Category Archives: 01
TOM — Top Of Mountain — revisited/ ring found
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0108, Blue Mountain, City Park
Mountain Man 01 (giving someone a ring)
He paused at the first top to make an important phone call. “Tom? Hi, it’s me. Change of plans — I’m heading into Carumba again.”
Reply.
“Skirt?” he heard. “Yeah, I’m wearing my skirt I guess you could say.”
Reply.
“Oh. *Skirt.* Yeah, I’m just going along the edge of the sim basically. No worries there.”
Reply.
“Don’t be sucked into another anomaly, right. I understand.”
Reply.
“Okay, left — got it. Stick to the ridge.”
Reply.
“I have no food.”
And he has no stick, he realized after hanging up and continuing to walk toward higher parts of the range. He’ll soon solve one if not the other.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0107, Bellisaria, Western Hills
the scene of the anomaly
As expected, the multicolored cubes weren’t there any longer at the Cowabunga trailer site. Nor the red headed, black cone hat topped witch I believe named Alysha at the time. Or so she said. After saying hello in a quite ordinary voice for a superior being, she explained the scene, the anomaly. 25 or 26 cubes, all the colors of the alphabet, she said, except perhaps minus one, she added. Maybe the I, she guessed, she indicated. If so, that I might be me, I realized, in the here, in the now. I stood before the now vacated trailer plot, ready for the next step. Northwest, I decided. Into the foothills of the mountains. Toward Carumba.
It was actually a pretty big leap instead of a small step to begin. Up we go!
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0106, Bellisaria, Western Hills
psychic daydream
He was nursing his 5th Blue William and nibbling on his 3rd sailboat sandwich of the day when the cry came from the waves. “CowaBUN-GAAA!!” followed directly by, in a much higher, nasal voice, “Don’t eat my SHORTS MANN!!”
From this vividly imagined exchange down at the beach, Al fairly quickly deduced that the famous expression of amazement, enthusiasm, or joy commonly uttered by surfers — a “short” if you will — was *stolen* (eaten) from the young, yellow ragamuffin by the turtles. The sim of Cowabunga in the mountains to the west was still relevant after all, along with nearby Carumba, also a historic revision, he figured. Al knew where to head next.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0105, Ashton Village, Bellisaria, Western Hills
Minnesota to Louisiana, the mighty river rolls on
He visited the residence nearest the center of Chum and found another tiger laying on a couch. The more things change the more they stay the same, he contemplated, also looking across the deck at a dancing bear.
If I said he wasn’t perturbed at this new development I would be Lion.
Yes, there I am below, a Batta-lion to be specific. Ready for battal. But it was all a dream about the war again and the loss of Chet. They poured into the sea looking for the real me. I wake up.
—–
Later, much later, I revisited the scene and found 3 girls, probably sisters, all peering round the corner of a neighboring houseboat down the pier at… me again I assume. Wondering what went wrong. Their lives had unfolded perfectly: 3 beautiful children spaced about 2 1/2 to 3 years apart. The golden family. “Golly gee,” the pigtailed middle one said to the others. “Do you think he’ll *ever* make anything of his life?” “Yes,” agreed the younger also coming around like the others before her, also watching me flounder around the end like a lost seal puppy. She was my junior by close to 15 years but was already enrolled in special classes for the gifted and damned, although I just added the second word in jest. This must have been before I enlisted and made something of myself. Finally. My family would beam down smiles instead of rain frowns. The war was the best thing that could have happened. The girls grew up to be successful women in their fields of archeology, anthropology, and astronology from top to bottom, although the youngest had a tough time choosing between astronomy and astrology in her junior year of college and decided to combine them into one to create something new. Since she was special, perhaps special special, the instructors granted this wish. She became the most interesting one to me later, after the war, after all the death and destruction was over. Because she had the most insight into herself, being a kind of split being like myself, although obviously not as fractured. I sat down with her one day and talked away, although this was not part of the dream. This was reality. I told her about TILE. I told her about the renegade treatises by two other children, without a third this time. I was looking for them. I wanted to find out… what they knew. How they channeled such important documents at such a young age. And why that milk for that bread, that (peanut) butter? Was it really needed to make the whole thing palatable to others at least in part?
—–
She still wasn’t allowed to eat with him, despite the changes. “Dear, why don’t you take off your mask. *I* have.”
