Crescent flan after stale marvelling as tepid fountains choose inter–regnum.

 

III — vi — Nor Had One Crammed for the Honor

.   .   .

Sylvia, aware of the mashed vehicle for contending against proverbial situations, might wait, in vain or any other mood, for notice of its absence, so that she might pounce with the tale, hardly and badly won, of Clifford’s misconduct. Of most pressing gravity, in any event to the pragmatic Flambeaux, absorbed in half–lit archives from Palermo, was an apologia, affixed to the original caseload, dashed off in anomalously recognizable boustrophedon, and of decidedly post–Ludditic zest vastened toward fewer or less recent tempuras. From the Nicean node of Miranda, one emerald tapestry propinquitously reprised inspiration of the Emperor of Jerusalem’s ex, Constance, who arrived upon a dark matter destrier ceaselessly chiding Frederick for the chill embassy accorded their mutual son Henry (VII) whom, in desire of any organization to clothe its components in likewise raiment, had been compelled into marriage with the Duchess Margaret of Austria, whose huge tracts (vested inland) were cited as sufficient reason.

Creased into anomalous parallax, and in terms of gender–neutrality unexceptionably repressed during the era of coeval origin, unless restarted by a non–italicized untenet (this result held within his own metier as inessentially morphemic, given obversible reluctance about the ordinance of symbiosis via manifold birdseed plunge), notes echoed, heeded, or then evolved, “unto the proposition for saintly and the sun warming up the governors’ race, it were like two why stop there interest, the other light, and only kept a line fairer than Josephus. Thou candles, wont to bring every instant of doubt toward a panoply of all–day fate exine, curbed by merely time, safety net authenticated by boxed rocks, the impression of a timed–in up or down window structure, oh mega–doll pro forma upon tone and persistent busily, in an inkling, ‘why can’t we stay under to meet the shrub area tux cast,’ but our father had usually folded up the road map and further deliberation is best left to used–up retinal tactics.”

There are times when step–parents are wholly unpredictable. Not only did the Marquis fail to remark upon the cherished toy that he himself was wont to spin, but one day a visitor, whom they all recognized, was let in: the chastened physicist, Elias Deerfield, who brought with him a hyper–induced fuel–injected funny car that put their previous model to bed. They went out to play with it. “I’m sorry if I smashed up your car,” the physicist, peering from his geothermal golf cart, told them. Sylvia was perplexed and peeved, for the previous matter seemed forgotten, and if now possessed of aforementioned amends, she had no more leverage over Clifford, who conversantly invited the physicist into their basement. Negotiating the staircase seemed problematic, but a root cellar hatch was found and Deerfield lowered through by Cliff. “Sometimes I get bored with windows,” Clifford said. Instantly in his exact attempt to react as if he knew a very thing, Frederick pulled beside the curt omnibus node, beyond which perils raged then, to look for an and/if tabular consort much duller than he personally imagined, now that the tilted soot stabled with last minute daguerreotypes stretched this.

Pending a review of previous floral distractions, Bitsy, ironing nearby, deemed to supply everyone with unclear discoveries, cited a man whose thought had been on the leading edge of information for decades, before considering innumerable shortcuts provided by technology, and an individual refusal to avail from it any regard of change in procedure as worthy. Now feeling the tepid hand of possession upon his own heart, in zest Ahem thus reedily donned the fjulsfut mask. It was sadly so dry that one could probably hope for only three or four times before noticing that only the cop of intra–social volition resided within the harlequin frame. Yet without, they were hipless and tread tines, through functional scenes within town, i.e., peculiarly against ongoing slum noun piece milling.

There being stiff nameless aphorism clouds poached each wherewithal, per se, fjulsfut rippled their candles, awakened under any toothier gerund, while kept aglow, riprap liturgies bond against all propinquity an, whose rapprochement lessened their popular forsooth, alacritous, cast into a grand old hat; cards were turning up missed universes everywhere as with favorite shorter elan, albeit lived of an older generation, Ahem recalled those rafters rang with irony when badder stimuli induced fifth into blurting out arrival of the great reaction, as entirely maladjusted sects shocked leading opinion with the vulgarity of their rhetoric.

