Category Archives: 0301

October 3, 2025 · 2:03 pm

00480301 (“An Averaj’e Day”)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iz7OIOXfkMM

“Tell us a little about yourself, Peppre?” I asked after she changed into her day clothes, always hot pink in the mix.

“OMGosh, where to stort! I’m a 28 year old man-woman — emphasus on WO-man! — who lives in a house on the edge of Wubble — Wubble, so RAD! — and drives a teen-ie ti-ny yellow bog! See?!”

“Yes, beautiful vehicle, Peppre, wide yet short from this angle. And I know from the phone call that you’re going to pick up your friend Sunsalt and head to the mall.”

“OMGolly not TODAY Miss Molly. I’m headed for another dear froend of mine, Bugnet, who owns Funcy Ass Fwok. I’m going to get me a hot!”

“Hat, yes. But I understand you have no money, Peppre. You spent it all for those bronze statues of naked men surrounding your pool out back and at other various locations around the property.”

“OMG IDC. But first I’m going to spon some whalies in the moll’s parking lot! That’ll teach you to not have any specials today on hots J.C. Ponney!”

“Very impressive. And you didn’t even hurt anyone in the process.”

“OMG, NooooOooo. Always look ot my sorroundn’gs. NOT a killer cor. Just a cor to kill for, haha. See whot I just did thar?!”

“Well, I have to ask you this Peppre, since it’s a subject of the current photo-novel that we’re in. What do you think of the present war against trans people by the right? And black people and gay people and people of color in general and homeless people and people without children and people who do not believe that Jesus H. F. Christ is the f-ing lord and savior of our country damn you and will save you from the eternal hellfire of the grave? Especially someone like *you*!”

But I pointed at nothing since Peppre had already broken into Bugnet’s store and stolen her hat and was indeed heading back to the mall. Guess she changed her mind.

Better run and catch up with her.

(to be continued)

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June 24, 2025 · 5:47 am

00470301 (Now I am become Life?)

After the meeting, Spongeberg rendezvoused with Mmmmmm toy avatar and old friend Grassy Noll by the pond not far below Carolin’s new place. Sharing a bottle of mulberry wine they start talking about the past, namely Spongeberg’s former home of Mystenopolis and its towering statue of Christ the Redeemer just up the ridge, now derezzed quite a few years back along with the town itself. He misses the place and laments its passing.

“But we still have the Faune,” Grassy said to all this, firmly in the present while staring straight ahead at it. “Its opposite but also complement. Your 12×12 ‘Atom’ founded in Mystenopolis can still be used for constructive instead of destructive ways. Time can be reversed, *hiccup*. Excuse me!”


Spongeberg back at his Route 14 home recovering from the drinking and thinking about what Grassy said.

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March 29, 2025 · 12:58 pm

00460301 (another “late”)

She was far away from her intended destination, she knew that. Led astray by another cube being shaped like her old lover. Who may be her new lover. In the way they knew how or could.

“We’ve travelled so far, Bimbo,” he/it said. “And now we’re here. What do you think it is?”

“Not. Cube?” said Bimbo back in her Half Japanese accent, cute for a robot.

“No, definitely not that,” he replied in an American one but still robotic. “Round instead.”

“Rooooound,” Bimbo tested out the word. “Ciirrrclllleee.” She even traced a circle in front of her with her pointing, stubby blue-green robot arm with no discernable hand to mimic the one on the stone.

“That’s right. Different from us.”

“Diffferrrreeeent,” continued Bimbo in the same way. Then she did something else with her hands this time which made him chuckle. She couldn’t make a hole with the other but he got the point from the first.

“That’s right, Bimbo,” he said. “The f-ckers.”

“Ffffffff———–ers.” Then she said something that might have made him blush if he was capable of doing so. “Us?”

“No, Bimbo. Not in that way. Different.”

“Differrrrent,” repeated Bimbo.

“I’ll show you.”

(to be continued? (probably not))

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December 17, 2024 · 9:28 pm

00450301

Trading her jumping jacks in for jack squats, Fern sensed (and felt and heard) a great disturbance in the force.

“Lichen!” she screamed, intuitively knowing what had caused the castle to suddenly shake as in a quake, her exercising over but her exorcising just begun.

But first there was a problem of revealing herself in a proper way to Fink, who was now grieving over the resulting possession of his beloved Princess Pinky Gumm after the attack, the invading spirit having found the correct body to inhabit. Right now, Fern was just a figment of his imagination stuck in the basement or dungeon, guarded by banana soldiers to the front back side and side. Princess hadn’t said anything; she wasn’t sure it was real herself yet; didn’t want to alarm others until she knew for sure. This story must remain PG’s and not reveal any unrestricted, naked truths. And now she’s paid the price. Lichen needed to contact Fern from the Great Beyond and she’s doing anything in her powers to make this so! Even if it means displacing the soul of another. With Fink (and Jack) in the middle.

