III(rev) — wix — Start the Reformation Without Us.

| August 6, 2015 | 0 Comments

A far–off era, panned for marvelous cash, is too inhabitated to print other proven omen. Driven hinter to wait ekistic suites then, Sasha exchanges narcotic banter in the gables, startling vivid freak fondler dreams. A hushed ban of the Malthusian miser Ahem, roosting on a sharp sensei, strives to improve audible keynote dreams sanded, and scientists donate to their Sorbonne act’s ledge dine.

 .         .         .

          The current of the Atlantic inflow swept eastward along the African coast and toward ancient roads of the Western Mediterranean at full steam, borne along by toasts, solemn oaths, and twinkling sunrises too lingering to count. This, their third, found Van Etnabaron askance about crew mates, nobly paired, in the launch wake far below, actually wondering how large this ship was? Ælfric startled him by announcing it was a forty–eight and one half–foot Oakley class lifeboat that was rocking! The skipper leaned over the edge and barked in a voice that would have knocked pumpernickel from a Danish. The topside hand, recognized, and crestfallen, pushed the geophysicist away and shoved his clothes up the ladder. The skipper belaboring the cringing misfortunate all the way back to the bow, Sasha watched the admirably luxuriant geophysicist stir from her recumbence and ascend rungs of the steeply pitched aft deck. As they neared her, Van Etnabaron forgave himself for starving. Ælfric turned away from the fore and regarded them with a not forgotten dour vicissitude, glowering at the launch hung far below the bark of their collective focus, a spot he at almost any cost avoided. Delphinium rode the Atlantic inflow for sixty hours and rolled up to the Straits of Messina. Upon a spot to be chosen the travelling troupe must unfold its watery tents and guide them to the best of their ability the finding to be found.

.         .         .

“In the struggle to conserve our popularity we had made many champions. We are endeared to count without waning, for if our people were to misrepresent the dada born unto them who has known when they were sleeping or wide awake, wherein sibilant impositions, swept from enough verse as witty tag made known to thee, how already have appeared, amid invented swift costs ago, heaped comfrets of jostly tiding, only to moot their blank stares. That has increased our thane inordinately, only manifest in the depth to which we were next successful in perceiving hearts of our people, but moreover ulterior, it has increased the chasm of misperception that has existed between us. Then we have become dingier to them, since it has been written that when read this people have with rigidity refused to listen to us, subsequently we will refuse to listen to them anymore when the skies creased.” Ahem’s speech in sight, affluently “yon fool fishtailed into the twelfth century” was messaged instant from ædith, “thirteenth,” this listener amended.

          “What square potatoes ever, he’s blogging out lists, itemized sequentially, tasking Uncle Sam for damages. He’ll then return home waving his lists around. Talk about endemic entropy? The thematic heterodoxies welcomely outwitted! Such tittle–tattle, a first for Ossian. Telling everyone we’re good for it, we’ll con around just enough as ombudsman, very copacetically and empathetically, until no wiser, he facetiously waives every thin kismet!” As done with epigrams, the listener agreed, “he’s availed of your tender sureties long enough. He’ll turn nastier.” “We’ll raise the ante. When he recovers the trek bash, he’ll have it but we’ll still be we. Whoosh! A fused lively wind–up and that’s it for his magic carpet ride!” “In that case and fast, count us in,” the listener voted, adding, “for an astute anticlimax, who’s going to bell the Buddha?” “All that you need to know now is less than you knew before,” a caveat of ædith sufficed to say, “ion trails are becoming to him. Just follow our website tomorrow.”

.         .         .

Awakened, from assignation with many a monad for wishes, by flight attendants insisting that no more airsick bags were available, Fernand saw a diamond somewhere in this dark mineshaft, the cabin flooded in a golden light, and yanked open his Michelin guide to mark a glorious descent from Arc de Triumph: a perfunctory frisk at customs made him feel American in a rueful sense, and anticipating a train trip across beautiful countryside, sunset suddenly again, plunging the wagon–litré into whispering darkness. He slept, intangibly numb, and a vacuum with distaste out into that roaring night yawned. It was a terrific funnel, which screened the discoverer’s (all too busy) alarm through a time, measured in expansive gusts, seemingly French. Though blessed with every Zen design, the craft stale, its plot frayed, it will out, sang the ethereal beam with praises cold, all too busy fell into the nose of the living seal.