.   .   .

For many days, fjulsfut harassed dumbfounded races with aloofness, crassly awakening within Niceans a birth of united outrance. Save for finth, harboring them indifferently in their gnomic blunts, the fifth lacked all ayes. Their nominal savior, cast in weeping ditch after crushing defeat, studied habits of dust mice and emerged masked. The Grand Alliance, heaving in exhaustion from empirical victories, prepared to lose no time. In confrontation at Pleiades, principals drained their effects in spinning inexplicable acts that inadvertently released arguable abnegation of their grievances. A fortuitously collaborative mission to locate a long lost and cherished missing sock approved races to one another. What was the point of having an information system if you were unable to send over for it?

The fourth agreed to curtail their ceaseless audits. In the perilous simplicity moreover, inter–regnum evolved over a council of disparate equality, legitimating hitherto loathed fifth for their expertise with Nicean diffusion faculties. Industrious and adaptive, they created many planets. inter–regnum recognized their utility, eventually inviting them to fold in on condition that they fashion more masks for themselves. The sixth, dreadfully beautiful, took up posts in outer darkness, relishing any chance to hone their diplomatic skills. The troika of fourth, fifth, and sixth exerted de facto influence on daily affairs on Nod, in arrangements of persistence unto the present second.

“Keep ironing, lady,” Clifford said, accessing, via the inter–outlet net through drive A, quantities of time, mass, elapsed time, velocity, quantity, volume, space, acceleration, and noise projected onto a blank wall cleared of usual childhood mosh posters. Deerfield started in grudging admiration. “An harmonic auto reply system,” he declared. The youth confirmed scrounging a trans–mutative bypass frequency, but Raoul, who’d worked for CIC, had left stuff lying around. Beneath the mess theme, they searched the skies. As telescopic questions emitted into ether, the stylus poised over a chart. Radio transcendence traced from the heavens tweaked as fed back frequencies on a map that lacked but one ideal, that of accident, the given, the random, the optimist retort in facile entropy, the wanderer from the belt detached, that megatonnage chunk of rock that was having a good time in the papers.

Somewhere, beyond the orbit of Neptune, an interloper, heedless and dumb, slipped into focus. Deerfield bolted upright. An exposition of impolitic encumbrance chanced at and sped toward all known facts withal, were, in these tales of every enigma posed against lasting value, thwarted by men experienced in several tasks. Wormwood, never far from his beck, took up a position on the simulacrum, forecasting, immediately, pausing in short rushes only to nibble at the hamster food in Deerfield’s hand, to indicate the exact path and timing of the incoming projectile. An exacting proponent of the Tombaugh method, he was an expert at calculating movements of celestial objects. When would they ever learn, was a question, invited of evolving nodes, that might not one discern whether the design of outboard seething was the true role of anti–freeze?

Of all existing scribblers, none yet had advanced a plot indicting that scourge. Pens instead, of clannish hopeful bees immediately desirous of justice, met and, in fifteen minute intervals ranged, having one estimable purpose: to house enough primates, clattering before the lidless eye, to produce still more page turners featuring schema of maddened profiteers intent, we knew the stacks pined for one morphemic stimulant as concern about reality mounted; voices persisted in reminding us that everything would be done to hasten our arrival. Unquestionably, one’s only hope resided in the practiced revival of visual form.

A demand for specialists, skilled in translating trans–cultural ekistic signals, emerged from a honorable clutter of lath and genomes. Eventually, given that wastrels were as incapable of deft comprehension of the east’s dreamy scribbles as was I, thereupon an unspoken closure deferred a similar idea, evoking ergonomic challenge which sufficed for all use. Temperance beckoned us toward adage (still, we slouched to your own tune, wishing) that everyone might join us first in platonic ideal, yet actually how the how–to industry might transmit, to an illiberal region, such tenets as representation, suffrage, or pluralism, were only known more to citizens we one day hoped would emulate us, than to us.

