Category Archives: Bellisaria^^

akin to Pandora’s

I was always the smartest girl in school. I was always first to raise my hand to answer questions from the teacher. But my *brother*… we didn’t know until much later his special special talent. He *couldn’t* be edited. Let me state that again: He *couldn’t*… be *edited*. No wonder he got frustrated by his 2 dimensional family, including me (me!). He was 3d all along, working on a higher plane that us. A *channeled* plane, true, but still: highly psychic, more than the rest of us. I had to step out of myself and turn into Jennifer Lane to understand better. Before, I was Jenny Lane, a kid at Forest Hill School for psychic children. Jacob I. was there a bit later — he went over to Hillside on the other hill side of town for his elementary years. Now I was grown up; all weedy. But I didn’t smoke pot to get high. Grown up — but I felt my apples were too small. I wanted to exchange them with another’s. Harrison Ford Jett seemed a perfect (imaginary) candidate. I was always a Star Wars fan growing up, not even learning about Star Trek until the 11th grade, almost done in school. My classmates called me Spock but I thought that was because of my glasses, before I got my (umbrella) contact lenses and could read with my eyes. The library remained a far away and fuzzy edifice after that, shrouded in distance producing mists by then. I proceeded forward with my new life with Tommy beyond academia. Family became priority.

A child is born, a child is given. Julius, although I wanted a Julia. Sex happens. Then the second: a mini-me of sorts. I projected into her. When I got my new eyes (in effect) I realized we were the same deep down, where it counts (166). We made a pact: she *became* me and I became her. Then we hid this fact to others in a carefully placed box. Where was this box? (Borneo) We had both forgotten where we hid it. (Borneo) And the umbrella design has a story of its own as well.

*Ding dong.*

Oh dear, that will be the neighbors, the Wells. Rosie or Rose, my sister from another mother, as we say, then Indian — love of my life until I met Tommy over at a tailgate party. Tommy Tailgate he was after that. I became pregnant that night.


turning into Jennifer Lane

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Turkey Day for most

After dinner they all gathered around the boob tube to watch Greyscale Kimball give her annual Thanksgiving speech about the state of the South. “It is good,” she exclaims while the snow clears from the picture. “It is strong,” she follows. “The Heart Queen and I continually work together to make things better for all of us, including the conquered if not the vanquished.”

“I wish she wouldn’t talk like that about the North,” Lisa opines from her middle position. “Everyone knows it comes back to bite them in the ass now.”

“Lii-sa,” Bartholomew complains about what he considers a cussword in the house. But he looks around and sees no parents in the room and realizes all is okay. It’s just the kids. The parents are upstairs — doing another annual tradition while the children watch TV. Bart forgot that fact. He tries to block out the faint noise of bedsprings, which he thought was the small twittering of a bird outside before. Now he can’t get it out of his head. He moves toward the TV. “Don’t mind if I turn it up, I suppose.” Points to his ears. “Can’t hear.”

“It’s these old Sylvanias,” says Rose Wells the neighbor who they often pretend is their sister or at least sister-in-law, big for her age of 12. She’s already studying boxes, wondering what’s in the far corners of space while chewing choco chip cookies late at night on top of her house. She intuitively understands the cube, if not tangibly yet. Models would come first. Then reality. “Greyscale forbids the sale of colored TVs beyond the Line of Demarcation,” she finishes.

“The old battle line,” chips in Bart, hip to the 3 1/2 day North-South War from sex history class. Taming the elephants from the Shallows (Flats to the Northerners) was the turning point, he recalls. Just bulled right through the lines after that. He tries to focus back in on the speech…

“… Sinkology has proven, once and for all, that the Pipersville bomb was never set off. The South has nothing –”

“Hey, Rose,” he says to his faux sister beyond Lisa, having heard all this before a hundred times and getting bored.

“Shh,” she says back, still interested.

“– no one was hurt, no one was even injured. The bomb–”

“Hey. Rose,” Bart insisted. “I saw you up on the roof the other night. What are you studying? Stars?”

