He looked out the window at the red light just in the bay. “Everyone knows your bar here is basically the center of Bena, Ben. Ha! Even your name begins Bena — hadn’t thought of that.”
Ben Wolf’s thought of it. “Nice of you to say.”
“Nice in the day here — with no one around,” returns Barry X. Vampire, the X added only this morning after his first beer. He explained to Ben that he’s keeping the Vampire last name, even though he’s giving up vampiring [sic?]. The “X”, then, refers to his *ex* vampire status. But keeping the Vampire last name might be handy if he ran into one of those nasty nests, like he use to be a part of when Bena was plain ol’ ugly Bennington. He turned to Ben at the time. “Remember those days?”
Ben Wolf remembered those days. Still the town starting with his name. Of course he remembers. He ran the show even more back then.
“Where will you go?” asked Ben back in the present, wishing Barry would not cover the tip jar with his arm. Oh well — no one here right now to tip; Barry certainly never does. All the vampires are nighty night during the day. Except for Barry, because he’s an ex and all. As of yesterday. Sold his coffin to some goofy joe named Pitch Darkly. Gotta place just in back of the cemetery now. Ben makes a mental note to walk back there sometime soon and check it out. Close to the Mother Place. Maybe too close.
“Thought you might help me with that, Ben,” answers Barry to Ben’s present question. “I like Corsica. I want to stay with the peaks and all. Like, you know, Mother’s Place is perched upon. He pivots in what he thinks is the correct direction toward the pivotal house.
“I told you not to mention that place in here. It gets the vampires all excited.” Then Ben, again, realizes it’s day. “Okay, okay, I suppose this *one* time it’s okay to talk about the Great Mother.”
“And peaks in general.”
(to be continued?)
Ben Wolf looked over the balcony’s edge and saw a flaw to the sim. The Surreal Gallery here could have extended the Linden pine forest from Ashlet, across this sim they own in toto (Claressa), and over to Derriandros. They still could — but he knew they wouldn’t. Still: a couple more prims for *art*.
With that, he backs up and takes in the 27 prim Egyptian balance sculpture of heart and feather again, the measurement of a soul to enter heaven. The heart of course must weigh less than the feather to properly cross the threshold. Many do not make it, understandably, probably the great majority. He wondered if he was such an unfortunate one. He worries about his soul a lot. Still The Lord seems to be on his side. Wonder where he is today? Ben thinks, waiting for the vivid internal dialog to return.
He then teleports into what he believes *must* be the mind of God, which, to his surprise, starts changing around him at regular intervals. Does God change all the time as well?
“Is this Egg Hill Sink, my Lord?”
“Think about what you just said,” I spoke in Ben Wolf’s head (disguised as his “Lord”). “Egg – Hill – Sink,” I said plainly and calmly.
“Oh.” He turned and looked toward The Yuiselles. “I think I see.”
I explained more clearly. “This is a hill shaped like an egg, true. Kind of,” I added.
“Then it is a pointer.”
I realized he was right. I decided not to talk in his head any more today. He must head back home and discuss his “revelations” with his wife the Irish Lass. Forgot her name right off. Even though I gave it to her.
“I had a vision today Phyllis (*Phyllis*: that was it).”
“Oh yes, dear? Another one? Did this involve The Lord?”
“Well… yes. He said that I was standing on the summit but it wasn’t *the* summit.”
“Moork Summit? Is that what you’re talking about still?” Phyllis was distracted by thoughts of the Small Kowloon House formerly situated on the small island in the middle of Danshire, even though she didn’t know it by that name. Everyone called it [Capitol Hill]. The shack had disappeared overnight, with Red Pepper from the local neighborhood watch sending out an instagram message apologizing for the eyesore and saying the situation had been dealt with. But back to *trying* to listen to her husband’s religious ramblings — more of ’em.”
“The summit was instead a chasm. I don’t know what that means.”
Phyllis realized she missed an important part of his revelation while spacing out about the island and the shack, but didn’t want to backtrack. That bridge is best left to be built by one coming after her. She’s already on the other side of the chasm — what does *she* care?
“Um hum,” she instead answers without full understanding. The husband finally fell silent. Back to thoughts of the shack…
Exhausted, Tronesisia finally stopped playing the harp for tonight. She looked around, red eye still in place. Where was she? The afterlife?
No. Still in Danshire.
And there were other instruments left to play in the same antiquated house. She switches to keyboards and plays something different. The red eye finally recedes.
In the next room, Herbert Gold, Furry Karl, Heidi Hunt Ives, Norris, and perhaps some others not in this particular shot fade into view to listen in on the gorgeous music, flowing like platinum prune into their ears and senses. That was actually the name of the song: “Platinum Prune.” Or “In Search of…”, with the almost priceless prune theoretically showing up at the end of the overall suit of songs, drawing them inward and onward. Much better than Steel Raisin. We begin a journey.
She paused in reading her just published novel “Olive, Green and Pink”. “Ben, dear, it’s gotten suddenly quite chilly in here. Could you put another log on the fireplace?”
“‘Bout bedtime,” he counters, faking a yawn and not sensing anything out of the ordinary himself. One thing on his mind right now.
Picking up on this, she stares over at him after he finishes, trying to decide. Book or boy?