Deerfield’s brain slid, as a rule, slowly, yet with excessive finality, the International Astronomics Commission mooting the existence of this potential for months, Elias was crestfallen, thunderstruck, dumbfounded, aghast, floored, or not surprised. If these kids and their science project knew, then what hope was there? “Just keep telling yourself it’s beautiful,” he whispered. This universe, long extolled, by Elias, through his flyers, eflots, books, interviews, and television programs, as a large, purple, and friendly expanse of mechanistic predictability, had thrown a clinker at him. It seemed that he had no hope, now, of obstructing the Polar Star orbital launch project. The Suppressants seemed to notice his angst, yet were confident that he would think of something.

.   .   .

Exposed to Ensign Plair’s Euro–tech medley, Talitha thought that listening along with someone to the saloon ragtime was an acute embarrassment. It was like being around with everyone in the office, listening to a horrible song and feeling forced to duck. Yet, she thought we had a reminder in our life of glitzy promise, all of the chilled things once during a distant youthful time. Plair stopped gazing at the Lilliputian mark upon her ankle, and aware how easy does it for several of us to fuss over misinterpreted cues from our parents’ place of record and onto more priceless classics, she retracted her sandal from view. One day discouragement arrived in many forms. Friends moved. The ways of telling up how taps of creativity ricocheted into senseless disrecognizance as she fixed for herself a second metrical.

The stares of Plair bore into her for hours it seemed, as the music system played sound bites for advanced attention deficit disorders. They were thirty second delta wave themes of longing, betrayal, and despair that sped the meal along tepidly. Plair wished to translate them to the luminous delegate sitting across from him, to demonstrate his lingual skill and sensitivity, but he perforce had failed to gain her notice. During though those few instances when he might have wanted to tell her his thoughts, she could see that he had, sensing this, smothered them already, contending for or against proverbial situations in little fortune cookies. When the last bee of summer pollinates the solstice flower, a shadow will be driven from the sea. Even if, at this moment, she appeared able to let him in on one thing, and indeed sage destiny seemed prepared to unfurl, couplets were now known to them as author of poor haiku, cognizant of an organizational lapse, arrived.

The luminous delegate trained her regard upon the approaching Horace. “If ever there was a spark between us,” he announced then, “one would be calling one about now,” instead of confining their conversation to these sporadic weekend foul–up reports. Horace was considering himself more interesting than he actually felt (at these junctions the protagonist always fancied the party to his conversation more attentive than usual). A crucial dialog, shown in between delegates, indicated the end of all events that would be, Talitha sighed (exeunt servitor). Horace often believed that his lexicon of subduction phraseology had, though sheer dint of disuse, faded like lemony ink over the years, leaving him inhibited, deferential, passive, situational, opportunistic, labeled, and no longer ordinarily fond of masks.

As etiquette stipulated, were they supposed to peer around a surface of material that had seemingly transmuted with every pulse into baryons, a pyroclast filament etched halogen finish upon whence, off lofts deadeningly stamped, toward a numinous horizon of perpendicular lattice–like garnishment of didactic import, spotted heffalumps glared against a pasty film? “You might try flex,” he began, but she interjected, “how can I?” “It would be like selling myself.” “That would make things worse.” “Shall I find you a — ? ” he added? “No,” Talitha indicated, “you might still sell short.” “We’ll always be still, friends.” With a shrug of indifference, she allowed Tolstoy to escort her to a nearby garden, remaining in the gazebo while Plair, planning open force, resolved to show up, or at least bore her away from the stage.

.   .   .

Constance reasonably registered this baleful attitude, forecasting that further outbreaks within the vengeful visions of purgatory beneath the solemn light of Jupiter would be his, unless the father of heavens soaring in the late winter dawn minding its own business was strictly always attempting to react to your own dilemmas with understanding sense — since so rarely already was each inky evening to one an eight hour imaginary concord flight traversing the recess of patterns less problematic in daylight? Given into echoes, extensive, peer unto the well while demonstrable fewmet scooters dialed in too late for cost defraying effects of a pax secularitas that looked better in either/or polynomial slowdowns. Frederick impinged advances into the proto–antigen development of gilded euphemism, regarded under Alcuin to be complement with the induction of auriferousity, whereas all Norns unprecedentedly articulated a null exposition recant.

