Category Archives: VHC City^

birthday?

At 4:13 in the morning, Duncan had something. He sat in a chair in Leemington above Necrotee above Yelloo, high in the sky like (on) a ship or a plane. Pilot Tickie was around, he knew, who wasn’t a bad meanie at all, not any more. He sat with his prescient turtle staring south east. Duncan was here to talk about the turtle.

But then it wasn’t a turtle any longer. It was a lemon. With legs. And they were staring at 2.

(to be continued)

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00260412

That night, George dreamed he was with an Asian girl talking about a plane trip to India, and how they’d have to buy tickets soon in order to go before monsoon season. “Rain, continual rain,” the girl spoke to George, making a pattering motion with her fingers against her legs. Her red sneakered feet fidgeted back and forth upon a red circle on a red block of lego, with a red plane in the bookcase behind pointing to it all. Her rear end sat on green. George sprawled out on blue. “Yelloo!” yelled an old yellow guy on the lego bed beyond.

“Don’t listen to him, George,” requested Alysha the Asian kid. “He’s just an old man with nothing to say.” George didn’t think so. George woke up.

“Duncan?” George spoke over to his guardian on the other bed of their darkened apartment.

Duncan says, “yes?” nonchalantly without raising his head or opening his eyes. He had been unable to sleep ever since George told him the news about the spirits in the PCH woods. “I *saw* them,” he repeats at the time, hands on hips. Duncan was actually starting to believe the youth. And that damn Good Neighbor pylon. They know about The Diagonal, the thing he was suppose to protect and serve above all else! Besides George, of course.

“Had a dream. You said I was suppose to tell you about my dreams, at least for a while.”

“The forest,” spoke Duncan, understanding. He figured the woods and accompanying spirits, if real — and they appeared to be — would start to dominate George’s nights as well as days. Could he request he didn’t go back to the forest? Did he even have that authority now? As an inducted member of Pot-D, he had an obligation to protect The Diagonal. Protector of The Diagonal: Pot-D. But George was too, and just because George was a boy…

“‘Yelloo’,” George interrupted Duncan’s reverie. “The man in the dream said ‘yelloo’, just like your guy in the game.”

Duncan rolled over, sat up, stared. They were in for a long night. Better put on some coffee.

(to be continued)

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00260411

Charlie Banana could transform into a giant banana phone when needed. George uses this power to attempt to contact Duncan, knowing he would be late for dinner again. Probably fish tacos or some other fish product, bleh. Best to stay here with Charlie; partake of the fruits of the garden. Clare sure makes some mean melons!

“Hello?” An answer on the other side, but not Duncan.

“Charlie,” George whispered above and beyond the all the digits now fronting his body, knowing his friend was still in there. “You sure you dialed the *right* numbers?”

Charlie hadn’t told young George the secret to any telephone call. You dial all the numbers at once and then wait for an answer. Whoever you are suppose to talk to will be on the other end.

“Hello?” the strange voice said again. The central tree? Could be. Or perhaps one of those differentiated wood spirits Charlie foretold about already showing up.

“Hi… is this… Duncan?” George asked, knowing it wasn’t but not figuring out anything else to say.

“Duncan… Avocado?” The person on the other end of the line hadn’t heard that name in a long, long time.

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00260410

Now every time George looked out at the western woods he saw trees staring back at him. Good neighbors? Let’s hope!

“Neighbor,” spoke Charlie Banana later about the wood creatures, knowing them quite intimately apparently. “They prefer to be considered a collective spirit. For now. Differentiation will come later.” Charlie sure knows a lot of big words for a banana, George considers while listening to his yellow friend out in the patio again. The rain had let off except for that one spot under the umbrella, ironically. Holding the man it must be instead of visa versa; inner exchanged with exterior. Thinking of this, George realized the western woods could be haunted and not in a totally good way. And what of Charlie Banana? Perhaps not totally good himself.

“Where is that central tree again?” he asked after a period of doubt about his moral compass.

“To be determined,” came the fruit’s answer.

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forest scenes

“Oww!”

After bleeding out then coming back to life (the stump *did* say not to sit on it, pheh), George spots them. “Kodama” he reads aloud the description after being able to highlight one through the grass and tree prims.

He knew they were there but had just ignored them until now. Tree spirits!

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introducinnnng

Duncan was often very busy with his Pot-D assignments, letting George explore VHC City and its environs on his own. Lone stipulation from Duncan, basically: stay within The Sphere. George had worked out the geodesic dimensions very well down through the years now. Tronesisia and her computer mind had help in the olden days, before the coming of rain. Now it always seemed to rain, for example, in the PCH Forest (partly within The Sphere) owned by Clare Nova, one of the 4 famous Nova siblings — the Supernovas they were called; again back in the day. George had met Clare but not a lot. She gave him permission to wander around the PCH Forest, the structures within. One thing (stipulation again): don’t eat of the fruit from the tree in the center of the woods. We know where this comes from.

George often wondered what *exactly* is that tree in the center of the woods. There were many trees here, and none seemed more central than the other, at least at the beginning. He knew The Diagonal ran through the forest. If only Mistress Clare was around more to query, he lamented.

Charlie, however, was always around. The Banana.

“Fruit at the center of the woods,” he pondered with the 13 year old one evening outside the main house. “No idea.”

George couldn’t see what was sitting in front of his very eyes.

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pondering point

Past the pond and along a path that followed Wine Creek he went until he came to a grove of beech trees. There he built a fire against the side of a log and sat down at the end of the log to think.

