Apols, Dear Reader. I’m going to have to split this post in two; it’s laden with gifs you see, and if I don’t, you’ll never able to load the page. I’ll place a link to Part 2 at the end…
*Starting with a selfie of us with Rose eh, Clicky? …/lights up… The Blue universe is as gooda place to start as any…*
*But actually I’m gonna start in the Aqua universe… /drags…*
Leggy has finally published Underdog Anthology VI: The Gallows Stone 😀 Ten stories, seven authors and a corrupted corruption of E.A. Poe’s ‘The Raven’ on the Dead Poets page at the end. It’s a real Halloween treat…
Leggy has written a spine-tingling tale about a haunted gallows stone for the book. Syncing, spookily enough, with the title of the second episode of the new Doctor Who series, ‘The Ghost Monument’. Fellow Underdog Anthology author, Cade and I viewed it remotely together on Monday evening…
*Whoa there, Clicky… /streams smoke… We’ll get to the Tardis in part 2… /taps ash… First let’s show Dear Reader how tobacco saved the day…*
The episode opens with the Doctor and fam floating in space. Now this could have been a very short episode, nay series, indeed. Because…
*Quite…*
Fortunately the gang are immediately scooped up to safety as ‘bonuses’ by the last two competitors of an intergalactic contest, in search of the final leg, a shifting planet…
‘Winner takes it all, loser abandoned to death’. Dems da the rules of Ilin, holographic sponsor of the competition…
*Art Majik… /puffs… on a cruel, deadish planet called Desolation…*
The first contestant to arrive for the final straight is Angstrom, a orange haired, spunky lesbian with a Norn Iron twang, from the planet Albar. She wants to win so she can save her planet and people from the Blue Tooth baddies we met in episode 1. The other contestant is Epzo, a gravelly voiced, gammon faced loner, who’s brought his own prize…
*Tobacco! Promoted on a kid’s tv programme? …/sniggers… Butt it’s so politically correct, Clicky…*
And did the Doctor enlighten Epzo to the dangers of smoking, Dear Reader?
Not a bit of it. In fact she was quite refreshing…
*Even after an epic rant about guns, Clicky, she detonates a fucking EMP bomb and fries the insides of an army of sniperbots… /nods approvingly… *
And she said nothing when Angstrom cut Epzo free of a nocturnal, leech-like bandage baddie… using – shock, horror – a knife!
When it came to a really tight spot – surrounded by a multitude of dirty, soul-sucking bandages, in a field of a choking acetylene gas – What did she do?
… ‘Idiot’ Angstrom used the knife she carried to save his life; ‘Selfish’ Epzo gave up his longed for prize to save them all. So near the finish line; one of them would win and the other would die, what’s The Doctor to suggest?
*Get a Song, Clicky, love… /stubs butt… It’s too late to start Part 2 tonight. Those gifs took for fuckin’ ever to make…*
Sew there’s you go, Dear Reader, how tobacco saved the day on the BBC’s prime time TV show for children, and why the new Doctor Who series is as subversive as ever. I’ll post part 2, ‘Bloody Woman!’ tomorrow if I can. In the meantime… Have a Song 😉
“to commit (a corpse) to earth,” late 14c., from earth (n.). Related: Earthed; earthing.
Apols! I was hoping to write a post and include a link to the Underdog Anthology 6 (UAVI) this time, Dear Reader…
*Pass us me fags, Clicky. Ta… /lights up… This could be a shambles an’ half…*
… But unfortunately the publisher Leggy’s still waiting for some final corrections from Anthology author Justin Sunshine…
*/drags… Bin nuffin butt sunshine recently in Frank’s posts in the Red universe, Clicky… /plumes smoke…*
… You’ll have to wait for that, Dear Reader, but with any luck UAVI should be published this weekend. Sew… instead l thought I’d write about that god-like scientist, the newly regenerated Doctor, who was last seen at Christmas…
… Falling out of the sky…
*/drags… You gno, this ‘ol premise reminds me of sumfin, Clicky… /streams smoke…*
… And who landed back on our screens last Sunday.
