Crazy Talk

[Chantellabella]

There it is!!!!!


Air!!!!!


Do you see it???


Oh never mind. I was wrong.

[Chantellabella]

What is spinning sparrows spit sparingly.

Correct! For 200 points!!

[Daniel C]

Flying through the ocean as a bullet is not so bad when you realise everything is fictional anyway, but I wonder how my French companion is holding up. I have the feeling everything inside my body has turned to salt, except maybe my heart, that beats as if it was a jukebox. My eyes wide shut, I can only guess how much distance we have already crossed, but my head is too entangled to make any kind of estimate. So I just wait, the hand of the mermaid Jessica clasped in my right fist, the one of my French companion in the other, my muscles contracted like elastic and my body exposed to the perpetual water flow. This moment could turn into eternity but for the fact that the Mediterranean Sea covers a finite amount of miles. So after a period that could have been anything between five minutes and ten hours, I slowly feel the vigour of the water diminish, I hesitantly open my eyes and all I see is stars. We are silently propelling inside an infinite sea of stars; they are above us, beneath us, and in all four cardinal directions. After a minute or two, I realise we are above sea level, and that the starry sky is reflected inside the Mediterranean's surface that is still like a mirror. The total absence of waves gives me a feeling that is eerie and peaceful at the same time. Without a sound, the four of us proceed as we are crossing this unearthly waters, and finally a beacon of light looms behind the horizon.
"There ya go bwoys, Barcelona. We can't go with ye, most humans freak out when they see us and we have to take 'em all the way to Atlantis so that Zalia can erase them minds. And we don't have time for that fuzz now. So just swim to the beach over there, see ya!"
I can just mumble "Thank you for the lift" before the mermaids dive underwater and the surface closes behind them, as if they were never there in the first place.
"Oh god," I say, "the shore is miles away. Couldn't they have brought us a little further?"
"Oh, come on Dan, don't tell me you can't swim," the French girl says. I'm not sure what confuses me most, her mocking tone or the fact that she calls me 'Dan'.
So we swim. I have never been a good swimmer and the trip brings back all kinds of memories to my swimming teacher, who used to scold at me as I was plowing my way through the chemical swimming pool. After about half an hour my arms appear to jam, and it is only the realisation that nothing of this is real anyway that gives me the strength to finish the last part. In the meantime, my companion doesn't seem to have any difficulty with the route, and I imagine her late father going swimming with her in the blue bay every Saturday evening after the restaurant was closed.
Finally, the single beacon grows into a stain, and the stain diverges into many lights, and the many lights grow more numerous and more powerful. The moment my feet touches the sand feels so irreal I hardly recognise it, the memory of what solid form felt like has almost slipped my memory. Wheezily, the girl and I flounder through the last part, amidst the sleeping sailing yachts. We end up on a beach that I don't recognise. The only other person is an old sailor sipping a bottle of sangria. He looks at us with a mixture of pity and bewilderment, and as he turns away his shaking head I can discern a single word, spoken as if it was a curse. "Turistes."

[Chantellabella]

