(The following is the concluding chapter of a short story that began here, proceeded to zig and zag before turning a corner in this direction, and finally leading us to our current location.)
Chapter Five: Lost Girls
"Chen-Chi took Katie's hand in hers and lead her along the path of broken cobblestones that ran up toward the abandoned mansion. She said, "Don't be scared. I think Mister Moon was just teasing us when he said that the house was haunted. Or maybe he thought that we were big babies who still believed in ghosts."
"I'm not a baby!" Katie blurted out with the sort of urgency and sincerity that only an eight-year-old could put into such a self-evident statement. "But... I don't want to go in there. It's not a nice place."
The older girl stopped. She could see that her companion was on the verge of tears. "Well, maybe it's OK to be scared, then. I don't want to go inside, either, but if we don't, then how are we ever going to rescue Mei-Xie? We can't just abandon her. And no one would ever believe us about the dragon, so who else is there?"
Katie began to sob, and Chen-Chi despaired. But then the younger girl started moving slowly forward once again, in the direction of the dark, looming structure that no child with any other options would ever choose to enter."
- "Lost Girls", Coming Of Age Tale, Elizabeth Lee (Born: 1991), Published 2006
Linus continued to stare downward as James Hancock said, "Hey, that's great news, Linus! But how come we're only hearing about this now?"
Laurel answered before Linus could say anything. "James, you know that this is a voluntary group session every day. No one has to say anything about their COAT. We're all just here to support each other in whatever form is needed by each COAT author."
"I know that, Miss Allen," James replied, shifting in his seat, "but Linus had us convinced he was never going to write his COAT! He had us calling him Peter Pan, for Heaven's sake!"
"Look," Linus said, with irritation evident in his tone but still not taking his eyes off his shoes, "it's not that big of a deal. I've started my COAT. I've got what seems like a reasonable idea for it. It'll be done soon and then I get to call myself a grownup. Whoo hoo."
"Is there any chance you're going to share this new idea with the rest of us?" asked Peter, with just a touch of disbelief in his voice.
Laurel began to object to this slight violation of COAT session protocol but then checked herself. Extraordinary times require extraordinary measures, she thought to herself.
"Actually," Linus said, finally wrenching his gaze up from the floor, "that's what we've been talking about."
"Huh?" both Sanjay and James said, in unison.
Linus took a deep breath in, held it briefly, and then let it out. "Alright. Suppose the Literary Revolution had never happened. Yes, I know it did happen, country by country, over the course of a decade or so; but suppose it hadn't. What would the world look like today?" As his words hung in the air and no one spoke, Linus thought, Well, that certainly shut them up!
Sanjay Majmudar was the first to berak the silence. "Well, I guess people would still be achieving adult status at age 18, or 21, or whatever it used to be in their particular country."
"And not everyone would be able to read!" James offered, enthusiastically.
"Not exactly the most thrilling of ideas, Linus," Peter said, drawing a dirty look from his teacher in the process.
"Isn't it?" Linus asked. "Maybe that's because you're not really thinking it all the way through."
"What do you mean, Linus?" asked Elizabeth Lee, for once not a step or two ahead of her classmates. "What other differences do you think it would have made?"
"Now, that's a very interesting question," Linus said. "And this is all speculation on my part, of course, because we'll never actually know. But I've done considerable research on what life was like in the latter half of the nineteenth century, specifically looking for trends that didn't continue much beyond the introduction of the various COAT laws."
"What did you find?" Laurel asked, almost breathlessly.
"I found quite a lot. In fact, the more I dug, the more there was to find! I've got enough notes to give me material for two or three COATs, I imagine. It may be hard to cram it all into just fifty thousand words..."
"You know that that's a minimum, and not a maximum, don't you, Linus?" asked his teacher, softly.
"I was only joking, Miss Allen. I'm not really worried. This thing is practically writing itself."
"Throw us a bone or two, Linus!" James implored his friend, impatiently.
"OK, sure. Does anybody think it's strange that we haven't had much in the way of warfare over the past hundred years? I mean, think about it: Just in North America alone, there'd been the American War of Independence, the War of 1812, the American Civil War, and the Spanish American War, all within 130 years of the entirely bloodless Literary Revolution that started in 1905. And in the century since then... nothing!"
"Well, Linus, that's because we progressed and became more civilized," said Liz.
"Is it? I'm not so sure it's all that simple, Liz. After all, people in the 1890s were quite a bit more progressed and civilized compared to those in the 1790s, and yet they were still waging war on each other. What's different since then?"
"What do you think is different, Linus?" asked Laurel.
"Everybody reads."
"Everybody reads?" echoed Peter, looking skeptical.
"Everybody reads. Illiteracy, which was the norm for the majority before the early 1900s, seemed to allow all kinds of things to happen that we can barely comprehend today. The poor in every nation could be made to believe any old line of crap that their leaders fed them, since they had no way of ever reading history books, newspapers or even the laws that were being passed. Presidents and kings could send their people to war on almost any pretext, no matter how ridiculous, if the masses had no way of educating themselves enough to question it."
Laurel felt the need to interrupt her student, though she hated to do it. "But Linus, that was the whole point of the COAT laws: to ensure that everyone was given the chance to lift themselves up to a reasonable level of education. And it's long been hailed as a great success in that regard. But how do you tie it to something like an end to all wars?"
"Besides the fact that we haven't had any, you mean? It's not just about ending war, either. For decades now, crime rates worldwide have been at a negligible level that would've astounded anyone from the nineteenth century. No one goes hungry, and that's just taken for granted now. Racism was rampant, and growing, in the early twentieth century, and now? Here we sit in a classroom with two Americans, a Chinese, an Indian, a Canadian and an Irish lad, and yet not one of us even thinks of each other in those divisive ways. Our level of integration, which exists everywhere today just as a matter of course, would've been unheard of before COAT. The Irish were considered outcasts in the Eastern United States in the 1800s! Human slavery was still being allowed until only a few decades before COATs, and a good chunk of the Southern U.S. still supported the idea even after it was made illegal! Religious persecution on the one hand, and religious extremism extending to violence, of all things, on the other hand, were both commonplace before COATs. Women had few rights, if any. Drug dependencies were on the rise.
"And those are just a few examples. What about technology? How much did we accelerate our various industries by having a worldwide work force that could do more complicated work than plow a field or plant rice? Would we have had computers in the 1940s without COATs? Would the average citizen of the world been educated enough to realize that we needed a closed system approach to preserving our natural resources, or would they have run out by now? What would it have meant to have our weaponry improve each generation if it advanced faster than our consciences?"
Linus paused to collect his thoughts. No one else in the group said anything but they all looked very thoughtful. He continued, "I don't think most people have any idea just how dark a world we were moving toward at that point in time. Some historians claim that the crimes of Jack the Ripper, in the 1880s, marked the low point in our development as a species. Everything I've read recently makes me believe that we suddenly took a sharp right turn in the early twentieth century. But without that turn, Jack the Ripper might easily have been nothing more than a perpetuation of a trend that would've taken us... who knows where?... had literacy not become law. That 'who knows where?' question is what my COAT's all about."
"That, and about twelve thousand words so far!" said James, even though he knew that it was an old joke.
"You've certainly become very passionate about this, Linus!" Laurel said, smiling. "I think you're just going to have to be patient with the rest of us, though, while we try to catch up. It's a lot to take in all at once."
"It sure is," Sanjay said.
"I'm really intrigued," Liz commented, with total sincerity.
"My head's spinning," quipped James. "But that's not all that unusual!"
"I've got to say," Peter said, beaming, "I'm pretty impressed, old chum."
"Whoo hoo," said Linus. But he couldn't completely hide a smile.
Epilogue: American Gothic
"Danny poked his head out of the opium den and looked around. The markings on the far wall seemed to indicate that the street was safe at the moment, but he knew that conditions could change quickly. If he were caught without the right Party Card, after all, he'd be lucky to get away with just a sound beating. Hard to have the right Party Card, he thought, when the party keeps changing. At least there were drugs to make it all almost bearable.
Three timezones away, Danny's girlfriend, Suzanne, was finishing her day's shift with the National Guard. Perpetual Martial Law meant lots of employment opportunities, but she wasn't sure just how much more of it she could endure. It was impossible to keep track of who "the enemy" was most days: was it the foreigners, or the Negroes, or the drugsters who she was supposed to harass and possibly detain? She knew the correct answer was "all of the above" but she also knew that the man who held her heart in his hands was similarly, and tragically, "all of the above."
At least now she had a job, though, which was more than most of her friends could say. The idea of opening the Guard up to women had its detractors, but Suzanne appreciated the opportunity it provided, at least in theory. As a woman, what other employment could she ever hope for, after all? Now she could afford to buy food tonight, and as a Guardsman she didn't have to stand in line to get an oil ration. Even thoroughly reprehensible work has its advantages, she thought. But it wasn't a terribly comforting thought."
- "American Gothic", Coming Of Age Tale, Linus Morgan (Born: 1990), Published 2006 and credited with launching the American Gothic genre in which writers envision modern day life had the COAT laws never been passed
Showing posts with label My Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Stories. Show all posts
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Imaginary Stories: Chapter Four (** Draft **)
(The following is the fourth part of a short story. If you haven't done so already, please consider reading Chapter One, Chapter Two and Chapter Three before continuing.)
Chapter Four: For The Man Who Has Everything
"Norman stood, hands locked together behind his back, and stared out through the window. Spread out before him was the fruit of all those labours, spanning nearly three decades now. His fingerprints were on the architectural plans that had spawned the National Art Gallery there, and all over the funding that had made that bank a reality, not to mention adorning the ownership papers of not one but two skimmer dealerships, there and there!
But none of that explained how the days had become months, and the months then been lost to years. He could remember with crystal clarity the scent of the perfume that Kathy had worn that first day on campus, and the strong grip returned in the handshake that confirmed his admission into McManus, Sullivan and Wright. So why was so much of what came later now a blur to him, accessible only in the cold analytical part of his brain that he might use to call up the details of a photograph?
The Man with the Midas Touch might be how the news services referred to him, but to Norman's way of thinking, his only real ability had been to speed up the passing of time. That, and to strain relationships to the breaking point... and beyond."
- "For The Man Who Has Everything", Coming Of Age Tale, Peter Osbourne (Born 1990), Published 2006
Elizabeth Lee walked briskly down the path leading from her school to the park where she typically ate her lunch. Despite her best attempts at self-control, her thoughts kept sliding back to the words that Miss Allen had said to her, less than an hour earlier. Defying the mental blockades that she'd set for them, the stinging sentiments washed over her again and again. "You and I both know that's not true, Liz. Everyone needs friends! But you're not going to make many if you keep acting like you're somehow above it all. There's more to Life than just knowing all of the answers."
"Oh yeah, like what?" Liz said outloud, in an effort to exorcise the conversation from her head.
"Like what what?" asked Peter Osborne, from where he sat, cross-legged, on the grass to her left.
Liz stopped, even though her natural inclination was to keep on walking. But you're not going to make many... whispered the voice that still rang in her ears. "Oh. Hi, Peter. I didn't see you there."
"At the speed you were going, I'm sure I'm wasn't much more than a blur, anyway. And what would that make you? A redshift, I guess? Or a blueshift? I can never keep those straight."
Liz smiled and said immediately, "Redshift away, blueshift towards", but hoped that both her expression and the voice to go with it had conveyed anything but the condescension that had initially filled her. Bad Liz, she thought to herself. So not going to make many that way!
"Uh, yeah. Hey, I see you brought your lunch," Peter said. "I've already finished mine, but would you like to share a patch of grass while you eat?"
"Um, sure. I was hoping for some company today, anyway." Liar, liar, liar!
As Liz settled in and began unpacking her food, Peter said, "I don't know about you, but it seems like these days, whenever I get a little free time, my mind always starts worrying about my COAT. Do you suppose that's typical of our age group? That it becomes kind of an obsession for us, after a while?"
Between bites, Liz replied, "I'm not sure. I set aside several hours each week for mine, and that's usually the only time I really think about it. Does that mean that I'm going about it all wrong?"
"Hah! Elizabeth Lee, doing something the wrong way? Now there's a funny thought! No, I'm sure you're fine. It's probably me that's out to lunch... so to speak!"
Liz wiped a bit of apple pulp from the corner of her mouth and asked, "What's your COAT about? If you don't mind telling me, that is! You never really say much about it during group time."
"Well." Peter took his tablet nub from his pocket, placed it on the ground between them, and with one finger traced out a rectangle stretching away from the device across the grass, approximately two feet wide by one foot long. Immediately that area filled with a flat, glowing display, representing the contents of his cell of the Hive. He casually touched the light screen several times, bringing up the document that occupied most of his free time at the moment. "As you can see," he said with a wry grin on his face, "what my COAT is about so far is... well, about five thousand words! Hardly even a sweater yet, let alone a COAT. Like that joke never gets old!"
Liz shifted around closer to Peter's position to improve her perspective on the screen's contents, aware that she was slightly uncomfortable about losing some of her own personal space in the process. She reached out one slender hand toward the glowing display and lightly tapped out her progress as she quickly skimmed through what her fellow student was sharing with her. Lost momentarily in the thrill of discovery, she moved forward and back through the material quickly.
Peter couldn't help but stare in admiration at the beauty of his companion's features, which he knew that he was only able to get away with thanks to her absorption in digesting what he'd shown her. She was far and away the most attractive of the girls in his class and yet he'd never had the opportunity to really appreciate that fact until that moment.
When Liz finally looked up again, she noticed Peter staring at her with an strange, unfamiliar expression on his face. She quickly turned away, rubbing at her teeth with a forefinger, convinced that something must be stuck there. And that's why you don't eat with other people, stupid! she thought. But by the time she looked back, the boy had turned his attention once again to the contents of his screen.
"It's not coming together for me, that's for sure," he said. "I know that we're supposed to write about something that we feel passionate about, and I've got that base covered, but..."
"What's your theme?" asked Liz. "And do you have a title yet?"
"It's supposed to be about the conflict between material success and the pursuit of true happiness. And no."
"No?"
"No title. No idea where I really want it to go. No real theme beyond what I just told you. Which is to say, I don't have much. Practically nothing, when you get right down to it. In fact, I'm probably not doing much better than Linus in that regard, with the difference being that at least he's honest about it!"
Liz sensed that she was supposed to say something supportive at this point, but couldn't decide how to do that without sounding patronizing. Instead, she asked, "Is your central character, Norman, based on anyone?" Then she added, "He certainly seems very well-defined, from what I saw in your notes. Impressively so!" See, Miss Allen? I can be supportive when I want to be!
"Well," Peter replied, looking down to avoid Liz's gaze, "let's just say that Sanjay isn't the only one of us with daddy issues!"
"Sanjay has daddy issues?" Liz repeated, genuinely surprised.
"Boy, you really don't pay any attention to what's going on around you, do you?" He saw the girl's face fall at his words, and quickly said, "Sorry, that was really rude of me! I didn't mean it that way."
Liz felt her cheeks getting warm, but fought the impulse to lash back. "Of course you meant it, Peter, and you're right. I stink at making friends! In fact, I was just having my face rubbed in that particular doggie doo not two hours ago. So don't feel bad... you're not even the first person to point it out today!"
"I'm really sorry, Liz." Peter could feel the embarrassment rolling off the girl and desperately wanted to stop it. Much more so than he would've expected, actually. "Look, you came and ate your lunch with me, and I would've bet next week's allowance that you'd never do that. So that's a good step, right?"
Liz smiled weakly and asked, "Am I really that bad? Is it truly a noteworthy achievement that I ate lunch with a classmate today?"
Peter had no idea how to respond to that question without making things worse, and so he wisely kept his mouth shut.
Liz snorted. "God! It really is! I'm pathetic."
"Hey, if there's one word I'd never use to describe you, Liz, it's pathetic. You're the most impressive student in the school, no question. You're just a little... light... in the social skills, that's all."
"That's actually a nice way of putting it!" She was surprised by how much it meant to her that Peter was trying to make her feel better. Clearing her throat, she said, "So getting back to your COAT, if it's about your father, and also about happiness versus wealth, what are you hoping to say through it?"
"Say?"
"Well, you know. OK, sure, it's your COAT," and here Liz waved her free hand in a sarcastic big deal motion as she continued to gather up her lunch mess, "and you have to write it to achieve adult status and all that, but what statement are you really trying to make? It could be intended for anyone who happens to read it, as a cautionary tale, or I suppose it could be just for your father himself."
Peter looked confused. He said, "For the man who has everything? I don't expect that he'll take the time to ever read it, and even if he does, what could he possibly get out of it?"