“Princess,” calls Fink at the bedside. “Come back to us, PG.” He looked down again at her blue-not-pink face, those slime green pupils set in pitch black corneas, the clammy skin. And she didn’t smell the same either. Not all candy-like but — dare he even think it? — sort of like death. Or at least rotted trees.

“Must talk — to — *Ferrrrnn,*” the spirit hissed within the body.

“Fern?” says puzzled Fink, figuratively if not literally scratching his head at the princess’ utterance, a recurring gesture. “Who’s Fern?”

“Well… I’m guessing it may be you or an alternate version of you since Fink is close to Fern,” Jack chips in from the other side of the bed. “That’s what my dog instincts tell me. I don’t know, hmph. Prob’ly should just stick to licking my butt and other more regular dog stuff. Call it a wild hunch, then.” And he proceeds to get on the floor and lick his behind while he’s thinking about it.

“*Jack*,” reprimanded Fink at the action. “What did we talk about, huh? Not in front of the princess! Especially not *now*.” He looked down and got even more depressed and desperate.

No more words in the script for poor, possessed Pinky Gumm. Now was Fern’s chance.

“Fink,” tried Fern again in a vision over the large, sprawled out body of Susan. “It’s me. Your other half. Remember. Re-mem-ber.”

(to be continued)

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September 25, 2024 · 6:13 am

00440301 (both sides of the Aisle)

“Hey, don’t drink my drink!” commanded Fern.

“Sorry,” the small bartender apologized, no more than a kid it appears. “I was… thirsty. Not use to customers. Not use to eyes looking at what I’m doing.”

“No more, then! You haven’t got any diseases I should know about now? Seeing we’re share buddies, ha.”

“None that I know of,” spoke the boy. He continued to shake the drink and not drink. Both at once. “Soo, you here for Breakfast?” Pause. “Or Dairy?”

“Both, actually.”

“Hmm,” he said, and poured the finished martini, dry and wet as one. Perfection if he says so himself. But he prefers the unmixed version; likes to taste both flavors separately (gin and vermouth). Darn watching eyes! “Well,” he continues. “How much have you seen so far?” he asked, not wanting to go over covered ground as it were.

“Airport first obviously. Had to come in from *somewhere*.” But Fern came in on a ship, sea instead of air. Has to be both, she figured. And with the captain none other than our Philip Strevor, fresh from a cube drop. Or so he said. Interesting.

“Not much there,” said the boy with his slight Chinese accent, worn off by years of state-side existence. Or so he said. “What else?”

“Well, pretty much saw everything in the rural district close to the void.” Too close, she thinks. “The, um, downed helicopter, the swamp, the dunes, the swimming pool. Very interesting.”

“There’s a plane in the swamp too.”

“Yup, saw that as well.”

“Do you want to hear the story (about it)?”

“Oh sure. Why not. But first, the helicopter.” Philip Strevor mentioned a helicopter along with the cubes, she thinks.

“Same story, actually. Swamp attracted both. Swamp drew them in. Just like a picture it drew them in. Got a taste for aerial. Opposites attract, after all. Water and air.”

This boy’s just spouting boyish nonsense, Fern thought, looking at his mischievous expression on his small face. But whatever; don’t have any other point of information as they say. Haven’t spotted anyone else in town. Just this child. A bartending child. Doesn’t quite add up. “Go on… I’m listening.”

(to be continued)

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June 14, 2024 · 9:47 pm

She arrived here in a boat.

But not that one. That one is just a collection of rocks. Art on Eve Street. By Rust of all people.

—–

When he got the vehicle home, he found he had to get rid of the extra horsepower to fit it into the garage. Oh well: there’s always the pasture out back for when he needs it. “Albert, see to, er, Wilbur if you would please,” he said to his thought-to-be faithful servant, cooking up a name on the spot while handing over the reigns. “Some place with a lot of mowable grass to munch down on.”

“Right, sir.”

“And women. Don’t forget the women.”

“Sure thing, sire.” But he was talking to the horse now.

“Well — I’ll be,” Frank Lynn said to this surprising new turn, noting the long boner he had just thinking about it. What a grand scheme that dolphin wizard in the swamplands cooked up to make him the richest person in all of GTA V on top of being its most successful novelist. “Why not go all the way?” the wizard said about the original wish, knowing he had the power to amplify and extend. A chatting stallion would be worth more than the sum of all his cars, he realized while driving his VW with the now allowable headroom into his wide if not tall garage. He’d see to that challenged dimension too soon enough.

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March 9, 2024 · 4:09 pm

00420301 (another VA neck)

Unable to write today he watched her from afar, wondering what she was waiting for. Hope she doesn’t abstract today, he thinks. Sometimes just doing nothing can set it in. Maybe I better go over there, talk to her, interact with her, check on her. Make sure she’s okay. Keep her mind occupied. Maybe talk about the past. And the future. But not the present. Never the present.

