Category Archives: 0115

hanging around

“I had a dream about Dub again last night. Talked to him over on that couch again.”

“Black dude?”

“Yeah. Asked him about the jungle, how I get back. He picked up a guitar with no strings.”

“Oh. New (!).”

“Yeah, and he played it, but it sounded like a recording, with the echo and all.”

“A dub. Guitar dub.”

“In a way I suppose.” She reached over, took his hand. If she could only play the strings to *his* heart.

—–

“It must have been that book you were reading. By the hot tub. Up above the main pool.”

“I recall.”

“Was the jungle mentioned specifically within?”

She thought back. “Can’t recall (that).”

He sipped on his Russian Roulette, borrowed from her earlier. Said her stomach was a little upset from before. The tension, she excused herself. Both blamed each other, and then, afterwards, themselves.

—–

“Are you going to go back into the box now?”

She thought about it. “I’ve decided… that 777 dollars is quite reasonable for something we can, er, style together. I don’t want to be a slave prisoner. I want to be a woman. Shackles removed.”

“I see.” Arthur Kill thought about this. Liz remained the ultimate goal, how to get there, how to *make*. Singularity awaiting, even looming by this point. A black hole and white hole together. Ylem.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0036, 0115, Nautilus, North

00350115

Afterwards he was too despondent to even fish off the back porch, his favorite past-time here after Wanda and watching TV, which always seemed to feature reruns of that old 60’s sitcom “Green Acres”. “Since you’re so *interested*, would you like to see?” Franklin said, and he said, “*sure*. Why not.” He hadn’t seen one in a while, except Wanda’s. And she really didn’t count. “Sorry about that, Wanda,” he imagines himself saying into the shack to his companion in the moment, his companion for a while apparently, however rubber and fake she is. He didn’t realize it was a mixed up jumble of stuff down there for Franklin. How could he? And then to top it off, the yellow came. Right in the face! He didn’t think he’d ever get over it. They cackled like hyenas, they left, back on their boat to the hell in which they came. Just around the corner, they said. Come see us if you want more, sweetie. So now he was scared to move in any direction — even if he could right now, being without a boat himself as he was still — for fear of facing them again, fear of facing *it*. He felt them all around. “Aim free guidance,” she also said while the, er, *flow* was happening. “Right down the toilet, ha ha ha!” And then that song or whatever while they were gliding away, having done all the damage they wanted or needed — for the time being, they said. Eels. Just the word repeated over and over, in a certain pitch. He didn’t have the gift of perfect pitch, else he’d know it was D Flat, the most cursed key of all, directly resonant with The Abyss itself some say. A green woman — or *something* — a “song” or sea ditty about eels… what did it add up to?

Albert was never good at maths, so the next day, taking pity on him a bit, Claude came back to visit, finding him still in about the same position as that photo at the top of this post. Back porch. No fishing pole in hand.

“You knew something like this would happen?” he begin in earnest to the black man sitting beside him now, both staring out at the waterfall in the distance during the exchange.

“Yup.” Silence between them. Albert then realized that he never really, properly made an apology to the boy, because he called him [delete name] in the process, as in, “I apologize, [delete name].” Thus: here. The Abyss. He knew the term from his parents, devout Tilists both while he was growing up, having been drilled about the static filled hell ever since he was big enough to pick up a book as heavy as the TILE Bible, all 1036 pages of it (518 x 2). “You’re going to the *Abyss* if you don’t eat your cereal,” says Jasperia, the mother. “You’ll go to the *Abyss* if you don’t do your homework then say your prayers before bed,” she might start again after supper. Always the cereal at supper and not breakfast, all because a certain passage from the damn thing that said morning and evening are interchangeable (pgs. 518-519). What else did the cursed thing say? he tried to recall.

“Albert,” Claude said over, tired of my inner monologue apparently. “You don’t have to face them again, you don’t have to face *me* again. No dykes or [delete names]. All you have to do is go back to your family — Ohio is it?”

This [delete name] knows it’s Ohio, Albert thinks here.

“And apologize. Not to Darla directly, but to the parents, your sister and her husband. Tulipia and Pinky isn’t it?”

Albert turns toward Claude, tries to tone down the hate showing in his face. “She goes by *Apples*.”

“Apples, right right.” More silence. Albert realizes Claude is waiting for a response. Out of his control, he finds himself blowing a raspberry.

