Category Archives: Upper Austra^

pit-i-ful

He ignored Baker’s invitation to teleport back to Collagesity with him and roamed around this most central of Nautilus bergs instead. He waved at the monkeys and beavers in this pool near its southeast corner but did it the wrong way…

… and they became confused and thus didn’t respond. “Hmph,” he said in his mild, innocent way, not really insulted by the supposed snub but also not not insulted. Both ways (don’t say 1/2 and 1/2). In his wandering haze, he’d already forgotten about Baker, about Collagesity, about the invitation.

Baker tried again just as Man About Time walked into a waterfall on the southern wall and missed once more. Error!

—–

He lay there in front of the solid backed falls for the longest time, rubbing his aching head. Where was he? Who was he?

And so it goes…

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cins

Like any child, Duncan realizes he is neither one nor the other. He is himself. Yet he must honor the dead.

What *now*, mother, father? I am a mere black child with red on his hands from doing wrong deeds. Continuously! Tell me how I made my error.

Could it have been… conception itself?

—–

Neighboring Perch-Mistletoe now:

I’m doing what Wendy did before, he thinks while rubbing down a counter in a local sushi bar with his bare hands. I killed her (!).

The Man About Time showed up.

“Sorry about the lateness,” he apologized in his mild manner, too embarrassed to say he’d forgotten how to put on his clothes and had to be reminded by those around him. “Just change your wardrobe,” they collectively scolded. “Oh,” he said in return, turning as red as Duncan’s sinful mitts, another error filled story.

“Wellll?”

“Carrcassonnee?” Man About Time said, knowing what was foremost in Duncan’s mind even if he didn’t. Did it work this time? Was he able to merge the 7th back into the 6 and start the, er, *car*? It was a thing to ponder and he did. Remember, MAT, remember! Where *was* he? He looked around. I was there and now I’m here which was there before, but…

Duncan repeated his original question to Man About Time, refocusing him to the present. Center. He recalls: center.

(to be continued)

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It started with an outline, then filling in the details which continues.

“Where are we on the map, Baker B.? It’s very important we keep up with the map. We’ve come soo far.”

“Let’s see.” Alter.

“We’ve just found out that Elvira, you know, the aunt of Mrs. Ordinary who lives up in Chapel Vile over on the Corsica continent…”

“Yes?”

“She lives at or near Terriergate, the art gallery in Terriergate. This would be on the very western tip of the Lower Austra peninsula, maybe putting it in the Wild West category instead. You see (W.), I’m having a hard time still dividing the regions of the Nautilus continent up.”

“Do you think the elimination of Collagesity would help?” I waited for more and it didn’t come.

“What do *you* think?” I ventured in the gap. Nothing still.

—–

“A spirit is summoned by a witch in Spirit Witch,” I declared.

“Start there,” a faint voice comes from the darkness in the distance.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0031, 0307, Lower Austra^, Nautilus^^, Rim Isles, Rooster's Peninsula, Slaashsides, Southwestern, Squared Root City, Upper Austra^, Wild West

completed Table

Grassy Noll had shifted one chair down to make room for Nauty, but he said that wasn’t what it sounded like. It was just short for Nautilus (continent) — he wasn’t some kind of sex toy doll, he reinforced. “Or was he?” he then joked, and repositioned the pin near his navel in a most inappropriate way, getting a laugh from Wheeler at least.

“So you can help with our pin cushion problem,” said Baker, staying serious because he had a big problem. The Nautilus map behind Nauty had been itself overrun with red pins, marking locations already featured in the blog and with more to come. He needed organization, he needed categorization. What is the true relationship of Lower and Upper Austra? How is the North, deemed non-Austran, really different? And what of the Wild West, the Mild East, the *Southwest*, where he’d just been with Man About Time? And then: Collagesity. Between Highways 13 and 14 that stood for M and N. Soo much there already.

“Yes,” answered Nauty, and then said he had a Rubber Soul. Baker thought about this for a moment and realized it meant he was beyond Help (!). If it kept progressing in this direction he’d need a Revolver to end it all.

