will_couvillier

 It messes me up sometimes when I think of getting in other people's minds. I mean, consider - you might feel that tapping into the passion of one of the lesbian partners in Apt. 2G while her and her partner are making love would be revealing. Wouldn't you be excited to know that you are pleasuring another in a way that only one of the same sex could know? Wouldn't your emotions and sensations reach a point where there would be no words to describe them, solely from knowing how and where to caress, to stroke, to touch? Wouldn't you want to experience this first hand? 

Then you touch the partner's mind and get the boredom and the, 'I wonder what's on 20/20 tonight?' from her thoughts.

Or let's jump to 7B. Only she is home right now, in the kitchen, in the dark, leaning over the sink. After a moment she turns off the cold water, and presses the soaked cloth to her face, to her left eye. She wouldn't be going out much, until the discoloration fades. And the pain is strong, a wave of aches from her face, her arms, her breast. But worse is the pain from inside, and the numbness that keeps her around. This is sad, here, and is a part of the messes me up I feel at times.

But wait. We can continue in a bit - my caretaker is here to give me my sponge-bath and to check the tubes.

will_couvillier

            Disruption can occur from reasons known or unknown, and can happen at any time. Take the undulating 5000. It worked the airless satellite's surface, slowly easing along doing its job of singing into the soil and stone under its flow tread, occasionally searing a gaze into the ground when hearing odd densities. The data from the song and from analyzing the wavelengths of the vapors from its gaze was sent back to the Gatherer; it was routine, but it was the job it had been built and trained to do. Analyzing and exploring airless satellites and worlds for resources was dry work, however essential. There was little to disrupt programmed work rhythms on landscapes such as this. Nothing exciting had ever turned up on its explorations to activate its base judgment programs. Indeed, it had worked the job for so long without incident that its contemplative intelligence overlays forgot that those program threads existed.

len_morgan

He was naked as a newborn, save for the emerald ring on the middle finger of his left hand. Light from the green stone pulsed like a metronome.   He knew nothing, possessed nothing, other than a sixth sense born of the regression process.   A vague sense of imminent danger caused him to step back several paces.   Twenty yards ahead the air shimmered; looking down he saw the writhing tendrils laid to ensnare him.   He knew the danger, without recalling a similar encounter, somewhere back in the future.   He watched as the tendrils retracted and stored the memory, first of many.

“Be wary boy!    This is the lair of the Gyrax, she has been here since the dawn of time and is not particular who or what she eats.”   The boy turned, surprised by a grey bearded man who had appeared beside him without warning. 

“Who are you,” he demanded, showing no fear, exuding a confidence he didn’t feel.

“Would you be seeking employment?” the old man replied ignoring both the question and his nakedness.   “I have need of an acolyte.   An apprentice to fetch, carry and assist me in the performance of my craft.  In return, I will provide food shelter and teach you all I know of the Forbidden Arts.”

“Forbidden, by whom?”

david_de_beer

Once there was a girl named Lala, who lived with her Papa in a small cottage in a clearing in the woods. On her fourth birthday, the trees started singing to her. They didn't sing every night, only those nights when the Great Wolf swallowed the moon so the sky was dark as dark ever was and not a breath of wind tickled a blade of grass.

'And what do they tell you?' Papa asked.

'That I'm theirs and they want me to come to them,' she said.

'Why do they want you to come to them?' Papa asked her once.

Lala shrugged and tossed a handful of feed to the chickens. 'I don't know.'

Papa's dark, troubled eyes stared hard at the trees, as if he could penetrate through their thick shadows to the heart of the forest itself. Then his large, gentle hands cupped her small face and he said, 'Promise me you'll never go into the forest before you know why they call you?'

david_de_beer

8 -will_couvillier

10 -musingaloud

12 -len_morgan

 15 -jorhett

 17 -jorhett

 

that's all this month, so from the 18th till end of Septh may as well be open month. Brian will take care of schedules for Oct, unless he can't in which case Justin will do so.