Chapter 6 – Private Parts

I felt like I might tomber on the florcuvva. ?Urfup. I had nevah slozerixed I could urfup tellment trestot. That meant the wholeship, seriom. But, Miley, I wasn’t pretta. ?Leave my trav, just like that. ?Bandon all my cuzmos. Still, there is nevah any choice, I savved that. At that litters flickofamint, I also realised everything was bout to change for me.

I was sturbed, partlon cause I savved that reallon it was Greenvressis him…herself who had sisted on mostof the changes that led to our termin design. Sure, I had sillitated, but the more I thort ont the more I realised that he, she had led that creative surge. I had just allowed his, her genius to exostep.

Wever, by that usk, I had been maticallon urfupped. My darsk throbled with newinf. ?Unbelievable, intit. I had gone from normynorm vailer having to trav all the hours Miley made, to a vlady of vlesher, as urfupped people onlon dip and flip ficiallon four hours a day.  I would be much plusher…. way more bits and likes to festidrong exo for voddies and vlatticubes. My vail would now notclude any plaiting, nor dying, reaming, vurling or vloming. All I would do now was design, problon on my ownioni, in some indicube in some massive Siety.

Darskinf montred me where I had to troe. Address onlon, no Sietyinf. The job was at Shwervemanshon, so not too reachy: a tenninit boo-ride. Shwervemanshon is a massive bloklok taining all the biggest trilly fashwerve houses.  I had to prettapare. I set my darsklarm for newusk, as I needed to just my moufleur to be as bangup as posslob. Lucklon I had practised loads. I set my slozerlok to strongtretch and uppiprugs on lo-dose (obvion you canti have hi-dose at home), as toolmond needs anintzibitov help on their first day at a nouvotrav.

I got out of my slozerlok quitehigh as I donti often do uppies. I had had multiple slozerixes during the night. Now it felt like I could overstand everything more clearlon.

I had a fokka peer in the mirruv, darskstraining with stration. ?What did I wanti look like. I decided not to self-refer too blatelon, like not all green, just two straglog thin referencing stripes mongst a mass of greyish-vlu vurls. I put in a largish propper, ooh, paynfullon shizzos that, just nough to create a mild Outpout, and vlossed my vlips a pale pink. I vurled my vressis all in the same rection, and gelled them there firm. As a termin touch, I put one silvastic clit-hancer through my clitpiercing. I sav clit-hancers are slightlon exoshwerve, but people sociate them with the totlon thirties when bissliss was so up and the trilly fashwerve dustry leaptexo as most portant of all. I wantied to look bislisslike and how I was prettado anything the nouvo vail could throwat me.

I left the partmo, exostept my bloklok and got strate on the boo. I doded ixes all the way but was too petriffob to zorb anything. I reached Shwervemanshon by eight. I had been told to straightdrong to the fifty-first vel. The sensor took me up. It was mirruved and I was lone so I got a chance to mire my moufleur. The Outpout and pinkened vlips exostood nicelon gainst the foncy-grey hardened vurls of flair.

The sensor rived at vel fifty-one. I steptexinto a pale urple riddor. Ixes rected me to a cubby to the right. I was mitted and taken to an urfupdarskfitting. Sitting there in the dark with a soothing zicstream, I thort bout things. ‘Urfupping your filters, colours, sound,’ they dixed.

I exostept, mazed at the trilly quality of my nouvo pikups.

A scurity tadarsed at the door. He had green vressis, and yes, you’ve guessed it, the vringe, vadderangle, vurls, all of it. He used his mote to tripflip his vadder as I troed throughinto a huge cavernub area full of state-of-thart indi-cubes.  High vaults bove us were hung with plushyplush velvy curving curtains. Moving lights played mongst the curtainfolds.

Bout ten dells were strutting on a fakie-red-carpet in frontov rows of seated media people. The dells all had the new green look. I darskooed for a mint, miring my creation. All gether in a glinting, groomed row like that, I could blep it reallon was a fokkadokka design. I felt proud.

A man troed ward to meet me. ‘Nerd to make your quaintessence,’ he said.

‘Nerd,’ I plied.

One man was tadarsing hind a tablon, pulling ixes ontosplay. He turned round to bleppat me. His vaddervanilli waved from side to side. He had not gone for the green, but had a spensive–blepping dark red sunray hanced by a flittaking bright pulse and long dishioned blond and orange vressis, sewn with silver threads, sweeping the floor. Hmm, his flairdresser was doing grooty trav.

‘So, Kedda,’ he murtered. He dronged wardme and allowed his vaddervanilli to brush gainst my moufurls politelon. ‘Gratulation on your urfupping. I am Iffer, Genital of Topinf.’

!Miley. I had heard of Topinf, a nucleus specialising in the mozzlon boundary-pushing shwervixes. ?Who hanti. !Topinf vailed for Miley herself.  !I would nevah in my follest slozerixes have spected I would be vailing for Topinf, !let alone Topinf’s Genital.

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Chapter 5.

I took the boo home. Fore I could even tube a cutty, Broze splaypeared. Asked if I’d had any tresting trav. Too right, I said. I told him bout Greenvressis, bout our developing design. ‘!Olk,’ he dixed. ‘Sounds wellfokka. Keep it up. Our doptive always said, with your skills, you would be in the elite one day, Ked.’

‘But, Broze,’ I said, ‘this chap is welleird…?I donti even tink he is a chap.’ I whispered: ‘He had a fakie.’

‘Yea well, Ked, takes all sorts. Life would be dullard if people were all the same. This Greenvressis chap, fakie or no fakie, is a fokka ting if he’s helping you do grooti designs.’

‘You’re right,’ I said.  Greenvressis and his siccideas were deflon fokka.

‘You mark my words, Ked,’ said my broze, ‘you’ll be vailing for Miley herself one of these days.’

It was wellierd he said that, because you would not believe how velochy things can change. The next day, three blokes were standing waiting at the salon door when I got to trav.  They all wantied xactly the same as Greenvressis, who I scuvered was called Pliny. They were after the same vressis, vadderay, zlicked vringe, mote and all.

‘We troobi dat Pliny,’ one said.

‘Yeah, we troobit,’ said another.  ‘Need it for this aftube’s topslot catwalk.’

‘The Pliny is the big shebang,’ dixed the third.

I siddered them. ‘!Oh my Cyrus, we gone and set off a nouvo fashwerve all by ourselves,’ I vlatted.

I travved all foretube. I vailed on one, telling the other two to drong off and get a cutty on the corner, but they dinti troe. Just sat there waiting their turn. The middle one had quiteamintive vaddervanilli. I told him if he zired to look the same as Greenvressis he would have to have some vuction and put on a lengthening cone at nights. He said he dinti mind, he just had to have the nouvo fashwerve.

