Category Archives: 0218

another linden wood

You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, ’tis a common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you.

After passing through a Green Cypress Tree tree near the top of a grassy knoll, The Monk entered the southeast corner of Rookwood proper. None of the other sims mattered now. He could focused in on the task of finding Phillip’s grave…

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0020, 0218, Corsica^^, Linden Memorial Park^

continuation

“Rest assured, Petunia,” spoke Hidi the Witch by her side. “You are not a possession like Sammie; you are *you*. This is a cat’s tale in the end, after all. Not a dog’s.”

“Butt…”

“No ‘butt’s’,” retorted the witch. “Just watch… and learn.”

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G.

“Peters found this on the interwebs yesterday and passed it up to us, Tronesisia. We thought you’d like to know about the missing post, er piece.”

“I had a dream about Lambs.”

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OPD

“No Woody, you cannot be a Musician in this story as well. Now put that away and get ready. It’s time.”

“Hello my love,” Old Man Allen Martin said. “For the last time.”

Wheeler could not help. She just had to watch. And, yeah, it was painful. Very painful.

Then it was done. Correct reality locked in.

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Double Trouble

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Old Mabel was confused. She set out much earlier tonight to track down a sighting of Keat Owens in Sansara’s Langdale sim, but this *twin* claimed never to have visited or even hear of Collagesity. Old Mabel asked his name. “Pety” returned the person. Obviously not Keat Owens, then. While in the hotel room he inhabited Old Mabel looked around for further clues about what was going on. A blue feather pen attracted her attention, but she was on the wrong path now. Pety also mentioned something about a thimble thief. Old Mabel will do more research on that.

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Meanwhile, back in Collagesity the *real* Keat Owens was in a world of trouble. The double hand situation was intensifying. Owens sensed the end of his existence in the town. He wanted to know what hell Jerome T. Newton sprang from. He had that right. He stared at SoSo South’s Newton 10 collage and its central image. This *was* Jerome T. Newton. But how?

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Death stalked the chef/inspector. Newton summoned.

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“Did you get the information I requested?” Owens had not; he felt the truth slipping away near the beginning of his meeting with Spongebub.

“The square yellow man has accomplished what he needed to do here,” Owens spoke from his heart. “His wife is saved. It is too late for our kind. *Their* truth will get out.”

“Fool!!” Newton screeched, and the burning commenced. It was over in 30 seconds tops. All that was left in the end were his true hands, ash gray and turned to stone. The Truth Hands.

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They remained in that very spot for many years to come.

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