Liz smiled, and this time it was full of joy. "I think you just answered your own question, Peter! It really is 'for the man who has everything,' and maybe you should dedicate it to him, just to make that perfectly clear! There's your statement, my friend... and your title, too, maybe! All in one nice package, with a bow on it!"
Peter stared at her, saying nothing. In fact, he didn't even want to breathe, lest he break the spell of the moment. What's more amazing, he wondered. The fact that brainy Liz Lee turns out to be a real, flesh and blood girl with a beautiful smile, or that she just got my COAT back on track over lunch? Finally, he let the breath out and said, "Elizabeth Lee, I think I may just be in love!"
Liz froze, a look of pure horror on her face. But then she saw the twinkle in Peter's eye, and relaxed. "In your dreams, Romeo," she said, but with a smile that didn't completely rule out further discussion on the topic. Not going to make many, my sweet ass, she thought to herself, as the two walked back to class.
Later that week, Liz and Peter were seated next to each other once again as they were joined by James Hancock, Sanjay Majmudar, Linus Morgan and their teacher, Laurel Allen, for the day's COAT discussion group session. If the others in the circle had noticed anything different in the dynamic between the young Chinese girl and her newfound friend recently, they at least had had the decency not to comment on it. And that's just fine by me, thought Liz as she sat listening to what Sanjay was saying.
"But I don't see what you're getting at, Linus," the Indian youth said. "There was no Richard Jeffries. He was just someone Miss Allen made up for her COAT."
Linus replied, "I know that he didn't exist. That's not what I'm saying. I'm simply asking, what if the whole concept of COATs had never come about? It doesn't matter why; maybe William Allen never thought of it; or he did, but the idea just didn't catch on, for some reason. My question is, how different would the world be today?"
Peter leaned forward slightly, a frown disturbing his even features. "What does it matter, Linus?" he said. "It did catch on! We've had COATs for a century now. Every nation in the world believes in the importance of a literate populace today, and has for generations."
"Exactly!" responded Linus, his eyes dancing from face to face. "But what if that revelation had never happened?"
"Is this just another tack for you to take for why you shouldn't have to write your own COAT?" asked Peter.
Liz quickly reached out a hand and placed it softly on Peter's shoulder, unaware of the quizzical look that move had drawn from her teacher, sitting to the other side of her. Quietly, Liz said, "Actually, I don't think that's what he's saying, Peter. Is it, Linus?"
Linus tried to meet his female classmate's eyes but couldn't, and instead ended up looking down at his shoes as he spoke. "No, that's not what I'm saying, at all. In fact, if anyone really cares, I started my COAT about a week ago. And I'm about twelve thousand words in, as a matter of fact."
Chapter Four: For The Man Who Has Everything
"Norman stood, hands locked together behind his back, and stared out through the window. Spread out before him was the fruit of all those labours, spanning nearly three decades now. His fingerprints were on the architectural plans that had spawned the National Art Gallery there, and all over the funding that had made that bank a reality, not to mention adorning the ownership papers of not one but two skimmer dealerships, there and there!
But none of that explained how the days had become months, and the months then been lost to years. He could remember with crystal clarity the scent of the perfume that Kathy had worn that first day on campus, and the strong grip returned in the handshake that confirmed his admission into McManus, Sullivan and Wright. So why was so much of what came later now a blur to him, accessible only in the cold analytical part of his brain that he might use to call up the details of a photograph?
The Man with the Midas Touch might be how the news services referred to him, but to Norman's way of thinking, his only real ability had been to speed up the passing of time. That, and to strain relationships to the breaking point... and beyond."
- "For The Man Who Has Everything", Coming Of Age Tale, Peter Osbourne (Born 1990), Published 2006
Elizabeth Lee walked briskly down the path leading from her school to the park where she typically ate her lunch. Despite her best attempts at self-control, her thoughts kept sliding back to the words that Miss Allen had said to her, less than an hour earlier. Defying the mental blockades that she'd set for them, the stinging sentiments washed over her again and again. "You and I both know that's not true, Liz. Everyone needs friends! But you're not going to make many if you keep acting like you're somehow above it all. There's more to Life than just knowing all of the answers."
"Oh yeah, like what?" Liz said outloud, in an effort to exorcise the conversation from her head.
"Like what what?" asked Peter Osborne, from where he sat, cross-legged, on the grass to her left.
Liz stopped, even though her natural inclination was to keep on walking. But you're not going to make many... whispered the voice that still rang in her ears. "Oh. Hi, Peter. I didn't see you there."
"At the speed you were going, I'm sure I'm wasn't much more than a blur, anyway. And what would that make you? A redshift, I guess? Or a blueshift? I can never keep those straight."
Liz smiled and said immediately, "Redshift away, blueshift towards", but hoped that both her expression and the voice to go with it had conveyed anything but the condescension that had initially filled her. Bad Liz, she thought to herself. So not going to make many that way!
"Uh, yeah. Hey, I see you brought your lunch," Peter said. "I've already finished mine, but would you like to share a patch of grass while you eat?"
"Um, sure. I was hoping for some company today, anyway." Liar, liar, liar!
As Liz settled in and began unpacking her food, Peter said, "I don't know about you, but it seems like these days, whenever I get a little free time, my mind always starts worrying about my COAT. Do you suppose that's typical of our age group? That it becomes kind of an obsession for us, after a while?"
Between bites, Liz replied, "I'm not sure. I set aside several hours each week for mine, and that's usually the only time I really think about it. Does that mean that I'm going about it all wrong?"
"Hah! Elizabeth Lee, doing something the wrong way? Now there's a funny thought! No, I'm sure you're fine. It's probably me that's out to lunch... so to speak!"
Liz wiped a bit of apple pulp from the corner of her mouth and asked, "What's your COAT about? If you don't mind telling me, that is! You never really say much about it during group time."
"Well." Peter took his tablet nub from his pocket, placed it on the ground between them, and with one finger traced out a rectangle stretching away from the device across the grass, approximately two feet wide by one foot long. Immediately that area filled with a flat, glowing display, representing the contents of his cell of the Hive. He casually touched the light screen several times, bringing up the document that occupied most of his free time at the moment. "As you can see," he said with a wry grin on his face, "what my COAT is about so far is... well, about five thousand words! Hardly even a sweater yet, let alone a COAT. Like that joke never gets old!"
Liz shifted around closer to Peter's position to improve her perspective on the screen's contents, aware that she was slightly uncomfortable about losing some of her own personal space in the process. She reached out one slender hand toward the glowing display and lightly tapped out her progress as she quickly skimmed through what her fellow student was sharing with her. Lost momentarily in the thrill of discovery, she moved forward and back through the material quickly.
Peter couldn't help but stare in admiration at the beauty of his companion's features, which he knew that he was only able to get away with thanks to her absorption in digesting what he'd shown her. She was far and away the most attractive of the girls in his class and yet he'd never had the opportunity to really appreciate that fact until that moment.
When Liz finally looked up again, she noticed Peter staring at her with an strange, unfamiliar expression on his face. She quickly turned away, rubbing at her teeth with a forefinger, convinced that something must be stuck there. And that's why you don't eat with other people, stupid! she thought. But by the time she looked back, the boy had turned his attention once again to the contents of his screen.
"It's not coming together for me, that's for sure," he said. "I know that we're supposed to write about something that we feel passionate about, and I've got that base covered, but..."
"What's your theme?" asked Liz. "And do you have a title yet?"
"It's supposed to be about the conflict between material success and the pursuit of true happiness. And no."
"No?"
"No title. No idea where I really want it to go. No real theme beyond what I just told you. Which is to say, I don't have much. Practically nothing, when you get right down to it. In fact, I'm probably not doing much better than Linus in that regard, with the difference being that at least he's honest about it!"
Liz sensed that she was supposed to say something supportive at this point, but couldn't decide how to do that without sounding patronizing. Instead, she asked, "Is your central character, Norman, based on anyone?" Then she added, "He certainly seems very well-defined, from what I saw in your notes. Impressively so!" See, Miss Allen? I can be supportive when I want to be!
"Well," Peter replied, looking down to avoid Liz's gaze, "let's just say that Sanjay isn't the only one of us with daddy issues!"
"Sanjay has daddy issues?" Liz repeated, genuinely surprised.
"Boy, you really don't pay any attention to what's going on around you, do you?" He saw the girl's face fall at his words, and quickly said, "Sorry, that was really rude of me! I didn't mean it that way."
Liz felt her cheeks getting warm, but fought the impulse to lash back. "Of course you meant it, Peter, and you're right. I stink at making friends! In fact, I was just having my face rubbed in that particular doggie doo not two hours ago. So don't feel bad... you're not even the first person to point it out today!"
"I'm really sorry, Liz." Peter could feel the embarrassment rolling off the girl and desperately wanted to stop it. Much more so than he would've expected, actually. "Look, you came and ate your lunch with me, and I would've bet next week's allowance that you'd never do that. So that's a good step, right?"
Liz smiled weakly and asked, "Am I really that bad? Is it truly a noteworthy achievement that I ate lunch with a classmate today?"
Peter had no idea how to respond to that question without making things worse, and so he wisely kept his mouth shut.
Liz snorted. "God! It really is! I'm pathetic."
"Hey, if there's one word I'd never use to describe you, Liz, it's pathetic. You're the most impressive student in the school, no question. You're just a little... light... in the social skills, that's all."
"That's actually a nice way of putting it!" She was surprised by how much it meant to her that Peter was trying to make her feel better. Clearing her throat, she said, "So getting back to your COAT, if it's about your father, and also about happiness versus wealth, what are you hoping to say through it?"
"Say?"
"Well, you know. OK, sure, it's your COAT," and here Liz waved her free hand in a sarcastic big deal motion as she continued to gather up her lunch mess, "and you have to write it to achieve adult status and all that, but what statement are you really trying to make? It could be intended for anyone who happens to read it, as a cautionary tale, or I suppose it could be just for your father himself."
Peter looked confused. He said, "For the man who has everything? I don't expect that he'll take the time to ever read it, and even if he does, what could he possibly get out of it?"
Liz smiled, and this time it was full of joy. "I think you just answered your own question, Peter! It really is 'for the man who has everything,' and maybe you should dedicate it to him, just to make that perfectly clear! There's your statement, my friend... and your title, too, maybe! All in one nice package, with a bow on it!"
Peter stared at her, saying nothing. In fact, he didn't even want to breathe, lest he break the spell of the moment. What's more amazing, he wondered. The fact that brainy Liz Lee turns out to be a real, flesh and blood girl with a beautiful smile, or that she just got my COAT back on track over lunch? Finally, he let the breath out and said, "Elizabeth Lee, I think I may just be in love!"
Liz froze, a look of pure horror on her face. But then she saw the twinkle in Peter's eye, and relaxed. "In your dreams, Romeo," she said, but with a smile that didn't completely rule out further discussion on the topic. Not going to make many, my sweet ass, she thought to herself, as the two walked back to class.
Later that week, Liz and Peter were seated next to each other once again as they were joined by James Hancock, Sanjay Majmudar, Linus Morgan and their teacher, Laurel Allen, for the day's COAT discussion group session. If the others in the circle had noticed anything different in the dynamic between the young Chinese girl and her newfound friend recently, they at least had had the decency not to comment on it. And that's just fine by me, thought Liz as she sat listening to what Sanjay was saying.
"But I don't see what you're getting at, Linus," the Indian youth said. "There was no Richard Jeffries. He was just someone Miss Allen made up for her COAT."
Linus replied, "I know that he didn't exist. That's not what I'm saying. I'm simply asking, what if the whole concept of COATs had never come about? It doesn't matter why; maybe William Allen never thought of it; or he did, but the idea just didn't catch on, for some reason. My question is, how different would the world be today?"
Peter leaned forward slightly, a frown disturbing his even features. "What does it matter, Linus?" he said. "It did catch on! We've had COATs for a century now. Every nation in the world believes in the importance of a literate populace today, and has for generations."
"Exactly!" responded Linus, his eyes dancing from face to face. "But what if that revelation had never happened?"
"Is this just another tack for you to take for why you shouldn't have to write your own COAT?" asked Peter.
Liz quickly reached out a hand and placed it softly on Peter's shoulder, unaware of the quizzical look that move had drawn from her teacher, sitting to the other side of her. Quietly, Liz said, "Actually, I don't think that's what he's saying, Peter. Is it, Linus?"
Linus tried to meet his female classmate's eyes but couldn't, and instead ended up looking down at his shoes as he spoke. "No, that's not what I'm saying, at all. In fact, if anyone really cares, I started my COAT about a week ago. And I'm about twelve thousand words in, as a matter of fact."
Monday, November 26, 2007
Imaginary Stories: Chapter Three (** Draft **)
(The following will no doubt make slightly more sense if you've read Chapter One and Chapter Two first!)
Chapter Three: The Villain
"And that heated debate at the Royal Albert Hall was only the beginning. As the two men matched wits in contest after contest, their fates became increasingly - and inextricably - linked. Newspapers of the day captured the ebb and flow of the battle with headlines like Allen vs Jeffries - Who's Right?, Jeffries Asks: "Why Can't Nigel Not Read?", Jeffries to Allen: "It's Immoral!", Allen Stands Firm Despite Opposition, and Let The Law Decide!
No other topic had held the attention of so many, for so long, since the time of Jack of Ripper, nearly two decades earlier. It was as if the very fate of the country hung in the balance, were you to ask some of those in the Allen and Jeffries camps. When the debate finally moved into the English court system, police were required to blockade the entrances in order to keep the most fervent members of the public from turning the courtroom into a circus."
- "The Villain", Coming Of Age Tale, Laurel Allen (Born 1982), Published 1997
"It's the foundation of modern society, Linus," Laurel said evenly. "We just passed the centennial of the Literary Revolution last year. What part of it are you struggling with?" She mentally added, besides the part about not wanting to write your own COAT, that is, but feared that her pupil would only withdraw into himself if she were to take that tack with him.
Linus Morgan looked from face to face, scanning the four students' faces around him. He hadn't really expected to see any support there, and therefore wasn't surprised by how little he actually perceived. "So I'm the only one who finds the whole COAT concept strange, then. That's fine. But would someone care to connect the dots for me? Or am I just too stupid to get it?"
Laurel reached out and touched Linus briefly on the arm. "You're not stupid, Linus, and you know it. None of you are." She unintentionally repeated the action of a moment ago, as she glanced from student to student, following the same arc that Linus' gaze had prescribed. "It's not all that common for young men or women to question the value of the COATs anymore, since it's been a part of our culture for so long now that it's generally just accepted. But it still happens, and that's probably a healthy sign all on its own."
"Our very own Doubting Thomas, that's Linus!" chimed in James, in a characteristic move to lighten the mood. "He wouldn't believe in gravity if it didn't keep dropping apples on his noggin!"
"Gravity's a law of Nature, James!" Linus' replied, eyes flashing. "COATs are entirely man-made, and all I'm asking is, why do we place such faith in their relevance? Has anyone ever proven that it's really all that important that you write your own little piece of forgettable literature as a requirement to join society as a full-fledged member? I mean, doesn't that sound ridiculous to anyone but me?"
Peter answered, "Ridiculous, or intimidating? Is it that you don't see the value, or that you don't want to do the work?"
Laurel wasn't sure whether to be thankful that Peter had called Linus on the very point that she'd been thinking about herself, or angry that he'd potentially put his fellow student and friend on the defensive. In either case, she said, "Let's not make this personal, Peter. Linus has raised a valid concern today, and we should all be able to discuss it as such."
Elizabeth looked at Linus but directed her words at her teacher as she said, "And it's a topic that you're something of an expert on." Only then did she turn her gaze toward Laurel. "Aren't you?"
"What do you mean, Liz?" Sanjay asked. "Did Miss Allen rail against writing her COAT back when she was in school, too?" His own personal interest in rebellion was something that he tended to wear on his sleeve, and today was no exception.
"Or are you just remarking on the common surnames involved: William Allen then, Laurel Allen now?" Peter offered, as he struggled to follow the thread started by Elizabeth. Why is she always one step ahead of the rest of us, he silently wondered. Or does it just feel that way to me?
"Do you mean to tell me that none of you have read Miss Allen's COAT?" Elizabeth inquired, with perhaps just a little more derision than she'd intended.
"Um, I meant to..." James said, looking down. "It was on my To Do list, I swear!"
Laurel cleared her throat quietly and said, "Liz, it's hardly Required Reading in this class, or any other. It's nice that you've read it, but with the billions of COATs out there in the Hive, I'm not sure anyone should be wasting their time reading mine!"
"Alright, I'll be the one to say it: I'm completely lost at this point," James volunteered. "What's the connection between your COAT and what Linus has been talking about?"
"May I?" Elizabeth asked, looking at Laurel with the same expression that she always wore when she was the only student in class who knew the answer to a particularly tough puzzle.
