He decided to test this reality. He pulled out some wadded up and hardened little pieces of paper from his pocket and dropped it into Keith B.’s hand, saying they were for the virus. “Thanks!” the older man from his childhood said, saving them for later that night when the headaches started. Oh the power of suggestion, Biff marveled, and returned to his book. He was at the end of Paper. He turned the page…
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0030, 0503, Paper, Paper Soap, Pennsylvania
Biff Carter looked up from the red book he was always reading, wondering where they were. Keith B. was to his right, talking to Cubby the bear cub about his lost mother. “She’ll show up soon,” he tried to reassure, but Cubby had seen her wander off into the Hunting Zone, confused in the twilight’s last gleaming. Many of her kind don’t come out of there, she said earlier to the young bear, her third in a litter of two, although she didn’t know that fact at the time. A magical bear he was; able to talk and converse with the humans — like Keith B. here. “In the meantime, you just stay put here with… sorry, what was your name stranger?” he asked over to Biff, sucking on a piece of lettuce between his teeth left over from supper at Rusty’s. He couldn’t handle the beef stew what with the state of that kitchen in back — he’d seen the health inspector’s rating writing on the wall. Better stick with salad, he decided. No meat.
You know my name, Biff wanted to say back, but instead just said it for him. He looked over. Did it ring a bell? Dirty diner? Always redding the read book? He could tell by Keith’s expression that it didn’t. He felt abandoned by the older guy from his childhood ever since the death of his grandmama, who was practically like his mother, raising him up after the death of his dad Dirk, who had already lost his wife, his mother, to another kind of virus long ago, not long after he was born actually. Dirk thought that the birth may have done her in, or at least weakened her to the effects of the virus, but this wasn’t really true. Or was it? Anyway, Dirk kind of blamed the boy for her death. Her name was… right on the tip of my tongue….
Elizabeth, he decided, thinking back to the book. He raised it to his eyes again and continued. Paper now. Rock earlier. Scissors coming up soon. His mother had some and she contemplated doing his father in once more. Because of the boy.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0030, 0502, Paper, Paper Soap
He lamented the Smuggler’s Bay portal being cut off on the other side of the Soap sim from Paper and then realized for the first time that the tunnel looks like a slice of bread. He’d *thought* that before, hmm. Anyway, Phyllis could not be reached. *Pills* could not be reached. Shit happens, but he doesn’t know where now. He must return to his lonely cabin to do his needed chores…
… like cleaning the outhouse today; had to be done; neighbor’s complaining about the smell which wasn’t bothering him as much but must have been that bout with the virus affecting his nose. He can’t tell when Rusty’s fixing breakfast over at the Tombstone Diner any more — could always smell that early in the morning before.
“Tamatoa,” he joked to his tamed wolf hound. “Go fetch me the cleaning suds over on the washing machine over there.” Tamatoa, of course, didn’t respond the way he requested. Or did he?
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0030, 0501, Paper, Paper Soap
“You must love me exactly as I love you!”
And so we’ve returned to Black Lake in a very unexpected way through Misty and her partially submerged beau, soon to be husband (??); circled back around. We have similar choices that we did before here, then. Return to Paper Soap from Paperweight using the resonant keyword Paper? A painter paints, a complainer complains. I’m no painter and I’m no complainer. I can go with the flow, even if it doesn’t involve oiling it up and applying to canvas. Joey Avatar knows how comfortable canvas feels now (!). I don’t need to break a couple of nails to understand, but I do need to hammer a couple. In our fence. I’m looking out our Real Life window now. So many people outside, though. If only they would go away for at least that one special day of the year. Hmm.
And I still have a foothold in Paper-Soap, with transfigured Moes’ pink welcome mat seen here back in the sewer tunnels behind sitting old Keith B. I always seem to have to brighten up the place considerably with “Phototools – Lo Gun Light” sky to snap a proper enough picture. But the dark, conjoined sims seems very important still — moving down the road. Photo-novel 31 should start just after Christmas or around the New Year. Omicron’s moving in from the north west east south too. Soon we’ll be surrounded on all sides, blocked in. I need to keep my options open. I’ve had a good run at my job. I’m saying goodbye to the school as a whole, wrapping things up. I know where my mentors are, the painterly ones, the ones that draw as well, were able to bridge the gap between the two disciplines, like Paul Clay. I was relaying to a student I was working with the other day about not liking clay, as in pottery. Foundation classes were cool, but when I moved on to the specialty courses, like pottery, like *weaving* — not a weaver — I lost interest. I dropped out. I returned 6 years later under the good graces of the college, completed my art degree. But, as stated, I’m not a painter, even thought that was my declared emphasis. Never was. I’m not a Warren. I’m not a Dennis.
