We begin where the last one ended. On a map of Nautilus continent in my Collagesity skybox, the full view this time. Because this go ’round we’re going to tackle the whole thing. We’re not at one of of those nodal photo-novels yet but we’re closing in. Preparations must be made. Alysha jumps off the pin representing NO Tor and proceeds northward, intending to find Ruby the tall, green alien, perhaps Martian but also perhaps not. The qualified doctors would know, but Dr. Mouse the unqualified as it turned out, doesn’t have access to that information, that file. Ruby Alien remains, thus, a…
Category Archives: Rim Isles
And so we end where we began: on No Tor hill in Leemington seen in the distance in that last photo, following young Alysha around again searching for that ship of hers.
The hill is like an ant to her, in that she is her ant. She crawls forward, scrambling to the top, eager to have a better perspective on which to build further, view farther. Let’s zoom in.
Just gotta get up over this rock, *ugh*, and smooth sailing.
Good. She’s at the peak. Now to ratchet out the draw distance to the max and see what we have. MAX
She’s happy she can peer beyond the Green Between from Lower Austra into Upper Austra, most likely where Ruby Alien will be released day after Wednesday’s yesterday. I believe it will be the 5th. Doctor Paul Mouse will cave into local pressure and bring her to the proper authorities, meaning the actual, qualified doctors who are able to deal with such things. Check her out, let her go. Maybe she’ll make her way into the great, empty city of Perch-Mistletoe, she thinks it is called, a doorway between dimensions where one kisses another and won’t let go. She knows this is the two sides of herself, 13 to 13, evened out now; Nautilus (continent) complete. But it won’t be in this photo-novel.
The continent remains a conundrum, a mystery. 32×32 sims, 41 times the size of Collagesity’s localized 5×5 we just exited back there. And that 5×5 is hard enough to understand as it is (!).
Alysha and SEAN Green, Mr. Michigan, look to one of the far corners filled out in the past two novels, with more Nautilus fun to come. NW NE SE and, with this one, SW. Jeffrie Phillips in a Santa outfit floats on Little George Lake — or just Lake — waiting for 2 blue eyed pools to become one blue eyed pool so that he can proceed with the examination of the Arkansas book, which appears to be the same as the Oracle. He’s taken it back to Collagesity still in the middle of it all, or at least Lower Austra. He’s starting to study it intently, with help from sometimes wife, sometimes girlfriend, always lover Charlene the Punk Brown, currently rocking a hot pink babydoll for him. They’ll probably remain childless though; he has too many mistresses on the side, which Charlene allows now, or rather puts up with. *Barely*.
She takes off the babydoll, intent one more time to get Jeffrey to forget about all those others.
END OF “COLLAGESITY PHOTO-NOVEL 26”!
From the top it looked like 2 giant, naval style oranges frantically trying to merge. But from the bottom: 2 dancers (with All Orange highlighted), obviously having a good time with their parachutes.
Where did they drop in from?
“Questions,” warned W, still observing from somewhere nearby, perhaps behind that palm tree with the woody woodpecker pecking up the wrong, Yelloo upward.
“More dancers nearby,” spoke observing George now, hidden at the bottom of his small pool. Big George, small pool. A Lake he just proclaimed it ironically enough, but more firmly aligning himself with TILE. MUST STUDY.
“Channeler,” I observed myself. “TILE.”
And now: correct upwards.
“Oh, I know. Blue blue blue!” George cried, knowing we were one short in that category. But which one? Michigan: above and beyond them both. The 26th. Where was this photo-novel, 26 in a series of something, taking us?
I could feel W frowning behind that left-behind tree.
Younger George now: “I always wanted to play this game. Richochet.” He tosses another marble, perhaps a blue.
“This is your time, George. Enjoy the game! Soon you will be 13 again and forget about all this.”
“No I won’t!” he protested to the big eye, and gathered up what he tossed while marking the spot of the furthest marble for future reference.
“We are almost done here, George. It’s time to find your future place in the spheres.”
“I won’t let you down!”
“We’ll call this Little Lake George. Or Big Lake George — just *Lake George*. I can’t tell if you’re big or small right now.”
“I’m *13*,” spoke the floating boy over to the famous and/or infamous British musician from the 60’s or thereabouts. Our Marty, currently with red hair instead of black.
“So: big. Just Lake George, then.”
“Let’s just go with… Lake,” he measured out intelligently from his reposed position, knowing more than he let on. Aunt Clare had taught him a lot about TILE.
They stayed in their positions for a while, he floating on Lake and Marty dipping his shoed feet in same, testing the water to see if he could safely take his loafers off. George, in fact, was doing the same with his clothes, with his feet already being bare and exposed. They were indeed one here on this OWL island in the Southwest of Nautilus continent, ready to begin their next adventure.
“One Blue Eye gone from OWL, W. We must be in Arkansas.”
“Or Missouri,” she offered.
“But probably Arkansas,” I returned.
