I – viii – The Parallel Nation of Ossian.

| May 28, 2013 | 0 Comments

The Emperor Frederick, arrived in Hades, joins others in listening as Ahem describes his youth in Ossian. While tictuses continue narrating their tale of captivity, three Nicean principles: ‘scrapmon, an historian (all too busy), and the Ambassador an An Indocile, reach the Sunrise Cage and hot wash recent expedition at Mount Period. Tictic takes lumine to visit discoverer (all too busy), marooned in Forgotten Tents, and tries to explain structure of Nicean races. The Nicean Grand Fleet, in an omega wave, arrives, distorting boundaries between time and space.

I — viii — The Parallel Nation of Ossian.

Now that he was in a rummy green bilious yard, at what point did Frederick’s top personal reality plebian arrangements access a lasting, if faultily sited, apropos of an offset forlorn dais, rusted lounger to conform with his own dazzling guesses? For all that was extenuate flocked in an immutable nearness Panthalassa, he, in scarcely drawn acres mellifluent, learned what everyone had read yesterday. The preponderance gave hand to a new efflux too mere to put away thy peerage, and distinct criterions so challenged his recent annexations, that in disbelief Frederick, called [sic] nitrous within his bounds, left philanthropic regard upon that which Mirabeau, in penniless mucilage, had said prefaced existences within the pallid brainchild.

      How many must know how a fine deed sprang the requisite brood past, half as much as a rondeau sapped a habitual distant imposition repo? “All lengthy passages,” began the shady Ahem, “preceding an actual story under this heading, are easily skipped. Trying to make chicken soup, I am aware that the instrument of present choice, victory tours, my bones boiled. The bumpy installation had to be endured. Dampened by shame, I continued. At this point, someone else might say I am not relevant. Unscrolled maps of constancy did spray this easy home ring. Anon, aided from elemental fidgeting, was I again striving to sit, upset over how all things had gone, yet not forgetful of bituminous flex etudes, this ill–spalled transfiguration of thought, interrupted with oversight, having said, or allowed, that of these things, all were of God, as the verse went.

      “If I am to make myself apparently clear to a real reader, instead of just myself, abundantly straining across, overwrought that the effortless essence, occupation of closure, leads into a pact of sincerity that I had made through dint of repetitive use, I discharged all (most important) ties in standing restless at the easel until all of the space had been treated.” Aided only by the lurking scooter, a tempestuously audacious pearly wasp, which hovered at the edge of the village, the static monolith shorted out, and a lad peered with great wonder and curiosity at the many different lords and their standards, arriving to coronate the newly chosen Soundman of Ossian. The lad was employed in taking photographs from social events and using them to compose minimal comic strips on a green computer.

      This job was not altogether as remunerative as cleaning up after the bad penguins in the northern Antarctic, but he had read that by the end of the millenium all of mankind would be on a nail file. He turned to his father with a shaky head, saying, “I can make nothing of all these balustrades.” The latter replied, “nor could I, kiddo, until I realized, we live at the bottom of the earth, surrounded by geostrophic rock salt formations.” “I wish that I knew who flapped the brickyard signet with the white charcoal,” pointed out young Ahem, forsooth this was his handle.

      “That is the Nawab Arda Min, a forthright spokesperson, who once boldly hectored an entire battalion of Scythians through customs.” “And the needle nosed man flinging the choleric black wolf?” “There is the appellate Harun Talab lil Makama who, while waiting for the opening of the Inference Library, theoretically denied emptier injunctions of a sectarian devotee.” “And the self–effacing war–horse with the wintergreen striped oriflamme?” “Suleiman Idres Abd Kahlil Filfil whom, tossed militantly finth in gabardine heath, concatenated another dull rant formerly in focus. Our peace is due to these brave men. Study them well, for your time will come before you know it. Now there, seated upon the beige courser, is the peerless Ahmad Rashim iqti Said, before whose mighty gaze shrank live ones with as if feathers o’ercome. Here are the banners of Kotlas, of Bir–antikat, of bi’sifa muwaq–qata, and il–Yaum.” Ahem overheard his mother saying that not enough people were their hats.

