Category Archives: Estate

March 7, 2025 · 3:54 pm

00460108 (319)

That’ll be 4 bucks please,” said ramen shop attendant Jacwylin, extending her hand with the bill for the bills. She was also the manager of this small cyperpunk type shop, if it wasn’t Tammy (pause). No, I checked. Tammy isn’t projected to be in this here photo-novel, 46 in a series. So this remains Jacwylin. “You know,” she begins again, name settled on and free to dwell in the past now, “Blue Moon Kentucky sat on that very seat, ordered that very meal. Blue like you too.” She scrutinized the face more closely. “Nah,” she begged off. “You’re not her.”

“Of course I’m not her,” said the blue clad woman back. Still working for the Horns, the big bosses, although the boss boss Edward was the only one still around. Who was now also her boyfriend. Luckily for her, he doesn’t have a cleanliness obsession. He doesn’t mind a little dirty. “But,” she reconsidered, “that’s an interesting story, worth a follow up statement.” There. I just did it. Would she get the joke?

“Ha ha,” she started after a significant enough pause. “Hu hu hu, good one.” She got it. “But, *anyway*, Blue Moon… do you like her music? Do you prefer the Cracks or do you prefer her solo work? Some do.” She withheld the “like me,” part. Wanted to get the other’s opinion first.

“I’ve heard of ‘Keep on Shining.'”

“Yes yes. Good one.” Maybe a solo lover. Like herself. She’ll keep patient.

“And, let’s see, the one about suicide is certainly interesting. Can’t recall the name of that.”

Jacwylin couldn’t either in the moment. Oh yes, she thought. “Elvis Esley.” Or Isley — she couldn’t remember if the last name of the single started with an E or an I, our first mandela effect in this here post (pause). I checked to make sure and, yes, it is so. The name Tammy remains a mistake and not an alternate reality.

(to be continued)

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March 7, 2025 · 3:15 pm

00460107

“I see you kneeling behind that curtain in there,” expressed passing businesswoman Pamela Taut, no time for tomfoolery today. Zoom meeting with an important client at 3 about a property deflated in value because of a 1000 year flood. Must be sharp; she wants that sale! Then this. “I say: expose yourself you troublemaker, you… *tart*” Come out, come out!” She only thought of her own name’s similarity with this taunt later.  When she herself was playing a maid to a big wig male’s cleanliness obsession — for a sale again, of course. “Bathroom next,” he said, knowing it was a mess because of the chaos. “Now!” “Yes sir,” she jumped. But it was all fake, just role play. Same with the person behind the curtain. She’d been ordered to sit there by another. No difference really at all.

We’ve seen this person before. Many times. She tires of hiding, wants to come into the light. This is about as close as I dare, focus on the foreground in the shot below, on the face of conspiracy nut Wanda to be specific, still listening to the imaginary (imaginary?) chattering of the mechanical (mechanical?) fish behind the bar. She knows they’ll analyze everything later on. Her friend Jenny sitting across the booth here has started calling her Wanda Fish, another taunt. Where will it end?

Right here. (to be continued)

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February 12, 2025 · 3:51 pm

00450704

Oops, he thinks while checking the photo-novel 45 clock behind Redd, its time quickly running out. See ya, my new muse. Gotta go meet Tobor down at the beach to end this thing, but not before leaving my door slightly ajar of course. This could be a deep one.

As it turns out, Greg’s Makers Way is not the only Maker in the area. There’s what appears to be this fashion magazine located in a small, out of the way radio station in nearby Seogwipo about 200 meters away, which DJ Carolin “Wind” Willows is just entering to begin her long long workday isolated from the rest of the world. Tough since she’s a sociopath, I mean, a social person. She rethinks her career choice every time she walks through that door. She also leaves it ajar? Could be.

Ahh, a little Blue Moon Kentucky from her independent label Sun Records will help first thing in the morning, she thinks. Little track called “Elvis Esley” penned by Scottyd Bill that helped put her back on the musical map after the breakup of the Cracks. Here goes!

Listening to the lyrics, Carolin can’t help but wonder again how such a depressing song ever made it to the top of the pop charts. Suicide! And more.

