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 Posted: Mon Jan 19, 2015 1:20 pm
Story #1: Carolyn
Carolyn was having the most difficult day of her secretarial career. She was trying with all of her might to control herself from yelling at every man that dared to look at her, undressing her with those beady little eyes at every turn she made. Since she was three, Carolyn somehow knew what people were thinking. And, as the years progressed, so did her talent. Talent. Yeah, it must be a talent to listen in on these disgusting thoughts. To Carolyn, these thoughts were better left inside the heads of their owners. The mail boy, of all people, that sweet little boy who kept a little note in his back pocket to give her when he could finally gain enough courage to go through with the task; even he was overrun with perverse fantasies. Carolyn was nearly repulsed to the point of violence at his thoughts. Did he actually think she could twist her body in that position without permanent damage to her spine? The only reason she remained quiet through all of this, was the simple fact that these thoughts did belong to their rightful owners, and she really had no business of knowing them. However, it was not her choice to know what went on in other’s minds, it was her curse. There was no possible way to rid herself of her gift. Right this instant, Carolyn just wanted to be rid of this building and the male occupants as soon as possible. Maybe things were rough because it was Spring. If she could get through this season, maybe she could stay on for a while longer. Hopefully, this would be the worst of it and afterward, they would think of more pleasant things to occupy their minds.
Some time during this mental assault, Patty had wandered over from Mr. Klerk’s office.
“Hi Patty!”
“Hi Carolyn. Could you see that Mr. Wrenchette gets these orders right away please? They were really supposed to be in to him yesterday, but Mr. Klerk misplaced them and now he’s trying to blame me. I swear, he’s such a grotesque little ogre. The way he flirts and pinches and slaps when everything’s going fine, and then, all of a sudden, when he does something wrong, he takes all of his stress out on me. You wouldn’t believe the extra work he gave me. It’s going to take over my entire weekend. It’s just not fair. That ugly little toad is going to find himself in a greasy little sewer if he keeps treating his people like this! But, anyway, it would really help a lot if you could talk Mr. Wrenchette into sending these orders through A.S.A.P. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d do the same for you.”
“I’ll get these to him right away, Patty, and you owe me one if this works.”
Maybe I’ll take you shopping for more tasteful clothes. I swear, you might as well not wear anything at all, the way you dress yourself.
Carolyn couldn’t believe her only friend in this office was thinking these thoughts about her. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh. Oh no, I’m sorry, I must have heard something outside.” It was a weak excuse, but she was still too surprised by the deceitful thoughts of her friend to come up with a better one.
“Yeah, must have. Look I gotta go. Call me over the weekend. Maybe we’ll go to the mall or something, ‘kay?”
“Yeah, sure Patty. Have a good day.” Carolyn found it difficult not to glare at Patty as she walked away. She did, however, begin to smile after a few of the men in the hallway started watching the shaking and wiggling of Patty’s backside. The way they were looking at Patty, maybe she was the one who was better off not wearing any clothes at all. The men would just strip her of them in their minds anyway.
Carolyn went to Mr. Wrenchette’s door and knocked lightly so as to not disturb any important phone calls he may have. He apparently was not in such a conversation because he quickly answered the knock. “Come in.”
His voice sounded calm enough. Maybe she would be lucky enough to push the order through. “Mr. Wrenchette, Mr. Klerk needs these orders out to the warehouse right away.”
“They’ll get there at the usual time, two days after they’ve been turned in to me.”
“No, you don’t understand, Mr. Klerk forgot to put them in my box yesterday, and he needs them to be called in to the warehouse today.”
Just because that idiot screws up his paperwork, I have to go through the hassle of listening to those warehouse assholes. ********’ great! I’m bringing this s**t up at the next meeting! “Okay, I’ll get right on it. Thanks, Carolyn. Just leave them on my desk.” Carolyn began to lean forward to lay the papers down when she was stopped by yet another dirty man-thought. Why do you have to wear a bra? God, I can almost see a n****e. You need to start wearing looser shirts and less bras.
Carolyn, still leaning, picked up a framed picture of two young boys, who looked like younger versions of Mr. Wrenchette himself, and a black-haired, fair skinned, older than Carolyn female. “Oh, Mr. Wrenchette, is this a new picture of your family? My, the boys have grown. And your wife, why she’s just as beautiful as ever.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This is your wife, sir?”
“Uh...........yes.”