*I say, interesting choice of first alien baddie for her toof ace, Clicky… /plays with lighter…*
I gotta thank the Rev for his delightfully insightful Who companion posts for sparking off some insights of my own…
‘Ryan’s view count is nineteen, which is a CLEAR AND UNAMBIGUOUS reference to Paul Hardcastle’s iconic song about the Vietnam War, indicating a likely story arc for Series 12. And his subscriber count is sitting pretty at thirty-seven, which is not a random number and certainly NOT A COINCIDENCE. Thirty-seven, you will recall, is the age of Dennis the political peasant in Monty Python and the Holy Grail – a film that introduced us to the delightful Tim the Enchanter. You see? There was a whopping great clue about the identity of this episode’s villain smack bang in the middle of the opening scene, and not ONE of you noticed. Not one. I’m not angry, folks, I’m just disappointed.’
*/flicks ash… an’ furty seven’s also the atomic number of Roob Idiom… /puffs…*
*Kaiser? …/taps teeth… Yeah, I’ve heard that name a lot in the news recently… /drags…*
*Onna Crane! …/blows smoke ring… Well done, Clicky! She remembers she gnos who she is on a crane… /pats snout…*
All in all, I enjoyed this first episode with the new Doctor, Dear Reader, and I am looking forward to meeting up with the TARDIS again…
* ‘Opefully tomorrah, Clicky… /final drag… and UAVI to be published to more ah as well…*
*I saw that last night, posted in the Blue Frank’s universe…/snorts smoke… Another smoker falls to their death ‘cos of nasty Not-see policy… /bows head…*
…ever since mentioning the series at the tail end of the last LoL post, a Missive From ‘Merica penned by my very good friend, the Okie Devil of Text US…
‘Next up at the LoL will be a series of posts exploring the whirled of MRSREGN – pronounced Rain/Rein/Reign – and Cade has very kindly offered to play along.’
*Purely a short cut, Clicky… /squints… Now stop interrupting…*
After much fretting and pondering, inspiration finally arrived in a form of a cigarette, accompanied by a right foot caked in earth…
I was shocked; Cade doesn’t smoke. He’s asthmatic and besides, he prefers to chew tobacco than smoke it, Dear Reader. If current day smokers are treated badly – and we are – then spare a thought for the chewers – they were ousted from polite society a hundred years ago…
Howdy. Yep…it’s me…Loudmouth McTalksalot (Cade). Sorry to buttinski here, but I’m gonna.
I just recently asked RooBeeDoo a question about “Gang Stalking“, and asked this question within the context of a certain video that I forwarded to her for her opinion(s).
My Q: What branch of MRSREGN would “gang stalking” fall under?
Her A: Growth.
Purple = Growth.
This was, and is, interesting to me. Her whole MRSREGN business interests me because of it’s relationship to the chakras, but more than that, it interests me because of how Roob found these things. She’s told me that she never connected the two until I said something about it, and I believe her. I mean, were it not for books, television, radio, the Internet, and their related structures, one could potentially stumble upon and create a virtually identical system without prior knowledge of the existing system even being there.
I personally see this as a type of providence…very substantive and very direct. A very specific and likely very personal reason for revisiting an existing something in a new way with and via a new set of eyes and/or experiences. So yeah…a smart one that RooBeeDoo is. Saw something that needed doing, and did it. To think that a certain something that was devised “here” is equally applicable to somewhere else where this system does not exist/has not existed? Doesn’t make sense to me…but that’s just me.
I’m not particularly fond of a system that ignores the individual, or a system that is willing to ignore the individual, all for the sake of that system.
/shrug
^Kundalini & the Power of Awakening: A Spontaneous Kundalini Experience^
Okay, long story short, Dear Reader, MRSREGN – Movement, Respiration, Sensitivity, Reproduction, Excretion, Growth, Nutrition – are 7 processes to determine life on this planet, as ascribed by ‘Science‘. I simply ascribed a colour from the REGN-bow-wow to each of the processes. To help me navigate ‘Sophia’s Correction’…
Joe Fox: Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. She was too proud. Kathleen Kelly: I thought you hated Pride and Prejudice. Joe Fox: Or was she too prejudiced and Mr. Darcy is too proud? I can’t remember. Joe Fox: It wasn’t personal. Kathleen Kelly: What is that supposed to mean? I’m so sick of that! All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s personal to a lot of people. What is so wrong with being personal anyway? Joe Fox: Nothing. Kathleen Kelly: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal. Kathleen Kelly: My head is starting to get fuzzy. Why did you stop by again? I forget. Joe Fox: I wanted to be your friend. I knew it wasn’t possible. Sometimes a guy just wants the impossible.