Flying through the ocean as a bullet is not so bad when you realise everything is fictional anyway, but I wonder how my French companion is holding up. I have the feeling everything inside my body has turned to salt, except maybe my heart, that beats as if it was a jukebox. My eyes wide shut, I can only guess how much distance we have already crossed, but my head is too entangled to make any kind of estimate. So I just wait, the hand of the mermaid Jessica clasped in my right fist, the one of my French companion in the other, my muscles contracted like elastic and my body exposed to the perpetual water flow. This moment could turn into eternity but for the fact that the Mediterranean Sea covers a finite amount of miles. So after a period that could have been anything between five minutes and ten hours, I slowly feel the vigour of the water diminish, I hesitantly open my eyes and all I see is stars. We are silently propelling inside an infinite sea of stars; they are above us, beneath us, and in all four cardinal directions. After a minute or two, I realise we are above sea level, and that the starry sky is reflected inside the Mediterranean's surface that is still like a mirror. The total absence of waves gives me a feeling that is eerie and peaceful at the same time. Without a sound, the four of us proceed as we are crossing this unearthly waters, and finally a beacon of light looms behind the horizon.
"There ya go bwoys, Barcelona. We can't go with ye, most humans freak out when they see us and we have to take 'em all the way to Atlantis so that Zalia can erase them minds. And we don't have time for that fuzz now. So just swim to the beach over there, see ya!"
I can just mumble "Thank you for the lift" before the mermaids dive underwater and the surface closes behind them, as if they were never there in the first place.
"Oh god," I say, "the shore is miles away. Couldn't they have brought us a little further?"
"Oh, come on Dan, don't tell me you can't swim," the French girl says. I'm not sure what confuses me most, her mocking tone or the fact that she calls me 'Dan'.
So we swim. I have never been a good swimmer and the trip brings back all kinds of memories to my swimming teacher, who used to scold at me as I was plowing my way through the chemical swimming pool. After about half an hour my arms appear to jam, and it is only the realisation that nothing of this is real anyway that gives me the strength to finish the last part. In the meantime, my companion doesn't seem to have any difficulty with the route, and I imagine her late father going swimming with her in the blue bay every Saturday evening after the restaurant was closed.
Finally, the single beacon grows into a stain, and the stain diverges into many lights, and the many lights grow more numerous and more powerful. The moment my feet touches the sand feels so irreal I hardly recognise it, the memory of what solid form felt like has almost slipped my memory. Wheezily, the girl and I flounder through the last part, amidst the sleeping sailing yachts. We end up on a beach that I don't recognise. The only other person is an old sailor sipping a bottle of sangria. He looks at us with a mixture of pity and bewilderment, and as he turns away his shaking head I can discern a single word, spoken as if it was a curse. "Turistes."

Love it!!! Your last line is great! I can just imagine his face. Great section!

[Daniel C]

Aaaargh! I had an entire new episode ready when I accidently shut down the page and now I have to start all over again! I have always hated computers.

Okay then, here you go. I hope you think of my endless frustration as you read this part.