      Beneath the sunrise, a swath of raspberry cotton wool, tinged with dancing flame, great rejoicing broke out. “It is our Soundman Ahush Filfil Azali,” cheered the citizenry, dropping out of step to glimpse their chosen one. Ahem looked on to see their new leader assuredly blinking at everyone. Short and thickset, his bronzed hair rippled in the breeze. There followed the ceremonial meltdown. Soundman, receiving the tantalum tiara from the clerics, immediately ignited it with a cheese grater and tossed the molten fragments on the sand. Aggregate cries of approval went up as the foremost ranks were singed and proudly took their place as paladins of the new era. “My subjective friends,” Soundman began, “if elected, I promise to assure the histrionic concepts of legitimacy and posterity for now. As thy ruler, I shall never fail. I’ll strive to keep pace with all new developments, and in no wise shall anyone ever fall prey to dishonest lending practices. All pleasantries will receive full consideration under my aegis, and with resolute steadfastness shall we sneeze against all evils.” He then took off in an old Corvair, signifying the change of regime, and so exultant were the spring chickens that the country around Ossian echoed with gladness for days ever after.

. . .

“One day,” tictuses continued, “there came a how lustily call, who could this be for and why we asked, not to be there for click. How weird, we dithered, that faint and quaky vice dared rouse us from conceit. Now we resent inter–regnum yet cloak our derision with cries of gladness. Now the pattern stales, to let the term of settlement rash, we reasoned, such tedium, by–product of our tithe, was a non–essential ingredient for advancement of the races.” “Oh tarnished myopic tictics,” cried Aira, “what can be done for you?” “Frieze us from this orlop critique,” ranted one, and in a shush not unlike the end of vertical sleight, complicit declamations of fealty feigned a nostrum trace.

      Finally the shortest one stood in view. “As youth,” quoth he, “we craved evidence, an aerial and terrible ostracism so sublime, we brawled to join, and the seeming faculty conferred in selflessness. Chaps, that was all the wrong stuff, though we knew it not then, fecklessly bent were we upon so shining an apathy. Forsooth, all the rest of inter–regnum as it came, had trouble with our behavior during the window. They knew naught, as the curse descent to shriek, of coping with onslaughts of enormous Grabens which sank upon their thoughts. Only we as obedient third retained our annuity. Then cast were we far out; ‘twas a day so terrible for its very innocuity, as embassies from them persuaded us of our ultimate wealth. Gyved were we then within pleasant domes to perpetuate the span. Noone knew how the first vermilion epochs spent so swarm. Yet for all the wisest of hope gave up on until we, the cherished nuts of in, remained convinced of the valor of our septic perpetuation that robbed us of our diaspora and the greater whole of our success.”

      Diverted by fulminating tictuses, most patrons did not notice that principals of the rebel Nicean expedition: the Ambassador an An Indocile, scrapmon’, and historian (all too busy), exhausted by their adventures, had left their tapper in charge of the chef d’cabinet at Mount Period, slipped into the Sunrise Cage and, mimsily huddling in a corridor, conversed in hushed and anxious whispers. Just yesterday they had already identified, channeled, and content upon hazard, moved aggregates mute to finagle alternative frittalarial opts concerning a recent concept with static. Expressed from a desire to absorb informalities, the monads troubled with their novel behavior.

       An inordinate amount of time elapsed as the seventh crested an envelope. Now stumbling across the threshold of receipt, a dispute percolated. “Out of the goodness of her heart this person has seen fit to write and attempt an encomium to free society from its restrictive mores, and all you can do is criticize it.” One who had grown up was suddenly aware of the enmity in which they were set. Around the table, a little bird had told them fifteen minutes ago to get out. They lunged at options within acute hesitance. It was very unprofessional live in such a zoo with hostile and immature individuals.

      “Might we weigh each charm in some cosmetic Librium as if we were suppressed and deficient,” asked an historian? “Au contraire,” said scrapmon’, “these beans live to do nice things for strangers and thus had we given them the greatest palm.” “Far,” spoke An, “from grand is our beneficence, from them, we’ve had to snatch these very precious unguents and returned naught but bad advice.” They settled a land of chewed up checklists, where unexacting sequence, as long as it postponed the dread ammonia, elicited excessive alacrity. The comprehensive quaesitum, however grim, pathlessly spurred renewable exertion in a comparative horizon of options. Tenuousities equivocally telluric, terebinth tentish brackish thoughts roamed unchecked concerning their failures. The greatest journey had show up on their task reminder that morn with a sidestep, and about it, wrong anew fresh helplessness boiled withal, when hope was less scarce than anything else that might have possible scenes. They had nine immediate points. Balefully brash, their essoins aside, the Ambassador addressed them. “You can’t let go and yet are in the way.”

. . .

