It was getting late but she had to go see. Boos!
It was the opposite direction than what she was use to but she adjusted. She’s determined to make Venus and Mars alright tonight.
And then there it was with her right in the mouth of it. Just like poor Rusty before her, with Peter looking on, helpless to, um, help.
He remained in the water, trapped on the Fringe, a TV show after all and not Real Life. Another piece of art.
“That’s enough for tonight,” she determined.
That girl over there, Priscilla Persley thought. How can she stand it? I mean, she’s got *coffee* at least, but: jees.
Claudia Curve turned her back on the “spectacle” as well, instead staring at another pretty Christmas tree and trying to pretend the world was going to be okay.
Rose Schultz stood at attention, knowing this was going to be a busy night for hot beverages. She was armed and ready. Despite the uptick, two should still do the job just fine. If only she’d wore her long sleeve uniform but it was in the wash, brrr. But that wasn’t the spectacle, that wasn’t the one. She couldn’t see it from her angle. Not yet.
Thank Gods the pigs have arrived, thought carver George Wash, tired of trying not to look. More people should arrive soon. Time to get her outta here.
“One Adam One, over.”
“Go ahead Eve Two, over.”
“We have a situation down at the frozen food court. Lady not cooperating with the, ahem, elements… over.”
A pause. “Should we send reinforcements? A coat? Over?”
“Copy that, er, she’s heading… she’s heading over to the hot beverage stand to refill her mug. Everything is going to be okay.”
Upon a tip from Rose, her defense was it was all in the wash. All of it. The pig carver was arrested on the spot.
He arrives in a red boat from Ten Pages. He thinks it may be the end of His Second Lyfe, Venus caged. The witch would know, if he could find her. Probably here, don’t you think? Probably here, I think.
Looks like 3 6’s to me. Maybe they’ll be okay.
They waited for the arrival of the legendary surfing blue panther but he never came. Or at least Sozzy Bozo missed him, mask over eyes instead of mouth.
Yoko Ona, fresh from a rock’n commercial over in Enigma, was fixing up a batch of her patented octopus balls in the kitchen and had her back turned, engrossed in her witchy ways under the stove vent.
Maybe next time.
“We died on that line,” spoke White Mage, rid of cursed blue and red. Now only purity. “That’s why we can go back and forth back and forth, not worrying about time.”
“Or space,” she dutifully finished, applying the last of her makeup.
But in truth she wasn’t ready to commit to death. She felt this could be an anomaly, a once in a lifetime opportunity. After all, the red still applied to her lips, the blue to her eyelids. They were still *fixed* in ways. She turned. “Pucker up, white boy.” If the red transferred to him, then (this world) might be real.
She *thinks* it worked. She had fun trying anyway. She crossed her legs, prepared for whatever. “Turn around again, *Brend*. Let’s see.”
Announcer: “Ono’s Octopus Balls…
… an avalanche of flavor!”
“It’s great!” said character-husband John Lemon, glad to get back on the horse.
“Love the hand coming out from under a rock effect,” octopus ball recipe inventor extraordinaire Yoka Ono added.
“We’ll put it on after the 9 o’clock news,” said the network big wig behind them, not needing to look and instead studying his hand for warts. He could hear the success. “Test it out on the non-magical people first.”
“Fantastic.” John envisioned the money rolling in like batter covered spheres.
She prayed before the interview in her new dress. She knew if the backing stained glass windows depicting some kind of holy scenario behind the cross were truly transparent she could see Star Rd. just behind the church, and then perhaps even Starlight just around the bend, on Packer St. she believed (it was Nemo Av.). Not Star Rd., though. Queer, she thought, but then tried to focus. “Lord,” she said just beyond a whisper, trying to not take his name in Vain for a change, “give me the strength to do well in the interview, the courage to show who I really am, fiery passion burning deep within.” They’ll have to put me out by taking me in, she inserts mentally, trying to frame the situation in a correct manner.
Something happened then and there — a miracle perhaps, but from which direction to be determined. At any rate, the police had to be called in, newly appointed officer Molly Jackson first on the scene, since her interview had been in the morning. “Wha – what happened to the *church*?” she asked in still praying Elisa’s direction. Only the stained glass remained. It was a depiction of the Lord’s crucifixion and ultimate sacrifice. Elisa needed to learn this — and Molly too. The In-Between.
She was in Between and she had to stare at it. The chair would face no other way. Turtle Hill, or, in olden days, Turtle Butte. Before the terraforming messed up the mesa effect and made it round and soft instead of square and rough. The center of the Maebaleia continent, some say, yea, some call it the center of *everything*, with religious overtones implied. And perhaps it was. In olden days again. Nowadays these Hills of Bill are emptied out of meaning, devoid of framework, like a void picture in a gallery of no design or wealth.
She sat reading a fashion and furniture magazine in her new-ish apartment in Squared Root City, waiting for Starlight to open so she could peruse the clothing again for that interview over at the fire station this afternoon. Because she considered herself to be one hot item and had to be put out. You keep your friends close, like Molly Jackson here, also a town newcomer (dancer), but you keep your enemies even closer, like the fire department. Soon everyone would know her burning desire for stardom. She would set the night sky ablaze with rockets’ red glare.
Molly had designs on wealth and stardom herself, but not with a fiery dress; instead: cool and calm and collected. She would bid her time in the shadows of the police station and attached department, blue replacing red. She would dance to the tunes of white Guy Lombardo but only after midnight and on the dark side of the moon. The situation seemed to call for it. She got up off the couch formerly shared with red garbed Elisa and moves to the window to stare out between the two stars just below toward both departments, considering balance.
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.
“Oh… I’m full Duncan. I can’t eat another bite of this delicious yet weighty soup. So tasty, though.” He picks up his spoon from beside his empty bowl, intending to have at it again.
“I didn’t bring you here just to give you some of Sally’s leftovers. I brought you here to…” He paused.
“Yes?” George was digging out what he considered the best chunks now from the tureen (deep covered dish). Almost done.
“Talk about *us*.”
George starts eating. Not too fast… he wants to savor the flavor. Aunt Clare taught him that. But he was tired of snow or snow derived meals. Give him something crunchy but not with ice in it! “Well… go ahead,” he says between bites. “So good,” he reinforces.