He’s going to be here a while longer.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0035, 0115, Nautilus, North

new to Wendy

If denizens of Wendy can pass through a void sim and visit Ontario directly to the west, then we can assume that the same from Jolie directly east can pass through the 2 intervening void sims to reach Wendy — not much more of a reach, if you see what I’m saying. And so this would be proof. Jolie herself, which translated from French, means “Pretty One”. Another plant being.

We’ll see how that develops. Had to insert here. Destiny.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0034, 0115, Wendy-Ontario

00330115

Some say the name Dafney originates from Daffodil, others from Daffy Duck of Bugs Bunny fame. All because of her love of yellow, as in scarves, as in pocketbooks, as in hair. She’s dated both Redbird (Smith) and Bluebird (Jones) in the past. Now she prefers neutral — yellow in her case — although Redbird will still call her up to tell one of his patented, on-the-spot off-color jokes that always makes her laugh. Bluebird: so serious in contrast, a true philosopher/metaphysician. He prefers keeping in touch with writing, notes scattered here and there through town in places he knows she’ll frequent. Texts too; often makes her cry they’re so deep. Dafney is hard to forgot, hard to get out of your mind once she’s in there. If only she could find a phone in her glaringly yellow pocketbook, a pen and pad perhaps, to communicate back her love for the two, even though she must remain in-between and unavailable. Like many single women her age, she’s holding out for The One. 41 today. 42 tomorrow. Everything cannot be known.

George is here if you need him, ma’am. A safety net. Still looking for his clothes.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0033, 0115, Jeogeot, Towerboro

key lost again

One of the oldest tricks in the book, she thought from her observing position. Lure ’em down to the beach with a piece of watermelon, then, BLAMO, instant terrain change in the shifting sand to trap them up to their motherlicking balls, she’d always heard the expression. Or at least knees in this case — enough to do the job.  She saw she could still dance the bill but it must be hard in the grainy resistance. Old habits die hard as they also say.

Time for another agent to take over from this obviously inept one. Another *Venusian*. Welcome back Joey Avatar. Digging the purple hair.

She dug her out and then sent her packing, even taking her badge. We’ll continue this obviously important story soon.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0115, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West

Gunpowder

Wind.

More wind. Cold.

—–

Jen reviewed how she got to this God forsaken place on the very western edge of Nautilus, almost disconnected from the continent. If only it weren’t for Vavra, who led her here. She use to blame it on someone named Jim, but then realized that was only a masculine projection of herself, a double created as a dark, oppositely sexed companion. He probably still exists somewhere. On the Mainland. Here, though? Nautilus but not Nautilus. Mainland but not Mainland. Different, an In-between World, ‘nother one. If only Vavra didn’t have that barely Linden water sailable boat, that Annoying ZZ Mat I think she called it, whatever that means. What-ever (Vavra-speak; I think she may also go by Marilyn).

She looked around even though she didn’t want to. Although certainly not the mountains of the Omega continent, it still was cold this time of year this far up the coast. Too close to Corsica to be temperate. None of the sim’s neighbors liked this place — didn’t consider it to be their “downtown” in any way. They too were isolated from the rest.

She needed to get out of this dress and into some real winter clothes but that would mean removing and rearranging the underneath pillows and she couldn’t make the effort, brrr. She hadn’t eaten in what felt like almost 3 hours.

Oh there were enough people here at any one time, it seemed. She’s counting 7 on her inworld screen besides herself. But where was Bert? Jim? No: Bert. Former police officer turned gigolo. Or pimp — she can’t recall; just as bad anyway, although she assumes the money is better with the latter since several of his ilk work for him instead of visa versa. She was the bookkeeper of the place. Kept tabs on the ledgers, made sure they balanced out each month. Numbers were her bag but figures were too. She oft times had to beat them off with a big black stick she kept handy for the matter. She thought of changing her name from Jen to Gen but didn’t want to lose full contact with Jim back on the Mainland, however imaginary he actually was. She could dream still, then. Her apartment? She wished it was the attic of the town’s Brownstone so she’d have a better view of the goings on of the place, but it was instead the 2nd. Vavra had the third, and always seemed to be bathed in dust-ridden light when she went up there to check on her or to socialize with her or to gather her up for one of those nights on the town. Like tonight. Big girls night out, but not too big. Vavra was on a weight plan. And herself? She started putting small pillows under her antiquated clothing to disguise her talent with figures as well as numbers. Some thought she had been knocked up, therefore, by Bud the grocery store manager Bert she was known to hang around with, but that was just because of the maths. They use to count the town residents one by one by one, as the green lights lit up on the map come din din time, as they called it. It was like a bell went off, a ding dong, and they came. Poor Mama had it right. The tiles were falling off the wall, red green yellow blue. If the camouflaged zebras start to show their true colors, then… trou-ble.

