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Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby andthistoomustpass » Tue Jan 17, 2017 1:21 pm

There was a gathering of the group as they sat surrounding the silver samovar.

An elderly retainer leapt from the Queen's carriage and onto it's gilded roof, his tattered black tailcoat flapping in the breeze, a battered bowler hat was held down with one hand while he blew a long, solitary, note on a penny whistle.

'Look at the size of his head;'' whispered Cut Throat Jake as he gazed up at the wrinkled retainer with a curious look of half surprise, half pity; "so round too, like a massive cheese." he continued peckishly.

"Scrawny fella an' all, looks like a lollipop left out in the sun." drawled Tasteless Tex in what he chose to believe was a whisper.

Rancid the royal retainer coughed stagily and announced; 'All hail her most gracious majesty Queen Esmerelda, Roma royalty, doyen of gypsies, Mistress of the mysteries of time's veil, chiropody at reasonable rates.' He swept the bowler from his head to his feet as he bowed low to Esmerelda, toppling from the carriage roof in the process. Rancid rolled in mid air like a geriatric gymnast to land on one knee, arms outstretched before his Queen. He allowed himself a self satisfied smirk as he bowed his huge head in supplication to his mistress.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby mihaela » Wed Jan 18, 2017 6:48 pm


Just as the heady whiff of excitement mounts on the M3.141, sadly the current narrator is alas! short of thyme - for she now ventures afara each Wednesday evening, much to her annoyance, for she is already tired out having been up since 2am, for she's been suffering from chronically dyschronick chronoception ever since last autumn, for that's when the clocks were last meddled with, for time is relative to reality, for reality is relative to our minds at any given time, for....

Anyway, to cut a short story shorter, this means that the next thrilling impromptu instalment of the Epic Saga* will be installed anon, i.e. in the early hours on the morrow or thereabouts, i.e. before the Crack of Dawn or before Cockcrow (whichever one occurs before t'other, and vice versa).

* ®

Apologies to all those who had built up their hopes. A little more suspense won't come amiss.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby andthistoomustpass » Wed Jan 18, 2017 11:46 pm

Esmerelda seemed to stand taller, regally erect, as she moved to fill the space at the centre of the circle of friends. The elderly Mistress of Time's veil covered the lower half of her face (and it's carbuncles) with a silken scarf and fixed Mr Claus with a smouldering, short-sighted, gaze as she undulated slowly while Rancid tapped out a sedate, primal beat on the bongos produced from his hat.

Meanwhile Rex wrinkled his nose in surprise after smelling the vodka on Santa's breath and seeing the string holding his beard in place. “Hmm...”; Rex said to himself as he wandered unseen over to the sleigh.

“Oooh”; Her Majesty moaned from the depths of her soul as she danced sinuously; “I have visited strange lands, danced with dragons, and eaten lotus blooms. I have learned at the feet of the greatest mystics of the world! Your future lies open to me. Wondrous things I see, delights undreamt of, if you choose the right path.” The practised performer continued in a deep, ethereal, tone. “Be warned!” She suddenly shouted as she pounced forward, just short of Mr Claus's enraptured face. “Not all are strong enough to know what lies beyond the now. Are you brave enough to face your future, wise enough take the hidden path I reveal?”

The entranced Santa nodded repeatedly, wide eyed with stimulation and excitement.

Rex looked around and quietly sniggered at the sight before continuing to stir the metal filings he found in the sleigh and soothing the agitated reindeer who he carefully examined.

“As every hero knows, to gain all that you desire you must pay a great price.” Esmerelda continued, sure now that she had hooked her second fish of the day. “What tribute will you give to the priestess of forbidden knowledge?” she purred seductively.

I'm not sure about the term Epic Saga. It sounds like a holiday for superannuated headbangers.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby mihaela » Thu Jan 19, 2017 11:05 am

EDITORIAL OBSERVATION: Aargh! I've just read my previous post and noticed with dismay, that I said I'd be posting before cockrow. The cock crew hours ago, just as Dawn made her habitual loud cracking noise, yet I still hadn't posted the promised post. My memory failed me miserably, and it apologies to our very many devoted fans for the faux pas majeur.

Sew two kontinyoo:

The silvery samovar was burbling to itself contentedly, and the old faithful retainer's single-note lament had forlornly faded away into The Past. Likewise, tactless Tex's noisy imagined whisper had melted like the Snows of Yesteryear into the River Lethe never to return to living memory, but thankfully the monotony of the bongo's primal beat droned on reassuringly.

