May 19, 2025 · 2:26 pm

00460611 (… and round)

He moves closer, shines his light on it. It’s either the lore of the Albert sim Monster or the lore of Black Lake, New York and its Woodstock, he’s determined about the illuminated book through checking the name “lore” in the current photo-novel. Aah! he then realizes. Both in one!

He picks up his Windsong classical guitar and dons his Windsong blown wind hair style and starts to play. A small crowd soon gathers, growing bigger and bigger…

He sings in ecstasy. Better than sex. Better than Wheeler! He doesn’t need the Yore pool any longer. He’s made his own reflection!

Round and round…

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May 18, 2025 · 1:32 pm

00460610 (deja vu)

She smelled him before she heard him and she heard him before she saw him. Like a dog, yech! Might as well be shite. Bury it like a bad dinner and put a little tombstone on it and call it such. But… she’d seen him before, she’d *been* here before.

This cat who didn’t quite measure up as a person named Guyd.

Long time acquaintance and good enough friend Rebl, although eligible to go in the Mother Ship with the rest, decided to stay behind in the caves as well and matched her eyes accordingly, red and blue to Guyd’s green and yellow. Like Kansas City and St. Louie, like Cleveland and Cincinnatus from yet another state, they became a team major and not minor in nature, a force to be reckoned with. A perfect TILE is another way to put it. Plus, Rebl wanted to stay close to Big Ass Franz down at the bar below them, although she hid this fact from her cat companion. They still formed a pipeline of information.

(to be continued)

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May 18, 2025 · 5:51 am

00460609

We use ART to discover who the true stabber is.

—–

“Oh Gregg Oden my opposite evil evil green twin! What have you done what have you DONE?!

“Hello 119? I mean 911! I’d like to report an accident. A horrible horrible accident!”

“Calm down, sir,” said Gertrude on the other side. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Stabbing. STAB!” Greg Ogden’s imaginary Juho art studio conveniently located on Makers Lane with door always slightly ajar come to life, as it were. As it *is*. He looks down at the body, quickly bleeding out. Not much time!

“Okay, I’ve tracked your location. We’ll send Charlie and Peet right over. Don’t leave the scene, sir!”

Then he was back at the beginning, painting Black Lake that wasn’t actually black except in soul. Should’ve never switched over to oils.

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May 17, 2025 · 6:52 am

00460608 (What happens in the cornfield…)

These butterflies were circling fast around her now. Wheeler had been released, although Douglas technically remains at zero as black becomes white ’round back while white becomes black up front. Erasure (infinity). *When* she wakes up.

—–

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Lake,_Sullivan_County,_New_York

According to local lore, its Native American name was Kauneonga—meaning lake with two wings (the lake has a figure 8 layout resembling wings).

—–

“If I would have told Bob the Builder up front that he had to power to fix The Burg’s infrastructure all along,” she made small talk with him afterwards, “he wouldn’t have believed me. He had to find out for himself.”

Her creation thought about this for a moment — the time lag of the admittance and the unnecessariness of it — then emitted: “Noot. *Logical*.”

“You’re *right,* Douglas. It doesn’t make sense. And that’s why there’s a sphere involved. Black becomes white as white becomes black. Another erasure to match the first.”

She wakes up.

(to be continued)

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May 15, 2025 · 4:33 pm

00460607 (Yore)

“Okay, here we are, Monster. This pool of water below the falls is where you can contact me. Whenever you like. I’ll always be there for you. Understand?”

“Under-stand,” he sputtered out, looking at her and then the small pool. Just beyond that rock.

“Now go up to the water, kneel down, and *look*.”

“Looook.” He gazed over at Wheeler again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here on the other side. I’ve never left you and I’ll never leave you.”

“Leeaave?”

“Never,” she reinforced, and then waved him toward the pool. “Go on.”

—–

Took him a while but he got the hang of it. The place eventually became known as the Great Mother Pool.

(to be continued?)

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May 15, 2025 · 7:19 am

00460606

Tessa (after getting a busy signal for the fifth time at the station and then giving up): “Oh DARN. And I so so wanted to catch up with my old old friend Carolin from the Caves. I have news about them!”

MEANWHILE… Seventy-six radio station manager Marty had been stabbed in the head, heart and hands, leading to a severe decrease in health. Only the hustle of local paramedics Charlie and Peet saved his sorry ass.

https://www.morningagclips.com/head-heart-hands-and-health-a-short-history-of-4-h/

“Can… of worms,” he said up to them weakly as they carted him off in a gurney to the Chilbo General Hospital where he stayed a week I believe before getting strong enough to leave. But employee Carolin would be gone by then, unable to be canned by him for her troublemaking down at the station because she had, in essence, canned herself. Back to the caves with Tessa, who’d caught up with her by other means, in-person visit I’m guessing.

The stabbings? Cat-people, cat *aliens*. Who were looking to get back to their cubic, red home planet at any cost. Or so THE OTHERS would have you believe. Others led by the Horns (= Big Bosses).

(to be continued)

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May 14, 2025 · 4:19 pm

00460605

The next night was even more awkward.

“Monster?” she said plainly and simply to him, not messing around with any *human* names, pheh. “I-I’ve got to leave. I’ve got to go home.”

