Category Archives: Dairocha
She finishes prepping her wig as Jeb drives up in his beat up old red truck. She knows him by another name but we know him as Black Bart. Dairocha has followed us, the reader and writer, here to this motel out in the sticks of Nautilus, one blending into another. This is (part of) the secret. That the inside has become the outside, flipped out and away from itself. Much like her bangs.
“Darling, you in there?” Grown-up Tessa decides that the reader and writer shouldn’t see her present lover, perhaps future husband. If things work out for her. A whole castle? She can get away from it all. (knock knock knock) “Darling?”
She said she lived in a motel just up Highway 12. That was a lie. She said she was behind on her payments. Another lie. She said she had a great view of Big Cedar from her room’s window. Guess what: another lie, a fib in that case but still a lie. Pattern of a deceiver.
All she was after, all along, was the big monster book about Arkansaw, stolen from the Dairocha library in what’s-its-number novel (one of the more recent ones). The one Wheeler/Alysha was still after but couldn’t find, even when she tried the invisible realm. Still not on the invisible shelf before her, no matter what kind of light partner in crime Baker Bloch used to illuminate the situation. If the library had been removed, they determined, then there was no real center to the hollowed out volcano village that is Dairocha and thus no use in hanging around there and creating more little stories and whatnot. They and their now *huge* collection of attached avatars and characters had to move on, although a return is obviously possible. Nautilus keeps surprising and surprising. Must be the outside energy of our grand US of A penetrating the whole hypercube structure. This will continue for some time. I have time. I must have patience. Relatively unyielding and begrudging characters like grown-up Tessa irk me. What happened to her that made her leave her family nest and move to high and dry Nautilus, full of basically abandoned beige ridges and better populated but heavily banned green ocean front properties? The search for Lemon World? Traces? That must be it. Holed up in a mysterious hotel in the shadow of a beige mountain obviously linked to the real world (Lemon World?). Hiding secrets in order to protect her identity and purpose. It didn’t add up to her recently-united-with cousin D’Eddy, who she knows as Edward and not Eddy. Eddy was the other cousin who was playing that fated game of Alphabet Soup to her, the one introduced at the beginning of section 1 of this here photo-novel, 33 in a series of (fill in the blank). Edward — *her* Edward (our Eddy) — similarly shows up at the beginning of section 2. And now: Tessa — Tessie. The third cousin. The most mysterious of them all. What was she hiding? The 33 year old woman didn’t live at the motel, she just stayed there.
For starters, she applies mascara one eye at a time just like the rest of them.
“It’s a beautiful land, this Dairocha. But ultimately it does us no good if the library still isn’t there. Central! Right Wheeler?”
Wheeler, having determined this some hours back, had already left the scene. She was ready to complete this here photo-novel section about the Nautilus North elsewhere. She was Alysha now, aka Helen aka a lot of other names. But especially Helen, she felt. The antique village of Lips or One Pink called.
Under the big cross at the top of it all, he too changed. Sheriff R.V. Trailer it is to end. Wait!…
Just below. Sweeping. Lots of it; multiple brooms obviously involved. It reminded him of another place he needed to go first.
Multiple sweepers don’t remain any longer at this southeast corner bar of Odie just off Route 12, to his disappointment. Then he met grown-up Tessa and things changed even once again. He was immediately attracted to her waist high tattoo of 2 six shooters. How clever, he thought. Pointer. She leaned over and said her new name in a low voice, obscuring the ink.
He automatically leaned in too (*kiss*), One Pink or Lips transformed.
“I don’t understand, Wheeler. The library simply… *disappeared*.” Mainly. A couple of books left, but –”
“Quiet,” Wheeler demanded, who had turned into Alysha in anticipation of the event. Crestfallen! Yet she was determined to try. She thought the air felt a little different just over… there.
“Am I holding anything, Baker B.?” she queried expectantly, palms getting sweaty even.
“Not a thing.”
“Wait. Lemme try a little brighter light just to be sure.