“And these two young handsome men, this can’t be Christopher and Louis.”
“Yes, yes. Growing like weeds, they are.”
“Oh, they look so nice. You are a very lucky man, what with divorce being as popular as it is. Knowing how nice a man you are, she’ll never have to leave you because she found out about you and another woman. You’re too kind a man to do such a thing to such a great family.”
Damn it!
Well, I should let you get back to your work, sir.”
“Oh......yes. Thank you. That’ll be all.”
Walking out of his office, she was able to smile again, but was still anxious to go home and get the hell away from this stinking, miserable building. Just to be sure she wouldn’t be asking too much, she checked her desk clock. Thirty more minutes. She could get by with asking for this little favor with no scratches. She opened his door without knocking first this time, and noticed the object she was holding. She should have. She had just put it down herself recently.
I love you, Celia. You too, boys. More than anything else in the world.
Carolyn couldn’t help but to smile. “Mr. Wrenchette?” Her voice shocked him out of his spell, and he looked up at her as if she were the tax man, and he had been relaxing in his freshly installed jacuzzi.
“What can I do for you, Carolyn?”
“I’m finished with everything I needed to do today and I was just wondering if I could go home now?”
“If you would like, I could give you a ride. It’s not too far out of my way.” And there are a couple of flower shops out that way I could stop in at. “Just let me finish calling in this order and I’ll be on my way.”
“Sure, Mr. Wrenchette. I can wait.” Just two minutes ago, she would have told this man that she prefers taking a bus home. Now, however, he seemed to show a renewed interest in his family. Carolyn felt proud of herself.
His thoughts didn’t wander into a dangerous direction towards Carolyn on the ride home, which was a great relief. They also weren’t totally consumed by thoughts of his family as they once were either. Apparently, he had a nasty verbal confrontation with the warehouse foreman and was planning on how to tell off Mr. Klerk for making him go through such abuse just because he couldn’t get his orders in on time. Little was said between Carolyn and her boss. He did stop by a florist, as he had originally planned, and Carolyn acted more surprised then she was when he brought out a bouquet in one hand, and a single daisy in the other. He gave her the daisy. “Oh, Mr. Wrenchette, for me?”
“I was just thinking that maybe I don’t show how much I appreciate your hard work. By the way, when we’re outside the office, call me Tim. That just so happens to be my name.”
“Tim, sure. Tim, thanks for the flower.” Five more minutes of uninterrupted driving, and Carolyn was in front of her apartment. “Mr. Wren...Tim, thank you for the ride. It gets a little scary on the bus from time to time, you know?”
“No problem. You have a nice night, huh?”
“You too.” As Mr. Wrenchette was on his way home to reclaim his wife, Carolyn found it much easier to smile. She walked past the four apartments leading to the staircase, and then up to the third floor. She turned the lock, opened the door, and immediately saw forty-two familiar faces staring at her. Wordless, thoughtless, they watched as she locked the behind her. “Hello, people! Did you miss me? I know you did.” She walked closer to her porcelain and ceramic masks and then zeroed her eyes in the direction of the clown. “Hi, Hugo. Scare any little boys and girls today, you ugly thing?” He certainly scared Carolyn when she was a little girl. She was hardly able to take her eyes off of the thing when she first saw him in her Aunt Anna’s house. It reminded her of Jack Nicholson playing the Joker. However, the Joker was far away in the fictional land of Gotham City tormenting Batman; Hugo was right in front of her. He had a bubbly red nose and painted-on orange hair. He wore a hat shaped like a cone, folded over, with a red ball at the tip. Carolyn didn’t want the mask, but her aunt noticed her staring at him, and mistook her horror for fascination. Carolyn couldn’t tell her aunt no. Anna was determined to give it to her. Was Aunt Anna afraid of it too, she wondered. There was also a chip in the clown’s right cheek from when Carolyn dropped it swearing to herself that the damn thing squirmed in her hands as if it were alive. She could believe, but would never reveal her belief to others, that the mask had warmth and felt fleshly in her hands. She searched for the missing chip for half an hour before deciding it had probably grown legs and walked under the couch. Two days later, she found the chip wedged between two pieces of bloody flesh that just happened to belong to her right foot. That was three months ago, though, and already part of a soon-to-be-forgotten memory. She conceded the event to nerves and tried to put the thought out of her head. Such foolishness would certainly land her in Hemsford Home down the road with the rest of the mentally unstable. So, Hugo was added to her collection and never taken down because Aunt Anna was sure to visit and ask about the ghastly thing.
