Tinkering with the idea of a phantasy novel, (or verse visa)
Chapter Una
You have never seen so many houses in your life, in all your born days.
Too many windows, doors, walls, roofs to ever count in the grand scheme of things, really?
There are lots of many fun things that break and make funny sounds, ( no true thought occurs .)
Syrup cries hey hey quack quack duckling baby whacko maybe grow up to drive a car or something
just made to sell.
Ms. Nomere languidly opens the cut crystal glass door leading out onto the tastefully decorated balcony of her townhouse which is located in the fabulosity rich estate of the very exclusive Pan Asea Acres. In one hand she is caressing the cool stem of a double martini her other hand is holding a French cigarette which she is smoking like a runaway train. She has a look on her face that appears to be some improbable hybrid cross between utterly vapid and beautifully cunning. The feral fires gleaming behind her cat-green eyes burn sickly sweet incense befuddling unwary sailors unfortunate to stray too close to such a profane shore. Thus appears Ms Nomere.
Alas, Ms. Nomere is a widow who shares residence with only her well provided for daughter whose fragrant name is Polly, Polly Myrrh Nomere. Polly's dear departed patrone Mr. Nomere was a wealthy industrialist/investment banker/cattle_-broker/political lobbyist/para-military hedge fund operator who drowned when all his assets became liquid. He became so excited to find the world his bath tub and slipped up, just once, but gravity's a bitch on the way down.
Polly has a pet name, it is ('Polly Sigh') here is why.
Polly, platinum Polly has inherited the witchy high cheekboned, fine sketched looks of her Nomere mother and the insidiously devious genius capacity for complex social maneuvers inherent in arcane strains and curious permutations from both parents. Perhaps if Ms. Nomere had left or ever had a capacity for anything resembling genuine concern as opposed to her pet penchant for histronic suicide threats made with an empty vodka bottle for a microphone after piloting her sleek red classic two seater sportscar through the plate glass storefront window of Pan Asea's most exclusive furrier she would pause to ponder some of her daughters bizarre ways. However The Lady Nomere appears to have no farther concerns than the contact list of investment brokers and fawning false sycophants which come to life on the brightly coloured screens of the latest incarnation of an endlessly updated string of mobile digital devices and the image she is endlessly pleased to behold in a certain heirloom mirror which is hung in the shape of a pentagram framed by dollar symbols adorning her glorious bedroom/parlor, and of course her silver reliquary cabinet of imported Cossack vodka which her agent purchases on an exclusive black market exchange and arranges to have shipped directly to the private Nonmere exclusive harbor set close in the shoreline of weir Pan Asea. Responsibility may be some others business. High maintenance beauty has it's own peculiar necessities, (and mirrors.)
Ah Pan Asea, located high on an ivory precipice overlooking an arcane enchanted sea of glass. In the evenings dark portents and howling monsters surf the eternally static waves creating such an awful buzz that the ancient darkness smiles a terribly secret smile as though at a joke long unspoken. It is in that deep darkness that Polly is called to divine the messages brought from other worlds by demonic couriers upon soundless ferrying waves to the well manicured shores of arcane Pan Asea.
Miles away across town special federal detective Ben Coping is burning the midnight oil reviewing classified files on the late Mr. Nomere's vast financial empire. Thought bubbles above Coping's disheveled Einstein styled hair like floors being built on a Manhattan high rise skyscraper captured in time lapse photography. Suddenly a light shines in a window on one of those floors.
"Nomere was an extraordinarily canny market manipulator and investor. So many people stand to benefit from his untimely passing."
Somewhere crosswise other paths leading downbye seaways forests shorelines there rests a rusticated cottage high up besides promontory nestling skypines, it is there resides Polly Myrrh's teacher.
Everlorn Honingcraft, an inveterate wise woman of indeterminate age and disposition sits a morn and evenings in an old bent rocker made of hawthorn wood upon a vine encrusted porch where the night birds roost when day beckons them to nest and the day birds make sweet cacophony to accompany Honingcraft in early dawn songs of homage to the odd, obscure gods of otherworldly Pan Asea.