Smoking, Dear Reader, is personal to me… It’s a lens…
*/final drag… I think that’s enough for now, Clicky… /stubs butt… You go get a Song and I’ll tie this shambles off…*
So, a synchromystical shambles on MOVEMENT will be up first, Dear Reader. As I’m on holiday, I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitress and… Have a Song… 😉
At last, Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology V is published…
*Knot a graphic novel, Clicky… /streams smoke… Short stories, many authors…*
… I’d been speculating with Leggy late on Friday as to the date it might appear…
… The first ‘event’ listed in the Wiki link – ‘The Year of SIX Emperors’…
*Five pointed star! I was thinking of The Okie Devil of Textus… /flicks ash… Cade’s got stories in the book. I didn’t even think of that, Clicky… /pats snout… What did I list next?*
I am having a long weekend, Dear Reader. I spent yesterday daytime making final edits to stories in the soon-to-be-published ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four’. Leggy has a preview, in which he includes one of his stories from the book…
mid-15c., “belonging exclusively to one person,” from Latin peculiaris“of one’s own (property),” from peculium “private property,” literally “property in cattle” (in ancient times the most important form of property), from pecu“cattle, flock,” related to pecus“cattle” (see pecuniary). Meaning “unusual” is first attested c. 1600 (earlier “distinguished, special,” 1580s; for sense development, compare idiom). Related: Peculiarly.
*’Also KT and KH’…/drags… No shit! …/streams smoke… *
Then last night Cade and I resumed his introduction to Doctor Who, and also caught up with Leggy and Poppy… Les amis…
*/flicks ash… Knot a favourite episode, Clicky… /drags… although, excellent use of a jammie dodger… /blows smoke rings… I’d forgotten about that…*
*Like the villain, House, in The Doctor’s Wife, Clicky, Daleks are a bit like a sea anemone… /puffs… “hard on the outside, squishy on the inside”… I hadn’t made that connection before… /taps teeth…*
Anyhoo, in honour of Old Peculier’s neighbour’s cat, Dear Reader, and seeing as a ‘cat‘ won today’s Grand National, I thought I’d take a leaf out of Leggy’s book – pun intended – and post one of my stories from UAV. It’s short and called ‘Nine Lives’. The Knot-Sew confidential making of it can be found here. Enjoy!
*******
NINE LIVES
Karl sat at his kitchen table, smoking and observing the tendrils of early morning mist gently tickle the tops of the garden hedge, before continuing their soft creep to the ground. It was dark outside but the lawn glittered with stars; pregnant dew drops nestling in the grass caught the thin, amber light that spilled from the kitchen window. He stubbed out his cigarette and gulped back the last dregs of cold tea from his mug with a grimace. Not long now, Karl thought, she’ll be home soon. Outside the mist started to swirl and pool.
He stood up and stretched, bones creaking and knees popping as if to salute the end of his vigil. He fleetingly considered that he was getting too old for this malarkey, but she needed a watcher – someone to light the way back. He could bear the discomfort; it was only for the night. Karl rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and dragged his hands down over bristled cheeks to wipe any tiredness away. He contemplated putting the kettle on when he heard the first high pitched bark puncturing the dark. The second got him moving. “Not the foxes again!”
As he opened the back door, the wet slap of morning air to hit Karl’s face was accompanied by a rude crash and skitter of a dustbin lid falling, somewhere in the mist. She’s coming from the right, he thought, opening the door wider to peer out into the murk. More barks, louder this time, and a fiery hiss, were followed by the sound of clambered wood, as the garden fence shook violently. Karl held the door further ajar, and a white streak shot out of the mist and between his legs, into the kitchen.
Karl closed the door on the mist and the foxes who, by the sound of it, were now rummaging through next door’s bin for tasty scraps. He turned to the slight figure, lying on the kitchen floor. “For goodness sake, Lara, do you have to tease the foxes? It upsets the neighbours.”
“It upsets the bins,” Lara replied, lightly panting as she rolled over and attempted to sit up. “No, they were waiting for me. Foxes are not called cunning for nothing, Karl.”
“Yes, but they usually leave you alone when you’re hedge riding.”
Lara sighed. “It would seem witches aren’t held in much esteem these days. Not by people or wildlife.”
Karl surveyed the flush in his wife’s cheeks and her glittering eyes, and thought she still looked pretty formidable considering her advanced years. He also noticed the shudder in her arm propping her up. “You should get off the floor. What would you like, sofa or chair?” he asked, scooping her up, with barely a tremble from his own geriatric limbs.