As we walk off the silent pier, the sleeping houses follow us with their hatch windows like closed eyelids. We wander along the shoreline to the South, and as we get closer to the centre, the amount of bypassers gradually increases. Finally we reach the statue of Columbus, that has changed back to its original form. Apparently my powers as the almighty narrator of this story are only of a temporal nature. I realise now that all that time, Columbus hasn't been pointing in the wrong direction, as many assume. He only has been pointing towards Atlantis instead of America. Delighted by this sudden symbolism, I turn to the right, the French girl following in my footstep.
The Ramblas is a street that never sleeps. A crowd consisting of tourists, gadders, living statues and street vendors still whirls around us like a tornado. We narrowly manage to dodge a beggar coming in from the left, in the process of which I almost stumble over a drunk teenage girl sitting on the pavement, finally grabbing a newspaper rack for support. As I re-erect myself, my eye falls to the frontpage of the Guardian. 'Does photograph prove the existence of Atlantis?' with underneath the picture I toke with my fictional iPhone filling the rest of the page.
"Now at least we know how Mark Zuckerberg managed to track us down," I say, while paying the stallholder four euros for the newspaper.
"I see. But how..."
"This morning, when I woke up in that cosy Bed & Breakfast, I toke a picture out of the window and posted it on facebook. I know, it was a misstep of epic propor..."
"Don't say that," she interrupts me. "It was totally worth it. The sight of Mark lying helplessly in the sand, with that bottle... it was priceless."
I nod. "But let's not waste too much time. We have to find that building. It was somewhere here. A little further.
But at night all buildings along the Ramblas look similar. As we wind on down the street, I see hundreds of pillars, hundreds of garlands, even more ebony doorways. My confidence slightly diminishes as we unsuccesfully pass hundreds of metres.
"We're too far. We need to turn back."
But the way back elapses identically. When finally the statue of Columbus looms again, we turn back a second time. Amidst the heterogeneous crowd we wander on like two lost souls in the desert. When the newspaper salesman that previously owned my Guardian greets us for the fifth time, I give up.
"I don't know anymore. These buildings, they all look... I should have paid more attentin when I left there. I'm such a..."
"Hey, maintain Dan. Try to think clearly. What did you see when you left through the door?"
"That's the point. I didn't pay any attention to the building itself. My eyes were unconditionally drawn by the street, it was busy..."
"Okay, but when you stepped outside, what did you see, what happened? Think closely..."
"Well, there was... wait a moment." As I go through my Eureka experience, I approach the newspaper man, hereby arduously overcoming my social anxiety. "Excuse me sir, can I ask you something?"
"Què?"
I step out of the story for one moment and insert the sentence "Is it true that recently the skull of a living statue was crushed by a falling orange turtle somewhere in the environment?" into google translate, English to Catalan.
"¿És cert que recentment el crani d'una estÃ*tua vivent va ser aixafat per una tortuga taronja en algun lloc en el medi ambient?"
The man reacts with great agitation, and it takes me some minutes to distill the message out of his rapid rambling. He tells me the living statue was a local celebrity, that his death caused great impact in the environment, and that the spot was consequently overloaded with flowers. "You can't miss it," he says, in Catalan, "it's that way, some 100 metres."
"Moltes, moltes grÃ*cies," I say, and head in the designated direction. The French girl hurries behind me.
"What au nom de Dieu was that supposed to mean?" she says, once again showing off her Mediterranean temper.
"I suddenly remembered something. Something that might help us. We have to look out for a pile of flowers."
Indeed, it doesn't cost us too much effort to relocate the spot where the living statue's life was gruesomely ended. The flowers have heaped up to form an entire mountain of colour and odour. I see roses, hyacinths, orchids. Azalias. When my eye falls to the adjacent building, I am not surprised I didn't manage to find it at first try. It has one of the most discrete facades of the entire Ramblas, the only decoration being a tiny chiselled cross above the dark wooden door.
"Ladies first."
"You're sure this is the right building?"
"Positive."
She puts her hand to the door that opens with an infernal groan. I follow her into the corridor, that is damper than the Atlantean atmosphere, and darker than the starry sky above. My eyes don't have time to adjust, however, because at that moment a deep American voice calls out of the obscurity.
"Hold still, whoever you may be, or my HK 417 will sieve every single droplet of blood out of your body."
Americans. They always have to show off.

[Chantellabella]

Aaaargh! I had an entire new episode ready when I accidently shut down the page and now I have to start all over again! I have always hated computers.

Okay then, here you go. I hope you think of my endless frustration as you read this part.