At least you asked first, Liz, Laurel thought to herself. But you still can't help resembling the cat that swallowed the canary, can you? Pointedly, she said, "Only if you dial down the sarcasm and remember that we're all friends here, Elizabeth. Can you do that for me?"
The Chinese teenager looked briefly like she'd been slapped in the face with a cold fish but then her features relaxed as she remembered words that her teacher had said to her, one-on-one, earlier in the year: Nobody likes a smart ass, Liz. And you don't elevate yourself by putting down others. "Yes, ma'am, I can." She continued, "The title of Miss Allen's COAT, from '97, is The Villain. It has what I think is a pretty ingenious concept at its core - "
James snorted and was just about to start making kissing sounds when Sanjay, seated beside him, elbowed him in the ribs and hissed, "Shhhh!"
Elizabeth continued, " - which is that it follows the turmoil caused by a man named Richard Jeffries, who challenged William Allen during the early days of the Literary Revolution."
Sanjay said, "I don't recall that name from my studies, Miss Allen. Has history simply forgotten him?"
Before the teacher could respond, Elizabeth said, "No, that's just it, you see. He never existed! Miss Allen made him up, and inserted him into that time in history."
"But why?" Linus asked. "What was the point?"
This time, Elizabeth looked to her teacher for direction.
"Keep going, young lady," Laurel said, with a smile. "You're doing just fine!"
"Well, I'm only speculating, but it seems fairly clear from the work itself that she wanted to bring out into the light some of the very same doubts that Linus has been expressing here today. Huh. I hadn't really considered it in that way when I read The Villain originally, but sitting here now, in the midst of this conversation, that's what occurs to me. Am I way off the mark, Miss Allen?"
"No, not at all. Although it was perhaps less about doubts and more about simply wanting to explore the question, from all angles, for my own peace of mind."
"Did anything like that actually happen, back in the early 20th century?" Peter asked. "I know you made this... Jeffries?... character up, but was he based on someone real?"
"Not that I know of," Laurel answered. "I did as much research on the period as I could afford at the time. Just as we teach in class, the whole thing started slowly - and locally - and then built upon itself over time, as the results started to exhibit themselves. Not terribly dramatic, really. I was struck by the thought, when I was your age, that it really ought to have been more full of Sturm und Drang, so I wrote The Villain to provide that, and to give me a chance to consider the Literary Revolution as the people of the time might've, if things had gone differently."
"Hey!" James said, "You made it into a real revolution! Now I want to read your COAT!"
"So do I," said Linus.
Laurel couldn't tell from his tone if that was good news or bad, but since their session was over for the day, she left it at that.
Chapter Three: The Villain
"And that heated debate at the Royal Albert Hall was only the beginning. As the two men matched wits in contest after contest, their fates became increasingly - and inextricably - linked. Newspapers of the day captured the ebb and flow of the battle with headlines like Allen vs Jeffries - Who's Right?, Jeffries Asks: "Why Can't Nigel Not Read?", Jeffries to Allen: "It's Immoral!", Allen Stands Firm Despite Opposition, and Let The Law Decide!
No other topic had held the attention of so many, for so long, since the time of Jack of Ripper, nearly two decades earlier. It was as if the very fate of the country hung in the balance, were you to ask some of those in the Allen and Jeffries camps. When the debate finally moved into the English court system, police were required to blockade the entrances in order to keep the most fervent members of the public from turning the courtroom into a circus."
- "The Villain", Coming Of Age Tale, Laurel Allen (Born 1982), Published 1997
"It's the foundation of modern society, Linus," Laurel said evenly. "We just passed the centennial of the Literary Revolution last year. What part of it are you struggling with?" She mentally added, besides the part about not wanting to write your own COAT, that is, but feared that her pupil would only withdraw into himself if she were to take that tack with him.
Linus Morgan looked from face to face, scanning the four students' faces around him. He hadn't really expected to see any support there, and therefore wasn't surprised by how little he actually perceived. "So I'm the only one who finds the whole COAT concept strange, then. That's fine. But would someone care to connect the dots for me? Or am I just too stupid to get it?"
Laurel reached out and touched Linus briefly on the arm. "You're not stupid, Linus, and you know it. None of you are." She unintentionally repeated the action of a moment ago, as she glanced from student to student, following the same arc that Linus' gaze had prescribed. "It's not all that common for young men or women to question the value of the COATs anymore, since it's been a part of our culture for so long now that it's generally just accepted. But it still happens, and that's probably a healthy sign all on its own."
"Our very own Doubting Thomas, that's Linus!" chimed in James, in a characteristic move to lighten the mood. "He wouldn't believe in gravity if it didn't keep dropping apples on his noggin!"
"Gravity's a law of Nature, James!" Linus' replied, eyes flashing. "COATs are entirely man-made, and all I'm asking is, why do we place such faith in their relevance? Has anyone ever proven that it's really all that important that you write your own little piece of forgettable literature as a requirement to join society as a full-fledged member? I mean, doesn't that sound ridiculous to anyone but me?"
Peter answered, "Ridiculous, or intimidating? Is it that you don't see the value, or that you don't want to do the work?"
Laurel wasn't sure whether to be thankful that Peter had called Linus on the very point that she'd been thinking about herself, or angry that he'd potentially put his fellow student and friend on the defensive. In either case, she said, "Let's not make this personal, Peter. Linus has raised a valid concern today, and we should all be able to discuss it as such."
Elizabeth looked at Linus but directed her words at her teacher as she said, "And it's a topic that you're something of an expert on." Only then did she turn her gaze toward Laurel. "Aren't you?"
"What do you mean, Liz?" Sanjay asked. "Did Miss Allen rail against writing her COAT back when she was in school, too?" His own personal interest in rebellion was something that he tended to wear on his sleeve, and today was no exception.
"Or are you just remarking on the common surnames involved: William Allen then, Laurel Allen now?" Peter offered, as he struggled to follow the thread started by Elizabeth. Why is she always one step ahead of the rest of us, he silently wondered. Or does it just feel that way to me?
"Do you mean to tell me that none of you have read Miss Allen's COAT?" Elizabeth inquired, with perhaps just a little more derision than she'd intended.
"Um, I meant to..." James said, looking down. "It was on my To Do list, I swear!"
Laurel cleared her throat quietly and said, "Liz, it's hardly Required Reading in this class, or any other. It's nice that you've read it, but with the billions of COATs out there in the Hive, I'm not sure anyone should be wasting their time reading mine!"
"Alright, I'll be the one to say it: I'm completely lost at this point," James volunteered. "What's the connection between your COAT and what Linus has been talking about?"
"May I?" Elizabeth asked, looking at Laurel with the same expression that she always wore when she was the only student in class who knew the answer to a particularly tough puzzle.
At least you asked first, Liz, Laurel thought to herself. But you still can't help resembling the cat that swallowed the canary, can you? Pointedly, she said, "Only if you dial down the sarcasm and remember that we're all friends here, Elizabeth. Can you do that for me?"
The Chinese teenager looked briefly like she'd been slapped in the face with a cold fish but then her features relaxed as she remembered words that her teacher had said to her, one-on-one, earlier in the year: Nobody likes a smart ass, Liz. And you don't elevate yourself by putting down others. "Yes, ma'am, I can." She continued, "The title of Miss Allen's COAT, from '97, is The Villain. It has what I think is a pretty ingenious concept at its core - "
James snorted and was just about to start making kissing sounds when Sanjay, seated beside him, elbowed him in the ribs and hissed, "Shhhh!"
Elizabeth continued, " - which is that it follows the turmoil caused by a man named Richard Jeffries, who challenged William Allen during the early days of the Literary Revolution."
Sanjay said, "I don't recall that name from my studies, Miss Allen. Has history simply forgotten him?"
Before the teacher could respond, Elizabeth said, "No, that's just it, you see. He never existed! Miss Allen made him up, and inserted him into that time in history."
"But why?" Linus asked. "What was the point?"
This time, Elizabeth looked to her teacher for direction.
"Keep going, young lady," Laurel said, with a smile. "You're doing just fine!"
"Well, I'm only speculating, but it seems fairly clear from the work itself that she wanted to bring out into the light some of the very same doubts that Linus has been expressing here today. Huh. I hadn't really considered it in that way when I read The Villain originally, but sitting here now, in the midst of this conversation, that's what occurs to me. Am I way off the mark, Miss Allen?"
"No, not at all. Although it was perhaps less about doubts and more about simply wanting to explore the question, from all angles, for my own peace of mind."
"Did anything like that actually happen, back in the early 20th century?" Peter asked. "I know you made this... Jeffries?... character up, but was he based on someone real?"
"Not that I know of," Laurel answered. "I did as much research on the period as I could afford at the time. Just as we teach in class, the whole thing started slowly - and locally - and then built upon itself over time, as the results started to exhibit themselves. Not terribly dramatic, really. I was struck by the thought, when I was your age, that it really ought to have been more full of Sturm und Drang, so I wrote The Villain to provide that, and to give me a chance to consider the Literary Revolution as the people of the time might've, if things had gone differently."
"Hey!" James said, "You made it into a real revolution! Now I want to read your COAT!"
"So do I," said Linus.
Laurel couldn't tell from his tone if that was good news or bad, but since their session was over for the day, she left it at that.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Imaginary Stories: Chapter Two (** Draft **)
(Chapter One of this evolving tale can be found here.)
Chapter Two: The Abyss Gazes Also
"Lambert fought to return the woman's cool stare, as unsure of her intentions as he was captivated by her beauty. Sure, he'd seen her type many times before in his line of work - tall, blonde and blue-eyed with a body that made her clothes seem like they'd been drawn on with scented markers - and yet there was still something about her that made him notice the thumping of his forty year old heart.
"Am I under arrest, Detective?" she asked, in a tone suggesting that she knew more about the law than he did. "I'd like to call my lawyer, if I am."
Pausing before answering, Lambert shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly aware of just how small the table was that separated the two of them. "No, Mrs Mason, you're not," he said without making eye contact. "It's just routine. We always interview the spouse when someone dies in a violent fashion." As he spoke the last few words, he forced himself to look directly into her almost-blindingly perfect features.
"So I'm not a suspect in Gerald's murder, then?" she inquired, with a raised eyebrow that Lambert struggled to interpret between hopefulness and surprise.
"Well, ma'am, I didn't exactly say that," Lambert replied. He placed both hands, palms down, on the table between them, a gesture intended as much to hide the sweat starting to form on them as it was to prevent them from shaking. Stop acting like a love-sick teenager, he told himself. You've got a murder to solve!"
- "The Abyss Gazes Also", Coming Of Age Tale, James Hancock (Born 1990), Published 2006
"Betraying his father?" echoed Linus, moving to squat beside his prone Indian friend. "What'd he do?"
Before Sanjay could respond, James rasped, "Did he have sex with his mother? I mean, his own mother, not his father's mother. That'd be his grandmother... eww, gross!"
"Because, of course," Peter said, "having sex with your own mother isn't gross!"
"You know what I mean!" James countered. "Hey, if that's where your story's going, I've got the perfect title for it: Oedipus Wrecks! With a W, like he wrecks his family!"
"It's like you've already read my book, James. Totally uncanny!"
"Ah, sarcasm, my faithful companion" crooned James, "never far from me are thee!"
"So you were about to say...?" ventured Peter, speaking to Sanjay while looking disapprovingly at James.
"Well," began the young man, as he sat up and pulled his knees up tight to his lithe body, "my central character's father has some very specific plans for him, but then he realized that he couldn't go through with them. He's conflicted, though, because there's a lot of family tradition at stake, and he's jeopardized some important relationships in the process."
"So... this is starting to sound like an autobiography, my friend," said Linus. "Is that what you're writing?"
Sanjay looked down quickly, unable to hide his discomfort. "No. Not exactly. I mean, there are certain similarities, yes. But the situations are quite different, and my hero is a few years older than me." Then he looked up, and with more energy said, "And after all, the teachers all tell us to write what we know! This is what I know!"
"Sounds reasonable to me," Peter said. "So what's the corner that you've painted him into, and what kind of vindication is he supposed to find?"
"Well, he disobeyed his father's orders, because he believed his father was wrong. But now he's in trouble with the law, even though it turns out his father was wrong!"
"Kind of like Icarus, then?" Linus asked.
"How so?" Sanjay countered.
"His father told him not to fly too close to the sun, or he'd burn his wings. Now that's crazy, because the higher you fly, the colder it gets, and so the old man was wrong as wrong could be. And yet legend has it that ol' Icarus still fell, so what're we to make of that story now?"
"Don't mess with Daddy?" James offered, at which point Peter slugged him in the arm.
Linus said, "Or maybe that disobedience is a greater sin than being wrong?"
"That's pretty screwed up, if you ask me," James replied, over the low grumble of his stomach. "But not as screwed up as I'll be if I don't get some food in me soon. See you ladies tomorrow!"
Three days later, the four boys were together again, but this time back inside the walls of their school and accompanied by classmate Elizabeth Lee and their teacher, Laurel Allen. All six of them sat in a loose circle, facing inward, enveloped in bubble chairs that combined comfort and support as if designed by an expert on both.
The group was engaged in the part of each school day dedicated to discussing Coming Of Age Tales, and Laurel was the COAT counsellor to the five students gathered around her. She'd been working with all of them, in this manner, since the current school year had started. While none of them were required to tell her anything about their own COAT progress, it was inevitable that she learned some of what each of them was up to, just by the nature of the discussions they had. Because of that, she'd gotten the distinct - and unwelcome - impression that Linus had yet to start his. Based on where the conversation was going at the moment, though, she suspected that she was about to get a serious clue as to why.
Elizabeth was saying, "It's a lot more complicated than you're making it sound. You have to consider how it started, the changes that it caused after only a few years, and the fact that it only took a couple of decades to spread worldwide. That certainly puts it on the same footing as some of the other revolutionary movements of the past few centuries, wouldn't you say?"
"I'm saying that I don't really see what one has to do with the other, is all," Linus said.
"What part of your education were you paying attention to, Linus?" asked Elizabeth, drawing a frosty look from her teacher.
"Liz, that's not a very helpful attitude," Laurel said, in her best neutral voice. You may be my star pupil, Liz, she thought, but I'm certainly not going to treat you like one! "Why don't you drop the sarcasm so that we can have a conversation like adults?"
"But that's what I'm talking about: adulthood," Linus continued, as if the conversation were going exactly where he wanted it to. "Does anyone in the 21st century really believe that the best way to judge if someone's ready to take on the rights of a full citizen is by making them write a story to prove it?"
Chapter Two: The Abyss Gazes Also
"Lambert fought to return the woman's cool stare, as unsure of her intentions as he was captivated by her beauty. Sure, he'd seen her type many times before in his line of work - tall, blonde and blue-eyed with a body that made her clothes seem like they'd been drawn on with scented markers - and yet there was still something about her that made him notice the thumping of his forty year old heart.
"Am I under arrest, Detective?" she asked, in a tone suggesting that she knew more about the law than he did. "I'd like to call my lawyer, if I am."
Pausing before answering, Lambert shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly aware of just how small the table was that separated the two of them. "No, Mrs Mason, you're not," he said without making eye contact. "It's just routine. We always interview the spouse when someone dies in a violent fashion." As he spoke the last few words, he forced himself to look directly into her almost-blindingly perfect features.
"So I'm not a suspect in Gerald's murder, then?" she inquired, with a raised eyebrow that Lambert struggled to interpret between hopefulness and surprise.
"Well, ma'am, I didn't exactly say that," Lambert replied. He placed both hands, palms down, on the table between them, a gesture intended as much to hide the sweat starting to form on them as it was to prevent them from shaking. Stop acting like a love-sick teenager, he told himself. You've got a murder to solve!"
- "The Abyss Gazes Also", Coming Of Age Tale, James Hancock (Born 1990), Published 2006
"Betraying his father?" echoed Linus, moving to squat beside his prone Indian friend. "What'd he do?"
Before Sanjay could respond, James rasped, "Did he have sex with his mother? I mean, his own mother, not his father's mother. That'd be his grandmother... eww, gross!"
"Because, of course," Peter said, "having sex with your own mother isn't gross!"
"You know what I mean!" James countered. "Hey, if that's where your story's going, I've got the perfect title for it: Oedipus Wrecks! With a W, like he wrecks his family!"
"It's like you've already read my book, James. Totally uncanny!"
"Ah, sarcasm, my faithful companion" crooned James, "never far from me are thee!"
"So you were about to say...?" ventured Peter, speaking to Sanjay while looking disapprovingly at James.