It is just past dawnbreak at the cottage and Honingcraft is pleased to confer with the tiny yellow pipit birds whom greatly favor the branches of the friendly sentient trees growing like wise and beautiful sentinels there around the outline of Everlorn's porch. Now the pipit clan and Honingcraft are conversing in the high sweet bird talk native to such finely minute feathered creatures. The wise woman is beholding her tiny sunbeam coloured familiars with a lovingly quizzical eye as they impart their secret missives and airish joys to her all the while hanging upside down from feet as thin as spiderwebs from their accustomed perches in the light morning rain.
The pipits are but one of the many mediums through which she takes the pulse and reads the time down through the weathering ages of improbable Pan Asea. Another favorite advisor is the great white egret whose name is Mr. Certainly. Mr. Certainly takes up residence on the vine wreathed porch during the dark Panasean winter months when demonic ocean waves break across the shoreline and upon occasion even manage to crawl halfways up the slippery high green glassy bluffs before Honingcraft sees fit to put down the cup of vanilla cyanide delight she so enjoys before breakfast to send a spell hurling the troublesome waves willy nilly back down to their dark watery dreams.
Howsobeit, presently it is simply a gorgeous late summer/early autumn morning, the vinous leaves are playing solstice hymns as Certainly stretches his pinfeathers out to bask in the precocious sunbeams which filter like tipsy piano bars arranging harmonies for such souls as would be fit and well.
(somewhere crossways threading through blue fluted paths old and subtle beyond mention, Special Federal Investigator Coping feels the ghost of a shining white feather brush a wrinkle from his Mensa brow. He picks up Polly Myrrh's Panasea University of Technical Jargon graduation picture and gazes closely for a long lost moment at the image captured there. "Can she really be a Nomere child?"
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1291 times
Written on 2013-09-01 at 11:47
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Chapter Una
The Pan Asea Caper
This is a crazy little town when the lights come on and people go out to play.You have never seen so many houses in your life, in all your born days.
Too many windows, doors, walls, roofs to ever count in the grand scheme of things, really?
There are lots of many fun things that break and make funny sounds, ( no true thought occurs .)
Syrup cries hey hey quack quack duckling baby whacko maybe grow up to drive a car or something
just made to sell.
Ms. Nomere languidly opens the cut crystal glass door leading out onto the tastefully decorated balcony of her townhouse which is located in the fabulosity rich estate of the very exclusive Pan Asea Acres. In one hand she is caressing the cool stem of a double martini her other hand is holding a French cigarette which she is smoking like a runaway train. She has a look on her face that appears to be some improbable hybrid cross between utterly vapid and beautifully cunning. The feral fires gleaming behind her cat-green eyes burn sickly sweet incense befuddling unwary sailors unfortunate to stray too close to such a profane shore. Thus appears Ms Nomere.
Alas, Ms. Nomere is a widow who shares residence with only her well provided for daughter whose fragrant name is Polly, Polly Myrrh Nomere. Polly's dear departed patrone Mr. Nomere was a wealthy industrialist/investment banker/cattle_-broker/political lobbyist/para-military hedge fund operator who drowned when all his assets became liquid. He became so excited to find the world his bath tub and slipped up, just once, but gravity's a bitch on the way down.
Polly has a pet name, it is ('Polly Sigh') here is why.
