She lay on an inflatable slice of pizza in what was once the Monkey City sewer system, staring at her remnant home in the area. She should go with the rest of the characters back to Maebaleia, pull up stakes here on this Nautilus continent. She knew that. She’d been banned from basically half the old Monkey City sim already (!). But more was at stakes. Not vampires (she reads my mind), but something else. Not sand castles and the ability to blow up from small to really tall, although that will play a role later.
“I *see* you in there.”
Her energy had run low from the paddling, thus the “reversion” to witch form. She remembers — Paper Soap. The pizza “squeaks” unpleasantly as she shifts her weight on it with the thought. But she has her revenge.
“What are you doing now, Raspberry Girl?”
“You wanted to learn about Nautilus. So here I am. In another boat: yellow, small.”
“Yet we all live in one according to John.”
“John is key. Lemon.”
“Is that your house in the background there? The raspberry colored one?”
Still inside the hole, her body pivots toward the beach behind the little sub. “Suppose so. Could be.”
“You’re studying Monkey City (too), I assume.”
She turns back. She doesn’t seem to have anything to say about this so I explain a bit more. “This is where a place called Monkey City existed, say, 5-10 years ago. Full of skyscrapers. I picked up the resonance with my own Monkey City immediately.”
“This sim?” She knew it was this sim, since she was me as well. She’s just playing dumb right now. Might as well call her a possum.
“Oh Raspberry Girl,” I uttered, and she shut the lid with this.
Later I found her combing the beach outside her shack in a similarly colored paddle boat, heading for a castle…
… of sand.
“I hear someone.”
I was always the smartest girl in school. I was always first to raise my hand to answer questions from the teacher. But my *brother*… we didn’t know until much later his special special talent. He *couldn’t* be edited. Let me state that again: He *couldn’t*… be *edited*. No wonder he got frustrated by his 2 dimensional family, including me (me!). He was 3d all along, working on a higher plane that us. A *channeled* plane, true, but still: highly psychic, more than the rest of us. I had to step out of myself and turn into Jennifer Lane to understand better. Before, I was Jenny Lane, a kid at Forest Hill School for psychic children. Jacob I. was there a bit later — he went over to Hillside on the other
hill side of town for his elementary years. Now I was grown up; all weedy. But I didn’t smoke pot to get high. Grown up — but I felt my apples were too small. I wanted to exchange them with another’s. Harrison Ford Jett seemed a perfect (imaginary) candidate. I was always a Star Wars fan growing up, not even learning about Star Trek until the 11th grade, almost done in school. My classmates called me Spock but I thought that was because of my glasses, before I got my (umbrella) contact lenses and could read with my eyes. The library remained a far away and fuzzy edifice after that, shrouded in distance producing mists by then. I proceeded forward with my new life with Tommy beyond academia. Family became priority.
A child is born, a child is given. Julius, although I wanted a Julia. Sex happens. Then the second: a mini-me of sorts. I projected into her. When I got my new eyes (in effect) I realized we were the same deep down, where it counts (166). We made a pact: she *became* me and I became her. Then we hid this fact to others in a carefully placed box. Where was this box? (Borneo) We had both forgotten where we hid it. (Borneo) And the umbrella design has a story of its own as well.
Oh dear, that will be the neighbors, the Wells. Rosie or Rose, my sister from another mother, as we say, then Indian — love of my life until I met Tommy over at a tailgate party. Tommy Tailgate he was after that. I became pregnant that night.
turning into Jennifer Lane
“Nothing here,” he muttered. “Might as well be another Messed Up 05 for all it’s worth.”
I got a strong feeling that this is the night, Axis-Windmill.”
“Bigfeet,” he guessed, looking over at the tittering squirrels. They too knew more than him.
“Bigfoot yeah. Samsquanch.”
Axis-Windmill didn’t bother to correct him this time. There would be no Bigfeet or Mossmen or whatever they call them colloquially. Because he saw the giant green shoe fly away last night with all the little houses and even the umbrella centered windmill. They had succeeded in loading up and moving.
“I recall now. I am your hairy… neighbor. To the North. Remember? Like Canada. Some called us friends. Like me. Remember? Not Arthur but me. We were sent here (to Mythos) together.”