But what do I have instead? A canvas true, if a map can be considered as such. It’s the world as a whole but it’s very focused in on our US of A. And within that US of A: Iowa. Ringgold County, even — just one county. And at the center of that county: a hypercube; there can be no doubt. You look inside the translucent layers, like paper, and see the bottom writing on the walls. Everywhere.
We continue…
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0030, 0416, Crisp Sea, Iowa, Lower Austra^, Nautilus, Paper Soap, Soap, Wild West
Announcer: “Ono’s Octopus Balls…
… an avalanche of flavor!”
—–
“It’s great!” said character-husband John Lemon, glad to get back on the horse.
“Love the hand coming out from under a rock effect,” octopus ball recipe inventor extraordinaire Yoka Ono added.
“We’ll put it on after the 9 o’clock news,” said the network big wig behind them, not needing to look and instead studying his hand for warts. He could hear the success. “Test it out on the non-magical people first.”
“Fantastic.” John envisioned the money rolling in like batter covered spheres.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0030, 0404, ENIGMA, Nautilus, Paper Soap, Soap, Wild West
“I lost you in the tunnel!” director Percy Pierce complains as Axis-Windmill tries to defend his disappearance from a the scene.
“Well, ahem…”
“And I see you brought your two cat friends along to help your case. She turns to the red-blue eyed one on his right. Rebl *lawyer* is it now?”
“Yes ma’am. Axis did nothing wrong,” she begins in her purry way. “He followed the G-Spots through the tunnel to the missing letters.”
“Letters?” Percy Pierce spoke. “Don’t you mean: *letter*.”
A pause. “A moment with my client,” Rebl then requests, which Percy agrees to. Whispers; heads nodding and shaking; green and yellow eyed Guyd on the left side joins in the conversation. Percy can only make out scattered words (Paper, King, Soap, couple more). Finally: “enough”, she says. “We must get on. 9:30 shoot tomorrow. We must all be fresh.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” says Rebl in turn. “Don’t you mean: *shot*?”
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0029, 0611, Paper Soap, Soap
Axis-Windmill watches Lester and Custer cross the road to the motel grounds. He looks up after they disappear behind its sign from his perspective, ready to erase another “S” to appease the new or soon-to-be new King of the sim. Paper fully separated from Soap; (fantasy) party over. So it will happen (!). That could explain the presence of the motel here, which Axis-Windmill recalls blew up just last month. This Thanksgiving becomes last Thanksgiving, a time burp as some put it.
Axis-Windmill turns from south to west toward another missing letter, this time a “G” down at the train tunnel, missing from “Missing Mile” (thus: “Missin Mile”). Gaining another perspective remotely he ponders the possibility of a Miss Square. Back to square one? He decides to ask the homeless person sitting in the street down from him.
“Miss Square?” he utters, causing the man to become aggressive.
A 5 minute rant about the sorry shape of the town follows.
And I suppose Dr. Mouse is back at well, killed in the motel explosion that didn’t happen now. Perhaps he’s next up for a visit.
(to be continued?)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0029, 0610, Paper Soap, Soap
“Yes, you’ve named a number of the Paper *Kings* and I thank you for that, Elvina.”
“You’re welcome, Buster.”
“Inspector,” he corrected. “By night. Chef by day.”
“Then…” She bit her tongue. He *must* know. “But…” she started again.
“Yes, ‘but’. We’re looking for the kingpin, Elvina, and you know it. They just call themselves the Kings, collective, to honor him. He was secretly elected — as we understand it down at the station — on Thanksgiving Day of last year…”
*This* year, Elvina thought, but kept her mouth shut (again).
—–
Turns out the plural version of the name was just an oversight. The gang working with the actual King would never dare call themselves such. On a tip from Elvina, mistake responsible Lester had to change all the related graffiti in town the next day.
“Okay, one down, Lester,” said Custer, in charge of the clean up, “and who knows how many to go. We’ll just walk around some more, pheh.”
“Yeah yeah, sure. Anything to appease the boss.”
“He ain’t elected yet.” But Custer knew he would be elected. Again. There were powers outside of town that would make sure of it.
Lester pointed toward the motel. “Over there I think.”
“Let’s go,” Custer waved.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0029, 0609, Paper Soap, Soap
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?
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0029, 0608, Paper Soap, Soap
Sunklands 