III(rev) — xi — What Freeze–Dried Moths Might Have Done to Move Projects Along.

| August 6, 2015 | 0 Comments

Security pans Frank’s verse for solid candlelight onto a sad moody shore. Bitsy’s creepy love fad, green crinoline, befalls her former husband. Every heat, while biased to sue Raoul’s travel guests, hovers into Ossian. Obsessed as pamphleteers drain ATMs to dare writs, Porthos grasps these nether beacons with pinched pixies, channeling apothecaries’ brassy marmalade.

.         .         .

          Four ammeters across the dial, equidistant and nearly ex–person Francis X. Middleford, finding his duties as guildmaster of the National Wiccan Council almost functionless, was being tweaked by PoD. His first board meeting and its impact upon future events related to roads, tours, even an amusement park, all of which were developments that they were incapable of crackling. Someone suggested bags and their fetch upon market perception, or a street sweep, a fashion piece void of glam.

          Amidst a dry fine gossamer texture on glass furnace, a date for the fire sale loomed noisily upon their agenda, overshadowing an interactive small weird word smell in the hall of what. “As long as it’s less than one syllable,” Frank conceded, as they stopped to watch Norns feeding the adherence, a deep chastening for one action and twinkling. “An experience of discomfort may turn vividly sad,” one warned, for we knew that even before they as children awakened, painfully fond of declaiming civic involvement, disdained melodies and elapsed features in an unkind drawing room referenced an original name. Anyone might not have the slightest inkling of an essential element, involved as a chance whereby the folded warp let out of the starry cloak, that from the essence of natural process preceding heliocentrism, which laid plans occurring in the wake of dust mice mislaid in a conduit of all light, had confronted possession as in contention for an asterisk.

          Additionally, from PoD’s point of view, loads of bus charge were leaping from an earlier band, prior, a dam recollecting bothersome weir debris of the tides of centuries. Led onto stop during ad valorem series of mystical ululation, evolving emergent principals mistook an impulse of thought for an animated occupation. Left alone, Horace Tolstoy took rueful stock, in that at least he’d parlayed the evening into fresh opportunity, and fished into his jacket for the fortune cookie, snatched from the server’s tray prior to leaving the restaurant, but the fob, wherein were inscribed master launch codes of Pyrogabion, was missing. A hasty search of the gazebo, in hopes of finding confectionery remnants crunched about during recent struggles, was futile. Damn, that cub had probably filched it, and Horace smiled bitterly at his foe’s untoward resilience.

          That it would soon find its way to the desk of homeland security, he had little doubt, and checking into his four star that evening, he drifted off in consolation that his possession of codes should most likely be attributed to his participation in the R&D process, and inasmuch as parallel efforts were designed to occur in strict compartmentalization, that could be a thing for the embassy to tap dance around. They owed him one, he dreamed, or did they? He sat upright suddenly, recalling his lapse at the turn of the century when, in his post as libator, he’d failed to toss the symbolic drink into the face of the mainland envoy, creating vast gulfs between his two adopted countries that his political rival, that waffling Whig, Middleford, had not overlooked for political capital. As he fumbled with his jacket, he was aware that his favorite Mah–jongg tile, which he had used at Reykjavik in 1992, was also gone. So many things were askew that Horace immediately dialed for take–out.

.         .         .

After a free Bunsen of scraggled alms on crusty Styrofoam, Grendelle felt he deserved faster or quirkier shish kebab. His garish pirouette underscored each messy nuisance, and he dared not ask tea leaves for fewer severe mea culpas. Amid his emotive truffles, he telephoned, on the Sabbath, adamant visions of solid thermite, to babble about sentient behemoths ignorant of, or at least inattentive to, synthesis. “If I retrace my no–no’s and then throw a velvet monotone clockwork into the future tutu, shall we sponsor remedial bandwidth gnosis?” A really twilight bittern gulped volumes of tumultuous ringworms. Niobe drew level with intaglios of anthropomorphic hedonistic tortoises, couchant in chrome fleur–de–lis. A megalith of total dendritic wingspan rang wavy bloom tunes at will and upstairs, a dingy screed annulled certain auctions after shaggy limestone sunburst hieromaths derided sesame paths overgrown in the outback.

