Tag Archives: Leila/Eyela/Rose Wells^^====$
“OK, Tom, we’re ready to roll again,” he hears in his ear PRESS.
Tom the bartender is recording. Should be OK and it was. Geronimo, Slick, Olive. Then: *himself*; and he was careful not to mention his real name to Eyela and Newt. Yes he clearly heard the word Tom followed by Kite. Then again several sentences later to the west, Watson this time being the follow up word. Two famous golfers named Tom, he realized after a pause. “Kite probably means drugs,” he later relayed to his boss after Eyela and Newt had left the club, “as in ‘high as a…’ (he was good with wordplay). Watson points to something deeper, blacker even. I’ll check on that.” He removes the recording device from his shirt PRESS.
U.S. President Jimmy Carter grew up at Archery on his family’s farm from age four, in 1928, until he left for college in 1941. In Carter’s time, the population consisted of approximately 25 black families and 2 white families, namely the Watsons and Carters. President Carter recalled in 1976 that Bishop Johnson was “the best-educated, most famous, the most widely traveled, and the richest member of the community”. The Carter family remained at Archery until 1949; ownership of the Carter property was transferred to the National Park Service in 1994.
“Can’t you pull one of your Tungaske type miracles to save my village?”
“I’m afraid not. Too small.”
She shed a tear, perhaps with more to come. Probably so. These were scientist tears, the tough ones. “Hard to believe it’s gone.”
“No one under 18. Really nothing we can do [Eyela]. (pause) I’m sorry.”
“No. You go first,” she requested, not being as prepared as I wished.
“I was just going to say,” he started, probably improvising, “that you look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you (!).” Cute tittering, cute covering of mouth. “Oh, I was going to check out *Whitson* tonight,” she realized. “*Sorry*.”
“Kind of your double, I’m assuming.”
“Kind of,” she agreed. “Um… uh…”
“Well,” he decided to insert in the awkward pause. “Baker Bloch still has ties to Lower Austra, *roots*, even.”
“In Squared Root City here, yes,” she said, remembering some of her lines now thanks to the prompt. Not all, but perhaps enough to get by if she can fill in the rest with filler.
“Zero Club.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sign; another prompt. “Just like Baker was looking for. A place Baker, the male one, could Zero Out and reset everything.”
“Good to know.” She was struggling. The Whitson gaffe threw her off her game. She decides to end the scene and do some research.
“I’m going into space again,” she said after learning she was. Thanks once again wikipedia! You’re a life line. “It’s a joint venture between Axiom and SpaceX.”
“So… Axis,” he responded. “Like me.”
“My name is not Axis any longer. My name is Newt.”
“I know that.”
“I don’t like to be reminded of my Axis past.”
“I… won’t say anything more about it, won’t bring it up.” She cleared her throat. The research got her into hot water (!). She said his new name to reinforce her conviction. “Newt, yes I like it.” She recalled a tree growing out of his head instead of the other place. She realized she had to part with Whitson on this, Mars or no Mars. She had to choose… well pump over spaceship.
(to be continued)
A plane crashed into Squared Root City today at 0800 AM. No one was hurt, but those who were aware took it as a sign that the character Eyela shouldn’t be renting an apartment or house in town and that she would be “crashing” the party (role play) if so. Direct link: both are Demos, as we know when making that famous tuft of purple hair transparent. No 3rd eye under there, no 3-d Venus either. Sloow and easy, they decided.
“I am ready to serve again, 3-d Venus. Just get me out of this heavenly yet heavily primmed place.”
“Done,” the great being ruled. “Done,” echoed the even greater or at least taller being behind her — Wanda, I think — adding, “we’ll come too.” They must be sick of it as well.
Blue Rose Thorn aka Jeffrie Phillips jumps out of the plane.
That was easy, he-as-she thinks when landing safely instead of smashing to the ground, becoming a type of plane him-herself. Now to steal one of these cars.
“I recall the first time I saw you, your (one good) eye. Staring out between Moon and Saturn standing on a piano with Sun while a man with a moth on his back climbed a blood red picture behind you, using your huge ponytail to get a boost.”
“It’s not *that* huge,” she retorted.
He continued. “They said she would never be invited again to one of these get-togethers since she brought so many friends and acquaintances with her. But 3-d Venus is alive and well, still with her many fans following her around like packs of wild dogs and cats.”
“In the flesh (!).” She indicated herself, her body. What else was different about her, he wondered.
