“Your… hair. It’s very… blue.”
Category Archives: 0102
He was waiting on his brother, who was coming up from the south.
Yeah, yeah, he thinks, I could *talk* to that white lady over there about my brother and also who she’s waiting on, if anyone. I’m a social guy, you know. But — look at that look — I can tell she doesn’t like black people, or is at least scared of them. Why if I moved over one chair closer to her she’d probably call the cops on me, even though I may have a perfectly good reason to do so. What if I just found out that cokey cola was spilled under my chair, and my shoes were getting all sticky as a result. Yeah, yeah, that could be a *legitimate* reason for moving one chair down. And, let me see (he glances over out of the side of his eye), that would still leave one chair between us. But, no, that darn white woman would probably call the cops on me, or at least airport security.
He simmers down, but then starts again when he catches her eye once more, just trying to look at the plane outside. Southern Cross, he thinks. I mean, the name was *right* behind her. What was I suppose to do? Get out of my seat, go to the window — *not* getting too close to her or walking too close to her in the process — and *then* check out the (plane and the) name? No, no, all this what they call *systemic* racism isn’t for me. As soon as my brother arrives we’re going to go back to my island resort and *stay* there. No more wandering around in public. I’m *through* with white people. Had it.
Oh: an announcement.
Southern Cross representative: “We’re sorry to inform you that Flight 215 that was suppose to arrive at 3:15 with 415 passengers aboard…” He stops, putting his hand to his head, rubbing his eyes as if crying (he wasn’t).
Lance A. Lott gasps in the gap. Crashed? he thinks. All aboard — dead? Representative Johnson Protocol rustled his papers nervously here, starting to sweat. The droplets then make their way over his eyebrows down onto his cheeks, eventually dribbling down to the floor. To an outside observer, and knowing this was his first day on the job (thanks Uncle Stan!), it would be understood that he just lost his place and is searching for the right page that continues the announcement. But to L.A. (as his friends call him), the pause and apparent crying seemed to be a harbinger of bad bad news. Smokey dead! And that’s about all the family I have left.
“… is 515.” the representative finally continued, restarting at the top of page 2 which contained only these 2 words. Anxiously stacking his papers against the podium, he takes his leave with this.
515? he thinks. Wtf??? He looks over at the white woman, who doesn’t seem to be very concerned. Does she know what this means? Does she even care? Is she waiting on someone from this flight? Maybe she’s just happy *she* wasn’t on that plane. Maybe she knew someone was going to die today here and is just relieved it isn’t her. Strange thoughts. Must be from that horror movie he watched the night before. “Losst”, it was called, with an extra “s” to emphasis that all the people in the show, yes, were really, truly lost. “We get it,” he said at 1/2 past 6, stuffing more buttered popcorn between his lips and thinking he should get to sleep early this night so that he can rise at the crack of dawn and go wait for his brother over at the regional airport. My long lost brother, he thinks. Another lost angel. Peter from the show falls down into a camouflaged cannibal trap in the middle of the jungle, giving him a chuckle. But enough: *switch*. TV off.
The white lady looks at him now, even leans toward him. She’d heard the gasp, seen the confused look on his face. “515” she measured out. “It means delayed.”
“Oh.” Lance A. Lott wipes sweat from his own brow with this, trying to act like he at least *thought* that’s what it meant. She returns to her start position, which means systemic racist position. Don’t come any closer, the posture and attitude warned. Or I’ll call the cops or at least airport security. I’ve given you the information you need, you dirty [blank]. Now we are done.
She was small but she was no longer a baby, this Alysha, not to be confused with Ayesha also from the last photo-novel. 26, eh. Number of letters. Beyond Missouri and Arkansas. Michigan. We are even again, 13 and 13.
“It is good that you progressed onward.”
“Of course. Your opposite. 13 and 13. Call me Michigan,” she then offered, giving me pause. Was she the one?
“Straminsky?” I tried. It was a word the Oracle didn’t know, or you had to back up back to three to get any population hits. Yet this was the 13th of the MASH sims. Did I succeed? She just kept on with that schweet but secret smile, like the end of INLAND EMPIRE. And maybe that was what all this was: the end of a long and dusty trail or something. Fulfillment. A drink of long sought after water from a magical well. “Well well well,” I wanted to utter but stopped myself. STOP
“Get to the temple. The temple attached to the tor.”
