And then Ruby finds maybe a final, major landmark of the island: the almost football field long Wall Street also known as Long Lane.
We can continue.
Category Archives: Wild West
00380516
“I found something,” im-ed Wheeler, disguised as ice cream dress wearing Ruby again. “A second memorial. You can mark it on your map from my position.”
But Baker, disguised as Newt, had found something too. A working portal. He clicked one of the balls and it took him directly to ML Gazebo 91, a miracle. Just where he was suppose to be.
“Got it!” he im-ed back after the pin placement, not daring to tell his new discovery to the young, impressionable Ruby. Wheeler later, maybe.
secret cave
She needs something in her midriff. About, right… there. Don’t worry; doesn’t hurt. It’s all play.
Afterwards, she gives thanks to handy Ganesh for the gift of the new beginning. She’s able to turn herself off now at will. She can return home.
“Get the f- out of here. And take your dangly red legs with you too!”
ML Gazebo 91c: What’s Next after Newt?
And so we return to the beginning of sorts, the grave of Constantyne, namesake (of sorts) to Constantynople.
Close. Very close.
ML Gazebo 91b
She’d blocked herself off from the hill, her property, never intending to return. Of course she did. Kicked out that All Orange creature (with the red prison legs) from her house, as stated, found only Philip and the big caught fish next door when she returned, pretty Xia and Zimmy gone forever, it seemed. Philip exists on here to tell another tale. I personally know he has to visit the newly set up library over at my Constantynople, see what’s been written about him for the archival record. A lot! Small and big fish alike. Some whoppers once more. He had to stay on the island.
She stood further back, knowing this was about as close as she could get to the center of the island. She stares across what would eventually become the Abyss toward her namesake hill-ridge now in the distance, wondering aloud what it all meant. “Another island? Another pitch dark center? Axis?”
“Yes?”
She twirls. Nobody there — the voice came from nowhere. But she did spot the gazebo in the distance now through a couple of the island privacy walls, portal opened, Constantynople fulfilled. An urban area for the island at last, no matter if the other residents knew it or not. She’d fill each and every one of them in later. “How dare you, so and so!” “How dare *you*, so and so!” And so on until everyone was accounted for, starting with herself.
(to be continued)
ML Gazebo 91
A wall. Indicating my time in Constants may be limited, despite the name. And not a really pretty wall at that. But I, of course, have tricks to get around it.
There’s Falmouth Gallery! Is it so ugly that you have to hide? Moard (original creator) would not be proud. I think it’s bea-u-ti-ful.
After taking the picture, Mr. Z gets up from the chair and continues his journey intent on finding cousin Zimmy and his maw before sunset, er, sunrise if possible. Word.
—–
Truth of the matter exposed, he soon made his way into the center of Constantynople, unknowingly walking right by the stairs that would take him to his new apartment. And, perhaps more importantly, the new meeting place for the TILE study group. Had to happen.
“Hooray, he’s here!” cried the standing yellow porch ickle upon seeing him enter the square.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0038, 0512, Constantynople, Nautilus, Rank & File, Wild West
00380511
She thought of herself as ugly, a cow even.
Later, from her perch above, she watched her bathe, thinking, If I was only that beautiful. Xia and her cat. Always the cat, even in water. Sky, land, water — didn’t matter. Sometimes she believes she is the cat. I can’t leave, Myrtle thinks. I love her too much.
“All done!” came the call from below. Then she moves toward her clothes, cat still glued to the shoulder. Another constant, let’s call it. Myrtle watches everything with great interest. She use to not be this way. There was Ted, there was John — his twin, granted, but still another person. Then Harry the Lie Detector Magician. He hooked her up one day after much pestering. “Who do you love?” he asked her with great sincerity, tricking her. “You?” she answered basically as a question, making the meter jump. “Try again,” he said with some venom. Zimmy of course. Forbidden love. But then Zimmy changed into Xia. Soul shift. She use to not be this way.
—–
“Tell me that you love me, Xia,” she said, looking over. 1/2 sincere, both knew. Xia was playing this game too. She’d learned from the best (Zimmy).
“Of course I love you, Myrtle. You’re my bestest friend in the world, even closer to me than Zimmy.” Myrtle knew Zimmy didn’t exist any longer physically so he really didn’t count. She said so.
“Oh, Zimmy’s around. I just saw him fiddling with that portal, trying to get that thing to work for *real* this time.”
Myrtle had watched *Xia* mess with the so-called portal on the porch over there just before she came for a visit. There was no Zimmy. Not any longer. Okay, she’ll play along. “Zimmy’s a good brother to you.”
“*1/2* brother,” Xia quickly added.
“1/2 brother,” Myrtle calmly corrected herself.
“He taught me everything there is to know.”
“I know.”
“I *know* you know.”
Silence between them. Xia’s feet daintily kicked the old wooden fence marking the border between their properties, reminding her that she needed to return home soon. But — so lonely over there. Only Zimmy. Like talking to a mirror sometimes, she lamented. They were only 1/2 kin to each other blood-wise but still so close that their skins almost overlapped, blood shared and then some. “Come over here,” he said just earlier, before the visit started, patting the rug below the non-blue ball.
