Category Archives: 0317

packing/unpacking

Certain Death was playing on the turntable below the “Big Open”, beckoning them forward, the white twin obscured. Blackness. The End. Starless.

—–

Marsha “Pink” Krakow watched as the moving van gradually filled up with their possessions. “Drane Hill,” she said aloud, testing the name.  A rather ugly one, she thought. Doesn’t roll off the tongue like Storybrook. Bad sign up front.

She’d looked it up. It was a mistake appellation. Drane *Lick* use to run through the area, and perhaps still does. That’s a stream — lick equals stream. But the small knob directly above the village wasn’t Drane Hill, at least originally. It was Pleasant Hill, a descriptive name. Somewhere along the line hill and stream had gotten mixed up. A confusion was created. But from where? she pondered as her father, The Man, waved her toward the now packed truck, black hair queerly flickering on and off from her present perspective, grey revealed in part.

“Time to leave, honey,” he said rather hoarsely, voice weary from commanding the movers all afternoon. “The ugly yellow living room couch your mother loves so much was the last item. Come on — get inside. We’re going for a drive.” He then beckoned The Dogg to jump in the back with rest of the furniture and boxes, now all locked down. Dogg perhaps strangely was reluctant to get up from the pavement. Another meaningful sign for Marsha “Pink” Krakow, if she was paying attention. Which she was.

She too could stand her ground and not allow the van to escape. She didn’t have speak down and say goodbye to the Big Inside, trading a closed hill for an open one and a known commodity for the unknown. There was still time to talk. She had an ace in the hole. She and SEAN had been watching her mother’s comings and goings for a while now.

“Daddy?” she said, not budging an inch. “Do — do you know that fellow Charlie Banana in town?”

“Bandana?” he queried back, getting hard of hearing with his advancing age.

“No — Ba*nan*a. Yellow. Um, like that ugly yellow couch you just loaded in the back.” And here comes the zinger…

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0317, Asha, Corsica^^, Storybrook

penultimate? 02 (Manns Choice)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Photo_comics

“Geez I miss the old country. But I must get back to Instabar for the neighborhood watch meeting. Might be the last of its kind!”

“What about *us*?”

“You’ll just have to wait.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0317, Corsica^^, Scotland Highlands

… back to zero

After work, Fish Head removed his fish (tattoo) and became just the Head.

From his perch in the sky, he saw *everything*. All 100 of it.

But now…

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0317, 100 Story Building, Kowloon

section’s end

“Personally I don’t like to look at the thing,” she spoke, facing way from the map. “But there it is. The Maebaleia blue galleries of lore. Notice — and I’m not going to turn around for this — that Cassandra City near Bluestocking is closest to The Moon here.”

“I know,” cooed the staring Heart Queen, thinking back to the previously examined map on the second floor of the House of Truth. “Barracuda. Just like in ‘Moby Prick’. Gypsies. Karoz! I’m remembering. He was there!”

“He has been disguised as (similarly blue-green) Tealy for the current run of Collagesity photo-novels,” admitted Grey Scale. “Waiting to reveal himself.”

“Now’s the time!” requested the queen.

“Not quite yet,” tempered Grey Scale, who was still in charge despite the niceties. The Heart Queen, like Chesteria before her, was learning when to keep in line; bend her own will. “Don’t cross Grey Scale,” urged Chesteria as newly appointed executive advisor. “She knows what she’s doing. Despite the purse.” They both had a laugh about the yellow handbag after that — so unfashionable, both agreed. Doesn’t really go with any of her earrings, for example.

“Then… when?”

“We have to determine the identity of Tillie, the accomplice. She may be Baker Blinker, the wife in Our Second Lyfe. Or she may be…”

“Wilson?”

“Very close.” Grey Scale turned to the Heart Queen. “Very close.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0317, Golden Sink^, Maebaleia/Satori^^

expansion of the map

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0317, Blue Feather Sea^, Maebaleia/Satori^^

yellow like me

“I once had a happy life,” he kept explaining from the floor. “On my lily pad with Laurie. Our paradise, our private Eden. Until the yellow ball.”

Yellow, Allen pondered. Like me. “You said it was golden before,” he interjected downward. He was trying to separate himself from the situation. But he knew something was there. Something he had forgotten. Encasement. Something.