Abiding under a new candle, amidst the untenanted thickets of events, Ahem wondered aloud, “if diligence, determinacy, the fate of the nation, or anything else, depended upon one more list. Hagiography I may not soon understand, for the existence of it is no less provable than the sound of another catch, quite seasonable, to worry about administering the intent. Any page in this notebook, thoughts before the struggle, an alembic search for constancy, all that I am without, seams of diffluent youth, striving again to ply, rules. If this, work of several years, would finish itself for me, I would be released to regard the possibility of becoming once more. Arrangement of sound waves disconceivably stoneful of this pond of silence, I abridge in replacing anger or grief.

      “That one, other work, hinting darkly on prior forms, advanced into the house and aroused us as immunologists. We were five boys in the village of Farthaway, wont to whine about anything. We were restless and fidgety, each two years apart in age, and did not associate with everything. So small, that we were the only boys in town, our names were Fuald, Ahem, Shrdlu, Idres, and Wahid. We each had varying concerns. ‘Why am I the youngest,’ asked Wahid? ‘Why do I have such a pseudonym,’ asked Idres? ‘Why am I hanging around with these brats,’ asked Ahem? ‘Why aren’t there any girls in this story,’ asked Fuald? ‘Why can’t we meet Satan,’ asked Shrdlu?

      “Let us follow them as they took their muttering case to the edge of the village one Friday afternoon, debating their restless puberty. Wahid had developed a particularly piercing shriek, which he emitted every five steps. The older boys vacillated between amusement and annoyance, and were on the point of dragging their youngest charge from the Tariq and pummeling the crap out of him, when a terrible roar shook the entire village. DO YOU MIND? From the boughs of the aspens, a flight of rooks, flushed, spiraled into the skies of terror. ‘Huh,’ said Ahem? ‘Was that you,’ asked Shrdlu? ‘No,’ said Idres. ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Fuald. ‘Shriek,’ shrieked Wahid, uncertainly? DO YOU MIND? The boys jumped again. ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Fuald. ‘It came from that house,’ said Shrdlu. ‘Which house,’ asked Ahem? ‘That one,’ said Idres, pointing. Wahid gulped. ‘Duyumine,’ he mimicked? No further sound was forthcoming. The boys shook their heads. They walked in thoughtful silence for some fifty versts.

      ” ‘SHRIEK,’ said Wahid! They laughed and resumed the forgetful quintalogue. As they approached the well after adventures forgotten in haste, the horizon dissolved in an amorphous sheet of undifferentiated anomaly and a shield aflame demanded of them a glass. Great was their agitation then, ‘overly alembicate are these principles,’ they murmured, exerting the garden in the darkest of thought.”

. . .

iamin’thelim followed the Phrygian track of the strange animalcule that could verse in its guttural way with all too busy, who dwelled forever in the forgotten tents. A marsupilianly light–pouched being, with a normal gnomic nose–torch waving to and fro through the settlement of the tents forgotten, this third knew the secrets within. Each Isaiah sixth, in the year of King Uzziah’s death, all too busy saw shadow puppet sitting on a throne, lofty and exalted, with the train of His robe filling the temple. Seraphim stood above Him, each with six wings; with two, he covered his face, and with two, he covered his feet, and with two, he flew.

      Moreover, one called out to another and said, “Holy, holy, holy, is shadow puppet of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory.” In addition, the foundations of the thresholds trembled at the voice of him who called out, while the temple was filling with smoke, “all too busy need never go forth from their tents but for one aim that is to gain the ineluctable esteem of themselves, of which they possess no inherent quality.” It sniffed, calling itself tictic. Then a nearer voice said, “Woe is me, for I am ruined! Because I am a monad of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, for my eyes have seen the King, shadow puppet of Hosts.”

      On a note of disdain, iamin’thelim further questioned the snuffling hedge but drew a blank. “Then one of the seraphim flew to me, with burning coals in hand, taken from the altar with tongs.” tictic stayed his hiss. “And he touched my mouth with it and said, ‘behold, if this has touched your lips, and your iniquity is taken away, your sin is forgiven.’ ” From the nearest forgotten tent, the voice cried out loudly.

      “IF I with circumstances as yet unencumbered by suitably evocative replies, resumed the communication with the sky, blue jay, the boastful and persistent practitioner of the single voice, and was forced to feel distressed about southwest Antarctica, would I soon find myself wrestling with the concept of America (as if), where this time could be tag time at the OK corral?” A reply came quickly from all around. “Doubt not that your norm, in compendium, self–enflamed as rapturous intakes to pre–conceptualization, outlined allegorically through such universally and mutually perceived venues as language, displayed in such few tenuous and meager linkages of print as may be bound or fiched, will be proofread eventually!”

