Scenes From a Rictual.

 

The Rishual of the Fibrous Chapel is not one to be thought about, or even approached, lightly, in pairs. Vanished sectual eras are known to be plain and black and of no use if there even was one to be held in the first place. To be confined in a mid-tempo field could help a foreigner's proxy gain access before the time is ripe. We now chuck our nasal devices into a circular clamp under a tottering tower. What is on offer is oval in its bearing. A herd of growing ones is kept to the side for the protection of those of a prayerful bent. Not to say he was applying himself nightly would be a shameless act of legal incontinence. We communicate under our desks using improvised bag signals. My own turn comes out as one of the last. This will help when confusion is at a premium. I know what to do and you must agree to help me. Otherwise we are—all of us!—in great danger. The kit which I've sewn myself is missing and feared lost with all the others. No one is likely to entrain a bathing partner tonight, even though company is not only expected, but violently induced. They will know when a trusted friend is feeding them a line which it would be wise for them to repeat silently on pain of being cast out in less than five seconds.

When we make it to the pretty building, some of us hold our breaths at a minor inflection point. Because after all is sent skyward, we can have them assessed a modest fee and sold for a preliminary minker's trial. No, this won't be 'one for the books', but, if someone wants to start crying about missed start-dates, this can create its very own pattern of septihicular bonostomy. And no one appears ready to squish it down that far. That's how people get hurt. It'll just be one more tragisty for the books, I'm afraid. Just don't go telling that to the people who live in one of our Senior Partners' driving compounds. We're talking serious money here.

The shed where I've hidden my last artificial kitten only appears pale if we've taken on too much liquid. An effective quip goes only so far if internal dryness rears its non-directed head. We've had it that way as well. The only problem was, we couldn't get our betters to apply a brusque laminate in time to forestall the inevitable. For that, our bensonites just aren't guaranteed to do the trick. Without molnars to grip the hand-cured wick, our training philosophy could have us earning a solid 'Z' before the fight lets out. And who can forget the time we strained to remove one truck after another from this or that extension? It wouldn't surprise anyone if the answer is a solid 'Yes!'. Because, you know what? This is not a test. And no, you didn't pass. Get over it or get back inside. Chance?

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