Tag Archives: Jem^^=====

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The door to the place in the sewer was open, unlike before. Roberts sat on one of the reddish chairs within, facing another. Franklin? If John L. Brown is such, and perhaps he is. He got Jem high as a kite with the Duck dope over in Ontario to save or at least extend her short simulacrum life, and everyone knows *Benjamin* Franklin is an expert kite flyer, perhaps a drug user himself? Firesign Theatre seems to think so, at least in one strong probable reality. And besides, John’s already called himself Benjamin Franklin for just those very reasons in part 01. So there’s that.

Or Franklin could actually be Johnny Black who just arrived, since namesake Johnny Cash, Man in Black, was famously married in Franklin KY to June Carter in 1968 after getting his license over the line in Tennessee, probably passing through Black Jack south of Franklin in the effort, shared between the two states — yet another black then. And a separate community named Black Jack exists just to the north of Franklin, firmly in Kentucky in its case. Speaking of cases, pilot Thomas Mantell was born in this same Franklin and very mysteriously plummeted to his death just outside the small KY town in ’48 while chasing what he and others identified as a bonafide UFO, very near Black Jack and the Tennessee line again, even though he lived in a different part of the state at the time.  So he is another aspect of Franklin definitely, representing the uroboros where cradle links up and even eats grave, causing a perpetual loop.

Roberts invited Johnny Black in, seeing him space out thinking about some of these same associations. John L. Brown then waved high as well. Appropriate. Someone was also in the pool ahead of him, although he couldn’t tell what or who. Perhaps green? Oh, and when he made his way inside and stood between them, he was standing right smack dab in the middle of what townspeople called The Anomaly, thought to be gotten rid of. Nope. Just showed up in a different place and a slightly different form.

One thing we know is that the green thing in the pool *isn’t* Norris, who is instead dead behind swifter Johnny in the sewer, victim of a zombie attack it appears or something. We wish him well in the afterlife.

Oh look. It *was* Norris in the pool — *just* formed. Another Franklin! And perhaps the truest one.

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00340412

Nata Lee Cornfield is next for a visit to the food market. A relieved and refreshed Mabel cheerfully says hello to her at the door. “How’s Natha Neil?” she adds, and then waits for the zinger. Always the zingers from Nata Lee. Tangy if not refreshing! But twins have to keep up with each other like that. Two sets of twins in this case.

A yellow colored orange drops from a hole deep deep deep in Maggie’s pocket onto the surface of the parking lot as she attempts to load everything in her car. A man picks it up, thinking he’s helping. “Here, Miss, you dropped something,” he said. Snake.

—–

“I could put a lot of things in this purse. I’ve got a banana in there, I’ve got a phone. I’ve got a banana shaped like a phone.”

Jem kept silent, her attention focused on the beer bottle before her. She was moving it back and forth across the table a bit with her mind. Digging through her purse as she was, Dafney didn’t notice the odd occurrence.

“So Jem, catch me up. How, ahem, are you still alive I mean? I didn’t expect to see you again.” She kept looking in her purse for that banana shaped phone. Never found. Maybe Peter took it from her. He loves novelties after all. She glances over at the still silent Jem, sees the t-shirt but not the queer movement of the bottle.

“Got some new clothes I see,” she started again. Silence. Dafney finally notices the bottle. “And some new powers (!).”

The bottle disappears. “I’m sorry Dafney. I’ll pay attention to you now.”

But Dafney just starts digging in her purse again, looking for that phone to call Peter to ask him who has the phone.

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He knew if he stayed low like this he would not be seen. The little trees in this park on the northern edge of Ontario were just too thick for proper viewing above knee level. And that was the point of John and Jem being here: out of sight. John gave Jem the “medicine” that would produce the duck and give her the needed results. Probably only 1 day left; cutting it close. As it had to be. Too risky otherwise. “The duck will lead the way,” he says while handing over the zip lock bag with the blue powder (blue? powder?).

In quiet mode, Newt took a couple snapshots with his built in camera then watched John exit west and Jem south, out of the trees and into the world of man again. Martha’s board spelled it out in no uncertain terms last night. SAVE THE GIRL.

(to be… continued)

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Jem and… Jim?

“I’m only talking to you through this wall this time. *John*.”

“You know I’m not John. I’m Jim.”

“I bought that *before*. Not now. (longer pause) *John*.”

