Seven Will Not Suffice

by A. Molotkov, S.B. Reda, Pamela Zero

ACT I

Gurf turned around. Behind him, the horizon was yellow, yet before him it stretched like a green eyebrow, obstructing the view. Gurf began considering his plans for the near future. Near future was to start immediately, and therefore, he didn't have too much time to consider it. First step was obvious: to slip through the time barrier, and to import a message of positive mental energy encapsulated in a memory cube of class 3. Gorgomodon seemed to be of the same opinion. As for Zabda Rect, his position is at this time unclear.

I decided the best thing to do was stir fry some metaphors and see if the hunger was assuaged with steaming plates of literary fare. I’m a mediocre book-chef at best, but I’ve picked up some flashy dicing techniques and a pretty good marinade for tough fiction. With as much fanfare and flash as I could muster, I set the juice filled plates before them.

The river ran upstream, just this one time. The rock became heavier than air. Just this one time. . . Non-Zabda was beginning to consider his considerable achievements in the art of beginning. Meanwhile, the crimson tides of tomorrow started streaming inwardly outwards unprecedentedly unpredictably incredible cretinlike gnome mainstream blom ice-cream. Sitting on the rock leftstreem upon-a-right, Croohmgorn contemplated the contemplation of inner depths, upon immediate viewing of the outer ones. Both worlds seemed ready to collide. The direction of the time-space axes was changing. I opened the door and stepped outside.

To begin with, the only way this will work for you to accept my premise absolutely. Don’t even bother reading further unless you intend to believe, believe with your elbows and your inner ear and all of the tiny bones in your feet. If you don’t believe in the truth of what I say, well, I’ll not be responsible for the destruction that will ensue.

"No! Seven will not suffice. It is almost time!"
Fingers manic frantic stumble twiddling, punching and correcting and fingers reflexive. Scattered papers on the wall crash in torrent splash in frozen waves. Echo in the hall quiver in fear. It is almost time.
"No! Seven will not suffice! IT IS ALMOST TIME!"
Punish thoughts and beat ideas attack back in turn, cornered beasts. Shadows foot race across rooms, super-imposing themselves on themselves - stopping, stop!
IT IS TIME!


ACT II

This morning, slightly before dawn, the townspeople went to Gurf’s cottage, as they have done every morning for the last 16 years, to receive wisdom. As always, Gurf was not there. Peer and probe and foresee and proclaim every nuance, every instant, but the only way nothing of great significance would occur to him is if he let himself be as absent minded as Zabda wished. I walk the murky halls, stir fried some metaphors and waited for time to pass. As for Zabda Rect, his exact position is at this time unclear. Behind him, the horizon was yellow, yet before him it stretched like a green eyebrow, obstructing the view. First step was obvious: to slip through the time barrier, and to import a message of positive mental energy encapsulated in a memory cube of class- a message of Seven. No normal prophecy, only past speculations on future events that have happened once and now . . .happened again. Zabda, like Zabda, having dismissed flesh with his elbows and inner ear and all of the tiny bones in his feet has fingers manic frantic like fingers. Near future was to start immediately, and therefore, he didn't have too much time to consider it. Gorgomodon seemed to be of the same opinion, which was good as their last disagreement had resulted in large spoons screaming.

Irrevocable resistance of flesh against metal. Another inserted organ, maybe eye, maybe finger. Gurf sadly removed extra hearts and tongues, playing and joggling as he joggled and played. Destruction will ensue, but only when it’s time. Zabda is waiting on the street corner. It’s time! Remodel and re-remodel, and than again, until before you started. To begin with, don't even bother punishing thoughts and Zabda’s fingers on Gurf’s yes, to begin with.

My day is like any other day in that it is dark. As for Zabda Rect, his position is at this time unclear. Seven will not suffice. To begin with, Gurf turned around. River floated timewise bidirectionally, and unequivocally equilibrical. Someone is arriving tomorrow, right from the barrier in time, having dismissed flesh. He remove need to live by drinking into the spirit of the rock, like Croohmgorn. Eat and drink, until it’s time, ready, not ready, grizzly, automatic weapon, icicle, barber shoppe, triple nothingness, bald sky, inverted minds. See hear smell destruction upon completion of everything that’s complete.

To begin with, the only way this will work is for you to accept my premise absolutely. I’ll be as absent-minded as I wish. Fingers manic frantic like fingers, Zabda like Zabda. The river run upstream, just this one time. Punish thoughts and ideas, advance forward in the backward direction, adrenaline blood pumping through veins. Rubber-made boys play with water-resistant sand, eating it with large spoons.
"No! Seven will not suffice. It is almost time!" To begin with, the only way this will work for you is to accept my premise absolutely. Gurf turned around. It’s time. I shall not be responsible for this, even if destruction should ensue. Croohmgorn is arriving tomorrow, right through the time barrier. We will meet him at the station. Everything will go as planned, except for all things that will not.
Plastic flowers whisper in a language of patient doom.


