“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.
On a tip from someone in Squared Root City, she decided to confront them, this bigoted “Annaberg” audience, in a
private public post. “Who are you!?” they cried from their respective positions after she had assumed not quite front and center stage but a viewing nonetheless. “A witch?! What bedevilment is this??!!” They studied her from their angles in the half darkness. Since red was involved, some of them wondered if this was the ancient hagg Morgan returned to them, who also goes by Morgaine and other similar words. They shuddered at the thought. They’d all read the legends, good and bad.
She realized they wouldn’t recognize her — in the present — without her beret on. She changed/she turned. The light on her face increased, emphasizing it over the rest. “You!!??” they cried even louder, seeing before them now the white woman associated with raspberries who loves black. “What *is* this??!!” they demanded.
“I am presenting myself to you as I am. One who has been tested for alien powers and abilities. One who is indeed part alien, as witnessed by my pink-ish skin, at least in comparison to you lot. One who has a vertical and a horizontal line up top. One who has a cylinder at the bottom, several in fact. One who has the colorful markings of a modern, because I am also that. I have fish, I have butterflies, I have hearts, I have writing, I have rings and stars, I have designs of odd origin. I am… me.”
This *is* Morgan, some had determined, since the red remained in the lone shoe on her feet, the left and not the right. And they were not wrong.
One also being tested dared to approach her through the mistletoed entrance with luckily a Julia and not a Julian, or else all would be too upset to continue watching and return home to view current black and white reruns of “I Love Lucifer” and such. They danced in complete sync as if on a granite hilltop between two sims. Then the N was regained and all went to hell. The bell was back.
“Let’s meet at your place instead,” past Hucka Doobie determined.
They called it the Cross Arm of the Starfish Lake or Sea (or whatever) because of the balance of the 2 castles, Princess to the right and Dairocha to the left, coupled with the twins on the vertical axis, north and south, talking and debating about such on opposite coasts. One was right and the other was wrong. Then the situation flipped at the arm: the right one was wrong and visa versa. It all evens out if you figure in the castles… and the Marilyns. “Dot dot dot,” I can hear the opposite say in my head. “Enough with the dots.” And perhaps he was right (not). Also: “Enough with the parentheses.”
At any rate, we need to get back to the original Marilyn and the Monster book stolen from the Dairocha library by Axis-Windmilll and Alysha
Mae Raspberry. Also: “Enough (…) of the crossouts.”
Jesus H. Christ writing is hard!
She knew what we had to do as soon as she spotted the floating Fern in the corner of the stone cottage overlooking Urq*u*hart Castle: return to the library.
He turned his back on her, deciding not to look. “Here ’tis!” she exclaimed after searching, reaching. “Fern’s book!”
Two copies, even. He knew one of them would not make it back on the shelves. They had to find out what kind of *Monsters* they were dealing with, Loch Ness and the rest.
But his steely grey eyes couldn’t help wander once in a while as he studied. He was thinking about the past. And the future.
“Well take a picture, silly. I can’t hold this posture forever.” SNAP
Outside: Ghost. *Ghost* of a ghost, so doubly so.
Whose picks led me to this:
“What do you say, dear? The rooms are real cheap and we get to explore fabulous John Fitzgerald Kennedy City this way. We’re right in the middle (!).”
“Okay, darling. But then we must get back to Collagesity and see what’s left of it. Strange about the doubling of the Falmouth name in these locations.”
“Yes. More reason to stay here.”
He recrosses his legs. “I suppose.”
“We can make… a honeymoon of it.”
Axis-Windmill doesn’t say anything to this. He’s not ready to commit to such a pact, or even admit they are married to each other as husband and wife. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. Let’s play it loosey goosey, he thinks. Besides, he’s Baker Bloch for the moment, and the male Baker doesn’t marry anyone “beneath” him in the photo-novels, which is everyone else, even his female counterpart Baker Blinker, traditional blog spiritual guide Hucka Doobie, and the rest of the cores. If he could just shift over to another particular core… he shifts in his seat with this thought. He has the urge to get up and dance. “Any music around here?” finally came a response, which made Alysha Raspberry huff and recross her own legs. She knows Falmouth Gallery in Collagesity won’t be any better. *But* (she considers again), they could stay in Danny’s trailer. If he’s truly gone. One Falmouth at a time, though.
“Oh dear. Is that our *porter*?”
It had advanced beyond black and white. This was an all read situation, book in her eyes. Jennifer Lane I suppose. She wore a raspberry beret but this wasn’t her first time. She was indeed an experienced woman of the night but not quite that way. It’s complicated, more than you can perhaps imagine. Call it, just like these here photo-novels, 30 in a series of nothing: an experiment in complexity. Coral-like it keeps growing. We’re back on Nautilus, link to the outside world broken, perhaps beyond repair. The Oracle, the connection, has been damaged in at least 2 ways, rendering it practically useless for time-space transport. Borneo remains a past-future barrier. A box. But what are the contents?
We have come so far, all the way to the edge. We peer inside, waiting to see the bottom writing, like looking through stacks of translucent paper. Reality.
(to be continued)
He found her in a town full of bigots and zombies on the other side of the wall, a mere apple’s toss from where he was before. Annaball or Annabell, the pretty, white, raspberry beret wearing woman of the night who was dating that [black guy] who just broke into town one day, stole all its dignity. She had ambitions, she did. The hooker aspect was just to tide her over until her *real* dreams kicked in. Plus she really wasn’t a hooker; they just hung that tag on her back because of the incident in the alley and it stuck. A lot of things get stuck in this town of 9 that can’t quite reach 10, however hard it might try at times (try 3.16 instead of 3). “And to think she use to teach our children!” exclaimed one when learning about the alley. “Abhorrent,” hissed the other sitting across from the first, still below the TILE colored lights where green mysteriously switches with yellow at times, another round and round situation. If only the carousel could stop. We have to get off.
“‘Nautilus,’ she said to me (he relayed later on to the proper authorities). ‘I have to get back to Nautilus.'”
“And you just let her *go*?”
“I didn’t… have any choice.”
“Dot dot dot,” the authority figure chided. “It’s always dot dot dot for you lot. You’re as bad as her,” he finalized, spiked helmet secured on zombie head with a dead leather strap. Or so they say.
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.”