He went on. “You lived in a house much like our user, front covered in wisteria as if in a protecting fence or wall. You designed the moat to surround a castle but then had second thoughts of leaving bucolic life; castle too large to properly fit on (your) island. Stymie, husband at the time — stymied still how he could have ever goofed up on a looker like you! –”
Cute tittering; cute covering of mouth.
“…was most often away exploring Viterbo, finding relics in the ruins. Then one particular relic ruined it for you; he had to move on, *you* had to move. And so on to another Rim Island, taking the house with you and adding another husband to replace the subtracted first: Jacob, 1/2 man 1/2 alien in this case, with 2 normal eyes below a united third. You?”
“Me,” she decided to say. “Pure bred. One single eye and no normal eyes atall, they said. But that was wrong. I just covered one up, the bad one. Clockwork now.” She indicated the spinning, geared wheel on her face, very fashionable, very retro future. She pointed to both eyes at once now. “Two, you see, just like you.”
“What’s under that tuft of hair?” he said, still doubting her and tempted to reach over and lift it to see for himself. Maybe then he would know if she was happier with Stymie or Jacob.
She changed as she revealed the truth.
He waits between hot and cold, choosing hot himself and currently enjoying a mustard and ketchup laden dog of such temperature before customers show up for the midday “rush” — not much of a rush actually but he’s not much of a worker these days, being technically retired and a bona fide Whitehead in Da Woods.
The Mustard Ketchup Kid plays soccer in a nearby field with his sister Ventura, who hails from California. She channels her energy in order to attempt to get the ball past Bert (actual name), but all this is just more code.
Squared Root City is expanding across Highway 13-14 into the sim to the north. Still exciting times for the burg. We hold out hope that it can replace Collagesity-Fordham as proper capital of Lower Austra. Because the latter is probably going away and is, anyway, too small for the role, being only a little over 1/8th of a sim in size. Squared Root Cy is, in contrast, about a sim and a 1/2 in area now.
That’s why the Axis-Windmill character is back. He waits in the Zero Club at the beginning of it all — just before the beginning, some say — for another important character that has chosen to resurface in these here blog-novels to match the new energy. Vim, some call her; others: Vigor (that’s actually her sister, maybe a twin). She counts her Mississippi’s in anticipation of the manifestation. One Mississippi, Two… wait, she forgot something. Newt! At the Zero!
“Hi baby doll.”
He turns. “Eyela?? Wasn’t expecting *you*.”
“No one is,” she speaks truthfully and, after adjusting the strap of her new clockwork eyepatch to better match her face, takes a seat beside him at the bar. Both now turn away from the camera and speak privately. We try to listen in but only catch a couple of words like Geronimo, Slick, Olive, and Oklahoma. We gather an oil spill in Indian territory of the panhandle state may be involved but could be mistaken. Let’s back up and move in closer. We’re the bartender. Let’s call him Jim. Tom, actually, only 3 feet away. Close enough to properly record. We ask if they need a drink to be more legitimate seeming. They refuse. We move away but not too much — should be OK. And… PRESS.
“I’m glad we could mustard enough energy to catch up,” she began, which was code for “very important information to follow.”
“Spill,” he requested, and she did. We were right. Kind of.
(to be continued)
I wonder if Mr. Z ever made it off Tina’s islet over there,” she ponders, sipping on a cocktebeerl to try to soothe her still weak and rumbling stomach. Maybe we should start over and begin at that Art Box in the sim’s corner — see what else leads into the island. Perhaps fresh characters? May be too late for that. Only about 5 or 6 posts left in this here photo-novel, 31 in a series of… 31 in a series… *siiighh*.
She thinks back to the calendar opened up to February and what lay underneath it. Red. Lots of red. She spills her guts over the deck’s railing, carefully avoiding the flowers this time.
Later with her one good eye, she decides to find out.
It always seemed to be raining on the island. Lightning and raining. She decided to use the transformative powers she intended for Opine on herself. Failure! How many times had she reenacted the tragedy in her head. Why did she position that particular tank over the stairs. Why had she not thought of the trajectory made when he fell to the floor. First time! But she had decided, unconsciously, she wanted it this way all along. A real true to life woman she was now, an Eve without an Adam. Dammit, Axis. If only I hadn’t been greedy and ordered two fer one Opine would had been stored in the safe tank, the red one instead of blue. Blue stands for dangerous future as opposed to safe past. Best to cut it off at the present, best to stay below the horizon line. Or at least keep the body down there, hmph. Pheh. Bleh! She threw up colors again, thinking about that head, that face…