sink sank sunk
“We’re here.”
“Super.” Your Mama then turned toward Raggy. “Got any more of those ham sandwiches around? I’m ravished.”
“Careful with those. You know what…”
“I know, I know. That’s why I’m *here*.”
—–
“I wonder what’s this way?” she voiced defiantly.
“Care-ful.”
Papa
“His name was Boaz and he was a noble deer and he didn’t deserve to get shot and die.” Your Mama’s tone displayed anger and bitterness. As usual.
Channeling, thought Raggy. Always forget she can do that. He glanced over at the other deer head mounted on the far side of the fireplace. “How about the white one?”
YM closed her eyes, getting in contact with the Great Beyond again. “Viola. Boaz’s mate. Played him like a violin. Or viola I suppose, hee. But they were together at the end. That’s how they ended up here… together. Two stone with one bird.” She snorted and stared over. “Weren’t faster than a speeding bullet, you see.”
“I see,” Raggy followed quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from something that would agitate her further. “When’s the 1st gig?” he then decided to say.
“You know when it is, Raggy. You’re just trying to switch subjects.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Tomorrow. At 3. You ready?”
Another snort, combined with a bitter chuckle. “Of course I’m ready. Are *you* ready?”
“I’m not in this one. They don’t need a jester to warm you up here.”
“Jeston the Jester,” she recited. “Remind me how that works again?”
He sits up, looks out the smoky windows at the waterfall in morning light. “Dawn’s breaking,” he said distantly with neutral, cracking voice (as usual). “You better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“Phillips coming, I know.”
Phillips coming! thought Raggy, off the hook at last.
ruff
“And the little house beyond?”
“Phillips.”
—–
The horse leads, the horse tells.
Doors opening.
A man, a woman (sort of). A shallow grave.
So close.
Blue Feather
He looked down on me, always smiling, always laughing.
—–
I must get home…
Eightyeight
“Maybe we should both be time traveling Blue Feather Douglas in this saga.”
“Past, present, future,” Tracy Austin agrees, wondering if she should have her baby before or after the production.
—–
The poor, pitiful sob, she thinks while staring back across the circle.
man cave
“You will not be able to figure it out. The Azure Sky hides truths under its many lights. This is Science. You are Art.”
“Blue Feather, please,” she corrects her girlfriend while continuing to try out new poses.
lit’l gray (what to do??)
no title
It was a momentous day. August 8. Eightyeight. The day I found out Dark Side of the Rainbow couldn’t have been created by Floyd. It was instead created by…
—–
Phillips strolled into the room, interrupting my writing. Fresh from his little house in the small woods tucked away in the tiny corner of town. He bounded toward me; clung on to my leg. I hoisted him up. Stared at his little face, his little eyes. 88 lost its grip on me. I turned back toward Your Mama and Raggy and the god dog at the center of it all. Something submerged, something surfacing, submarine-like. Must get Your Mama a ham submarine when I stop by Baker next week. For she is in Baker now. Probably for good. But I diverge…
—–
Back to your little house you go (!). Now where were we?
Craigheads
Craighead Phillips stares at a current picture of himself and wonders: Is this really the *me* me?
Because he has options.
Option 1
Option 2
Vote now! Which is *your* favorite Phillips?
echoes
“And I have multiple options for my looks.”
“Ah hem,” she laughs liltingly. “So do I.”
—–
“If the voters choose option two,” Tracy Austin continues, “then I will look like this.”
“Better adjust the poll to reflect this,” Craighead Phillips suggests.
“Naah.”
fantasy man
“There, there Sport,” Uncle Barnacles rattled. “Ship’s gonna come *any* day now.”
“It’s been *five years*, his hound speaks droopingly. “I’m tired of perpetual motion.”
“There, there. Now, now.”
—–
Blackrain (old ship) will do for now. Craighead Phillips, wearing a combined option 1 and 2 look until the polling’s closed, applies facelight and heads to sea. Patterns he’ll examine today. Maybe walk on the bottom but maybe not. Bottom writing.
“So long, Unk!” he shouts back while steaming forward.
“That ship ain’t going *nowhere*,” Sport slops. “Corralled.”
“Five years,” Uncle Barnacles slips. “Any day now,” he then adds, rocking and staring while the ship also rocks in place.
