Daily Archives: October 11, 2020

X-girl

It was the first meeting of their TILE discussion group, yet without a name. Mr. Z, with continentally constituted backpack per usual, then his prettier brother also named Mr. Z. Let’s call him Zimmy. And then, thirdly but not lastly, as people like to say, a scowling cousin called — let’s go with Olive Oylslick, not to be confused with Owley Oilstick over in Constitution who works a bread stand. No relation atall between them except a common 5th grade kindergarten teacher named Ed. Or was it Ralph. Anyway, to the meeting…

The lights had to be dimmed because TILE was not an officially recognized religion or philosophy or even game in this particular part of The City. One of the reasons the discussion group was formed was to help change all that, bring TILE out in the open.

“Minute taker anyone?” Mr. Z offered to start the proceedings. Owly, I mean, Olive raised her hand. She knew she had the only handwriting anyone could decipher amongst their group. Her favorite push pencil magically appeared in it. She had that power; another advantage. A writing pad popped into existence in the other one. She glared in the direction of the Z’s, waiting for them to open their big fat mouths again and produce things to write about. She was patient, but not of a mental kind. Not any more. She manifested two pills in her mouth and swallowed, one red and one blue. That way her size stayed the same.

With this, Phyllis also manifested on the far end of the room beside the purple stripes of the TILE flag they had collaged together just last night: the last member, the one Olive forgot she even invited to the group. Met her at a chilly Denver airport on a snowy April day in July. Chile Colorado. And she had Ralph or Ed for a 5th grade kindergarten teacher too. Anyhoot, she’s here — and I suppose this is the real Owley. So Phyllis, not Owley, complete with bread and a little milk to wash it down with to show she cares.

“Some of these colors will have to be removed,” she declares while looking sideways, making Olive begin to scribble.

—–

40 minutes later, she had the minutes to the meeting. Trouble is, her cousins, the Z’s, hadn’t even said a thing while watching her slash away at the notepad with the push pencil, clicking it every couple of minutes to produce new graphite as the old wore away. She just dictated what Phyllis was telling her. No one else saw or heard Phyllis. No one else knew she existed. It was all in the pills. But they *had* their manifesto. Olive looked up, realized what was going on. She’d been in a trance for quite a while. She looked at her cousins, Zimmy and the other one who only goes by Mister. “You can go home now,” she gruffly declares. “I’ll email you the typed results tonight.”

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small variations matter

“I’m telling you, Jack. They’ve forgotten everything. The war’s over, they go home. Then slowly, one by one, they make their way back .They pick up their arms once more, if they have any arms left to pick them up from the last time. Or maybe they just grow back. Like lizards do. Jack — are you listening to me? You seem distracted. I’m saying–”

“Hitler’s dead, is what all the papers say,” the youthful bartender mutters anxiously to the raccoon man, returned to the Jeogeot Gulf for a timely visit. “Yet the Japs fight on. Soon the war will be over. But then I wake up, it’s 1939 all over again. Poland is invaded.” Jack starts to sob a little here. “It just starts *over*.”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to *tell* you Jack. I should know. I started out as a private and rose in the ranks to a 5 star general in charge of the whole caboodle. I said, from this position of power: this is it. Surrender. Go home y’all. Lay down your arms… all the things you said. Then I come back and everything is unlearned, undone. Tell me Jack.” He takes another sip of insipid beer, probably American. “Do you even know what side you’re fighting for any more? Some don’t.” He turns and looks at the 1/2 filled bar of military personnel. “If the uniforms were a little grayer here, a little drabber there, I don’t think anyone would know.”

Jack wipes the counter down nervously, thinking that 1/2 the people in the room are watching him and half aren’t. But he doesn’t know which. He tries to determine friend from foe through the caps and helmets but all the lines get blurred together. He’s lost it. He needs to go home but he doesn’t even know where that is any more. Home is here I suppose, he says to himself. He pours two shots of Jack Daniels, one for the raccoon man and one for himself. “Here’s to home,” he proclaims while raising his glass, resigned to the fact. Over in one gulp, he pours another while 1/2 the room still eyes him.

Rocky Racco stares intently down into his own empty glass like it was a scrying device, and maybe it was. He needs to figure out what went awry with his plans and end it for good this time. This smells like a Casey One Hole case in his estimation (he channels?), with everyone vying for that damned mustard seed.

(to be continued)

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gravity

Toddles hated to drug up her grandma to explore The City at night unless absolutely necessary. But she had to go back to Boos without her interfering *negativism* to investigate the first floor collages more and the perhaps clues she saw in them when they both visited the other day. Poor Grammy, the prescient (and precious!) toddler lamented. So fixated on the collages over at the Red Umbrella that she can’t see the advancement of all that interesting energy into the Boos series (exhibited) here above the Temple of TILE now. Toddles ganders at the toy action figure she knows later turned into Casey One Hole, another a-hole of a man, although she’s not suppose to say that word aloud. “Grammy be *damned*,” she dares while staring and glaring. “He *is* an a-hole. And what does he look over at in the other hand? A seed. A license plate that is a seed. A tiny car of a thing held by someone named Olive. Olive something. Kimball something… Oliver.” She was tuning in better, eliminating the rest of the static. “Oliver Wendell Douglas,” she speaks clearly. “And ‘A Dirty Little Wet Seed’.” We know what that is.

She thinks back to the rest of the series just viewed and how it progresses to this *point*, this seed.


Another seed? (comedy)

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