November 10, 2021 · 9:08 am

00300108

He stares from the rock while listening to rock. *His* rock. Can he actually listen to what The Mann says this time?

From this perch, he’s looking for the plane or at least the boat, but they weren’t that easily spotted. The pink plane may be totally out of sight (man). The small boat may *just* be visible, he determines. Another floater. Another 6 inches. If he could just fix the engine and move it away from here all would be well. The boy might be his.

—–

It was time for Zach Black and Lena Horned to leave this place. The Maebaleia red white and blue battle flag keeps flapping and slapping, ouch ouch ouch. Duty calls; Nautilus continent tour aborted. The red hand scratches.

Lena Horned takes one last float like the boy and is gone.

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November 10, 2021 · 8:02 am

battleground boy

He stares down at the soup ladle he still holds in his red hands, understanding it is a mnemonic device. “George,” he utters aloud, having lost track of the one person in the world he’s not suppose to. Again.

But George was safely tucked in dreams right now, talking to red headed Marty about TILE while floating on his Lake. A boy of 13 to 10 back to 13, over and over. Right now: 13, 6 inches taller than the shortest version when either upright or lying down. “Duncan was fortunately looking the other way this time,” he says to the young boy, if not the youngest. “Toward the red and green balloon. We may not be as fortunate the next time. The raspberry lady guides.” He leaves it at that.

He sips his stale lemonade and is gone.

George wakes up, wondering who “we” is.

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November 9, 2021 · 9:48 am

00300106

“Hey, a red and green balloon,” Duncan said later after the two disgruntled women left, tired of the spectacle. Duncan noticed. Moving quickly, he purposefully took their high falutin seats, daring anyone around to say anything. They didn’t like black people ’round these parts but Duncan had gleaned they were also scared of them.

“Never mind that,” the as yet unnamed raspberry beret wearing lady said, staring disbelievingly in the opposite direction. I know it was something blue and yellow but I wasn’t sure what yet. We’d have to wait until another night (night night!).

Later: Oh. Just the rising sun.

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November 9, 2021 · 9:00 am

mistletoe doorway

“Grapes?” he guessed while passing the stomping, pretty, beret bedecked lady.

“Raspberries,” she exclaimed back in a shaky voice, her legs and attached body going up and down, up and down. Soon all would be red and it wouldn’t matter. It was the first of many sightings for the girl in this as yet unnamed place. A place in Sunklands with Pietmond Boy and Norris roaming about it, perhaps zombies now but perhaps still alive. 1/2 and 1/2 would be another guess to insert here; eye for an eye.

On with the show…

They have quite the audience.

Always wanted to dance with a white girl, he wished to say but of course bit his tongue.

“Would you look at them down there.”

“Disgraceful,” the other agreed.

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November 9, 2021 · 8:19 am

Sam Drunker

“We don’t like your kind around here, you *hippies*, with your *peace* signs.”

“We’re *not* hippies,” Norris and Pietmond demanded in front of their parked, garishly colored van, trying to get their bearings in this queer place. Its wheels simply would not turn without them. “We’re gypsies.”

“And killing citizens right and left after you just entered the gates of town,” he continued his rant and attached deadly glare.

“They were *zombies*. They would kill *us* without thinking about it!”

“Nevertheless. Zombies are people too. Besides… you need a license in this town to kill zombies. I’ve been waiting to say that to someone for a long time. People around here don’t listen. But *you*…”

“Strangers.” Norris understood this must be one of the disgruntled Pro-Dead he’s heard about in the general Sunklands area. The reason they’re there in the first place. He nodded toward Pietmond, knowing they were on the right track. He produced the blue feather from his grey pocketbook. “Know anything about *this*?”

The farmer-lawyer recalls. His mind drifts back to that day in early May of last week’s July. He falls back but then springs forward, pitchfork in hand. He’s gonna make *them* dead. Then he can defend their rights properly, heh.

(to be continued)

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November 9, 2021 · 7:55 am

killings 02

The guys from Paper-Soap arrive.

“Watch out for that German! Hey, there’s another one, look out!”

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November 9, 2021 · 6:12 am

breakthrough

—–

White as Heaven, he stood at the open door on the back of the windmill, watching from a distance. Black, he determined. And probably red as well. He should join them, make his presence known. What does he have to hide *now*?

He quickly hides his red hand from observation, a medical condition but also blood. Our Duncan Avocado. He was also looking for something. He’d lost his cap, perhaps in the woods. He was scratching his head, wondering where it went, but then realized this exposed his weakness to the white guy up the hill. He’s also on something, as in onto something. A box. Could this be… Borneo?

As the white guy approached, he thinks back to Scratchy (sim) and another weakness exposed. The inability to keep track of the one thing in life he is responsible for: George. “White as Heaven” was there. He had some advice to dispense. “You’ve been working on the railroad. I can tell (by your hands).”

Was it a labor of love? he thought after the brief conversation was over. Bart might know. If he wasn’t dead as well.

“Go to the Red,” the white guy essentially commanded. The Old White Lady did. Your *ma*.

He somehow got stuck in the windmill on his way over. Back to square one.

Later: Duncan’s soup disappeared and he knew he was in trouble.

(to be continued)

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November 8, 2021 · 8:46 am

Scratchy

“Oh… I’m full Duncan. I can’t eat another bite of this delicious yet weighty soup. So tasty, though.” He picks up his spoon from beside his empty bowl, intending to have at it again.

“I didn’t bring you here just to give you some of Sally’s leftovers. I brought you here to…” He paused.

“Yes?” George was digging out what he considered the best chunks now from the tureen (deep covered dish). Almost done.

“Talk about *us*.”

George starts eating. Not too fast… he wants to savor the flavor. Aunt Clare taught him that. But he was tired of snow or snow derived meals. Give him something crunchy but not with ice in it! “Well… go ahead,” he says between bites. “So good,” he reinforces.

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November 7, 2021 · 9:30 am

Borneo

He was back in Eveningwood. Dang, no papers left, he thought, staring over at the empty stand. Have to catch up with the news elsewhere, maybe that cafe, who was it — *Hidi* found earlier. Hidi who was White Mage, he knew now. His replacement in effect.

He joined the attached group and was able to move freely, once more, into the multi-sim city. Ultimately he knew he’d have to head back to the underground bar — and the bars — to pick up where he left off. but first…

END OF “SUNKLANDS 2021 EVEN LATER”!

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November 7, 2021 · 8:51 am

seeing

I log out Wheeler to save memory. We can speak more freely now. “I was…” he began. “Born,” he said. “Naked.”

“Yes, we all are,” I said back, occupying the chair in front of him instead of Jennifer Lane. We would end this way, just the two of us. Man to man. “But you have a birthday hat instead of a birthday suit (now). You are acceptable.”

“Indian,” he then said. “Wells.”

“Yes, that’s your name. To some. I personally usually call you Tropp. You and me, we are different.”

“Yes.” Pause. “Studied… I am studied.” He looks down at his hands, noticing the flaws. Not on his face in this case but his hands. “Axis is here.”

“Yes, you are Axis, who is now Axis-Windmill. Should probably shorten that to something else. Any ideas?” I was tired of having to do all the thinking in this here blog and attached photo-novels, now almost 29 in number. So near the end… just around the corner…

“We’ll… see.” He takes a sip of tea. He adjusts the birthday cap on his head so it isn’t as askew to his face. Takes a minute, since he has to make it askew in the first place (see above). He realizes the scars on his hands were caused by heat. Scalding. He looks down at the smoke of the tea drifting up to his face. *And* his face. “I…. love…”

“Yes?”

He changes. We were back to square one.

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