A Christmas Tale

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A Christmas Tale

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I have decided not to write a book, I have rheumatoid arthritis. That’s what the doctor told me. I have a lot of support from my friends, to write a book, though I have to wind down. I may hate it, but I have other reasons to relent. I don’t want to train my mind for the sole reason of becoming a Scrooge. I would rather plump my pillow, and get ready for the show. I have decided to come here to watch for trolls, for the slim chance I may be accepted into their society. One of dancing. Maybe romance? Possibly torture devices only operated by slim entities known as Mimis. To maybe think of something realistic, like a secret society. Maybe become professional cloud chaser. Or a health professional. Well, greetings anyway, from the mind.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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You can move this if you want, Bmat. I thought I’d share some fun. I’ve been thinking about this short story all day. It is called Rhythm. I don’t know where the idea came from, but it fixed itself in my gut.

It was an old, run down house, but they wanted to paint it yellow. It was on the Baker’s street, and the sign was yellow, and all the houses were yellow but this one. It was a large house, at the end of a culdesac.

The Smiths moved in, post haste, and they slept on foam mattresses, painted the house yellow, inside and out, and ate sausages on a barbecue.

The cats were all over this neighbourhood, away from the dogs, but there was one dog there, the constable. He was wearing his badge, and had his baton. Merry looked over his note pad. He was the head of the house. They were a lot of squatters, and his wife was there, with her kitten. There was only one, but that is for the point of the story, by all means there could have been a dozen kittens.

“I wish there to be a wrecking ball, and it will pass through this house, and it will render it decrepit. That way, the cats shall be out of business.” It was the mayor, Trumpet, the dog.

Merry was listening and nodding his head, and he acted garrulous to his kin, but at the end of the day he started to feel glad. The police officer, was nodding his head, and he made a note in his pad.

The truth were, that they had been there, for days, painting the house yellow. There were cousins, and sisters, and all sorts. There were cats and kittens, young and old, and all sorts of honourifics and titles typical to family members. There was nothing to do but wait by the pool, with Henrietta.

“I wish for there to be a grand arch, there, and a gazebo, and some grass. There might be some bamboo, for the fence, it is so grey.” She were talking to her kitten, and his name was Bubby, and he was a bald cat. There was no telling what pedigree would come out.

But there was more trouble, by the end of the day. A wrecking truck had appeared, and it parked itself, and the driver left. The cats were around the bonfire, that night. Merry told a story.

“There was a rabbit, a rat, and a mouse, and they all left presents, for the children. They were called parcels, but really they were droppings, and they thought it was love. The children were happy, with the excitement of the new pets, for a while. In the end they threw them out, into the wild, because of the droppings. That is how the humans died out, but we know they existed, because of the stories we continue tell about them, and they are not monsters.” The stories continued, but most were about the children, and the animals in the wild. The comments were, that cats were the best, and dogs were okay, but humans were the worst, and it was true they were only a myth anyway.

A good look at the morning, had the team of wreckers standing about the house, and the cats were hissing, and spitting. “I’m sorry, Merry, but your extended family will have to live somewhere else. This building is far too shabby. And it is yellow, and that attracts bees.”

This was where Merry snapped, and there was always the tale that he was glad to tell, that the wrecking ball smashed the house. He got used to having less time with his poor nephews, for he lived with his wife, and kitten, and they went off to the mines.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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Welcome to SV, basebean!
Always on the watch for trolls here and your vigilance is a good thing.

If you still wish to write, here is an article you may find encouraging. Even using speaking software could be helpful. It seems a loss for you not to write, your greeting, for example, showed creativity and humor.

https://curearthritis.org/writing-with-ra/

Best wishes to you.

I see you have made another post since I started writing this so I will read it now.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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Was your story from a dream perhaps? The wrecking ball seems obviously your RA. At least to me.

It would be easy to assign racial or ethnic intolerance overtones to the story also. I am wondering, for example, if all of the houses were yellow, why the cats' house was destroyed, since it matched the others.