I wonder where this Shelley girl is, she ponders from the balcony like Juliet to his Romeo. She had an antipoison on hand just in case she made the same mistake as in the past. White Stone — check on it.

She smells the red roses and that makes her feel better. Arrive by sea and I’ll be waiting and watching, she ordered the girl who was actually a woman indeed. The Woman. Unless that’s Parasol.

Ah yes, that must be her pulling in there at the marina, she observes from her castle up on the hill. Better tell Amos I’ll be indisposed for a couple of hours.

(to be continued)

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December 8, 2023 · 2:39 am

art

“That doesn’t look much like the landscape out there,” I opined from behind.

“I paint what my cane tells me to. I mean, my *brush* — force of habit there with the mention of cane. I may not need it any longer,” he furthered. “Getting an update from the person who created me. The heck with the other doctors. Dr. White, the last one I interviewed, turned out not to be even (named) White. And maybe not even a rabbit as advertised, pheh. Looked more like a rab*bat* to me. No, I’ve decided to simply replace me… with myself.” He checks his Diamond Rolex watch, dropping some cerulean blue paint on his gray-black Ralph Lauren dress pants in the motion. “Shoot,” he cusses at the stain, but then realizes the pants will be gone soon, along with the body, the skin, the whole kitten kaboodle. “Gotta run,” he says in parting. “Mind finishing this for me?” And grasping his brush while he did the same with his cane, I sat down and went to work. I can do realism, I said to myself as I added more waves to the sea.

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October 1, 2023 · 3:20 pm

00400301

Tessa was in the foreground talking to someone just off-screen. Her boyfriend/faux cousin Edward if I had to guess. Chair sitting Pink was similarly highlighted in the background interacting with a punk on the couch: Ketchup Tom, who owned the trailer, named for his bright red Mohawk if not visa versa. And they all owed him a big favor whether they knew it or not. His given name before he acquired a stage one: George. Rumor has it he destroyed a punk bar carved out of a big piece of coal in West Virginie when playing his signature track “Fire Ants”, quickly followed by “Water Uncles”, a lesser hit. A folly we could call it, but the oddball builders of the thing couldn’t have foreseen George’s powerful sturm und drang guitar licks ahead of time, like something straight out of a Nazi war lab. And he also had a magical ring to amplify the sound — very important detail there.

I couldn’t figure out some of the elements happening to the right in the location pictured above so I just left them out by blocking them with a wall (sorry). We could guess a stereo system or something given Ketchup Tom’s musician status, maybe a guitar or 2 to go along with a microphone or 3. Yes, let’s go with that. We’ll see them soon enough, then.

Oh, I do know that Eddie, Marsha “Pink” Krakow newly appointed boyfriend, was outside walking Dogg, an older mutt now she purchased as a pup over on the Corsica continent in a town that subsequently sank beneath the sea. Storybrook again.

Actually let’s move inside while we have the opportunity and zoom out a bit at the same time.

Turns out there was no stereo or musical stuff to the right. I must be thinking about a different Big Sandy trailer, then, perhaps also owned by the affluent punk and maybe one a little more solidly constructed to withstand the magically enhanced noise he’ll be making there. In the simultaneous zooming out we do reveal a poster to the left he keeps by the door to remind him of his lost origins. Marsha “Pink” Krakow has Dogg; Ketchup Tom has George.

(to be continued)

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July 22, 2023 · 2:30 am

00390301

I use to not be that way, she pondered, thinking back back back to innocence and childhood. Running a garden cafe while her Mom was busy making deliveries. Goofing off in back while customers waited for more service which usually never came. Served them their food and/or drinks, she thinks. Done with them — my time now. She had big plans and needed to dream about them a lot. She intended to own… a castle.

—–

“Lordy, child. What you thinking about *now*?” her mother complained, seeing that glazed look in her eyes again while she herself has to do all the work. “These cookies won’t baked themselves. Set aside those dreams and help me roll the dough.”

“I was thinking about… Bliss.”

“Child, you’re too young to be thinking… oh.” Gertrude realized she was talking about the cat and not religious or any other type, God forbid, of ecstasy. “Yes,” she says while continuing to sprinkle sugar on the first dozen, almost ready for the oven. “Well, Bliss is in a better place now, child. The Lord will take care of her.” Pause to set down the sugar. “The Lord will take care of all of us when our time has come.” She thought of more reprimands but decided now was not the time. The child was obviously still grieving a bit. Things like, “It was *just* an animal,” wouldn’t suffice here. Or that, “Sorry for your loss, move on,” joke she heard on one of her favorite British TV shows the other day. No — consoling will have to be the trick. And she *is* tired of doing all the work. She decides to combine the two needed outcomes. “Tell you what, when I start feeling down, little girl, I always find that working takes my mind off my troubles.”

“Oh, Mom. You’re just trying to get me to make those cookies.”

“True,” she admits, “that’s an added benefit. But the taking your worries off part is true as well. So what do you say? I’ll put this batch in the oven and I’ll help you.”

(to be continued)

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