“Thanks for allowing me to continue.”
“I waited for you. Alpha. Windyville. Zula. A woman with a child as one. Unity of mother and daughter. An “l” was crossed, forming a “t”. You progressed forward. 6 to 7.”
She was gone. She never made it out of the shadow.
“But I *saw* you there,” Tessa later insisted at the terminal cafe with the great view of Grandpa Cliffs. Devil Dave waves at Grandpa sitting at the far table and Grandpa waves back, realizing he was exposing too much while locking his knees.
Devil Dave returns his attention to the just arrived girl. “No, Tessa. That was a doppleganger. I have experienced much the same thing here. Our Second Lyfe is breaking down… *has* broken down. The only thing holding us together right now is Collagesity. So we must *choose*, young lady. The waffle house could have manifested in Collagesity but it didn’t because you were led back to Fryburg and the missing junk ship which you had already taken to Castle Town: here. Someone is following in the green one left behind.”
“*That* old piece of crap?” she exclaimed while shaking her head. “They’ll never get it off the ground and in the air. I *tried*.”
“Nevertheless, that is another doppleganger, a ship in this case.”
Fern arrived with their food. Yet another one.
Cow Pond, which I had planned to use for a filming location, has suddenly been dug out and deepened, with this mysterious structure positioned inside. The owner implies in her description that it can’t be figured out, so I won’t try. Plus the property is restricted at least for the moment. But this *is* Cow Pond, or *was*, now turned into a lake. This must be Loon Lake (too). And, appropriately, *Tessa* has returned to this here blog and attached photo-novel, 24 in a series of 20. Because Part 02 of “Sunklands Winter 2020-2021” will be its own novel, separated from Part 01. This is a little different than what I’ve done before, but the pattern of 6 sections of about 17 posts apiece (add on a couple of posts at the end as a coda to make a 7th section often) will hold true, I’m assuming.
Last we checked in on Herbert Gold’s oldest grandchild she was going a little la la over in a middle part of a larger Bellisaria island some have started calling Manhattan, because of the similar shape, I suppose, but also because it has a central park of sorts: Millgate. Alright, I just made all that up, but the island is real, and Tessa has definitely associated it with New York (City), close to solving a mystery herself. But — here we go — she was *banned* from this oh so central section as pond turned into lake, deepening the mystery. We have to switch over to a new novel for further development. So here we are: the present.
Tessa has no choice but to walk back up Cow Road to Cow Hill at the other end to meet those responsible for the banning, and an explanation. Plot of photo-novel 24 coming up!
Tickie was getting between good friends Tealy and Tillie. He had to run away. Tenty was the logical choice for a destination, a twin brother from another.
“Ground rules: *don’t* go over to Grimm unless absolutely necessary and, whatever you do, don’t go over to the Slot Mountain Castle. Death within!”
Tickie had heard about a head in a jar named Homer there who use to be a prominent resident of NWES City (*almost* NWES Town, but not quite). He wisely decided to heed the warning of host Tenty.
Tickie naturally looked east for answers instead of the forbidden west (Grimm; Slot Mtn.; Slot Mtn. Castle). They were sitting in identical chairs in back now, but Tickie had gotten up: restless. “Who lives over there?” he asks about the house between the source and the lake of a blue-grey stream beyond the wooden fence.
“Oh, just one of those TILE fanatics, hence the *river*.” Tenty didn’t really like the Tilists, and thought there were too many in the area and on the island as a whole. He stated this to Tickie. He told him about the river of the world as the Before and After, or the Zero and the Nine.
“Like Zero Hero?” exclaimed Tickie, getting excited despite himself. He was a hero worshipper by nature, and Zero Hero was one of his favorites. He’d never heard of a hero called Nine, though.
“That’s Jasper,” spoke Tenty through his tentacled mouth, but in a pretty ordinary man-voice despite this, more than Tickie’s which was kind of squeaky; mouse-like. “That’s the Land of the Dead. The Egg.”