Through sheer hard grind, I got through all three of them by bloffeetime.  They sferred me some likes and troed off. During my tenninit break, I lined Dunqui. ‘?You tubing,’ she asked.

‘Yes, velochy, hanti got a mint, got queues dronging on,’ I vlatted. ‘You wonti believe it, Dunq, I got a new thing troeing on with the trilly fashwerve.’

‘?What is it.’

‘Scalled a Pliny, it’s only, wait for it… H13 green vressis, split into stinct vlocks, with a suttle vringe xinches bove the gnangle.’

‘!Cloof’ she slaimed. ‘?Vadderangle.’

‘Obvion, since like three daysago, ninety.’

‘?Buvflair.’

I could hear Dunq pulling ixes exmogga and sembling them.

‘Lotsa, paler H13 green vurls peeking through a metallic vadderay, thin rays.’

‘Uuuw,’ she darsksighed. ‘Vice. You got your dij on that vulse, vlady!’

‘Tanky,’ I said. ‘I have been getting quiteafew plimentos raysamont.’

I sferred her an ix of the green vressis. Dunq bobbed and morflitted through her oftinf and vamped it all up a bit, hoiked the imix. She sent it out on vlogix within tenninits. By the aftube I had a new line of blokes waiting. ‘Oh Miley,’ I sclaimed, darskooing at them all. ‘Have to call inforsemints.’

I darskalled FaddyFalon Timps. Ordered four vailers just for the aftube, maybe for the next day too. I just had time to chuck a whole load of stentions into the last of my dye before the timps turned up. I straited the new neeks and, since the queue was throbling, we just troed at it: dying, vlombing, plaiting, cutting the vringes and then zlicking and snippisnipping into them to give them that natural look. Luckily FF Timps are always well-trained. They have nifty blingers and get what I’m montring them first time. We had to call Bowares to get a nother vat of that horbil H13green stuff in. I litters dinti even get time to tube a cutty, all aftube. Five of us were vailing flat out.  For blokes with short flair, it took even longer as we had to put in the prettadyed stentions first.

I flitted some likes to FaddyFalon, and sferred a centidge to MileyMuns too. Best to keep up with your Emmemms daily therwise they’ll be after you.

At home, I stepped into my blopak for a freshnub dryclenz. The kems and the wind did their vail. I felt better, but my blingers were still aching. I put on Killapayn prugbluvs to numb them up.

I had to troe exo. Needed some prugs. If you’ve litters vailed your blingers off all day, you need a good vlatt. Liza met up with me and we troed down Festivoy. Tubed three tripvoddies, ordered a retroverdose, which obv is only safeprugs as they would never let you realinfoverdose, got straight in a vlatticube and vlatted our vlips off for bout four hours. We were hauled out just after midnight and chucked exofest.

My darsk throbling with staddered newinf, I sloggered home at one in the morning. Someone splaypeared as I drapped in the door.

‘?Where you been, vlady,’ the person sclaimed.

?Was it Dunqui. It sounded like her, and she was surrounded by all her stuff, but it dinti look like her.  To be fair though I could hardlon bleppa her I was so stroyed.

‘?Dunqui…is that you,’ I slurred.

I tried to set my darsk to better saturation and contrast.  Difficult, as my blingers were still numdup from the prugbluvs. I fiddled drunklon with tilt and shift. That was better. !Oh. !Dunqui’s vapearlies had gone. !Her what-had-been-bangup-but-maybe-were-not-bangup-no-more silky stentions sewn with vlu lace had gone. !She had H13 green vressis. !Miley. I had nevah evah bleppaed Dunqui strutting one of my designs fore.

‘!You not just got your moufleur on the pulse, vlady,’ she sclaimed. ‘!You litters the big shebang.’

Yop! I couldn’t believe this. Maybe the prugs had put me in some sort of tastical slozerix. Had I reallon managed to chieve a bendgend fashwerve? I coudnti dix a thing, I was that moved, and still that stroyed from the vlatticube.

‘!Olk,’ said Dunq, pouring me ixes of bothsex slebs with the nouvo look, ‘you litters have done it, vlady. The bendgend. All the girls here are wantiing one. ?You know what this means, donti you.’

‘No…?I litters donti have a cluebo in hellion,’ I slurred.

‘It means….you going to urfup, vlady.’

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Chapter 4.

I climbed into my slozerloc and had wellierd slozerixes about red, open darskiddenflappas and bright vlu darskiddenbleppas looming at me exomist.  I woke up midnight darsgasping in panink. Thank Miley we’ve covered all that shizzos up and moved on. I donti tink private parts should be bleppaed or parled on. They are private. Like zactly. Private. And anyway, how on Mileyship would anyone get by without their darskinf?

This all vert-hurt my thortpac so lucklon next day it was the Kend. Thank Miley for the Kend. Two days of chilled times. I laxed, ported lotsix into my darsk and zorbed. I tubed healthy joococtions. I tretched in my tretching chamber, pulling zistant bands to the latest wobberrap my broze sent me. After thirty mints I frizzed my vressis, put in a quick double-colour streak with a simple orange and black stention and went out for a cutty with my friend from beauty school, Niella. She hearts to updress, and was looking fokkadokka with glittery diamond fakies bringing out her propped mouf. We tubed cakeycake, moving on to kol at about xoclock. We met up with Liza, who had tarted up her mouf with some rather exoshwerve plakkiplaits at least, thank Miley. We tubed trip voddies and became stantly runk. Obvion after that we flipped our liddergauze, tubehaled a quikpliffa each, had a good vlatt, and passed exo in a vlatticube gether. Fokka night.

Greenvressis turned up again trestot Monday. The colour was growing on me. The dye was spensive, and I realised that in the light it had a grooty urple gleam. As I was upvlombing his furls, he said, ‘It zires one last thing.’

‘Yeah….what?’

‘A mote.’

Onestlon, cuzmos get the zarrest ideas in their murky thortpacs sometimes. I don’t let on that they’re totallon bonksfest.  ‘A mote, !Sure.  !Siccathort. Might just set it all off…’

We fitted one just low the vadderbase. I put the controls in his bluv. He tried it out. !Olk, it was ackshallon fokkadokka. The mote made the vaddervanilli jump just slightlon, causing the vressis to flash their grooty gleam.

As I was waiting for Greenvressis’ likes to darskload, Talika said she was troeing exo to the corner jop. Greenvressis waited til she sappeared, then, exo nowhere, slipped a bluvved didge under his flairline and gave a sharp tug. I darsgasped as the whole flairy green area came away from his groyn. !Behind it were vlips. !Big vlips with brown flair and china flowery beads. I couldn’t believe it. I had not spected fakies. I certainly had not spected such a sophistokid fakie. ‘Shh,’ he…she whispered, ‘our time is coming. !Be pretta.’

‘!Pretta?’ I darskchoked. ‘Prettawhat?’