It took about 5 days, but Xia, slowly but surely, began to think of Myrtle as a mom. *Her* mom. Zimmy’s too. This baffled Myrtle. She decided to retreat into the interior of the island for contemplation, to a parcel some call the Abyss. Maybe the term was applied later, after what happened to Myrtle. Myrtle became… dark after that.
While gone, she rented her place to an orange being. All Orange. Not useful any longer, the elves retreated back into Philip, their creator after all, if not a Dark Lord. They’d forgotten who their actual father was, and that he had been living amongst them all this time. Everyone absorbed the inevitable fall together. Dancing Chuck looked on at the mess, wondering how the heck he was going to put all these pieces back together. In the end, Zimmy became intermixed with Xia and visa versa. And Philip became part fish, part tall tale himself, the stuff of legend; many books and documents written about him. When Myrtle returned from the Abyss and kicked All Orange back to greener pastures… well, we better save some of the story for later…
00380510
She looked at the object that allowed them to be caught in the presents. Not working any more, thus: stuck.
“Sister of mine, why don’t you come over and join me again.”
“I’m *not* your sister. Get that through your skull.”
“Of course you are. We have the same mother. 1/2 sister, granted. But siblings still to a 1/2 degree.” He patted the spot beside him, just below the non-blue ball. “Come.”
Xia sighed (Xia?). “Okay, but I’m only *1/2* enjoying it. My other hemisphere will be dwelling on the fish and its ultimate meaning. Why the floppy tail on the roof? That sort of stuff. In fact — just forget the whole thing. I have more important things to do.”
“Like what?” he asked innocently.
“I think I just told you.”
“You told me nothing. Tale to tell? That is vacant words.” Xia, he contemplated himself. Short for Xian, as in Christian? Interesting twist if so. He’ll have to ask their, after all, church abiding mother the next time he returns home. Hopefully with Xia in tow. But the whole breaking of the portal. How to *fix*??
Maybe that’s why they got so strongly into this whole TILE religion thingy — drew them to the island in the first place. “Take us where we ultimately belong,” they ask the magical portal that fateful day in May’s June far away. It was, of course, working at the time. Another property of the mother. Or maybe — the father. That might explain a lot. Dark Lord.
“Xia,” he spoke over to the pretty elf still fiddling with the object. At least she’s gotten the lights and sound to kind of work on it again. “Tell me about your name.”
(to be continued?)
caught
Turns out Philip Linden, maker of Our Second Lyfe itself, was a neighbor to me on my island of Constants, but he was another one of those on the edge, ready to drop off the world — his world, after all — with any significant push or wind. Boy does *he* have a whopper of a story to tell, though. Hopefully he can get to it at least in part before gravity and entropy does its inevitable damage.
Dancing Chuck awaits downstairs after it is all said and done, a reward for a job well done. Throw a towel on why don’t you (!).
I knew something I had to tell him: that this wasn’t His Second Lyfe any longer; this island was different. Looking into the future, perhaps that’s the info which pushes him over the edge, causing him to fall to pieces. I’ll try out that theory soon. At least he doesn’t seem to have a swollen head about world creation any longer. Less to break when he tumbles.
—–
Elves on the roof, another tale to tell.
fishy
“So how long you going to keep up this ruse? *Pitch*.”
“As long as it takes,” he replies generically, shifting his long legs nervously again. “Do (he indicates behind him), do these *people* have to follow you everywhere you go?”
“The Eightyeights? Of course. You know that.” She paused, thinking about what to say next. “Bad luck to stare at the ocean this time of day, though, they believe. Have to face away. Like the bear.”
“Ted?” He dares to glance back in its direction, centered in the sandy passageway that runs between the two halves of Sunklands Institute.
Another pause. “We can call him that. Or her.”
“What’s with this Tiki curse anyway?… riddling the town. Saddling it.”
Wheeler paused longer this time and decided not to even answer Baker Bloch, currently disguised as thought-to-be obsolete VHC City originating vampire Pitch Darkly. Married to Mary instead of Wheeler. The reason for his being.
“You can’t keep postponing the inevitable,” she said after staring into the hateful ocean for a while, bright in the fairy blue light. The light of the Devil, some say. 10:01. The Eightyeights couldn’t handle it, thus the turning. Wheeler was, in contrast, soaking it all in. Pitch was just glancing all around, shifting his feet and legs and arms. And glowing eyes. “You’ll wake up next to Mary one morning, perhaps one much like this one, and realize she’s just a symbol of something bigger. ‘Mary me,’ I said so long again that I can’t recall where and how.
“Boston?” Pitch said, and then corrected himself. “No, not Boston.”
“Not Miami,” Wheeler also offered. They both sat there, trying to remember the circumstances surrounding the event. It was also the day he met Mary; he did recall that. Reel reel reeling them in. Just like now.
“Caught another one!” she cried gleefully just over at the newly placed dock.
“Wonderful dear! A *whopper* this time!” he observed.
“Just like your story,” Wheeler hissed over through folded hands.
Sunklands 