Polly, platinum Polly has inherited the witchy high cheekboned, fine sketched looks of her Nomere mother and the insidiously devious genius capacity for complex social maneuvers inherent in arcane strains and curious permutations from both parents. Perhaps if Ms. Nomere had left or ever had a capacity for anything resembling genuine concern as opposed to her pet penchant for histronic suicide threats made with an empty vodka bottle for a microphone after piloting her sleek red classic two seater sportscar through the plate glass storefront window of Pan Asea's most exclusive furrier she would pause to ponder some of her daughters bizarre ways. However The Lady Nomere appears to have no farther concerns than the contact list of investment brokers and fawning false sycophants which come to life on the brightly coloured screens of the latest incarnation of an endlessly updated string of mobile digital devices and the image she is endlessly pleased to behold in a certain heirloom mirror which is hung in the shape of a pentagram framed by dollar symbols adorning her glorious bedroom/parlor, and of course her silver reliquary cabinet of imported Cossack vodka which her agent purchases on an exclusive black market exchange and arranges to have shipped directly to the private Nonmere exclusive harbor set close in the shoreline of weir Pan Asea. Responsibility may be some others business. High maintenance beauty has it's own peculiar necessities, (and mirrors.)
Ah Pan Asea, located high on an ivory precipice overlooking an arcane enchanted sea of glass. In the evenings dark portents and howling monsters surf the eternally static waves creating such an awful buzz that the ancient darkness smiles a terribly secret smile as though at a joke long unspoken. It is in that deep darkness that Polly is called to divine the messages brought from other worlds by demonic couriers upon soundless ferrying waves to the well manicured shores of arcane Pan Asea.
Miles away across town special federal detective Ben Coping is burning the midnight oil reviewing classified files on the late Mr. Nomere's vast financial empire. Thought bubbles above Coping's disheveled Einstein styled hair like floors being built on a Manhattan high rise skyscraper captured in time lapse photography. Suddenly a light shines in a window on one of those floors.
"Nomere was an extraordinarily canny market manipulator and investor. So many people stand to benefit from his untimely passing."
Somewhere crosswise other paths leading downbye seaways forests shorelines there rests a rusticated cottage high up besides promontory nestling skypines, it is there resides Polly Myrrh's teacher.
Everlorn Honingcraft, an inveterate wise woman of indeterminate age and disposition sits a morn and evenings in an old bent rocker made of hawthorn wood upon a vine encrusted porch where the night birds roost when day beckons them to nest and the day birds make sweet cacophony to accompany Honingcraft in early dawn songs of homage to the odd, obscure gods of otherworldly Pan Asea.
It is just past dawnbreak at the cottage and Honingcraft is pleased to confer with the tiny yellow pipit birds whom greatly favor the branches of the friendly sentient trees growing like wise and beautiful sentinels there around the outline of Everlorn's porch. Now the pipit clan and Honingcraft are conversing in the high sweet bird talk native to such finely minute feathered creatures. The wise woman is beholding her tiny sunbeam coloured familiars with a lovingly quizzical eye as they impart their secret missives and airish joys to her all the while hanging upside down from feet as thin as spiderwebs from their accustomed perches in the light morning rain.
The pipits are but one of the many mediums through which she takes the pulse and reads the time down through the weathering ages of improbable Pan Asea. Another favorite advisor is the great white egret whose name is Mr. Certainly. Mr. Certainly takes up residence on the vine wreathed porch during the dark Panasean winter months when demonic ocean waves break across the shoreline and upon occasion even manage to crawl halfways up the slippery high green glassy bluffs before Honingcraft sees fit to put down the cup of vanilla cyanide delight she so enjoys before breakfast to send a spell hurling the troublesome waves willy nilly back down to their dark watery dreams.
Howsobeit, presently it is simply a gorgeous late summer/early autumn morning, the vinous leaves are playing solstice hymns as Certainly stretches his pinfeathers out to bask in the precocious sunbeams which filter like tipsy piano bars arranging harmonies for such souls as would be fit and well.
(somewhere crossways threading through blue fluted paths old and subtle beyond mention, Special Federal Investigator Coping feels the ghost of a shining white feather brush a wrinkle from his Mensa brow. He picks up Polly Myrrh's Panasea University of Technical Jargon graduation picture and gazes closely for a long lost moment at the image captured there. "Can she really be a Nomere child?"
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1291 times
Written on 2013-09-01 at 11:47
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text