“Yellow… golden. Depends on if you have your glossy on.”

“Shiny, you mean.”

“Glossy,” Piper held firm. Indeed, his Second Lyfe viewer was different from Allen’s. Different terminology throughout.

“I needed a vacation from the ball. I told them I wanted to go stay with my cousin in Mistymo. Yet… here I am.”

Same mistake, Allen Y. ruminates. But now: *no* mistake. He knew that. And he knew darn well they heard “Alien comma Yellow” also. This is starting to sound like some half baked plot in a backwater blog.

Dolly beside him begin to tell her own tale. “They found me. I asked for it. I asked to be exposed. They found me.” Piper’s voice was deep, masculine and robust; Dolly’s was so thin and feminine you could barely hear it. Her pipes weren’t what Piper’s were. Allen received the idea that the two knew each other better than either let on — the way they looked at each other.

But there was Archibald left. And Jennifer M. Friend from Anniston, Alabama hadn’t even shown up yet. Complained of upper stomach pains last night. Hope she’s okay. Maybe someone should go knock on her door. Maybe that someone should be… me. Because, Allen admitted to himself, I kind of fancy her. 1/2 and 1/2. Plus she might need help. I’ll bring her some candy to cheer her up. Corn should do the trick.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0317, MISTY MO^^

in and out

Tronesisia walked to the top of the stairs to confront Peter SoSo full on. “I’m here my love,” she said. “We’re in this together now. Lamb.”

Meanwhile, across the tracks from here…


“It’s time Timmy. My Timmy Time tiny horse.”


“Well she got off to a running start and that’s good.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, ., 0317, Heterocera^^, Lapara^

upsidaisy

It appeared in VHC City’s underground Muff-Bermingham station on the second to last day of May 2017. The four stars strung above the entrance — red, green, blue, yellow — were a dead giveaway to who dwelt inside. It could only be Spongeberg the Destroyer, similarly bedecked with the same four colored stars. But where was he? The caravan appeared empty.

But suddenly Wheeler was there, walking out the entrance in the most outrageous clown costume yet. Was that Spongeberg attached to her body??

No, it wasn’t. Should we send another avatar over to get the story? Baker Bloch is a logical choice. Maybe The Musician. But, no, here comes The Musician out of the caravan on the heels of Wheeler. He has a clown costume on as well — not quite as extreme as Wheeler’s, but pretty full frontal still. Noises inside. Appears there’s actually a party going on now where before was dead silence. At least 4 clowns within by my counting. One manifests at the door. “Hey Musician, where you going? Your turn to dance.”

The Musician moves closer to Wheeler, saying just above a whisper, “I don’t want to do that.” He’d seen the others. He’d seen *Wheeler*. He didn’t know how she did what she did.

“No choice, Musician,” returns Wheeler in a loud whisper herself, out of earshot of Johnson. “We’ve gone this far. You dance, you’re in the group. Spiffy, Jumbo, Percolator, Stingray, Johnson, and us. This will make my cover complete. You’re here with me now. Allen Martin has gone to a better plane. Go ahead and dance for the guys and gal. All you have to do is be goofy as hell and you’ll be fine. Nothing *serious*.”

“I’m not exactly sure how to do that,” admits The Musician. He was a serious artist. No comedy in his act.

“Think about what you usually do when you dance and do the exact opposite,” suggests Wheeler. “Pretend that there’s an anti-Musician, one who isn’t serious at all. A clown, a buffoon. He’s a walking laugh elicitor. He can’t walk down the street but for people doubling over all around him, rolling on their sides even. Laughs and guffaws, Musician, when they see you. I know you can do it.” She brushes aside his projecting green hair and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “The key is not to think at all,” she says, holding his arm. “Just let go. Let *everything* go. Let the other side take control.”

She grasps his shoulders and turns him around to face the caravan and Johnson. Then she gives him a swift kick up the rear, making the clown at the door clap his hands with glee. He meets the reeling Musician halfway and escorts him up the steps. “Bozo coming through,” Johnson yelps as they enter the caravan to an eruption of cheers.

Wheeler stays outside and listens, letting it soak in. The four stars above the door disappear as the event reaches a tipping point. “Spongeberg has no power here now,” she says to herself. “We move forward.”


Tipping point.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, ., 0317, Heterocera^^, VHC City^