Kolya didn’t usually meet people when he combed the realistic looking beach at… let’s say this is Fieldon again. But he did today. “This is a piece of ginger,” the stranger exclaimed to the man-boy while bending down to pick up something behind a tuff of beach grass. “The first thing I see when I come to the beach and it’s ginger. Imagine that.”
This made Kolya think about Ginger. Where was Ginger? Where was anybody in this land of 2? He needed to focus on the here and now. These realistic rocks might help. He’d seen them before. Fieldon? No, this is Fieldon.
Or was it?
I’ve got to get back to Canada, Kolya thought while kind of panicking in the moment as he realized the person in front of him was mere shadow-like hallucination. I’ve got to find Ginger!
He asked to be centered. He stands on the very edge of the beach, its comber gone. *He* was the comber of course. And this definitely wasn’t Fieldon.
He watched himself walk away from himself in the distance.
Through the tree limbs, he watches Sammy glide away across the sea, back to the Northern Ocean whence he came. A Messenger Featherfloater, he pondered, another one of *his* creations. Like this Mistery Island. Like Original Fern, Substitute Fern be damned. And now he was off too, following Sammy in a green lantern boat, another of his design. Spore certainly was the evil minded inventor. But Icarus the golden robot rocket might have been his greatest feat. The rocket that would propel mankind to Mars. If he actually *wanted* it to, ho ho.
“Jacky Jack,” he declared to his right hand rabbit to his right. “I’m going to the other side of the island for a while. Make sure you clean and scrub the houses and reset the lanterns before I return nightfall.” Jacky nodded in silence. Jacky had learned not to speak up unless demanded. The less information Spore has to work on the better, since he uses such for evil and not for good. The little rabbits can’t go to college because you’re short on cash? Spore will find ways to withhold even more money from your check. One, several or all of his brood could become future servants, the intrepid ruler thinks. If the family is destitute enough, he he.
I sat at the Dread Wolf statue. 225, 225. Right on it. I tried not to be scared by the wolves. Luckily the black one was furthest away. Black Dog… reminding me of The Crossroads and my decision long long ago. Tully: I recall.
The Fire Tree, Wonder Years lost. Ignition. The moon is made of cheese.
New NWES City resident Stumpy was eager to get some local color and received a couple bucketfuls at Moe’s, a centrally placed watering hole. We cut to the most relevant story the bartender told this night. “Homer?” he said after Stumpy inquired more about the famed bar brawl where Mr. Smipson lost his head which had to be kept in a jar of formaldehyde to be preserved like a pickle for possible future restoration. “Right over there.” Moe points beyond Stumpy to the pool table where it happened. “He broke a pool stick for a weapon, Homie did too. Out of the ball park for the both of ’em. But, turns out, Lemmy’s — as they called him — Lemmy’s head was real and Homer’s wasn’t. *He* was just a mascot, although it seemed to be the other way around what with the ice skating gig and all. That’s when reality began to break down. Who *else* is just a mascot and not real in this here town? Probably a lot of us. Probably more than we care to know. So we stopped talking about it, stopped yapping about it. The bar fell silent when the topic of lost heads was ever brought up. So that’s why *you* caused such a stir with your appearance tonight. You don’t have a head, yet you live!” Moe decided he better shut up for the night and started cleaning beer glasses again. Besides he didn’t have any lines left. See! he thought to himself while staring at the void between the shoulders of the man perched on a bar stool in front of him. This is what happens when this is brought up. Irreality!
The spotted figure in the picture near the pool table then stepped out of it and into this world, one who calls himself Gotham. The one who took Homer’s head away from the jar through this same portal several weeks ago for possible repair, leaving Moe with a nice (if shady seeming) nest egg at the bottom of it. But yet he was back now: unretired. Gotham had also returned to remind him of this. Moe didn’t run the bar any longer. A man named MAT had bought it and made him redundant, or, yes, forced him into an early retirement as a better option. The bar had closed 2 hours ago. In his mild, spacey way, MAT had simply forgotten to lock the front door (4th wall) when he left, distracted by a brewing storm and thunderous lightning and wind and such, let’s say. We were operating on alty time, as Gotham later termed it, sitting at the bar with Stumpy and Moe and trying to get the latter to go home to his lovely wife Dinah and put an end to coming back to work and all. “You won’t get paid,” he reminded Moe, but that wasn’t the point.
As Jaspery night yielded to Newtony day, Moe’s presence began to fade and another took his place: 1/2 and 1/2 here. Gotham turns to Stumpy. “Now about that head…”
“Been a while since you’ve been here Hidi. Who you hiding away from now?”
“Oh, the same.”
“Where’d you like to go today? I believe the trailer park is new since you last stayed with us.” Zack Black himself lived in the trailer park now, the residents of which complain all the time about his loud playing of Firesign Theater and The Residents. Eyeballed beings both.
“That sounds good. To begin.” Off they went.
“Helloooo boys. Seen any dead hookers lately?”
“Hidi Widi, as I breathe and stink.”