Tickie didn’t know these terms. He felt like he was getting in over his head with Tenty, who use to be a professor of religion/philosophy/games at Northwest NWES but which wasn’t there any more, a victim of the Tar Wars as they called it in scholarly-land. He turned toward Tenty. A realization occurred. They had been here before!
“Tell me about core avatars, Tenty,” he asked, knowing his friend would know a lot. His very close friend.
“There.” Toothpick pointed past the scaled down Eiffel Tower and other 1/2 rezzed in objects and structures between the two temples. “Just like I said… *Berry*.”
“I’ve never heard of this Temple of TILE.” Master Berry couldn’t believe Toothpick had broken free of his power. Through a *game*? “Tell me more about this Carcassonne.”
“I’ll do better than that. Why don’t you come with me over there this Sunday. You have to choose a color ahead of time. I’m always red. I don’t know why but that’s what I always am. And… well, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, Toothpick. I might.”
Toothpick gandered back at his former master, took him in again for what he was. Human. *Not* like Carrcassonnee. She’s alien through and through. A real avatar to base a real religion around. Berry will see. Maybe he can join us too. Give up this sham temple out here in the boondocks. Move to the city as well. Maybe something else will open up in the Kidd Tower where I live. Heck, he can move in with *me*. Be *my* slave for a change. “Berry,” he decided to test, “how are you on fixing flapjacks?”
“How’d it go tonight, Duncan?”
“Oh, pretty good. I didn’t arrive until the meeting was almost over. All I heard about was some virus infecting the town. Something about zombies.”
“That would be the Resident Evil influence,” quickly spouted Baker Bloch, owner of this here Sunklands Institute, a private or, at best, semi-private estate. Collagesity was no more.
“I suppose.” Duncan Avocado was wondering when he could return home to VHC City and his apartment. George was probably hungry (and lonely) by now.
“Cindy A., Todd A., and, let’s see, Peter A.” Baker paused. “No that’s not right: *Jim* A. Who turned into Jim B.”
“Jim Brown, yes,” spoke up Duncan A., realizing where this was going.
“Anyway: the A.Team. Unwittingly borrowed from Resident Evil by me, but obviously for some kind of bigger reason.”
“The bomb, right.” Duncan A. looked around; dared to glance over his shoulder at the institute projecting largely from the water. It seemed right, seemed good. A good placement. He stared at Baker Bloch’s hat. He’d heard that if the hat was slightly iridescent it wasn’t really Baker. It was someone else. But no iridescence spotted in the moonlight on this table topped islet next to the new home. This must be Baker, he correctly deduced. Not the other one.
But who was *he* tonight?”
(to be continued?)
She decides to check into the motel she sits in front of with David and Linda. Why not? Too many mysteries to explore here in one sitting! Multiple me’s, she ponders while waiting for the desk clerk to respond to her presence. She never does, so Yoko Ona pipes up. “Excuse me miss… do you have any rooms available?”
“Rooms? What rooms?” Sarah McDooglehan then shakes her head and looks around the lobby, as if snapping out of a trance (true). “Oh… *these* rooms. Well,” — she puts her finger to her temple instead of checking any list she has, which seems odd. “Two is available. I’ll register it in triplicate. 222, then.”
“I’m *not* paying for three.” But then Yoko Ona reconsiders. *Is* she?
“One it is,” Sarah returned. “Not two, not three. Here’s the key.” She removed it from her pocket and not the wall with the others. Another oddity.
She has to wait for the maid to finish dusting and removing that dead body before she can bring in the rest of her stuff.
Most people considered Storybrook a paradise. The white of the light was often blinding.
Arthur Kill knew this and was here to prove the yucks of the town wrong, among other assigned tasks. He could start with the children, he realized, upon learning their names. Their *true* ones. Pink was the first he encountered, at one of the several jobs she held at the time: shoeshiner. “One Who Shines,” she jokingly called herself after he sat down, and Arthur stared through her with this: into the void once more. You will *never* be a star, he thought as she nervously began to rub the first pitch dark shoe with her pink rag. Not you nor anyone else in this town. I’ll see to that. *Marty* will see to that — through me.
Marty should be showing up soon, red hair back in place. So as not to reveal too much too soon. The peppery black void must be hidden for now.