“Hooome?” he uttered.

“Yes. Home. Like *this* is your home. I have a home too.”

He looked out at the sea surrounding the sim, Pogo here. At Patty’s Last Chance Saloon still but around back instead of up front where the dance machine is; she’d had enough of front. She’d been preparing for this moment all day.

He starts blubbering, blubbering like a little baby. Double awkward. Wheeler wasn’t expecting this — atall — so she had no hanky to offer, no tissue paper to pull out from, say, a pocketbook. If she carried around one. All she can do is rub and pat him on the shoulder.

After he gets it out of his system, the loneliness, the long road ahead into the meat of his artificial life — without Wheeler it seems — she shows him where they can still communicate with each other. “Follow me,” she said, taking his hand and leading him away from the saloon into the next sim west. Yore.

(to be continued)

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May 14, 2025 · 5:34 am

00460604

Tonight she was trying to teach him to dance but it was rough going because of the big clogs, big body overall. And she couldn’t hold his facial prettiness in place, she found out, soon reverted back to the dead white eyes, the painfully jagged black haircut she discovered him with. She, in essence, couldn’t really make him her own, as in a mirror. He remained independent. And clumsy!

Night strolling Billy Squirrel looks on amused at the awkward action. His chirping laughter was the last straw for Wheeler. “*Okay*”, she said, stopping the “dance” and stepping away from him while Billy blended back into the woods. “Let’s try something else, er, Douglas.” She kept wanting to call him Albert, like the sim she discovered him in, nay, *made* him in — back in time. But also tonight, after the last awkward dance, she found herself simply wanting to refer to him as Monster. My Monster.

“Mu-sic?” Even his voice was gruffer. And she was so close to perfection! At least with the head.

“Music,” complied Wheeler. And he whipped out his guitar, one of them, maybe both of them, and started playing then and there.

(to be continued)

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May 13, 2025 · 9:35 pm

00460603

He’s a god d-mn rock star.

SWITCH. Classical too!

“Toward me now!”

Yeah we’re going to put you on a little boat and take you all over the world you god d-mn rock slash classical star you, observing Wheeler thinks with this angle of him from the porch of Pogo’s General Store, the 1:1 matched parcel of the sim not named Okefenokee North somewhat to her disappointment but just Pogo, period. Bit of a copout, she believes, but things can still be fixed in this End of Time place which keeps modifying and expanding over time despite the name. Good for them! Not like a lot of places in Our Second Lyfe which are, at best, staying the same, or, worse, devolving or simply ceasing to be. She appreciates the persistence of existence, has learned to embrace it in this ever changing virtual world when she finds it.

“Let’s stop with the guitaring and come sit beside me, er, Douglas! I have some more thoughts on your face!”

—–

“Yes, that’s better. The shoes and overall outfit obviously still need some work but this is good for today.” She reaches over and pats his knee. “*Very* good,” and then leans more to give him a kiss on his cheek, tying him with Newt for number of smooches meted out by Wheeler recently. True, Newt’s was on the lips so that counts a bit more, I suppose. And he’s seen the colors too, the red blue yellow green on the back and the orange and purple up front. If lips are like one pink, then we could say he’s up to 7, with Douglas here still sitting at zero. We’ll see if that holds.

(to be continued)

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May 11, 2025 · 1:37 pm

00460602

She was already on her 3rd coffee and 4th Blue Moon single of the day. From her solo period of course. She doesn’t like the Cracks, her old group, nearly as much, prefix them with US, UK or any other country — doesn’t matter. But her solo period, especially after the suicide/murder attempt (another reader’s choice): primo. Pure punk while also somehow remaining pure pop, unholy yet uncannily successful marriage of the two. She takes another sip while she listens to another tasty lick from the guitar of none other than Cary E., soon to be known as Car E. and then just CARE w/ all caps, logical terminus reached on the name transmutation process. Formerly of Sunamai of course, helping out Blue Moon on this particular track called “No More Big Leagues,” a minor hit that kicks off her first solo album “Louisville Cardinals” — playing on the fact that the state of Kentucky contains no actual big league baseball team unlike neighboring Ohio with its Cincinnati Reds and Cleveland Indians and likewise neighbor Missouri with its own double team pairing of St. Louis Cardinals and Kansas City Royals. But believe me, don’t let the name fool you, she imagines saying to her brother Ted, more fond of the Cracks (a Crackhead of course): the album is definitely big leagues, and she then imagines herself laughing at his irritation to this statement of fact. “Johnny Rose Bench” is also a pretty well known love ballad from side two. And of course there’s “Elvis Esley.” Or Isley — no one really knows which except Blue Moon herself and she’s not saying.

The old timey dial telephone rings beside her. Probably station manager Marty, she reasons, calling to complain that I’m playing too much Kentucky and to cool it with the Blue Moon. She decides then and there to play the entirety of the the “Louisville Cardinals” album, just not lift the needle off the spinning vinyl record after the first track is done. And maybe play all the rest of her solo work — in order — after that. Take the phone off the hook and just *do* it. She calculates how quickly Marty could get here from Chilbo for the canning.

Can of Worms, yes, she thinks while track 1 ends and track 2 (“St. Louie Blues”) begins. Just like in New York.

(to be continued)

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