The collection of masks started as just a harmless hobby but escalated into a frenzy as her mind-reading talents grew. She felt she needed to be able to look at a face without reading a single thought. The masks were a welcome relief from the crowds on the buses, in the stores, and on the streets. All those people, thinking to themselves, but their thoughts were so loud. Some, so vile, it was difficult to keep from screaming in fear. It was never this bad when she was young.......innocent. She often dreamed of moving out of the city and into the country where she could be safe from so many thoughts. Hoping her gift wouldn’t consume her before that time, she was desperately trying to earn enough money to get the hell out of the city.
She watched television as she ate a bologna and cheese sandwich. There was simply no room left in her appetite for more than that. Her appetite for television soon shrank as well. She switched off her television, readied herself for a warm bath, and sipped a small glass of cheap wine. The bath was her relaxation drug. Mixed with the wine, she would probably nod off as soon as she hit the pillow. She added fruity scented bubbles to the bath as it filled, not as good as rose scented, but cheaper. The bath was soothing. She lathered a bar of soap on her wash rag and smoothed the lather over her legs. She realized she could not go on neglecting the shaving of her legs as the soapy rag began to catch and snag in certain places. Three days was too long. After shaving her legs, she began to admire the work she had done. She stroked her legs from the toes all the way up to her inner-thighs. She closed her eyes and lay her head back. She felt very feminine.
“Oh Carolyn, your legs are so beautiful. So soft.” She imagined.
“Please, Mr. Depp, call me Carrie. My parents call me Carolyn.”
“And you, my princess, can call me Johnny, seeing as how we know each other so intimately.”
“Oh, Johnny!” She explored the places of her body above her legs. As pretty as she is, she is also lonely. An unfortunate attribute of her gift was that she never seemed to be able to trust men outside of her fantasies. She had lost her virginity at the age of sixteen to a boy younger than her by a year. Young Taylor Stills was only a winter visitor to Indianapolis, though, and soon, Carolyn was forgotten.
The boys and men who have come into Carolyn’s life seemed to have only one thing in their twisted minds, and, unfortunately, Carolyn knew exactly what it was. Sometimes their thoughts were so vulgar that Carolyn became physically ill. This began turning the boys away quickly. “That puking p***k tease is ********’ looney, man! She started yelling, ‘How could you do such a thing?’ when I didn’t even touch her!” In the bath, now, she wanted those vulgar little boys with their little perverted minds. Anything to keep her from being so lonely. Bring the handcuffs, whips, chains, and greasy lubrications they occupied their heads with. Bring anything. She was growing more excited at her own thoughts and opened her bathroom cabinet under the sink. Her fingers began searching greedily for her salvation. She grabbed a hold of an emergency candle and smoothed it into herself. Much longer and thicker than her fingers, she found this object to be well to her liking. She stopped thrusting after the throes of ecstacy overwhelmed her, brought the candle out of it’s hiding place, and giggled.
“Emergency candles, alright!” She finished washing and rinsing and then stepped out of the consummated bathtub to dry herself off. She began thinking that maybe she would invite that good-looking young man who ran the register at Stalteri’s grocery store to her apartment for dinner some time. Maybe more than dinner. Probably. Definitely more. He seemed to be clean enough. He may have had sex on his mind from time to time, but at least it wasn’t perverted. Currently, even if it was, Carolyn wouldn’t mind. Flesh would make a much better lover than wax. She dried her hair and wrapped the towel around it instead of blow-drying it as was usually her habit. She went into the living room to turn off the lights and paused to look at her masks once more. With a smirk on her face, she looked over at Hugo caught in his frozen laugh. “What’s so funny, you gruesome thing?”
I know what you did in there you dirty little girl.