‘Prettarun.’ He…she put a didge to his vlips. ‘We’ll get you exo, Ked,’ he..she whispered, ‘don’t wuzzo.’

I wantied to dix that I dinti zire to be ‘got exo’, as I was fectly sicca where I was, and that I hadn’t been at all wuzzoed until he..she exoblew my napses…but I was too shonked to parle.

His likes had sferred to my darsk so he, she stuck his…her fakie back down and stood up, clipped it back to its bangup ninety-degree angle and troed off. I was so shonked I dinti even realise I problion should have pressed my fliplarm. Was he…she from the zistance?

It was hard to tell. I was afeared. Would his darsk not pick up even his whispers? Did he have a way of unabling darskinf? I had seen reports on my splay that some people had gone off-grid, with riculoso zults. Who would rush to help you, if you were ill, fureggs? Darsks send constant healthinf to dotters so they can monitor you. Now that’s sensible, and that’s normynorms.

Dammidams.  I had troobied vailing with Greenvressis. I dinti zire him…her to be zistance. I dinti zire the spambort van to come and take him…her screaming wayway.

I told myself I was wuzzoing for nothing and it was problion allsicca.  Fakies aren’t against the law. He…she had problion gone temps a bit loopiloop, right?

 

 

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Private Parts – Chapter 2

It was getting on for termins.  The flor was tablowed in snippyvressis so I moptup the streaks of dye and tivated the aftopull.

On the way homeyhome I tubed a cutty at the corner jop. Liza was still vailing as she needs the bits. Her vressis are so long they brush the flor. ‘They’ll be trippin you up,’ I dixed.

‘They are statement vressis, Kedda.’

‘Yeah, tever,’ I said. She donti bleppa that it acshi donti look that fokka having your vressis so long. Hers are quitegrooty though, with beads and shells and thin urple streaks all the way down. Her vinehous black nest trudes quitefar. It rather scures her naturellon pouty vlips, that’s the only thing. A bit of a waste.

She sat down side me exo on her bench for a mint. We darsk-sinked and zorbed the day’s catwalk freshtuff. Top dells from Ladvadd were strutting soft-vurled vressis. I spotted my broze, in a trilly-polished monokrom onsomb flecked with glitter and mirruvs. My bezzi Blokka from Beauty School was just behind him with a stravagant array of white feathuzz litup with pulse hancing his ninety-degree vadderangle. Not much gets past this man. You can always tell it’s Blokka, as he takes tiny steps, litters three inches at a time. Trip trippity trip, that’s Blokka, and he wonti be hurried.

Two zistance girls dronged past Liza and me, shouting ‘Fight! Fight! Donti put up with it!’ We dinti even mention them, as we’re so tired of it. All over, they are. Another came past and tripped up over our feet. ‘TRUEINF WILL OUT,’ she cried. She rolled over, her sal nodeccoed moufdreds spilling exo round a flappy nopout, picked herself up and troed off.

Our zorbstream had been trupted so we undarsk-sinked. ‘Bit of a shame, with that vine, how you canti sern your vlips,’ I dixed.

‘Yeah, but least I donti have to bother with vlitox, vlipstick, all that,’ she said, ‘and I couldn’t do without my vine.’ She patted it fondlon.

Someone must have bothered to call spambort on those zistance girls, as the van swooped past us.  I dinti say anything. I dinti like to tell Liza that her vine, any vine, looked tellment exoshwerve now.

I took the boo two stops home. The sensor took me up thirty vels. My splay was glittring. It was my bezzibez and topvizer Dunqui. I can tell when she’s zausted, as she props a cushol tween darskside and shoulder. ‘?Termined trav,’ she asked.

‘Yes, ?you.’

‘Only just.’ She pulled a vresstip across her whorl: ‘I’m tellment termined.’

‘?Articles.’

‘Litters all day.’

‘So ?what’s the latest trilly fash.’

‘Hmm…mod piercings mainlon.’

I know lotsinf on mod fashwerve, thank Miley, as I used to vail in a mod sessories jop. Obvion, tween vaddervanillis and moufleurs you gottaspect a wide range of constantlon vlopping modiffs.

‘?Also reretro vapearlies,’ dixed Dunqui.

‘!Vapearlies, ?who would’ve ixagined.’

Dunqui keeps me bangup. She savs what’s dronging on. Sometimes it’s me telling her though, it’s zarre: it’s like I’m on the flor, strugging away, while she’s just rubbing about it. Rubbing’s not hard, scooping ideas exof the smogga and popping them onsplay. She donti have to darskpeer all day at vadderangles like me.

But I have to have Dunqui, as she gives me fiddence, and you have to have fiddence in yourself and your topvizers to be a fokka fashwerver. Without Dunqui, I wouldn’t sav, I’d be guessing. And you canti reallon guess with the fashwerve. It’s just too random to believe and changes every couple of hours. Even with all the darskinf you can zorb, you canti dict it.

‘Eh,’ she dixed, ‘your mate Blokka.’

‘?Yeah. I just bleppaed him onsplay.’

‘?With the feathuzz.’

‘Yeah. Bit takkytak for him, I thort.’

‘That design… it is takkytak, cos it’s bitchybitch Yana’s.’

‘!No.’ I sclaimed. ‘?He vailing for Yana.’

‘Must be. He problion donti sav she’s a bitchybitch.’

Dunqui used to trav for Yana so if she says Yana is a bitchybitch, then that is trueinf. But Blokka donti care. He does anything to get ahead, and Yana designs for Miley: you canti get higher than that.

‘?You want the close-ups,’ asked Dunqui, snorting through her darsk. She sent me through a 360vidix of Blokka’s nuwlk. Showy for sure, fokka even… but not tasteful. The long, white feathuzz splayed out from his vadderbase, vurling round his hips. A pulse shuddered his neon-vattooed vaddervanilli every second. As the pulse litup, the neon flashed, staining the feathuzz with pale greens and pinks. Hmm, pressive though.

Spired by Blokka’s turnout, fore I troed to sloze that night, I threaded forty-six thin stentions into a red dyerod and forty-six into a black, darskpeering at them for an hour til the colour was just perfyperfs. Next morning, my slozerlok tipped me exo trestot. I straightened my vressis and tatched the newly-dyed stentions. Added beads, with quiteplicated knotting in coloured threads. Monsright: I stuck a new vapearlie with a mirruv effect, quitedgy. Monsleft: I stamped a grooty vattoo of a mithylephant. I was prettatrav.

That day my first cuzmo was Greenvressis again.  ‘These presk florlong vressis are noying,’ he dixed.

‘You ziring a vringe?’ I sudgered.

We decided on xinches bove the gnangle. I was zlicking into it when he set his voice on hibuzz :‘You know… you said that in a couple of weeks, everyone will have a vadderay?’

‘Yes,’ I plied, vlatting at the buzz. ‘I bet you it’s trueinf. I have a top fashwerver forming me.’