Ward George had to escape art but Tennessee was all around, ready to embarrass him and make him turn red (as an apple) at every turn. Through his late night research, he knew about “Flapper” and a promise not fulfilled of artistic success, perhaps the point of it all. He was using his magnifying glass of a brain to focus on sewers and monsters therein and the death of Allen Martin who was actually a Martian (green hair in back giving it away, like a Conrad Bain). He had to find the beech grove, a place of sanctuary.

“Martin is alive,” he’d heard Duncan say while talking about the old days in good ol’ VHC City, before the coming of the… hotel? Anyway, it all started/revolved around that Black Hole of a structure created by Pitch Darkly. 97/97/97: triple number. If only the powers of VHC City back in the days had listened to his warning about the coming of The Diagonal that would link the whole continent, southwest to northeast, so powerful that its rather malevolent energy, or what turned out to be so, had to be counterbalanced by a second sw-ne line called Heart. Heart balances Head, like in a Hand (Health). But it was all suppose to happen like this most likely, George had also determined with his own head. But where, and who, was heart?

“No way out this way,” gruffed Suisan the pyramid shaped hat wearing fish butcher without turning around, bloodied cleaver at rest for now. George would have to turn back out of Kentucky back to Tennessee.

“Kay,” he said simply in response. The smell of chopped fish was overbearing.


Heading home.


“Found it!” he cried.

(to be continued)

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framed apples

” He wanted to show us one of our ancestors,” tiny Buster Damm explained to his fellow (sometimes) tiny wife Bettie about the latest Venus of Willendorf find.

—–

He stood directly on The Diagonal in the corner of a VHC City gallery, famous for such. A boy of 10, then 13, then back to 10, then over and over the process continues, perhaps until infinity. Unless Duncan finds a cure for the boy’s ail, pluck him out of the cycle.

He had seen too much for his youthful days thanks to living in the city. Interior becomes Exterior. Eve holds the apple and the snake. Hissing of Summer. Buster knows.

—–

“Fish tacos again?”

“Oh *George*.” But Duncan knew his ward was right and that they had become stuck in a rut in this here VHC City, famed for its gallery and music scene. They needed a vacation.

(to be continued)

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joint nature

“I don’t get it,” George said, smaller now as 10. “Why make *this* life look so much as that *other* life we don’t want to go to.”

“We want to *escape* from,” corrected Duncan, glad the innocent boy was back. Now he could *gradually* teach him the ways of the world, starting with artistic photography. Middletown, he realized. Must – avoid – Middletown.

“Why?”

“Escape?”

“Yeah.” He looked up at me, squashing an urge to pick his nose. He *is* grown up. He will put aside childish things and move into the world, as if on a train (of destiny).

“Let’s get back to the apartment and I’ll explain there. Before one of us wanders off again and forgets about the other.” They share a smile with this. The man is the boy is the man, round and round. There was an age gap between them but that was just time. Duncan looked down at his shiny Rolex watch. 1/2 past 6. It was always 1/2 past 6. Because the gall darn thing never worked ever since that raccoon got a hold of it after he’d fished it out of the trash back in the back alley. They’d tugged and tugged, one not letting the other have an obviously valuable sparkly object. Duncan won, of course, being 15x stronger than what is essentially an overgrown rodent in his mind. But he paid the price. He remembers it ticking when he got it out of the can. The skirmish must have itself happened at 1/2 past 6. It was as if time was frozen at that point. Zero Point. Fusion of Man and Animal beyond that. Manimal.

—–

The artistic photos just viewed actually lie in the gallery right beneath their apartment. Heavenly Flower it is called, with a silhouette of a woman hold a blooming lily over her heart for a logo. Appropriate.

They’d just finished a dinner of leftover fish tacos and mystery loaf and were talking about the subject left hanging before. Duncan A. had decided to use this as a teaching device.

“You asked about escape before,” said George at a midway point in the conversation, “like we are trapped here.”

“Trapped there as well,” spoke Duncan. A soft stirring started in the CB Dylan dresser in the corner of the room directly over where they’d been before. Snowmanster, they knew. Trying to escape. He was very distant still, thus the softness. They knew he would not be entering their apartment again anytime soon. A shame: both liked and respected the great snow being. He was a lot of fun, a gas. But it would soon be Melting Days at Bennington Square and the stirrings would stop altogether, until about Halloween or at least Thanksgiving at the latest. Then they would gradually die down in March and cease around Arbor Day, which was today. Both had forgotten to plant a tree in honor of his dying memory. Both forget a lot of things. What was that noise in the dresser? both thought at once, memory erased for 5-7 months. Must have been the wind.

(to be continued)

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tit for tat

George stood on 97/97 and looked at the picture of the couple and thought about All Orange. He grew maybe 6 inches overnight thinking about the thing. He was in danger of being absorbed, 13 to 10 to 13 and back and back and back, over and over. Duncan Avocado needed to keep a better eye out on him, but he had his own, rather similar problems. Tulips. How did they move that way? Why is that one red and why is that one over there purple but in the same bunch? And the rats. Don’t get him started about the rats. They make the stems, leaves and flowers move in mysterious, dark ways. He wonders if there are any rats in the Fortress — probably are, he rationalizes. And if not, maybe something else.

Markers. Must – place – markers.

—–

“How old are you?” Duncan queried about the lateness for dinner over the phone.

“13,” George admitted, and thought about the added height. How to get rid of it? How to convince Duncan A. he was still just an innocent boy at the heart of it all.

“Get – home.” Duncan hung up. He knew George was nearby. Phone service was spotty in the countryside, and George’s voice rang clear as an Alexander Graham Bell. Probably visited that gallery, hmph, he thought. Stood on the site of the former black hole and let it have its way, dark powers still tappable. 13 to 10 to 13 and on and on, spiraling out of control. He felt his own heart, and realized that innocence lost is innocence lost. For everyone except George.

(to be continued)

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