Good story.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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That seems to be the solution, a better computer. The story comes from a Kate Bush song called Wuthering Heights. “It’s me, I’m Cathy, I’ve come home.” I imagine it as some sort of diorama, or a stop animation film, a Laika movie. They paint the house, they witness a break up, the wrecking ball gets the house, and perhaps they build that highway. At least, it’s typical. I still love to write, but I have to go with my gut feeling. There is no sense to leave the light on upstairs, I can just figure out where I was, in my head, to turn on that light. That’s enough, there is no greater purpose.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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My RA is speaking to me, ringing me on the antiphony?

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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This is something about writing, Bmat. I conceived it for myself.

There is a place, by the river, where some terrible things happened. There is also a place in the mind. Thus, the river diverts, and a scale of the fish, is found. This is not the tale of something that became, it is the tale of something that is - many things. Far be it for me to tell, nor to decide, where the river ends - let that be for nature - but it is a tale, none the less. The story of the tree, is one that gathers, for the burning’s sake. The tree and the river, look to the sky, and find many clouds. However, the gift of flight, that has always been mans. This in a way, is fortuitous. Many ways man can find where the river ends, and where the tree burns. But is up to man to walk amongst the dust. However, a gift can be found, circling the drain. That can be planned. Many ages of propagation, cared for, and nurtured, for the cycle of the certain and uncertain.

This is the story, of a boy and a girl. A collection of characters regard and eschew them. A tale of battle, and romance, are tempered by the truth that can be found in the silence of such things. The silence of ownership, of caretaking. A lot of things have happened to mankind, but man finds solace in love, in most walks of life - though fear in others. This fear has been an inkling of mine, and I find it in thoughts that cannot be controlled by guidance. In a nest I find it, bearing new life. A crying can be heard, in the wild. It craves for sustenance.

The way of such things, must be handled. There must be a joining, but it must be second best. A golden ray must shine upon light and dark. It must seperate dream from waking. It must also admit the loneliness in the plight of man. It must be fixed in position, it must appreciate science. It must also move. It must be inspired, to find many things, in the folds of wisdom. It must nurture dynasty, and rebellion alike. There comes a time for separation and deceit. One must take the hand that holds the reigns, and look to the stars, hoping to inspire progeny. It must be the snake that slithers, not the child. There is the acceptance of what one is, and the acknowledgement of independence.

When you find good, it must be nurtured. When you find evil, it must be rooted out. This is the way of things. Firestone however, was there, both good and bad. It had many uses, and many results, but none as strange as it’s effect on magic. There was the idea, that one could find the end, with such things. So, it grew, and became what it became. New, and suckling, in need of a steady hand. So it produced one. It grew in knowledge, in size secretly perhaps, but it is true that it was the beginning. What was the end, you may ask - well it was in the beginning. Firestone excreted magic, and magic was what it knew, and magic is what it became.

The flying ships were known throughout the world, and their crew grew mad on the stone, and their blood produced plastics. The selemine was a plastic, the swaymough was a plastic, time bends around the abode, the place of the plastics. New wisdom arose, and with it new heroes. A University was built, in the mind of some genius. However the old truth remained, and it was the end of the flying ships, with the end and the beginning remaining a secret, that only the abode of the plastics could tell, and the new form it laid on the earth. A simple revolution, of beginning and ending, realising the truth in Firestone, that one was born to fly, and born to cease.

The black hand was there, moving the story with the use of Firestone. The shadow was there, and it’s light guided the flying ships. There was battle, and intrigue. There was society, but it was driven to a single point. The eruption of the volcanoes. The flying ships ended there, and the University was never built. This University was a togetherness, based on plastics, and the swaymough were there when they weren’t before, like the selemine appeared to have been there a while. It is a story of time travel suspected with the abode of the plastics and their white coats, but it is true there was a slave, a black being that was born of the Firestone. A kind of volatile, childlike force, that was used to end the flying ships. The pointing of the black hand ended there. The Firestone, a white rock, was ended in a tale of smoke and fire. The slave was black, and white became it, and there was black to be made.