“Okay, okay,” he relented while still dancing up a storm. Hadn’t rained in Ontario since last Tuesday’s Wednesday. He’s trying to chip in, help out the town where he can. Week before last it was portraitures for the poor, however worthless that was. Then the week before that: free bungee jumps for babies down at the gorge. Rope and elastic was a speciality, but he had many of those. He could compose music too. This was his song he was dancing to. “Rat Infested Jim,” the first single from his critically panned but nevertheless cult hit psychedelic heavy metal album “Alice in Suds”. It’s about a man who turns into a rodent and eats insulation in the walls of houses, focusing on the hottest summer and coldest winter days. The title song and next released single from the album is about a woman who can’t find a towel because of all the bubbles produced from her bath, eventually going blind as a result.

“You know why I’m here.”

Dancing stays steady. “The duck. You think I know where the duck is.”

“Right. Welll?”

“Did you look high? Did you look *while* you’re high? Preferably high as a kite in the hands of an experienced Benjamin Franklin. Like *me*, hehe.”

“Stop the nonsense,” Jem plainly stated, taking a swig of her Stygian to mask another oral fixation. “You know I don’t do that stuff any more. Besides, I don’t have the energy now.” She pivots, peers at him through the opening in the chalkboard bar.

“Like I told you before, I don’t have much time. Not much (sniff), time at all (sniff sniff wipe-nose sniff). Help mee,” she squeaked, desperation in her voice and facial expressions. She wipes her face of tears with her arm, sniffs again, sniffs some more, wipes some more, looks off in the distance all moist eyed and mascara stained.

John took pity on her. He didn’t stop dancing but he was formulating a plan. He knew she met the duck the first time when she was high but that wouldn’t work any longer. They’d have to use the wegee board.

The rain starts. The dance stops. Now on to the next good deed.

(to be continued)

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“What did you do to him Jerry?”

“What did *you* do to him… Gerry?”

Pause. “Well whoever did whatever I’ve got to go on patrol. You can stay here and bare the stares — figure it out.”

“We could just go talk to him.” Both laugh. Jack would have no useful information to give the pair of security guards: what he’s apparently pissed off about with one of them or perhaps both of them, or anything about Ontario in general. He’s a bad ass, in a bad way. He does the bidding of the Big Boss and that’s it, period. Doesn’t share anything with no one except for the highest level, the Mayor, the King, perhaps merged now as the Mayor-King. Hafta check; hafta think about that. New angle. Maybe Mexico-Canada related.

“He’s got that gun shop, you know,” states Gerry before he goes to punch keys on his rounds. “He could be toting one right now, ready to go on a killing spree.”

“Nah,” offers seated Jerry. “Wouldn’t come to that. He’s a company man. Doesn’t want to ruin his standings in the hierarchy.” Jerry leans in closer to Gerry. “There’s a potential slot opening for no. 3, you know. The guy in the middle.”

“Not North not South — I’ve heard,” he says back not far above a whisper as well. Mayor-King it is.

Meanwhile, a duck-man on a neighboring rooftop had more useful information, but no one knew how to reach him, least of all Jem, who could use it the most right now. 3 more days and ticking.

Even John had forgotten and he invented the anthropomorphic fellow — let the SOB loose unto the world at large. Repeated cloning comes with a price, but I can’t remember what it is right now (wonder why).

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when 6 becomes 9

Edward Daigle discovers riches underneath the larger of the 2 castles on the property. So quickly becoming a Midas figure and never having any money beforehand, he decides not to tell Jem about the find, keeping it all for himself. Maybe they’ll get married now, maybe they won’t. And anyway, she probably has only 30 good days left in her, maybe less. It was actually ten, about the same amount of days it will take for me to complete this here photo-novel, 33 in a series of, so far, 33. Totally serial about that. Jem will be dead, he thinks, and I’ll have all these gold nuggets and gems and such as consolation. If I can keep this a secret.

He suddenly has a desire to go sledding in all of it.

—–

“What did you do while I was away, Edward?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Oh you had to do *something.* Did you chop wood? I suspect you chopped wood.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Chopping wood.” He even recalled a pile chopped earlier he could point to for an alibi.

“Well *I* found John.” Oh yeah… in the excitement Edward forgot why Jem had actually left for a couple of days. John. Wait… “John?!”

“Yes: John. The John. With an L in his name.”

