The *phone*, sir. Put the phone in the box.” Customs officer Wanda Raphael glanced over at fellow officer Wendell Sampson, having seen it all now. It was as if it was glued to his head.
“No no no, it has to be *lime*,” he insisted to the other party on the line. We’d seen him before, blue as FLY. Which he does, airplane or not. It was a moment frozen in time.
“Who is the pilot in this confusing story?” asked W, manifesting by my side. “Is it Tickie — is that his name? The blue fellow, perhaps the blue meanie?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly back. “There’s the problem of JOVIAL to deal with.”
“*Jeffrey Phillips*,” she exclaimed, remembering the Santa of the same disposition back in that other curiously resonant post. “He’s returned!”
“Who is the true ruler of Collagesity now?”
I let the question hang in the air like oxygen. I breathed deeply, taking it all in then exhaling. Calm the hell down, I remembered. I did recall that.
Ship in the sky, plane in the air. I had that as well.
Nighttime, Collagesity, on a full moon. Okay, so it’s always a full moon every night. No total darkness here. But that allows the criminals more light to accomplish their dastardly deeds, while still providing deep shadow for hiding. Will the pattern of homicides and attempted homicides continue, not to mention the 18 burglaries, 6 larcenies, and 2 Petty thefts (the new police squad assures Mr. Petty he will be reimbursed)?
April Mae Flowers, wife of the former Herbert Glenn Gold, has confessed to the latest and last of the 3 homicides. “He said he was a doctor,” she tried to defend herself. “He was no more doctor than that chimpanzee hiding in the shadows up in the corner of this room.” She points. There was no monkey clinging there in an upper corner, but Officer Raymond Boxboom didn’t tell her this, obviously gauging her as a fruity loop ready for not a paddy wagon this time but a padded room. Since this one hadn’t been painted yet, maybe they could just pad it over and leave her in the middle, outfitted with a straight jacket but still sitting in the same chair, with the desk and lamp removed. Okay, we’ll leave the desk and lamp there and the jacket off so she can keep writing the pathetic semi-autobiographical play that got her in deep doo doo in the first place. “Doctor it up, he said he could,” she said, starting to talk somewhat backwards already, like someone getting unglued from time. “He more no doctor than, say, that passing giraffe at the front of the station. Officer Boxboom turned to surprisingly see the head of a giraffe bob by: Ricardo Petty, here to pick up the money for his lost microwave and Sony boombox. Maybe they can get a conviction on this one after all. He then checks deep into the last corner of the room, beyond the light and into the shadows. Indeed.
“First she met with Blue Thorn, who explained why he dropped the Rose along with the Thorn.”
“But he’s still ‘Thorn’,” replied [name removed to simplify].
“Right. I meant throne there.”
“Throne. Okay. That makes more sense.”
“And then the wars were brought up. The wars that are still going on now. The past is the present. At least in the Thorn Room.”
“And then Casey One Hole?”
“Yes, he showed up next. They’d moved to the bar by then. Or Tessa had. He has links all around.”
“He’s certainly ever-present,” responded [delete name].
“And then Stumpy, moved over here from Moe’s bar seemingly.”
“Who’s in charge of Moe’s now? [delete name] logically asked, being a [delete job title]. “Is it Moe again? I thought he was dead. Or maybe I’m just thinking he retired. Oh… Karl showed up… I remember now. Another 1/2 and 1/2 situation.”
“That are coming up more frequently.”
“1/2 and 1/2,” joked [delete name], to no laughter. Okay: 1/2 and 1/2 again. Baker chuckled a little bit.
We do not purport to know what’s really going on at this French rr station with its blurring of time.
But could it be something to do with, for example, *this*?
Out on the platform, people walk one way…
… then mysteriously switch directions for the next shot.
A man appears just in this one photographed panorama and then vanishes. The logical answer is that this is the cameraman himself. Why the similar jacket and shirt to the other man here, though? Is it just chance; did they think this resonance funny and thus the jumping out of 1st person perspective and into the photo? Why at *this* station of all places? The Center of the Universe.
