Tag Archives: Greg Ogden/Gregg Oden^*===

319

Venus had finished her song. Wasn’t her worst but wasn’t her best. Lorster… Lester, I recall. Must get back to the purple door, another door to open if we now have the key. And we might.

“Well I’ll be,” he said, withdrawing it from sudsy purple. Not poop after all! Thanks Dovie!

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dream 009 (one after 909)

“Aww *raspberries*!” he cussed after running me over in his little purple car, him with his curly purple hair and dark, tall attitude and altitude. *Finally*. I’d been asking for it since John F. Kennedy City when Jeffrey Phillips almost did it with red. He prodded me with his foot to make sure, but I was sure dead all right, raspberry beret crushed and mixed into a bigger mess that was formerly my somewhat dense but pretty enough head. Maw was right. You can’t be in two places at once when… can’t remember the rest.

He could never have me.

He withdraws foot from leg, knowing it was The End.

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00320113

Although separated now, she often dreams of him still, and sometimes she *is* him in the dream, like here. He (she) exits the rundown house where he’s lived for going on 25 years, intending to go to the library but then realizing he doesn’t have a key any longer. He doesn’t work there no more. A dove flies overhead and something lands in his beautiful purple hair, making it imperfect. Thinking the dove pooped on him, he curses it as it wings its way back over the plain whence he or she came.

He turns around, intending to wash his hair out in the sink or, better yet, take another shower, then apply more gel and finisher. He steps into the shower after removing his clothes. He’s still taller, darker, and, yes, more withdrawn. But he’s about to change that, about to wash away his “sins”. The water comes on. He washes his tall, dark body. He wishes Debbie were still around, wishes he could invite her over to join him. He imagines them together in his head as he continues to suds. Body done now; hair next. The water moves to the head. He rinses it well before applying shampoo, and, finally, touching it for the first time since the dove incident. His fingers start to move around his scalp. Something oddly shaped and metallic is quickly encountered. He withdraws it from his curls, looks down at the open hand. 319. This is the gift of the dove. This is the gift of the *library*. He doesn’t need to head there any longer.

She wakes up.

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Prince

After the kiss, he was different: taller, darker, more withdrawn. He danced to the beat of his own drum (she thought as he drummed his hands against the side of his legs). She realized this wasn’t going to work. Nothing cook’n in here.

Time to open up the oven door and make a withdrawal.

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symbol gets literal

“Well? How do you li–?” (*smooch*)

She figured she didn’t have time to waste, plus this is perfect. How did he set this all *up*??

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golden opportunity

Sister Debbie left him in Stoogle to contemplate why a waterfall would be situated in the middle of a wetland. She had to get back to Tyrrell — two “r”‘s you’ll notice, bringing it closer to home North Carolina.

Jerry was there. And he knew how to put out the fire.

“Frying Pan Village,” he spoke over from his position of power on the couch of the centerpiece bar. Dome of purple hair he had, cluing us in to who this really was. “It’s the only way to further this mystery.”

“Frying Pan Island,” she voiced, testing out the sound of the overarching location. Could he be The One? How to break it to Dickie? We were, after all, husband and wife. Before we decided to instead be brother and sister. He’ll take it hard, she decided. He’ll have to go too, she realized.

“There’s… someone else in my life right now,” she ventured.

“Bring him along,” he shot back, all up for a more than 2 relationship. “Or her.”

“Him,” she quickly followed. Would this work?

—–

Besides, he had a friend too. A best friend. A foursome it is.

(to be continued)

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00310309

She became his most regular visitor afterwards. “Tell me more about the Merry Go Round people,” she requested in her cool, silky way while remotely animating the pair again and making them spin around a common axis. Axis, she thinks. Her *husband*.

“Crack and Whack, police agents, or so they claimed. More prisoners to this small isle,” he said in his toy bear voice, just made for a loving child who was far far away now, in a different plane of existence actually. “Punished because of a bust. Broken into pieces they said he was. Took them forever to put the guy back together, the chief-inspector said, Petty I believe, unless it was Ketty — can’t recall which, actually. Usually my memory is excellent, like an elephant’s.” Should have *been* an elephant he laments here, daring to glance past Alysha’s tall, sprawled out body beside him at the Ella Phanta ride across the water to their right. Still fully on dry land. Unlike him.

“Hmm,” she replied, and sat up or rolled over, take your pick.  But then she switched everything around and enacted the unexpected, turning toward the bear instead and starting to apply suntan lotion to his smiling head. New!

“So, Mr. Teddy (squirt). Tell me (squirt apply) how Baker Bloch got off that island over there? (apply apply)” She’d taken off her hat as well. Didn’t get her anywhere. He hadn’t requested she turn into a bobblehead, like Baker. After all this time. You think it would happen already if it was going to happen. She was tired of talking about the beach toys. She’d gotten their story now a half dozen times apiece. Always the Ketty-Petty confusion, and he doesn’t even know he’s repeating himself.

“Jen-nny,” he said, completely falling under her spell and revealing stuff he would never do otherwise. “Paii-d.” He meant bail here.