‘In less than a year,’ he tinued, quietlon, ‘get this, no one will have a darsk. They’re gonna be soso last year.’

Was he trying to petriff me? His voice was gentle, so I dinti sav, but I felt like I might be being slightlon rassed. Rassed in the trav-place. I tended I hadn’t heard. I dinti say anything. I just rinsed zlicks out of the vringe, and, vailing velochy, vluffed it exo with the smoggastream. I zired him exof my jop immedion.

Later, at homeyhome, during my freshnub dryclenz, I thort bout what he had dixed. I couldn’t help it. It had sown a petriffix in my heart. What had he meant? Can you even take off a darsk? Is it not raw bludders underneath? I have nevah bleppaed one what wasn’t on a darskiddenfront, and I have never bleppaed a darkiddenfront without a darsk. How would a person without a darsk be nected to Mileyhole? Would they just not be nected and how would that even be allowed? It was imposs, and daygolass. The very thort made me feel like I might tubemitt. I felt like I felt when I first got porned onsplay. I membered something horrolob what my old bezzi Tratta once told me. In his trav for the Pleese he had to watch OldNetInf. He said how, on there, litters no one has a darsk, but they troe round parling and meeting chuther yet suffocate their poor vaddervanillis and moufleurs under layers of terial. I asked if that was just mith but he said no, it was realinf.

It’s just horroblon porno. Petriffy. We have to protek chuther from it. You have to be prettapress your fliplarm.   Yet in all my months of studying shwervistory, no one evah mentioned OldNet. Most people donti even sav what it is. I have heard of it, but I’m still not sure: maybe Tratta got it wrong and it is just mith. But all what Tratta told me stayed with me and I couldn’t help thorting bout it sometimes. He dinti seem like a person who would parle falsinf.

I can’t magine not having my darsk though. It’s my skintelligence. It’s like magining all the terial and skin being peeled off your foot or your arm. My darsk is my tection, my curity from the morseless spam in this world. Without filters, you’d obvion be instantlon toowhelmed by ads, you’d be screaming in payn, on the flor. No one could handle that. Also, everyone savs that if your darsk comes off, you canti resp. The air got staddered in 2032 with the Big Nukeyflip. It’s all smogga now.  We all need sophistokid resping filters. Darsks matically sort out light vels too. When vues become paynfullon bright for your dk-bleppas, the darsk dulls them for you politelon.

Greenvressis had so shaken me up. I wantied clutch onto my darsk with both bluvs. I would feel so ked without it. So sposed. And also like I was being horroblon rude. I can hardlon parle bout porn.  I mean, I have heard of darskiddenbleppers being uncovered, upperblepperflair, lowerblepperflair and all, but darskiddenstrils? Reallon? Darskiddenflappers? Is that even possib? I’ve only evah bleppaed glimpses of dk-flappers on spamporn. If they were closed I could almost handle it. !But what if they were open? I think I might faint if I bleppaed a darskiddeneel.

I once caught a xidental spamflash of shiny whitish darskiddenscessors, which made me feel queamish but I’ve nevah, evah bleppaed a darskiddeneel, thank Miley, but Tratta told me on OldNet they’re all over, peeping exof darskiddenflappers, or even sometimes totalexo and waggling around. He even, to my sprise, splained that ‘what Miley did’ was cisely that. I donti believe it but parrently she sposed her darskiddeneel a lot. Too much. It freaped out the crowds, nukeyflipped their thortpacs and caused some kind of volt which led to the Big Festideath. This forced her to think up her trilly creative pollogy, which I donti have to splain, cos litters everyone learns bout it in fashwervistory as it is obvion the most trilly portant thing to have evah happened.  But anyway it zarrelion meant everyone suddlion savved who she was, which in turn led to life-hancing darsks and her being lected to run the universe.

Ugh though. !Those flappy darskideneels. Did people reallon use to have them exo? Vijible? Daygolass, that’s what I dix. Petriffy like a horrolob wet snake from mith.

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Private Parts: Chapter 1 cont…

‘?Who’s on spambort,’ shouted Talika.

‘Dalla,’ I dixed velochy.

‘She’s with a cuzmo.’

I darsksighed. This is why my trav is not fokka. I’m too sicca for sitting on spam for two hours. It’s payning. Infhackers get in all over. Every splay, every inf-lux point, wever lux it is, they know how to crack it.

Then, as happens every day, a zistance chap burst through our barriers. It’s become so normynorm it doesn’t even petriffy me any more, as they’re not violent, just trilly daygolass. This one had sal robes and a ragged darsk. He had no vadderdec at all, and no vadderangle what could be serned. ‘Be afeared!’ he screamed. ‘The nosing stards…feeding you falsinf. Don’t believe any mouthing spit they dix…’ I slipped to the back of the jop to squeeze my fliplarm. You’re nevah meant to touch zistance, it’s insanitary, because they live exo-exo and it’s not sprayed properion there. He threw himself into the street just before the spambort van came. They got him though, one with a Yolt and one with a bortgun. I held cushols over my darskiddensideflappas area, as bortgunscreams are quitenoying. We straightway put our florcuvva in the sinnerater and set the moppa to deepclense to kill the obvion crobes.

The whole flor would be awash with kems so I had a five mint break on the bench, enough time to spray sofner on my spikes. I vlombed them out and rearranged them around my whorl. I have really nice vressis as I always use trilly quality dishner. I watched people drong by. I troobi the rioty of styles.

A couple of men troed in, one wanting to try the new mote-trolled bouncing varectors and the other wantiing colour. I vised the first chap of the new ninety-degree vadderangle, and montred the other one the colour charts on the splay.

‘That one’s sampa,’ he said, bluvponting a dirty green on the H row.

I tried not to say anything. We are told not to question the cuzmo, but sometimes, honestlon, you have to clamp your moufleur. ‘?Have you seen this rather fokka vlu though.’

‘I troobi this H13 better. !Look. It’s got flash.’

‘Hmm, that’s why it’s more spensive,’ I said. Flash is overrated I think, but it is like you’re getting two or three colours in one.

I started mixing the H13green for him. Shame he dinti troobi the vlu, as it would have looked sicca as a frame for his handsome vaddervanilli. I put the long stentions into a tray of H13. I then painted extra green onto his vressis ligently, wrapping each flairlock in voil and tying up the odd thin strand, which we did in silver. He waited, fabling to his friend, who was trying vadderangles with different mote-trolled varectors. They troobied the new angle. ‘It was tellment exo, and now it’s tellment in,’ vlatted the friend, having a little strut and looking into the mirruv at his vanilli ponting straight out.

‘That’s the fashwerve for you,’ said Greenvressis.

‘You’re litters bangup to the mint,’ I said to his friend. ‘In a couple of weeks you wonti see anyone with an upright, they’re like tellment over.’