“Is (long pause) he dead?” But then Edward remembered that Tessa had the actual 6 shooters attached to her waist and became less worried about that.

“No.”

“Welll?”

—–

Another roll. 2 sixes again. It was becoming clear why they call her the shooter. She moves her red piece to X and pops a stick of Wriggleton spearmint gum into her mouth, irritating Edward further with the subsequent, slightly open mouth mastication. He rolls. 4. Then a 2 then a 3 then a 2. He’s on N still. She’s on W — or maybe it was V — anyway, not only ahead of him in the alphabit (as they called it in those days) but one ahead of him in rounds. When it comes to 3 or a little after he gets so upset he rakes the pieces off the board with his hands and pulls his own 6 shooters out, aiming them all around, toward apparently just observing Edward (the other Edward who, to us, remains Edward after the game and into the present), toward Tessie (our Tessa all grown up). He’d been saving them up his sleeves for a cheat. Dang, Other Edward, he thinks, knowing the 3rd pair of watching eyes joining him and Tessa near the beginning wouldn’t allow him the chance. The Edward who afterwards, to us, becomes Eddy throws one 6 shooter die at one and the other at the other. “Die” he says to each in turn, earnestly but of course without results. Is this some kind of curse? non-participating Edward thinks, rubbing his forehead and feeling a little bump forming there. This is some kind of curse, game dominating Tessie knows, feeling her own bump rise. She’d seen it before. In a bar in Midas, Nevada during the gold rush of the late 1800s. A man became so crazy he went sledding in it. In the middle of July. In circles. She’ll never forget that image, even though it’s from a different life. Rosebud.

Head still smarting, she looked down at the 6 sided die that had fallen in her lap, with 6’s on all sides, 3 visible to her in the instant. This is where it ends, she knows. She decides that her long pondered over and even inevitable tattoo will point there. She will hold ultimate power from now on, 13 always devolving to 12 when push comes to shove. And it will.

(to be continued)

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with Rotate and Bob

“I don’t think Jem is going to return again tonight, Bob,” red headed Rotate spoke over from her orange mushroom, not wishing to currently fly because of sadness. But Bob was more uplifting.

“He has his wood (bob up). He can chop (bob down up). He’ll be fine (bob down up down).”

“Master Daigle doesn’t think John is going to do a *bit* of good in this matter,” Rotate insisted. “I heard him talking to himself last night through the leaves and the limbs.”

“You should leave the trees to themselves (up down up down). Soon you’ll have deadwood on your hands. Like Ebony (up).”

They weren’t suppose to talk about Ebony and both knew it so the matter dropped. But what about Dove? Rotate thought. But what about Ivory? Bob thought.

The blue haired and blue clothed latter hadn’t gotten the news received by the red former. The white pixy had changed her name, thanks to Greenleaf, the opposite of Deadwood. And then the alphabet spread out before them on the forest floor under a big maple like soup, ready to be spooned.

“Mmmmmm dead,” one of them sung softly when tasting.

—–

“Why do you always say that when we’re about to play?” the other asked, rolling the dice. 12; 2 six shooters. As high as you can get without careening a car over a bank into Thirteenville, as the locals say. Already on L, she thinks. This could be another quickie.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0033, 0611, Jeogeot, Towerboro

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The waterfall was relaxing. That’s why I decided to choose this cabin over the others, including the one where I could chop wood. Oil heated but that’s okay — I could use (cleaner) kerosene. Jem should be home soon. Out pretending she lives in the big treehouse I suppose; answering old phones, playing with someone else’s computer, overlapping screens on top of theirs. It’s all good fun, though. There’s no no trespassing signs around here. Eveything is open, all the way from Towerboro to these neighboring woods. And no dummies to worry about either here — that’s a big advantage over town. I can focus on Jem and Jem alone. Especially after Tessie (our Tessa) left for the castle to find that book. I wish her luck!

Water sounds; I can get sleep for a change.

—–

“Minus 125,” he cussed mildly downstairs after a nap. “Out of ice cream.” Oh well, he thinks. I can make some later out back with the cream and the strawberries here. Prefer chocolate, though, or vanilla at the least. Maybe run into town and get some. But the dummies…

—–

“Tired of your book?”

“No. It’s just I’m a little depressed.”

“Depressed? Why?”

“Because… didn’t you wonder where I was today?”