Baker Bloch trying to love his new, temporary home and forget that his Collagesity rent is now 1 day overdue, pheh. PHEH.
He hasn’t quite got the lighting in here, he thinks. Trying out “Fairy dark blue (Paulina)” currently.
View of the place from the west. Complicated. Potentially many stories to tell within with the many dummies present. Just like Towerboro before it. Wonder how Towerboro is progressing — still a work in progress after all, according to the land description. But Baker shouldn’t be focused on the past. Instead: current. *Dairochia* — yes, that’s the name I concocted several novels ago now. Because we’ve been here before. Library. Looking for a particular book about monsters. Then: stolen.
And it has a secret core, Baker also remembers. Where the letter “l” was exchanged for an “i’.
Time to bring in Wheeler.
“Morgan, eh? Just like Alysha.”
“Yeah,” Baker answered Wheeler. “I’m positive she’s still here.”
“She stole the book, she stole the letter. She won’t be welcomed in this here kingdom of several powers that be.”
“No,” agreed Baker.
“Just hanging around til you got here.”
“Well, I’m here.”
“Pretty, huh?” Baker Bloch offered to just arrived Wheeler about the fairy garden he’d discovered tonight in his roamings.
Sigh. “Sure. Point Zero?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Maybe.” Baker indicates with a tilt of his head. “Blue fairy over there. Just like in ‘Pinocchio’.”
“Um hm, I remember. Blue screen of death. Oracle… dead.”
“But not now.”
“No,” she agreed. She looked around, studied each of the fairies she could see and their tableaus. She decided not to walk around. She wasn’t sure how long she wanted to stay. She has a seat in front of the fire; waits for Baker to stop swinging and come over to join her.
She quickly became impatient. “Are you going to join a swingers club or are you going to stay loyal to me?”
Baker hopped down from the rope and walked over. “We’re not married, you know. That was just a joke from the last photo-novel. The last of the last,” he said.
“I know. I thought it was fitting to say anyway. Have a seat.”
He does, and then a colorful person appears from behind some rocks and comes over and starts to serenade them with queer violin playing while bobbing up and down.
“Aw jeez,” says Baker to this.
“What… what is it?” Wheeler looks him over; decides he is harmless.”
“Aw it’s just his guy I met. Bouncer. He must think…”
“We’re a couple? I did too. And then you drop this bombshell on me. We’re not married.”
“You know we’re not married, Wheeler. Just drop it.”
“Like a ball. Like the ball I deserve? My wedding gown. Had to pack grandmama’s away again, perhaps for good. She’s rolling over in her grave for certain, tsk tsk tsk.”
“Stop,” Baker requests, loud enough for Bouncer to hear. He lifts his bow. He bows. He waits.
“I think he wants a tip,” Wheeler said, not offering any herself. Baker traditionally has more of the money, she thinks. But currently he’s got that high rent payment each week. 750 dollars due *now*. Wheeler knew Baker was fishing again.
“5 okay?” Bouncer just stands there unbouncing. He touches the purple musician to deliver the money. No bowing this time. Disappointment. He takes his leave behind the rocks again.
“100 would have been more appropriate,” Wheeler opines, trying to figure out how he disappeared so quickly from her angle. “200 maybe. It was a good tune. Messiaen I believe, one of his bird twitterings. I’m surprised it didn’t attract some pigeons.”
“You could be right,” he says, moving his hot feet away from the fire by sitting sideways.”
“I *am* right. I can always tell a Messiaen. He must be a real pro to play that fine. 300, I say. You should have tipped 300… no 400.”
“I assume you’re going to raise it to 750. I know what game is being played.”
“Yeah. You know why you’re here.”
“Yeah. I’m strapped for cash as you know.”
(to be continued)
‘Big Red Machine,’ ‘Big Red Machine.’ *Here* it is.