The color and warmth packed their belongings and left her face. Then, they left her entire body, leaving a sharp spark running up her back. Her lips began to tremble as her eyes grew large and glassy from fear. A noise came from her mouth. Not actually a scream or a voice. It sounded more like a debarked Doberman. “Wha...wha...whadid you say?” Silence. One minute...two...three...her eyelids and hands began to join in the trembling dance started on her lips. Finally, she worked up her nerve. “Talk, you son-of-a-b***h! Talk, or I’ll...I’ll...I’ll smash you! This was an empty threat. She could hardly move from the spot she was standing in and she could definitely not make a move towards the mask. She sat in the chair which faced the wall and stared at the clown for a while waiting for it to talk again or make some kind of gesture. She finally warmed up and began to feel sleepy. She convinced herself that it was probably just her imagination spurred on by a guilty conscience. She started walking toward the hall keeping an eye on the clown all the while. She decided not to turn off the light because the switch was too close to Hugo. Her walk became a run as she got closer to the hall, and she accidentally bumped into the wall on her right so hard that she fell to her hands and knees. She looked behind her, half expecting to see Hugo coming off the wall and floating toward her, but only saw all the frozen faces staring at the opposite wall. She laughed at herself for being so ridiculous. She walked closer to the wall with the masks on it, kissed her fingers and placed the kiss on the mask which was painted like a mime. “I love you guys. Goodnight.” Calm now, she walked back to the light switch, turned it off, then walked toward her room feeling embarrassed with herself. As she dozed into sleep, her mind wandered again to the grocery clerk. She barely heard the thought.
We love you too, ********’ imagination.” And she was asleep.
She was awoken because of a nightmare. The grocery clerk was in it. She could remember that much, but not much more. His face was painted to look like a mask. She couldn’t remember much more of it as her wakefulness overcame the memory of her dream. She looked over at her night-stand and was happy to see that the clock on top of it told her it was much too early to be getting ready for work, so she would have time to invite the clerk over for dinner before leaving for the day. While her nerve was up and before she could change her mind, she put on a sweat shirt, sweat pants, and tennis shoes and left the building. She was inside the store five minutes later. She found the clerk stocking cans in one of the middle aisles. “Hi! How are you today?”
His happiness in seeing her was unavoidably evident. “Oh! Well...hi! How are you!”
“Okay.”
“What are you doing up this early?”
“How do you know if I don’t get up this early every day?”
“Well, that’s true. I’m just not used to seeing you in here this early. Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, I’m just in here for the usual stuff. Gallon of milk, bottle of wine, some frozen dinners, a date with you tonight, maybe a little butter. You know. The usual stuff.”
“Did I just hear you say something about a date?”
“Well, that is, if you have any of that. I couldn’t find it on the shelves.”
“Would you like that in paper or plastic?”
“Don’t be silly. Plastic, of course. How long have I been coming here?”
“Seriously, though, what time do you want me to be there?”
She began writing down her address on a paper bag. “Seven. And by the way, my name is Carolyn.”
“I know. My name is...”
“Franklin!”
He was surprised by that exclamation. “How did you know that?”
She smiled and pointed at his name tag. “Silly.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t think about it.”
She winked at him and nearly skipped out of the store. After changing clothes and freshening up for work, she left her apartment certain that the rest of her day would go by smoothly. The regular crowd of people at the bus stop would recall later how uncharacteristically happy she was on the last day they ever saw her. The mood on the bus was the usual: dirty, stress-filled, somber. No surprise there. Carolyn let none of this affect her cheery mood. Instead, her thoughts strayed into her own head where she could pull out the lyrics of Silent Lucidity. Halfway through the song in her mind, she could water down some of the thoughts of the others riding the bus. She wished she could drown the thoughts out completely, but that was impossible.
Suddenly, unprovoked by the other people on the bus, she became quite paranoid. She began to tremble slightly as the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.
Carolyn? Where are you? Only a whisper of a thought in her head, but real enough to send her eyes in a mad dash through the bus. There was only one person looking at her. A boy in his mid-teens wearing his baseball cap backwards and holding a rebellious sneer on his face was caught off-guard by this crazy looking woman holding eye contact with him. This weird lady looked like she just found out her purse was stolen and singled him out in a police line-up. When the eye contact turned into a stare, he opened his eyes wider and threw Carolyn an ugly grimace to mock her. He then made a fist without the middle finger or thumb invited along.
Sit on it, kook! That was his only thought. Since it didn’t sound the same as the other voice in her head, she looked away from the boy and felt guilty about staring at him.