"Well," began the young man, as he sat up and pulled his knees up tight to his lithe body, "my central character's father has some very specific plans for him, but then he realized that he couldn't go through with them. He's conflicted, though, because there's a lot of family tradition at stake, and he's jeopardized some important relationships in the process."
"So... this is starting to sound like an autobiography, my friend," said Linus. "Is that what you're writing?"
Sanjay looked down quickly, unable to hide his discomfort. "No. Not exactly. I mean, there are certain similarities, yes. But the situations are quite different, and my hero is a few years older than me." Then he looked up, and with more energy said, "And after all, the teachers all tell us to write what we know! This is what I know!"
"Sounds reasonable to me," Peter said. "So what's the corner that you've painted him into, and what kind of vindication is he supposed to find?"
"Well, he disobeyed his father's orders, because he believed his father was wrong. But now he's in trouble with the law, even though it turns out his father was wrong!"
"Kind of like Icarus, then?" Linus asked.
"How so?" Sanjay countered.
"His father told him not to fly too close to the sun, or he'd burn his wings. Now that's crazy, because the higher you fly, the colder it gets, and so the old man was wrong as wrong could be. And yet legend has it that ol' Icarus still fell, so what're we to make of that story now?"
"Don't mess with Daddy?" James offered, at which point Peter slugged him in the arm.
Linus said, "Or maybe that disobedience is a greater sin than being wrong?"
"That's pretty screwed up, if you ask me," James replied, over the low grumble of his stomach. "But not as screwed up as I'll be if I don't get some food in me soon. See you ladies tomorrow!"
Three days later, the four boys were together again, but this time back inside the walls of their school and accompanied by classmate Elizabeth Lee and their teacher, Laurel Allen. All six of them sat in a loose circle, facing inward, enveloped in bubble chairs that combined comfort and support as if designed by an expert on both.
The group was engaged in the part of each school day dedicated to discussing Coming Of Age Tales, and Laurel was the COAT counsellor to the five students gathered around her. She'd been working with all of them, in this manner, since the current school year had started. While none of them were required to tell her anything about their own COAT progress, it was inevitable that she learned some of what each of them was up to, just by the nature of the discussions they had. Because of that, she'd gotten the distinct - and unwelcome - impression that Linus had yet to start his. Based on where the conversation was going at the moment, though, she suspected that she was about to get a serious clue as to why.
Elizabeth was saying, "It's a lot more complicated than you're making it sound. You have to consider how it started, the changes that it caused after only a few years, and the fact that it only took a couple of decades to spread worldwide. That certainly puts it on the same footing as some of the other revolutionary movements of the past few centuries, wouldn't you say?"
"I'm saying that I don't really see what one has to do with the other, is all," Linus said.
"What part of your education were you paying attention to, Linus?" asked Elizabeth, drawing a frosty look from her teacher.
"Liz, that's not a very helpful attitude," Laurel said, in her best neutral voice. You may be my star pupil, Liz, she thought, but I'm certainly not going to treat you like one! "Why don't you drop the sarcasm so that we can have a conversation like adults?"
"But that's what I'm talking about: adulthood," Linus continued, as if the conversation were going exactly where he wanted it to. "Does anyone in the 21st century really believe that the best way to judge if someone's ready to take on the rights of a full citizen is by making them write a story to prove it?"
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Imaginary Stories: Chapter One (** Draft **)
Chapter One: A Dream Of Flying
"What would Daedalus have done differently, had he known what was to come? What could he have said to Icarus that might've set his son on a safer course? Though legend has it that the heat of the sun melted the wax holding Icarus' wings together that day, we've long known the fallacy inherent in that story. As Icarus climbed higher and higher upon his newly formed wings, after his father had warned him of the danger, the temperature around him in fact plunged, just as he himself would, moments later. No, the moral of that story had nothing to do with science, and everything to do with a son's unwillingness to obey his father. And in that sense, Icarus lives on..."
- "A Dream Of Flying", Coming Of Age Tale, Sanjay Majmudar (Born: 1990), Published 2006
Had Elizabeth Lee been born a half-century earlier, she would surely have been the sort of student who spent most of her class time with her arm thrust straight up, desperate to have the teacher pick her to answer whatever question had just been asked of the group. Nowadays that was hardly effective at getting anyone's attention, though, as all eyes, even those of the instructor, tended to be pointed downwards as the lesson progressed. Instead, Elizabeth tapped her responses as quickly as she could into the back of the book that sat in her lap, knowing that some impersonal bit of software written ages ago was recording and analyzing what she'd typed, as well as that of everyone else in the room. Not only were her responses being evaluated instantly for correctness, but in the case of any wrong answer, patterns were being sought electronically that might indicate where she'd gone astray.
"You wish," she muttered, and then realized she'd said it loud enough to be heard by those seated closest to her, and drawn several of their amused gazes in the process.
Without looking up, and at the same low level as her previous mild violation of classroom etiquette, she offered up, "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along." She was rewarded, if that was the right word for it, by a snicker from Linus Morgan, seated in a squishy chair a few feet behind her and to her left. Whether he was laughing at her or with her, Elizabeth couldn't be sure, but she didn't really care all that much anyway.
Maths, Sciences, all of the Literatures, even History; none of them really challenged her anymore. She'd come to realize that her fifteen year old brain was becoming her greatest asset lately, even if it wasn't the part of her that the boys seemed to notice first. Boys like Linus, for example. You wish, she thought, but this time had the sense to keep her mouth shut.
Laurel Allen stood in front of the class, silently monitoring the results her students were entering. This section of the material, dealing with fairly dry historical data that the students were busy analyzing and interpreting, was pre-recorded, which freed Laurel to focus her attention on the sea of icons glowing on the lectern in front of her. She hadn't yet been a teacher long enough to completely quell the curious voice within her that asked, "How did we ever gauge our pupils' understanding before we had instant feedback available?" As a student herself only a few years earlier, it had all seemed completely natural, as it had to a couple of generations of pupils before her: as you learned something, you were immediately and continually quizzed on your understanding of it. But now that she stood on the other side of the machinery, she could see the beauty of it and wonder how education ever worked without it. In the absence of that feedback loop, after all, how would she have known in October that Sanjay Majmudar was slipping behind in his comprehension of Chord Theory? Would she simply have lost him, then, as each successive Trigonometric concept had further collapsed that shaky foundation in his mind, all for want of a little extra coverage? Or would she have been expected to be a mind-reader for each of her students? And what? Held court over a class of three or four students at most?
She was roused out of her reverie by a pair of flashing symbols on the display in front of her. Not surprisingly, Liz Lee's avatar - a paper lantern - was blinking green, as she'd just gone up over the 98% mark once again. That's my girl, Laurel thought, and not for the first time. Elizabeth Lee was the favourite student of every teacher this year, it seemed.
More worrisome was the red circle around Peter Osborne's triangular-shield icon, flickering on and off in a successful attempt to get Laurel's attention. She reached out and tapped it, and read the resulting analysis that temporarily obliterated her status board. Young Mr Osborne, it appeared from the answers he was providing, had somehow gotten it into his head that the Literary Revolution had preceded the Industrial! That would certainly explain why he was struggling so badly with some of his conclusions at the moment. Laurel scanned what the education software had come up with as a corrective strike, tweaked it slightly to make it more likely that Peter would get the point without feeling stupid, and OK'd it with a quick tap. Her class status board re-appeared, with Peter's avatar now encircled in yellow instead of red. She knew the results of her action would be popping up on his display instantly, so she looked up to try to catch his surprised reaction. C'mon, Peter, she thought, work it through.
Within half a minute or so, Laurel got an appreciative nod back, though Peter never lifted his eyes. If all went well, he'd get back on track shortly and she'd handle the next crisis to show up on her board. I love my job. And she did!
Hours later, on the grass outside their school, several of the students from Miss Allen's class gathered for the customary end-of-day debrief.
"Favourite question?" Linus Morgan asked the sky above him, as he lay flat on his back on the lawn, but his three companions knew the question was really aimed at them.
"How's your COAT coming along?" Peter Osborne said, causing Sanjay Majmudar and James Hancock to laugh.
"No, you brain-dead amoeba, I mean favourite question asked in class today! Like you didn't know."
Sanjay said, "OK, I'll play along, Mr Morgan, sir. Ah, which subject would you be asking about, sir?"
Linus regarded his friend cooly, as if unsure of just who was playing whom. "Let's go with Romance Literature, since you strike me as the romantic type."
"Oooh," crooned James, "should we leave you two alone? Because, you know, young love doth all but blot out the sun!"
Sanjay stroked his chin, feeling the few whiskers there that he couldn't help but wish would hurry up and multiply. "Well," he said, "I still get particularly interested every time Lesbian Lit comes up, so I guess you know which one was my favourite today..."
"Ah, good old Marianne Crowe, circa 1920..." sighed James. His friends grew quiet as they all shared a moment of reverence.
"What I really want to know," Peter said, finally breaking the silence, "is how your God damned COAT is coming along."
"Since you asked so nicely," Linus responded, sitting up, "I've got forty nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine lovely little words written... but I can't seem to decide on the last one! In fact, I'm starting to believe that final, perfect word may just take me as long to arrive at as the first forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine did! Happy?"
"In other words, you still haven't started it," Peter replied, the tone of his voice showing his disapproval with each word.
"Well, that's certainly one way to look at it, yes. But I prefer my version."
Without any amusement in his eyes at all, Peter said, "Ladies and gentlemen... my friend, Peter Pan!"
"You're all wet, old chum," Linus said. "You're on the wrong track. You've got hydrogen in your zeppelin. Your wires are all crossed, and you're --"
"Yeah, I get the general idea," Peter interrupted. "So why don't you tell me and my two esteemed colleagues here just what it is you're working on that's actually going to usher you out of childhood at long last."
Linus stood up abruptly, feigning alarm. "Wait a second," he exclaimed. "How do I know you're not an international spy, here to steal my brilliant idea of a story and take it back to your homeland? What kind of a name is 'Osborne', anyway? It sounds... Canadian!"
Sanjay chose that moment to follow Linus' earlier example, and sprawled out on the grass. "I wrote about two hundred words last night. But I think I may have gotten my protagonist into a situation he can't get out of."
"So kill him off!" James rasped, with typical quickness.
"That's not really the effect I'm going for," Sanjay said. "I mean, he has to triumph in the end, otherwise it sort of..."
"Undermines the point?" Linus offered.
"Exactly! Although, perhaps 'triumph' is too strong a word. I suppose it's more a matter of vindication."
"What's he being vindicated for?" asked James, showing actual interest.
Sanjay swallowed hard, hoping it wouldn't show from where he lay. "For betraying his father."
"What would Daedalus have done differently, had he known what was to come? What could he have said to Icarus that might've set his son on a safer course? Though legend has it that the heat of the sun melted the wax holding Icarus' wings together that day, we've long known the fallacy inherent in that story. As Icarus climbed higher and higher upon his newly formed wings, after his father had warned him of the danger, the temperature around him in fact plunged, just as he himself would, moments later. No, the moral of that story had nothing to do with science, and everything to do with a son's unwillingness to obey his father. And in that sense, Icarus lives on..."
- "A Dream Of Flying", Coming Of Age Tale, Sanjay Majmudar (Born: 1990), Published 2006
Had Elizabeth Lee been born a half-century earlier, she would surely have been the sort of student who spent most of her class time with her arm thrust straight up, desperate to have the teacher pick her to answer whatever question had just been asked of the group. Nowadays that was hardly effective at getting anyone's attention, though, as all eyes, even those of the instructor, tended to be pointed downwards as the lesson progressed. Instead, Elizabeth tapped her responses as quickly as she could into the back of the book that sat in her lap, knowing that some impersonal bit of software written ages ago was recording and analyzing what she'd typed, as well as that of everyone else in the room. Not only were her responses being evaluated instantly for correctness, but in the case of any wrong answer, patterns were being sought electronically that might indicate where she'd gone astray.
"You wish," she muttered, and then realized she'd said it loud enough to be heard by those seated closest to her, and drawn several of their amused gazes in the process.
Without looking up, and at the same low level as her previous mild violation of classroom etiquette, she offered up, "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along." She was rewarded, if that was the right word for it, by a snicker from Linus Morgan, seated in a squishy chair a few feet behind her and to her left. Whether he was laughing at her or with her, Elizabeth couldn't be sure, but she didn't really care all that much anyway.
Maths, Sciences, all of the Literatures, even History; none of them really challenged her anymore. She'd come to realize that her fifteen year old brain was becoming her greatest asset lately, even if it wasn't the part of her that the boys seemed to notice first. Boys like Linus, for example. You wish, she thought, but this time had the sense to keep her mouth shut.
Laurel Allen stood in front of the class, silently monitoring the results her students were entering. This section of the material, dealing with fairly dry historical data that the students were busy analyzing and interpreting, was pre-recorded, which freed Laurel to focus her attention on the sea of icons glowing on the lectern in front of her. She hadn't yet been a teacher long enough to completely quell the curious voice within her that asked, "How did we ever gauge our pupils' understanding before we had instant feedback available?" As a student herself only a few years earlier, it had all seemed completely natural, as it had to a couple of generations of pupils before her: as you learned something, you were immediately and continually quizzed on your understanding of it. But now that she stood on the other side of the machinery, she could see the beauty of it and wonder how education ever worked without it. In the absence of that feedback loop, after all, how would she have known in October that Sanjay Majmudar was slipping behind in his comprehension of Chord Theory? Would she simply have lost him, then, as each successive Trigonometric concept had further collapsed that shaky foundation in his mind, all for want of a little extra coverage? Or would she have been expected to be a mind-reader for each of her students? And what? Held court over a class of three or four students at most?
She was roused out of her reverie by a pair of flashing symbols on the display in front of her. Not surprisingly, Liz Lee's avatar - a paper lantern - was blinking green, as she'd just gone up over the 98% mark once again. That's my girl, Laurel thought, and not for the first time. Elizabeth Lee was the favourite student of every teacher this year, it seemed.
More worrisome was the red circle around Peter Osborne's triangular-shield icon, flickering on and off in a successful attempt to get Laurel's attention. She reached out and tapped it, and read the resulting analysis that temporarily obliterated her status board. Young Mr Osborne, it appeared from the answers he was providing, had somehow gotten it into his head that the Literary Revolution had preceded the Industrial! That would certainly explain why he was struggling so badly with some of his conclusions at the moment. Laurel scanned what the education software had come up with as a corrective strike, tweaked it slightly to make it more likely that Peter would get the point without feeling stupid, and OK'd it with a quick tap. Her class status board re-appeared, with Peter's avatar now encircled in yellow instead of red. She knew the results of her action would be popping up on his display instantly, so she looked up to try to catch his surprised reaction. C'mon, Peter, she thought, work it through.
Within half a minute or so, Laurel got an appreciative nod back, though Peter never lifted his eyes. If all went well, he'd get back on track shortly and she'd handle the next crisis to show up on her board. I love my job. And she did!
Hours later, on the grass outside their school, several of the students from Miss Allen's class gathered for the customary end-of-day debrief.
"Favourite question?" Linus Morgan asked the sky above him, as he lay flat on his back on the lawn, but his three companions knew the question was really aimed at them.
"How's your COAT coming along?" Peter Osborne said, causing Sanjay Majmudar and James Hancock to laugh.
"No, you brain-dead amoeba, I mean favourite question asked in class today! Like you didn't know."
Sanjay said, "OK, I'll play along, Mr Morgan, sir. Ah, which subject would you be asking about, sir?"
Linus regarded his friend cooly, as if unsure of just who was playing whom. "Let's go with Romance Literature, since you strike me as the romantic type."
"Oooh," crooned James, "should we leave you two alone? Because, you know, young love doth all but blot out the sun!"
Sanjay stroked his chin, feeling the few whiskers there that he couldn't help but wish would hurry up and multiply. "Well," he said, "I still get particularly interested every time Lesbian Lit comes up, so I guess you know which one was my favourite today..."
"Ah, good old Marianne Crowe, circa 1920..." sighed James. His friends grew quiet as they all shared a moment of reverence.
"What I really want to know," Peter said, finally breaking the silence, "is how your God damned COAT is coming along."
"Since you asked so nicely," Linus responded, sitting up, "I've got forty nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine lovely little words written... but I can't seem to decide on the last one! In fact, I'm starting to believe that final, perfect word may just take me as long to arrive at as the first forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine did! Happy?"
"In other words, you still haven't started it," Peter replied, the tone of his voice showing his disapproval with each word.
"Well, that's certainly one way to look at it, yes. But I prefer my version."
Without any amusement in his eyes at all, Peter said, "Ladies and gentlemen... my friend, Peter Pan!"