No place to read — all seats taken, thanks to my colleagues in crime. Not crime — anyway, I’ll stand. I don’t mind. These 2 always seem to have the upper hand, testing this and judging or determining that. When I have the information in this book, things might change. Worth a try. Good, they’re not looking — absorbed in their own research.
Chapter 4: Twitch of the Morgan. Okay, getting somewhere. Um, hmm. (read read read). Ah ha. (scan scan scan) Getting late. The others seem bored. Better wrap this up, come back when I can ditch these two snitches — yes snitches. To the cause. I’ve found the book, that’s the important thing today. Fern is still looking around, almost as if — she can’t see me (!). Can they *hear* me? But too risky to test while she has the book. No need to attract attention to herself, whether she is truly hidden or not. She could become unhid, and whatever spell was cast on her by unknown powers (but probably Fern; maybe by accident even) wore off.
Okay, definitely getting weird here. Fern’s looked right at me several times now and it’s as if I didn’t exist (!). Ghosted somehow; Lichen the same. They seem to be finished with their own reading, kind of staring and glancing around. Probably looking for *me* I would assume, since we came in the same car or whatever. Carriage. The time is April through July, I know that. The day, the *century*, though, is unclear. Fern said this was a place we could research the hypercube, and better understand the link that is forming between 1st and 2nd lives. Great! I said, and Lichen also smiled across at me, knowing that Fern was onto something and this would be a better library experience than the one over in Dairocha Castle on Nautilus. This wasn’t Nautilus, oh no. This was the Orient by comparison. And me, me… Oriental. This is about me! Another test, most likely. But why?
The 9th and final chapter beyond the Great 8: gone. As if it had been ripped out by unseen hands. The crucial information! Soo sleepy. Fern and Lichen are still looking around. Sleepy. Eyes getting heavy. *Gone*.
“I don’t think Alysha is coming back,” Fern finally said, tired of the wait.
“No. She must have gone back to the carriage.”
Lumbering Big Red sitting nude with his big ass parked on the piano bench over there was finishing up Part 9 of his suite of compositions. Soon the spell would be over and Alysha would reappear, a bit confused but otherwise okay. But the book in her lap would have disappeared along with the music. One and the same.
The Samhain strapped a harness on her and put her on the marketplace. Legs too long, one potential buyer complained, and moved on. Thanks a lot! she thought. Should she have gone through with the reverse operation now? They were a 9, good enough for most. But this was Our Second Lyfe, where perspective is a little different, physics too. A 9 in Real Life could actually be a 10 here — hard to put into words. “Take off that silly red lipstick,” one said before the strapping. “And the blue eye shadow — NO makeup!” the other, even more haggardly one beside her barked. They were Samhain but they were also types of witches, even if they despised that appellation. They reserve it for the East-West duo and the In-Between 3rd, the fruity one, who is also a blonde. Like her. No wonder they hate her so much. “You should have kept your legs short,” they also said, hearing the complaint from at least that one gentlemen who wore a fine tuxedo and black velvet top hat to match. He’s one to talk! He must be 6’10” if translated to Real Life, she thought later in her lonely cell, after all the sales people had retreated from the scene, the tableau even. She was secretly making an arrow for her bow, just over there. You have to look hard in the corner to see it. Magical it was, thus the camouflage. She had plucked the hen for feathers; she had sharpened the flint tip with her chisel and ballhammer; now all that was left was the shaft, and she could complete that tonight, when everyone was either in the bathroom in the dark or in bed in the dark — all the Samhain heathens. It wouldn’t land at just their feet this time; that was just a test to see how far she could go without them noticing. All she needed was a piece of lumber.
Damn! she thought at 9:15pm. The guard that is actually competent is back from being sick on pill. Can’t get to the sawmill beyond his bench.
The Abbot rode into the marketplace on a white horse the next day. He wielded a shaft of the exact proportions she needed, another 10 to her. He dangled it enticingly in front of her, asking if this is what she desired. What could she do? The alternative — with the Samhain *witches* — was the greater of 2 evils, at least it seemed at the time.
(to be continued)