I started tatching all Greenvressis’ stentions. It took yons as it’s fiddly vail. I siddered the vanilli. ‘You know, these green vressis might go siccon with one of our new vadderays.’

Greenvressis gave a little thrust. ‘Worth a try,’ he dixed.

I vlatted. These two were quite grooty. I troobied their willingness to speriment.

We tried out vadderays. The seventh or eighth reallon hanced his vanilli, splaying exo siccon from its vadderbase, in dark metallic grey. The metal weirdlon flected the shunting colours in the flash of the green. ‘Stylish,’ I cluded.

‘Bang-up,’ agreed Greenvressis. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘Very now,’ dixed his friend. ‘Oh Miley, I’m gonna have to have one of them little mouthers.’

I vlatted, to be polite, even though I didn’t troobi him swearing. ‘Everyone’s gonna want one by the end of the week.’

I stood back and siddered Greenvressis. ‘They might even zire them green vressis too. That whole onsomb might litters be the big shebang.’

Lollos. Thinking back, I realise I had nidea. I was one naïve little scrap. ?Didn’t have a cluebo in hellion, did I. !Nugh. !Easynough to dix that now.

Anyway, Greenvressis’ friend chose a silver vadderay with yellow pulse to montrup gainst his normous dark vaddervanilli.

Talika came over for a darskpeer. She winked her mouflaps. I was pleased, because she doesn’t give much praise.

‘?You want bits, or likes,’ Greenvressis asked.

Bits is obvion more practical but I troobi likes better cos they come back at you more velochy. So Greenvressis and his mate, totally troobiflipped with their purchases, sferred me a dred-and-fifty likes but of course half of that straightdrongs to the salon and half of what’s left pays MileyMuns. So I was left with thirty seven likes. Not kak. Would pay the week’s rent on my partmo.

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Private Parts

Please remember, this is a work in progress!  Still evolving all the time.

If you zire a dictionary, I will supply one.  Thanks for reading!

 

Chapter 1.

My tretcher turned itself off. My slozerlok opened and tipped til I was standing. I climbed out and peered through my darsk into the mirruv. That moufleur needs a bit of teeyelsee, Kedda, I said to myself. Got in the blowpac for a freshnub dryclenz.

Fitted my lights first, as it’s hard getting them in evenly once the flair’s furled. Then I velochy vlomed and set the vressis into hard spiralling spikes. I don’t have long vressis. One needs to look bislisslike. I alternated a dark grey with a shiny vlu. My lights are simple white. I donti troobi being too flashy. You donti wanti upstage the cuzmos.

No time to tube anything, so I lokapped the partmo and, comdab, took the boo to vail. Two stops only. I’m lucky to live in the sentralzo, where all the trilly fashwerve houses are.

Got to the jop by eight. My first cuzmo was a man ziring a new varector. I montred him our new springy terial. It keeps your vaddervanilli as upright as you troobi, but you can obvion adjust cording to the fashwerve, which changes so fast that this is a portent sideration. Two weeks ago it was bangup to have your vanilli ponting slightly down. Who would have dixed it? Vanillis had always been ponting up til then. But there’s no accounting for fashwerve. This week one is only bangup if they are a ninety degree man.

Then I stood guard over the splays for an hour, pressing spambort. Someone has to, obvion, but why me? Talika often gives me crap travs. It noys me as I am fokka at design and shouldn’t have to waste my talent. One of the timps should do it.

I had a break. I rested on the bench exo. I darskchecked my ins, nothing much, mostly spam.

I vaxed and trimmed a vlady’s moufleur. She didn’t need stentions with her twenty centimetres of flair. I swinefully snipped off her bells, then showed her the dyes. She troobied a darkish pink, almost an urple, and a shiny silver, for vertical stripes. Stripes have been coming back in and why not? Reretro and striking. I tied the tiny bells back on again. They made a plezza tinkly noise as they clattened on chuther. She preciated my ferts.

Talika passed a vlady onto me for advice on her flappyflappy vlips. I had a look. The vlips were unusually large and loose, but were quite fokka in their own way. I said, ‘You know, they’re quite riginal. I wouldn’t wuzzo.’

‘Oh, no,’ she mitted a deep darskamped sigh. ‘They’re too zarre. It’s darskturning. People are stoggaing in the street to darskoo.’

‘Well, you could use vlitox or get them glued; I have some exslish glue. Or, obvion, as a last zort, there’s vergery.’

She went for vlitox. She’d had glue before on her rimeum. It hadn’t lasted and the whole idea of vergery made her want to tubemitt.

For lunch I tubed a berrycoction. Set my timer for teninnits so I could still stroll round the block. I saw Katoline in the street. You can tell Katoline from a long way off from the mess what is her moufleur. Her vressis were tousled, not in a fokka way, and the colour had gone. ‘Come in for some product,’ I said. ‘Sort out those vressis.’

‘Not got no likes, Kedda,’ she plied. ‘Need to be paid. Maybe next week.’

‘?How’s trav,’ I asked.

‘Hard.’

Katoline manages fifty dells. They trav to hectic deadlines, often being called out with litters teninnits warning.

‘?You had a coction,’ she asked.

‘Yeah, had it,’ I said. ‘Might get a choca though.’

‘Mozapan I’ll send you in three of our fleurs for vampoo-up-vlomb.’

‘?Vressis,’ I asked.

‘Not that long. Xinchis.’

‘Send them early or I won’t have time.’

‘?Share a vlatticube at the kend,’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ I plied. ‘Despo for a fokka vlatt.’

I sferred ten likes to Liza at the corner jop for a chocacoction. She’s still got that big vinehous scuring her vlips. Not sicca. I should tell her.

Dronged back, tubed my chocacoction velochy, and started trav again. A girl of sixteen wanting vattoos. She sent an ix through to my darsk. Arbrus, flars. ‘Don’t want stamps though, zire a riginal,’ she said.

‘No problet,’ I said, jected her with killapayn and started darsketching. Lucklon for her, I am fokka at vart. Some salons donti have a cluebo in hellion.

While she tubed her bloffee I sent her through some quixes. She pulled out her tube, and like snorted through her darsk. ‘?What the blonk,’ she cried. ‘?Have you nevah seen an arbru.’

‘Course I have.’

‘A real one I mean.’

‘?Real.’ I thought ont. ‘No, obvion not a real one. Only ixes.’

‘Yeh, well, that’s obvion. ?You never been exo.’

‘Course. I go exo every day,’ I torted.

‘Exo-exo,’ she said. ‘Properion exo.’

‘No. I’m…too busy.’ It’s trueinf. I am busy. Exo-exo is far, and ricoloso, so I don’t wanti go there anyway.

She lay back down to darsketch what she troobied. Really good ixes of arbrus.

‘OK, no problet,’ I said. We must never answer back. You just have to do your best to get the likes off of cuzmos.

