alice in Wonderland… Just thinking. IT should be something that can be loved by children and actually understood by adults. Two stories, one about magic turtles and science and one about string theory, genetic modification and visual heaven and hell.
There is also a lady who sells plants. She is in tears right now because she sold a plant that was a dear friend. These are the advantages of being a flower. I can’t publish that in both we have to be here so this city is a pyramid somewhere and book three. But I think of that lady today, as I bought a plant that was large from a small shop and the lady seemed to need the money more than the companionship of her friend. This must be make-believe though, right? She sold me the plant for 5 dollars.
Deliverance of conscience holds no fortitude for one who has wronged another. Steeped in guilt he fretted all night, tossing to and fro in the chains of remorse. There is no moral course for the hedonist that will satisfy, nor is there release for one who is unjustified by consequence though surely reaps a deeper love due to his fallacy.
What rose could endure mistrust, or breach of trust what hope is there in the false promise of repentance?
“The possibility, in return, of a soverigen place for us to rest, is founded by the relinquishing belief that we can and must hold a likeness to our kin.”
“What is it that we are left with now?”
“These sun spots haunted our places as the scientist quietly wrote notes of lonesome moral soltitude like it was a ghastly misfortune, brought upon a vanquished king as sunspots lacking the effort to burn his eyes. Where are we now?”
“We are here, in this room.”
“I understand we are in this room, but where is the room.”
“On the street.”
“I understand we are on the street, where is the street?”
“In this city.”
“I know we are in the city, where is the city?”
“The city is in this country, sir.”
“That is not what I am asking. For how can we be sure that we are in any particular place at a given time? That is a great mystery of life. Where, truly, are we?”
WE HAVE ONLY Holy GIANT COWS and Infinite trees that continue to grow until they are too massive to stay on this planet. The symmetry of this world will be abruptly altered. We may have to worry about the balance of our rotation. We must plant these trees directly across the world from those that are growing, and fast.
The world is vast, and the mountains are not directly balanced. We are fine. There nothing to worry about but those gigantic trees”
“BUT THE GIANT COWS! What will become of us, will we become their cud?” intervened a fearful Fred Brown, a noted voulenteer fire fighter in the town of Steeple House
Nay, if it weren’t for the cows which will feed in the grove and keep balance under our trees our toes would be to big for our mouths.
“But the cows are only over here!” Shouted another affrighted fellow
Not to worry they will breed.
THEIR KIND WILL SPREAD! THEIR KIND SHALL SPROUT! Shouted the crowd.
Just then the scientist realized what he had down and bowed out leaving the crowd to their own devices.
Lights flickered and groaning air breathed in waves.
It was as if pillars were collapsing his mind.
The prickling woods stood open and tall.
Level sprite enters intent on telling the people, “What’s done is done.”
A New Study in Advertisments.
Sometimes an advertisement can be something that doesn't seem like an advertisement. Some argue that studies on subjects like the personal submarine sell the product to the exclusive club that could afford them.
There are also full color magazines like "Robb Report" that sell things like the above craft, mansions, chauffeured armored cars, ancient mummies, $3, 430 wine and vacations at palaces in Las Vegas. The hold a annual car judging contest for princes and millionaires only.
There are also full color magazines like "Robb Report" that sell things like the above craft, mansions, chauffeured armored cars, ancient mummies, $3, 430 wine and vacations at palaces in Las Vegas. The hold a annual car judging contest for princes and millionaires only.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)