"You're all wet, old chum," Linus said. "You're on the wrong track. You've got hydrogen in your zeppelin. Your wires are all crossed, and you're --"
"Yeah, I get the general idea," Peter interrupted. "So why don't you tell me and my two esteemed colleagues here just what it is you're working on that's actually going to usher you out of childhood at long last."
Linus stood up abruptly, feigning alarm. "Wait a second," he exclaimed. "How do I know you're not an international spy, here to steal my brilliant idea of a story and take it back to your homeland? What kind of a name is 'Osborne', anyway? It sounds... Canadian!"
Sanjay chose that moment to follow Linus' earlier example, and sprawled out on the grass. "I wrote about two hundred words last night. But I think I may have gotten my protagonist into a situation he can't get out of."
"So kill him off!" James rasped, with typical quickness.
"That's not really the effect I'm going for," Sanjay said. "I mean, he has to triumph in the end, otherwise it sort of..."
"Undermines the point?" Linus offered.
"Exactly! Although, perhaps 'triumph' is too strong a word. I suppose it's more a matter of vindication."
"What's he being vindicated for?" asked James, showing actual interest.
Sanjay swallowed hard, hoping it wouldn't show from where he lay. "For betraying his father."
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Worlds Apart
I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway because I loved her so much. Once you've heard my story, I'll bet you'll agree that you'd have done the same thing I did.
We'd only been married a little over three years - three years, two months and thirteen days, to be precise - when my darling Anne was taken from me. She stepped off the curb without looking, and became a hit and run statistic instead of a living, breathing person. It had happened at night, as she left her office after working late, and none of the handful of people who saw it happen could ever agree on a vehicle colour, let alone produce a license plate or description of the driver. None of that mattered to me, anyway, as I stood in the coroner's viewing room and identified the love of my life through the bruising and blood.
I sleepwalked through the funeral arrangements, little realizing that even the small distraction all of that provided would be missed once it was over. As the reality of my situation crashed in on me in the weeks that followed, I retreated further and further from my friends and family. Oh, I was there physically as various well-intentioned folk would visit and try their best to console me, but my mind was filled with dead thoughts. I'd only met one woman, in thirty years, who could make me feel alive, and now she was gone. Three years of marriage, and the year we'd dated before that, as amazing as it all had been, hardly seemed fair payment for a lifetime of emptiness. As time went on, refusing to even close, let alone heal, the wound in my heart, I became increasingly bitter.
About eight weeks after she was taken from me, I lay awake in my bed in the middle of the night. I'd stopped going into work and had been put on longterm disability, so money was still coming in to pay the bills but that was about it. My mind couldn't come to grips with how I'd ever return to any semblance of a normal life, and so my thoughts that night kept slipping back to the accident. How could such a combination of unlikely events have come together to take her life away, and leave me so devastated? She didn't usually work late, but had on that particular day, because a foreign client of her office had been in the country for a visit. Unlike me, Anne was level-headed and cautious, making it so uncharacteristic for her to have stepped out into traffic carelessly. Others from her work were right there with her, and yet not one of them was able to place a restraining hand on her arm, or shout a warning, or do any little thing that would've possibly turned a deadly, full-on collision into a glancing blow. How could this be? It seemed to me that the odds against all of those improbabilities converging into a single moment were inconceivable. And yet there it was.
That line of thinking, which I couldn't shake as the hours fell by that night, lead me down the path that I'm here to describe. All I ask is that you consider yourself in my place, and be honest about what you would have done.
For me, as my downward spiral continued, there was only one logical outcome to arrive at. I started to wonder about a world where what had happended hadn't happened. Certainly I'd encountered the notion of alternate realities before, in various pieces of fiction. Whether it be Spock-with-a-beard from the old Star Trek series, or any number of science fiction novels dealing with what-if scenarios, I was familiar enough with the concept. Therefore it wasn't long before I began to consider that there might be other versions of me out there, somewhere, who hadn't lost their Anne's. I vacillated back and forth between finding the whole idea comforting - the thought, after all, of her still being alive somewhere, filled my heart with joy - and becoming even more frustrated by the unfairness of my plight, in comparison to those other me's.
Regardless of my emotional response, however, as I lay there, the seed I'd planted began to grow within me. My thoughts began to be consumed by imagining what that world would be like. I could picture that other-me, in my mind's eye. His life had been identical to mine, in every respect, right up to that night. Then, where I'd received a phone call that was to bring my world crashing down around my ears, he'd simply welcomed home his darling Anne from work, and fed her a late-evening dinner of spaghetti with meatballs - the one I'd been preparing that night had sat, unfinished, on the kitchen counter for days until my cousin had thrown it out, causing me to fly into a fit of rage and scream at her to get out of my house. Probably they'd made love that night; her, appreciative for the thoughtfulness of him having had supper ready for her; him, because he was always horny. And they'd gotten up for work the next day, and the sun that had shone hadn't mocked him at all, as it had done to me.
The more I thought about those other-two, the more details I could see. Days flew by in the world behind my eyeballs. I saw a weekend shopping trip that she'd planned, that as soon as I thought of, I realized was exactly the sort of thing my Anne would've sprung on me, if only she hadn't taken that fateful step that night. And there were the two of them, going to visit my mother and father, and it was all smiles and stupid jokes and subtle inquiries after grandchildren, not the tears and downward cast eyes that had marked my own time with my world's version of them recently.
As I continued to fastforward their lives mentally through the ensuing days, I came to a point where they were lying in bed, sleeping. I couldn't seem to imagine them beyond that, try though I might. Were children going to come for them? How would they mark their 10th wedding anniversary? What would Anne look like at 40? I'd hit a wall of some sort, and couldn't get past it. All I could see was them, in the same bed in which I rested, eyes closed and at peace with the world.
Slowly, the truth dawned on me. I was seeing them right now, at the exact same moment in time that I was at. But why? What did it mean? I wanted to see more; no, I had to see more. This was the first time in two months that Anne had felt alive to me again, and really the only time I'd felt that way, either! I knew with every fibre of my being that I had a thousand times more interest in watching the rest of their lives unfold than I had in living my own dismal existence for another day, but it seemed like even that faint hope would be denied me. I squeezed my eyes shut so hard it hurt, and tried with all my might to make the movie inside my head begin moving again.
And that's when it happened. I'm no scientist, and even if I were, I doubt I could explain the physics of that moment. Nor do I really care to try, because all that mattered to me at that moment is that I found myself lying in his place, still in the same bed but with my beloved Anne beside me! I remember that my heart stopped beating, and then a rushing sound filled my ears as it started up again. And as the scent of her body hit my nostrils, I gasped!
Anne rolled toward me and said, "Honey? What's the matter? Are you feeling OK"
Tears were welling up in my eyes, and I quite honestly feared that speaking, or even moving, would break the spell and send me plummeting back to the Hell I'd come from. But I could also sense her apprehension growing as a result of my silence, and even in the darkness of our bedroom I could make out the sudden concern on her face.
"I'm fine, sweetie," I said quietly, and braced myself against the expected splintering of this dream I'd found myself in.
"OK. I'm gonna go pee, and then I'll be right back." With that, she got up and padded softly to the ensuite, and I saw the light appear under the door after she'd closed it - ever considerate Anne, not wanting to blind me in the darkness!
When she returned to the bed a minute later, I hugged her tight and kissed her neck, and forehead, and her beautiful lips.
"Huh, somebody certainly missed me," she joked, completely unaware of the irony of her words. "I should go pee more often!"
We made passionate love a few minutes later, and then I collapsed beside her in a pile of sobs and gasps. When she reached over and wiped my brow with the back of her hand, I knew that I owed her an explanation for my inexplicable behaviour.
I decided that the full truth was so impossible that even I wasn't sure I believed it, so I opted to tell her only as much of it as I thought a reasonable person could take in. I explained that I'd just had an incredibly vivid dream, that had seemed to last for weeks - as dreams sometimes do - in which she'd been killed in a freak hit and run accident. I'd had to live through her funeral, and in the days that had followed I'd fallen deeper and deeper into depression. As she listened, with just enough serious concentration on her face to convince me that she could tell this had affected me more than most dreams, I described how I'd stopped going into work, and had shut myself off from both friends and relatives.
"That's a pretty bad dream, alright," she said, "but it was just a dream. Look at me. I'm alive! And we just had sex! You wouldn't do that with a corpse, now would you?"
I laughed, and shook my head. "But here's the kicker, Anne," I continued. "Don't ask me how, but those events in my dream: they seem more real to me right now than anything you and I have done in the past eight weeks! All of that time with you, that's what feels like a dream to me!"
She suggested that I'd probably feel better in the morning, as things always seem strange in the middle of the night. After making sure I was OK, she hugged me for a few minutes and then rolled over. Before long, I could hear her regular breathing and knew she'd already fallen back asleep.
As for me, there was no chance at all that I was going to fall asleep and risk waking up back in the world I'd come from. After awhile, I got up from the bed and went out to explore the rest of the house. Things were just as I'd seen them, as I'd watched the other-two go through their lives while I'd laid in my own cold bed. Nowhere to be seen were the heaps of take-out containers and unopened mail that littered the home I'd just left.
Presently I logged into my work e-mail system, and read all of the updates from the past few months that the other-me hadn't deleted. If I was going to head into work anytime soon - I hadn't made up my mind yet about when I'd try to pull that off - then I'd need to know what I'd missed. Already my brain was starting to adjust to the inconceivable, incredible situation in which I'd found myself an hour or so earlier. I found that I had to remind myself to take deep breaths every once in awhile, as I discovered I was almost literally holding my breath, fearful that I'd end the illusion.
By the time Anne woke up, I'd decided that I'd call into work sick that day, just to give me a full day of acclimation before I had to deal with that challenge. I was a process manager at a software company, and I worked with a very clever group of geeks. The last thing I wanted was to have people think I'd lost my memory or had a breakdown of some sort. No, actually, the last thing I wanted was to lose Anne again; but staying gainfully employed was clearly going to be important to our mutual happiness, and something I'd always taken seriously when we'd been together. So I knew I needed to somehow not look like a man who'd forgotten the last eight weeks of his life!
My first day, with Anne off to work right after our shower and breakfast, gave me ample opportunity to think about what had happened. Everything was exactly as I'd seen it in my mind's eye, right down to the new clothes Anne and the other-me had bought on their shopping weekend. Had I created this world out of my imagination, then? That didn't seem possible, for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that I knew I wasn't nearly imaginative to be able to accomplish it. The only solution that seemed even remotely capable of being true was that I'd somehow transported myself to a parallel world that had diverged from my own at the moment of my-Anne's death. How, I had no clue. If desire factored into it, then clearly I'd had the equivalent of the power of a thousand exploding suns at my disposal. But since when did wanting something ever make it real?
Eventually, I decided that I'd probably never know the answer. The important thing was, Anne was still with me, and my life had meaning again. I certainly wasn't going to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, and so I set about integrating myself back into daily life.
Anne would remark upon the change in me many times over that first week, as I heaped affection on her even beyond my traditional level. She probably assumed it was "the dream", still bothering me, and generally simply chose to enjoy the attentiveness that any woman in love would bask in. While my apprehension over this bliss turning out to be a fantasy continued to hang over my head, my appreciation for the blessing I'd been handed was boundless. This world, my world now, was filled with love and joy, and so we lived happily ever after.
Or we should have, at least. My own fears, in the end, were my undoing. Or perhaps what happened was inevitable; you'll have to judge for yourself. I certainly can't claim to have any objectivity on the subject, considering the way things worked out.
And what happened, was this: I began to believe that Anne and I were being watched. It started about a month after I'd found her again. By that point, I was quite comfortably adjusted to my new life. I was doing well at work, once again, and Anne and I were talking about starting a family. There was absolutely no reason for me to entertain dark thoughts of any sort, and yet they formed nonetheless. One night, as I lay in bed, I suddenly wondered: If I was here, in this life, where had the other-me gone whose life I'd claimed? Until that moment, such a concept had not even occurred to me. But once it did, an incredible chill ran through my body. My heart began to race as this particular train of thought thundered through my brain.
Had he and I simply changed places that fateful night? Had he woken up the next morning, only to discover the bed beside him empty? What would he have made of the sudden disarray that he'd have found the house in, along with the cards of sympathy and dead flower arrangements? How could he possibly have coped with calling around, to Anne's work, and to her parents, and to friend after friend, and at each turn being told, in compassionate but confused tones, that his beloved wife was dead, and had been for two months now? Would this other-me have gone on a rampage, believing that he was being made the victim of an impossibly-cruel prank? I, at least, had lived through the painful series of events around Anne's death, had received whatever consolation there was to be found in those first weeks, and could rail against the unfairness of it all, but not the reality. He, on the other hand, would've had none of that buffer, but simply the ice-cold shower of awakening to a world which believed that his wife was long-since dead and buried, despite the fact that he'd made love to her just the night before.
The horror of his situation washed over me that night, and filled me with first guilt, and then dread. I knew that I was responsible for his fate, that every wonderful moment I'd enjoyed over the past month had been at his expense, and the direct inverse of what he'd been enduring. But worse than that was the feeling that, by making this connection, I'd possibly provided the means by which he could get his own life back. After all, if the depths of my own misery had been sufficient to allow me to supplant him all those weeks ago, how much greater was his personal Hell now, in comparison? And whereas I had unknowingly stumbled upon the notion of parallel universes as a means of dealing with my grief, he had every reason to believe in just such a thing, having been ousted from one to another! Surely he must've realized what had transpired by now, and was working day and night to figure out how to reclaim his life that I'd stolen!
Needless to say, I didn't get any sleep that night. Anne noticed the downturn in my mood that next morning, but of course there was no way I could confide in her the reason for it. Over the course of that long night of sleeplessness, I'd begun to believe that the other-me was already observing us, just as I'd done, in his place. I wouldn't have told Anne anything regardless - what could she possibly have made of such an insane tale, not to mention that I would've risked her recoiling from me as the intruder I was, if she had believed it! But with the chance of his eyes now being fixed upon us, any such confession was doubly out of the question as I certainly didn't want to confirm his suspicions. Instead, I kept my dark secret to myself, and guided my behaviour as would any man who believed his every move were being monitored by his mortal enemy.
I resolved not to sleep, if at all possible, because it had been while the other-me had been just so defenseless that I'd made my crossing over. For all I knew, that was a key characteristic of the event. Perhaps staying awake was all it took to fend off any such attack. Naturally, I discovered I couldn't really avoid sleep entirely, but I did manage to catch my rest in short, fitful snatches during which I kept the proverbial one eye open. I found that even a few 20-minute naps over the course of the night were enough to allow me to operate for the rest of the day, albeit somewhat zombie-like at times.
As the days went by, I could sense the other-me watching me, more and more. His hatred of me grew to the point where I could feel it, palpably, through the connection between us. Because of this, I found that any guilt I'd felt previously was gone now, replaced by the overwhelming desire to keep him at bay. I knew that I'd taken what was rightfully his, but it was mine now, and there was no way I was going to let him steal it back.
At some point during this period, I lost my job. Apparently my work had suffered of late, they said, and my behaviour was described as paranoid. That turn of events barely registered on me, though, between the deathly fatigue I was feeling and the arguments I'd been having with Anne. She couldn't understand why I refused to make love to her anymore - how could I, with him watching? - nor why I wouldn't tell her what was bothering me. I could feel everything slipping away from me, but it didn't seem as real of a threat to me, then, as the other-me did. There was also, I'm ashamed to admit, a small part of me that regarded the deterioration of my life somewhat happily, knowing that, were he ever to succeed in replacing me, he'd be coming back to just as much misery as he'd left.
This latter notion grew and grew within me, with each new day. I felt as though I were slowly losing the battle against the one I'd replaced, and that he was soon going to swap us back to our original worlds, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. This thought eventually turned to conviction, and that conviction lead me to act as I did.
I can't say whether it was desire to keep him from having the happiness I felt was intended for me alone, or a protective instinct toward Anne and the thought of her suffering unimaginable indignities at his evil hand. Regardless, it was clear to me that the only way out of the situation was to kill Anne, and so I did. I smothered her while she slept, knowing that he was watching, and that finally there'd be no reason for him to ever return to this world. And sure enough, the moment that the death rattle sounded in her soft, white throat, I felt the relief I'd longed for wash over me. I slept that night as I hadn't slept in weeks.
When they arrested me for Anne's murder, I decided to tell the whole story. I didn't really care if they believed me or not; I was simply tired of keeping the truth to myself. The shrink who examined me listened attentively to all of it, and even asked many questions that showed she was following it all. Despite that promising sign, though, the report she filed on me was disappointingly lacking in insight. Unable to grasp the enormity of it, I suppose, she concluded that I'd harbored an insane desire to kill my wife for months, but had kept it below my conscious mind. As a result, she speculated, I'd manufactured a fantasy in which Anne had died and I'd been subjected to weeks of depression before escaping through the science fiction of a trip to a parallel universe. Her theory was that this was my mind making one last ditch attempt to avert the violence, by making me deal with the pain of her loss as a cautionary tale, as it were. But that proved unsuccessful, she concluded, based on the fact that the murder still sadly came about. Quite the interesting case study, blah blah blah.