That is just a wig you put on to give the appearance of a beauty and not a beast, he thinks. You’re still a white faced cow. He stared over, looked at her black vacant eyes. Yes, cow. Nothing to be desired at all. He imagines the heat again, the flies again. He remembers the military.
“I wear this, *cow*,” he answered aloud, “because I don’t want to forget who I am, how I got here. If it wasn’t for Chet–”
“Oh Chet Chet Chet,” she cut in, tired of the name. “Watermelons and cantaloupes, right. You have to get *over* it dear.”
“Stop saying that,” he protested. “Stop calling me that.”
“*Dear*,” she insisted. “Just take off the helmet — not the cape. Let me take a peek. It’s only fair.”
If he took off the helmet he would no longer be one with Chet. He refused, adding another “cow” or two to rub it in. We are different still, you over there and me over here, he thinks. He will not succumb.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0104, Bellisaria, Northern Hills, Pickle 02
carnivore
“Halt! Who goes there?”
Damn. Caught! she thinks, still struggling to get free. Damn f-ing big udder, she curses. If only she were born a bull, she laments not for the first time atall.
“I was… *hungry*!” she protests. Please don’t shoot me please don’t shoot me please don’t shoot me, she thinks.
“There is plenty of grass outside my trailer… *cow*,” he points out with his strict military voice. Veteran of the Big War he is. Seen a lot of scenes like this in his day. People were hungry. But *cows*? “I haven’t… mowed in several weeks,” he continued. “Been away. Guess that’s why *you’re* here. Been checking out the place for a while, eh?” he figures with his warrior logic. “Like what you see, huh? Vacant trailer… beside a stream where you can get your water… close to the mountains and the beach… *well*, I’ve thought of these things too!”
“Please. If you just free me from this stuck window I’ll explain. Her voice was pretty ordinary for a bovine creature. Her father’s father was an Italian shepherd, explaining her anthropomorphic look. Gets lonely out in the fields sometime. Warrior Kurt is not a total stranger to these urges either.
“Okay, I will free you,” he relents. “But you *must* be pastured. You cannot stay in the trailer with me. Under any circumstances!”
Wow, she thinks. Easy request. Does he have? No… couldn’t be. But then she recalls her heritage.
“What kind of food do you desire? Cow.” Yes, a cow, he thinks. Nothing more. A fat, stinky cow dotted all over with flies. Unsanitary! But here he was thinking of his childhood instead of the present, his uncle’s dairy farm, the mud and the heat. He’s superimposing the past upon the present for a specific purpose, yes, more benefits of wartime military training. He’s even contemplating shooting her in the rear end again, just to get food for *himself*. He feels the pistol underneath his half cape, as if heating up. Should he? She has no defenses. She is like the Durexians on Battle Hill #7 that late April June morning in the May of ’78. The Trojan flag was planted atop it by noon, with only 1 or 2 loses, which unfortunately numbered his chum Chet.
Chet was a vegetarian. Chet would never shoot a defenseless cow. He couldn’t even kill a Durexian threatening to slice his head in two like it was a cantaloupe or watermelon. He puts down the urge to kill. He’ll feed the poor creature. He’ll, yes, let her into his house. If she wishes — her choice.
“Here. I will help you.” She ended up staying in the vacant yellow camper parked beside his trailer, as if waiting for her, expecting her. Meat was always on the table.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0103, Bellisaria, Northern Hills
00390102
He’d gotten use to Tigger but this was another type of beast entirely. More teeth, more everything! He decided to purchase that handy wearable tent beside him for zero lindens and sleep in the yard. Good choice. Then tomorrow he’ll head down to the beach to hopefully pick up more gossip on where to find Bart. Both (the sims of) Carumba and Cowabunga seem to be misdirections but he’d find out soon enough. The famous yellow ragamuffin didn’t originate the term Cowabunga, which instead came from the Newton Jasper Turtles, he now knew. And Carumba is actually (a corruption of) Caramba, as in “Ay Caramba!”, so also an error there, as in between the legs. He checked down there while he was thinking of it. Still kind of itchy, but he resisted the urge to scratchy. With this condition and the heat coming up, he knew this could be a long novel 39 to take him to the end of August or so. A bit cooler here on the brown ridge. Beach would be a tad warmer. And stickier. Not a Snowball’s chance he could get out of it, though. Information was there; he could sense it with his tingly higher psychic senses.