“– the inevitability of colored TVs to corrupt…”

“Space itself,” she decided to answer, turning away for the moment. “I’m making–”

“– and the corruption spread from town to town, region to re–”

“… a model.”

“Oh?” Bart was interested.

“Will you 2 please pipe down,” said Lisa between them. “Do you want to switch places with me, Bartholomew, so you can talk to your *real* sister?”

“Pheh, ain’t nobody claiming we aren’t yellow.” “Bird twitterings” upstairs again. Greyscale was wrapping it up.

“And so, the Queen and I bid you farewell until next year when, special surprise, the *King* will be joining us.”

All stare at the black and white TV with open mouths. Snow comes in again, hiding the exit ceremonies. Static fills the air, just in the nick of time. Mom and dad upstairs had just reached the end as well.

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the Vegetarian

Star trees, he called them, because they had little stars in them, all white of course, add in a little pink.

This was handy, but what about the box that was suppose to be here?

She wore the Pepper blouse-shirt and the Pepper blouse-shirt wore she. The apples inside were hers. She always lamented they were too small. They were exteriorized before she met Lichen. Stalin she was after that. Fern Stalin. And then they found Wendy who turned into Red. They’d analyzed her. They knew what she was. Mirror. And: the cake is a lie.

—–

“Lisa, it’s time to come inside. Mom has finished baking her stack of potatoes. And afterwards: turkey — for the rest of us. Come on and be a good girl and go clean up.” He leans his head down. “I’m sorry for what I said before. You can skip the turkey, we’re all okay with it.” He saunters back around the house.

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Hook Tender (Southern delusion)

The surrounding white trees should have been a clue about the situation. Conquests, she called them at another time, another place (Horns). The mannequin in the yard (Roxanne) doesn’t want to hear anything about the making of babies; she wants to remain innocent and pure and white (as the driven snow). She doesn’t want to fall into the Black Hole at the center of the Milky Way, a dreamer lost to reality. Reality is *here*. There is no black behind the white for her, being, you know, a dummie and all. Simple, perhaps. A meat and potatoes kind of (wooden) girl.

Fireworks trees, some call them, but that would be more on the opposite side.

We’ve seen the mannequin before. Scarlet some called her, a person ruled by Terra: Earth. Grounded in the soil. She’ll never be tired or poor or hungry again. She thus becomes a mannequin, seeing no other recourse. Stuck in the yard, she is, with a UFO above trying to beam her back up into the sky but not succeeding. Pineapple down the road shoots a cherry red laser beam and mows down a pair of blue-not-green A_Team traitors, influencing the rocket. Frosty turns away, still cold from the grave. Homer sits on the porch. *Homer* *sits* on the *porch*.

Face it.

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base (cont.)

“We can do it too. Go ahead and sit down, honey. Let’s talk.”

“I hear the Toasty O’s are very good here in the morning.”

“Talk,” she requested, not wanting to dilly dally around. “Spill.”

“Cube. We found the cube. In Hook Tender.”

Her mouth became an O. “My… *home*?”

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Serendipity’s

She liked multicoloreds but this was ridiculous.

The attack of the cubes. She knew who was behind it. Thank Gods he wouldn’t be showing back up for months, maybe years.

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Bell is serial

“Honey?”

“Yes, Homie.” So raspy. She was between compositions now, deciding what to play next at her beloved pink upright.

“Do we know anyone named Wells, as in well well well?” The internet search had rung a bell. “Indian Wells”, the name on several of his daughter’s records, the stuff he couldn’t stomach in the least. “Well Well Well, If It Isn’t Indian,” was a particular (comeback) album that stuck out for him. He set aside the pictures of donuts for just one minute and tried it.

“*Well, Homie, they were our next door neighbors for 15 years is all.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, the musical family. The ones you couldn’t stand.”

“I can’t stand *any* of our neighbors.”

