Category Archives: 0403
“Live around here?”
“Nooope. Pietmond,” he said. But Sunklands’ Pietmond had been destroyed long long ago. Something was up.
“Live around here?” she tried again just around the corner in a “secret” nook.
“Naah. Just here to study,” the long haired man across the loaded down table said hoarsely, as if he’d just sang a rock n’ roll concert for a 100,000 people.
The other sitting there even turned her back on the child, not wanting discourse and hoping her Goth father was about ready to split this boring town. So that takes care of Pietmond Boy, Osborne Well, and Lou…
… moving us into the opposite corner of the new Collagesity library containing an estimated 100,000 books, a book for each person at one of Osborne’s concerts to put it another way. Here: Tronesisia.
“Live around here?” she tried once more to the former pleasure bot turned tame, this child named Shelley who had given up her castle to construct this building, be with these people. But blue eyed Tronesisia was having a vision and couldn’t answer immediately.
Where had she heard this before? Blue *and* green. It didn’t compute: something was ill fitting; broken even.
“Arkansaw,” she said softly, starting to figure it out. “Arkansaw,” she said again, one blue eye changing, seeing beyond the other, seeing North beyond South.
In the center, Missouri appeared — Miss Ouri. The new librarian.
(to be continued)
“I’m going to relieve you of your duties here, Valerie. We actually bought the purple car in a different place. Not Bluefield.”
“Mount Airy — yes, I’ve heard.”
Close! thinks Jeffrey Phillips as Baker Bloch, surprised rumor has traveled so far. But Iowa instead of North Carolina. And it’s Air. Ayr. But he let the mistake stand and didn’t correct.
“Last day will be the end of next month. You’ll begin collecting your retirement pension come March 1. We thank you for your service to the state!” North Carolina again, but we’ll stick with Iowa.
“Schweeeet,” she exclaimed, and crouched down on the floor, a familiar and comforting gesture. She couldn’t help it — her eyes were trained too well. She kept looking for that car to appear. Maybe it will, she thought. The owner of this here blog isn’t correct on all things. Maybe the purple car will come out *here*. It’s a blue rose case, after all. And this is Baker Bloch as Jeffrey Phillips. Backwards but obvious.
The owner of the land has it up for sale at a reasonable price. This portal in the very epicenter of Maebaleia could vanish any day now, any moment. I’m going to say goodbye to it now. Mad Valerie can be reassigned for that final month if needed.
Farewell 2701 Bland Rd. I place a blue rose in your lawn.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” hidden Fern said down below, switching South with North.
“Let’s go play with The Diagonal,” she requests, getting up.
“36, 35: 100 less in each case than the ottoman at the center where Shelley seduced Tommy (Tailgate). Do you recall who else was seduced on a tailgate?”
“Sid?” I said, suddenly having omniscient author powers. Sid worked for Buster Damm in the Pot-D organization, unless it was visa versa. I also realized that the omniscient author of this here photo-novel, 29 in a series of nothing, had left a lot of choices open-ended. In one fork… well I guess Pot-D is the stable thing, the whole idea of protecting The Diagonal, which only numbers one now, at least on this continent (Heterocera). And this is where it all began — in the Rubi Woods extended to VHC City. The first 5 photo-novels were all about the continent before we — our extended family of core avatars — moved away from it starting in 6. And now we’re in a whole different hemisphere, East instead of West. I looked at the witch, wondering what direction *she* would choose. Does she live in a backwards world, a mirror to our own? Strange thought.
“You have everything you need here — on this spot. You can spot Shelley’s clock tower up toward the center of the sim. You can see my cabin in the woods over there. And over there (she turns): the Good Neighbors pylon marking where The Diagonal enters the sim in the first place. What more do you need? The Sun?”
Indeed it was beginning to rain. I realized my neck ached more because of the coming of such.
East or West? I guess I would go with West, then. She seemed to like it here.
(to be continued)
He continued his information. “Before is the establishment of Fairview Alpha. Sometimes it is called the Big Mess. Too messy. Water everywhere. So many trees and plants and bushes. Clutter, if you will. After is Fairview and Alpha separate, as they should be. One in one place and the other in another. This is also known as the Plane of Martin and the Plain o’ Allen. Fairview is a fair view of the world, as it is, plain and uncluttered. The great bird flies in the sky but always lands here. Here is here. There is no Other, except for the Abyss.”
“Before you start,” he boomed, “take off that silly shirt. The queen does not play croquet. She doesn’t have time for that nonsense.”
“I know, I know,” begged off Guy Benjamin, now part of the rebellion. He shed his first shirt, revealing Zero.
“Do you even know who I am?” he projected forth in a kingly manner.
“You are… leader of the rebellion, sire,” said Guy, slightly taken aback. “Your name is Legend.”
“My name is *Dan*,” retorted the face in front of him, a duplicate of the one on his Zero shirt except for the bespectacled cartoon face and long, Pinocchio-like nose. Guy considered the nose for perhaps the first time: the mark of a liar, a deceiver.
“Just kidding. It’s Atom. Ayom. Something. Let’s go with Atom. Do you like Atom?”
“I… haven’t thought of it before… your name I mean.”
“Atom, yes,” the face finalizes, crystalizes. “I am the *beginning* (long, kingly pause). And the end (quick, succinct).”