—–
Lots of stray cats and dogs outside, big and small, but certainly better than what’s inside. A tiny calico cat enters the tent and falls asleep purring atop his stretched out body. He soon does likewise after pondering Tom, the renegade treatises, and how he got to this time, this place. Vacation, he told the big boss, tired of following around disobeying Shelley, watching her build a thought-to-be secret underwater room here, a presumed clandestine skybox there. Doesn’t she realize they can *see*? So he decided to get to the heart of the matter. Tomorrow he’s going to find one of those turtles.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0102, Ashton Village, Bellisaria, Western Hills
red over blue (Democracy continues)
It’s a very blue place, she thinks. 10:01 AM. Yet she stares.
Wonder why Myrtle doesn’t like linden plants? she ponders. I’ve *always* liked linden plants. Maybe the only one she respects, the branchy winter tree with no leaves, is my *least* favorite, hmph.
Someone else should be with me here in this lonely spot, she ruminates. Someone else blue.
She suddenly has the urge to get up and dance. Must be the costume. And the place.
—–
“I see plumeria over there,” she spoke later to rail sitting Edward, her chosen beau for the day. She’d changed into something safer, something non-dancey, urge abated. “I see palm tree no. 1, palm tree no. 2. And then a cypress tree 1 just up the hill. What’s not to love?”
“Different strokes for different folks,” Edward offered to Shelley’s continued rant. She just couldn’t get the logic of Myrtle’s opinion.
“Very regimented. *No* chaos. No mention of mainlands. What a mess! she might exclaim. Yet… she’s there. On Constance.”
“*You* put her there. Even gave her that weird belly button, the on and off thing.”
“The Abyss must be a key. That’s where we meet, her and me. That’s where I can tell her off if she doesn’t friend me.”
“Drop it,” urges Edward to the girl, perhaps the love of his life. If Wanda doesn’t enter the picture again. “Let it go.”
“The *island* is all about that merger.” But as she spoke this, she began to doubt her words. It was more than just that.
—–
The next day Shelley replaced Edward with Arthur in the sim of Escanes and they studied the illegal TILE treatises of Bart and Lisa in a sand covered underwater room directly beneath a false island planted with those plumeria and palms, thinking their actions there were unexposed to the prying eyes of superiors on the FILE. They weren’t; didn’t call them that for nutt’n.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0101, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West
Duke
“No ma’am, we don’t have that in stock. We *can’t* have that in stock. Laws of the land.”
“Okay, but what if I do… *this*?”
“No ma’am. However many *seductive* poses you try it won’t get you that drug.”
“Okay, but how about *this*?” She remained undaunted. She had to have that soda!
—–
Mike (and, later, Pat) met with Newt and Wheeler on this very issue just across the road in a cavern. *The* Cavern, in fact; sitting around telltale mica. America was slowly but surely being poisoned. Mike had an idea for a new campaign.
“Just *shut* up and *listen*, Moms and Pops.”
what is…
“Look! The Moon has come out from behind some clouds. We’re saved!”
“That’s just old Xianity superstition,” replied wannabe lover Johnny Blank to this, hoping she wouldn’t go down that road again, the Jesus Saves one. He’s Muslim and he’s going to stay that way! And Cylinder is Jewish so that’s that. Found God a while back but a different one from mine, and a different one from Gloria’s. But we still seem to be getting along. For now, he thinks.
Gloria stares and stares. With hate. Just like long long ago when she first got this role. The Moon grew a mustache and beard, peered down at her in ultimate superiority and changed birds into bees, flowers into trees. Not God. Something better, she realized. A Dark Lord. She’d been thinking about it for years, but hadn’t said anything about her insights. A good Christian woman she was to others still. Until the Big Reveal. She’d been pondering it for months. She’ll act on it in days. Xianity, as my *friend* Johnny Blank puts it, doesn’t *have* any superstition like that. She made it up. But, being Muslim, he wouldn’t know the difference. Maybe a perfect match after all, a perfect foil. I set them up he knocks them down.
“Johnny,” she says seductively, moving her pointing finger over to his shoulder, making an “X” on it to mark him as a target. “Tell me about your family again, your overbearing father, your loving but absent mother.”
“She *died*. She wasn’t absent.”
“Oh right right.” She sat up with this, looked up to the still visible Moon for strength. “I… forgot.” The Moon went behind clouds and she suddenly became sad, spell over.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0038, 0115, HANA LEI, Michigan
Sunklands 