“Jasper, take a look at this photo one of the drones took over the Amazon and settle a bet with us. Does that look like a beaver to you, because Marion says it’s a propeller.”
Jasper studies the photo. “Where’s his head?”
“Well, it’s underwater obviously. And you have a tail and and two little arms sticking out plain as day.”
“And how about this picture of a swimming pool while we’re at it. Do you think that’s suppose to be Vermont, or New Hampshire?”
She floated on the two lips joined together in the center of the pool. She kept glancing anxiously over at Dr. Mouse and his greatest creation, Pansy, conferring about the deal at a table on the cement’s edge. She wondered how it was going. Copyright infringement? Trademark protection? That’s how it all started, this conference in the Amazon. A River runs through it, Source to Mouth. Or Lake. George had traded places with a girl, Hitgirl to be precise, not selling corndogs any longer at a Southwest Airport. Or cornogs I suppose I should say. But hot dogs remain in the news. 6 dead now in in Slaashsides over in the nw part of Nautilus continent, with the last squirted with both mustard and ketchup, indicating his kind. That brought it to the attention of Dr. Mouse, who then asked Pansy to enter the picture for more visiblity. He was planning on a national campaign. The Pooping Pigeon was going to mean big time money, big time power. It was a built in headliner.
“A chain of restaurants,” shot back the doctor. They were exchanging ideas rapid fire.
“Chocolate. No: vanilla,” came the squeaky reply. “Like the color of the…..”
“Poop. Just say it, Pansy. Don’t be afraid of the word. It’s going to make us a fortune.”
(to be continued?)
I wish I could say hello, welcome, “MAT Gone Bad” thought at his “welcoming” couch, spying Sandman descend the stairs from the Portal in the distance. But not here. Canada or not, this is *my* realm. And you’re not a part of it. Dany Rada, without an extra N — or an R — invented the (time) plunger that brought me here, in his true self. You have not seen his true self, you do not know the truth… *interloper*. Things have equaled out now and beyond, with not a level playing ground to behold, not even close.
He stares upward now, seeing the many levels Sandman, formerly newly appointed Collagesity leader Jeffrey Phillips, has to ascend to win the “game”. He’ll probably never make it to the castle, Man About Time calculates in his machinating mind, but even if he does the Grandma is there at the end. No one gets past the Grandma. Everyone has one, and everyone is leveled out at the top because of her. Grandma will ask about the innermost secrets and if she is not happy with the answers, she will *cancel all future realities*. That simple. But, again, he probably won’t even make it that far.
Sandman’s pace is still brisk when he steps upon the pathway leading to the Ethereal Falls. MAT reconsiders in the moment. Sandman is strong, having Jeffrey Phillips’ soul within as a new host. He truly could make it to the Grandma. But no further of course. Unless, *his* reality is cancelled instead. He ponders this terrifying if unlikely future for just a few seconds before waving it off as if an irritating gnat. He settles back into the couch for a nap, for there is no one down here that can bid him otherwise.
They faced away from each other, unlike the before times. Like father and son they were (they were). Blue was the color of the day back then, as in a police officer’s uniform. Fiery red of the firemen came later, after death, or a little before actually. It was just like Peanut Cop changing hats.
It seemed destiny they just weren’t going to be that close. Man of dreams, man of action. Doesn’t blend well. But we must move on to other dreams in other places…
“You’ve had your turn. She’s smiling at me now.”
“You have wonky eyes.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“6 o’clock?! I’ve got to get back for supper. Butter get those flapjacks on, witches!
“Soup’s up!” Fisher the fry cook called.
“That’s yours, Groover,” Olive Oylstick reminded her dinner companion, wondering where her pancakes were. Damn witches.
“Oh GROOVEY!” Shut up, is all she could think with rumbling stomach.
Picking out a new favorite stuffed animal at the pet shop, one without wonky eyes. She doesn’t want to be reminded! She stares straight at them to keep aligned.
She brought Groover back to wait at the Blue Airfield (in Gray?) for her cousins Zimmy and Mr Z, all three born from another mother. They never showed up. “Just like pancakes,” she groused, looking over at the monster everyone in certain parts of various continents were talking about. Knob Noster, some called it. “You know this means we’ll have to stay in the homeless shelter again, Groovey… Groover.”
“I don’t care,” he said, patting his full stomach again. One meal at a time for him, one meal, one day, one week without a 7th to show up. She could put an end to it; turn him in. But she needs a pillow tonight, apparently. She glances one last time out the window to see if any more ships were flying in. Ghosts again.
“Hey stop reaching. *My* wine. Now get behind me and fall asleep so I can too, pheh.”
“Wonder who the new bozo is over there.”
“I had to move. The houses and structures kept closing in. Soon *I* would become a house, a structure. Time to go on. I searched for a sim, a place for center. Nothing would be as perfect as Purden, the 128 128 128. I had moved before, returned. I knew what it took to be Mobile and the consequences suffered or endured because of it. I changed. Out of the ground and into the air and all was different. I could be either male or female since I was both. I had to retain some green in my form but that was about all. I could even be a car. Right Alena?”
“Right Core,” he spoke out the side of his-her mouth to the other being inside the tree.
“Good thing we both can breath underwater,” returned female Alena from the other side.
“That’s just what I said when I showed up here in Iris!” offered listening Snowmanster, still present at the psychic talking tree in the exact center of The Shallows. 128 128 again, but without the third 128 this time. Not perfection. But it seems to do for the moment.
