Me and the Universe are pretty tight, and it pointed me to Vocal. Let's see how this ties in to my cosmic ride.
French Villa Abby
After a night of mild debauchery, I was lying in bed nearly over the edge into sound sleep, when I thought I could hear voices. Startled just enough to open my eyes and raise my head to look, I saw the open French windows and remembered I was in the villa. The street below was frequently active into the early morning hours, it was part of why Paris Abby enjoyed the location so much.
Lake House Abby Pt 2
I set aside the well composed letter and had a look about my surroundings. Still no sign of the Abernathy who actually belonged in this dimension with her lovely lake house, which I now absolutely must see from the water. If it is as spectacular a sight as the poor misguided, but articulate Abby who wrote that beautiful letter says it is, I simply must find time for a canoe ride with my easel and paints. Maybe I could give the painting to Lake House Abby. A bit of a consolation gift of sorts. I imagine she must be quite sore about the loss of her vehicle and fishing shack. Not to mention the fact that her home appears to be a vacation destination for other dimensional versions of herself. At least, that was the reason for my own visit to her luscious littoral estate.
Lake House Abby
Greetings My Dear Frankie: Please excuse me if I am taking a liberty by calling you Frankie. In my dimension, I am called Frankie by those with whom I have friendly relations, and I do hope we can be friends despite what I am about to detail to you.
Meet Abernathy Franklin
It was a particularly warm evening in August when I had a most intriguing, scarcely believable experience. Life altering, I suppose one might say. I had readied myself for bed, brushed the pearly whites, donned the pink pajamas (or they may have been coral or persimmon, it’s not important) and switched off the lamp. I was on the point of dropping into a pleasant sleep when I heard a sound. It was a sort of sudden shuffling or scuffle coming from the direction of the kitchen, as if a body of some kind had abruptly stopped itself on the edge of a chair, shifting it an inch or two. I sat up, holding my breath and listening intently, wondering why I did not routinely take a carving knife to bed. More softs sounds of covert movement...
“There’s nothing like the sea for soothing sore nerves,” I thought to myself as I sipped a strengthening cup of morning tea. I was relaxing on the veranda, or is it a balcony? Raised type of thing, you know, full of outdoor lounge furniture and overlooking the beach in a menacing sort of way. Well, as I say, I was relaxing myself in said furniture and with said beach view, puffing away at one of those disposable flavored hookah pens, pineapple or mango or something fitting my locale. Absently observing the bathing suit clad strollers and swimmers this lovely A.M. and rather enjoying a much needed bit of respite from ye ol’ nine to five prison sentence, I interested myself in the conversation of a young couple, carried upon the breeze as it were, to my resting spot.
The Kid with the Chocolate
I was tootling along at a goodish pace across the countryside in my modest hatchback, enjoying the scenery and with a merry tra-la on my lips as it were. It being a lovely summer day and the landscape in a particularly lush and happy mood, I found my journey highly agreeable. My high spirits, I confess, were mainly due to the simple pleasure I always get from a solo drive and not the prospect of what awaited me at journey’s end. Not that I was enroute to my own hanging or anything grisly as that, certainly not. Merely a slight disinclination to the company I would shortly find myself in.
Lilith stared out the kitchen window absently running her fingers along the chain of her necklace. She was watching two young neighbor boys chase each other in the adjacent yard firing toy cap guns at one another. It had been three weeks since Andrew’s funeral. Her beloved boy. Her first born. Even the best morticians in the metropolitan area couldn’t reconstruct his face so they could have an open casket. Her poor, sweet Andrew.