Category Archives: Northwest^

The missing triangle piece.

Turns out Karl was his invention all along.

Different cartoon character, same results.

Survival beyond the watermelon.

“I’ll spill everything,” said Karl to Mrs. Ordinary in her not-so-ordinary hometown of Chapel Vile after the mountainous hike with her aunt to rendezvous with the Ant. “Whaddaya want to know?”

“Thanks for meeting with me. I wasn’t sure — you were my friend still — after last time.”

“Of course I am. Old old water under the bridge. Us *cores* gotta stick together, eh? he he.” He slapped his flabby side to reinforce the healing aspect.

“Yes,” sip. But she couldn’t get the bloodlust scene out of her head.

A broken rib to end, but, like them apparently, it cleaned up nicely. The observing 88’s helped a lot with their prompt calling of the ambulance and police, good custodians both.

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00310211

Mrs. Ordinary drank red wine at 3 PM in her kitchen, trying to numb her nerves and pondering how to get rid of her aunt who was suppose to stay through next Wednesday. She couldn’t take it any more. Tomorrow they would hike into the mountains of Yellowmoon and she would tell her. Get a room in town or leave. Sucking on teeth in the middle of the night, snoring, getting up early and staying up late watching cartoons on TV. Yosemite Sam, pheh. How did we come from the same gene pool? I need my 9 hours beauty rest and she needs like 5!

She awakes at 8:25, a bit before the 9 she usually does. Elvira of course was already in the living room watching the boob tube. The sound of an especially loud cartoon explosion stirred her. Seems like Bugs pulled out the atomics in a desperate attempt to win the mayoral race from Sam this morning. He planned to get rid of all insects when elected, and Bugs had no choice but to try to stop him. Atomic cigars — that should do the trick. But, no, here comes Sam again, all blackened and without hair or clothes but still quite alive, ready for yet another battle in the war that will only end at the ballot box.

“Elvira, could you please put on some clothes, hmph. And what’s that all over your face, dear? You look like a golden statue.”

“Avocado mask. For the man who is suppose to enter my life today. My horoscope predicted (!). Here.” She picks up the Daily Toilet and rustles it in front of her naked body, then offers it over to her, which Liza (Mrs. Ordinary) reluctantly takes as the TV explodes again. “There… take a look at Scorpio. You’re Taurus… you may not understand, being from the Earth and more grounded with your own life in general. Scorpios need relationships. Scorpios need…”

“Don’t say it, Aunt. Not after last Friday when you brought that town bum Otis back and kept him all night on the couch with you. I know what you need.” Doctored watermelon this time, but of course Sam emerged okay.

Hiking today. How could she possibly meet a man way up there in the grey nothingness where no one hardly lives? But she did. Another Ant, but not the human kind. It’s like they both fell into the TV set after putting on their walking shoes and came out in Looneytoonville with Bugs and Sam and the rest. And perhaps they did.

She took one last look at the TV before switching it off. The cartoon had changed. She hesitated, then sat back down on the couch with her aunt, the paper still opened up to the horoscope section between them. Expect a tall, spindly stranger to enter your life today, it said. She studied the small orange castle on the screen, noted the pixelated cartoon man pulling the cartoon woman toward him with an impossibly long and wavy lasso, then entering the castle gates with her, the assumption being they got “married.” Over and over this happened. It did not get boring.

“What’s the name of this one, Elvira?” The show predicted the future inside the past. Then they were *there*.

(to be continued)

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x’s and o’s

Goodbye Ant Castle at the end of Eleph’s Trunk. I feel like I hardly knew ya.

The only related castle remaining on The Trunk is Harrison Ford Jett’s, whose enhancing apples were recently mentioned in relation to a city crime. The City now. But was he suspected perpetrator or victim in a series of 4? And is he truly a man or a woman? Perhaps it doesn’t matter; let’s go with it doesn’t matter.

“Sure you can stay with me, Ant. Until you get your 6 feet back on the ground.”

“Thanxxxx!”

—–

That taken care of, let’s move back to The City and the Happy Travels Travel Agency…

“Hellloooo. I’m ready to go on vacation. Hide away again.” It was typical of Hidi to do so; in her genes, one could say. Speaking of which…

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Barry 02 Graham 02

Wheeler was called in to move some 88’s and decided to have a chat with Barry while she was at his studio. “How’d the meeting go with Warhole?” she asked to begin. “I heard Ant and Harrison Jett were also there. Something about murder?”

