It was still snowing profusely. Tessa was almost up to her knees in it. She stares at the setting (rising?) sun and wonders what star it is. Arcturus? Could she be home again? No, she realized. Too yellow. Arcturus is an orange giant.
Or was it Aldebaran?
According to her sensors, someone named Sunny who was also a star stood in the shack at the end of the pier over there. She also had a number: 7. She might know. But grandpa always told Tessa not to approach strangers in Our Second Lyfe without good reason. Was this a good reason? And was this even still Our Second Lyfe, a shared virtual reality that is real to us permanently inhabited avatars?
And as I was typing this, Sunnystar7 disappeared, leaving only boomboom 2020 in the sim with her. Well, there was certainly a lot of boom boom last night at the (baker b.) house in reality reality. In bed by 11 but woken up at 12 as the boom booms persisted until 12:30. But what is time in a pandemic. Hard to keep track of the days, with weeks and months ahead. Forget time. Forget them all, even years. 2020 can go to boom boom hell for all she cares. She lost her beloved grandfather!
(to be continued)
It was kind of irritating how he never wore clothes in the hot tub but octogenarian Drew “Grumpy” Cleveland had information I needed to complete my school project. Pansy Mouse! The mouse history has forgotten. Perhaps I shouldn’t even be writing about it (!). Keep it to myself for later.
“Pansy?” he started after the prompt. “Yeah, I remember Pansy. That was before Mickey. That was before ‘Floydada.'”
What a goldmine!
“That’s very nice, Mortimer. Let’s stop there.”
“I can’t steer this thing at all!” purple alien Apples thought while struggling to land his spherical craft amidst the cherry trees atop the western half of Somerset’s Double Mountains.
He walks into his new base, carefully avoiding a rickity looking, boarded up pump well. It’s the little things that often end those of his type, he’s wisely learned down through the centuries. Don’t show off, don’t take chances. Focus laser-like on the task at hand: world domination, ha ha ha.
Apples Too waits pensively at the window.
“Heck of a year so far, eh Apples?” he speaks over. But she had nothing to say, since she knew he felt she was responsible for most of it. Apples was here to take over. Apples Too to her but not to him. Not any more.
“*Now*. Let’s discuss what’s happened since I last saw you.”
Off to play video games in the Shallows with the boys.
Everyone taking their positions.
“Do you think Yoko Ona will make it back to the motel, David A.B.?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he waved it off. “SEAN’s here now.”
“And Arkansas right in the middle of things,” a studying SEAN “Green” Penn utters within a secret room behind the motel desk. Clerk Sarah McDooglehan didn’t mind. Since she was a dummy through and through. She’ll come to life soon enough as Yoko’s Cindy A., designer of planes and then murderous rockets. Enough to get the job done. The shot hit both Pipersville and Sink X at once — right in the middle. Just like Arkansas. And Missouri: 1/2 and 1/2.
“Check this out, Green,” spoke Blue from a table also in the room. “Martin Allen. Just like in Floyd County, Kentucky.”
“And Bennett County, SD. And NE. And MS. But everyone knows that has to do with poles. Polar explorers. Like Richard Byrd, except different.”
Jack Blue looked over. She was glad she decided to bring SEAN “Green” Penn back into the picture. Needed tangents. Like Peppi outside. She knew this was a Diamond of a case.
(to be continued)
After the successful gig, SEAN “Green” Penn and The Mann, owner of New Orleans Blues Little Rock for the moment, got as close to the pool table and the spread out map of Arkansas upon it as play would allow. They mapped out a strategy.
“I say we head for Formosa next, you know, the LOST island. Right up here.” The Mann pointed a little north of Little Rock, or as close as his pointing finger could get.
“How about Mountainburg?” SEAN countered, indicating west. “In the mountains–”
“Ozark, I know. Too dangerous,” The Mann opined. “Too many moonshiners. They’ll want us to stay more and that’ll be it. *Stuck*.” He sticks his finger on the pool table, like it’s glued there. He leaves it for about 3 seconds before removing to enhance the Elmer effect.
“What about Kate?” SEAN then spoke.
“What *about* Kate?” The Mann quickly followed, looking at SEAN’s eastward pointing finger this time. Close to the Mississippi River and Mississippi state leading to New Orleans. Can’t take the chance there either. Current could take them. He told this to SEAN.
“Well…” he said, heaving a resigned sigh. “Better just stay here a spell, then. This (he waves his arms around) Little Rock.”
“We could increase the Rock. Make it bigger. Would that help?”
Would it help? SEAN didn’t know right off.
“We stand far above them, Hucka Doobie, unable to listen in. Is Heidi Hunt Ives even alive still? Another victim of clubbing?”
“We cannot say at this point. You know synchronicity is strong here. This is a spiral (again). This is a veil to be opened not fast but slowly. Red curtains hide much. To open too fast is to cause insanity. Or worse: sanity. Walk the line, walk the rope. Spin the spiral.”
