May 19, 2023 · 11:09 am
He barely looked up from the paper to acknowledge her presence. Artung with him ignored her completely, pretending to be absorbed in his own words. He was instead thinking. Back in the day this girl was *poison*. Yet she stood her ground before them defiantly, daring them to speak or act in some way. Jimmy Dieselengine finally rattled his paper loudly, which we know now is a sign of agitation and/or disapproval, and then rolled his eyes upward over the top, cooly meeting hers. “If we have to speak let’s do it in the cemetery where no one else can see us. 5:19 this afternoon.” And then he was back to reading, or at least pretend reading. Because he too was spacing out about the past now. The dancing. The playing of cards. Or so they heard.
She had to pay 250 just to get him to sit down with her. He knew she had lots of cash because of the wall between the states. The tree beings she allied herself with back in the former era horded away beaucoup green within their narrow, dark confines, ready to burst forth at the Freeing Day, as they called it, and spend it hither and thither on overpriced trinkets and baubles, the opposition said of the impulse. The same considered her one of those trinkets or baubles, depending on what faction you asked. She was capitalism embodied, em*boldened*.
She was a weed to be removed, she remembered a senior councilmember saying about her as she stared down at one of her kind, according to them, growing from a crack in the pavement. The meeting with Dieselengine was over. Someone was approaching with a ho. Better amscray before I am recognized again, she thought, and moved back into the shadows of the place.
“The Monolith,” he summarized earlier at the bench in the far part of the cemetery, giving her what she wanted, what she could handle. The cold breath kept flowing out of her body like an expulsion of good from evil. “They had to push you out,” he said, watching it.
May 19, 2023 · 1:44 am
Hmm, no answer, she thinks. But *someone’s* gotta feed all these animals. She tries again (knock knock knock).
No luck once more. Annabell seemed not to be at this residence any longer. Her old shop next door is empty and being repainted and remodeled in general. What gives? What happened to her only friend in town, its namesake, some say? One of the few that were understanding to her and her beau back in the day.
Yes, she could ask the workers; she hadn’t thought of that for some reason. Would they even put down their paint brushes and rollers and tools long enough to talk to her? One way to find out.
The first to be spoken to was shocked to find her back in town. Because of the recognition there was no way in hell he was going to give her any useful information. Whore of Babylon, he thought rightly. Or wrongly.
“Excuse me, sir?” Nothing. Word had quickly gotten around. Too quickly. Must be the work of a local chapter of The Gossipers.
The ones outside pretended to be involved in their blueprints and drilling their holes, but obviously blanking her too.
Well screw the whole lot of ’em, she thought. I’ll go talk to the horse’s mouth. Jimmy. She eyes the cafe across the way where he’s now sitting with his pal Artung, his stint as babysitter to little Pete over, father Cory returned from the bank (see, it *is* all falling into place!).
May 18, 2023 · 6:06 am
Some call them Clear Lake and Black Lake, although the 1st wasn’t quite clear and the 2nd wasn’t quite black. Separated by only a small dam, they were closer in color than many wanted to admit. And it is here our Annaberg story must continue, kind of a new development since my first visit to the place back in late ’21, just after I learned I could retire the following March. Which, I suppose, sort of makes *my* story the same as Jimmy Dieselengine, formerly of Ossemotor, keeper, at least for the morning, of grandson Pete Pistle, who may be the same as Pete Piper from other places. His African mansion was raized because of his political beliefs. Here:
square of misery
It was 5:18 in the afternoon when he walked into the bank and took out 499,000, a whole Reno’s worth of money as they say in Sunklands speak. Cory Piper, father to Pete (perhaps), still looking for his maw, still banking on the state of affairs to improve and that the wall between Nevada and California would finally be ripped down. Fat chance, I say. Will free the tree people inside for one thing, who some, perhaps many, fear as green monsters. The ones who don’t want east and west merged will block it, I predict. Wally will live.
10 months later and just below, a dog named Spider floats into the Cavern bar from the sky and orders 24 drinks, all with the same 4 numbers just rearranged a bit. All the bits, in fact — every possible permutation. Current bartender Edwin doesn’t know how to handle it and goes overload, which brings a small manager named Bach from the back for aid and assistance. Veiled, mysterious Alessandra looks on very interested, pretending not to be somebody else. But Bach notices before turning his back on the resolved bar situation and going back inside again. Whores of Babylon, he thinks, seeing a bit of black projecting from the white gown’s back, just enough to be tell-tale. What is *she* doing black, I mean, back?
Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0038, 0404, Jeogeot, Sunklands^
Tagged as Alessandra^^++++, Back^*++++^^+, Cory "Peter" Piper^*++++!, GREEN MONSTER++++, Jimmy Dieselengine^*++++, Lavender/Sprite/Poetry^^++++^*+#&, Mother Piper^^++++!, Peter Piper^*++++!, RENO++++, Spider^*++++!, Wheeler Wilson^^++++@
May 17, 2023 · 7:38 am
Grant! she calls, jumping up and down on the grapes (?), pulverizing them. Grant!!!
They heard the yelps all the way over at the Annaberg central plaza. “Decatur Lively” reader Jimmy Dieselengine tried to ignore them so as not to alarm the youth with him, his charge for the day, or at least the morning. If only morning would be quiet around here like it use to be, he lamented in his older age, closing in on 64. Retired over a year back and loving it. More time with the grandkids. Like Pete here. Peter Pistle. But that girl, that *witch*, needs to *shut* the *f-* *up*. He rattles the paper to release his irritation, clears his throat. She’s done finally, he thinks, hearing the end of it, fruit kaput.
She produces purple stained feet to prove where she’d been, what she’d been doing. The same colored glass of wine sat at their tip, ready for consumption. Different dimension; didn’t work. He knew there hadn’t been a proper vineyard in town for a number of months, just some leftover, stray vines surviving here and there, not enough to mask the issue. Rose/Eyela/Leila was accomplishing something else. Like raspberry, something the townspeople wouldn’t swallow.
Mike requested she put the feet away and face the consequences, which had actually already happened. Banishment. Burial even. Like Paul and Ringo and especially John before her. Only the wine was left to prove she ever existed at all.
“Buh bye,” he whispered. “Buh bye now.” And threw it into the earth as well.
Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0038, 0403, Jeogeot, Sunklands^
Tagged as CLOSE UP+, Jimmy Dieselengine^*++++, John Lemon^*++++!$, Leila/Eyela/Rose Wells^^++++$, Marty^*+$, Mike and Pat^^++++^*++++, RASPBERRY^^++++