Yellow, for the most part, has been driven from the meadow. A legion of purple, barely discernible in the distance, is closing fast to join up with its ally, white, in pushing the final few yellow stragglers off the field of battle. The abandoned pink camp sites of the yellow indicate the enormity of the rout.
Microphone Hal Binter and the Scottish Henbane Queen took another turn around the deck. They were lost so deep in conversation that they were barely aware of falling overboard and sinking to the bottom of the sea. True, their words were more garbled when burbled, and bubbles did flow from their mouths. However, so intent were they on discussing in depth certain recent discoveries of prehistoric plant fossils that even when they were killed and eaten by a local kraken, they failed to take notice. Let that be a lesson. I’m not sure what sort, but nevertheless, a lesson.
On an earlier episode, I mentioned that a new story, Dodden in Jom, was beginning to take shape in my head. I wondered who Dodden was and what HE was going to do. Well, Dodden has announced HERself to me, and there she is. She is a cragger. She lost her right eye in an accident, and it was replaced with the Rainbow Eye of Sight by Babba Ja Harick, the lavender witch. I think it’s a ghost story. I almost have enough for an outline.
Greg Peccary scuttled into the undergrowth to escape the taunts of the mockingbird. He settled into a density of twining branches and sighed.
“Boo!” said a snake rudely, popping its head from a hole directly in front of Greg.
“Don’t do that,” said Greg, recognizing his old pal, Jem. “I’m nervous enough, what with the all the taunts from that cursed bird.”
“The mockingbird? You want I should scout around and make sure it don’t bother you none no more?” said the snake.
“I wish you’d kill it!” snarled Greg harpily.
The overalls of the workers were white, their hands gloved with a pale corpse-coloured rubber.
Brave New World guy. You can tell he’s English by the telltale ‘u’ in the very fine adjective, corpse-coloured.
“Why do they insist on making promises they know they’re incapable of keeping?”
Assembled to defend the meadow beyond that young conifer is the Thin Yellow Line. Massed to attack from just off the beaten path is the Purple Horde. The fate of a landscape hangs in the balance. Oblivious, hikers pass by, deciding where to stop for lunch. The crafty loon, however, crouches and waits and waits and waits. And waits.
California’s state flower
Afghanistan’s cash crop
Oz’s slumber bed for Dorothy
Londonderry air
London derriere
London dairy heir
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