As we walk off the silent pier, the sleeping houses follow us with their hatch windows like closed eyelids. We wander along the shoreline to the South, and as we get closer to the centre, the amount of bypassers gradually increases. Finally we reach the statue of Columbus, that has changed back to its original form. Apparently my powers as the almighty narrator of this story are only of a temporal nature. I realise now that all that time, Columbus hasn't been pointing in the wrong direction, as many assume. He only has been pointing towards Atlantis instead of America. Delighted by this sudden symbolism, I turn to the right, the French girl following in my footstep.
The Ramblas is a street that never sleeps. A crowd consisting of tourists, gadders, living statues and street vendors still whirls around us like a tornado. We narrowly manage to dodge a beggar coming in from the left, in the process of which I almost stumble over a drunk teenage girl sitting on the pavement, finally grabbing a newspaper rack for support. As I re-erect myself, my eye falls to the frontpage of the Guardian. 'Does photograph prove the existence of Atlantis?' with underneath the picture I toke with my fictional iPhone filling the rest of the page.
"Now at least we know how Mark Zuckerberg managed to track us down," I say, while paying the stallholder four euros for the newspaper.
"I see. But how..."
"This morning, when I woke up in that cosy Bed & Breakfast, I toke a picture out of the window and posted it on facebook. I know, it was a misstep of epic propor..."
"Don't say that," she interrupts me. "It was totally worth it. The sight of Mark lying helplessly in the sand, with that bottle... it was priceless."
I nod. "But let's not waste too much time. We have to find that building. It was somewhere here. A little further.
But at night all buildings along the Ramblas look similar. As we wind on down the street, I see hundreds of pillars, hundreds of garlands, even more ebony doorways. My confidence slightly diminishes as we unsuccesfully pass hundreds of metres.
"We're too far. We need to turn back."
But the way back elapses identically. When finally the statue of Columbus looms again, we turn back a second time. Amidst the heterogeneous crowd we wander on like two lost souls in the desert. When the newspaper salesman that previously owned my Guardian greets us for the fifth time, I give up.
"I don't know anymore. These buildings, they all look... I should have paid more attentin when I left there. I'm such a..."
"Hey, maintain Dan. Try to think clearly. What did you see when you left through the door?"
"That's the point. I didn't pay any attention to the building itself. My eyes were unconditionally drawn by the street, it was busy..."
"Okay, but when you stepped outside, what did you see, what happened? Think closely..."
"Well, there was... wait a moment." As I go through my Eureka experience, I approach the newspaper man, hereby arduously overcoming my social anxiety. "Excuse me sir, can I ask you something?"
"Què?"
I step out of the story for one moment and insert the sentence "Is it true that recently the skull of a living statue was crushed by a falling orange turtle somewhere in the environment?" into google translate, English to Catalan.
"¿És cert que recentment el crani d'una estÃ*tua vivent va ser aixafat per una tortuga taronja en algun lloc en el medi ambient?"
The man reacts with great agitation, and it takes me some minutes to distill the message out of his rapid rambling. He tells me the living statue was a local celebrity, that his death caused great impact in the environment, and that the spot was consequently overloaded with flowers. "You can't miss it," he says, in Catalan, "it's that way, some 100 metres."
"Moltes, moltes grÃ*cies," I say, and head in the designated direction. The French girl hurries behind me.
"What au nom de Dieu was that supposed to mean?" she says, once again showing off her Mediterranean temper.
"I suddenly remembered something. Something that might help us. We have to look out for a pile of flowers."
Indeed, it doesn't cost us too much effort to relocate the spot where the living statue's life was gruesomely ended. The flowers have heaped up to form an entire mountain of colour and odour. I see roses, hyacinths, orchids. Azalias. When my eye falls to the adjacent building, I am not surprised I didn't manage to find it at first try. It has one of the most discrete facades of the entire Ramblas, the only decoration being a tiny chiselled cross above the dark wooden door.
"Ladies first."
"You're sure this is the right building?"
"Positive."
She puts her hand to the door that opens with an infernal groan. I follow her into the corridor, that is damper than the Atlantean atmosphere, and darker than the starry sky above. My eyes don't have time to adjust, however, because at that moment a deep American voice calls out of the obscurity.
"Hold still, whoever you may be, or my HK 417 will sieve every single droplet of blood out of your body."
Americans. They always have to show off.

Wait. So you took a picture of Atlantis and posted it on Facebook? Dan, Dan, Dan, don't you know you should never post secret missions on Facebook? Now we have no clue who this creepy American is. He probably is mad because you didn't friend him or something.

[RawrJessiRawr]

I haven't crazy talked in a while so here it goes...
I walked upon a ground of bright green with orange skies and Mr.k for i was a walrus for a day with colored shapes within other shapes, spinning towards me with no hesitation. Walked in a strawberry field, getting happiness on my feet, the sun rained rainbows for the day. Oh what a day maybe night, maybe midway, oh what a yesterday it was.