      Although this proclamation was accompanied by much definitive thunder, the voice of the tents persisted, “but, might not the achievement, the arch of time also ever echoing, ring nor truer than the chance possibility necessary to also avow, as did our Lord, that on earth it was also finished?” scrapmon’ muttered pup’elpus. “Then I heard the voice of shadow puppet, saying, whom shall I send, and who will go to bat for us?” Ensign Plair said, “Here I am. Send me.” iamin’thelim agreed that only shadow puppet could send this all too busy. tictic explained that shadow puppet was trying to send him. But this all too busy was not listening. This all too busy was too busy trying to think of clearer segues. iamin’thelim and scrapmon’, as Delphic beings, emitted a tittering rat into Tom’s house. That might eat the ice cream. tictic dropped a timbre onto scrapmon’s toe.

      As the fjulsfut hopped in silence to and fro, tictic explained that this all too busy was surviving only through frequent infusions of trail mix, a tincture so benign that the race of nine nations, alien to earth, was forever teetering on the threshold of a post nihilist ecstatic recovery. “Who were the nine nations?” “Allez. And he said, ‘GO, and tell this people: Keep on listening, but do not perceive; keep on looking, but do not understand. Render the hearts of this people insensitive, their ears dull, and their eyes dim, lest they see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and return and be healed.’ ” tictic, seizing each Nicean iteration by a hand, dragged them into a culvert at the edge of a dry wash. iamin’thelim met a temporal distress corporeally as a wind tunnel dissolved the world behind them and returned them to the Sunrise Cage.

. . .

The consequent development event made awry in fictional license, the littoral lumine, Aurora, and keeper of the gait of plasticity, in exile waited for them and brooded upon a sequential doom. iamin’thelim babbled, “he was onto us.” Tagged along, tictic bit into a cinnamon twist, contraindicating them. “He knows, of course, that he was being observed. He may even know of me. But of your specific identities, he can only hazard meager descriptions.” iamin’thelim felt that being thus hazarded was, insofar as it was described, rueful.

      Ignoring his rue, tictic talked of the Niceans. The races of the nine were as little known throughout the galaxy as were the biochemically intelligent lichen colonies of Siopus. “Is this all too busy of the race,” Aira asked? “Yes, but technically no. The Niceans have bobbin capabilities but these attributes have become a fixed liability.” “A double–edged Damocles,” iamin’thelim, on safer ground, intoned? Involubly, Aira shuddered. She was the girl who did not like violence even when she authorized it.

      “The bobbins were the dominant nation within the race of nine,” continued the third, “but inevitably loggerheads ensued when all too busy, the wisest, meekest, most amiably comported beings that ever styled to be, proposed colonization beyond the home system. The bobbins were asked to lay their continuum open to the first celestial commerce ever undertaken since the Nicean Unification, an event postulated to last some nine hundred thousand light years, began.”

      “And do you feel unified,” Aira asked? “Yes,” tictic replied. “I am of the third nation, though if numbered, but the ninth. For we knew everything, and everything knew us. We spent ourselves like moths in the lamp of creation. Of myself, I know of but nine others.” “How do you name yourselves?” “We are tictus. We inflect ourselves. I am tictic, but I am not tictic. Nor is tictic, tictic.” “I think I see,” iamin’thelim, startled for a moment, remarked. “You say you are the third,” Aira interjected? “Are the bobbins the first?” “Nope,” tictic winked. “We are the third. It is not so difficult to remain in time for us. The bobbins, in time, are seventh, or sixth. If they are tuned to the alpha bang they can pretend they are first.” tictic, relieved, continued (“they are able to draw on the bang for moments of recovery, drawing strength for their dominion”). “Then you are the first,” iamin’thelim deduced. “We are not the first,” tictic replied, adding, “you are wondering how this effects you.” “Yes, how?” “You are the first.”

      iamin’thelim joined Aira in laughing up thistles, an effort leaving the lumine tan with exhaustion. tictic beamed at them. “If only you might have seen your kind bobbling in the (nursery) it all had up if and when con sacrist deiu ajawava cam. He chose you for his adopted.” “And you were unable to care for us,” Aira propounded? “We were the third,” tictic shrugged. “You must have been able to explain to us why we did not mature at a rate commensurate with the rest of your ineptly named nations,” iamin’thelim exclaimed. As tictic blinked, he ascended a scent. “We are nine nations, the Niceans. We enumerate ourselves in ghats. We measure nine quantities. Time, mass, elapsed time, velocity, population, volume, space, acceleration, and noise.” Shaken, everything in non–temporal space was detonated in a seismic occlusion.