I recalled. There was lots of pain in his direction, more than mine. The US of our A had it easier. A single child (functionally). A loving *father*. “You didn’t know,” he wanted to say to me now. “You were involved… in your own world.” I couldn’t argue. At least he didn’t declare war on me, like Cofmo. Ants, mechanical ants. My grasshoppers never had a chance. June bugs bombed but all were underground.
I know why my artist friend from Our Second Lyfe was named that. For this.
Accompanied by the music of Certain Death playing on the turntable, an old, religious man reads slightly pornographic manga well into the night. Did it in Kowloon where he came from, doing it here. Nothing wrong.
In another part of Horns, Jacob’s I awakes from the dead, as it were, and rolls his stiffened neck. “Ugggh. Where *am* I?”
Kick-ass Bogota’s long vigil is over. He can rejoin his brother Boos, wherever he is at the moment, probably Red’s Diner.
Bigfoot is a hot topic tonight. A giant spool has now been rolled onto an artist’s location and made into a firepit. Staring into the flames one last time, Kick-ass takes his leave before Jacob I. realizes who he is.
“It’s what I tell everyone at this Table. Time to choose, darlings. You can pick two apples or one banana. If the latter, I’d go with the ripest one in case you don’t like it. Oranges aren’t needed since everyone has one — needless redundancy you see. And the choco chip cookies are *right* out unless you’re one of the Far Corner peoples. Don’t be that. Jacob or Jacobia — please select the item or items you wish to be.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about the Heart Line any longer, Sid. Since the heart of the Heart is no longer there.”
“Head is still in play, apparently.”
“I know. I was there (!) 23:23.”
“So my suggestion is go back to that spot, that exact melding of space and time. Obviously it will most likely be a different *time* of course, but the space remains locked.”
“Right-o. Can I take Martha?”
Buster thought this over. “How’s her hormones doing?” he decided to phrase it. No distracting from the job at hand!
“He’s here. We’ll have to jump.”
“You go first.”
“Okay he’s gone down the road guys! You can come out!”
One year and 2 1/2 months. Herbert can do it.
Jacob I. had fallen asleep once more at the Prog Rock Museum located on the neck of Rooster’s Peninsula. Herbert’s neck hurt again… Anastasia, he thinks. Alysha. Things have changed. She gave him a ring and he gave her one back. It was the only way to end the madness.
He thinks of the Diagonal across the Chalet sub-continent of Bellisaria, as it’s called by many if not most. Snowball in Hell at the center, but heading to Scratchy — reality. Not in a Second Lyfe any longer. Retirement. Wholeness; fulfillment. Perspective.
Collagesity will remain… across the Diagonal and into the Great Beyond at the end. I will not keep Shelley’s Castle on the peninsula, although it’s a perfect *perfect* fit. Hmm.
NOPE. Collagesity should remain.
He extends his draw distance and spies the castle in the distance. It’s the wrong one, but that’s okay. It’s fitting only 1 remains.
I still have much to learn here.
This gigantic amount of creative energy…
… makes me want to return to the religious nuts of Misty MO (for some reason)…
… and stare into a mirror.
I wonder what Dollie is up to, for instance? Still about 2 feet would be my guess.
He didn’t get much information from that pothead Pine Ridge but he understood Lamb had flown the coup. Peter Paul and Mary I mean here, featured in photo-novel 05 and a bit of photo-novel 06 if memory serves. Mr. Babyface came here to try to persuade his nephew Paul (and the rest) to return to the Land of the Living, as he called it, get away from this Hana Lei and its huffing and puffing and boys bringing more rolled up paper all the time, just like clockwork. You pay them, they come and never stop, the jerks. “Vicious cycle,” he said. “You’ll end up like Syd,” he furthered, pointing out the famous downfall of one of Paul’s rock heroes. “Dead… or worse. Dead in your head, which goes beyond physical death because the mind goes beyond the body. You better think about that the next time you take a shower with that cat soap you like.” He decides to leave it at that. Paul stares at him, much like Roger stared at Jacob later on, all glazy eyed, like a glossy pot ready to go to market, ready to have another plant inside it. He didn’t need to ask the Time because he knew what it was, shortly followed by Money, shortly followed by death. And worse. Brain Damage.