“I figured you were at the treehouse. Pretending we’re better off than we are.”

“I was in *town*.” How blind could this bastard boy be? she thought.

“Town, eh? Oh yeah. I think you mentioned that.”

“I *did* mention that. Do you remember where I was?”

“You said ‘town’.”

“No. Where I *was* in town.”

“No I don’t think you did. *Oh*”, he realized. “The *hair*.”

“Yes, Bob cut a lot of it off.” Finally! she thought. “Wellll?”

He wanted to go into town to get some proper ice cream and Jem came back with a doo that looked like a big scoop of vanilla was dropped on her head. What could he say? “The bob looks great on you, honey.” He tried to reach over and stroke it for reinforcement but Jem knocked his hand away.

—–

Later we find him chopping wood at that nearby cabin. At least he has himself tonight. How was I to know that Bob was the hairdresser instead of the style, he thinks. I need to pay attention better.

—–

The next night he tried to make up but she wouldn’t have any of it. “I’m going to go see John tomorrow,” she said, her mind set. She needed to find out about that duck. Finally!

At least I can move back into this cabin and listen to the waterfall and stop chopping wood, he thinks. Wait… *whaat*? “John??” he parroted. But maybe it was another hairstylist or a hairstyle at the least.

No. It was John.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0033, 0607, Jeogeot, Towerboro

a series of Daffy Duck films

He’d finished reading the paper (finally!). The phone rang. It was so old fashioned he didn’t know how to answer it. “Jem!?” he called. “A little help here, Jem!”

Afterwards, Jem returned to the computer. No progress on the Miss Ouri front yet, with Tessa failing to turn into the appropriate form outside the library according to her call. She forgot to bring the needed cactus doll! What an oversight, pheh. Back to square one almost. They’d have to erase her presence there from everyone’s mind and basically start over. Would take a couple of days, days she didn’t have much of, she knew, sand running out fast in her beautifully figured hourglass of life. If only… NO. She can’t go there. The cartoons were *lurid*… *nasty*. John L. Brown couldn’t save her and she knew it, despite the promises, despite the plotline of the comics.

And yet… she had Dafney, who may have been named after a duck. Ducks were her salvation according to John’s stoopid, lurid *junk*. Yellow, just like her friend. She decided she needs to phone her up, see what she’s up to after the wedding to George. George, ha. So funny. Always misplacing his clothes. Dafney never seemed to catch on that he was doing it on purpose, just biding his time until the end of the war when his uninjured comrades would come home to roost. They took out a knee but at least they were able to grow his finger back. Good ol’ Dr. Diper. Diapers, she then thought, free associating. *That’s* what the guardian needed.

The phone rang in her pocketbook. She pulled out the banana, put it to her mouth. “Hello? (pause) Hello??” She remembered to put the other end to her ear and then heard this:

(to be continued)

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dedication

“So you guard this thing day and night?”

“Yup,” said back the Guardian of the Water Tart, a full time job indeed. Else everyone would have a sword in Our Second Lyfe and chaos would ensue. GotWT makes sure that doesn’t happen; swords aren’t freely distributed hither and thither. He feels it is a very worthwhile occupation. Better than being a dung gatherer in Hoagietown. Like his brother.

“What about the little pixies here. Can’t they give you at least a bathroom break every now and then?” Must go in his pants, Jem thinks here. Like a spaceman, yuck!

(So I guess he’s also a dung gatherer in that disgusting way. I don’t see much difference in the brothers’ jobs, then.)

The guard didn’t know what pixies were so he kept silent. Oh… the *fairies*, he realized. The worthless things. Probably attached to the sword tart, he thinks, a long held theory. Their flight seems to be confined to the immediate region of the manifesting pool.

“Oops. There it goes again. She’s flung the sword back into the water and given us the piss off sign.”

GotWT knew it wasn’t flung anywhere. It merely disappears from her hands. But he thought that at the beginning as well. Until he studied the hand motions more, the path of the sword. He doesn’t correct her on this. Along with the piss off sign, as she put it, actually being a peace sign. Piss… peace, he then turns around in his head, free associating but for a reason. Can’t… wait.

Jem turns toward him. You’re not saying much guardian. “Oh dear,” she realized, standing back and studying the strained look on his face. “You’re not… going.”

“As I said,” he managed.

“Not what I meant.”

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