Anyway, The Wal came round today, or at least I thought it was The Wal, but it turned out to be my mother.
Did you know my mother once said to my Graphics teacher "So what does graphics involve then....drawing?" He was like "....yes."
Anyway, I picked my nose just then, did you know?
I writted a story, it's called "A wheel wthin a wheel" and it goes something like this
He turned the page.
His eyes skipped over to the next, more densely populated page.
“‘am i mad or are you dreaming?’
“I lit a match. Holding it to the rusted catch i pondered the last few months. Five months in all. Five lonesome months built from tiresome days and panic-filled nights, held together with the mortar of despair, ground from leaves and the space between rocks.
“ ‘I’ll write until the ink runs dry, i run out of paper or i run out of food.’
“jizk scribbled a message on the [blue] wall of his cave-like hiding place. Hiding from what he did not know, but that did not make it any less real. Or dangerous. The only time jizk had been safe was a twenty minute period as he crossed the seas in a raven-cocoon escorted by seabirds and swansong. Now he was a produce grower. Well, a produce grower by official title only, for his incaseration had reduced his actions to those involved in staying alive:- scraping the daily growth from his dew farm and winding the flint-like rock on the fire-wheel.
“his thoughts drifted to the more abstract poem-language of his forebearers.
“cream puddings dwelt for a while in the farm as a lad, cream puddings made with a rag.
ain’t so bad as they sounded to us as children,
now weeee would not give them a second glance before we took to the feast.
a lizard joined us, almost beyond our periphery,
did he know we could see him?
“‘Doubtful,’ the company muttered in unison.
“jizk was brought up to the present with a start, carried there by the sudden dimming of the match light. The black stalk smoldered deep red for a little while.
“Chapter II - in which all chapters become one (apart from chapter II)
“the message became unclear. The ink dulled from the passing of time and growth of cave moss. The meaning was all too vivid though. Perhaps more relevant than it had been when it was first written by a lone figure deep within the moundrocks of kilbayiss. The tragedy was pure and stinging. The tragedy was this: it was unlikely, no, impossible that anyone would read the words.
“ ‘Doubtful,’ the company agreed.
“reason one is this: the language had long since expired. Reason two: the writing had dulled from the passing of time and growth of cave moss. Reason three: the cave was deep within the moundrocks of kilbayuss.
“for the purpose of good timekeeping the message in the cave is recorded here:
“ ‘a place, a town, a village changes name from age to age in the passing of forever. The development of language sees to that along with the inbuilt inaccuracies of human minds that cause the richness of heritage. At one point in all this time though, one person must be the first to utter this new name. A before and after must occur. Watching the passing of six hours on the rotary clock must result in seeing the hand move because it must travel 180 degrees with your eyes on it all the time.’ ”
It turned out to be a concept novel.
> "Anyway, The Wal came round today, or at least I thought it was
> The Wal, but it turned out to be my mother."
> Don't use The Wal's name in vein.
Hmmm. Nash need sleep. And Gerrid's special stick.
*bangs head on monitor*
> I didn't, I really did mistake The Wal for my mother.
No, you mistook your mother for The Wal. You've got it a#se about face. Again.
Don't use The Wal's name in vein.