“Your dog’s standing on my foot, right?”
“Hand it over!”
Ebony and… Dove?
I thought I saw someone standing behind my sister today on her rock.
I’ll have to ask her about it.
“Ivory?!” she calls over in her wee fae voice from her huge oak stump. No answer. That wasn’t the name of her sibling pixie any longer. Thanks to Greenleaf.
There! “Who’s that then!?”
Area 54 (where are you?).
A welcoming sight in the woods (reversed; w/ balancing male and female rock piles).
Bottle tree. Just been added to the day before this photo was taken.
Sitting Bullrock (not to be confused w/ much larger Bullrocks way up the mountain slope; maybe rename one or the other; this is where I *sit*).
In a different meadow: both a white-ish golf ball and large-ish white rock (“Diamond”) placed here.
This overall location framed by the 2 welcoming sight rock stackings is *mysterious*.
“Aww *raspberries*!” he cussed after running me over in his little purple car, him with his curly purple hair and dark, tall attitude and altitude. *Finally*. I’d been asking for it since John F. Kennedy City when Jeffrey Phillips almost did it with red. He prodded me with his foot to make sure, but I was sure dead all right, raspberry beret crushed and mixed into a bigger mess that was formerly my somewhat dense but pretty enough head. Maw was right. You can’t be in two places at once when… can’t remember the rest.
He could never have me.
He withdraws foot from leg, knowing it was The End.
“Get off my bag. Quit copying my look.”
“No *you’re* copying *my* look.” Snickers all around before parting.
Mr. Z, aka A.B. Normal, paused at the top of the bridge, realizing he had encountered his own doppleganger heading in the opposite direction: toward that island storm. He could fully see him now as a 3 dimensional person and not mere flat illusion, but it was too late. “Careful in your journeys, mister!” he decided to call as the other continued down the far side. “I’ll be alright!” came the more distant reply, also knowing what the other was thinking as he started to smell the rain and ozone.
“That’s not a bird,” old man Fred said, standing uncomfortably close to me, creepily close even. “That’s a *caricature* of a bird, like a cartoon.” He leans down and speaks to the cartoon directly. “Aren’t you Blackey!” as if the bird perched on my shoulder was hard of hearing. Quite the opposite! He’s scolded me many a time for talking too loud to him when he’s right there, not 6 inches from my mouth at any moment. What would he do to Fred now? Peck his eyes out? Finally fly away and never come back? What a fine mess that would put me in, because I’d have to go out and find a *proper* looking bird to take his spot. Because I doubt that such cartoon birds were still available — on the marketplace or anywhere else. Just like my dear old pops Spaced Ghost, the outfit of which was retired long ago. So: 1/2 of me. And probably the other half — originally Linden Boy Next Door in some version — as well. We’re all antiquated. Maybe we should *all* fly away somewhere over the rainbow or something. Wait: tried that already. Hucka D.’s White Place in De Skies; the equivalent. Yet here we are again, talking to Fred, listening to his criticisms of Blackey’s looks, and, by extension, mine. Yes, Blackey and me will never part ways. I’ll see to that. And Hucka’s back too, but more woman and less bee than ever. No antennae now, even.
And Tulsa is waiting on us, not Omaha. “How’d we get over here, Hucka?” I ask her across the way.
“Define ‘here’,” she replied, and ordered a salad with no lettuce and extra ketchup.
“Just nuts,” I complained, and then they brought an assortment. Tasty! But it still didn’t answer my question. Hucka D. spooned a big bite of red looking salad into her mouth. STOP
GO Creepy Fred was gone. Hucka D. spooned a big heap of green salad into her mouth to my left. Omaha spilled coffee in my lap after I politely asked for it, ow ow ow! Point made. There was a reason we were there instead of here, I get it.
“I get it,” I said aloud to Hucka, still holding my groin.
Alysha had changed again. I only knew her because of the red kid’s shoes she still wore. And the face scars of course. And those eyes I suppose, although they were more heavily mascaraed than before, if that’s even a word. We jointly stared at the chest (box) advertised as filled with photos and personal belongings the owner can’t part with because of the spirits of long dead relatives. The belongings are described as a mix of benign and antagonistic, the latter group apparently applying to potential visitors. Like us, I suppose.