          In an abnormal camisole, Mrs. Teaspoon liked the freedom of rich orisons that, droning in acerbic desultory tsouris of nearly coronal maracas, tinged the novitiates in a grey mackerel hominy swoon. The heavy mead, designed to incite ephemeral saffron folderol ellipses from great heights, shaped voracious will–o’–the–wisps which emerged, radiating fluorescent tae kwon do tremolos. With flimsy enough wherewithal, they vented chiaroscuro curios from the fallen hall. A haven of grisly REM fits hopped away, fond of eagerly ingesting somber beets. Instantly a mad sticky froth simmered, amid motley shrouds of incandescent censers, each mingling visions in vacant hardscrabble. To twirl around anymore, Bitsy watched irritably as the E–string snagged on ragtime at the bottle return, and sunlight crept across the carpet as stealthily a harvest of quarter notes hopped across shag pile like spring peepers on a work release.

          The last thin streak of trail mix tincture, crushed almonds that she had hoarded for almost forty days, waved a la carte [sic] and for one instant, she seemed way out on top of a star. Then, a vast ethereal slice of understandable preoccupation with material renewal ensued, and some tinkly wind chimes blew off key outdoors. Across the basement a droplet, collected from the subterranean municipal water system, formed on the nozzle of the utility sink. As Bitsy stared, it grew in multi–prismatic dementia, a twinkling samba over rainwear, coalesced into an eternity cocoon of wakefulness, drooped, tipping into a violent bingo moth with tourniquet eyes, and flew across a dark expanse, with a splat.

          Into the palm of her upraised hand, she gazed incredulously as M. Flambeaux conducted vespers in a pre–occupied mindset after last week’s indigo night. Not only had the house been waltzed away with by one Mrs. Teaspoon, but the dan had turned down his request to purchase an authentic bronze Orthodox bell he had seen online. Listening to their tinny clapper summoning the faithful, Flambeaux would not have been surprised if farm animals wandered in. Review of a premise sufficient for several of the bipedalien country songs seemed to satisfy cruelty of an age given over to division of parcels into immeasurably meager portions. They knew where they had gone wrong, as an interest, and the divorce of they and their kin from inter–regnum was seen as the swiftest and only remedy to dwindling of the dreadful happiness. Shrewdly were they, an alembic colony owing but grudging fealty to the motherland, prepared to consider any degree of cardinal error if it should assure national survival.

          spacemons’ duties this morning (for they measured their time inspans constructed around ritual intake of that trail mix which made them) centered on periodic multi–cellular diagnostic of pestling devices that were permitting the meg to survive the process intact in nearly a thousandth off. An angle, approaching spacemon’, blessed them with loud voices, forgetting the latter had authority to hurl into the bowels of the crackling pants. This, spacemon’ promptly accomplished, instructing the malefactor not to emerge unless all went right. Freed, then from their supplementary task, spacemon’ savored a strange and foreign season, until we’ve finth [sic] (an hue from the duty observer) flinched them. spacemon’ slithered out from reverie and enrolled in a community assistance program, an indication of the oblivion attached by the aging heliotrope to his own fate materialized with crackling stucco retorts of an immense release.

.         .         .

A native covey of nestling squab, effectively startled, took to the winged sultry sky while Fernand shortly registered the indifference of those around him. Damoclean series of frigid stalactites shifted, detaching sequentially from their lofty chamber. With naught for a fortnight but two spring rolls and a bowl of cinnamon stew, Iphgene made up a furlong’s intervening distance in admirable and expedient fashion. The wan smile upon the face of the aging scientist was replaced with a look of annoyance as ædith, displaced by the execution of flying open field tackles, stumbled into the sycophantic grasp of ogling fellows who, assembled at the last moment to congratulate him upon his narrow brush, spared thought nor outcry for his savior who, crumpled beneath an acre of cold–kissed residue, stirred little. During benediction, Flambeaux reflected on his last scene in Ossian, where transubstantiation was taken seriously, seriously, the prelude to mass punctuated by everyone snapping their bravissimo dishrags and not neglecting to fling around in remedial spats and puce singlet frocks.