ACT III

Gurf began considering his plans for the near future. Meet a lover on Monday. I’m a mediocre book-chef at best, but I’ve picked up some flashy dicing techniques and a pretty good marinade for tough fiction. Dine on the deck of an old schooner. For example, it was prophesied that Ernestine would see Chiefly peer and probe and foresee and proclaim every nuance, every instant, to the townspeople - so they would know if the day was worth participating on. Gorgomodon seemed to be of the same opinion. And then there is Filomeno. He was told that nothing of great significance would occur to him this week unless he chose to take the bus on Thursday, which would eventually crash and receive important mail. This morning, slightly before dawn, the townspeople went to his cottage, as they have done every morning for the last 16 years, to receive wisdom. I decided the best thing to do was stir fry some metaphors and see if their hunger was assuaged with steaming plates of literary fare. Filomeno did not go out all week. With as much fanfare and flash as I could muster, I set the juice filled plates before them. Gurf turned around.
And wouldn't you know it . . . it all came true!

In the place of torn mendings, plastic flowers whisper in a language of patient doom. My day is like any other day in that it is dark. Croohmgorn is arriving tomorrow, right through the time barrier and we will meet him at the station. Everything will go as planned, except for all things that will not. The things that will not, will. River floated Gurf turned around- timewise bidirectionally, and unequivocally equilibrical as the water runs upstream, just this one time in preparation. Punished thoughts and ideas advance forward in the backward direction, adrenaline blood pumping through veins. Rubber-made boys play with water-resistant sand, eating it with large spoons screaming "No! Seven will not suffice. It is almost time!". True, Seven will not be enough as Chiefly, the town prophet, is gone. The only way I shall not be responsible for this, even if destruction should ensue, is for you is to accept my premise absolutely. Someone is arriving tomorrow, right from the barrier in time and now the people do not know what to do. Gurf began considering his plans for the near future. Ambivalent hovering water-borne floating was all well and fine, but where was his sign of Seven, where was his tweaked torture of time, where was his glory of gross hours misled to their contortions? Gurf turned around again. It’s time, he whisper thought, it’s once was and can soon never be. With much fanfare and flash, he did not go out all week.

Destruction upon completion of everything that’s complete. Seven and Chiefly, Zabda and Gurf - two times and two more not enough materials. Sitting on the rock leftstream upon-a-right now two noses and only one eye. Chiefly, the town prophet (who was now gone), knew this and more to begin with. I remember them all, Croohmgorn would say, picking at fried metaphors with a stolen fingers. Bird hollow wing crackle in Gurf anger grip - now it is time. Stream meander backwards uni-directionally in all valleys, Zabda splash infected foot in trickle dream. The phase is ending . . . It is time!


ACT IV

To begin with, the only way this will work for you to accept my premise absolutely. Don’t even bother reading further unless you intend to believe, believe with your elbows and your inner ear and all of the tiny bones in your feet. Chiefly, the town prophet, is gone. Near future was to start immediately, and therefore, he didn't have too much time to consider it. Behind him, the horizon was yellow, yet before him it stretched like a green eyebrow, obstructing the view. First step was obvious: to slip through the time barrier, and to import a message of positive mental energy encapsulated in a memory cube of class. If you don’t believe in the truth of what I say, well, I’ll not be responsible for the destruction that will ensue. As for Zabda Rect, his position is at this time unclear. And now the people do not know what to do . . . Chiefly is gone!

Everything came together, and not once, but much more than once! Croohmgorn frolicking on the edge of forgotten time, floating upstream, like those who have room. Townspeople adrenaline blood barber shoppe, into the spirit of the rock, like Zabda. Rubber-made boys melt in January sun, smell of burning wires and leftover yesterday’s flesh. No! Seventeen will not suffice! Filomeno collect organs, put ear in right pocket, put eye in left socket, send by mail (overnight)! My day just as usual in that Gurf is arriving tomorrow right from yesterday, piercing the barrier in time. I’m a mediocre bookworm salad chef at best, the refrigerated beast now it’s time. Plastic flowers whisper in a tongue of impatient gloom. To begin with, the only way it is going to work is for me to accept your premise absolutely. No, never mind no, it is the river, floating right from the right to the left, past to future, and then reverse, who knows . . . Fingers manic frantic like Gurf’s shadow on a moonless night.

No! Seven is more than enough, it’s too late! Zabda pointed upwards, stick finger into flesh, then fly and stick again, now from above. Rotten skull open up like a nut, smile of decay on non-existent lips. He is coming him say, coming right through the barricade in space. The townspeople fly to the North: it’s too late! This morning, Filomeno went to his cottage, just like any other proverbial beast, or more! Croohmgorn is walking upward, then slowly retreating into the past. Destruction upon completion of everything that’s complete! I chose to take the bus on Thursday, Gurf turned around, it’s too late: flying on the edges of rotten moments! River run into space, evaporate into nothingness. The townspeople stir fry some metaphors, then about nothingness dance, giggle, and who knows . . . To begin with, I must accept your demise absolutely. Seventeen is less, I’ve picked up some flashy dancy techniques, and now Gurf if floating upstream, like Zabda. Who knows enough to say who knows to say who to say stop no more no continue no continue no stop.


ACT V

Stop!


 

This text was created via e-mail. First, each of the authors wrote two distinct segments, and forwarded to the other two. At each consecutive stage the goal was to elaborate on the existing material, and to send out two new e-mails. Thus, none of the authors was exposed to the entire text until the time of the final compilation.