Floating Old Grey in her bubble piped up for the first time during the visit. “I was killed. Murdered. By…”
“Now now, Old Grey. Don’t try to think too hard. You’re freshly dead after all.” Snowmanster stood back and looked at her, snowy hands on frosty hips in a studying gesture. Core-Alena as one was scrutinizing her as well. She floated, she bobbed and weaved seemingly at random but basically in the same spot.
“Oily way,” the tree being(s) said after an interval. “That’s the phrase I was thinking about back there.”
Time to ponder Gong again and the Flying Teepot.
Cub Run is an unincorporated community in Hart County, Kentucky, United States. It was also known as The Crossroads….
The [Chicago] indie rock band Eleventh Dream Day recorded their 1991 album “Lived to Tell” in a tobacco barn on the Niland’s farm in Cub Run.
In the fall of 1991 Eleventh Dream Day was at the crossroads.
Not the Robert Johnson meet-the-devil crossroads (although they may have been willing to negotiate if they could have found those crossroads), but a juncture where break-it seemed more inevitable than make-it in the dichotomy.
Who is at The Crossroads? And is that a… guitar??
“Catvas I always smells of bird,” Bill complains. “And Catvas II of fish.”
“You smell of lion,” Grassy continued the grousing. “And I smell of, um, sodden earth? Haystacks?” He looks down at his white, sneakered feet. “Haven’t quite pinned it down.”
“We’ll get to Montana and then we’ll know.” Bill leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Got any more of that wacky weed on ya? I brought some tweezers.”
“Then I’ve got the pony, hehe. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
“I was surprised to find (The) Bill still living in Iris in that neat shack of hers with the great view of the Moth Temple. I thought she’d moved on long ago. But time traces have a way of lingering — if you’re alert to the situation. Which I try to be, bananas and other fruits be darned. Sox. I’m wondering about black and white again tonight, expanded into green and blue vs. red and yellow. Just like the Mmmmmm’s, poor bastards. I suppose Mmmmmm Grassy Noll is still around, maybe even Roger Pine Ridge. Yes, we must journey back back back to Iris, the “eye” of Heterocera. Just for a bit.
“I think we’ve about got it, Grassy!”
“Grass, please,” he reprimanded about his name once again.
Unlike before, they were working on the Flip side this time.
Baw Beese L., source of St. Joseph River Lake Michigan, helps change Osseo to safer Oesso. Think Possom to Opossum once more.
The “Endless Window” collage changes accordingly.
Firefive could barely not see the little central Danshire island that started it all. He decides to eliminate volume to check.
“Aah. *There* you are you little bastard. No Small Kowloon Shack perched on your noggin neither here nor there. Good!” Firefive, commonly referred to as either Fire or Five amongst friends — 1/2 and 1/2 — then turned the other way atop the Debelox water tower in the middle of Mouth of Ralph to gaze south instead. Could he see *it* as well. The Mansfield Mansion in Port Mansfield?
“Aah. *There* you are you little bastard,” he repeated when zooming in and volume returned. *My* bastard. Getting dark — better head back home for now.
“Lucifer!? I’m hoome!”
Jack Snow the French bulldog barked at him after he opened the door. Jack Snow never remembered who he was, although he’d lived here for years. Batty Casey waited in the living room, ready this night to make the Big Reveal to her sometimes lover, sometimes enemy, 1/2 and 1/2 again. She was hoping this would tip the scales one way or another. “Friend or foe?” she wanted to call back but bit her firey tongue with joint firmly in cheek. She moved it with her tongue more toward the middle again and took another deep draw. She then decided this wouldn’t be the night. They would watch reruns of “I Love Lucifer” on the tellie instead. Fred Merth — so funny.
Fire or Five would become a widower soon enough at the end of 5. The first male widow of the bunch, growing weekly almost. 6 may bring a return to normalcy. But: doubtful.
“Come on in, dearest. Our show’s about to start.”
She perches behind, oh so tempted to clobber him right here and now with her deadly bat just to get it over with. Then the heart accompanied by big band music appears, tipping her in the
right wrong direction again.
I’m going to *search* out meaning in life while I have it. Like this Great Fracture or Fissure. What is it? Why do people live around it? Fractured — like this world, this estate. Why exist here?
I’ve got to get out of here! thought Duncan Avocado while staring out from the Great Fracture or Fissure sim at the Spiral Jetty over in Hambone. Create some interactive land art; take some Real Life photos; something! Jackson Bloch did it. I can too!
But, no, his assignment tonight was to head down to the Last Drop at the west lip of the Fissure and interact with the locals; try to get some dirt on what’s going down. Besides lip rocks.
“I dreamed last night,” began weight challenged Gabriel again, “that the Fissure was a great mouth, trying to tell us something. You know, that rock in the middle, that pillar, was the tongue.”
“We Camptons like to call it *Fracture*, reiterated Jed across from him for the hundredth time. It was a great debate: Fracture or Fissure. Another one of those split worlds, like we’ve seen with continental names Maebaelia or Satori. Another of those South-North separations, even. Because the South side of the Fissure, Camptons included, preferred Fracture, while the North side — Gabriel, et al. — preferred the obverse. One could *observe*, from above, the mouth speaking, true. Breaking away from Gabriel’s glare, Jed allowed him to continue his story, name problem set aside for the moment. “Alright,” he encouraged. “Go ahead.”
Duncan listened carefully from a nearby chair as the fourfold truth was told about the sim.