          Nevertheless, as said to apostle Peter, feed my sheep. Somnolently, the congregation preferred to the hymnal and belted on our way over there (Charles Nesbit tried to stay awake, wondering why life was clinging to the novel, per se, during business hours. Tomorrow night a fluffy dove financier was arrived into town to appraise his exercise wheelies. Sometimes Marxism was adaptable with lowlier mollusk colonies. Noone was adept as Justine in didactically zinging video lotteries. As far as everyone was concerned, an intermittent weird smell in the delicatessen continuously shorted out. “We come from all walks of life, the aliens explained, to guide a subset of emerging values.” Iliads ago, inextirpable penstemons installed by the Niceans to enable Earth to survive incredible pressure harmonics of its newfound geocentricity imbued a strange optic to the atmosphere, and inhabitants awoke to the awesome spectacle of seeing the other side of the world Mercatorially reflected in the skies above.

          Citizens of Patagonia and Kamchatka were able to wave to one another across this convex powdery haze, and the disorienting sensation, once acclimated, seemed to obviate obscuring piezo–electric telemetry imposed by the frumious bandersnatch. “You know you have an eye fetish,” Grendelle said weakly. all too busy rejoined, “for finally I blurted, “‘you can sit over there if you want.’ Let us pause to examine this offer of those who are so smitten that they can display no real concern for the other person. What in effect they are saying is you can sit over here if you want, but I don’t care either way (they are denying their feelings), and so of course this overture is a complete insult, offered by those who have abandoned all hope, and yet, to my ultimate consternation, she did exactly that.” scrapmon’ commiserated, “my own adventures with the goddess of the wasteland, a person meant to illustrate the total capacity of inner thought, strained the paucity of my daily speech. In the gallery, most signals Core was up to this minute concentrically shedding, until I walked in with Justine.

          “‘Goddess of the wasteland,’ I explained, the apocalyptic nature of our discussion had emoted expressions of entire sentences for the first time this year, and bored with ideas that, ‘pending further iterations, His world was soon to end, we invited everyone. We scooted about the fields looking for guests. Anyone who wished to attend could serve. Light was our burden.’ Hair splitting nail biters, nurtured in our wake, visited each new guest with plutonium or platinum for immediate attainment of samadhi. The last were first. Deus vult. Settling into mansions, the faithful ride out cataclysm.” It explained the astonishing lack of causality occurring upon December 21, 2012, when Earth stopped rotating, for nearly everyone had in some way expressed what their wishful memory labeled spiritually, escaping the draught reserved for those dwarfed by events.

          Still mankind was not immediately brought to an awareness of unity, and war on terror still went on. As you know, jihad captured the Polar Star orbital platform and held this over the heads of the terrified populaces, pointing out that continued accuracy of the lunar calendar, Cynthia alone keeping faith amidst redistribution of celestial objects, attested to victory of this slam, and invites in all peoples to celebrate being the best of muons if indeed, the captive dream restaurant muse sped willingly, party for abrupt jolts renamed in biathanatos folklore guides they begat. Most have a trot story bet, yet their hold irked ahriman whom, never forgotten that his native Gujarat was pillaged by the Caliphate a thousand years before, presently saw that leadership of Global Village, once in his grasp, would harness powers necessary to evict jihad from its ascendancy). As teams of land grant anthropologists descended, the engineering department drained brake fluid from the university plant and shoveled chipped ice toward Margarethe, for a Falernian version of Pascal’s wager, the assembled congregation awake to a voice wining, “I’m new in town and can’t take it anymore,” Bitsy, who had lost her Raoul irretrievably, despising national cameras kowtowed slavishly to writhing visitors, recording every primp and tic as their triangle section stamped in ecstasy and despair.

          Never mind that, as twilight deepened, all hope of the young coeropheri turned vinegary Schadenfreude [sic] at that moment, the love feast fallen apart now, nothing ever just happened, all scoring aside, had unwarranted federal intrusion upon the rights of her tiny town, their side tan, deck racing precocious, shelf sly banjo desk, sent atrophy to visitors with the relish of one squirming upon constituencies ever resigned to each cost of pitiless fiction vanilla aim? The nation, a conscious gelato, the season level flap art, resisted that hand–out, curdling into desperado, a storm of defiant individual merriment turned to separation, loss, and business as usual. Vaguely relieved if China, Japan, and Korea, lent glower in giant value, remained in custodial imposition, Sasha noticed that other counties had drooped from the sky. Everything south of an equator merged in a super–Pangean land mass. The green Norn blew some spit from her trumpet.