Meanwhile, a certain sharp-eared undercover member of the French Chapter of the Grammar Restitution Official Wardens' League who happened to be passing by with a lemming had noticed un faux pas français in Rancid's over-the-top theatrical address to Queen Ezz. "Ehem!", blurted the Warden in fluent French, resplendent in his grovel-inducing uniform. "Your name?" he queried authoritatively. Dazzled by his row of polished niobium-plated buttons (each embossed with the letters G.R.O.W.L.), the aged retainer arthritically clicked his heels and replied,

"Rancid Runceanu, Retainer-in-Chief to 'er Majesty, 'ere", and gave the Queen a devoted bow.

"Well in that case, considering the Elevated Company you retain, I'll let you off with une warning verbale", intoned the Warden in a thick Languedocien accente. "I bid you bon voyage, and drum bun too you two, Your Gracious Majesty, doyenne de les Gypsies". And with a grammatically perfected flourish he doffed his praseodymium-plated cap (cutting his finger on his well-honed ear as he did so), and proceeded on his merry way whistling "Sur la Pont d'Avignon" in satisfaction of a job well done.

"That was a close shave", noisily whispered the Tex to Rex, nervously rubbing his unshaven chin, as the wandering Warden and his Lemming disappeared briskly around the corner.

While, meanwhile, Santa was getting impatient...

I'm not sure about the term Epic Saga. It sounds like a holiday for superannuated headbangers.

Be patient, for young blood will be introduced anon - and anyway, the lemmings are still in their prime of youth, so your Jerry hat-trick criticism is quite uncalled for.

As a passing aside, where do the 'metal filings' fit into the scheme of things? They'll now prey on my mind until I get the desired answer.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby mezzaninedoor » Thu Jan 19, 2017 4:31 pm

off topic
<< right, I need to read all this now, Epic !!! >>

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby andthistoomustpass » Fri Jan 20, 2017 3:23 am

Brief Interlude

No criticism intended. Who am I to criticise such a lauded lady of letters?

Metal filings and other such questions will be answered when I have had some sleep.


Love the growling grammarian (and the lemming!).

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby andthistoomustpass » Sat Jan 21, 2017 1:27 pm

“I would give you all that I have."; slurred the inebriated icon, speared by Esmerelda's gaze. "Sadly my sack is empty, my bounty spent. All I have with me are these poor trinkets”; Mr Claus gestured at several pounds of solid gold which adorned his person; “I wish to give you a greater gift.”

“Thy trinkets will do as a deposit.” replied the cunning Queen.

“No!” exclaimed Santa; “I would not insult your majesty with these, the meanest of the gifts given to me by the Elves of Christmas for helping provide for the poor little kiddies." he said tremulously, wiping a tear from his eye.

"Why, this jewellery is merely the sort of thing they present to anyone who gives a few paltry Euros to support their toy factory. The more you donate to the kiddies cause, the greater your reward.” Mr Claus continued earnestly, opening his sack for donations as he avariciously eyed Esmerelda's own jewels and golden smile.

“My jewels are heirlooms, I couldn't possibly, would you take a Trabi?”; asked the Doyenne of Gypsies, wrestling with the concept of giving while obsessing over the potential reward from the Elves.

Tex's eyes regained their greenish hue as he looked at Santa's gold. “I'm in!”; he shouted, preparing to toss his money bag into the open sack.

“Don't do it Tex.” said Rex as he sauntered back to the group.

The raccoon, doing his best Miss Marple impression, turned to Santa. “Young man, if you are Santa, why are you wearing a false beard?”

“False! Don't be ridicu…”; Mr Claus voice tailed off as Rex pulled the beard down and let it spring back elastically to his chin. The mood began to turn against the beardless bounder.

“Alopecia, I don't like to admit it.” the suspect Santa recovered.

“Those are Santa's clothes alright”; squeaked Rex authoritatively; “but why are they so baggy? They could never fit you.” The group murmured their agreement.

“Wasting away with stress.” countered 'Santa' gamely. “The effort of Christmas really takes it out of me."

"Of course I am Father Christmas you fool!" 'Santa' scolded, going on the offensive. "Who else would have my sleigh and reindeer?” he continued dismissively, turning the tide of public opinion against the ongoing exposé.

Rex strode back to the sleigh, picked up a pinch of steel filings in a theatrically ostentatious manner, and felt around inside the footwell pulling out half of a steering lock. “Sawn through.” pronounced the prognosticative procyonid before walking to 'Blitzen' and pulling a long sliver of metal from his rump*. “No wonder this reindeer was out of control, he's been hotwired!” The crowd gasped at the cruelty.