Carolyn! The voice was so loud in her head that her eyes began to water. It was the same voice she had tried to convince herself was only in her imagination just last night. Go on, then, leave us up here as your personal prisoners while you get to go out and do what you want whenever you want! I’ll tell you somethin’ babe, it’s gettin’ pretty ********’ ******** you.” She tried to compose herself and not let anyone notice she was talking to herself. A few people did look over at her, but dismissed her actions as they would any other lunatic who could come up with bus fare. The sweat began to roll down her face in droplets. She turned up the volume on her mental music and tried to focus on the lyrics while shutting everything else out. No further interruptions came to her while on the bus.
As she sat at her desk, she became consumed with an emotion which often follows fear; anger. Plans to smash the wretched, smiling thing into a million pieces as soon as she got home crawled in and out of her brain. Mr. Wrenchette disturbed her vengeful thoughts. “Carolyn, great! Listen, there’s apparently been some problems with health codes being followed in our western region warehouses. I want to make sure that my warehouses are ready when they decide to come over to the east. These things can really boil over if nobody is taking precautionary steps. What I need you to do is format these guidelines I’ve written up, fax them to the numbers I have written on the bottom of each, save the files in the branch records, get a fax confirmation from each warehouse, and save a hard copy of each fax and confirmation in our files. Okay? These need to get out before the end of the day, if that’s not a problem.”
“No...no. No problem.” She was looking down at her desk when she talked, and to Mr. Wrenchette, this usually meant she was stressed out.
“Are you okay, Carolyn?”
“Yeah...yeah, just fine, sir.” She looked up at him and forced a smile which turned out wider than it should have looked, wishing he would just take the hint and leave her to the work he had just assigned.
“Okay. You buzz me if you have any problems, okay?” He was still looking at her with great concern and didn’t want to leave. “Maybe I should stay a while to make sure you can get the right point across. No offense to you, I just know how rough my first draft turned out.”
“Mr. Wrenchette,” her smile was more sincere now, with a bit of condescension mixed in for flavor, “I haven’t disappointed you on any of the other ‘rough’ drafts, have I?” He shook his head. “And I won’t disappoint you this time. Trust me, okay?”
“You’re right, Carolyn. Thank you.” He walked back into his office and left Carolyn alone. Now that he was gone, she wasn’t quite sure that she had wanted him to leave her so defenseless and alone. She began the arduous task of deciphering Mr. Wrenchette’s handwriting, trying her best to concentrate on her work.
The first two hours went by without a hitch. Three cups of coffee for Mr. Wrenchette, and seven of the twenty-four notices had already been formatted. She noticed twelve of the outlines had so many similarities that she could just copy them and change the address at the bottom. Her work would be done in no time.
Waiting in line at the fax machine, her mind began to wander in the direction of tonight’s plans. What will she wear? What will she cook? Will she try to go all the way? After finishing the faxes, she had come to a decision on all of the questions. She’d wear a silk shirt with a matching short skirt, and leave her shoes off. Microwavable chicken with microwavable broccoli au gratin would be the main course, and yes, she had decided to become dessert. These thoughts put a huge smile on her face and a secret sway to her thighs.
The mail boy arrived at her desk at the same time she did, but that didn’t interrupt her daydream. “Hi, Carolyn.” His thoughts were jumbled. She couldn’t grasp a single thought, but they all led to the same conclusion; he was very nervous. He lay the letters and memos on her desk at the same time she began to sit down. He then began to reach into his back pocket. From the pocket, he produced a folded scrap of paper that looked like it had been back there for several months. “For you. I...I gotta go. Yuh...you have a good day.” He then backed away so nervously he stumbled on his own feet and left in a hurry.
“You too, sweetie!”, she called back, but he was already to far gone to hear her. She brought Mr. Wrenchette his mail and memos without a word to interrupt his phone conversation and went back to her own desk. She finished filing the outlines and decided to read the note the mail boy had waited so long to give her.
It was actually a poem comparing Carolyn to the wonders of nature, holding a good rhyme scheme and flattering the reader with terrific metaphors. Carolyn never saw, nor would she ever, the mail boy’s poem. What she saw was a poem, but not a romantic one. This one was frightening:
WINTER, SPRING, SUMMER, FALL
WE HAVE HUNG UPON THIS WALL
YOU CAN LEAVE IN DAY OR NIGHT
BUT, WITH NAILS, WE’RE BOUND TIGHT
MAYBE SOME DAY WE WILL SWITCH
AND ON THE WALL, WE’LL HANG YOU, b***h!!!
“Aaaaaauuuuhhh!! No no no no nooooo!” The usually noisy, busy surroundings outside of her desk’s confines had suddenly silenced. Mr. Wrenchette was the first out of his office.