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February 11, 2025 · 5:45 pm

00450703 (the monster within)

Greg was also into painting trees that came from seeds, including that persimmon in the dead center of Juho we mentioned before. Here: a willow pretty nearby it at the end of the short lane known as Makers Way, Greg’s artistic and otherwise home in the still-being-developed burg. He feels he can speak to this particular tree even, hear its words, understand the language of the long, willowy limbs often swaying and sometimes rustling in the winds. “Greg Ogden,” they seemed to whisper call to him more than once. “More green, more green!” And sometimes he would change with this and sometimes he didn’t. Depends on if he’s heavy into the oils or remains more on the surface with quicker drying acrylics and watercolors. Here he dabbles in acrylic; we appear to be safe for now. 🙂

Soon he tires of outdoor stuff and returns to his newly revamped studio now chocked full of pictures of the female anatomy instead of male, the studio apartment where he lives and bathes and such just above, a one to one match in space and clutter one floor up. He always leaves the front door slightly ajar just in case he forgets his keys. Could return in one of those artistic dazes, he figures, especially if he shifts over to oil. He remembers his uncle locking himself out of his music shop for weeks because of a similar jazz trance induced by something as simple as a passing car radio. Sensitive shopkeepers responsible for the opening and closing of doors must be cognizant of their own weaknesses and adjust accordingly.

How about STAB for a name? he thinks while walking through the shop’s red facade. Short and sweet and evoking lots of the same color. Also short as in the lane he lives on. Eye-catching. And as a bonus he won’t have to repaint. STAB it is. Goes along with the blood theme of his new help wanted ad too; he’ll simply build upon it to create the perfect logo, he thinks in the moment. Good luck Peter Melanchton! Thanks for your service, but I don’t need you any longer, I don’t even need your sister any longer.

I have Redd.

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February 2, 2025 · 8:50 am

00450606

“Such brazen display, such shocking nudity.”

“I know, Momma. But some claim the human body is the highest form of art.”

“Pffft,” said Momma Cassie to this. “The human form is made to be hidden in layers of clothing, bulges and curves smoothed over… or else camouflaged in ruffles and bagginess, hmph. I turn my back on it all.” She readjusts her position on the bench to reinforce the stance.

“Right, Momma.” Andie knew discussing the subject always led to a cul-de-sac. This kind of stuff was bad and that was the end of it.

“See? This person now entering the picture has the right idea I suppose. Just grow your hair all out and let that be the end of it instead. No shape atall remains. This might be the only nudity I would condone. Better than clothes in a way, hmmm. Who is under that hair? A hag of lowest aesthetic design? A beauty — could be a man, see — of incomparable heights of loveliness? Nobody knows. Sir, sir?!” she calls over as they start to pass by, curious to find out more. “Or ma’am?!” The sir or ma’am saunters over, takes off the hat along with the attached hair, making Cassie faint. Andie looks on pleased. Prince Julian of Droop!

(to be continued?)

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February 1, 2025 · 2:20 pm

00450605

“Ummm,” goes Philip.

“Errr,” goes Lexi. Rattled Philip moves on. Lexi decides to stay. She had a purpose now.

—–

Philip’s bike then gets destroyed in an unfortunate rail accident (see background below) so he decided to pause before getting another one and instead sell some fish from a street vendor kiosk for while. Just for fun. First customer: himself, who wandered over from the Red District, eager for a talk.

“You’re not green any more,” he began. “Last time we spoke… you were green.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, *me*.” He held up a freshly battered halibut he’d been bashing with a hammer. “Fish?”

“Fishy indeed,” The Other replied. “I want to see *you* eat it. I want to see if it will instead fall out of your mouth. Because of, I don’t know, lack of internal organs?”

Philip places a quick call to Lexi. “Hi. A little help over here? I’ll send you the coordinates.”

“I-I’m busy too right now, Philip. I found something. Golden. Auto.” She also stares over at herself.

“Well hurry up (!).”

Herself rolls down the window, starts hurling similarly based accusations as Philip’s double. “I heard, *me*, that you can’t even play the trumpet. No breath.” She held out a golden instrument from the car she’d been forging with a hammer. “Music?”

She also was a bit different in appearance from her other self, no tattoos in this case. Wi-erd. What could all this mean? both think separately and then together as they rendezvous at the Fuu Kee Chinese Restaurant, doubles tagging right along. As they do.

(to be continued)

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February 1, 2025 · 12:00 am

00450604

I never left The Sphere.

I’m still in Holland!

Philip wakes up.

—–

“I have a surprise for you today, Philip,” spoke Lexi at the breakfast table set up between their two bedrooms on the upper level of her Nawt Vaya house. “I think you’ll like it.”

—–

“Holland?”

“Yeah, you said you missed Amsterdam. So: here we are (!).”

“I said I *missed* Amsterdam. As in bypassed it, or at least skirted it. I think.”