“Some people, sire,” Guy ventured and admitted, hoping it wasn’t going too far, “say you are The Lamb.”
“Bu HUH HUH HUH. *LAMB*?… (another kingly pause). Well okay that’s fair (quick again; a let-off; release).”
Guy stood awkwardly before the face that demanded to be called Atom but may also be Lamb, shifting his feet around, trying to think of something else to say and not look as much of a fool this time about it. The face let him off the hook finally, tired of the squirm. “Halfway through my rule I have reached the end but not the beginning. I am the great 4-n-1, and that is *numbers* (pause) but also the word FOREIGN. FOREIGN ONE.”
“You are an alien,” replied Guy. “I have heard the rumors from the rebellious others.”
“*Other* Other.” Let’s stop there.
Prick grew up after the disappointment of losing the balloon and his childhood sweetheart along with it (Pip). Took to playing the violin; joined a band of sorts. But beamy yellow sunshine always remained hidden in starless darke. He was not a happy man. Here he bows a dirge to fallen children everywhere — one of his compositions for the group.
Don, Joe and Alex put up with the pain and sorrow, which they liked to mask themselves with drugs and women and expensive, gaudy clothes. Colorful, they were in a word. Sgt. Pepper-ish. Not Prick. Just pepper would do for him, as in sneezy and black.
They played the last sad chord of the piece.
“Okay,” offered Cheery Don, who was kind of the leader. “Let’s try something more uplifting now.”
One of *yours* obviously, Prick thought pungently, but instead it was green boy Jolly Joe’s turn. Ambiguous Alex, who was closer to Prick’s spirit as well as his body here, glanced over, wondering if he’d even lift up his arm to his fiddle for this one. Someday, he knew, the limb would not rise but remain by the side. Then it would be done. All this was written or foreshadowed or prerecorded back in childhood.
Then the group as a whole could move on to Frenzied Fred. The Purple Bunch they would become in this most likely of probable realities, archaic instruments set aside forever.
Duncan sometimes sits down there staring at those tulips well into the evening. He’s looking for something that isn’t there. *I* can’t even see the tulips at least from this angle, thinks George here, stomach rumbling from lack of food. 1/2 past six. Looks like spaghetti-o’s again. He moves to the kitchen to prepare the water.
Couple more well placed toy avatars and we’re outta here, he contemplates while still staring deeply, gazing even. He pulls out a fish taco from his sweater he brought for a snack, but before he could take the first bite he remembered the boy.
“George,” he exclaimed. “*Dinner*”. He throws the fish taco in the tulips for the rats and heads home, going over apology after apology in his head. But George was use to it.
(to be continued)
Another big wave was coming in. “Well here we are, Wendy Wheeler. Lounging around on a beach with our oversized gin and tonics like an old married couple.”
“You’re leaving me,” she guessed. It was something in the tone of his voice. And, well, his history with women in general.
Jeffrey Phillips sighed, thus giving an answer.
“It was the Tennessee thing, wasn’t it? We didn’t go… far enough.”
“I guess, Wheeler, I just like them (*sigh*) cheap and easy.”
Silence for a while. “You’ll go back to Marwood then, to Easy Street — E Street.”
“Suppose so,” he said after a pause. “I mean, what do you care. You have 2 husbands already — Tropp and Opp or whatever…”
“Opp. His name is Opp. Tropp was just an invention by the maker of this blog.” She stared directly out of the blog and into my eyes. “A contraction of True Opp, just like sometimes I am referred to as True Wheeler — Treelor.”
“Yeah I never figured out what that meant.” He stared out of the blog as well, but not at me. Just at darkness. I’m writing this at 2:42 in the morning with the lights out. What I mean is that he isn’t as informed as Wheeler on the subject of the 4th wall and how to successfully break it. But he did have one trick he was about to reveal to her.
Wheeler/Hidi felt her hair get impossibly wet from that waterfall tumbling off the cliff over there. The blog, if successful, is one continuous collage, and she also knew this. Her marriage was a sham. “Jeffrey,” she then said, staring at it across the water while still getting a bit wet. “Are we even engaged?”
It was here Jeffrey admitted he had his fingers crossed behind his back the whole time, which led to this.
Kick-Ass Bogota wonders where his brother Kick-Ass Boos ran off to — for several weeks! It’s like he has a secret life as a superhero or something, ha, laughs Bogota inwardly, knowing the reverse is true. Because he’s right over there, just up over the street edge at the bar he forgot he owned and had to be reminded by his employee. I know this is happening. I sawed him off (last Thursday’s Tuesday).
If only it had worked out better over at Four Corners on the Bellisaria continent, he thinks. Maybe he could balance the ordinary and extraordinary better. But as he is, he’s totally unfit to replace Baker Bloch as Sunklands leader, pheh. I’ll testify against him if it comes to that.
Bogota looks out, trying to spot his sometimes bodiless dog in the yard. 3 more trailers align themselves out into the distance, ending with the dumpster where Bogota found that book which told the whole story, 4 Corners, NWES City, everything. In fact, he should get back to reading it. He’s up to where he’s sitting in front of his trailer and staring off at the distance and then remembering to pick up the book from his lap. He picks up the book from his lap.