[Chantellabella]

I haven't crazy talked in a while so here it goes...
I walked upon a ground of bright green with orange skies and Mr.k for i was a walrus for a day with colored shapes within other shapes, spinning towards me with no hesitation. Walked in a strawberry field, getting happiness on my feet, the sun rained rainbows for the day. Oh what a day maybe night, maybe midway, oh what a yesterday it was.

I think happy feet and sun rained rainbows is the best kind of crazy. We should all be crazier.

[Daniel C]

I hear the echoes of the American's footsteps circle around us, and then the door closing with an equally ominous sound. Finally, the light clicks on. I recognise the corridor; behind the closed door was the room where the orb was stored. Behind my back the invisible American breathes like a polar bear.
"Right then, folks, now you're going to tell me exactly how you ended up here."
I am rapidly thinking of good excuses, but I can't find one, so I come up with a bad excuse. "Isn't this the international backgammon congress?"
"What the **** are you talking about?"
"Just what I said. We came here for the international backgammon congress. According to our directions it was here, The Ramblas 108. Wasn't it?"
The French girl immediately recognises my intention: "Absolutely, it said Ramblas 108, but I guess we're a few minutes too early."
"Don't **** with me with your niminy-piminy accents. First, this is The Ramblas 106, not 108. And second... Wait, what?" I feel this American is not an individual of the most perspicacious category. There might still be hope.
"Ah, I see. In that case we made a mistake. How silly of us. We actually need to be in the adjacent building. I'm sorry for disturbing you, now... could you please let us go? Otherwise we'll miss the opening speech of backgammon legend Yuri Karasponsky."
"No! I mean... Wait, I need one moment. Don't move, I'll sort this out."
I hear the American typing in a number into his mobile phone. Then perhaps a minute of silence follows. Finally, I hear a final beep, and then the entire process repeats itself. I realise the American can't reach his intended contact person and think of Mark Zuckerberg lying knock-out at the bottom of the Atlantean bubble.
"Is this going to take much longer?"
"There are... uhm... slight complications in our communication system. The protocol says I must keep you here till further notice. Uhm... Walk up that stairs there. Do it, now."
"This is madness," I protest with a voice as indignant as possible. "You can't hold us here without a warrant. And anyway, this is Spanish territory. You're violating the international..."
"Shut up, I know what I'm doin! Get up the stairs or you'll never... uhm... see your parents again."
"My parents are dead." She doesn't sound embittered, rather surprised. I can feel the confusion behind my back.
"Anyway, get up the stairs. And stop asking weird questions."
Reluctantly, we move up the stairs, which are half-rotten and creak impendently at every step. The American follows some steps behind us. When we're almost at the entresol, a large, rusty mirror appears in sight. It tilts a bit, so that we can see ourselfs, and each other. I meet the contrasting eyes of the French girl and between us, via the mirror, rises a deep understanding that is like a thunderbolt. Then, behind us, the head of the American looms. Contrary to my expectations, he is both bald and unequivocally obese. I suddenly know what needs to be done. Without drawing attention, I pull out my fictional iPhone and, go to the music section. Browsing through my collection, I come out at Verdi's requiem. When we're right in front of the mirror, I select the 'Dies Irae' part. It sounds even louder than in my memory.
"What the **** is that?" I hear the American shout out, behind his offensive tone there is a peculiar hint of uneasiness.
"It's a sign of God."
"Give that thing to me. Turn around, and give it to me."
I turn around. I can now fully perceive the puffy body of the American and wonder where Mark Zuckerberg ever recruited his agents. Even though, he still holds a gun in his hand. I slowly walk into him, positioning myself exactly in between the man and the French girl. In a deliberately slow pace, I place the iPhone in the hands of the American.
"Right. And now turn back and continue your way..."
"You know what? I don't think so."
My words temporarily disconcert the American's mind, but he recaptures himself quicker than I expected. "Do you want me to shoot you in your liver? It's the slowest and most painful way to die; your incestines slowly get digested by the acid that comes free."
"That doesn't sound very attractive."
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"Maybe. But then, you Americans don't have much sense of humour."
The American's face now resembles a hurricane. "Okay then. That does it. Do you want to speak some final words before my bullet finds it way to your pancreas."
"Only one thing. Vive l'Europe!"
When I say that, everything becomes slow motion. In a spectacular and athletic swing, I dive around the American and slide down the stairs like a surfboard. His corpulent body is not able to react in time and he almost trembles over his own feet and has to hold on to the handrail. At that very moment, a tremendous roar emerges and I know the French girl has done exactly what she needed to do, as if we had been planning this for months. In a slightly painful way, I land on the wooden floor, I quickly rise up, and just barely manage to dodge the American thundering off the stairs like an avalanche, followed by the mirror that has been dislocated at exactly the same moment. The dust settles at the chaotic scene and time turns normal again.
"That was totally magnifique," the girl says, leaning from the entresol. "Now we can get to our backgammon congress. Checkmate."
"That's chess."
"Whatever. Are you okay?"
"More or less," I say, testing my joints for their functionality.
"And our American friend?"
"He's unconscious. And mildly bruised, I suppose."
"So should we strap him? I know some knots, my father learnt me when I was a girl. There's some rope here left from where the mirror was."
"Okay then. You strap him. I go inside. I know the orb is still there, I just know. We're almost there. Trust me."
And while the first beams of light pass through the high cobweb windows, I put my hand to the so manieth doorknob, knowing for sure that this is the final one.