          Van Etnabaron, prior to crossing the international date line, noticed that England was the same colour as North America, finished reading, “— Kingdom of Free States.” The Norn played the opening salute to the Fanfare of Copland. As tears trekked across her faces, Raoul’s coarse unity a ham, ding dog, obsessed with appearance, its feast clay, relying on the known that put forth, in braided loyal sonar again, Bitsy, concerned lest fey, gone surfing and patient sorts, these young coeropheri who at this moment decide to risk plunge into medicine, should not rest until one of their number had turned the world right side up, could not sleep until one of them had become resident, until the lavish public focus sidled up to them, until they had sold their nation back to the natives and returned residue to those metonym auspices up town. Then they would see that Sasha’s glance stole to overthrust massifs of central Asia.

          While the Norn played, her gown turned an amorphous grey, marked with strange little beasts. Sasha spoke, “what happened while I was?” “Here be dragons,” Sergei explained. “12333 has been repealed,” announced Norn. “Congratulations,” said the resident. You have been just chosen for the cutting edge of national policy. I must pin it on.” Logan, remaining at the line, lingered over recipes.

          “Something happened behind me, the intercom coughed perhaps, and she turned. Have you ever been,” Grendelle whispered, for waters without darkened in a turbulence hinting that the great seal was yet nigh, “at the edge of the littoral before dawn, when there is no light, there is no horizon, there is only sounds of wind rushing, that was all you heard, yet in your dreams you saw from ever afar that blue smoldering light of peat fire that were her eyes?” When the journalist sighed, “interrupting to inform you the programmers, making suitable allowance for offense, had issued blanket denials of all request for decency,” all too busy shook his noses at Grendelle’s pace, adding, “well, if it was not exactly like that, perchance it was more, for slight macros their warp of what time suet askew.” A correspondence course appealed to those imbued with agenda comparison values.

          “We often could not see it,” injected the Ambassador. “It might have been too fast for individual conception. But if we returned home, we were going to have so much fun that no one should ever want to talk to us again. Unfortunately, they that were called pups decided to fix things. In a single minute we, the sixth strain (third, and last, of colloidal strains), the bobbins, dreadfully beautiful, sprang from the weary noses of their parent, all too busy Nornseeker. We were not only inter–regnum’s attempt to overcome its embarrassment over the misshapen fjulsfut flop by whatever thrashing, and to think that it was only Tuesday. The beneficent loam attracted the sixth, and newest strain, unsure yet whole beings. Lured by Hephestaus, patron saint of fifth, bobbins peered upon the indigo sphere at the bottom of the well of time. We declared the contents a scarce resource and remained, for many epochs, earth–bound as deities until cast forth by the earliest apostles. The fjulsfut had their revenge. At terrible cost. Confined by edict, their creativity bent to the oppressive will of inter–regnum, tictii began languishing. Their place, amidst inexorable climacteric, were seized by the ninth, the fitless, dreaded, counterfeit finth, and the eighth, hitherto, nameless, strain.”

.         .         .

Visible underground.

.         .         .

          Hyperborean icicles of the Institute, suspended from the eaves, sharpened by alternating thaw and freeze, and posed over seminarians hastening toward whatever noontide comfort might be found within walking distance, were of late unsettling to those below them, given that time, measured by the accretion of ice pellets upon the dreary ground, celebrated only by dormant works of the Nicean clock, a gift from Tsar Peter to the state of France, has also ground to a halt during the heliocentrist revolt of 1825, at elven newt height (anyone should still confide few themes gone third digital), those seeking the knowledge of letters had to rely on their own ego–stationary orbit measuring devices.

          Fernand made it his business to observe calculations of the fabled ædith, inventor of the microcosm, which specified a working synthesis of photometer impacts upon the intensity of international anomie. “Today I was dealt a perplexing moral dilly. A convenient trouble lapel ballast, failing duets then doffed each month, promised another unstable dent in my sidewalk. Sorely tested to use an extra–terrestrial vertigo chalk instead, was my philosophy, that it’s best to keep stash in hand and manageable debt or else your entire ceiling will go into the dumpster. The requirement to lay off a huge ballast at once, as our stupid trouble lapel demands, simply snores against the grain of everything I hold dear.