“Well… now you have a kind of second chance. A Second Lyfe second chance. We’ll start at the northwest corner here and make our way across. Just like old times.”

“Hmmm.”

“You… don’t like it?”

Yeah. Why not, he thinks. And they head toward the center of the mocked up, 2 sim city where Lexi has another bright idea.

“Let’s get bikes, Philip (!). Like that guy over there.”

—–

Riiing riiing. “Out of our way! LOSERS.”

(to be continued)

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November 18, 2024 · 7:26 am

00440616

“Well Wheeler. Here we are at the end.”

“So… you’re admitting I’m Wheeler,” spoke Shelley to his side, also watching the water rise on the scene below.

“You’re Wheeler, yes. You’re my *daughter* Wheeler. I also have a wife Wheeler. And probably a mother Wheeler and also a dog Wheeler.”

“Down there,” she spoke, pointing to the robot dog still positioned in the middle of the bar, likewise water walking Fern Stalin studying it, wondering what makes it tick or if it could have ticks or fleas, but especially where it’s taking humanity as a whole. Obviously a lot of people will die as a result of this — flood. But the ones who survive will have a cleansed world to repopulate, free of the former dirt and smut and filth. Led at least in part by Fern, the chosen one. The one with the WOW factor.

“What about Billy?” asked Wheeler-Shelley, seeing the water submerge his small 3-4 foot robot body completely now.”

“Waterproof,” Newt spoke.

“Oh, of course. From novel 34.”

“Well,” said Newt. “Close enough.” He raises his glass of high alcohol purple snog beer from the counter. “So should we toast to the end? Another successful photo-novel?”

“Not quite,” Wheeler-Shelley said, keeping her beer on the counter and knowing more was to come.

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November 17, 2024 · 5:11 pm

00440615

“Why is this lady dancing up a storm?” Billy logically asked.

“I don’t know, but she better be *careful*,” Fern returned. “She better remember Edward — out in the desert.” But then she turned away from frenzied bartender Lexi to stare at Edward in a nearby booth with the owner of the night club, this Tin Lizzy she knew pretty well now. She’d brought him here just for this very reason, she then understood. To prove that the other Edward, the other Edward D. even, is separate from this one, who is still alive and well thank you very much and living in Our Second Lyfe where he belongs. Not up there in the real (virtual) world of Cyberpunk 2077.

That explains the black and white photo on one side of the bar; she also obviously set that up as part of the message (“Crybaby”)…

… along with the other b&w on its opposite side. So if one side of the bar is a foot, she thought, then the other side is also also a foot?

“Got it!” she shouted again in a Eureka moment, common for the brilliant, ever-thinking woman. She could see now what was really going on. In the middle of the bar, Lexi changed into a dog which spoke to Billy in a language only robots could understand. “End this,” it said to him.

The perpetual waterfall, Billy remembered. The final attachment. He and Lexi were waterproof — they’d be fine, ha ha ha ha. Ho ho ho ho ho.

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November 17, 2024 · 3:49 pm

00440614

“Can I ax a question?”

“Uh HUH. Clever. But go ahead.” She was closely studying the act happening in front of us which didn’t interest him — me. Wrong body type. I wondered why. Gay? But maybe she’s just studying the girl’s moves for some kind of future reference. I popped it.

“Why?”

“Why?” she said back. I knew she knew what I meant. And she knew I knew. So I let the question stand as is. I thought of Dr. Why coming out of left field in Fern’s hospital scene to join Who, What and Idontknow in a makeshift team of physicians that didn’t care about answers in the end. Maybe Lizzy doesn’t care either. She decided to extend an olive branch.

“Let’s go back to Oklahoma and not Texas to see how much you remember. Sepisexton — Olive to Oklahoma. The Abstraction, 7 to 6. Gaeta, the 7th (continent), suddenly went dark. That affected everything that runs Our Second Lyfe behind the scenes. A change was made. The Flesh Pit was exposed for what it is, mystery no more. There’s even a bit of it poking through the supposedly vacant lot behind Aisle of Palms now, threatening its very existence if you didn’t know about that already.”

“I’ve already determined I’m going to give that up,” I said through Edward, handy in the moment.

“You have no *choice* now, though. If you’d taken that 4096 when it came up for rent. Or just bought it — maybe all this could have been avoided.”

“Who?” Pause. “What?” More standalone questions. Our fields of energy were becoming one. She was changing back. But not yet — hold off.

“I am the Ten that can turn into One,” she answered the first. “Ten is more important that Gold here. Do you have to ask?”

“Lincoln.”

“Correct. Lincoln is an alchemist.”

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