“Well you should get to know them better… obviously. They moved away I suppose, hmmm, about 5 years ago. Right before…” She stopped. She didn’t want to talk about Bartholomew and how he left in the middle of the night after declaring all of them 2 dimensional and unreal. He’d had enough. Now he’s sorry and wishes to return to the good graces of the father especially. But Homer would have none of it — sic Itchy the family dog on him if necessary to chase him away again. But Bartholomew is still trying, with new boss Alysha’s urging. Maybe it wasn’t worth it to keep knocking on and beating on and pleading through a front door that would remain locked, doorbell never rung. Because *Lisa* knew how to ring the bell, making their hearts sing. Wild thing remains ostracized, despite Lisa’s support. She’s in touch with Alysha as well; wonders about her change from black to red hair. My cousin dyed her hair red, she ponders one night while listening to the adored, atonal croonings of Indian Wells again on her pink record player upstairs, Primary Rabbit and a peculiar, sticky-outy potted plant between them. Made her wild as well… like Bart. She imagines embracing him again, pretending he is real and standing before her. The little yellow fellow, always smaller than her despite the age advantage. He told his father that he was going to straighten his life out, stop going in circles forever and ever and that he knew he was in a rut. But his father was too much like him and wouldn’t listen.

“I’m going to shut the computer off now,” he rather shouted over to Marg, who had started again. She stopped and imagined them switching places, she at his computer and he at her piano. What would *he* compose? Something like Indian Wells? Wouldn’t that be just.

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00290407

This is what she studies, Duncan, this *Rose* Wells. Boxes… cubes I suppose.

“Borneo?” He’d heard that name before. Something about corn.

—–

The blue sphere appears. Duncan disappears. Duncan saw too much in the field! Field “on”, and then he was there — in Reality — beyond the 300 or starting with the 300. Fieldon town limits.

The 2 blue spheres were 2 1/2 years apart, meaning that they were opposite each other — in the garden representing our solar system or an Earth limited one, with The Sun in the center (19). And what about The Observer there, watching from a table on the edge of the property? Fortress: Duncan was warned not to go back, and that maybe rats were there, perhaps similar to the ones within the tulips that make them move in oh so mysterious ways.

He was trying to mark the way (to the Fortress) with well placed toys. But they were not allowed here? White moves on beyond Black (Duncan) with Red, with Red obviously equaling Indian Wells now, both Asian and American at once. White Mage, in this scenario, is merely Hidi again.

“Primary Rabbit?” he asks, back at the home with the mannequins out front.

“Yesss?”

“I think… I’m ready to move beyond Black.”

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Hooktip again 01

He was in a new place, highlighted by purple. Mushrooms all around.

He wakes up. “Witch dream,” he mutters, looking over.

“The cat dreams, you dream,” she says, already involved in her morning reading. Not good today. The Sun. No Moon in sight. “See? Itchy also stirs below you at the same time. I’m sorry: *Scratchy*. Do you remember Scratchy?”

I sit up, trying to remember how I got here. True, I was walking toward the place, then…”

“Trying to recall?” she guessed correctly. “I had to bring you here to replace Duncan. Duncan doesn’t need to return to these woods. His karma is done with it, George (ward) too — Buster be damned.”

I sat up more, straightened out my spine to aid my aching neck. That couch — not what I would have chosen to sleep on. Thanks witch! My day starts out not well. “Buster… Damm?” I reply, trying to get my bearings.

“Yeah, um, Tussock — his home of course — right next door. We’re in Hooktip. In the woods. I have a house here as well, but I keep cracking all the mirrors there. Forest is better when I’m in these kind of states. I seem to have the worse luck lately. And *here*…” she points down toward the cards. “The *Sun* of all things, the *opposite* of what I desire.”

“The Who?” I say back.

The witch, who is of course a new advancement of Alysha, even further beyond child now, looks over. Precisely what I would have said in your position, she realizes. They are one. And she also understands the reading is for him, not her. “How’s your neck?” she asks after turning over the next card. Maybe there’s hope for this day after all.

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When blue turns to black…

… we will all be able to see the Devil and know that he is we.

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