“Because of the red.”
“All gone,” she exclaims in a thick accent as Marty walks up from behind, probably Russian. “Ruble.”
“Rubles?” Marty attempted as a (weak) joke. She turns. There was gold in her eyes.
Marty checked her profile. She seemed to be an artist, or was at least attached to an art colony. He decided to head there next. Maybe they would have more information about these Ruins of Lustre off the coast of Roost. But not that Roost: a different one. One that Marty knew quite well through Lemon back in the days. Roost Never Sleeps. It’s where Lemon was formed, actually. But it all seemed a big blur now. Too much excitement; too much hot coffee; too much *speed*.
She couldn’t come. She was stuck at this centerpoint, a mere marker. “Goodbye girl with the golden eyes!” he cried while flying away.
It was almost too painful to bring back Marsha “Pink” Krakow, or catch up with what happened to her after her — after her…
“Death. Go ahead and say it Baker B.”
“Death, yes. Thank you. I guess, then, I’m sitting beside you now in some guise.”
“I talk to him, you know,” she deflected, or got more straight to the matter. “Tom Banks, I — we, talk to him. Me and myself and maybe I as well. He sits in front of us and we ask him about his soul, his own destiny. Will it be Hell forever and ever? We determined early on it will be not. *We* are murderers just as much as him, that’s what we determined (early on). W-ierd, eh? You eat through time; you see these things, like ants in cheese. Something.” She stopped here. She asked if she could play a song for me. She had become a composer in the afterlife. “Nice,” I replied. She was about ready to move toward the guitar just over there, about to play her song. The one about “Jackie Blue”, if Blue is Pink. I suppose she would have had to rewrite it, then. Or revert it (something).
She asked me to stay for a spell, saying I helped brighten up the place. I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t. But maybe someone else could. I’d have to ponder on that for a while as I went about doing other things in other places. Starting with…
“Has he figured out — how you are?” came the question on the other end in a familiar voice. So hoarse and raspy Blue, like FLY.
The first thing they saw was an angel heralding them in — or out. “Duncan is good,” said one to the other. “He knows what to see when it looks back at him.” The other didn’t respond, waiting for something better.
“Ahh yes, that’s much better today Mrs. Fox,” says airport assistant vice manager for human interactions Stephan Spaceboy, checking the weight board.
“Miss,” she says. “Actually: Ms.”
“As you wish, *Ms.* Fox. Now. What can I do you for?” Stephan taps his foot nervously against the floor under the desk. Return visits by avatars usually mean trouble. It means they are looking for something. Or somebody.
“Yes, I think I’m ready to talk about Pink again. I hear…”
“… she’s here, yes.” Stephan tries to act casual while looking away from her. He glances out the office window in what he knows is the direction of Pink’s lair, as he calls it. Who is she with now? He doesn’t want to know.
In her own office not 100 meters away to the south, Pink was asleep at her desk, dreaming she was young and, well, alive again. Tom Banks had brought her a vase of flowers, saying he was sorry he had to kill her but it was his role in life. Similarly dead Frankie “Beige” Brown sat across from her, giggling at the conjunction of Pink and Tulip outside on the plane and inserting, “Lips are like one pink,” between snickers. Going further back in time, Doogie Martin was staring at a snow filled tv he’d just mounted on the wall and mumbling something about Aspinwall. It was all being swept away in the (white) noise, all the sorrows put behind her. Then she wakes up.
One thing remains, but silent or at least very low.
“Ahh, you see how easy the Owl is to spot in this area?”
“I think I’m done with the Southwest,” I opined, having explored it extensively yesterday, airport (Half Moon) included.
“As you wish,” she answered.
But on a large peninsula just to the east, more mysteries arise. ROOST?
But nothing to do with ROOST homes examined before that I can tell.
I can only check the multi-sim build remotely, since access to the public has been cut off, at least temporarily. I will landmark and return. W-eird.
W: “You said it!”
She stood as if in the middle of time, taking it all in. This Hitgal, I believe. Selling corndogs for the pick’n. Or was it cornogs? And whatever happened to that vow to have less questions in this here blog? Hmmm?
Someone approached her, slightly hobbled. “I lost my cane. Can you help me find my cane?” Dr. Mouse.
She was very helpful, unlike the other one. She would help me in getting to my destination, this (he checked the nametag): Mae Baleia. I wonder if that’s Russian? I wonder… if she has a husband. *I* could be her husband.
“Dearest,” she calls over in her undetermined foreign accent, coaxing him out of his daydreams. “You’ll have to move on. I have other customers to deal with.”
“I was like ‘blublublu’, and he was like ‘eyoweyoweyow’, and then somebody jumped in and shouted, ‘Stop the plane!’. It was the pilot — Tickie — blue fellow. The pilot made the plane after all; 1 to 1. Jen Saunders held up the index fingers of both hands here. Stan Gunderson realized she would be of no help in getting to his destination.