Hucka Doobie relents. “Oh all right, HHI is dead. He clubbed her with his club before moving to the center. Happy?”
“But-” I protested, thinking of the matter further. “She’s not a character in a story. She’s *really* dead, then.” Baker Bloch begins to worry about his sanity.
Hucka Doobie relents again. “Good. You have past the clubbing test. Most men would have believed me.”
“I *do* believe you.”
They stared across the table at each other, realizing they were in the center all along.
Baker starts counting his fingers.
Casey One Hole, no longer actor Tom Casey atall, moves over to the *real* center in Danshire. Waiting in his rocking chair in his Small Kowloon House for people all around to start interacting with him and him alone. Shouldn’t be long.
Poor Heidi Hunt Ives. But like Norris, like Herbert Gold, heck like anyone deceased in these here photo-novels, she could return.
Late Friday evening reports of The Mists rolling through the Realm trickled in, and in the morning of Saturday, the explorers of Rosehaven confirmed that the region known as Rosehaven Serenity had up and moved to where Rosehaven Anodyne was. The whereabouts of Rosehaven Anodyne is anyone’s guess, perhaps it needed a holiday and set off to waters unknown. Please update your personal charts and maps to reflect this change. An officially updated map is being drawn up as we speak.
Donald was disappointed that his whisky drink he so enjoyed last winter had, in the meantime, disappeared from the extensive list of alcohols offered here at The Cup and Harp.
“I”ll have a, er, bourbon,” he said. “Some kind of bourbon; any kind.” He couldn’t quite mask his disappointment to the bar maid, one Felicia McApplebaum from Rosehaven Serenity. They’re still getting over the mysterious disappearance of a whole sim called Rosehaven Anodyne over there, she relayed to the still sober Donald Farr when he returned for a second. The alcoholic content of the Kentucky bourbon seemed to not be matching that of the Pennsylvania whiskey he loved. “Make it a double this time,” he requested, determined to get some kind of decent buzz off the stuff. And it was here that Donald learned the first name of the bar maid and learned where her home was in the kingdom/queendom and the queer story of the disappearance of a whole, neighboring sim back in May as he downed the drink in two long draws. Rosehaven Anodyne was, then, present when Donald visited last year for his annual winter vacation. “The mist, eh?” he spoke about the claimed culprit, deciding to stay at the bar a while instead of returning to his lonely booth. He began wondering if Felicia had a husband or boyfriend or significant other. Maybe *he* could fill this role if not. It was also then he realized the alcohol was sneaking up on him from behind, a surprise rush to the head. Kentucky is not Pennsylvania. Alcoholic drinks affect one in different ways. Much like flowers of the world, some bloom later than others. Such is the case with Bee McCabe’s Special Stock distilled in 1919, a good year for such, and coming just before Prohibition in the Blue Grass State, a year earlier than the country’s Prohibition, explained Felicia McApplebaum to the swimmy eyed Donald only a minute later, his pupils now big as a 1920 Kentucky Anti-Prohibition Alcohol Token. “Marry me, Felicia,” he blurted out before losing his balance against the counter and collapsing onto the Irish Green floor.
McCabe’s Kentucky bourbon would be his drink of choice from now on. But never a double again and always sipping slooooly.
“Ah so. 7 Stones,” Mr. Babyface mutters to himself after The Man About Time left. “What am I doing here? Where’s Greg or Gregg? What happened to being oiled up all the time. Now I’m like acrylic: too fast to dry. Not fluid any longer. Ah so.”
Like Elton John on the “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” cover, we step up and out of Fal Mouth Moon/7 Stones and into another world. A trailer.
I’ve sent Space Ghost and Bullfrog away. The gay problem has been resolved here in the heart of Bill Country. Hecklers be gone!
“This is your new home, Danny. Better than the old one in my opinion. And now you’re gainfully employed. You are custodian of a whole, huge gallery!”
“Thank you *so* much. I promise to keep it clean.” He hangs his head down here. “Unlike the old place.”
“Don’t worry about that now, Danny. I have faith in you. I believe in you.”
5th floor now:
“We’ll be installing the new bathrooms (he points) here.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
“And these wings? They’re called *Dali* in the description. Dali didn’t even do the butterfly painting. We all know that now.”
“Auditions in 10 minutes,” gruffed Mossman in his deep, scary voice. A pussycat underneath it all he is, though. And calm, really patient and calm. The ability to live over 400 years gives you such. But he also knew Baker Bloch didn’t like latecomers. Then he had an idea. “Tell that story to the male Baker. It might give you some type of edge over the others, Jiggy.”
“Iggy, actually.” But Mossman knew that. He was joking with him again. He jokes with everyone.
“Would you like some more coffee or would you rather switch to cigarettes, Jiggy.”
I know who Mossman is! After all these years.
But there was more afoot tonight (of course!). Awkward afootness.
“Wish me luck,” requested Colored TV.
“Break a leg up there, I suppose,” returned the Black and White, knowing he was doomed, wings or no wings.