“No,” defended Barry, not worried about his blood stained hands in the moment, although he reflexively crossed his arms to hide them.

“No, everything was lovely,” he continued. “Warhole and I were bickering a bit when Ant and Harry showed up.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah, that’s what Ant called him all the time. Anyway, *they* started bickering with each other and then we started looking around, all four of us, and begin laughing. First a ha, then a ho ho, then a hu hu hu, then a full out he he he he for all. Graham then served some kind of regional soup for us and then everyone said ‘hi’ to end, kind of like aloha.”

“Graham? Who’s that?” continued Wheeler with the questions. She didn’t plan on delivering so many but here we are. She looks over at the slanted picture of the Eiffel Tower and thinks we need to get back over to Marwood and the bots for more storytelling on the Jeogeot continent. Speaking of which…

“Graham owns the cafe. Rothko fan through and through, along with collecting covid ravens and practicing anti-fascist remote viewing.”

“She?” Barry didn’t say ‘she’ — didn’t identify a sex for Graham, which is more a boy’s name I’m assuming. Where did Wheeler get…? Oh, maybe *she’s* indicating I should go in that direction. *She* wants to be Graham. So I decided to ask her. Wait, I’m not in this shot.

Barry didn’t pick up on the anomaly and simply replied, “*she*, yeah.” Wheeler was already checking her outfits.

(to be continued?)

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a river runs through it

The artist whose name sounds like Rothko sits opposite Andy Warhole, one a-hole of a guy.

“The soothsayer will be here soon and we’ll *see*…

who’s the better artist in hyperspace and hypertime.”

“Just hypertime will do. I don’t do hyperspace.”  His voice was level and confident, like he was the more famous artist already instead of a basic unknown. Andy was threatened. He’d been to Gabby several times since we last saw him over in Cassandra City (Moe’s –now sold!). The picture was clearing in his smoky ball. Andy was not the most famous artist of the land! Gabby then explained this was in hypertime — Gabby worked mostly in hyper worlds to see his visions, he said — and thus there’s *time* to change the outcome. Gabby didn’t illuminate the idea of complementary hyperspace to the rather dim witted Warhole; probably knew it would be a waste of his breath. Hypertime was enough for today. The stage had been set. And here he was, murderous covid ravens circling above and outside this tiny cafe perched on the top of Yellowmoon or thereabouts. With the artist whose name sounded like Rothko but wasn’t Rothko. Close! Close enough for Andy. Because Andy indeed thought he was this artist. He had trouble resolving near from same in his fuzzy way of thinking, and Barry was just playing along with the confusion. So this would be another Post involving Close.

Thoko: that’s it. Maker of fine designer women’s clothing. But that would become a front for something much more deep and sinister, like the Amazon itself. It was like going from Nowhere to Somewhere…

Ant arrives from his castle in the distance. Harrison Jett will shortly show up from his castle in the opposite direction acting as rear guard. Soon the battle will commence in earnest.

(to be continued)

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Post

He was going to be a different kind of artist. He was going to make holes, but he was going to cover up holes. Of sorts. Time to meet up with his other art friend in the sim. He should have some works ready by, say, next Friday? He’s got a long weekend to catch up. And he is catching up (*splat*!).

He’s a maker of magical jeans, dresses, tops, all the rage in Our Second Lyfe in yesterday’s tomorrow which is today. Almost. It’s the 11th dream day still. He works fast so he uses Paint 3D. He’s made a pact with a fire demon burning brightly and steadily in the center of it all.

His name is almost Rothko but not quite. If you googled it, the search engine might think you were looking instead for Mark. That close: Close City close.

He doesn’t have a lot of fans yet except for Sandy, who bought a designer dress off of him day before… well, Saturday. Sandy Beech, who we’ve already met over at NWES City, a world hemisphere away from this Corsica continent and its peakology and all. There are peaks on the Jeogeot continent but not the notable sharp, rocky kind like here. Barry likes peaks; that’s why he’s in Yellowmoon or thereabouts; that’s why he *might* also be, before or after or somewhere in-between, on that double peaked mountain near NWES City — on its overarching or inclusive or *umbrella* island. Barry sortof named Rothko. Thothko? Not quite.