“Sofa,” Lara replied with a wan smile. “Thank you, dear. And a cuppa and a ciggie wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“Funnily enough, I was just about to put the kettle on,” Karl replied, before lowering his wife, so she could reach out and pluck the cigarette packet and lighter from the kitchen table. A fat bead of blood splashed onto the surface below, quickly followed by another. “You’re injured?”
“Damn foxes.” Lara winced and drew her arm back toward her chest. “One of them managed to get a mouthful of armpit. I don’t think it’s too deep. Just stings a bit.”
“But you’re bleeding,” Karl said gruffly. Too gruffly, he feared, from the look his wife shot him. “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and then I can clean that up,” he continued in a more conciliatory tone, before carrying her through to the front room.
Karl noticed that Lara was already on her second cigarette when he returned five minutes later, to set out a bowl of hot water, soap, flannel and towel on the carpet before her. “Kettle’s on for tea,” he said kneeling down. He adjusted his glasses and gingerly started to lift Lara’s elbow. “Can’t let it get infected, how would we explain that to Dr Patel?”
“I can always change back so you can take me to a vet,” Lara replied sharply, pulling away from his grasp.
She must be in great pain, Karl thought. “Come now, dear, we don’t have pet insurance. We don’t own a pet.” Lara’s eyes briefly flashed at his riposte, but her body relaxed and she allowed him to lift her arm. “So apart from getting into a fight with some foxes…”
“Ambushed by some foxes,” Lara quickly corrected him.
“Sorry, ambushed by some foxes on the way home, how was the rest of your night?”
Lara took a deep drag from her cigarette. “Well it started off okay,” she said, billowing a great cloud of smoke. “I went to see Annie and girls down at Saint Michael’s.”
“And how are Annie and the girls?” Karl asked as he cleaned her wound of blood.
“Dead.”
“Naturally.” Any bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the swelling around the punctures had already started to bruise, turning an angry black mauve that only truly flourished on elderly skin. Karl stopped himself flinching at the sight. “You’d think they’d get themselves a spirit cat.”
“They’ve got a spirit cat,” Lara gently rebuked him with a chuckle.
“A ghost cat, then.” Karl smiled at her mirth. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh a ghost cat would be just as stuck as they are. Graveyards are lonely places, Karl. The residents like the company and the gossip. Especially the newly interred. Once the funeral is over, they rarely get more than a yearly visit from any family. If that.” Lara finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray perched on the arm of the sofa. “How’s it looking?”
“Ugly but clean. It’ll need some arnica,” Karl replied, rising carefully to his feet. “That’s in the kitchen. Besides, the kettle must have boiled by now. No, no. You stay there. I’ll go.”
Lara laughed and shooed him away with her good arm before reaching for the cigarettes and lighter.
Karl could hear swearing from outside the back door; Jim must be up and found the aftermath of the fox fracas. Karl popped the kettle on and grabbed the arnica and some aspirin from the medicine cupboard, chuckling at the string of expletives emanating from over the garden fence. He glanced out the window to see that sunrise was already burning off the mist that had been so thick an hour or so ago. It looked like it could be a lovely day.
The sound of the front doorbell caught him off guard. Who would be calling at this hour? Karl wondered and went to open the front door. Through the frosted glass he could make out the shape of a woman in a bright pink dressing gown. What could she want? Karl thought as he unlocked and opened the door. “Morning Celia. Is everything alright?”
“Oh Karl,” his next door neighbour cried, her face puffy and contorted with distress. “Karl, I’m so sorry if I’ve woke you,” Celia started to apologise. “There was some trouble with foxes in our garden last night. I don’t know if you heard any of it.”
“No,” Karl lied. “But I heard Jim swearing earlier. Did they make much of a mess?”
Celia looked distraught at the suggestion. “Well yes, but…” she trailed off with a sob. “Karl, it’s Lara. I’m so sorry. They killed your cat.” Celia had not come empty handed; she held out a bundle, wrapped neatly in a towel, out in front of her.
Karl felt an icy chill bloom from the crown of his head and cascade down his body. “Thank you,” he said numbly, taking the bundle from Celia’s shaking hands.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Celia continued but Karl had already shut the front door. He felt the lightness of the bundle in his arms. It felt so slight.
“Lara?” Karl called as he carried it through to his wife, but the front room was empty. He laid the bundle on the sofa and sat down next to it. A spiral of smoke floated up from the ashtray perched on the arm. Karl turned and picked up the last of the burning cigarette and with trembling fingers, finished his smoke.