          The monad had no chance moreover of declaring his love. For Indocile had pigeonholed his direct missive, requiring a tabula upon which to compose, and all that remained, acrostic glyphs etched in palimpsests of his lingering affection, were not enough to deter the monad from holding his place. Insofar then, as incipient harbingers of an exigence went unremarked, a–strategic responses comprised bulk of an unanswerable question. Charged with care of an enormous mirror, fledgling fjulsfut were already tugging at flimsy linoleum–like mantle, and of this situation few of the planet’s residents were yet ware. The fourth struggled into rolling fremitus, expedient comforts located in activity of resequenced force durably sustained his motif until, with a swallow of involuntary despair, sensing grasp of an anadiplosis, the discoverer (all too busy) jerked on them astrally and was unfound for lengthy periods — periods as vast as clouds of dust peering over impassively. The little icons had remained unlit ever since.

          Before the sidetracked revival of anything, from whence she had learnt hardly enough jingles to offset her wardrobe in latter stages of somehow, Dauphine lifted a manorial brow during these interesting times that were clocking too much prosaic mess into everyone’s department. Alas for the South Sea bubble they often lamented in their cheerless symposiums, knitting socks to throw at anyone with enough temerity to hum that the sun could ever arise another day. They were whispering in an echo chamber of stained glass about an omega wave that belted into every function you thought you could return to change any time. With all the angst of community cinema, Noone considered these faultless porticoes of disinvented house warming withstood only from juxtaposition of a mezzanine that served as catspaw for enjoyment of solo metempsychosis. Along here appended labels weirdly jangled around skimpily robed newts, who received inquiries upon sacrilegious topics for edifice of a massed shoddiness. Comprised of celeritous realities, these shifts indeed usefully skewed enrollment away and bygone asymptotes were quaint if at all extant. Suddenly this trip was over, and in a dreary hamlet, a placard at the station indicated a telephone. Brusquely a cab arrived, driven by a silent matron.

         After a curt nod, Fernand was found glancing everywhere for telltale tattoos, and realized he must stop doing this lest he give away his mission. In fact, l‘nurt Glyntz often drew inferences to the process from her own insights and likened osmosis with most usually imperceptible flinches toward both a Great Seal fished from the Thames, whence it had been thrown during an Orange outset, and several other interpersonal contretemps.

          That her ex was a schlub had neither failed to escape notice of gelatinous seconds nor achieved its ostensible purpose of exacting an irrefutable casus belli [sic] betwixt them, and she flailed across the spectrum deciduously concerned that the Hiss mock trial, if touted quixotically, had never proved Raoul’s utmost complicity in the buy ten get out free scandals. Stoically she absorbed their leaden taunts in devotion of extravagant minuets designed in thickening of Pyrogabion, thus assuring unimpeded access into unceasingly free floating dementia. In this, effort of her kempt if fiery obvioregals were deemed essential, even by auditors who’d exhibited jaundiced behavior toward other various procedures.

          With such carte blanche begrudged, the elated hackettes breezed through codes, relishing the chance to switch from theory to practicuum, and the shells unsold instead diminished by thirds lasting for many knocked socks. At all of the enclosed bees Dauphine (or Stang, as childish bowdlerization of her matron saint entitled her) was most adept at applying lessons of a lengthy technical course behind them, and at her behest sine qua non waves bore algebraically quivering incantations integral to impermeability of the Village server.

.         .         .

Their peevish mullion sash unwarily freed, Core’s team wended in. As any good spore at home hung on a tilty stage, Lethe’s AC resident had routed neuter footrest chat to show how she might shop their inventive yeti up a Taurean amphora, yet a widow hugged a cult film of actuality. Thought ever available thanks to the present switch, artifice, and all around alarm arrived, looming, allowing a chance of detail, in imperishable rite, and waded beneath acrophobia lime light stretched in solar winds; while weighted versus an orison in nonesuch moves described, must any applicant agree not to be held liable for all recognizable attempts to describe American decency? They were justifiably rid of their tinted yet blighty jai alai tea: first, in confidence hitherto mooted gratis, huge swans sunned with Core the tan lah–lah weird June bug to glimpse upon divoty office. Subsequently, victory playing hoopster vice, polls concocted a grudging scone to trim the national turkey.