“What could be *in* it?” she asked, staring at the surfaces and corners, looking for clues. The key remained unfound. We’d searched the entire place, named “Swamp Shack Brown” but obviously leaning more toward plum. Or raspberry.
The “Swamp Shack Purple” on the other side of the currently atrophying body of water tucked in the southwest corner of Soap just lost its violet furniture I was going to use in a post somewhere. Party over, I suppose. Instead we are compensated with the brown shack being this color, just as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince could have lived beyond the Purple Rain of 1999 and entered the new century with a raspberry beret. Or disguise… hmmm.
“Have you found anything?” I spoke down, thinking about calling her “honey” but deciding against it — too soon. Her dark eyes darted here and there but didn’t fixate on anything. What was she seeing?
“I’m so sleeepy, Hoppy. Must be the place. Oops.
“There I go again, geez. Can’t — stop — yaawninnnngg *Zzzzzzzzz*.”
He could hear his mother calling from across the schoolyard. “Her-BERT?! Herbert DUNE! YOU come HERE right this *INSTANT*.” It was the call for dinner. He wasn’t going to budge from this hollowed out tree. He liked the swing here; no one bothered him. Oh, Martha Ram would sometimes come out on her porch and look his way, wondering if he was mere shadow or actual man-boy. But that was about all. Squirrels maybe. “Her-BERT!” Mom could search and search and couldn’t find him here. He was about ready to escape. “Her- BERRRRRRRRT!”
He woke up, looked over at the swing. A bear reared up in the distance behind it, complaining to another bear about him finding too many fish to eat.
He wondered if he was still dreaming, since he usually doesn’t understand Bear language. Now he’s saying he feels emasculated because of it. Strange — not what you’d think a bear would say.
“You’ve been talking to us a lot,” suddenly piped up Hoppy still in front of him, ears flopping here and there. “We’ve decided to talk *back*.”
Herbert decides to pinch himself. Didn’t work!
“Oh he was one Black Hole of a guy, sucking everything in in his way,” he spoke despairingly later about his much more famous sibling of sorts. Some say they are the same — he begs to differ, this *Kelly*. History changes and the Whites don’t like it. Buildy Bob assumes a cone position atop the truck again, showing his true colors. He cusses like a mo fo and doesn’t turn red, because there was only black and white for him. And he smelled a skunk. And he could read the newspaper headlines in front of his crude face with his rude mouth. “Dewey (F-cking) Wins”. It was all a big fat (circular) lie — yellow journalism. We better get back to Paper Soap. But first…
“Hey, watch the f-ck out!”
“We meet again Yoyo or Dada. Better let me speak with Claude or Claudette. We’re getting kind of near the end, need to start wrapping things up here so we can move on to the 28th. Some months — well, February — only have such. We’re becoming a whole damn month Yoyo-dada. Better move aside, let me talk to the golden cow.”
“Assure you here he not is,” rasped YD. Dr. Mouse hit him with his own cane to sweep him away, clear path ahead.
“I’m *freezing* in here, Mr. F. Why, um, why don’t we close the windows?”
“I like… the billowing drapes,” he said coldly, without emotion. “Allows… me to thiiink.”
“Sure, sure,” I spoke back, shivering as usual. I guess they didn’t name him Mr. Frost for nutt’n.
“Torchboy,” he spoke to me, using that nickname I hated so much. “Turn down the space heater.” He pointed to the floor at the softly humming device. “You’re ruining the effect for me.”
I guess it would help if I put on a shirt, but I liked to show off my scorch’n tattoos. Over there is a tiger, and then there is another tiger, and then another tiger over there–
“I’m going to interrupt you here, baker b.,” said W., coming out from behind a curtain. We need to return to Picturetown, Canada. It’s the only way to properly end.”
They sat for hours like this, one still too hot and the other too cold, despite the hot body art. “Torchboy” had caught on. The wind speaks!
“Has the wind… ever called itself ‘W’ to you?” he asked at exactly 1/2 past 6. Maybe they should eat something, but neither could pry themselves away from the mesmerizing voice.