It was in the Cub Run thrift shop on that city on that island where Sandy found the catchup stained dress. Hmm, he thought, unhooking its hanger from the rack to take a closer look. He’d never seen art clothing in a consignment store before. With its cute bow in the middle (he continues to think at the time) it looks exactly like — Oh *God*. He pays 300 lindens for the red and blue dress and quickly leaves.

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art critics

The Ant enters The Castle

to call his old friend Harrison Jett over at Fearzom. Jett was also an enemy — 1/2 and 1/2 — just like Yellowmoon was a higher and bigger mountain than nearby Fearzom but Jett’s castle was higher and bigger than Ant’s. They spoke to each other in a cordial yet tense manner. Blue was always tinged with red and visa versa. This was another Vain and Artery hemispheric situation.

“Hiya Harry!” He knew not calling him Harrison would irritate his friend/enemy slightly to start the game of chess.

“Hi Ant!” Harrison was holding his punches and jabs for later. Ant didn’t mind being called Ant. That was his name, plain and simple.

“Harry… Harrison,” Ant let up a bit. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it my old friend?” Harrison dare not add, “and old enemy,” even though he was thinking it at the time. But he purposely pronounced friend like it rhymed with fiend. Jab 01.

“I’m having trouble with my Rothko loving neighbor and I was wondering if you could come over here and back me up a bit; act as a rear guard as it were.”

“As it is!” returned Harrison Jett, continuing to move pawns in an old game. Time did not matter in these conversations which both freely admitted and played around with.

“Thank you,” allowed Ant, knowing Harry aka Harrison would show up. But what could he request in turn? There was always the tit for the tat. 1/2 and 1/2. Always.

—–

He hung up the phone — took him a while as usual. “I’ve got go see the bastard Ant about something,” he spoke to his wife of 3 years and 30 seconds inside the larger castle on the shorter mountain of the two friends/enemies. He thanked her again for the leather wallet and she thanked him again for the leather harness before he departed. They’d put both to good use. They were cooperative that way. Things were good at home base for Harry. He inserted the apples back into his shirt-blouse and prepared to go to war.

—–


flying to Yellowmoon or thereabouts

(to be continued)

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orange crested

“I’m glad you’re black again, Parasol. Now I can get rid of that White Elvis hairdoo. Back to the old self, ahh!” He settles back in his beach chair, taking in the waves.

“How about the ant? There’s always the ant to deal with. Ant,” Parasol by his side reinforces.

The Mann looks from the waves up to the mountains. “I’ll deal with that later.”

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Upper West East Central Fenland (or thereabouts)

He decides to become Harrison Jett this morning, who seems to be the same as Young Harris the professor, perhaps a later incarnation. It was a logical choice, given the shirt he wore.

“Another Messed Up,” he observed about the art work before him, thinking back to the contract signed on that particular Weird-o Island. Not the one with the Upper New York virtual university. Not the one where that pseudo-God lives up in the aether somewhere — David something or ‘nother. Instead perhaps the *weirdest* one of the 3, but he can’t recall the name. He remembers… staying there. Perhaps he is still there.

Whose heart is left on the musical stand? He must think of Mozart and the critical error of Yoko Ona the witch. Hole in the center. But it wasn’t John’s. It was his! The walrus was… well, you know the story.

I think this has something to do directly with that Weird-o island I can’t recall the name of. Queer?

Better head back there for more clarification hopefully.

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Bell’s

“Everyone knows about the Ant Castle,” replies Golden Jim, glancing over at the structure perched on top of Yellowmoon Ridge, wearing it like an orange crown. “It’s where the ants emerge from the elephants trunk, turning it into, well, just Eleph. Peak, that is.

“And do you *know* the particular black ant that lives in the castle?” the mann next to him queries further about the mysterious object high in the sky. “Not Queen but King.”

“Boldon,” Golden Jim guesses, suddenly recalling the history of the place, the *smell*. The wax hardens and everything is recorded. It was a good work.

“He invented the telephone, you know,” The Mann spoke over. “That’s why he likes to use it so much. One could say he’s really *jazzed* about it.”

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