Rex walked towards 'Rudolph' and pulled off his Comic Relief red nose. “Case Closed!” asserted Rex triumphantly as 'Santa' backed away from the group, his hands raised defensively. "The lemming can vouch for me, I'll just go find him." said the imposter as he began his escape.

*No reindeer were harmed in the creation of this scene which has been edited to improve the grammar before I get another telling off from teacher.

Hopefully, that's the last of my lengthy entries for a bit. The last three posts came to me as a whole. I will now gratefully return to facilitating and occasionally obstructing the masterly narrative of Mistress Mihaela, abetted by anybody else who wants to whet their creative chops.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby mihaela » Mon Jan 23, 2017 8:35 am

I wasn't criticising your francophonic feminine fail. It was the roving official from the Académie française - whose job it is to deal with matters of national importance such as the controversial circumflêx accênt dêbate, the hardline Faction d'Apostrophe Rouge et en Haut, or decide whether the 'borrowed' English nouns 'parking' or 'weekend' should be masculine or feminine, or suing Google for mistranslating the French for 'parkin' - i.e. the yummy treacly oaty stuff. :o

Boreas was howling menacingly around the Cross of Wishes, and little Valia could barely stand up. Even the brooding Aura of Mystery was being buffeted by the Beaufort gale-scale 8. For a second as they made their secret wishes, she and Tamara fancied they saw the six stone petals of the Flower of Life rippling in the intense breeze. Beneath them, at the back of the cross, the Precipice yawned noisily so they quickly retreated to the safety of the path.

"Nu mi-e frica de Bau Bau!" they screeched. Boreas moaned in reply.

"So the Padanian nationalist movement have even left their graffito here??", mused Tamara both perceptively and questioningly. "I wonder if it was Umberto himself", she pondered, being a fervent fan of his.

"Of! The innocence of youth! Nu! This carving is old, foarte old, ancient even," corrected the mysterious Aura, marvelling at the 10-year old's impressive grasp of Anglo-Italian singular nouns, and devotion to aging Pandanian political figures. "It's a mystical symbol found worldwide, and even used by Queen Esmeralda herself".

"Wow! That's sooo awesome!!" opined the girls in a unitary fashion.

Their small flock of pet lemmings chittered in unitary agreement.

Having transiently re-introduced the fleetingness of beauty and youth to satisfy a certain critic, who noted a geriatric bias here, we'll now fast forward in time by about 16.18 years, and in space by about 122-123km (76 miles), and find ourselves back on the M3.1.. (aka Mϖ) where a happily burbling samovar is preparing itself to be poured out into a set of five cracked multicoloured cups*. A motley crew of superannuated geriatrics and bouncing furry things watch with feigned interest at the fast retreating 'Santa', legging it along the 'motorway', his fake Ugg boots leaving a tell-tail trale in the thick snow. He'd left his reindeer (whose true name was Renuță), as well his sundry accoutrements, pieces and bits, behind in his haste.

* In fact, very similar to my own set, all gold-rimmed but differently coloured: a peculiar orange, a pea green, a weird dark greenish-blue-turquoise, a royal blue (as befitting a queen) and a sunflower yellow. Beneath all but one was an embossed glyph of a cup and saucer, the mystic number 466 and the cryptic words "made in România" - but all in capitals, a bit like this: "MADE IN ROMANIA" - but NOT in italics! In case you're wondering, the odd one out was the peculiar orange one which lacks the glyph, but has the same number and words yet in smaller print. I feel so honoured to have a complete five-piece matched set exactly like Her Majesty's.

Meanwhile, Tex was getting more and more impatient, and began to aggressively stamp his cowboy boots in time to the soothing, insistent, melodic rhythm of the bongo drums.
Last edited by mihaela on Tue Jan 24, 2017 3:48 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby andthistoomustpass » Mon Jan 23, 2017 10:44 pm

The Texan barn dance style boot stamping interacted with the classic cowboy diet of beans to generate a terrible rippling, ripping, rumble of gastric routine gone rogue.

"Foarte urât mirositoare! Foarte masiv de fasole băși." Esmerelda hissed hoarsely, her language skills disrupted by shock, as she simultaneously tried to hold her breath and cry for help.

"Urrgh! That's rancid." pronounced Cut Throat Jake as the wave of foetid air nearly knocked him off his feet.