The next time she kept her hat on while still fulfilling his sentence. You can say their relationship changed.

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two primary cores now, racing to a portal at the corner of a sim

“Who’s that over there?”

Standing up from the magical bench of his namesake island where he was just born, Baker Bloch sees the Fox on top of the lazy and knows he must begin his underwater quest or mission commanded by this nefarious Mr. Low, who lives in the temple ruins just right over…

… there. Not the animal on top of animal spectacle Low the Ancient evilly insinuated, but obvious enough, he supposed. He was told he had exactly 199 seconds now to construct the demanded, fake cemetery and not one second or minute or hour more. One dive, one portal, and 200 seconds later: done.

But the situation had changed from before, the Before Times we’ll call them. Mr. Low didn’t need a highchair positioned above the pretend graves of 3 fallen comrades to know what we’re talking about, calling down to them that he was lowest no more. Shouting down to them.

Because, using hindsight again, he was still a baby obviously, with his lowest of the low tantrums and fits. When will he be able to truly say “hi” to the rest of the world and act like a proper grown up? Probably never, I’m thinking, or a very very *very* long time in the future only guessed at through layers and layers of needed “lesson lives”.


then


now

“One of us may not come back,” spoke Joey to similarly white haired partner/rival Methany on what amounts to be the same island almost 14 years later.

“I hope it’s you,” wittily returned Methany, because it was in the script, the white one. Thanks to the entrapment of Crystal in the art (and pottery) gallery, they had moved past monolithic orange (or red), but blue (or violet) and the possibility of 3 (or even 4) loomed ahead.

“Oh look, here comes Hamlet the 199 pig to remind us that we must act quickly and dutifully to complete our mission or quest.” Blast from the past.

Silence for a bit as neither acted, then, “I can’t believe you held that nasty skull in your hands and talked to it.”

“Only way to find out,” Joey countered. “Let’s go!”, and she dived into the Bay of Pigs first, quickly followed by the other. Surprise move to begin — any small advantage along the way may be the decisive one, she figured. ‘I hope it’s you,’ pheh. Well — right back at you “partner.” She kicked bubbles in her face to reinforce the edge. Feel the bubbles of the lost second, *eat* the bubbles, SWOOSH.

Wheeler always had the advantage thataway over Baker.

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00310302

“Busted!” police agents Crack and Whack shouted after they broke down the door, leaving Greg Ogden in pieces. No longer would he be known as the artist of the “Monolith…”, history conveniently rewritten. All he had left afterwards was cartoons, sunrise to sunset, Sam and the rest. One day he picked up a watermelon and threw it out the window into the woods and then went there, finding a triangle. He approached cautiously…

“Is the camera on?”

He looked over at the illuminating glow. “Yes I think so, mum.” They settled into their cue spots, got into character. Annnnnd ACTION.

“The *thing* is,” Crystal’s replacement Methany began, emphasizing a different word this take just to spice, er, things up, “I was looking in the wrong triangle before. *This* is the triangle. Where Baker Bloch was born — this island.”

“Rodeo, yes mum,” said Carl, his first line in this scene. No relationship to Karl that I know of, although both seem to be bartenders. His character knew this was Baker Bloch instead of Wheeler Wilson before him, and that dark had switch to light, camera rolling. Thus the white hair, the white script, everything. She *was* the triangle.

Someone’s trapped in the art!

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wrapping up a long year…

“They just watched her disappear down into the hole,” he reported in a low, yelping voice, “like they figured she’d be okay on her own.”

“The lady in the red dress?” questioned the other, too lazy to rise up off the ground beside Fox to witness the spectacle himself. But we happen to know it’s Greg Ogden, painter of the Paper sim Monolith and some other stuff. Maybe this stuff — later on.

“No,” corrected Fox. “She’s already gone. Palace in De Skies. Or so the script says, the blue one I believe. Unless it’s red too. White? Let’s split the difference and say it’s white,” he completes, ears twitching with the possibilities. “This one was just a kid.”

Greg Ogden sighs, already tired of the new year. He knew a kid, a mere babe, would be involved but now the issue had been raised he didn’t care. “And the others,” he continued wearily, “this Marion Star Harding and Philip Strevor I’ve been told? The Well Well Well brothers.”

“Weellll.” STOP

—–

START “You have been told correctly. Still sitting there these two. Maybe waiting for some kind of MIRACLE, like in ’69.” But Fox then remembers he wasn’t suppose to talk about that. Not since ’96.

Night fell and everything flipped over, black becoming white and white black.The fire was burning down down down. Soon they knew she would not return. “Give me til midnight,” she requested before the descent and subsequent ascent. White Palace? We’ll see. “If I’m not back by 2022 you can give up on me. I will have failed in my mission to find Clyde.”

Philip checked the watch that wasn’t on his wrist. “11:15 — time is running out. What the f– is taking her so long, Marion? It’s like she found a newspaper up there and is reading it back to front.” Philip was oh so close with this jest. Downloading information was indeed the crux of the situation.

(to be continued)

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