I wrote it about one of my endeavours. I think it transcends the page, but it is fun for me to understand and grow. Any passing thoughts?

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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Yes "transcends the page" is a good description. There is a lot to think about in this writing. It isn't immediately clear, possibly several interpretations.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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This is an example of how confused I got after reading Rudyard Kipling.

The Mouse, and the Man

The action were bequeathing, as if the mice were cajoling from their centre, and defibrillating, like cocker spaniels. The man looked into the mouse cage, of all the little mice, and resented to smile. The pet store, owned and regarded as silver, to one fat woman – and her snivelling husband, two days clear of the gunja – were quite empty. Apologising profusely, as they collided, the small girl and boy walked into the store – though they were not too small – and she were not a girl. A fat baseball hat had walked in, like he were a hero. The girl at his side, were no girl – she were a life-sized doll, all plush and looking – for an instant like a television star. Clearly there had been no fire at the wax museum.

The day were clear, and like a golden spark in the majesty of the fiefdom, realising and breathing – like a clear day. The way it should be, were not the way that it were – and looking like a king were the hay day. Pleasing to the tongue, the name of the days rolled off their tongues, as the holidays were upon them. Children sparkled like jewels – reeling from the halls of the school year – and basking in the reticence of the end of year. A good shot from any of they, were a ball or a wheel. Upon their lips, lip balm, not sugar – and upon their minds – always, the refreshing prospects of the new year.

Though, this baseball cap looked in sharp squints – at the old man’s back, and hazarded a guess. “Old man,” he cried – as a taunt does. The old man, looked not back, for a cloud of smoke were he – with the kingdom of thunder upon his mind. The latest jaunt of holy rigor, had struck down with the clouds, and the rolling of the hills were the place he had buried any thoughts of his former self. The grace were upon the mount, that he had scaled, to see the mists of time – as if perceived through the snow.

The cap, would have no quandary, as he chucked his doll to the floor, picking it up as mightily. The call of the rains that day, were liked to a breath of a thought, upon the ringlets of his fingers, fat and waterlogged, from the pouring of righteous sentiments. Likened to a beefy tailor, this boy looked across the miasma of pets, and stinks, and propped the doll up against the wall - thinking better of it, and taking it under his arm. He were not accompanied by his gang this time, but the old throat were upon his mind, as he had seen many a tale of the chalk.

This teacher, were better known as – the old one – as he were no man or beast, but a mystical cloud, married to no one else but himself, and taken by no thought or being but the regiment of clouds, that he would be seen quite anciently standing beneath – besides many a remark or smirk – upon the religious circle of grass, below the sight of the electric belfry. That were what he were like, and likened to it he were – now – as long as any small boy, short and stout, tip me out, were not as similar to the sentiments as he - taken with a puff behind the equipment shed, below the peppermint leaves.

The truth were that these two were a pair, to any of the odd sentiment. The rains of the day, were in fact outside spluttering, and the tail were a long one to any of a short glance may be. The luck of the day, were a quick and breathing stink of pets, that were better left to the vestiges of the store – anyway, as a reign or tale might be, in the stead of a farm, or guttered up by any garret of chalk and rain. The reason being, that the cost of such an indentured servant may be – to a snivelling little wretch, that the doll might be, or may have been, in better circumstances – were likened to the whitewash of might, that this man looked over his shoulder, and howled in greeting, in as greater spirits than any might be, as he were of the proposition of a schooner, if the boy may be, a little wretch himself – but the cuffs of his shirt were rolled up, and he peered into the cage beside him, as if a temper were upon him, as to gauge the task as he might. A little pop and squeak were all they were, and albino they might be, but as red eyed as the haunts of his past. The little fellow tried not to bump the cage with his hand, as the doll leant alongside it – and he reached in to grab a sucker.