[Chantellabella]

Just got back from New Orleans and my relatives don't have computers there, so I'll read the latest entry of the Atlantis sage tomorrow! Can't wait!!My eyesight is shot for the night.

Oh but I have waaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy more crazy talk from relatives which I'll post later this week. They don't even see their problem.

My aunt............"I can judge people because I'm perfect." She was serious.

[Ironman]

SAVE BIG MONEY AT

[Chantellabella]

I hear the echoes of the American's footsteps circle around us, and then the door closing with an equally ominous sound. Finally, the light clicks on. I recognise the corridor; behind the closed door was the room where the orb was stored. Behind my back the invisible American breathes like a polar bear.

Breathes like a polar bear!!! LOL!!

"Right then, folks, now you're going to tell me exactly how you ended up here."
I am rapidly thinking of good excuses, but I can't find one, so I come up with a bad excuse. "Isn't this the international backgammon congress?"

Totally, did not even know there was an international backgammon congress. See? This is why it's great to meet people around the world. I know here in Texas we have an international cow pie slinging congress.

"What the **** are you talking about?"
"Just what I said. We came here for the international backgammon congress. According to our directions it was here, The Ramblas 108. Wasn't it?"
The French girl immediately recognises my intention: "Absolutely, it said Ramblas 108, but I guess we're a few minutes too early."
"Don't **** with me with your niminy-piminy accents. First, this is The Ramblas 106, not 108. And second... Wait, what?" I feel this American is not an individual of the most perspicacious category.

Yeah, you're probably right. Not only did I not know there was The Ramblas 108 wasn't real, but I didn't know The Ramblas 106 actually exists. I definitely need to get out more............or maybe just read more.

There might still be hope.
"Ah, I see. In that case we made a mistake. How silly of us. We actually need to be in the adjacent building. I'm sorry for disturbing you, now... could you please let us go? Otherwise we'll miss the opening speech of backgammon legend Yuri Karasponsky."
"No! I mean... Wait, I need one moment. Don't move, I'll sort this out."
I hear the American typing in a number into his mobile phone. Then perhaps a minute of silence follows. Finally, I hear a final beep, and then the entire process repeats itself. I realise the American can't reach his intended contact person and think of Mark Zuckerberg lying knock-out at the bottom of the Atlantean bubble.
"Is this going to take much longer?"
"There are... uhm... slight complications in our communication system. The protocol says I must keep you here till further notice. Uhm... Walk up that stairs there. Do it, now."
"This is madness," I protest with a voice as indignant as possible. "You can't hold us here without a warrant. And anyway, this is Spanish territory. You're violating the international..."
"Shut up, I know what I'm doin! Get up the stairs or you'll never... uhm... see your parents again."