"I beg to differ sir!" responded the wrinkled retainer whose nose was even more wrinkled than usual.

I thank the roving official for taking his valuable time to teach me about language. This Growler is one more example of the heroic nature of government officials of all nations and stripes, Czechs too.

However, the Académie française is going too far by interfering with our cakes. We accepted the centimetre, but we could never swallow the parkin metre. 12" is more than enough to satisfy anyone, even the notoriously demanding ladies and gentlemen of Paris.

mihaela wrote:a certain critic, who noted a geriatric bias here

Your MBA is truly well deserved.


Excellent post :lol:

Edit to aid those readers who don't speak Romanian, and quite possibly those who do. Rex has kindly translated Esmerelda's comments as "Very smelly! Very big bean fart."
Last edited by andthistoomustpass on Fri Jan 27, 2017 10:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Story Links version 2 ( Sentences )

Postby mihaela » Fri Jan 27, 2017 8:42 pm

[And so is yours! Hilarious!! ...but we digress, for this is a foarte serious matter where frivolity is unbefitting. So...let us return sedately to the time and place where truth meets, and even overlaps, fiction. Be warned, for the layers multiply like an ever-expanding chicken flock.]

And so it came to pass - as all things tend to do - that two French tourists, by and by, passed by. Or, to be more factual, they didn't exactly by-pass the sărbătoare mare, but were inexorably drawn (along with their pet lemmings and cîine - a Carpathian sheepdog named Temperanția) into the revelry, whirlpool fashion, by the swirling mælstrøm of fœtid miasma. Their arrival put an abrupt damper on the dans sălbatic bongoësque.

Once the noxiously toxic whirlwind had veered off widdershins into the câmp de floarea-soarelui (causing them to ripple wildly and turn their heads away in disgust), the foreign couple introduced themselves, between fits of choking, as Charlot and Anne, famous fictional adventurers of the 1960s who had been reincarnated, as chance would have it, on the M3.1. Charlot, who claimed he was operating incognito and was really a Belgian marquis of dubious renown, then launched into a passionate monologue on the heated question of the ê circonflexe in mid 20th cêntury Frênch vocabulêry.

"That sure is mighty fascinat'n," drawled the enthralled Tex perceptively.
"You must partake of our humble repast," interjected Jake.

They graciously declined the generous offer of a generous helping of fasole generously spiced with asafœtida and laced with yttrium filings, and took the wiser option of nibbling at the wilting head of a nearby tournesol* - which had turned its face away from the sun due to the unwelcome arrival of the virulent vortex.

Meanwhile, the intelligent Rex had noticed an uncanny link between the roving GROWL officer, and the coïncidental arrival a few minutes later of this oddball pair - a subtle theme that that the others had failed to spot on account of their stupidity. He furrily clawed his way up the queen's sleeve and chittered confidingly into her Royal Ear, confiding his suspicions about the suspicious duo, whispering that he suspected there was some kind of nefarious design afoot - most likely a Franco-Flemish plot to usurp the ubiquitous ü of the Gagaúz language and replace it with the alien francophone ê, no less.

The queen, being defiantly unacquainted with literacy and caring less than a withered fig about the finer points of Gagaúz grammar, replied succinctly "Pfft!", and turned to face the strangers. "A marquis, did you say?" she enquired ingratiatingly.

Instinctively she rubbed her hands in anticipation of a substantial fortune-receiving opportunity in return for a cinci-minute fortune-giving opportunity.

"Mais oui, madame", replied the suave nobleman in broken fran g lais, with an affected continental flourish. "Je suis le one and only Marquis Philippe de Chérisey, man of lettres, homme de mystère, writer extraordinaire**, celebrated acteur in the Theâtre de l'Absurde, philosophe, clown and devoted pupil of your compatriot Eugène Ionesco forward slash Eugen Ionescu. We are en route to judge the Miss Comrat competion".

"Mais non, mon chou. We go Комрат Wine Festival, drink of the wine", corrected the beautiful Anne as she delicately spat out the decayed remains of a long deceased sunflower weevil.

"So you won't be short of spare change, then", the crone shrewdly surmised.

Meanwhile Impatience and Suspense*** were mounting Renuță.

* For the benefit our many esteemed French readers (aka a floarea-soarelui).
**Famed for his little-known monographs: "Catalogue des circonflexes communs", "Circonflexe des propres" et "Circonflexe et Tréma", (in AARevue 123 - dated "Absolu 107")
*** The two French lemmings.

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