‘?Where you zire thix,’ I asked.

‘Whorledges,’ she dixed, ‘and monsright.’

The vlady’s moufleur was alpretta quitablowed in vattoos. I pulled her left leg xinchis to the left and her right leg xinshis to the right.

‘?You want the arbrus on top of the dolfins,’ I asked.

‘Yes, just go over them. I’m tellment over dolfins.’

I started to vattoo her ix. She screamed a bit, but it were fake. You can’t feel anything on killapayn. It nums you totally. She thought she was feeling payn, but she was just feeling presha.

She troobied the zults though, sferred me some likes, and troed off.

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Pearly and the Blessèd Spirits – Chapter 12

Last chapter of Pearly.  I am going to make the whole story into an audio book, with Tabby as the voice of Pearly, and the very best flute players as the musical voice of Pearly and friends! (and a very good oboe player as the voice of Obi.)  Auditions soon!

Chapter 12

‘Yes,’ I thought. ‘That’s me. But how do you know me?’

He picked me up and looked even closer. ‘I can’t believe this. This…this is the very first flute I ever made! Pearly. See the ‘y‘? See the crazy underlining? That happened because I was waiting for an important call, and the phone rang and…she slipped out of the clamp. Incredible!’ he said, ‘ I never thought I would see her again.’

‘Well, she’s going cheap,’ said the flute-mender.

‘Oh, no,’ said Ad, ‘I can’t afford anything, mate, sorry.  You know, we’re broke.’

‘I’m literally saying you can have her for twenty quid, Ad. She still works OK. Got a lot of sweetness of tone.’

Adam put me to his lips. I thought I would faint with gratitude. I was being played. Thank the wondrous sun. We played ‘Syrinx’. I felt like my soul, which had been kept hidden in months, even years of silence and darkness, was pouring its light over the world.

Ad stopped playing. ‘I will have her,’ he said. ‘Georgia’s nearly eight. She’s ready for a lovely, special flute.’ I heard a flurry of notes changing hands.

A gust came in the window and I could hear Pixie and Clarence and Yammy calling, ‘Bye Pearly! Good luck, Pearly!’

While the flute-mender was writing out the bill, Ad played me again. He played a chromatic scale from bottom C all the way to top C and down again. During those lovely notes, I said, on the way up: ‘Goodbye, my dear friends. I hope you find kind homes. I will always think of you and miss you.’ And on the way down I said, ‘Pixie, Clarence, Yammy, cheer up! You’re in safe hands now, love you!’

I was taken to my new home, in a bumpy, creaky basket. We bowled along. Brakes squealed as we arrived. Adam took me up the garden path. He opened the door with his key. ‘Tokki?’ he called. ‘Tokki, you’re never going to believe what I found for Georgie.’

‘What, love?’ said a voice. I couldn’t place it for a moment, but knew I had heard it before. ‘Oh, a flute!’ she said. ‘It’s not like we’ve got any of them!’

I could tell this was a joke.

‘Not just any old flute, though,’ said Adam, opening my case. ‘Look, it’s the very first flute I ever made.’

‘But Ads! Georgie was going to play oboe!’ she protested. I realised the lady was Toccata. But if Toccata was here, where was Obi?

Toccata shouted for Georgie, who came running in. Hers was a quiet, shy presence. She stepped close and picked me up wonderingly. She stared at my engraving. ‘Is this really the Pearly?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Georgie,’ he replied. ‘It’s Pearly. You can have her for your very own.’

‘She’s the very first one you made? The one you were making when I was born?’

‘Yes, she was born at the same moment that you were!’

Georgie started to play. ‘Kookaburra sits in his old gum tree-hee…’ She played fast and neatly, by ear.

‘…merry merry King of the Bush is he-ee’ came a creaky old voice. ‘Laugh, Kookaburra, Laugh,’ we played together.

He struck up again: ‘There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Pearly, dear Pearly,’ he sang. ‘There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Pearly, my dear.’

‘Then mend it, dear Obi, dear Obi, dear Obi,’ I replied. ‘Then mend it, dear Obi, dear Obi, my dear.’

Obi and I, and Toccata and Georgie collapsed into laughter. Dizzy with happiness, we played ‘Ye Banks and Ye Braes,’ then ‘Loch Lomond’, ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,’ then, ‘Molly Malone,’ ‘I Could Have Danced All Night…..’

…..then ‘Doh, a Deer,’ ‘The Hills are Alive, ‘Climb Every Mountain,’ then ‘Chim Chiminee,’ ‘Just A Spoonful of Sugar,’ ‘Let’s Go Fly a Kite,’ then ‘Greensleeves,’ ‘Edelweiss……’

….then ‘Circus Pony,’ ‘Wind in the Withies,’ ‘Circus Rag’, ‘Toffee Tango’, ‘Dance of the Street Urchins’, …..

…and we carried on playing, Georgie and I, happy year after happy year, until we could play the Martinu Sonata, the Neilsen Flute Concerto, Bach’s ‘Badinerie’, Rachmaninov’s ‘Vocalise’ and even ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’, but….my best times were always the candle-lit evenings when Obi and Toccata would join us for our very favourite, ‘Dance of the Blessèd Spirits’.

 The End

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Pearly and the Blessèd Spirits: Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

I had to do something. I tensed my core, pulling it into a painful spasm, and flashed an intense bar of light towards Gerald’s eyes. He exclaimed, grimaced and dropped the head-joint.  Yammy gasped thanks as he clattered down on top of me. Gerald was exclaiming in agony, feeling about for goggles. ‘Gerald!’ came a yell from outside.

The man swore and banged the goggles down on the work-bench. ‘Oh darn,’ he said, ‘can’t get a minute’s peace!’

‘What is it?’ he yelled.

‘Gerald!’ shouted the woman’s voice.

‘WHAT?’ he shouted. ‘I’m TRYING to WORK!’

‘Your TEA! You forgot to take your TEA with you,’ she screamed.

Gerald swore and turned the horrible machine off. Grumbling, he shuffled off. I heard what sounded like a front door slam.

Then things happened so fast we didn’t have a clue what was going on. The door to the shed opened with a tiny creak, and a quiet, quiet hand gathered us all up and piled us stealthily back into the sack. Whoever it was picked up the whole sack, making an effort not to clank us. We were moved silently onto the person’s back and he started walking, very fast and very quietly, away from the shed. As soon as we rounded a corner, he started to run. We were jolted painfully about, tangling up keys, wires, tubes. Suddenly we started going extra fast. We heard loud waily scary noises. ‘Oh blimey,’ panted the flute-napper, taking off even faster up the road.

He took a sharp left. We were in agonies, being bashed about on his back. All of a sudden, we were thrown to the ground. Sharp prickles came through the sack. We were on a mass of something horribly spikey. Heavy foot-falls slap-slapped into the distance. The sirens went past. All was quiet. We breathed a sigh of relief. At least we were not going to be melted down.