“Delbert,” she addressed the stockier bruiser who just talked. “Filburt”, she said to the other. “Smells like a hot piece of coal in here.”
“Yeah, mom’s cooking up some rust for din din,” spat out Delbert.
“*Your* mum,” corrected Filburt. “*My* great great grandmum.” He turned to Hidi. “We both look the same age, yeah? We ain’t.” Filburt was very vain about his youthful looks and trimmer waist.
“How old are you?” Hidi was truly curious. She guessed 60 but it could be 20 the way he talked.
“40.” Split the difference, yeah. She should have bet him on it.
“Forty-*two*,” also answered the other: Delbert. The stockier one with a beard that would make alternate Spock envious. But people round here wouldn’t understand that reference, since Star Trek wasn’t invented until sometime in the 1800’s. In contrast, Star Wars was all the rage, with 16 talkie movies so far to follow the 7 silent ones. The ones no one talks about any more. Charlie Chaplin as Yoyo (or Dada) and Buster Keaton as spittoon carrying Chewbacco. Mary Pickford as Princess Leida, the role that made her famous for a while. Until she opened her mouth for the camera and tin came out instead of gold. She was great to look at but that voice. Gene Emmett Kelly the dancing clown dumped her for another with a golden voice to match at least a silver look. Not quite Pickford but close enough. And no tin or lead spewing from her lips.
(to be continued?)
He stood back after setting down the vibrating green geode next to his considerably smaller pink geode on the stairwell table and watched them excitedly *coordinate* (adjust in size to become equal, then “kiss”). They are merged now. 2n1. What happens next will be up to them.
“Yeah I knew it was soda all along. I was just riffing you.” Phillip Linden was trying to act cool. Just because he *created* all this doesn’t mean he’s not still behind the times. Creators loose control of their creation. It’s a given once it’s let loose in the world. Real Life. No trademark on *that*.
“Soooo. Are you by chance part of the Yellow Group that’s, ahem, taken over? Through the peaks, I mean. I’m just asking because you’re…”
“Yellow?” the perpetually soda spilling man without a name so far finishes for the famed world creator. World of Lime that is. Lemon World is different. “I might be.” His cell phone rings — good timing. “I have to take this.”
“Is he there?” the ant being asked one of his loyal workers.
“Yeah. He’s here.” The yellow man stares over as Phillip’s head gets big again. Like a screwdriver.
“Put him on. I want to speak with him. About Rookwood,” the ant punctuates ominously.
A new danger lurks out in the wild whites of Stranger Creek. Certain Death, who prefers to go by C.D.
Many other things exist there in the cockamamie cock-up created by our God and Lord David A.B., better known for his benign creations such as Jesus Christ of Nazareth and Spongebob Squarepants of Bikini Bottom. But A.B. especially had no control over C.D., who followed from him and was not part of him at the present. In the Current.
If he can make it out of Whitewash Village we’ll all be in trouble. Stay tuned!
And while we’re there snapping pictures, let’s open the draw distance and take a better look at God’s great cock-up known as Stranger Creek, formerly known as and followed up from Strange Creek. Before it got even weirder.
A jumbled mess isn’t it? And a perfect breeding ground for the unknown to come. The Corona-V brew infesting Storybrook and perhaps the rest of Corisca Prime and maybe beyond was just a *taste* of what’s lurking just around the corner.
When I entered the room, I was alone. Except for the complete bastard of a man known as Casey One Hole. Philip was no more. I figured he was shuffled back to Gaeta V, since my corresponding shirt had also disappeared.
“I didn’t need something. But I *wanted* it. Now I have it.”
I walked in front of him to confront the demon. “Tell me where she is,” I demanded.
She didn’t find anything today! Her name was Guyd but she was so far away from being a *guide* it wasn’t funny. She must be more successful tonight. She would work overtime to do it. But which way to go?
She lazily decided Gyre/Crow, because that would give her 2 choices instead of 1 down the road. Er, tunnel. She was heading from Wabe, which may be the same as Wabd (which would explain the greenup yd (yellow down) eyes). We’ll see.
This was a labyrinth and that’s a fact.
She’d reached the tracks. She didn’t like the tracks because humans lived amongst them. She and humans didn’t quite get along. Because most of them had *dogs*. Dog Island should have been erased and destroyed while they had them all rounded up there, she feels. That was only 2 outside days ago. Perhaps there’s still time….
And she’d missed her exit to Gyre. Oh well. Straight across the tracks it was. *Surely* she wouldn’t get lost. Again. Waste another day.
Phew! That was close.
But that human smelt funny. Almost like he was a… No. Couldn’t be. Could it? Guyd again thinks of destruction/erasure. Should have gotten rid of them with the chance. Now they could be *anywhere*. *Anything* anywhere (apparently). But then, maybe she could turn into a human as well if needed. That would be handy. She’d have to check the status of new, magical powers with Rebl tomorrow. Hopefully with *good* news to relay. She so wanted to be a true guide some day like her. Stepping stones, she calmed himself. One slipping rock at a time.
She never can remember where this tunnel leads across the tracks. Oh well. Onward and upward!