          “However, my nose for travel told me that Snorggi could be happy using my valorem advance for something other than laying off his precious lapel. I was also talked out of using a vertical chokehold to cover part of the ballast, and wrote with chalk for the entire amount, denting my sidewalk by about twenty percent. Trying to console myself that I did the right thing and avoided bad karma, I will ask at our next assembly of the Trombone Society if we can use ornamental chalks depending on general mood, which is a unique lump finance assessment from FNMA this weekend.” Speaking of frustration with balances, hard–boiled sentiment, abject gratitude, spacemon’ (on my word a character) were kept apart by nothing, save fear that wrought a surer answer to spiritual cleansing. Logan replaced the receiver but was rattled instantly with fresh rings.

         “At once I am here,” Horace leered to enunciate a lasting version of conceit, “and lamentably though you would not accept a simple errand” — “who else is as committed to that,” Talitha began, but then the least of his desires? “Commendably thy concert will bring anew the light of hot stuff and seeing to that whim, forasmuch as this blights our consortium, I am not of a mind to exhort tasteless events.” Tolstoy paused, getting this out was not simple as he’d strained head first into it without recourse to things left out there in murky encumbrance. Thledvirrson drearily stared, astonished that a man of this temper had slathered himself in chains before this interview. Circuitously she had fallen silent with the air of one braced for a row if at not least. Could Talitha explain again her hope for his vision?

          Were that to come, he might renounce gain at once to place his freedom on jeopardy, in order to draw attention to that recent lair. “I am surprised you have not put more distance, I should think,” she said, given unnatural denouement. “There is Core,” author of poor haiku replied, “someone who did not brook any disagreement throughout while I priced myself off. Never letting go, I must rail against the West in ubiquitous twilight before turning into a cipher of this story.” Without most novel mystique, had Menard’s grand–daughter o’erstretched her hand?

          “Hell,” Jasmine said without attempt at inflection. Talitha received this aspersion tartly, and assumed that she had called to help Tolstoy bewail his fates. The least he could have done was to explain to the heavens how fortunate he was that she answered her telephone periodically. Thledvirrson replied hastily, “how are you,” leaving Jasmine with the perception that she was gilding a sow’s ear. Horace inferred that Talitha had not returned Jasmine’s greeting in the spirit intended, instead proceeding directly to rule as diagnostician, and thus broken, he cast pet phrases all into rote previous associations and said nothing.

          Talitha, noticing that instead of redefining issues, author of poor haiku had fallen into egotistical patterns, thinking that it was all about him, therefore wearily sighed, “what is the matter now?” “Nothing worth getting into, babe,” he replied, incensed that she had chosen to humour his laconic aphorisms with such visible lack of zest as she repeated what unimaginatively. “Do you like peppermint ice scream,” Horace interjected to Jasmine, feeling fleeting pressure that she’d sidetracked tepid inquisition? “Not really,” she replied. “You’ve been cool of late, haven’t you,” Horace returned to Thledvirrson? He was ever hopeful that once she’d swam through smoldering oil fires forever raging upon the surface of his consciousness, she would be on–board. “What do you mean,” Talitha, her persistent obscurantism alerting him to the notion that she just couldn’t wait to get away from the telephone, asked (she has been working seven weeks an hour for the last sixty months, does he know what she’s saying)?

          “If you are saying just anything to get us off track,” Talitha snapped, “louse, lighten up.” author of poor haiku countered, “you all romp out of the window without a moment’s notice and then blame us for not running downstairs in time to catch you.” “What is your point,” Thledvirrson asked? “This generation seeks a sign,” Horace announced. Jasmine, suffering most of the parenthetical allusions, jumped on this cue and said, “I have to go.” Horace snatched the happy lizard from Jasmine’s hand and it was time for her to leave. “Call me when you get there,” he said as Jasmine exited. Damn, she had been so close to reaching the cold clear waters of his inner psyche yet, again, had fled. As if she preferred navigating smoldering oil fires and was frightened by his depths. It was no picnic being a secret agent nowadays. Closing the door, Tolstoy began to explain to all of her worship why a statement was necessary before they’ll have things happen, which was why they seized elemental pods too covered immediately, on realizing liminal middle night when Earth began falling toward the sun.

Category: Act III Revised Ed.

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