“Carolyn, what is it?” He looked at her and then to the note she was staring at. He grabbed the note and read it to himself. Before he had finished reading it, a small crowd of people had begun hovering around her desk.
“What is it?”
“Is it a ransom note?”
“Boyfriend break up with oyu?”
“Murder threat?”
“It’s a poem.” Mr. Wrenchette was looking down at his secretary with a fatherly note of concern on his face. “Is this what scared you?”
“Yes...yes. Th...that’s...that’s...”
“Alright, folks, no fire! You can leave now!” The crowd left, but not without commenting under their breath about Carolyn’s banshee-like wail of distress. “Who gave this to you?”
“The mail boy.”
“Derrick? Well, if it has you that upset, I’ll go ahead and shred the damned thing. I’ll have that boy fired, too.” He walked into his office with no intention of having Derrick fired, but wanted to say something to calm his secretary down. He did shred the poem, however, and pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Carolyn?”
She took a full minute to answer the call, but she answered back just as soon as Mr. Wrenchette was going to call again. “Yes, sir?”
“How much more work do you have left?”
“Only a little, sir.”
“Go ahead and finish that, and then come into my office, okay?”
“Okay, sure.” Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of Mr. Wrenchette. She was unable to find the words to excuse her outburst. You see, sir, I have a porcelain mask who just started talking to me last night. Apparently, he is unhappy with his living conditions and somehow hired the mail boy to deliver a letter for him. Rather good penmanship for an object that has no hands and all, wouldn’t you agree? No. She needed to keep her mouth shut for this one.
“Please, Carolyn, sit down.” She sat in the chair opposite Mr. Wrenchette, and listened. “Carolyn, you’ve been one of my most responsible secretaries. You always show up on time, do your work, and work late hours if I need you to. I’ve been putting a lot of pressure on you lately, and now I’m afraid it might be getting to you. I need you as my secretary, Carolyn. You have proven to be one of my best assets. If I lose you, I might as well lose my right hand. I need you. What I don’t need.......well, I don’t need you to have a breakdown on me. There are plenty of important meetings coming up soon. I.....what I’m trying to say is; take the rest of the day off. Tomorrow too.”
“What?”
“Rest, relax, polish your nails, go skinny dipping in a pond. Whatever! If you need more time, I can handle it. I just don’t want you to come back until you feel better.”
“But Mr. Wrenchette, I don’t....”
“Don’t worry, it’s a paid vacation. Now get out of here and don’t let me see you again until you feel better!”
“Um....thank you sir.” There was nothing more to say. How could you send me home, you idiot? That’s the last place I need to be! She sat at her desk for fifteen minutes wondering what the hell she was going to do.
“Carolyn?” Mr. Wrenchette’s voice came over the intercom and scared Carolyn out of her daze. “I told you to go home, and I mean it. Now go!” She stood slowly and shuffled her way to the elevator. She looked like a death row convict on her way to the gas chamber. Once outside the building, she was determined to stall for as much time as possible. She began to walk home instead of taking the bus. The tingle in her spine began again with no warning.
Well, Carolyn, I guess it’s time you came home. Stop by the hardware store and pick up some nails on the way, will ya? See, we’re gettin’ kinda lonely on this wall. Then the laughter began. Laughter like she had never heard before. Like a little boy’s teasing, mocking laugh, but with the deep voice of a man.
As Carolyn walked, her fear took it’s natural course and became anger. There was, in fact, a hardware store on the way home. She would have to make a stop there after all. Not for nails, though, but a hammer. Carolyn imagined over and over the porcelain shattering and flying in all directions away from the wall as she smashed the damnable thing to bits. She would have to get it over with and cleaned before Franklin came by. She walked into the hardware store in a determined haze. None of the thoughts from those around her could even penetrate her concentration. She picked out a hammer, made her purchase, and walked back out into the street.
What are you planning on doing with a hammer, dearie?
I’m going to smash you to ******** pieces, s**t-head!
Oh, I don’t know. You see, I’ve learned a few tricks sitting up here on the wall. Of course, I’ve been keeping my mouth shut about it all. As a matter of ipso facto, baby, I’ve been keeping my mouth shut about a lot of things. Tell me, Carrie, can you walk into a wax museum without your nipples getting hard? There’s only one problem with your lovers; the hotter you get, the more likely they are to get soft. That would never happen with porcelain, you know. How about it, slut?