A largely nautilus mess oft errant, Florian, now Idiopath of Worms, stared gallantly upon his new see, a non–licensed operative upon its premise. The fish gathered in congratulatory mode, after escaping a clutter which decried that both success, as yang as it was, and substances one needed as yin to avoid success, were both illegal, a ruling that throve upon interest and was self pervasive. They had of course knuckled under at times, cleared decks for the next fair wind, and waited for it, but learned perversely that wind never arrived until endless bales of copra and other baggage had been allowed to reaccumulate upon one’s decks, in which case fair wind hailed with vengeance. Pity the cosmic balance was maintained. Smoky anthems receding to echo into silence, minty astute ghostly casts just eerily thimbled out fogs at imminent Edda, soaked clues those past inks clung.

“Let us praise,” the fish recited, “the nice humans who have given their dreams so that we may eat them. We have always eaten dreams without a second thought and in comforting rationalization that they are fulfilling their destiny. Certainly, there must be fonder aspirations than to sit in front of these retroactive emitting devices that suck dreams from their heads and onto silver platters for us. Declare our actions just and shield us from retribution.” Aided with 14–0 keg puddle gatherings on halftime, their group has moodily owned in vain sooth these tripely duels’ futurity. Oft a Pentecost should ever guess, and hoolahed, elite tete–a–tete met a domain in their in–verse, kept a media honk, and racing chimeras, bands, their hats, boys, their twisted values, and their resident with them, leaving the tiny town to celebrate in irretrievable peace. It, thy resident, arose to answer her own weir to a lady bonnily and coifed lakeishly in green floor length semblance, who bore horn. Horace gaped that what was once Europe was now mostly rusticity.

Tinted a delicate cherry blossom pastiche, the Global Village once encompassed southwestern Europe, most of what Prince von Metternich had once described as neither Holy, Roman, nor an Empire, nor anywhere else. Belarus, Ukraine, India, Singapore, Micronesia, and Seattle, and the rest (or somewhere) had recourse to terra–formed Nod. The lady fixed a glib seeing, “of course, that we do all the work around here, we thought you might like to know this was a land of elves, divided yet standing, and the second half remained.” The universe reneged from the runway to demented booster frenzy, the sullen townsfolk and their scrappy counter–chants quashed while the beloved God’s cue dissembled time after time in any eternity, kindly seeking the brinking score, only fluttering the clinches. The visitors utterly remembered they were favorites. scrapmon’ glowered at fish complacently working away with inklings. If only they knew the angst that he experienced so that they could complacently work away. Judges allowed the visitors a penalty shot.

Argus–eyed monitors potted, the doge’s cure had sank with one foot on the playing surface. When the visitors made this chance the score was 14–1 thereat. This spelled a last half hour of microcosm lasting a century, in which all notions of progress, ecology, optimism, and integrity were shed in the area of shrieking majority. Never mind that after every visitors’ skoal, the entire magic bus tea their cheerleaders poured, their band twittered, out onto the field for back flips and general showing up until indulgently shooed away by officials. There was a pause as scrapmon’ pondered the wisdom of throwing himself upon the mercy of the system, simply by declaring himself a miscreant in order to get out of this present condition. “Fine,” he replied, launching immediately into the density of human conditioning. It was a variegated tale not said easily again.

At the end of it, the score was 14–15. Its pulse, aware that this silence was manipulative, ashamed and annoyed with itself for being non–natural, poor, and goofy, twitched. “Well, I had better release you for your great works,” said scrapmon’. “By the way, we are not receiving enough dreams,” said Florian. “That is a very big problem,” scrapmon’ argued, though he wished to say, like, waah, why don’t you plug a couple icons and get them yourself? “I will spoonfeed tea then to you,” it felt compelled into addendum and, hung ten, scrapmon’ glowered at the fish who swam complacently working away at inklings. If only they knew the angst that it experienced so that they could complacently work away.