I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything different. My story's no easy thing to take in, I realize. I would hope that you'll never have to face the types of decisions that I wrestled with, but if you do, I suspect you'll do just as I did. After all, it's not like I feel that I had a lot of choice in the matter. These things just happen.
We'd only been married a little over three years - three years, two months and thirteen days, to be precise - when my darling Anne was taken from me. She stepped off the curb without looking, and became a hit and run statistic instead of a living, breathing person. It had happened at night, as she left her office after working late, and none of the handful of people who saw it happen could ever agree on a vehicle colour, let alone produce a license plate or description of the driver. None of that mattered to me, anyway, as I stood in the coroner's viewing room and identified the love of my life through the bruising and blood.
I sleepwalked through the funeral arrangements, little realizing that even the small distraction all of that provided would be missed once it was over. As the reality of my situation crashed in on me in the weeks that followed, I retreated further and further from my friends and family. Oh, I was there physically as various well-intentioned folk would visit and try their best to console me, but my mind was filled with dead thoughts. I'd only met one woman, in thirty years, who could make me feel alive, and now she was gone. Three years of marriage, and the year we'd dated before that, as amazing as it all had been, hardly seemed fair payment for a lifetime of emptiness. As time went on, refusing to even close, let alone heal, the wound in my heart, I became increasingly bitter.
About eight weeks after she was taken from me, I lay awake in my bed in the middle of the night. I'd stopped going into work and had been put on longterm disability, so money was still coming in to pay the bills but that was about it. My mind couldn't come to grips with how I'd ever return to any semblance of a normal life, and so my thoughts that night kept slipping back to the accident. How could such a combination of unlikely events have come together to take her life away, and leave me so devastated? She didn't usually work late, but had on that particular day, because a foreign client of her office had been in the country for a visit. Unlike me, Anne was level-headed and cautious, making it so uncharacteristic for her to have stepped out into traffic carelessly. Others from her work were right there with her, and yet not one of them was able to place a restraining hand on her arm, or shout a warning, or do any little thing that would've possibly turned a deadly, full-on collision into a glancing blow. How could this be? It seemed to me that the odds against all of those improbabilities converging into a single moment were inconceivable. And yet there it was.
That line of thinking, which I couldn't shake as the hours fell by that night, lead me down the path that I'm here to describe. All I ask is that you consider yourself in my place, and be honest about what you would have done.
For me, as my downward spiral continued, there was only one logical outcome to arrive at. I started to wonder about a world where what had happended hadn't happened. Certainly I'd encountered the notion of alternate realities before, in various pieces of fiction. Whether it be Spock-with-a-beard from the old Star Trek series, or any number of science fiction novels dealing with what-if scenarios, I was familiar enough with the concept. Therefore it wasn't long before I began to consider that there might be other versions of me out there, somewhere, who hadn't lost their Anne's. I vacillated back and forth between finding the whole idea comforting - the thought, after all, of her still being alive somewhere, filled my heart with joy - and becoming even more frustrated by the unfairness of my plight, in comparison to those other me's.
Regardless of my emotional response, however, as I lay there, the seed I'd planted began to grow within me. My thoughts began to be consumed by imagining what that world would be like. I could picture that other-me, in my mind's eye. His life had been identical to mine, in every respect, right up to that night. Then, where I'd received a phone call that was to bring my world crashing down around my ears, he'd simply welcomed home his darling Anne from work, and fed her a late-evening dinner of spaghetti with meatballs - the one I'd been preparing that night had sat, unfinished, on the kitchen counter for days until my cousin had thrown it out, causing me to fly into a fit of rage and scream at her to get out of my house. Probably they'd made love that night; her, appreciative for the thoughtfulness of him having had supper ready for her; him, because he was always horny. And they'd gotten up for work the next day, and the sun that had shone hadn't mocked him at all, as it had done to me.
The more I thought about those other-two, the more details I could see. Days flew by in the world behind my eyeballs. I saw a weekend shopping trip that she'd planned, that as soon as I thought of, I realized was exactly the sort of thing my Anne would've sprung on me, if only she hadn't taken that fateful step that night. And there were the two of them, going to visit my mother and father, and it was all smiles and stupid jokes and subtle inquiries after grandchildren, not the tears and downward cast eyes that had marked my own time with my world's version of them recently.
As I continued to fastforward their lives mentally through the ensuing days, I came to a point where they were lying in bed, sleeping. I couldn't seem to imagine them beyond that, try though I might. Were children going to come for them? How would they mark their 10th wedding anniversary? What would Anne look like at 40? I'd hit a wall of some sort, and couldn't get past it. All I could see was them, in the same bed in which I rested, eyes closed and at peace with the world.
Slowly, the truth dawned on me. I was seeing them right now, at the exact same moment in time that I was at. But why? What did it mean? I wanted to see more; no, I had to see more. This was the first time in two months that Anne had felt alive to me again, and really the only time I'd felt that way, either! I knew with every fibre of my being that I had a thousand times more interest in watching the rest of their lives unfold than I had in living my own dismal existence for another day, but it seemed like even that faint hope would be denied me. I squeezed my eyes shut so hard it hurt, and tried with all my might to make the movie inside my head begin moving again.
And that's when it happened. I'm no scientist, and even if I were, I doubt I could explain the physics of that moment. Nor do I really care to try, because all that mattered to me at that moment is that I found myself lying in his place, still in the same bed but with my beloved Anne beside me! I remember that my heart stopped beating, and then a rushing sound filled my ears as it started up again. And as the scent of her body hit my nostrils, I gasped!
Anne rolled toward me and said, "Honey? What's the matter? Are you feeling OK"
Tears were welling up in my eyes, and I quite honestly feared that speaking, or even moving, would break the spell and send me plummeting back to the Hell I'd come from. But I could also sense her apprehension growing as a result of my silence, and even in the darkness of our bedroom I could make out the sudden concern on her face.
"I'm fine, sweetie," I said quietly, and braced myself against the expected splintering of this dream I'd found myself in.
"OK. I'm gonna go pee, and then I'll be right back." With that, she got up and padded softly to the ensuite, and I saw the light appear under the door after she'd closed it - ever considerate Anne, not wanting to blind me in the darkness!
When she returned to the bed a minute later, I hugged her tight and kissed her neck, and forehead, and her beautiful lips.
"Huh, somebody certainly missed me," she joked, completely unaware of the irony of her words. "I should go pee more often!"
We made passionate love a few minutes later, and then I collapsed beside her in a pile of sobs and gasps. When she reached over and wiped my brow with the back of her hand, I knew that I owed her an explanation for my inexplicable behaviour.
I decided that the full truth was so impossible that even I wasn't sure I believed it, so I opted to tell her only as much of it as I thought a reasonable person could take in. I explained that I'd just had an incredibly vivid dream, that had seemed to last for weeks - as dreams sometimes do - in which she'd been killed in a freak hit and run accident. I'd had to live through her funeral, and in the days that had followed I'd fallen deeper and deeper into depression. As she listened, with just enough serious concentration on her face to convince me that she could tell this had affected me more than most dreams, I described how I'd stopped going into work, and had shut myself off from both friends and relatives.
"That's a pretty bad dream, alright," she said, "but it was just a dream. Look at me. I'm alive! And we just had sex! You wouldn't do that with a corpse, now would you?"
I laughed, and shook my head. "But here's the kicker, Anne," I continued. "Don't ask me how, but those events in my dream: they seem more real to me right now than anything you and I have done in the past eight weeks! All of that time with you, that's what feels like a dream to me!"
She suggested that I'd probably feel better in the morning, as things always seem strange in the middle of the night. After making sure I was OK, she hugged me for a few minutes and then rolled over. Before long, I could hear her regular breathing and knew she'd already fallen back asleep.
As for me, there was no chance at all that I was going to fall asleep and risk waking up back in the world I'd come from. After awhile, I got up from the bed and went out to explore the rest of the house. Things were just as I'd seen them, as I'd watched the other-two go through their lives while I'd laid in my own cold bed. Nowhere to be seen were the heaps of take-out containers and unopened mail that littered the home I'd just left.
Presently I logged into my work e-mail system, and read all of the updates from the past few months that the other-me hadn't deleted. If I was going to head into work anytime soon - I hadn't made up my mind yet about when I'd try to pull that off - then I'd need to know what I'd missed. Already my brain was starting to adjust to the inconceivable, incredible situation in which I'd found myself an hour or so earlier. I found that I had to remind myself to take deep breaths every once in awhile, as I discovered I was almost literally holding my breath, fearful that I'd end the illusion.
By the time Anne woke up, I'd decided that I'd call into work sick that day, just to give me a full day of acclimation before I had to deal with that challenge. I was a process manager at a software company, and I worked with a very clever group of geeks. The last thing I wanted was to have people think I'd lost my memory or had a breakdown of some sort. No, actually, the last thing I wanted was to lose Anne again; but staying gainfully employed was clearly going to be important to our mutual happiness, and something I'd always taken seriously when we'd been together. So I knew I needed to somehow not look like a man who'd forgotten the last eight weeks of his life!
My first day, with Anne off to work right after our shower and breakfast, gave me ample opportunity to think about what had happened. Everything was exactly as I'd seen it in my mind's eye, right down to the new clothes Anne and the other-me had bought on their shopping weekend. Had I created this world out of my imagination, then? That didn't seem possible, for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that I knew I wasn't nearly imaginative to be able to accomplish it. The only solution that seemed even remotely capable of being true was that I'd somehow transported myself to a parallel world that had diverged from my own at the moment of my-Anne's death. How, I had no clue. If desire factored into it, then clearly I'd had the equivalent of the power of a thousand exploding suns at my disposal. But since when did wanting something ever make it real?
Eventually, I decided that I'd probably never know the answer. The important thing was, Anne was still with me, and my life had meaning again. I certainly wasn't going to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, and so I set about integrating myself back into daily life.
Anne would remark upon the change in me many times over that first week, as I heaped affection on her even beyond my traditional level. She probably assumed it was "the dream", still bothering me, and generally simply chose to enjoy the attentiveness that any woman in love would bask in. While my apprehension over this bliss turning out to be a fantasy continued to hang over my head, my appreciation for the blessing I'd been handed was boundless. This world, my world now, was filled with love and joy, and so we lived happily ever after.
Or we should have, at least. My own fears, in the end, were my undoing. Or perhaps what happened was inevitable; you'll have to judge for yourself. I certainly can't claim to have any objectivity on the subject, considering the way things worked out.
And what happened, was this: I began to believe that Anne and I were being watched. It started about a month after I'd found her again. By that point, I was quite comfortably adjusted to my new life. I was doing well at work, once again, and Anne and I were talking about starting a family. There was absolutely no reason for me to entertain dark thoughts of any sort, and yet they formed nonetheless. One night, as I lay in bed, I suddenly wondered: If I was here, in this life, where had the other-me gone whose life I'd claimed? Until that moment, such a concept had not even occurred to me. But once it did, an incredible chill ran through my body. My heart began to race as this particular train of thought thundered through my brain.
Had he and I simply changed places that fateful night? Had he woken up the next morning, only to discover the bed beside him empty? What would he have made of the sudden disarray that he'd have found the house in, along with the cards of sympathy and dead flower arrangements? How could he possibly have coped with calling around, to Anne's work, and to her parents, and to friend after friend, and at each turn being told, in compassionate but confused tones, that his beloved wife was dead, and had been for two months now? Would this other-me have gone on a rampage, believing that he was being made the victim of an impossibly-cruel prank? I, at least, had lived through the painful series of events around Anne's death, had received whatever consolation there was to be found in those first weeks, and could rail against the unfairness of it all, but not the reality. He, on the other hand, would've had none of that buffer, but simply the ice-cold shower of awakening to a world which believed that his wife was long-since dead and buried, despite the fact that he'd made love to her just the night before.
The horror of his situation washed over me that night, and filled me with first guilt, and then dread. I knew that I was responsible for his fate, that every wonderful moment I'd enjoyed over the past month had been at his expense, and the direct inverse of what he'd been enduring. But worse than that was the feeling that, by making this connection, I'd possibly provided the means by which he could get his own life back. After all, if the depths of my own misery had been sufficient to allow me to supplant him all those weeks ago, how much greater was his personal Hell now, in comparison? And whereas I had unknowingly stumbled upon the notion of parallel universes as a means of dealing with my grief, he had every reason to believe in just such a thing, having been ousted from one to another! Surely he must've realized what had transpired by now, and was working day and night to figure out how to reclaim his life that I'd stolen!
Needless to say, I didn't get any sleep that night. Anne noticed the downturn in my mood that next morning, but of course there was no way I could confide in her the reason for it. Over the course of that long night of sleeplessness, I'd begun to believe that the other-me was already observing us, just as I'd done, in his place. I wouldn't have told Anne anything regardless - what could she possibly have made of such an insane tale, not to mention that I would've risked her recoiling from me as the intruder I was, if she had believed it! But with the chance of his eyes now being fixed upon us, any such confession was doubly out of the question as I certainly didn't want to confirm his suspicions. Instead, I kept my dark secret to myself, and guided my behaviour as would any man who believed his every move were being monitored by his mortal enemy.
I resolved not to sleep, if at all possible, because it had been while the other-me had been just so defenseless that I'd made my crossing over. For all I knew, that was a key characteristic of the event. Perhaps staying awake was all it took to fend off any such attack. Naturally, I discovered I couldn't really avoid sleep entirely, but I did manage to catch my rest in short, fitful snatches during which I kept the proverbial one eye open. I found that even a few 20-minute naps over the course of the night were enough to allow me to operate for the rest of the day, albeit somewhat zombie-like at times.
As the days went by, I could sense the other-me watching me, more and more. His hatred of me grew to the point where I could feel it, palpably, through the connection between us. Because of this, I found that any guilt I'd felt previously was gone now, replaced by the overwhelming desire to keep him at bay. I knew that I'd taken what was rightfully his, but it was mine now, and there was no way I was going to let him steal it back.
At some point during this period, I lost my job. Apparently my work had suffered of late, they said, and my behaviour was described as paranoid. That turn of events barely registered on me, though, between the deathly fatigue I was feeling and the arguments I'd been having with Anne. She couldn't understand why I refused to make love to her anymore - how could I, with him watching? - nor why I wouldn't tell her what was bothering me. I could feel everything slipping away from me, but it didn't seem as real of a threat to me, then, as the other-me did. There was also, I'm ashamed to admit, a small part of me that regarded the deterioration of my life somewhat happily, knowing that, were he ever to succeed in replacing me, he'd be coming back to just as much misery as he'd left.
This latter notion grew and grew within me, with each new day. I felt as though I were slowly losing the battle against the one I'd replaced, and that he was soon going to swap us back to our original worlds, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. This thought eventually turned to conviction, and that conviction lead me to act as I did.
I can't say whether it was desire to keep him from having the happiness I felt was intended for me alone, or a protective instinct toward Anne and the thought of her suffering unimaginable indignities at his evil hand. Regardless, it was clear to me that the only way out of the situation was to kill Anne, and so I did. I smothered her while she slept, knowing that he was watching, and that finally there'd be no reason for him to ever return to this world. And sure enough, the moment that the death rattle sounded in her soft, white throat, I felt the relief I'd longed for wash over me. I slept that night as I hadn't slept in weeks.
When they arrested me for Anne's murder, I decided to tell the whole story. I didn't really care if they believed me or not; I was simply tired of keeping the truth to myself. The shrink who examined me listened attentively to all of it, and even asked many questions that showed she was following it all. Despite that promising sign, though, the report she filed on me was disappointingly lacking in insight. Unable to grasp the enormity of it, I suppose, she concluded that I'd harbored an insane desire to kill my wife for months, but had kept it below my conscious mind. As a result, she speculated, I'd manufactured a fantasy in which Anne had died and I'd been subjected to weeks of depression before escaping through the science fiction of a trip to a parallel universe. Her theory was that this was my mind making one last ditch attempt to avert the violence, by making me deal with the pain of her loss as a cautionary tale, as it were. But that proved unsuccessful, she concluded, based on the fact that the murder still sadly came about. Quite the interesting case study, blah blah blah.