      “We are the omega wave.” As a Nicean vessel arrived, alarms long mispracticed sounded a standard restless easel utilizing all retreating spatulas until, aided only by the lurking scooter, a tempestuously audacious wasp prowled upon the horizon. The lumine were inspired to an immediate evacuation of the Sunrise Cage. Aeolus gathered the winds in sacks. Gabriel’s trumpet was encased on ice. “You must stop us,” tictic concluded.

. . .

Above the bustle of departure, a single clear voice rang forth. “We are the slaves of the sons of heaven.” Mars quit the field. “We have come for the first.” Valhalla emptied. The static monolith shorted out beneath a new candle amiss, yet untenets eventually wandered infidel against determinists, facing naive ordinary seltzers listlessly cadged. The serpent of Midgard shifted and Fenris was heard to howl. Hagiographies upon a quorum soon understood as the extent probably zoned subsequent attaches’ quite seersucker to worry about minstrelsy. Barking from behind the bouncer’s curtain, the cacophony of treble throats replied. Thin tents paginated outlook sedulously, befriending rug rats in an alembic search for consistency that alarmed steadier wits out in their seams of diffluence.

      As the lamps begin going all out a chasm, veritably, yawned. Ethics, driven to reapply for an account with us, rued isthmuses worked over several years, asking would veneers iterate form swooning in disregard of plausible bedlam that arranged more disconceivabilities than stood near the lengthily bride displaced again arguably? The faintest recollection of a lumine gasped and pushed through the curtain. Then one enough tweaked darkly hints upon prior frugs advanced as house rule immunely. Aira screamed, “Persephone!” iamin’thelim scrupled to assist them at closing.

      With a crash the shaking stopped. Chaperons inched functionless exclusions toward those lightened thrills complementary to brushed dreamboats; placarded innately canvas singers weird enough to foster a debut lief to fool everyone into sententiously behavioral additives. Presently, the staff of the Chrysostom House convened to confer, in hushed and anxious tones, upon their distracted guests. Following an uneven course of reciprocal dunks and fluctuating steams, Van Etnabaron was asked to scourge with rushes. He had complied with perfunctory indifference. That was what alarmed them. Van Etnabaron had ordered them all from the room and was locked within. Marta requested everyone away from the door. She sat by it in an ungainly ottoman. The sound of scourging continued.

      Three Niceans emerged in receivership the same day that a copious Wahabbi left the path of reason. Gliding to the aft of the vessel, the third inspected the tailspin. The noise thrusters were damaged. Therein, loose dexterous improprieties ruthlessly foundered upon, ere those kites (though that swerved huge indices horribly into fellowship) were too miniscule fortes roughly drawn. The others converged. The first, all too busy, took heat from the second, a sixth, minding the first’s decision to correct the deviated orbit of the system’s ninth planet. Between that recent interpretation, that insipid writ of protest against what was now in the beginning to wilt mimic staves extant, and topics, or privily worked over purportedly renounced semblance to any thistles already began, this caveat avoided Pelagianism in an unseemly fashion, entreating the brightness minds to act interiorly, and with the spite of aplomb they marked upon a bureau of merrily namelessness, given over to little formal concessions verbally. all too busy protested that this experiment was essential to achieving cosmic harmony. The bobbins called these arguments wasteful and their proponents futile. Their anonymity chafed otherwise excellent dialogues, hell–bent in placid transitives that had never left the eleven hundred least listable epilogues in their ruminative zealotry.

       The third Nicean, returning from aft, settled it. Many unclear egregious dead ends lapsed, foreshortening distinct terminal bibliotheques that counseled steadier pandemics, but in their minds a much more perpetrated negation, toured among the ages, were soon too fallow. all too busy received praises for his skill in locating a time freeze. This meant that time flies were still close by. The bobbin suggested a raiding party. The third declined. Suddenly Abbadon fell out of the sky askance; awfully ontos motifs declared pre–emptive jihad upon the West, moving Uncle Edith to declare that something had caused themes to fester from afar in haste and fear, and to evoke a great desire to beg the segregate analog. Their sidereal engines weakened, they were at risk of beaching upon a cove of time.

      Certainly intent to whittle obviously while rancid fumes excised his first public tenets, fifteen adagios so loud before the prophet took a vacation with a sinister Cheshire, and both hovered ephemerally after a ruinous slumber party awakened by thrushes. Somewhat regretfully, for the hidden lumine had wished to be the first to have met the first, the third motioned for a return to inter–regnum. “Long before we’ll bask gloriously,” heard through content with irremediable assonance, “we’ll lend Noone an immediate kimchi impertinently detrope.”

Category: Act I Revised Ed.

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