She was in front of her door sooner than she had wanted to be. It was now, or torment for the rest of her life. She opened the door and locked it behind her, her eyes squinting in fury like a mad woman. “You’re dead, clown!”
Now, now, Carolyn. Let’s not be hasty. We can talk. I didn’t mean for it to come to this. Look, I’m sorry. Let’s talk, huh? Come on now, Carolyn. She could hear the desperation of his thoughts. How quickly he was reduced to groveling after being so bold while she was away and defenseless against his mental onslaught.
“I hear you, Hugo!” She raised the hammer in the air and brought it down with a triumphant yell. The clown was gone. She lay the hammer on the kitchen counter.
The only thing left to do was get ready for her dinner date with Franklin. She was calm in the shower. She regained her pleasant mood. No more nasty clowns to interrupt her train of thought. When she was finally convinced that her face didn’t need any more makeup, she was wearing the right clothes, and she was calm enough to go on, she noticed the time on her night-stand clock; 6:30. She rushed to the freezer and pulled out the dinner she had planned. She threw the lot of it into the microwave. Relaxing once more, she began checking everything out to make sure the date went by smoothly. When she looked in the living room, she saw the remnants of her battle with the clown. She had little time left, so she knelt down and began picking up the pieces as fast as she could. That would definitely be a tragic way to start a new relationship; smooching on the couch just to be stabbed by millions of porcelain shards. She picked up every bit of porcelain she could find, starting with the smaller pieces and then grabbing the larger ones. She would have to run a vacuum over the area before she was done. Her hand was almost full of the little chunks before she looked down at her hand. Little black and white pieces of porcelain stared back at her. She stopped picking up the wreckage. The color ran from her face. Hugo was not black and white. Hugo was quite colorful. She looked up toward the hole she had just recently placed in the wall. The mime was gone. Then she looked to the left of it. There, in all his colorful glory, was Hugo. Ha ha ha! You stupid b***h! Carolyn dropped the shards and ran to the kitchen counter where the hammer lay. She was thrown like a doll against the wall next to her front door.
“Oohf!” She struggled as hard as she could but all of her struggling only caused the pressure to become tighter, more painful.
Oh I fooled you! Ha ha ha! You would have killed me! Everything’s going to be fine now, though. You see, as I have told you, I have learned a few things hanging on this wall. I have learned how to free myself. I can become a part of you and use your body to take me places. Go where I want, when I want, as you have done so many times. Of course, you will have to die. Goes with the territory, don’t you know? The hammer, which was almost in her reach, started to move. It floated up and was held in a striking position in front of her forehead.
“Help!”
No use in screaming, baby. No knight in shining ar...the clowns thoughts were cut short by a turn of the doorknob. Franklin had come a little early.
“OH! Franklin, help me!”
“Door’s locked!”
“Smash it!” The front door lock was weak and Franklin had no problem smashing it open on the first hit. In fact, the door gave so willingly that it smashed into Carolyn’s nose, causing her to curse in pain, and rebounded back to the threshold. Franklin stopped it before it could latch again.
“Carolyn, where the hell are ....” Then he noticed the hammer still hovering in mid-air. He was too stunned by the unnatural turn of events behind Carolyn’s locked door to react quickly enough. The hammer turned toward him and was embedded two inches into his forehead between the poor soul’s eyes. Franklin lay on his back, blood running into his right ear as his lifeless eyes stared at Carolyn.
“Oh my God!” Carolyn cried. She stopped struggling and lay limp against the wall, all of her will power depleted.
Perfect! Now I don’t need you. The hammer pulled free of Franklin’s head with a nasty splorching sound. Hugo came off the wall, turning as he did, so the back of the mask was facing Franklin’s shattered skull. Well, maybe not a perfect fit, but I can work with it. Franklin’s body stood with the clown’s grotesque image planted where a handsome face once was. The holes in the clown’s eyes became the green of Franklin’s. He closed and re-locked the door, then turned to Carolyn. Well, my dear Carolyn, it looks as if we can both get what we wanted tonight. I get my freedom, and you get to have sex with Franklin. Well, his body at least.