I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything different. My story's no easy thing to take in, I realize. I would hope that you'll never have to face the types of decisions that I wrestled with, but if you do, I suspect you'll do just as I did. After all, it's not like I feel that I had a lot of choice in the matter. These things just happen.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Blast From The Past # 9: The Less-Than-Brilliant Life of Norman
The Less-Than-Brilliant Life of Norman
After Norman's favourite pen exploded in his breast pocket, he figured the day couldn't get any worse! How could it? This was his favourite "Czar of Russia" shirt, got for a song (only $7.99 at the local King Value) and only worn twice! And now it was ruined! So Norman was confident that things could only improve. As an accountant, Norman made a good profit. And as a prophet, not surprisingly, Norman made a good accountant!
Treating himself to a consolatory trip to the Twilight Theatre that evening, Norman's spirit quickly soared. The Twilight was famous for its 24-hour Three Stooges marathons. And Norman knew no ecstasy greater than that found in the escapades of Larry, Curly and Moe.
Leaving the theatre shortly after midnight (the movies played on, of course, but this was a weeknight!), Norman began the fourteen block walk back to his mother's house. When he was still several blocks from the house, he began to fumble in his pants pocket, trying to locate his housekey among the change, bubble gum wrappers, marbles, and lint balls. He wanted to get the keys out early so as not to wake his mother (after all, she didn't approve of his staying out late, even though he was thirty-two). Such was his preoccupation with his task that he didn't hear the flapping of wings approaching from behind. In fact, he was oblivious to everything around him, until the small creature landed on his shoulder.
"Don't move," a strange voice hissed into his ear, "this won't hurt a bit!"
Norman's funeral didn't attract many people, but then again, neither had Norman. His mother attended the service, of course, but left before its completion in order to join several lady friends in a shopping trip that had been planned for weeks.
A week after his death, Norman clawed his way up out of his grave and into the clear night air. The casket had been clean enough, but Norman had been disgusted by all of the dirt piled on top of it! He stood picking filth off of his "John Travolta" white suit (why Mother had buried him in that he'd never know!) and then spit out an earth worm that had somehow made its way into his mouth.
"Really gross," he said, as he dug something green out of his left ear.
One might like to imagine that joining the ranks of the Undead would've lent Norman a certain sophistication, or failing that, at least a new sense of perspective. Oh well.
An hour later, Norman stood outside the Twilight Theatre and eyed the Three Stooges poster enviously. Mother, however, had not had the foresight to include any money (or even a credit card!) in the pockets of Norman's burial garb. He knew that a bat could easily fly in through the shadowy areas of the entrance, and he was pretty sure that he should be able to turn into a bat. Unfortunately, he had no idea whatsoever how to make such a transformation!
Considering the matter further, he recalled that he should have a hypnotic power over mortals, and that seemed promising! Picking a mousy fellow in his mid-twenties, Norman sauntered up to the young man and made eye contact.
Affixing his victim with as steely a glare as he could manage, Norman said, "You are... uh, mine to command! By that I mean, your will is my will. No, wait, the other way around!"
At this point, the other man shoved Norman hard and growled, "Fug off, queerboy! Nex time I'll brag yer face!" He gave Norman the finger as he strolled off.
Another idea had been shot to Hell!
"Darn," Norman thought, as his clammy skin turned even clammier, "if I can't even pull this off, how the heck am I ever going to eat??" Something in the back of his mind told Norman that a Big Mac and Large Fries weren't going to kill the hunger that was slowly building within him, but he quickly pushed that thought away. (Norman was, as his mother had often pointed out, one of the few people on the face of the Earth to ever faint from simply hearing someone else talk about giving blood!)
Wallowing in his misery, Norman didn't see the girl approach.
She suddenly tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Honey, would you like to see a movie with me? My treat?"
Norman rocked back on his heels. His heart would surely have leapt up out of his chest if it hadn't already shriveled up into a tiny ball (it's amazing how a few centuries of wooden stakes can make a species evolve!) Salvation! In the form of a pretty girl, wearing sunglasses!
Taking his cold hand in her warm one, the girl lead Norman to the ticket counter and said, "Two for the Stooges, please."
Moments later, Norman sat with his newfound friend, in his favourite row (right below the screen), and watched in rapt attention as three grown men slapped, poked, prodded, and chased each other across several cities and planets.
Around 4:30 a.m., the girl leaned her mouth against Norman's ear and whispered, "If we leave now, we can make it to my place before sunrise."
Suddenly, Norman remembered that sunlight was now a really bad scene for him! He'd never been all that fond of it to begin with, but now it meant more than just a bad sunburn to him! He quickly agreed to her suggestion.
"Man," he thought as he got up out of his seat, "am I ever lucky she reminded me! I might've stayed here 'til noon, otherwise!"
Excusing himself temporarily, he made his way to the Men's room. Attempting in vain to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Norman finally gave up on his hair (he'd been struck by the idea of giving himself a widow's peak). At the urinal, he was immediately grossed-out by the white syrupy substance that oozed out of what his mother had always referred to as his 'John Henry.'
Back in the lobby, his companion greeted him with a smile. He still couldn't believe his luck in finding this girl!
Once outside, the girl lead Norman to a nearby dark alley. She removed her sunglasses for the first time, and a strange yellow light shone in Norman's face.
"Well, honey, it's been fun, but I'm afraid this is the end of the road for you."
Recoiling from the threat in her voice, Norman whimpered. But then he remembered what he was, and he bared his fangs (cutting his upper lip in the process). "Don't you know what I am?" he asked in the scariest voice he could muster. "I'm a vampire! And vampires feed on humans!"
"Of course they do, honey," she replied, as she loomed over him, "but haven't you ever wondered, what feeds on vampires?"
After Norman's favourite pen exploded in his breast pocket, he figured the day couldn't get any worse! How could it? This was his favourite "Czar of Russia" shirt, got for a song (only $7.99 at the local King Value) and only worn twice! And now it was ruined! So Norman was confident that things could only improve. As an accountant, Norman made a good profit. And as a prophet, not surprisingly, Norman made a good accountant!
Treating himself to a consolatory trip to the Twilight Theatre that evening, Norman's spirit quickly soared. The Twilight was famous for its 24-hour Three Stooges marathons. And Norman knew no ecstasy greater than that found in the escapades of Larry, Curly and Moe.
Leaving the theatre shortly after midnight (the movies played on, of course, but this was a weeknight!), Norman began the fourteen block walk back to his mother's house. When he was still several blocks from the house, he began to fumble in his pants pocket, trying to locate his housekey among the change, bubble gum wrappers, marbles, and lint balls. He wanted to get the keys out early so as not to wake his mother (after all, she didn't approve of his staying out late, even though he was thirty-two). Such was his preoccupation with his task that he didn't hear the flapping of wings approaching from behind. In fact, he was oblivious to everything around him, until the small creature landed on his shoulder.
"Don't move," a strange voice hissed into his ear, "this won't hurt a bit!"
Norman's funeral didn't attract many people, but then again, neither had Norman. His mother attended the service, of course, but left before its completion in order to join several lady friends in a shopping trip that had been planned for weeks.
A week after his death, Norman clawed his way up out of his grave and into the clear night air. The casket had been clean enough, but Norman had been disgusted by all of the dirt piled on top of it! He stood picking filth off of his "John Travolta" white suit (why Mother had buried him in that he'd never know!) and then spit out an earth worm that had somehow made its way into his mouth.
"Really gross," he said, as he dug something green out of his left ear.
One might like to imagine that joining the ranks of the Undead would've lent Norman a certain sophistication, or failing that, at least a new sense of perspective. Oh well.
An hour later, Norman stood outside the Twilight Theatre and eyed the Three Stooges poster enviously. Mother, however, had not had the foresight to include any money (or even a credit card!) in the pockets of Norman's burial garb. He knew that a bat could easily fly in through the shadowy areas of the entrance, and he was pretty sure that he should be able to turn into a bat. Unfortunately, he had no idea whatsoever how to make such a transformation!
Considering the matter further, he recalled that he should have a hypnotic power over mortals, and that seemed promising! Picking a mousy fellow in his mid-twenties, Norman sauntered up to the young man and made eye contact.
Affixing his victim with as steely a glare as he could manage, Norman said, "You are... uh, mine to command! By that I mean, your will is my will. No, wait, the other way around!"
At this point, the other man shoved Norman hard and growled, "Fug off, queerboy! Nex time I'll brag yer face!" He gave Norman the finger as he strolled off.
Another idea had been shot to Hell!
"Darn," Norman thought, as his clammy skin turned even clammier, "if I can't even pull this off, how the heck am I ever going to eat??" Something in the back of his mind told Norman that a Big Mac and Large Fries weren't going to kill the hunger that was slowly building within him, but he quickly pushed that thought away. (Norman was, as his mother had often pointed out, one of the few people on the face of the Earth to ever faint from simply hearing someone else talk about giving blood!)
Wallowing in his misery, Norman didn't see the girl approach.
She suddenly tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Honey, would you like to see a movie with me? My treat?"
Norman rocked back on his heels. His heart would surely have leapt up out of his chest if it hadn't already shriveled up into a tiny ball (it's amazing how a few centuries of wooden stakes can make a species evolve!) Salvation! In the form of a pretty girl, wearing sunglasses!
Taking his cold hand in her warm one, the girl lead Norman to the ticket counter and said, "Two for the Stooges, please."
Moments later, Norman sat with his newfound friend, in his favourite row (right below the screen), and watched in rapt attention as three grown men slapped, poked, prodded, and chased each other across several cities and planets.
Around 4:30 a.m., the girl leaned her mouth against Norman's ear and whispered, "If we leave now, we can make it to my place before sunrise."
Suddenly, Norman remembered that sunlight was now a really bad scene for him! He'd never been all that fond of it to begin with, but now it meant more than just a bad sunburn to him! He quickly agreed to her suggestion.
"Man," he thought as he got up out of his seat, "am I ever lucky she reminded me! I might've stayed here 'til noon, otherwise!"
Excusing himself temporarily, he made his way to the Men's room. Attempting in vain to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Norman finally gave up on his hair (he'd been struck by the idea of giving himself a widow's peak). At the urinal, he was immediately grossed-out by the white syrupy substance that oozed out of what his mother had always referred to as his 'John Henry.'
Back in the lobby, his companion greeted him with a smile. He still couldn't believe his luck in finding this girl!
Once outside, the girl lead Norman to a nearby dark alley. She removed her sunglasses for the first time, and a strange yellow light shone in Norman's face.
"Well, honey, it's been fun, but I'm afraid this is the end of the road for you."
Recoiling from the threat in her voice, Norman whimpered. But then he remembered what he was, and he bared his fangs (cutting his upper lip in the process). "Don't you know what I am?" he asked in the scariest voice he could muster. "I'm a vampire! And vampires feed on humans!"
"Of course they do, honey," she replied, as she loomed over him, "but haven't you ever wondered, what feeds on vampires?"
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Blast from the Past # 8: The Misfit
The Misfit
John smiled and nodded at the people who passed him as he made his way to the laundromat. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew John, knew that he was "special", and most were content to simply smile back at the young man when they encountered him on the street. Others, however, considered John a great source of entertainment.
"Hey, ugloid," said a sharp-nosed blonde woman who worked in a local tanning salon, "how you doin' today?"
"Transportitude reconveyable lectionarially posthasteous," John offered, intensifying his smile.
Two girls who were leaning against a nearby wall burst into laughter at John's reply. One said, "Hey, Ronnie, sounds like the geek jus' called you a 'letch'!" while the other cried, in a very shrill voice, "I think you oughtta cuff 'im one!"
"Consider 'im cuffed!" sneered the blonde, as she gave John a solid smack with the back of her hand. "Nex' time I take the time to say 'hi' to you, shitface, you bedder have somethin' nice to say back!"
John ignored the stinging in his cheek. Seeing that the woman had lost interest in him, he moved on, softly noting, "Malfortunaristic deutoplasmy," to himself as he shuffled down the street.
FROM THE FILES OF DR. MILTON FARMER, COUNTY BOARD OF PSYCHIATRY:
(May '71 entry)
... Thus, after several months of examination, I must reluctantly pronounce judgement on the subject. Although further research might have allowed a more detailed report, I can say with a large degree of certainty that the patient, named John Doe (#17), and aged approximately five years old, is the victim of a bizarre, hitherto unknown form of autism. Despite the fact that John shows obvious awareness of his surroundings, and thus might prematurely be diagnosed as non-autistic, his speech patterns indicate a complete divorce from reality. All attempts at communicating with John have proven fruitless. He seems incapable, or possibly unwilling, to understand, or be understood by, anyone around him. I've personally spent many long hours trying to get him to identify such simple objects and concepts as 'apple', 'ball', 'cat', 'up', and 'down'; but he resists each attempt and inveritibly launches into non-repeating streams of gibberish (several samples of this nonsense can be found in Appendix A). His will is actually quite remarkable for a five year old. Unfortunately, that trait is completely counterproductive in this instance. His resistance to my teachings virtually guarantees that John will never be able to speak or write intelligently.
Because of objections raised by Mother Susan of Newfield's, I'm forced to curtail any further explorations of areas that might bring John out of his autistic shell. I had extremely high hopes for the electroshock therapy he was undergoing, as well as our plans to re-establish a chemical balance within John through the administration of phenocarbonitrates. As is so often the case these days, small-minded and short-sighted laymen have stemmed the tide of medical science in its ongoing ...
In the laundromat, John performed one of the routines that he had long-since memorized. He then stood patiently by the side of the washing machine as it shook and groaned and occasionally filled the air with shrieks. At John's feet rested his empty laundry basket.
A middle-aged woman wearing a kerchief around her head came up to John and tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you know if the bus that stops outside goes all the way to Wilson Ave?" she asked. Without pausing, she continued, "You see, I just moved to this neighbourhood, and I really haven't had a chance to unpack my good china yet, let alone figure out the silly bus routes! Charlie - that's my ex-husband - he used to always sit down and figure all that stuff out for me, but he also used to diddle his secretary, so I finally told him to 'hit the road, Jack!' Know what I mean?"
John smiled and said, "Compathetic retrogressified catalystees ostentatively."
A look of disgust appeared on the woman's face as she turned away from John. "God-damn foreigners... act like they own the place!"
Meanwhile, John watched intently as his clothes went round and round and round.
FROM THE PERSONAL DIARY OF MOTHER SUSAN (SMYTHE), ADMINISTRATOR FOR THE NEWFIELD ORPHANAGE:
(March 2/82)
I have to put these thoughts down on paper, so that I can read them back and see how ludicrous they appear.
Lately, when I've been with John Doe, I've felt something bordering on awe toward the young man. When I see him helping the other children, and I hear such wonderful reports about his conduct at St. Martin's during the school hours, I think ...
So many times, over the years, I've gazed out of my office window and seen one or another of the 'problem cases' assaulting John down in the courtyard. I always race down to stop the attack, of course, but in all those incidents I've never once seen John strike back at his attacker. I know I've written of this before, but it recently struck me that not only does he not retaliate, but as far as I can determine (given John's great difficulty in communicating) he's also never shown any malice toward the other children, no matter what atrocities they perpetrate at his expense!
I know it must surely be mad of me to think so, but there are times when I can't help but wonder ... If our Lord were to come back to us as it's prophesized, wouldn't His countenance most likely be plain and unremarkable, as John's is, and what better description of Divine Forgiveness could be imagined than what I've just written of? Could it be that we are incapable of understanding John because of the sins that rest on our souls, much like the punishment that was visited upon the builders of the tower of Babel? Madness? It certainly must be. And yet ...
When I went to Adam Elliot's room several nights ago, in order to 'convince' young Mr. Elliot to decrease the volume of his radio, I paused at his entrance just long enough to hear some of the words of the song he was listening to. For some strange reason, I thought of John. I can't recall the exact wording now, but the song had something to do with the idea that the mute would someday unite and speak in words which we couldn't comprehend. I think so often of John these days. I wonder just what he thinks about ...
John walked briskly back to his apartment when his laundry routine had been completed. Like so many other things in his life, he had the path between the laundromat and his home carefully committed to memory. While the people whom he met changed from one trip to the next, the buildings and streets remained largely the same.
One block short of his destination, John observed that a young couple were strolling toward him, oblivious to all but themselves. When he moved to avoid a collision with them, however, he was nearly bowled over from behind! Bending to pick up the fallen clothes, John heard a sharp voice barking behind him.
"Hey, pal," growled a man in a jogging outfit and tennis shoes, "whas the madder wit chu? Dint you hear me or what? Get cher head oudda the clouds, ok?"
Although the man was quickly out of earshot at a lively pace, John nonetheless remarked, "Outlanderial reciperious expediacate," with a warm smile.