Baby Kate
They stared at each other across the void. In the background, Tracy and Tracy try to figure out what went wrong. The patterns, the patterns!
“It’s no use,” Tracy Austin 01 desponds. “We can’t get through.”
“Go on,” the second Tracy urges, head upright. “It’s worth a second try don’t you think?”
“It worked!”
The correct reality locked in. The patterns are able to be heard now. Yippy!
“Dot dot dot,” she translates, playing her trump card. “Dot dot…”
—–
“War!” she then screams toward Mommy while bolting up.
a cube revealed (Blue Feather)
“War-HALL,” he exclaimed from his chair opposite Ross C.’s, or at least the one she stood behind. “Not War-HOLE.”
“I will correct that in my programming, sire.” But she never did. To her he would always be a hole with capital letters. She’d served him too long.
“Anything else Mr. Warhole?”
He sighed. “No. You may retired for the night. *Behind* your chair again.”
“As you wish, sire.” Her lights went out as she slumped over in place.
“You again (!)”
continuation
This was the night Andy Warhole, iron hand ruler of White Horse Village near the southern shores of Blue Feather Sea (aka Little Sea aka Big Lake), learned about usurpers Your Mama and Raggy Too over at the concert area next door. They didn’t intend to pay the tariff for importing songs! Well… all of California will suffer for that. And anyone who has to suffer through Mondays. Words of love, those are. Tough love.
“I’ve seen them in the night talking to white horses. I knew you’d find out sooner or later. So I intervened. I beg mercy,” he gruffed, pecking his paws against the wooden floor while rebalancing.
Mercy, thought Andy Warhole, iron hand raised and then repeatedly pounded against the non-iron one. They could ruin *everything*. All his future plans. Future plans for the past. “Ross C.,” he demanded. “Wake up Ross C.” The robot sprang alert. “Yes sire,” it clipped metallically. “Eggs and bacon and livermush as usual?” Warhole emitted air. “No, this *isn’t* breakfast yet, Ross C.” He shook his head and then indicated Mamaduke, the dog of Your Mama and perhaps Raggy Too. “Tell her, hound, what you’ve told me.” Perhaps she can actually earn her money now as a robot from the future, an *expensive* robot with all the perks, most of which he afterwards found lacking or absent altogether. A *defective* future robot he soon realized he had on his hands. After the seller had conveniently slithered away back into the web of time.
Mamaduke repeated the issue at hand for Ross C. Her thinking lights began blinking on and off rapidly. Bleeping and blipping noises emitted from the general area of her head. Soon she had a calculation. “Kill then,” she clipped out. “Kill them all.”
Made sense to Andy Warhole. Good job!
storm eye
“Yeah, we’ll hang out here for a while, Big Wanda, while everything cools down from the gig.
“Middle of the continent. Middle of nowhere.”
“I need some weed,” Big Wanda groused to crime partner Ann Lee Oakley. “Fast.”
“No problem here.”
—–
Paranoid Penny glanced down the path from whence they came. “Did anybody follow you here? Did anyone see you coming?”
“Nah. This is free, right?”
“Umm.”
4n1
“Blue Feather Douglas is — or was — a monster,” Agent 47 typed in his journal. “I want no more part of his funhouse. Like Cube (link), like Sphere (link). The Elmaer pyramid and its missing top is a joke. Back to the Blue Feather Sea!”
—–
“Agent 47 missed the point,” Agent 48 wrote in his journal 2 days later while sitting beside his still warm body. “The continent is the joke, Blue Feather (Sea) included!”
—–
“The continent is not a joke,” wrote Agent 49 1 day later. “Blue Feather is real and meaningful. Cube… Sphere. Just not yet…”
—–
Agent 50 took over just 3 hours later. Too many dots.
special
Agent 55 sat in the double pyramid lounge looking away from the swarming tentacles. “I’m not even going to pull out my laptop; that’ll show them.” His head was sliced off by the brown bear sitting next to him 2 minutes later, then his eyes were pecked out by the green bird on top of the bear. That’ll show him.
But he did take some interesting snapshots of the 130 room labyrinth maze within before leaving us. Obvious suggestions of (organizing) TILE above and beyond all the static-like chaos. Maybe Agent 56 will get more of this.
TILE is yet another game, after all. I to E to T to L I to T to E to L.
Sunklands 