*******
I’m off now to introduce Cade to Thoughtful Man’s favourite companion, Dear Reader…
*Ugh, ghastly biscuits, Clicky… /sticks out tongue in disgust… The smell was bad enough, passing the the Peeky Freaky factory twice a day… /flicks lighter… Snot my taste. Not like the custard cream days… /lights up… I dawdled passed the factory on those days…*
This week, Dear Reader, I have been introducing Cade to Doctor Who. He’s a Who Noob…
*Knot anymore he ain’t, Clicky… /snickers…*
… And last night I also introduced him to the the Noble Donna…
*Martha was the night before, Clicky… /drags… And Rose and Captain Jack at the weekend… /streams smoke…*
*No River Song is tonight, Clicky… /puffs contentedly…*
“If you ever see a little blue box, flying up in the sky, you shout for me Gramps.”
Thoughtful Man and I had a blue box experience today, Dear Reader…
*/puffs angrily… Is there nuffin the bint won’t do to get out of Brexit, Clicky? /flicks ash… Don’t answer…*
Because I work on the 13th floor of the Tower, and because I have to take at least 20 minutes for lunch for my ‘health and safety’ – my time is flexible; I can bank the rest – I take one cigarette to work with me each day. Carried in a salvaged, old-style box. Today’s was a Mayfair box…
“You’ll never guess what happened at lunch today,” I told Thoughtful Man, shrugging off my coat, after he’d brought me home from work. He’s thoughtful like that. “I gave my cigarette to a tramp.”
Thoughtful Man squinted hard, the way he does when I mention I’ve given something away. Or interacted with tramps. I have form…
*That’s another story, Clicky… /final drag… Now don’t interrupt… /stubs butt… I’m tryin’ to fiction-all-lies an actual factual happening… /blows smoke rings…*
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Because she asked me for it,” I said innocently, slipping out of my work shoes and rolling down my tights. The first thing I do when I get home is strip off my work clothes. The change from formal to informal is one of the little pleasures I take from my day.
Thoughtful Man’s squint soften slightly. “She?”
“Yes. I saw her in the lobby of Tower as I was going out to smoke. Didn’t think anything of it ‘cos we get all sorts coming in everyday,” I said, pulled my dress up over my head. “Anyway, I went and sat in my usual place on the window ledge, round the side of the building. It’s less windy.”
Thoughtful Man was silent but I just knew what he was thinking…
*I’ll get there, if you stop interrupting me! …/huffs…*
I pulled on some jogging bottoms and Thoughtful Man’s old, raggedy sweatshirt. “And I’d nearly finished smoking my cigarette, when the lady tramp ambles round the corner. She was holding up a bottle of perfume.”
“Perfume?” Thoughtful Man interrupted me. “Like she was going to mace you?”
“Yeah. Do you know her?”
Thoughtful Man sighed; he encounters all sorts every day too driving his taxi round the mean streets of our town. “She’s completely fucking mad. I saw her today as well, when I was standing on the rank.”
I plonked myself in my Library chair and lit up a cigarette. “She didn’t spray me or anything. She asked me for a cigarette. I only had the one and I’d nearly finished smoking it. I said ‘Sorry’ and showed her the empty Mayfair box.”
“What did she say?”
I grabbed our small dog, who’d been buzzing round my feet, trying to lick my ankles. “She asked me for the one I was smoking. So I gave it to her.” I ruffed Poppy’s floppy ears and she gave me a smelly, wet, licky kiss in return. “And then she asked me for the empty packet.”
Thoughtful Man stiffened. “Did you give it to her?”
“Well yeah. I’ve got other empty boxes saved.” Oh how I hate the god-awful plain packaging government has foisted on us.
Poppy jumped off my lap and trotted over to Thoughtful Man, who picked her up for a tummy tickle. “I must have seen her after you did because, when she walked past me, she threw an empty Mayfair box at my feet.”
“Really?” I asked with a squint. I didn’t know whether to be amazed at her aim or annoyed that she’d dumped my little, blue box. “Did you pick it up?”
“No.” Thoughtful Man looked aghast. “She’d screwed it up.”
“Damn!”
*Shit! …/clocks time… I’ve got a double-bill planned for Cade tonight. We’d better finish up, Clicky… /pats snout… Still, no work tomorrow, eh? Come on flexible time!*
I AM the SynchroMiss planted on Earth, here to share my downloads, intel, and code-cracking, integrating the art of synchronicity as we transition to a higher state of consciousness and awareness.