FROM THE RECORDS OF ST. MARTIN'S SCHOOL FOR THE AUTISTIC (FATHER MARTIN RECORDING):
(June 2, 1984)
... Although I know such a move is completely unprecedented in the history of the school, I feel entirely confident that my appointment of John Doe to the post of 'counsellor' will benefit all concerned. No one who has worked with John over the years would contest his qualifications for the position, other than the obvious lack of educational and verbal skills. In the months since John's eighteenth birthday and subsequent graduation, it's become apparent to everyone that sending John away to an adult centre would be both unnecessary and unfortunate. John's willingness to help the other students, as well as his truly inspiring success at getting through to them, makes it imperative that we not lose him. They respond to him with such immediacy that it leaves me speechless some days.
As for John's best interests, I honestly believe that he will benefit from a continued connection with the school. Since he will be getting his own apartment not far from here (with Mother Susan's kind assistance, she assures me) John should have no difficulties with transportation ...
The moment that John had patiently waited for finally arrived as he was folding up his laundry. A bright white dot appeared in his bedroom wall, and quickly grew to several yards in diameter. Two men walked through the hole, and into the room with John.
While John rushed to embrace the older of the two men, the other said, "Exculpatoriousyndromy neochromosomaticeous spatiallycontaintinuumdistorbit remarkificatory!"
John sighed, and replied, "Exculpatorionegatiousness transientality. Vehicularpolarectum, immediaphilososphere."
Together, the three men strode to the waiting portal. John felt a great sense of relief at the thought of finally returning home. His report, once he'd had a chance to rest and collect his thoughts, would show that this planet was still very much mired in barbarism and stupidity. While a few select specimen, such as those he'd discovered at the school, showed promise, the vast majority were virtually mindless. Perhaps later, after a few thousand years of evolution...
John stepped through the gateway, leaving his human form behind.
Down the street, a radio played:
"On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night."
- lyrics by Pink Floyd, from the song
"On the Turning Away"
John smiled and nodded at the people who passed him as he made his way to the laundromat. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew John, knew that he was "special", and most were content to simply smile back at the young man when they encountered him on the street. Others, however, considered John a great source of entertainment.
"Hey, ugloid," said a sharp-nosed blonde woman who worked in a local tanning salon, "how you doin' today?"
"Transportitude reconveyable lectionarially posthasteous," John offered, intensifying his smile.
Two girls who were leaning against a nearby wall burst into laughter at John's reply. One said, "Hey, Ronnie, sounds like the geek jus' called you a 'letch'!" while the other cried, in a very shrill voice, "I think you oughtta cuff 'im one!"
"Consider 'im cuffed!" sneered the blonde, as she gave John a solid smack with the back of her hand. "Nex' time I take the time to say 'hi' to you, shitface, you bedder have somethin' nice to say back!"
John ignored the stinging in his cheek. Seeing that the woman had lost interest in him, he moved on, softly noting, "Malfortunaristic deutoplasmy," to himself as he shuffled down the street.
FROM THE FILES OF DR. MILTON FARMER, COUNTY BOARD OF PSYCHIATRY:
(May '71 entry)
... Thus, after several months of examination, I must reluctantly pronounce judgement on the subject. Although further research might have allowed a more detailed report, I can say with a large degree of certainty that the patient, named John Doe (#17), and aged approximately five years old, is the victim of a bizarre, hitherto unknown form of autism. Despite the fact that John shows obvious awareness of his surroundings, and thus might prematurely be diagnosed as non-autistic, his speech patterns indicate a complete divorce from reality. All attempts at communicating with John have proven fruitless. He seems incapable, or possibly unwilling, to understand, or be understood by, anyone around him. I've personally spent many long hours trying to get him to identify such simple objects and concepts as 'apple', 'ball', 'cat', 'up', and 'down'; but he resists each attempt and inveritibly launches into non-repeating streams of gibberish (several samples of this nonsense can be found in Appendix A). His will is actually quite remarkable for a five year old. Unfortunately, that trait is completely counterproductive in this instance. His resistance to my teachings virtually guarantees that John will never be able to speak or write intelligently.
Because of objections raised by Mother Susan of Newfield's, I'm forced to curtail any further explorations of areas that might bring John out of his autistic shell. I had extremely high hopes for the electroshock therapy he was undergoing, as well as our plans to re-establish a chemical balance within John through the administration of phenocarbonitrates. As is so often the case these days, small-minded and short-sighted laymen have stemmed the tide of medical science in its ongoing ...
In the laundromat, John performed one of the routines that he had long-since memorized. He then stood patiently by the side of the washing machine as it shook and groaned and occasionally filled the air with shrieks. At John's feet rested his empty laundry basket.
A middle-aged woman wearing a kerchief around her head came up to John and tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you know if the bus that stops outside goes all the way to Wilson Ave?" she asked. Without pausing, she continued, "You see, I just moved to this neighbourhood, and I really haven't had a chance to unpack my good china yet, let alone figure out the silly bus routes! Charlie - that's my ex-husband - he used to always sit down and figure all that stuff out for me, but he also used to diddle his secretary, so I finally told him to 'hit the road, Jack!' Know what I mean?"
John smiled and said, "Compathetic retrogressified catalystees ostentatively."
A look of disgust appeared on the woman's face as she turned away from John. "God-damn foreigners... act like they own the place!"
Meanwhile, John watched intently as his clothes went round and round and round.
FROM THE PERSONAL DIARY OF MOTHER SUSAN (SMYTHE), ADMINISTRATOR FOR THE NEWFIELD ORPHANAGE:
(March 2/82)
I have to put these thoughts down on paper, so that I can read them back and see how ludicrous they appear.
Lately, when I've been with John Doe, I've felt something bordering on awe toward the young man. When I see him helping the other children, and I hear such wonderful reports about his conduct at St. Martin's during the school hours, I think ...
So many times, over the years, I've gazed out of my office window and seen one or another of the 'problem cases' assaulting John down in the courtyard. I always race down to stop the attack, of course, but in all those incidents I've never once seen John strike back at his attacker. I know I've written of this before, but it recently struck me that not only does he not retaliate, but as far as I can determine (given John's great difficulty in communicating) he's also never shown any malice toward the other children, no matter what atrocities they perpetrate at his expense!
I know it must surely be mad of me to think so, but there are times when I can't help but wonder ... If our Lord were to come back to us as it's prophesized, wouldn't His countenance most likely be plain and unremarkable, as John's is, and what better description of Divine Forgiveness could be imagined than what I've just written of? Could it be that we are incapable of understanding John because of the sins that rest on our souls, much like the punishment that was visited upon the builders of the tower of Babel? Madness? It certainly must be. And yet ...
When I went to Adam Elliot's room several nights ago, in order to 'convince' young Mr. Elliot to decrease the volume of his radio, I paused at his entrance just long enough to hear some of the words of the song he was listening to. For some strange reason, I thought of John. I can't recall the exact wording now, but the song had something to do with the idea that the mute would someday unite and speak in words which we couldn't comprehend. I think so often of John these days. I wonder just what he thinks about ...
John walked briskly back to his apartment when his laundry routine had been completed. Like so many other things in his life, he had the path between the laundromat and his home carefully committed to memory. While the people whom he met changed from one trip to the next, the buildings and streets remained largely the same.
One block short of his destination, John observed that a young couple were strolling toward him, oblivious to all but themselves. When he moved to avoid a collision with them, however, he was nearly bowled over from behind! Bending to pick up the fallen clothes, John heard a sharp voice barking behind him.
"Hey, pal," growled a man in a jogging outfit and tennis shoes, "whas the madder wit chu? Dint you hear me or what? Get cher head oudda the clouds, ok?"
Although the man was quickly out of earshot at a lively pace, John nonetheless remarked, "Outlanderial reciperious expediacate," with a warm smile.
FROM THE RECORDS OF ST. MARTIN'S SCHOOL FOR THE AUTISTIC (FATHER MARTIN RECORDING):
(June 2, 1984)
... Although I know such a move is completely unprecedented in the history of the school, I feel entirely confident that my appointment of John Doe to the post of 'counsellor' will benefit all concerned. No one who has worked with John over the years would contest his qualifications for the position, other than the obvious lack of educational and verbal skills. In the months since John's eighteenth birthday and subsequent graduation, it's become apparent to everyone that sending John away to an adult centre would be both unnecessary and unfortunate. John's willingness to help the other students, as well as his truly inspiring success at getting through to them, makes it imperative that we not lose him. They respond to him with such immediacy that it leaves me speechless some days.
As for John's best interests, I honestly believe that he will benefit from a continued connection with the school. Since he will be getting his own apartment not far from here (with Mother Susan's kind assistance, she assures me) John should have no difficulties with transportation ...
The moment that John had patiently waited for finally arrived as he was folding up his laundry. A bright white dot appeared in his bedroom wall, and quickly grew to several yards in diameter. Two men walked through the hole, and into the room with John.
While John rushed to embrace the older of the two men, the other said, "Exculpatoriousyndromy neochromosomaticeous spatiallycontaintinuumdistorbit remarkificatory!"
John sighed, and replied, "Exculpatorionegatiousness transientality. Vehicularpolarectum, immediaphilososphere."
Together, the three men strode to the waiting portal. John felt a great sense of relief at the thought of finally returning home. His report, once he'd had a chance to rest and collect his thoughts, would show that this planet was still very much mired in barbarism and stupidity. While a few select specimen, such as those he'd discovered at the school, showed promise, the vast majority were virtually mindless. Perhaps later, after a few thousand years of evolution...
John stepped through the gateway, leaving his human form behind.
Down the street, a radio played:
"On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night."
- lyrics by Pink Floyd, from the song
"On the Turning Away"
Friday, February 09, 2007
In The Zone
I awoke with a start in the "recovery room" of what passes for a hospital in the free zone... free of government monitoring. Sitting up slowly, I took in my surroundings: grimy white walls dotted with faded medical diagrams and the standard Do's and Don't's that patients have been ignoring forever, a few medical tables on wheels and another half dozen or so cots besides the one I was on, all empty.
I'd never been here before but I knew the story well enough. Hell, most school kids today know it! The Free Zoners operated this facility, and a few others like it, and you'd damn well better know where each one was if you wanted to last very long. It wasn't just that they'd patch you up - although they would - but more importantly, you were off the radar while you were inside a MedFac like this one. Not that hiding out was something I really wanted, but I'd take a few precious minutes of it right now, while I got my bearings.
As I climbed off the narrow bed, a nurse walked into the room, saw me, and came over toward me. The name tag on her chest said, "Shirley", but she didn't look like any Shirley I'd ever met. The ones I knew didn't tend to have the rack this nurse had, or the full, red lips and knockout eyes, but go figure.
"How are you feeling?" "Shirley" asked, the tone of her voice very convincingly full of professional compassion and concern.
"Fine, thanks, I'm... I'm good," was all I gave her. This area was supposed to be government-free, but how could I be sure? I had no way of knowing what kind of programming she might've had, and I wasn't about to do something stupid. Like saying the wrong thing, or turning my back on her, for example.
"Well, that's a relief!" she replied. "We were all very worried about you. But you look like you're good as gold again. Can I help you find anything? Would you like a tour of the facility?"
"No, thanks. I'll find my own way around, thanks." I was probably being paranoid, and "Shirley" was probably exactly what she seemed to be, but something about her was just freaking me out. I knew I needed to get out of there. The clock was ticking, after all. As soon as the nurse lost interest and wandered away, I bolted for the door.
In the next room, I saw a few hypodermic needles that I knew would come in handy, so I scooped them up and shoved them into my pocket. I scrounged around for a couple minutes but couldn't find anything resembling a weapon. Not that I'd really expected to, in a MedFac. It was worth looking, though, as you never knew what you might come across, inside a box or tucked away in a corner. I hated going outside unarmed, but it seemed like I didn't have any choice in the matter.
Heading out of the facility, I followed a broken road that lead to the north. I'd only gone a few hundred metres when I saw the signpost: "You are now leaving the free zone!" I felt a burst of adrenaline hit me as I passed it. All around me, Hunter-Seeker Units would be registering a new blip on their screens, and that blip was me! I knew it wouldn't be long before the first one showed its grotesque face, a hideous hybrid of flesh and metal, long beads of saliva and motor oil dripping from its lips. If an HSU found me like this, I was hound-kibble! If I was to make it past them - or better yet, through them - and find my way into the GovAdmin office, I needed more than a pocketful of syringes!
The landscape in front of me was pretty barren, which wasn't good news. The ground was scorched every metre or so, and I wondered what heavy ordnance had accounted for each pockmark in the road, each burning, dead tree and even the shattered glass dome off in the distance. My survival probably depended on knowing the answer, but I hadn't taken the time to complete my training before being sent in. About thirty metres ahead of me, though, I saw what I'd been looking for: a storage shed off to the right of the road.
Inside the small structure, my heart skipped a beat as I saw what had been left behind for me. On the dirty floor rested a six-hundred-round-per-minute machine gun, along with two thousand-round belts, each screaming out to be slipped over a shoulder and carried into battle! Feeling dressed for the first time since I'd woken up in the hospital, I stepped back outside.
And came face-to-face with an HSU, all snarl and claws and teeth! Flipping up my new toy just as my finger squeezed on its trigger, I laughed in spite of myself, as I blew that ghoul's face into a million bits of blood and scrap metal!
God Damn, even at a hundred bucks a minute, this was still the best Virtual Reality game yet!!
I'd never been here before but I knew the story well enough. Hell, most school kids today know it! The Free Zoners operated this facility, and a few others like it, and you'd damn well better know where each one was if you wanted to last very long. It wasn't just that they'd patch you up - although they would - but more importantly, you were off the radar while you were inside a MedFac like this one. Not that hiding out was something I really wanted, but I'd take a few precious minutes of it right now, while I got my bearings.
As I climbed off the narrow bed, a nurse walked into the room, saw me, and came over toward me. The name tag on her chest said, "Shirley", but she didn't look like any Shirley I'd ever met. The ones I knew didn't tend to have the rack this nurse had, or the full, red lips and knockout eyes, but go figure.
"How are you feeling?" "Shirley" asked, the tone of her voice very convincingly full of professional compassion and concern.
"Fine, thanks, I'm... I'm good," was all I gave her. This area was supposed to be government-free, but how could I be sure? I had no way of knowing what kind of programming she might've had, and I wasn't about to do something stupid. Like saying the wrong thing, or turning my back on her, for example.
"Well, that's a relief!" she replied. "We were all very worried about you. But you look like you're good as gold again. Can I help you find anything? Would you like a tour of the facility?"
"No, thanks. I'll find my own way around, thanks." I was probably being paranoid, and "Shirley" was probably exactly what she seemed to be, but something about her was just freaking me out. I knew I needed to get out of there. The clock was ticking, after all. As soon as the nurse lost interest and wandered away, I bolted for the door.
In the next room, I saw a few hypodermic needles that I knew would come in handy, so I scooped them up and shoved them into my pocket. I scrounged around for a couple minutes but couldn't find anything resembling a weapon. Not that I'd really expected to, in a MedFac. It was worth looking, though, as you never knew what you might come across, inside a box or tucked away in a corner. I hated going outside unarmed, but it seemed like I didn't have any choice in the matter.
Heading out of the facility, I followed a broken road that lead to the north. I'd only gone a few hundred metres when I saw the signpost: "You are now leaving the free zone!" I felt a burst of adrenaline hit me as I passed it. All around me, Hunter-Seeker Units would be registering a new blip on their screens, and that blip was me! I knew it wouldn't be long before the first one showed its grotesque face, a hideous hybrid of flesh and metal, long beads of saliva and motor oil dripping from its lips. If an HSU found me like this, I was hound-kibble! If I was to make it past them - or better yet, through them - and find my way into the GovAdmin office, I needed more than a pocketful of syringes!
The landscape in front of me was pretty barren, which wasn't good news. The ground was scorched every metre or so, and I wondered what heavy ordnance had accounted for each pockmark in the road, each burning, dead tree and even the shattered glass dome off in the distance. My survival probably depended on knowing the answer, but I hadn't taken the time to complete my training before being sent in. About thirty metres ahead of me, though, I saw what I'd been looking for: a storage shed off to the right of the road.
Inside the small structure, my heart skipped a beat as I saw what had been left behind for me. On the dirty floor rested a six-hundred-round-per-minute machine gun, along with two thousand-round belts, each screaming out to be slipped over a shoulder and carried into battle! Feeling dressed for the first time since I'd woken up in the hospital, I stepped back outside.
And came face-to-face with an HSU, all snarl and claws and teeth! Flipping up my new toy just as my finger squeezed on its trigger, I laughed in spite of myself, as I blew that ghoul's face into a million bits of blood and scrap metal!
God Damn, even at a hundred bucks a minute, this was still the best Virtual Reality game yet!!
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