          Long distrustful of damned beatniks, local townsfolk now left their scuttles and drove out to cheer the tea in recorded throngs. Poor and poorer, lamp and loon, light and dark, hot and heavy they all melted into a community awry. Those who went in a partial perplexity of spouting little ire astonished lurking answers when you think of them, for if complication, sound, ceaseless oppressive operas sang hope, all evicted, for a change, burrowed under ground all illustrative seizures, a million pounds became late at a sure span. While atop of an iron board, he dreamt of extrinsic avenues of wan cathodes, acutely pensive over them, at work as in play, you might not blame. “Mr. Van Etnabaron, tell me exactly what you did that caused you to get here. Start from the top.” “I am no longer a global citizen,” Ion murmured. The resident thought back to a cold and misty day, when pastoral skies were shattered by trembling rotors. Escorts assembled beneath as the roc, a beetling black world bird, descended from overcast. Its cousins, aimed with trowels, dankened the skies and whirled away.

          To constrain an ordinal breech of initial consequence, all upwind and poor to anxieties ambled heavily, “thrippence me nary alongside toneless cellos oft restrained,” begged th’ratwi’thorns, a file piper inept on great duty. “Chill out,” quaintly remarked Plair, for had he not inconstantly proffered, as basis of fact, alas unknown earnest services of probity (if estranged in suits of enervating duress)? Plair, pinioned in reification, nudged the requisite lens to thereat, whose own will immure, and sectioning this largesse worn out alertly, the beginner innately therein leisurely searched for openly flooded pirouette anonymity. Loreleiian harps of politesse shushed, lulling in their hurried matzoth tray ditto another gag, and half able to enumerate immediate worries nevertheless Menard, no longer expecting from Plair ought but further formidable evasion, and habitually forestalling meager epithets pertinent to the latter’s inept irregularities, suddenly detected a prodigiously biased intransigence.

          Abrogating due vacancies with the deportment of habit, the direct aura of elegance clung to his other should old quaint swill during drafts of a central random memo directing that policies forthwith neap assiduously cease. After sending for the inferior subaltern, Menard heaped upon the novitiate’s plate an outpouring of shortfall, insofar as the ultimate destination of the heiress Constancia Nadeladimov remained undisclosed. With immoderate deference, Plair suggested that interloping developments had withal, if subtrahending his initial instruction, convinced him of the necessity of suborning lateral initiatives. Menard pointedly enumerated the hazards implicit in deviation and was nigh forth upon sending him out when the youth proffered, with relative animation, as if suddenly recalled, a crumpled pasty note inset within the septic pin. Warily reading the tuneless etchings, Menard gruffly ordered Plair to relate the context with a practiced eye toward future schedules.

.         .         .

An Epic Fold.

.         .         .

          “The problem, as we did not recognize the languages we adopt for the players,” Ahem’s keynote address persisted, “sometimes forces us to imagine that a gaff, not wholly non–intentional, is lurking within the hard drive housing the sea of script we believe this might some day be. So, ahead of time, we must apologize to everyone who has read this far. Marked and mocked by meaning, growing incessantly fearful of the shortness of our epic, we were moved to number our words, as if each was in itself a nation to overthrong the world and its publishers.

          “We, who had no vita, knew that if the epic extant, that which was purported to have had no meaningful resemblance to the unfolding of the events depicted here, yet by its very bulk ruining our life, told in itself of more than nine hundred pages and of each comprising over thirty lines of more than eleven words each, then we vowed that we would go it better by one, by damn! Forasmuch as we once hated all attempts to instruct us in the Word, we found that we had tied up in knots over getting the things that made time go astray. We were impatiently deceived with dreams of days, of diligence, all of that becoming a unity, a single work of lasting value.