Does the guy realize you might not WANT to see your parent's again? He should have used bamboo shoots under your fingernails.

"My parents are dead."

Oops! My faux pas bad. Continue........

She doesn't sound embittered, rather surprised. I can feel the confusion behind my back.
"Anyway, get up the stairs. And stop asking weird questions."
Reluctantly, we move up the stairs, which are half-rotten and creak impendently at every step. The American follows some steps behind us. When we're almost at the entresol, a large, rusty mirror appears in sight. It tilts a bit, so that we can see ourselfs, and each other. I meet the contrasting eyes of the French girl and between us, via the mirror, rises a deep understanding that is like a thunderbolt. Then, behind us, the head of the American looms. Contrary to my expectations, he is both bald and unequivocally obese. I suddenly know what needs to be done. Without drawing attention, I pull out my fictional iPhone and, go to the music section. Browsing through my collection, I come out at Verdi's requiem. When we're right in front of the mirror, I select the 'Dies Irae' part. It sounds even louder than in my memory.
"What the **** is that?" I hear the American shout out, behind his offensive tone there is a peculiar hint of uneasiness.
"It's a sign of God."
"Give that thing to me. Turn around, and give it to me."
I turn around. I can now fully perceive the puffy body of the American and wonder where Mark Zuckerberg ever recruited his agents. Even though, he still holds a gun in his hand. I slowly walk into him, positioning myself exactly in between the man and the French girl. In a deliberately slow pace, I place the iPhone in the hands of the American.
"Right. And now turn back and continue your way..."
"You know what? I don't think so."
My words temporarily disconcert the American's mind, but he recaptures himself quicker than I expected. "Do you want me to shoot you in your liver? It's the slowest and most painful way to die; your incestines slowly get digested by the acid that comes free."
"That doesn't sound very attractive."
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"Maybe. But then, you Americans don't have much sense of humour."
The American's face now resembles a hurricane. "Okay then. That does it. Do you want to speak some final words before my bullet finds it way to your pancreas."
"Only one thing. Vive l'Europe!"
When I say that, everything becomes slow motion. In a spectacular and athletic swing, I dive around the American and slide down the stairs like a surfboard. His corpulent body is not able to react in time and he almost trembles over his own feet and has to hold on to the handrail. At that very moment, a tremendous roar emerges and I know the French girl has done exactly what she needed to do, as if we had been planning this for months. In a slightly painful way, I land on the wooden floor, I quickly rise up, and just barely manage to dodge the American thundering off the stairs like an avalanche, followed by the mirror that has been dislocated at exactly the same moment. The dust settles at the chaotic scene and time turns normal again.
"That was totally magnifique," the girl says, leaning from the entresol. "Now we can get to our backgammon congress. Checkmate."
"That's chess."
"Whatever. Are you okay?"
"More or less," I say, testing my joints for their functionality.
"And our American friend?"
"He's unconscious. And mildly bruised, I suppose."
"So should we strap him? I know some knots, my father learnt me when I was a girl. There's some rope here left from where the mirror was."
"Okay then. You strap him. I go inside. I know the orb is still there, I just know. We're almost there. Trust me."
And while the first beams of light pass through the high cobweb windows, I put my hand to the so manieth doorknob, knowing for sure that this is the final one.

Love the action!! The hero's always get away, however it didn't sound like it would be hard to get away from that guy. Probably he spent too much time on his Facebook friending everyone.