“You mean *I* have a Rubber Soul,” he said to Nauty.

“Yes.”

Across from him, Opp or Tropp (True Opp) had also shifted one chair over to make room for another newcomer, this Al guy we’ve already mentioned several posts back, the last one set in Paper-Soap in my new rental there, the one in front of Soap Beach but in the Paper sim, the place where the dead wash up in banded groups, ready to be sudsed and bubbled for rebirthing purposes. Wash away the sins type of deal. More newcomers. Perhaps, secretly, Al with his multiple faces was one of ’em. Also: Nauty. Maybe Jinx Doll as well. Seems too coincidental they’re here.

(to be continued)

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sold

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)

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Meat

“F-ing complicated!” he said about the map he stood upon, and all the pins dotting it. Nautilus. The 1st continent. The last continent. Where the Outside gets In.

“Calm down, calm down,” she said from the side, just around the corner. “You know about Marilyn and the alternate national anthem. You know which US of A is peering down into the translucent cube — hypercube, actually — from the Outside. It’s one that has been frozen in time. You have your pattern,” she finalized, looking steady into his eyes now, fully emerged. I couldn’t tell her hair color. I’m going to go with white (for now). I knew this was a 3.16 situation and that a return to Squared Root City was up soon. “Give it some time to mature,” I said, trying to calm myself this go around. Unable to keep stabilized, she receded. I moved forward — past Collagesity. Forward into the past, perhaps.

I start a new folder for my inworld photos and pin it to my Quick access. (photo #) 1950. Here we go!

—–

Ah yes. Starlight.

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purple mountains

“Shame about the queen being kidnapped and all,” Brend spoke to Alysha one floor below where they learned about the news. “But it’s not of our concern.”

“Except for the Samhain,” she corrected, feet finally getting warm now before the fire.

“And the witches,” he added, also attempting to drive away the cold of the library stone.

“And the Abbot I suppose.” She sighed, resigned to the fact that it is every bit their concern. Except for the queen. Because they knew this was about Marilyn at the bottom of it. The writing could now not be seen.

—–

“Funny how they spelled Dairocha wrong in that newspaper article. It’s like the powers that be are hiding something.”

“Hmph.” Alysha knew she was hiding something as well. Knowledge at the castle core that Brend had “conveniently” forgotten about. The “l” was changed over there.

—–

In Enigma, Marilyn began the national anthem.

“O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain…”

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00300310

“New in town?” Bart the bartender asked, wondering if she heard him over whatever was playing in her headphones. He had to try. She was so cute with her blue-green skin and orange tipped antennae, just typing away without a seeming care in the world. He’d dated a Venusian over in Tinsletown and considered it a once in a lifetime opportunity. Now he may have another (he dreamed). But… no answer. Headphones must be blocking. And she hadn’t taken them off yet so no chance of non-filtered chit chat. Been sitting here playing on her notebook, jeez, I guess going on 2 hours. Slow night, Bart the bartender thought. Wish I could get *something* out of it… no tips coming in. He again studied the orange tips of the antennae. She glanced up with those big orange eyes to match, sensing the stare, but then quickly down again, absorbed in whatever she was typing. He could say he’s closing up, but in reality he had an hour left on his shift, before the bar shut down when the musical group started playing. The Rolling Joints tonight, fresh from a gig at the Progressive Rock Museum’s place over on Roost Peninsula, or so he’d heard. Yeah, you’d have to be smoking some joints to believe they were progressive, he thought humorously. Another one of those 3 chords and the truth sort of bands to his ears, what he knew about them.