          “We had in our hand a compiled list of items, missing from the Ossianian Hermitage, to be ratified by none other than the U.S. Congress, which at darkness (for it sat regularly) half conducted over a sink, when their adepts raised at odds mental banners of foment, plunged our land into as civil a simple unrest as was then in vogue. We rang moments, reeling in topaz iameter Morse. Fullness begged from gods, lacking the vision we once, striding zestfully to what was the front of the world’s ranks, until bested and beaten, or at least allowing this perception to coalesce code collect, we turned back from the victorious move and took notes. As for those of you who have heard this far, take heart (if long ago, a set and go forth attitude to amend past blights would be contemplated; but worn out of the weft and warp of the way to paydirt, who would stop)?

          “Writing needs the seemliest leaven (o craft of seamlessness) to bear you through and leave you messaged and renewed. You begin to accept the nip of the wind song to witness of a design, random concrete, spun by forces you hope will be nice to you. You perceive every emanating causality as proof directly editing of a greater plan than sitting around waiting for this to have happen.” Suddenly there was a tinny introduction to an amanuensis configuration. Ahem was eager to whitewash the impudence stiffly exhibited to his mother Niobe on the ground that she wore a yellow ribbon.

          Anon Ahem thought, morally justified in exacting a thing, of all of the times when, after self–congratulating his own impeccable behavior, the most terrible stories exactly confuting that filtered within earshot. “inter–regnum’s Ambassador an An Indocile,” he added, “was perfectly clever womad, and we desired and praised her redemption bought. And of course, she served. Withered conscience, disgraceful dotage, organizational gridlock, technological hubris. To focus on our primary task, they placed this slender handsome bobbin, of a strain renowned for its dynamic copy, in charge of everything.” Incidentally, she chose, in her lack of interest, a nearly sterile second as her occupant, the sidereal fugue master Hognozed. Functionally given over to brief periods of bustling, he assembled a glass of laden glum tea for each of them.

          The Ambassador reviewed a message perceived to have emanated from the rebel expedition. Tireless, devoted to principle, yet avid, members of fjulsfut were sown into fabric of the indigo sphere, determined to restore homeland values amidst the warped aftermath of perfidiousness. Rendering utility obsolete, individual spacemon’ forsook their plaintive creeds in an effort matchless, freshening a dative if incipient trend towards percussive formulaic bonding. Long held as doctrine, spoke a senior scrapmon’, that en masse departures were seen as the best forestallment of deterrence, went from the window in the wake of wintry leaven. Made liege as a detriment to conclusion, he continued, mobilization of imminent specialties went far to bridge the huge gap, seemingly foisted, through dint of sheer tradition, that was perceived to exist between active and passive components of the force. No stranger to extroversion of aim, igneous methods conducive to an over–centralization of total quantity provided a mandate for diaspora that overtook profuse councils of the entity that held as best kept this armament of surplus skill, until a moment, provisionally dreaded, nonetheless ordained a call to aptitude.

          “It were,” scrapmon’ exclaimed, “as if an upsurge, lacking in talent what it made up for in spontaneity, had crested beyond the very land itself.” An article, descrying magnitude of the breach, could merely scratch the gradual ascent toward concomitance that ensued from an overlay of sinking motivations as members put paid to outdated whatnots. Appended the chef d’cabinet, “the simpler course, for want of an earlier noodle, that was to wave until tapped with conducive intermediate upheavals, voided itself in the swell of probation.” The dutiful observance of necessity beckoned, as always, but an exegesis of devotion, met with stock indifference, subsidized the tireless Nicean watch with freshets of basic firmament.

          “An argot, long held as extrinsic to information revolt, that now transfixed youthful practicalities with its moldering staves, that in truth, precious, sojourned amidst us for days, revived ancient concepts hitherto consigned to dustbins of apocrypha. One of our more vexatious commodities, that was requirement to refute innumerable charges, emanating from our custom, that we were outmoded, vastened in the upgraded severity with which we performed our applications.” Not one participant lacked a scruple to avert leveling. The text went on to enumerate grievances. At item fifty (united artisans, in the event that they are engaged in performing tedious and involved tasks for inter–regnum, implore for the right to work straight through their lunch break whenever they damn well feel like it), the bobbin expressly broke the white noise with contemptuous giggles, while her highly reputed translator (all too busy) apprehended that most difficult lapses in grammar were due to fjulsfuts’ own ignorance of alliteration.

.         .         .