She wore strange makeup like an android: stars, rings like big red spots marked by a pin. She started out as a demo but she was more than that now. She was a real life girl. She decided at a certain point that she would pretend to create Jim instead of visa versa, and turn Bert into a gigolo with a corresponding loss of power. Because this was a woman’s world from now on. Adam, I’m Madam, nice to greet you. 2 + 2 can equal 5 if she wanted it to. Aloha can mean goodbye as well as hello. Inflammable can mean flammable, and so on. She was a mixed up boy-girl because her one head had turned into two with the schism. Mainland over there, [delete name] over here. The Wild West moniker had it right. Dodge, she decided, this is Dodge. Because she’s trying to, she *had* to. Jim had to remain real.

(to be continued?)

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0031, 0115, Mountain Lake^, Nautilus, Omega^^, Wild West

00300115

He was zooming in on the real-as-life bell now and not the imaginary sun. So dark, so *Axis*. We’re suppose to forget about the war, he can hear his father’s voice echo in his brain now. Yet the bells continued, the wedding of black and white over (“No go, no go!” the people demanded). And so here it is still, sitting outside the church like a leftover piece of Hell. Damnit, Zoomer, he thought about the officer to his right, why aren’t you moving! The footsteps were getting closer. 4 beats now since the doors opened, letting the pianist and the dancer loose in the nighttime world again. Vampires? Chef-detective Petty thought. That’s at least one thing we need to eliminate. No more waiting. Zoomer wasn’t turning but he did. Iffy had turned three beats ago, make that five. Probably because he was best at his job. John Lennon isn’t proud: beats turn to beets and we’re back to square one. In Idaho.

“I da ho you’re looking for,” confessed Raspberry Girl/Annaball-bell to him back at the station after intense scrutiny and pressure. He was about to bust an important chain in the City Gang bunch of women of the night. Weakest link…

(to be continued)

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0030, 0115, Jeogeot, Sunklands^

’tis the season of Boos

Ohhh. *This* corn.

And some candy ta boot.

Axis-Windmill thinks he’s going to like this new place.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0029, 0115, Bellisaria, Maebaleia/Satori, Neat Town

band (member) on the run?

Tonight was the night former Rolling Joint Harrison Ford Jett learned that his precious Bluebird was a witch and that she controlled the nefarious Boos who destroyed that poor little Canadian prairie town — Tungaske or something another — around 6 years back now. He decided to text Fern about it, get her opinion. Should he *run*? Should he act nonchalant, make small conversation about it, *joke* about it? What is the correct path forward? This was totally out of the blue, he he. He decided that joke would probably work with Bluebird too.

“This was totally out of the blue, er, Bluebird.”

“Tee hee” (insert finger in dimple of cheek to be cute).

The message came back. “RUN”.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0028, 0115, Nautilus, Upper Austra^

mark

“Oh we get that all the time,” spoke the one who wasn’t crying. “We’re *sisters*, though. *Not* lovers.”

“Speak for *yourself*,” the other said, the one who wasn’t scowling. “I’ve always thought you had a hot bod.”

“*You’re* the looker. And everyone knows, crying is more acceptable for a girl to do than, well, what I do. And I’m *not* scowling, baker b. You can stop writing that in your blog.”

“Um, me?”

“Yes, *you*.”

“Well, um, what do you do here? (pause) In the land of Bottles?”

“We stare at silhouettes,” the one who wasn’t crying deadpanned back.

—–

I was at one hundred and I had more clues ta boot. Something about Bottles vs. Cans — the Centalia Line which may be east-to-west but also north-to-south, depending on the direction. Either direction time and space change. Something is different here from where, say, Marion Star Harding works at the Southern Cross Regional Airport above the line, sometimes flying fantasy people back to their original homes. Didn’t work for rain damaged Kolya but perhaps it should. I need to catch up with him.

I decided to return to the sisters for one last question but they said they didn’t know their near neighbor Marion. Another glance at the silhouettes and I could tell they were lying. Plus they were now cuddled up awfully close for sisters.

Leave a comment

Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0027, 0115, Nautilus, Upper Austra^