We lay there, in the prickles for days and days. The sun shone through the tiny holes in the sack’s material. Rain dripped through and soaked us all. I felt my pads swell, and my keys start to stick. One day the wind got up. All the flutes in the sack howled and moaned the trauma of the past weeks. Pixie the piccolo squeaked in sadness as his wood swelled and cracked.

Then there were a couple of calmer, warmer days. We heard the grass being scuffled. Whistling. A dog sniffing around. ‘What you found, Buster?’ said a young voice. ‘Ooh. Yuck. Is it bodies? You ain’t found a body, have you, Buster?’ The kid peeked inside our sack. ‘Oh, phew, not bodies. What is it?’ He pulled out parts of Clarence and Pixie. ‘Oh!.. Clarnets an that. Flutes. You poor things. Someone’s gotta of nicked you from somewhere posh.’

He heaved us onto his back and set off, clanking. After about half an hour of trudging, we heard a bell ring above us as we went through a door. ‘Look, Mister,’ said the boy. ‘Look what I found.’

The flute-mender took us gently out of the sack, piece by piece, exclaiming with sorrow at our state. He set the lad to drying our pads by putting rizla papers in between the pads and the metal and squeezing our keys shut. What a relief to have moisture pulled out of you. The flute-mender turned a little air-heater on, so we would dry out, and laid our poor tarnished bodies on dry cotton, matching up foot-joints with bodies and head-joints. ‘Will you be able to mend them?’ asked the boy.

‘Yes, of course,’ said the flute-mender, ‘and you can help me. All instruments deserve to be saved so they can play again.’

We were so relieved. We lay basking in the warm, dry gusts. The flute-mender picked me up and started to polish my metal. He exclaimed in a low voice: ‘Oh….Pearly…I’ve mended you before! Never thought I’d see you again!’

He showed the boy my engraving and the scratchy line under my name. I tried to glint, but my shine could not get out through its tarnished coating. ‘A silver cloth should do it,’ said the flute-mender. He set to, carefully cleaning around my keys, on my keys, and all of my head-joint. He put an absorbent cloth through me, leaving it there to pull out the rain. By the time he and the boy left for the night, we all felt massively better and could not believe our luck.

The flute-mender worked on us for several weeks, humming. He seemed to be in no hurry, but calmly replaced our wires and pads, working eight hours a day with few breaks. When he finished me, he played a quick two-octave scale. I felt like I was awakening from a long sleep. It was so wonderful to exercise my voice. He put me on one of the little stands around the shop.

Yammy was on a stand near me. I had a chance to ask him about Lucy. What had happened to make Lucy and him be apart? ‘You know the story,’ he replied. ‘You know it already.’

‘I don’t, Yammy. I haven’t got a clue what happened to you. Is Lucy alright?’

‘I mean, you know the story, in the sense that…she…’ he almost choked… ‘she…got a new flute.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘A top-range Jupiter. Solid silver body. She was eighteen, going off to the Royal College of Music.’

I felt a rush of delight, that my work had not been in vain, but also pain, that I had not been allowed to help.

Yammy carried on: ‘So, she needed the best…’

‘But…you are, were, the best, Yammy.’

‘No, no…I wasn’t, you see…her mother….she traded me in….for Joopey.’

‘Poor Yammy,’ I sighed.

‘Then the shop sold me to a lady who gave me to her delinquent student son as a present, hoping that music would save his soul. He had no idea what I was worth, pawned me for cash at the first opportunity and that horrible artist man picked me up for next to nothing.’

‘Well, at least we’re not mobiles any more,’ I said.

‘Yes, thanks to you….Pearly, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry I was mean. I understand more about life, now.’

The bell tinkled and a chap came in.

‘Oh, Ad, you’ll love my new consignment!’ joked our flute-mender, gesturing around the shop. ‘Forty-five of them, all fallen off the back of a lorry. See what I mean?’

I knew we had not fallen off the back of a lorry, but I thought that it might mean that we had been stolen.

They walked around, talking about all the different instruments. They finally reached me. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen that one before,’ nodded the flute-mender. ‘Came in in a terrible state. Honest, anyone else would have had to do away with her.’

The customer’s face came up close to me. There was an intake of breath and a pause. ‘What?’ I was thinking. ‘What now?’

‘Pearly?’ he said.

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Pearly and the Blessèd Spirits – Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Melt us down? I didn’t really know what that meant, but I knew I didn’t want to be a picture frame, or a candlestick. I felt panicky and helpless.

We were thrown in the back of a van for a journey that seemed to take thousands of bars. Then someone with a limping gait and rather a pungent smell, probably Gerald I thought, trudged down a squelchy path with us, pulled open a bolt with some difficulty, slung us onto a hard surface. I heard crackling and felt heat. He went out again. The atmosphere seemed dusty and smelt of wood-shavings, smoke and turpentine.

I was terrified, I can tell you. Was I no longer going to be Pearly? Was I going to be merged together with the others and become something else? Was I going to die? I held onto who I was, and said to myself, ‘Pearly, if this is the end, you have had a good life.’  I thought of all the things I had done in my life.  The most important thing was Lucy.  I felt a rush of the purest love for her. ‘You helped Lucy.  You knew friendship, with kind Obi and dear Flutty. You heard wonderful stories. You even played the faun, with most of an orchestra. You helped everyone to escape from the Old Man’s Cave.’ But nothing I said to myself helped, as I didn’t feel ready to die. I felt like I had so much more life in me to live, and to give, and knew there was so much music out there that I had not played yet.

Smelly Gerald came back. He tipped us all out on the work-bench. He started up a machine which made a whoosing sound. We could feel a sudden heat coming from it. We waited in fear. The light turned orangey. It was moving too much, it didn’t seem normal. Flickering reds and golds. Oh! I suddenly remembered Silvia’s candle-lit concert. It must be flames. I was so afraid. Suddenly Yammy’s head-joint was lifted away from my side. ‘Jeez! Solid silver!’ exclaimed smelly Gerald with a laugh. ‘God sakes, those idiots! Haven’t got a clue!’

He grabbed the torch thing which had a hot column of fire pouring out of its end. He was just about to start melting down Yammy’s head. Poor Yammy sucked a desperate gasp of mouldy air in to scream a high-pitched scream. He knew he was done for.

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Pearly: Chapter 8.

Chapter 8.

Working on the faun was the hardest and best thing I had ever done. Deb and I had to learn first flute too, in case Eva and Flutty were ill on the night. We took turns. I can’t explain how wonderful the piece is. It seems to hold a whole world within it, a world free from pain and confusion, a world of peace and wonder. We can enter that world and could explore it for a life-time and not be finished. I loved handing over the phrases to Obi, having him develop the theme and hand it back to me.