“See this,” The boy asked, as he showed it to the man, looking like a snake charmer. This is the very thunder itself, held in such a way, to illicit revenge. All animals like to have revenge. It is their mettle, you may say.” The old man peered at the mouse, bending over slightly to see the student in him. “It is bred this way, to have a weakness of thoughts, not so wild. It is like they stare out with the reds of their eyes, but if they were to escape – mottled, hundreds of mottled mice – more than one might naturally find, all over the place. The boy reached into the cage once more, placing it inside. “If a wild mouse were to find a cage say, of all these sorts of things, he might get inside and stay.” It had happened to the boy before, that a grey, brown mouse had got in, and later got out, and his mother had found these sorts of piebald all over the pantry, with glowing eyes like Christmas.

“I like this very much, how is your project going.” The old man had followed the mouse to the cage, with his eyes, and were looking sharply at them.

“Oh, as good as it might. It is like the nature of the thing is in my bones, and I may only be a senior in many years to come – but I like to think it is the sort of thing that gets at your bones, sort of like a pact, a pact of the mice. Do you know anything about mice, such as these?” The boy grasped his cap, and gripped it between his hands, squeezing, looking at the mouse he had dropped.
“No,” the old man said with wide eyes upon the little critters.

“Oh, well, I know tonnes.” He crossed the floor, his dolls hem getting wet in the floor stink. “This for example, is a horse.” He motioned at the stable, bowing ever so slightly. “And this is a donkey,” he did so similarly. “And this, I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s an echidna.” The old man did not even look up from his glare, he just knew it to be so.

“Oh, I don’t think it is, I in fact don’t know what it is,” the boy said, looking worried.

“It has spikes all over it.” The old man returned. To this the boy felt his hair, and found the man’s eyes in a reflection. “Yes, you.”

“Well, I’m not a pet, or any such thing,” The boy’s hat were crumpled, the doll under his arm, and he left the store in tears, rushing in a sort of way. Outside he sat, looking at a great many things, as he considered. The man walked around the store for an hour, and then appeared outside the door – the boy got up. “Old man, I am to accompany you today.” He looked dazed, and perhaps it had been more like five minutes than an hour.

“Would you like a schooner, I’m sure they will allow a boy such as yourself in the public house.” The man were bent over, but the boy agreed, and they linked hands, and walked to the small coffee shop, just over the road, presumably to talk of school matters – but the doll between them were acting as a buffer, and the old man laughed to think it were her hand, not his.

They sat in spirits for a good long time, and the clientele talked of matters with glowing eyes and smirks. The sort of thing were to add cream to the coffee, and they got quite sick after a time. The way that they poured from the kettle, and added with the beaker, were a task to them to keep from scoffing their muffins with talk. The sorts of things they said, were likened to a battle, across fields, and clashes of metal. The last thing they did before leaving the shop were to part ways, but this is how it went.

They crossed the street, and lay about in tempers for a while, at the pew of the maître d’ crossing the floor. They found a great number of folk in the room they knew, as it were a small town, and they were a small bunch – but the sorts of things they thought in the interim, were like a bus full of school children, shouting a sort of song about thunder clouds, and wishing away all that nonsense about the right thing at the right time. They were really a pair, and the looks they got, as they entered the coffee shop and sat, were as congenial as the remarks they sent their way. It were not usual for a student and teacher to mingle at the best of times, but these two were old dogs at the game, and they took the chance at it.

Talking across the table, they had all sorts of thoughts about this and that, but none so important as the sporting schedule, that had been unfolding before their very eyes, at varying times, acting as supporters and participants in all sorts of sporting events, and training sessions. The talked about all the boys could talk about, and the old man were entirely present to listen and watch. Such a meeting ground, were no small thing, to a man and boy who had just entered a coffee shop after being at a pet store. They looked seriously at all sorts of ideas and tactics, to take the very ball from them, and return it with interest. The reason they had figured, that to mingle the boys and the girls would be very unfair, and not at all to their liking.