At the end of the camera’s journey on the platform, time is different in the mirror…
… from reality.
For the ultimate answers we may have to look upwards.
“She’ll get back here,” he said. “Go ahead… continue.”
As Baker spoke, the rest of the “Wall of Ass.” disappeared behind him, leaving Dali’s paintings alone in the apartment.
Andy Warhole had been looking for Gabby all over town and finally found him in my new bar called Moe’s on the west edge, a low rent district. Art was on his mind again, and how to make money from it. “Look into your marvelous crystal ball, Gabby,” he requested, “and tell me my future.”
Gabby gazed deeply into the smokey sphere, saw the future, and then lied about it while starting to sweat. “Nothing, Andy. Sorry. Shall we talk about the weather instead. So hot, so muggy!” He nervously wiped his brow.
What he actually saw was a muscular man of reddish complexion walking underwater and wielding a menacing metallic golf club. Heading right toward him: The Boss. He knew this was one a-hole of a man.
He stared at Warhole. He reviewed the vision of the man. He stared at Andy Warhole.
“Ok, my turn, my turn.” Andy got up, Hilter from the couch sat down. “Ahem: How do I become chancellor of all of Germany?”
“I don’t guess I’ll ever go back, Wheeler. It’s all too *embarrassing*.”
“Oh snap *out* of it. Let’s get some pictures of these blue buggers and get outta here.”
And next time we travel together brush your *teeth* why don’t you!”
A mystery, Wheeler. One of the Blue Tinkers has disappeared while trying to open a Coke. This must be the work of…”
“*Peppi*” both exclaim together.
“The Man(n) is not coming tonight, Charlie. Still — I’ll keep an eye on SEAN’s Southside Bay residence for signs of change.
Change, thinks Charlie Banana behind her, just finished with one. She’s *white* now and she talks of signs.
“He’s got a boat, Charlie. A row boat.”
“And he’s heading right toward us!”
Kate McCoy always left the table to (softly) play the piano when there was after-dinner talk of war.
“Heterocera is *not* dead,” spoke Summerhill Nova to his right. “We can carry on. The Sister sim will remain strong — I’ll make sure of it my liege.”
“Good, good,” the person at the head of the table spoke. “I won’t worry any longer about that direction. I trust you with the matter.”
He turned to his left. “And you, Walter.”
“Um hmm?” The tree being’s voice was hollow and husky.
“What say your people about the matter? About the changes in VHC City?”
“As long as Bob Dylan’s okay with it we’re okay with it.”
“Alright, then”. Jack looked straight ahead.
But the CB Dylan Dresser containing the other Snow at the table didn’t immediately respond. Then they realized the Manster within had gone to the wrong dimension — again.
(to be continued?)
I was putting up birdhouses today on my new property, too lazy to even change out of my Purple (and) Bear costume. Maybe that *was* my identity here, though. *I* am the Purple (and) Bear. Perhaps I own both this place (Sanctuary Point, after the sim plus the location description) and the old quarry. Or maybe the old quarry is where I come from. In the past. Where the mist got me. Maybe mist with a “y”; maybe capitalized but maybe not. Maybe the mist doesn’t like you capitalizing it in writing. Maybe it exacts its toll even a bit more if you do so. I must be careful. But yet — what could be wronger than the curse I’m presently under! A purple bear! Banished from my circle of friends. Confined to an old quarry and, now, a neighboring peninsular point far far away from a societal center. It’s out here away from the capital that Rosehaven’s *myst*eries are fully revealed; uncloaked. I must be vigilant for more changes.
The piping voice, sounding of helium, was far far away yet somehow quite near. I looked around — no one here.
I then spotted him in the giant live oak tree, the centerpiece of the property actually. Beside the birdhouse I had just set up on one of its massive, sprawling limbs.
It took him a short while to start forming actual sentences and just stop chirping greetings (maybe the creature was part bird?) but I eventually got out that he thought the house he sat beside was too small for his needs. Or the rest of his clan. The wee ones.
The next time he showed up he brought along architectural drawings. Turns out this was his land as well as mine, or so he claimed.