It was a club that catered mainly to colored people, but “aliens” of all kind were welcomed. “Bigots not allowed,” read a big sign outside the establishment. Northern Nautilus, as a whole, was progressive in that way. Take the Rolling Joints, whose music was kind of foreign to the complex rockers over on the peninsula but invited anyway. Takes a tapestry to know the world, he was always taught by his forward looking mamas and papas in Donutland just off the west end of Highway 12. He’d heard differently about other parts of the mainland, especially Jeogeot and southern Maebaleia. And, of course, Lower Austra, but not quite the same way. Bigots only to the northern parts of the continent and their ways. Tolerance in other parts of the metaverse was acceptable. Strange folks those Lowers, he thinks here. And the Uppers have their own peculiarities. But us *Northerners*. us non-Austrans — we’re the best (!). Can’t be beat. If only we’d stop building and then tearing down all those castles we’re peculiarly attached to.

The band’s entourage started moseying in the front door, preparing to set up all their needed gear. The Rolling Joints, he thought, marveling at the sight. Maybe pretty soon we can attract The Beetles themselves, or at least a John Lemon solo act. The door has been opened with this lot, bless their at least progressive hearts. More can come in.

Then lead guitarist George Timebomber arrived and the game was *really* on. The Venusian immediately shut her notebook, appearing to sense his entrance without turning. She removed her headphones and walked over. They kissed. Darnit!

—–

“I’ve been listening to your new album all night, waiting for you,” she said to him in her dry, Venusian way, as if her mouth had been filled with cotton. “I *love* it. I’ll print my review tomorrow in the ‘Daily Castle’. I think we’re looking at an…” She hesitated saying “escape pod”, thinking of her own way of getting here. Now she can help another with a kind of parallel problem. Three chords and the truth, pheh, she could have thought here. She’s counted at least six on track one alone! He belongs here, not touring the metaverse that is our world, Our Second Lyfe. He needs to turn local, which is every big rocker’s dream after all. In olden days (she’s heard), it use to be the opposite. Queer times! she thought here. Who would want to acquire *fame* and all the attached trappings?? Popularity waning fast, The Rolling Joints were ripe for a successful disbandment.

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… cross(es) to bear

They called it the Cross Arm of the Starfish Lake or Sea (or whatever) because of the balance of the 2 castles, Princess to the right and Dairocha to the left, coupled with the twins on the vertical axis, north and south, talking and debating about such on opposite coasts. One was right and the other was wrong. Then the situation flipped at the arm: the right one was wrong and visa versa. It all evens out if you figure in the castles… and the Marilyns. “Dot dot dot,” I can hear the opposite say in my head. “Enough with the dots.” And perhaps he was right (not). Also: “Enough with the parentheses.”

At any rate, we need to get back to the original Marilyn and the Monster book stolen from the Dairocha library by Axis-Windmilll and Alysha Mae Raspberry. Also: “Enough (…) of the crossouts.”

Jesus H. Christ writing is hard!

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fairy blue 02

Deals were being swung all day. Belinda Mae Appletree called her mom, asking for a raise in allowance from 5000 to 10. Dirk Besmurk wondered if he could even afford a fish taco from this central vendor after purchasing a loan on a Ferarri 5000 series from Jebadiah Bush, a former snake oil salesman at Barkley’s hired by the Princess to do her dirty work. And the Princess? Well, we’ve discussed the Princess of the Diagonal already in this here photo-novel (30) but apparently this one is different. No pictures this time — just rumors. Gossip has her as a ditzy blonde, centered by a pole that revolves around and around like a rotisserie chicken being devoured, bit by bit, by onlooking lingering eyes before its time. 15 she was when she inherited the castle from her aunt’s mom’s cousin, one Felicity Day Daghound of the Dartmoor Harbour Bay area — thereabouts.  She was just too young for the responsibility, in other words, to be thrust out into the world of Mann at such a tender age. It basically ate her alive; close enough.

—–

They caught up with each other, twin to twin. “Have you heard the latest about the castle?” the black and blue one said to the red and white one. “Dairocha?” the other spoke back. “I’ve heard about the incident in the library and the theft of the all important Monster book. Marilyn was not pleased.” “*Marilyn*,” the first said, “is at the Princess Castle. You mean the Princess Castle, right?” Wrong.

The book flips back.

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