Stranded nuclei reproaching an even dirtier muse, Ion neared the sound of hospitable quaking, silent all the livelong day, emitting urban screeches, post–scripting recurrent gerunds; his dreary agonistes legitimated now viler ends and sprang to a spruce needle, tipping Ion into a detached poise.

          Alone, he signaled truer assessments of art, did stumblingly aver a candlestick imitation, flashed vested strobe lights after pleasantly introducing a blonde penguin, and brandished melting epochs tributary to night. Instead of enervation hereafter, readily redingote hell, spoke a voice (in bad Vlach); albeit perversely, tarantulizations slipped clearly through bandersnatch induced static, turning that proclaimed mantra lucidly indicative of Otto, namesake of endless thinking, Ion oddly edited while an ebbed tide, “only I, nutcases,” he shouted at them, “thought the young smart mon depressed me as a scary heretic?” Our hale son beamed up at the Carpathians.

          Belying his retractions posted on the Village Server, Ion’s familiars, in rare unison, had overlooked him as too unstable to honor the memory of their father, assassinated by instigationists, and brothers, who perished on barricades at sunrise. Every New Year’s Day, their brat pack, too dizzy to spell ciphers in their garage band, each valuably dozed from five till dawn, tenuously today lolling on the regimental dime until their market–based dismal science returned from a summer exposition. While mostly vested observers were wont to ignore events, fewer proclaimed this windsock at least a summary file compressed into fifty weeks, and as Noone hoped Ion might fudge an unspeakable network, at any moment, aerial pageants verged susceptibly. Hecate’s thunderous threat yawned in sudsy ringlets; each lift disturbed their ranks often while in an antechamber awoke thin Ion to grievous pickles difficult to reconcile with the surfing of otters.

          Tuning forks thereof, a following lapdog eventfully asked the region to begin freezing all of his assets; by now enough lingering straw men of willful existence proscribed that one could rule again, sowing enough disbelief to encourage Ion that, after regime officially changed, he ought just repel important businesses across the nearer bank in disregard of resilience. Chagrined about paltry albums long enough to disburse pensive asterisks personally, Ion dreamt of bursting scrolls, recurrent staves left to wave untended before the piles of the non–Danube.

          This land was dimly independent, routinely blithe about everyone, and a probable cause and effect ensued whenever Ion was subject to leveling conducted by missal invoking officials who collected all of his ceramics, to be inventoried by ladies who asked if he had ever accepted shadow puppet while stroking him on the kneecap. His catalogued files honestly discussed, though well hidden, and casually riffled by two very junior hackers, who in their new and stiff epaulets barked questions like seals that could only swear, Ion did what always served in tough spots. Hyperventilating, he fell to the floor in a death–stimulating ague.

          “I never should have thought of that first,” Suppressant attempted to enough console someone, who felt they were not making easily a way out of thinking about beatitudes, fulfilled past in a fortnight of bird cage withal, while knowing if a mechanism, applied to resumed vision, given over to die for manifold stretches of immoderate kinds, had led not over mean stellar spans of a seeming restful palace. Fain they’ll be freed from ability to caramelize waste. For at that stage, an enormous monk, whose work, specified under rubric from distress to antinomian value, placed thereat a universe singularly familiar to individuals who turned from the disparate rush to view this. If comported days, identified, serrated, halves, comprised among any number of audits practically, sat versus the serenity of our solemn compact from persons defined, through active arts inimical to standard damply, then fell this to a protagonist to correct with all haste phantasms deemed despicable to the national public.

          Few, who were aware that night of more scheduled terrains via commercial method, were in considerable anguish from personal inanimadversion pertaining to a system. Managing the cauldron of agencies wisely, lest arrest overtake them, the primacy impounded a periodic vexation with previous issues concerning their menial fitness. Perceived in overt culture as inexcellent, they grew alone apart, lured though revolted with existing mores of service; truant exemplars fairly though well beguiled the plaintive financiers of ædith. Bent upon sowing tares of increased moral expense, yet harried with directions from everyone who was not like us, proselytized with the vehemence of one who had no intentions often, proclaiming all who persisted in assuming respectable adjectives free, was from ædith screed.

Category: Act III Revised Ed.

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