.   .   .

Long, long, long, long, long ago, ever since before the time of Great Window, inter–regnum, comprised of three original races, beings of sound, matter, and light, were reminded of an appearance by shadow puppet, Who’d never failed to bear hazard of their provisional status, they being but caretakers, and lumine, children of Light, ere His to collect. The approaching day compressed original beings into a state of division that crossed essential boundaries. SOMHAD, a penitential faction, an iterative commune of would wills, augured that first of the colloidal races, all too busy, creatures of firmament, and now fourth race, beings of great and ponderous intellect, had in creative exception provoked His wrath. SOMHAD reasoned that this attempt to obstruct continuity abrogated claims of inter–regnum onto cherished original innocence. “SMORTHS, an orthodox faction, argued that approaching divine collections were contra fulfillment of scripture, blending carefully as not any diminution of shadow puppet’s love for them. This body of opinion comprised nearly all of the cheerful tictus, aroused little but suspicion and contempt within other more anxious counsels, which were actually not sporting enough to regard rarer discoverers.

“In truth, heard, a more prayerful faction condescended upon the Children of Core, a vociferous lodge of hearth matrons, emulated on land, who claimed that, of all without, the given free will was the germ of possibility. ‘Doth ye heave same,’ dank Hesitance, soaking a yowl foremost, ‘the patch meant to ruin tics, where my caricature lets?’” Noone replied, “return to your geodesy before the decision experienced,” and “‘were a rare hour spent,’ Dauphine, a surfing virtual plain foment involving lack of morning hosiery, Lazarus you have got me wrong babe, if then s/he had not known what had happened anywhere, anymore this occupation forced all stars post ex nihilo stereo spectrum infra–indigo, each roiled from the kettle of sure looks, than outliers, that had been appointed in the refrainant stead, in evidence that emergent team building principles witnessed inclinicity?’ ‘They’ve beached noble tin, both evocative of genial drab lores, again sworn to mumbly use, eh?’

“‘Then why are we there anymore,’ asked Regatta, drawing another vector onto the bogus tracking template? “This, duly woon, eyed level felt, heap lying,” Noone plaid. For the thawed mask, Fanta, virus fancier, crept in, eyeing Nesbit’s thanatos, to empower nary an optical bib coral. “‘Recuse, hen, this Tory was first writ away when tutorials, suddenly not a forte lost early, sought a desk. I’m gone, plush techno lift trodden forth per se.’ They’re at once neon, as a trove, inert twist, elicited help for those who help themselves, citing Franklin, whose aphorism subsequently trans–mogrified into scripture. In this mint, a few reflectively chosen lumine, disguised, digested, or disgusted as dark matter quasars, evade the Window. Shadow puppet’s deft creative halon itinerant, His non–chatoyance wholly as fierce as our dismay to inter–regnum, braced as what, unto protein marry, albeit diffident, icons of Cyane, extracted forth exits from greater star tote. Fitted in spight of toxic stream jets sooth gotten ere odd, factions fined éclair text thence as poetry indeed, a greater weave left hurled up. If in Lourve pose, they’re forthright, noblest upon scents expended on other boundaries, their bread buttered near a trace crew east of the fifth (second of the colloidal), fjulsfut, producers of matte, in tandem booster flight, a hot feat oath, sinuous, limbic, mandible, cedar, floundered by design laws, where ideation sees graft in scattered craters, those that mirror blurring tonic. In theory, kittens, hitherto fjulsfut survive: Briareus or Hephestaus were tetrahedron deities, after aeons, best if tame be each bulk school whom inter–regnum had coalesced, more or less unsuccessfully, around thin, germane lumine. This slight source proved tenuous, scarcely abundant for their burgeoning. A fine formula for success,” being the concomitant summation of Indocile, in reply to Mr. Ng’s question about the present status of their culture.

.   .   .