One day, Deb asked Brian if she could take me home as she wanted to practise the harder passages of the faun. I was jolted and bumped about in her arms. I was aware she was walking on hard surfaces, going down steps. The noises were abrupt and scary. I felt sudden rushing draughts even through my case. Deb had me on her lap for a while, but there was a rumbling and a strange swishing of doors opening then closing. Deb put me down next to her. The long rumbling happened a few more times. The doors whooshed again. I felt a flurry as Deb got up. The doors shut. Then I heard, muffled and from a little distance, ‘Oh, my flute!’ but it was too late. I detected her voice shouting ‘Oh, please, my flute, my flute!’ but I was trundled away.

I was picked up quite soon after that and shoved into a musty bag. In the darkness of my case, I felt scared as a new person jolted and bounced me about. Over a few days my case was opened and closed. I was tossed onto a chair, left on a table, thrust onto a shelf. It was as if whoever had me just didn’t know what to do with me. After a couple of weeks of being chucked about, I was carried down a hill, taken through a door with a tinkly bell, so into a shop, I thought, and left there. Still in my case, I was put out on a shelf. I could detect the sadness of forgotten objects all around me. Old teddies, I think, from their talk, old dolls, stuffed dogs and old record-players. I slept, sad that Deb had lost me and that I would never get to play the faun with Obi, ever again.

I was picked up. I heard a rasping cough. My case was opened. Murky dusty light poured over me and foul air as again the person coughed. I was prodded and put back in the case. I was thrown into a bag and taken outside. I was bumped about and laid in a creaky container. I felt like I was travelling fast, but smoothly, and out in the fresh air. We spun round corners, zoomed down hills, creaked up hills. Then someone was carrying me up a path, I think. I heard the coughing again. We went up a step. I was chucked down onto something quite hard, like a bench. There was silence for a while. I strained my senses to try to detect where I was and what this new place could possibly be like.

I had almost started to doze, despite my unease, when the clips on my case were undone. I knew immediately that something was not right. The light was odd. Thin moving shafts of sun seemed to be cutting across the space in an odd way. What could that be from? I could sense an atmosphere of strangeness, the unusual, the scared. Cold, old hands took my foot joint and pushed fine tickly string through it with a stick. The person manipulating me was muttering strange words, and coughing and spluttering. I could not understand the words.

My core was picked up. My cleaning rod was used to thread silken thread through me. I was moved this way and that as knots were tied and retied and tested. My head-joint then had the thread put through the mouth piece and down and out again. My three parts were lifted and tied to something like a wire circle. My parts were spinning in thin air. I could not think straight. I felt sick. My foot joint was floating at an angle. My head joint was twirling crazily, and my core was swinging around and about. The metal circle above us squeaked unpleasantly. I had never felt this before. It felt like I was going to fall. This was much much worse than being dropped as a child learnt how to play C sharp! I wanted to be put together again, I wanted to be whole, to be held, to be locked, secure, in someone’s hands. ‘I cannot live like this,’ I wanted to scream, but, split into my parts, I had been silenced.

I had always been used to being held tightly nestled in my case, or held securely by somebody. This was disorienting. As my three parts started to swing more gently and slow a little, I could think a little clearer. I detected grieving, nauseous instruments all around me and realised with a jolt of horror where I must be. This was the Old Man’s Cave that Alto had talked of, the gruesome graveyard for dead and dying instruments. I felt like nothing had ever been this bad.

I hung there, dull and scared out of my mind, for many days. The big oak door creaked open and banged shut. The Old Man coughed. Dust settled upon my poor disjointed form. I swung, sick and ill with the silence, the motion and the torture. Flutes need to be played, I wanted to shout. Flutes need love, breath! Above all, we need music. We need sound and love, sound and love mixed together. But no breeze stirred that dusty room. I sensed the damp in the air corroding my silver. I felt a tiny popping on my surface where the metal was being hurt. Hundreds of other instruments and tens of other sad, grey flutes swung around me. Only when the sun sneaked through the high windows for a second, did they glint, but with a menacing, hard gleam, a disillusioned stare.

I made friends with a mournful clarinet called Clarence, and Pixie, a tarnished piccolo.  Next to them was a twisted trombone, so hoarse he could hardly make a sound. We were all four cheered up a tiny bit by a mad violin called Fidel, who had been hung by his strings from the light. He would swing on his strings violently enough to bash his body against a metal curtain rail, so he could make short sharp exclamations, like ‘Whoa!’ or ‘Enough!’ or ‘Pop!’ which at least interrupted the tedium.

Every day the Old Man stumbled amongst us, stringing up more sad instruments. He would poke and prod us, or pull the door back and forth, sending gusts to make us cry and swing. He swore and muttered angrily about his ‘installation’, whatever that meant. He sometimes fell over and bashed things with his stick. Every time he went under a huge, dented tuba which was hanging from the ceiling quite far from us, at the other end of the room, he would reach up and smack it hard with his cane. The tuba’s deep clank of misery became the deathly punctuation to our long days.

Only once did the Old Man open a window. A fierce wind tore the metal frame from his fingers as a freezing gust ripped through the room. Us mobiles flew in frantic circles, our parts clashing with each other, colliding, hurting, scraping my silver-plate. One flute screamed in desperation, as the air shot through her parts, ‘I refuse to be ART! I am a FLUTE! Let me be a FLUTE!‘

‘Not art! Not art!‘ we echoed, using every tiny breath of wind left in the room.

The flutes stilled and again we hung there, for dusty weeks, silently praying for a way out. The only thing that kept me alive was the memory in every cell of my three parts, the sweet memory of the faun, the bouncy Street Urchins’ Chorus from Carmen, the melody from Sheherezade, and Fauré’s Sicilienne, all of which I cradled in my mind and listened to again and again in my memory. If I concentrated hard enough on the music, I could almost escape my plight. It was as if I could no longer feel my body, I had become pure spirit.

One day, I woke up with an even deeper sense of despair. It was so bad, that I thought to myself, ‘Pearly, come on, there must be something in all the beautiful music you have learnt, which will help you now.’ Out of nowhere, the melody of the Menuet before ‘Dance of the Blessèd Spirits’ came back to me. I hummed it quietly to myself. When I reached the Lento Dance, the rhythm changed and the intensity, and I realised I was making sound that the others could hear. At least, other flutes were joining in with me, with low buzzing harmonies. There is a part of the Dance where the flute is very high, but very quiet. It’s magical. It has a huge power. It’s like as if the flute is holding back, holding on to massive amounts of energy that are just ready to burst forth. We got to that bit, and by now all the flutes in the ceiling were helping, humming, droning, whispering, and suddenly we burst past the limitations of our sad, split bodies and could all hear the orchestral version in our minds, as one. The Blessèd Spirits had come to help us…I could feel their shadows all around us, twirling, linking us all together….we were Dancing with the Blessèd Spirits…. we were the Blessèd Spirits.

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