Muffled voice from within: “Is it spring yet?”
“Just kidd’n. I’m over here now. But what happened to Yellow’s?”
“Ahh so. Ye11ow’s. 11 instead of ‘ll’.”
“And only 200 meters away as the crowbird flies…
… but still hidden, hmmmm.”
“Hold on. What’s that over there? Just at the end of the street?”
John Cage had come to feel
That art in our time
Was far less important
Than our daily lives
~ “Tiger the Lion” by The Tragically Hip
“So here we are. At the appropriately named Ebonshire. This is as far as you’ve ever gone Monsieur Gold. You are almost ready to transition. See over there?” Parasol indicates across the water to her left. “End of the tale. Tiger. Are you ready?”
But then Monsieur Gold was gone, in a flash. From the other direction, several deer look on, thinking her crazy for talking to herself.
Just later, Parasol goes to confer with the Monster of the Sea about the next step.
“Thank you my friend.”
She continued to puff on her Havana while talking.
“Wee found another dooor out, Duncan, Baker Bloch and Ii. Stiill shut… but sooon.” She puffed again. “You are stiill happy here in the Fruit Loopy Islands, noo?” She stares but no answer. “I seee that you arre. You just continue what you’rre doing and doon’t mind mee. Play as iif I’m not heere, hehe.” She stared some more, then looked behind her through the palms, though the location in her mind was far, far out of sight even with the longest draw distance. “Biig Island, eh? Stiill much to exploore. Snaaakes (pause) Manateees (pause) Liooons. (pause) I’ve even heard there are tiigers on the neighborring island with thee temples. Tiigers, Duncan. Tales of thee..”
“And mee in the ceentre. I was *theere.*”
“I plan to goo to Rosehaaven and shaake things uup a bit.” Puff. “Thaat’s my deestiny.” Emit smoke.
A small shop I’d like to open in the heart of Rosehaven but probably never will. Has little to do with knitting, weaving and sewing. Instead: tales, with tall preferred.
Let’s begin with this:
And here’s the bit that links this yarn with the other: