Circle

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..ONE..

In the dinning room of unearthly hovel that is the Nonexistent Palace Of The Gods Chaos (The God Of Mischief) peers expectantly, though time and space, in to a god-sized cup of tea.  -  On the side of the cup the inscription 'The Multivere's Greatest Dad'.

Despite the physical nature of smells and the metaphysical paradox that ensues Choas continues to inhale the scent of sweetened chai and its associated aromatic spices.

Within the almost still water, sugar, and tea mixture a series of images slowly begins to form across the surface of the liquid.

The images reflects events taking place at a particular point in time, they begin with darkness...

It is the outer edge of the multi-verse where it is so cold even Eskimos don't have a word for it, and so remote light doesn't even bother visiting.

Gradually through the still blanket of nothingness that is Space a faint and distant speck of light dimly flickers as it rapidly comes in to focus against the endless vacant backdrop of absolute black...
The Milkeyway Galaxy,  -  A beautiful spiral of colour against the void.

Earth.  -  Arguably the most important planet of the system.

UK  -  A nation of anagrams..

A listed world heritage building.  -  Of interest to no one.


It is the year 2048 and the time is 8:48pm.
A sign adorns the steps of the Library and reads "Books Are Murder ...Save The Tree!" and is accompanied by a solitary techno-vegan using his G-Pad to surf the Inter-Fi.
Above the entrance to the Library a hand painted banner reads "Save The Word!".

Behind the doors an almost empty library, its isles filled with the scent of paper and seemingly endless rows of shelf's stacked full with books reeking of literature...

It is the annual meeting of the writer's circle and the members are assembled in anticipation...  but one member is missing (presumed delayed).

The over sized clock ticks above the members as they peer around corners almost expecting the final member to spring out at the last moment.

The assembled storytellers begin commenting on the books that surround them as light filters down through the glass domed roof of the word emporium. 

A floor board loudly creeks as a red-headed writer slowly replaces a marvel comic.

From the center of the room nod signals it is time to lock the doors, dim the lights, and begin the nights business.

As the lock mechanism clicks shut the lights are dimmed and the present members assume their usual places around the round table in the adjoining room...

Then as relative silence falls and the first member begins to take breath to speak a distinct sound emanates from outside the building  ...it is the sound of a cat fighting with a dustbin (and losing)..

A shadow moves in front the glass windows of the Library entrance and transforms in to a human-like silhouette, blurred by the misted effect caused by an eerie drop in temperature on the outer side of the glass..

The recently locked door makes a sound like a door walking in to a man abruptly, before returning to its usual quiet door state.  -  As it does the shadowy figure dissipates in to the darkness that is night.

Faces of startled wordsmiths shift as quizzical eyes turn door ward, indicating some sudden interest in the the general doors health.  -  the door does not respond.
An eyebrow is raised as one of the ensemble enquires over the likely hood there may be large sparrows in the area, referring to an incident with a living room window.

Meanwhile Steven King's latest horrors lays quietly, in a darkened corner - Incorrectly filed under History, behind the King & Queens of England display..

High  above the dome clouds part to reveal the fullness of the moon for a brief moment..

Out of site a white-leather gloved hand reaches in to a fold in a white shozoko, removing a small angular wire-like tool...

Confused eyes look around the room and towards the clock, which is about to strike.

The hidden figure picks a window's lock, slides in... Rolls across floor before assuming a ninja stance... Reaches inside vest and pulls out a small notebook with the word stories scribbled on the cover in thick black permanent crayon.

The silk and leather-clad ninja writer pulls back a hood to reveal a familiar wink that signifies hows that for an entrance?  In any language (except Japanese where ironically it is an insult to one's family honour under certain circumstances).

Well Ladies And Gentlemen Of The Ink  I tried to bring Milk Tray but they were sold out at the shops.
And sorry about my late arrival I had a bit of trouble with the public transport.. It turns out trained assassins make commuter's nervous round here.  ..I told ye we should have done this in Scotland.

The pen-wielding Ninja glistens in the dimmed light of the moon light illuminated library as he alternates between flicking through his notebook and checking his beard and trademark sideburns are still attached.

As ye know I have been trying some new things out with regards to combining multiple stories and getting to grips with this whole META thing.... Ye'll have to bare with me a moment while I find my place...

Shoulders shrug as if to say Okay, whatever its your go anyway.  

One of the female fable thinkers remarks on the excellence of the the attire and enquires where such a thing could be found.

Japan, Ye know... Like the band.  But this ones made in Doncaster.

Right! As I was saying... I have been working on some Ideas, and I want to tray something new this evening,  ...well knew for me,

Do ye remember that chat we had about how we are our characters and our characters are us?

Six raised eye brows unanimously signal the conversation needs refreshment.
The second of the three females, resting her hand on a book of poems, asks if it is going to be a story about Ninjas. 

Well in a way yes, ..and no.  

Tonight's tale is one unlike any I have told before...

tonight's tale is [*** ** ***]

 

..TWO..

Back in the realm of the Gods Hidden, deep within the cloud ridden skies above the palteu of Mount Olympus and far from motal eyes Chaos sits in one of the god-sized dining room chairs on the first floor of the Non-existent Palace Of The Gods .

The N-E.P.O.T.G is literally the eye soar of the heavens .

Like a wooden tooth in a row of ivory dentures it generally lowers the property value of the entire cosmic spectrum - but despite a number of requests it still stands.

This celestial blemish, belongs to no other than Choas, the God of Mischief and is of his own design. - A design that causes even the gods to wonder at how such a building could remain upright, and susequently request to have it torn down.

The owner is, currently at home - in as much as his metaphysical presence is mostly there , the rest of himself being spread across time and space trying to locate a the heart of a man called David Cameron..

There is a thunderous knock at the door as the door knocker repeatedly strickes the god-sized door it is shabbily nailed to. 

The sound reverberates through the building causing it to grown as an arthritic elephant might before falling to the ground in a heap of rotted wood.   

Ripples shake through the foundations like an earthquake might shake through bouncy castle factory that has been built on a fault line. - Yet in defiance of common physics the building remains intact.

The sound increases in volume so much that it resounds through space and time causing Mrs Crabtree of Finchley to spill her tea over the brand new linen on November 6th1942, inducing an otherwise healthy apple to premeturely fall from a tree in Greece 1832BC, and Chaos to notice that one of his visitor has arrived early (2000753511672162527848.4545.42542.224  God Mean Time).

You're early.

I'm on time, your late.

Have you knocked?

As Chaos gathers himself the god sized door swings open on it's god-sized hinges.

His visitors enter knowing instinctively where to head. - They follow the music.

The Games Room is alive with sound, but other than that it is completely vacant of life - mortal life.

In the center of the 1890s Glasgow Public House themed room, a blue felt covered games table sits accompanied by a number of chairs.  One of the chairs is fully now occupied by Chaos.

Welcome! ..What is it to be today Tiddlywinks?

 

..THREE..

A dramatic scream sends excitable pigeons from the roof tops surrounding the Library,

The scream eminates from the mouth a an even more excitable lady that is now being consoled by what appears to be superman.
Superman is now noticing the cause of the alarm ...a dagger.

There is nothing out of the ordanary order about the dagger, it looks as any dagger should with two key exceptionss ...the first is the handle which is somewhat distinctive in its own right but not so distinctive as its current location -  The back of the now Ninja
.

Daggers are often found in strange places, countryhouse mantlepieces, the sporrans of Scotch men but rarely do they turn up lodged in the back of writter.  ...and at an angle that needlessly suggests it was placed there intentionally.

The downward-facing writter slumps over a desk with a look that translates in any language as "AAAAWWWWWE!".  - A look now forever set in the stone cold stare of the ex-author, but otherwise dead mans eyes don't say much except 'call a coronor'.