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Monthly Archives: May 2018
Ragdoll watched the dogs play outside her trailer for the longest time, it seemed. Newte was so bad about not coming upon being called. And she’d given up training Jaspo in *anything* when he was not much more than a pup. What was the use?
They’re collecting at the door, she thought. Pops must be inside rattling around keys, getting ready to close up for the shift. Ragdoll knew Alma would be here any minute in her old, beat up blue Chevy truck to relieve him. She was reliable but testy, and could shout the skin off of any man alive if needed. More than once, her daddy had been the victim of scattershot, both of a verbal *and* a physical variety. Former bo Justice will be needing that specially made seat cushion for a while, haha. But it wasn’t a laughing matter at the time; Ragdoll thought that Alma had killed him. But Justice was just naturally a heavy bleeder, and all that blood covered much tamer wounds than spectators of the scene could imagine. Then there was the other time… oh, there’s daddy. Pops. At least *he* comes when called.
Upon exiting the building, Angus Nuffin petted each jumping dog individually. “How’s my Salt; how’s my Pepper?” (those were his nicknames for the mutts, bought for 2 lindens apiece from Gingus Kind Jr. after the death of his father). He then spotted his daughter sitting on the warm blacktop, waving brightly. Although not planning it, she finds herself jumping up as well, mimicking the dogs’ admiration of the man. But she resists running toward him and giving him a big hug. She had other things on her mind today. The Diagonal. Ragdoll had been plotting her dinner grilling strategy while waiting and watching. Again in both a verbal and physical variety, for she was the designated cooker as well tonight.
Meat Wednesday. That’s another thing she needed to talk to her daddy about when the time was right — about her vegetarian leaning ways. But for now, as a kid of 12, beef and chicken and the rest tasted okay still. Remained pretty delicious, except when she came across one of those hard parts that was probably, *hopefully*, a bit of bone or cartilage or something. Fish, she thought again. One day, not too far off, she will only eat fish as a meat. Snapper, flounder, perch. Mmmmmm, she thought. But for now, her mouth still watered a little for beef, for chicken, for the rest. But not ham. Never ham. That was a firm rule for Meat Wednesday since she learned that pigs might be smarter than some men. *Obviously* Alma’s Justice, hehe.
Angus Nuffin walks toward her and she couldn’t resist any longer. The big hug came swift and easy as Alma pulled in. “My little Zero,” he says, holding her tight.
At the Black Star Diner, Animaid-X lobbed an idea to Annie that she ultimately couldn’t refuse. Free dance lessons for a year in exchange for complete servitude to her master. Two left feet soon changed into a left and a right, each knowing its exact station. Unlike Sister Martha Lamb, she could then see all around, but at what undifferentiated price? And the pills! So many. They always seem to be around.
It was the first time Adelaide (Alice 02) would meet with the head doctor over at Mosh on the Main Continent, as employees of Baumbeer Enterprises liked to call it. On the way up, Adelaide pauses to consider some maps on the wall. She recognizes her present “home” sim at the top. Or sims, since it looks like the hospital owns land in both Tethia and Orr around Lake Tethia. Interesting.
But where was she *now* on this lower map, hmm?
No time. She was summoned. There wasn’t a place to sit in front of the doctor. But — he’s a *rabbit*?
And a white one at that. Rings a bell.
Surprising Adelaide again, Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer then unfurls his life story for her, starting with his birth at Braynard’s Place (chronicled in the last Collagesity novel) and extending through Gene Autry Mortuary School, The Carter Center for the Study of Bodily Fluids, and then here. “Fluid,” he emphasizes while taking a steady sip of milk (he had hid his glass of beer under the desk upon Adelaide’s arrival). “It’s what took me from place to place to place. Up and up and up.”
Adelaide wondered when he would get to her psychiatric evaluation, but it never happened.
12 year old, sand flea ridden Shirley Boot was scratching the top of her fanny before boarding the FB Lollygagger Raft 2.0 when she saw something glimmering on Yd Isle out in the bay, almost at the exact same place where Mabel was standing the day before when she found the talking red violin.
Taking a closer look, she suddenly had another itch which couldn’t be satisfied.
“Interesting art, Mrs. Fogg. Are those Second Lyfe images?”
“Always,” Wanisa Fogg would usually reply to such a question, but presently she was crying. Profusely. Mabel’s red violin she had found earlier in the day lay central on the table. The fog always swirling around her was as thick as it had been in many a year. Grieving fog. Even after all this time.
For this was what her seafaring spouse was always looking for. Perfection, he termed it. But it never came; was never collected, crumpled and ruined, on the ocean floor, much less bobbed up on the surface in absolutely pristine shape. May 28, 2018. A magical day in Mrs. Wanisa Fogg’s life. This is when she learned the truth about her husband’s death. And also his rebirth. On Yd Isle.
“Hi! I’m a talking violin!” it said.
“I have delicious sandwiches over here, Mr. Leeman. Mr. Leemon. And watermelon…” Mabel knew it was no good. If this *was* a spell, the theoretical creator of New Island itself was mired deep. He was simply immobile now. But still the resemblance to Smelly Santy couldn’t be denied. She had checked earlier in the day — just after the sun rose — and taken snapshots. She went over and compared again, “show attachment” option on.
Yup, they’re the same.
She looks over at Volkswagen Gurl’s house, gleaming white bright in the noonday sun. No sign of the chatty owner, though.
Mabel then gazes north into Yd Bay and the small isle there, about the same size as much more noted Fisher or Fishers Isle to the south, but 3 palms and the truth this time, ha, instead of 4. Linden palms 1 and 2, as she’s currently checking. Fishers Isle’s palms are mesh objects in contrast.
She decides to fly over.
Snorkling comes to mind again while she stands upon it– exploration of the sea life surrounding New Island. That’s a thicket of purple Irish Moss sticking out over there, for example. She can see this happening soon.
And then another island a little beyond. Larger, but no palms this time.
Yd Bay, and another thicket of Irish Moss within. The great chunk of cheddar that ended the life of Thadeus Fogg must have been situated just between me and that point of land, Mabel speculates, trying to recall the tragedy as described in the “New Island Gazette”, then a 20 page publication instead of the 5 it has dwindled to in present times. She wonders how the Widow Fogg is doing.
And decides to pay a call. Maybe she would know more about Leeman or Leemon. Or maybe Mid-Hazel?
Permanent bay dweller Timothy Sprawled saw it all, but he’s been unable to relay what actually happened for a long time. Decades and decades.