GUESS WHAT THIS POST IS.

THE 200TH!! THIS CALLS FOR A PARTY.

@Somebody: Righty. Exactly what l kinda mean. 

Captcha says foac. You've been saying weird things all day long.....

Day 21 coming right up tomorrow!

Day 21

Silvery ducks underneath a table, gripping a chainsaw in hand. The hooded figure orchestra is still playing that obnoxious Irish fiddle jig. It’s been driving her crazy. Constantly sawing away at the the strings, the now all-fiddle group has been at it for half the morning.

“Would you just quit it?” She had tried to yell at them, but they take no notice of her, like she didn’t exist.

They had gone too far. She starts the engine. The blades start spinning into a whir.

Good-bye Irish fiddle jigs.

A dusty German history book frowns at this. Then flys under the table.

“Hey! Watch it!”

Shouts Silvery, swinging the chainsaw, and accidentally slicing the book in half, pages flying everywhere.

Somebody, having been lurking around that very same room, halts in her tracks with horror.

The poor book. Ripped apart by a horrible chainsaw.

She is speechless.

Or maybe not.

“H-how dare you do such a thing to a poor book?”

Silvery is bemused. “It’s just a book.”

“A German history book!”

“A book, nevertheless-”

One of the Irish fiddlers stops playing, quickly spins around, and doges a flood of very fake instant coffee. Obviously, the thrower of this coffee did not know that you shouldn’t throw coffee on hooded figures. As you will soon find out, for very good reasons.

The hooded figure sneezes, then promptly turns into a giant cobra. The fiddle clatters to the floor, oddly still playing an Irish jig.

The once-a-hooded-figure-now-a-cobra, rears up behind Silvery and Somebody. And opens its jaws, revealing fangs shaped like     knitting needles.   

“Look out!” Shouts Brookeira, whom we thought for the most part wasn’t here. They both turn around, Silvery almost chopping the cobra’s head off. Too bad that she didn’t.

The fiddles of the other members of the hooded figure orchestra have now turned into chainsaws.

“That was my idea.” Silvery mutters. The cobra hisses. Brookeira dashes out of the room, and comes back dragging Spyro.    

“What am l supposed to do?” The dragon wonders.

“Defeat the cobra.”

He frowns. “Me? Are you crazy or something? That’s a snake.”

Brookeira also frowns. “Well yes, l may be crazy, but they’re going to get eaten if you don’t do something.”

“l need to think about this!” Proclaims Spyro. “And in the meantime, why don’t you help them?”

He thusly marches off to find donuts.

The cobra frowns a the fiddle, still playing,and eats it. It then turns its attention back to the two CBers. The hooded figure chainsaw-mob frowns at Brookeira. And still frowning, they corner her.

Shifting is eating donuts with Spyro. Why should she know or care about these people? Her sane counterpart will survive, right?   

“Lovely coffee.” She comments, sipping some very fake instant coffee with two spoons of sugar and a dash of vanilla instant creamer, all stirred together with a oval silver spoon with a pattern of roses and hawthorn on the handle, twisting upwards to form the letter S.

“Lovely donuts.” Says Spyro, nibbling on a small, but not too small chocolate-raspberry French donut with a white chocolate and apple filling, topped off with a dark chocolate, very fluffy and light frosting and a raspberry garnish.     

Meanwhile, cornered by the cobra, Somebody and Silvery are unable to take action as Brookeira suddenly, because of a chainsaw, has disappeared in a silver cloud of foxglove flowers and doesn’t exist anymore, is merely a fragment of your imagination, a whisper, a far off hope, a silver-lined cloud, a dream.  

“l simply adore those lovely little French cream-puffs.” Shifting remarks, examining the pattern of tiny bluebells and butterflies on her bone china tea cup and saucer. “Especially with a puff of sugar they are simply heavenly.” She explains to Spyro.

“l hear that the Russian donuts are the best this year. Fresh from the cold mountain passes. There has never been a better donut.”

“They. Are going to kill us.” Says Somebody, glancing at the advancing cobra and hooded figures.

“l never doubted that.” Silvery mutters.

“Ah, yes,” Says Shifting, “But really, don’t you think that they’d be a little too….Crisp for my taste-Oh, how pretty!”

She picks up a silver-blue foxglove. “Lovely. Just lovely.”

And then quite unexpectedly, a puff of cocoa powder drifts of the air from a nearby cinnamon donut with a auburn apple glaze filled with a spiced eggnog filling and a topped with a touch of cocoa powder and a sprig of mint on top gently lands on Shifting’s long ivory gloves with pearl buttons along the length. “Oh horrors!” she exclaims, “This is a most unfortunate turn of events! These gloves have been spoiled and my entire outfit has been too. I must endeavor to change it to the current circumstances.”

“Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side… Oops wrong story now where was ahhh yes, Silvery and Somebody were being chased by some chainsaw fiddlers and a cobra and Brookeira has disappeared into a silver cloud of foxglove flowers.”

Somebody and Silvery hop over the foxgloves and the cobra and fiddle players touch the flowers and POOF! they all disappear into a cloud of black smoke. Then suddenly BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! five smoke alarms go off simultaneously and everybody covers their ears, except Jim and Morris who have huge smiles on. “Ain’t it great that we finally installed smoke alarms after that big fire now now everybody can know if there is a fire,” says Morris. “And,” adds Jim pointing to the back of the Teller’s will, “It says right here that me and Morris are the new managers for this hotel.” “And,” adds Morris, “We need to get more people going to this hotel. I wonder why people seem to be disappearing? Like where could people go? They couldn’t just go off to the realm of malfunctioning dish washers. However, me and Morris had an idea to get people to come. Look at this poster we made.” And he holds up poster that says “ The Hotel where nobody is ever eaten by refrigerators EVER!” But in small print it says “The availability of CBer-eating-refrigerators may depend on your hotel room. Jim and Morris the cowboys LLC holds no responsibility for being eaten by refrigerators. Instead they suggest eating on the trail and not owning a refrigerator.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

R.I.P. Brookeira. Rest in Foxgloves(.)

This tale was written in part by The Teller of Tales’s very own ghost writer and friend who is a ghost in this story and a writer is real life (and who didn’t think there should be a period up there.  ^)