So, at the end of their talk, the got up, shook hands, and departed their ways. The old man walked with the swiftness of one whom had just fondled a doll, be it a life sized doll as it may, and the boy stalked off, finding his parents, and fondling the dolls face as he smirked and took his ice-cream chocolate covered, and calling cat calls behind him, as the car drove off to the farm – which were his place of residence, right at the old man, whom were as surprised as he.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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Let me ask, are we to assume the car hit the old man? For a while there I thought the boy was Death but then that thought faded away.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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Sometimes I write with a dash. That is where it gets confusing, I don’t even know what the rules are. It may seem like nature has taken a step into pedophilia, but I tried to write it with a pure heart, and a black hand.

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Re: A Christmas Tale

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This is something that is very old, but very new, having something to do with trans rights, but nothing to do with trans people. Just joking… it is a rendition of the fool, and the Fitz. Maybe something to do with Japanese rock as well…

Absolutely Fabulous

Ageisha was a horrible sight to behold. Unknown as male or female, the pale white form, with eyes of red, sat adorned on the throne being held by the swaymough. The great white ape, had eyes spinning wildly, and blood gushing from its wounds, from flailing, and the great adornments of ropes and platforms. It were no bigger than a house, but had tendrils reaching fields an army strong. Felicia were now completely under the control of the white creature of ancient origins, forgotten by time, or born of it. A shadow were the only being to walk unhindered by this mind controlling creature, besides the selemine, and slave, the little black creature at Rose Handler’s side, astride Macstnz.

Ever so often, a selemine would choose a successor, and they would link minds with the small dragon, and hold powers of mind control and push. Then they would die at the cliffs, being spun into a cocoon, born anew. As a selemine. Macstnz was old, and was ready to be a parent. He had served the royal household of The Handlers as record keeper, and kept a small apartment in the gardens, where his scribe slept. There, he was waited upon hand and foot, and Rose had visited him as a child. A shadow had not been chosen since the rise of the flying ships, and she was the first shadow in an age, let alone a royal. The selemine were for the people, and had previously stated that as they were not royal themselves, they would rarely choose a shadow from their household. There was always gossip, that this choice was for the political climate, and worried washer women would laboriously and odiously berate themselves in worry ad nauseum, as their arms shook with the wobbles of stress and strain.

Macstnz, was a small, green dragon, and could control minds, spy on them. Rose could link minds with any human, and control them. This Swaymough, could do the same, but at a much wider field. There had been none to breach the borders of Felicia, from Theralia, for a long time, but for a few years they had forced themselves against a wall of bodies. The Swaymough had been unearthed, whilst digging for firestone, in the temple land to the south, a forest dangerous and traversed only by the selemine. Once perhaps there had been a civilisation there, but since the time of the flying ship, they had travelled there in search of riches. The stone, was white, and burned to a pleasant aroma. In copious amounts, it could be used to lift ships into the air, but the crew, called nests, would go crazy on the smoke. Ageisha had discovered the blood of this nest, could be used to create plastics, and had previously tried to erect a university to study such properties, in the minds of select few rending the gap between time and space, with strange abodes popping up about the place, in plain and stiff cloth, possessing magic items and a straight countenance and demeanour.

The shadow had seen a Swaymough, a time ago, upon hearing of Felicia’s problems, she had travelled to the Sutherlithe, and had spied the creature frozen in its icy walls. Those folk, some with black tinge, some with red, were as white as paper, and wore thick wools. The prince of that land had recently stolen a waif of the illumatii, the betrothed of the Caesar of Vissany, Alequin. In Rose’s travels, she had also come across Hyrak, and he had travelled with her for a time. The stories he told of the Illumatii were wonderous, and of his master, Kalmyn, with his warnings of the flying ships, and their precious firestone, sacred to their lands. He told of the wars his father, Junatii the Bear, waged with Vissany, in their first discovery of the flying ship, and their stock of firestone. The origin of the flying ship, was Felicia, but the Sutherlithe also wished to trade, and Hyrak had his suspicions that Kalmyn had planned the abduction of his bosom pal Kassandrii, who had stolen away with slave, as they had an audience with the prince Irok himself. Slave had turned up once again, but after they had pursued the rumour of the abodes, and their strange staff.

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