Can't wait to see the next installment!

SAVE BIG MONEY AT

Yes!!

Now, where is Menards?

Does it sell shoes or hunting gear?

I also need to buy some liver and a cake.

Do I go north past the Walmart or south past the 7-11?

I mean, that truly might be the only place left on the planet that is dedicated to service and quality.

[Chantellabella]

theres a fly on my screen waiter!

ok hes gone


is licking a fly off your hand faux pas in most social circles?

[Daniel C]

After a long and satisfying winter sleep, I return to my story in order to turn the doorknob, which moves along without any resistance. The door falls open without a sound, and my eyes have to adjust to a new kind of darkness. I decide to take out my fictional iPhone and navigate the room on the narrow rectangle of artificial light. The silence eats my heartbeat, I stumble over a few opaque objects that are probably chairs. Finally, I manage to reach the colossal table that floats in the centre of the room like a dreadnought. The iPhone light fumbles the table leaf and finally reaches the crystal orb. In my memory it was larger, in fact it is hard to imagine the fate of the world rests on this ennobled marble. But there is no time for disappointment. When my fingertops reach the icy surface it all stops. Or begins.

In Santiago, a child refuses to sleep. His mother disagrees. Her strokes are more than corrective. The father is dead. This child is the only memory she's got of him. That's why she beats him so hard.

In the Punjab, a garbage collector enters a coffee bar. The other customers turn away their heads. He orders a caffè latte. The bartender gives him a disposable glass, made out of plastic. The other customers have stoneware cups. He is an untouchable. He refuses to give up.

In Australia, a girl breaks her boyfriend's heart. He isn't angry. He doesn't shout. The only thing he does is being silent. She was prepared for any reaction, except this one. She hurries outside. On the table there is an ivory necklace, still in its wrapping.

In Munich, a lonely widower wakes up. He doesn't need an alarm clock. He walks over to the coffee machine. He looks into the mirror and lets his tears flow, he needs to simulate happiness for yet another day.

In Egypt, a rich farmer's wife sits behind the computer. She is learning herself English. Upstairs, she hears a clutter. She erases the page history and shuts off. She starts preparing breakfast.

In Barcelona, a semi-fictional boy stands in an obscure room. His fingertops touch the crystal. His eyes are empty. He cannot take the burden anymore. He withdraws his hand.







I never new telepacy was such a load. For some moments, I feel compassions for those who have to share their thoughts with the rest of mankind. The Atlanteans. The extraterrestrials. Even Mark Zuckerberg, the scoundrel who intended to kill me. Then I realise I am no step closer to something that even resembles a solution. I take the orb under my arm, making sure there is a layer of cotton seperating it from my skin, and move back to the vestibule where the French girl has finished strapping the overweight and under-developed American.
"Did you found something?"
"I did."
"And?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't see how this could help us. I can't even touch it without... I can't explain. You should try it yourself."
I enplane the orb on the moisty floor. Suspiciously, the girl moves her hand towards the surface. The moment her fingers meet the crystal, she undergoes an eerie transformation. Her mouth opens, her hair stretches, her muscles convulse and relax in random patterns. It is as if all the thoughts of other people are infiltrating her very essence, or conversely, as if everything she has inside, everything she's ever collected, is desperately trying to get out. Above all, her eyes change. After some moments, they aren't dissimilar anymore. They have become an equal kind of grey. The only kind of grey that ever existed. I pull down her arm. She can't say anything for more than a minute.
"That was..."
"Intense. Horrendous. I know."
"So what..."
"I don't know. We need... something more. A clue. A handhold. A brilliant inspiration."
We sit down in silence, both waiting for a brilliant inspiration, the orb resting in between us, as if we are executing a ritual. The first morning beams penetrate the high windows.

[Chantellabella]

Wow! I didn't realize the orb could do that. Not sure I would want that. Well, except maybe to spy on others I know.

You've got the most amazing imagination!