Knowing what was on the clown’s mind, Carolyn was stricken with a new kind of fear. “NO!” The body moved in closer. Franklin’s right hand grabbed the top of her skirt and pulled it down. The left hand squeezed Carolyn’s right breast until it felt like an overinflated balloon. It let go of the breast, moving toward her face. When it had reached it’s destination, her cheeks were squeezed together in an equally unpleasant way. “Nu nunner thunter!” Tears streamed from her eyes. The right hand began exploring Carolyn’s crotch. The middle and index finger were thrust into her. “Eeeeyow!” The hand continued thrusting. Seemingly not pleased with the damage he had already done, Hugo/Frank began pulling off his pants. Looking down, he was a little upset.
s**t! Wouldn’t you know it, soft! Looks like Franklin wasn’t as excited as you were. I seem to have excited him, though. He pissed his pants! Ha ha ha! Aw well. Rigor mortis should be setting in soon enough. We’ll just have to make do until then. The right hand began thrusting again. It seemed much easier this time now that there was blood lubricating the area.
Three bangs on the door stopped Hugo/Frank from having any more fun. “Open up!” Hugo/Frank ran to the kitchen and pulled a large knife out of on of the top drawers. He stood in front of the door with the knife held high in his right hand, prepared to strike. The door was smashed open and once again banged against Carolyn’s nose which was already caked with the mixture of blood, snot, and tears. Hugo/Frank lunged forward with his right hand raised into a slashing position toward the officer’s head. The officer yelled, “Stop!” and when Hugo/Frank did not, he shot a bullet into the kneecap of the masked man. Hugo/Frank continued forward until the officer finally raised his weapon to the man’s face, and blew the mask to shards. The body went limp this time. Carolyn fell from the wall to the floor and cradled Franklin’s broken face in her arms.
“Oh my God! Franklin, I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
Three months later, Carolyn was relaxing on her bed. She had no idea there was a camera in her ceiling. “This is Carolyn, Dr. Bryce. She’s the one you were talking about at the private meeting. We finally got them to release her from Georgia.”
“How long was she in there?”
“Only one week, sir. It didn’t take them much to let her go. It’s not like she had any living relatives to continue to milk throughout her treatment. They’ve also been so kind as to not leave a paper trail. She’s all ours. She’s peaceful enough. She shouldn’t be too difficult to contain.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Though everybody who has heard her story thinks she’s insane, they’re only half right. She does display an aptitude for schizophrenia, but other than that, nothing.”
“You...you believe her story? I mean, it’s just so outlandish!”
“I believe that what she said happened to her, did happen to her. A clown mask did not come to life and talk to her, though. Rather, with her schizophrenia, she gave the clown a personality. She wasn’t at war with the supernatural. She was at war with her own mind. You see, stress can make men and women do odd things which they would never do under normal circumstances. This young lady was suffering from a great deal of stress. She is also a telepath. These two things, she already knows. What she didn’t realize, is that she was holding a latent telekinetic gift as well. The stress put this gift into motion. She mentally threw the hammer which killed her boyfriend. She raped herself with his dead body. On the conscious level of her brain, she wanted a change in her life. In her subconscious, she fought at it tooth and nail This is the result. Are you sure we’re at a safe level from her? She doesn’t hear our thoughts now does she?”
“No, doctor. Well, to the best of our knowledge she doesn’t. No.”
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Posted: Mon Jan 19, 2015 1:26 pm
Story #2: Patrick
These are the events as I remember them, and they are from a distant source. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to communicate, and I’ve found myself with a literal loss of words. I’m a lost soul. I don’t mean to say I have confused dealings with some form of a deity. I am a truly lost soul. My body has been stolen from me and my soul has no place to go. My soul had once been immortal, yet due to recent dealings with certain persons, that is no longer so. The only hope I have for salvation are the meaningless scribbles of this poet whom I have temporarily discharged from Earthly worries. He is currently under the impression that he is writing an amazing bit of fiction. To save him his sanity, I allow him to believe it. Luckily, his mind is quite malleable and he is in the possession of a typewriter.
The poets are the true saviors of lost souls without a voice. They have strange dreams which they decide are mere fantasy and entertainment. If a lost soul is to find one who has yet to achieve fame and fortune, more is the power to the lost soul. Fame and fortune are killers of dreams. They plague the astral plane with Earthly ideas of material possessions and the importance thereof.
I have a confession to make; perhaps one which will cause dissent among my would-be saviors, yet I will make it just the same if my entire story is to be believed. I believe it is necessary to tell you the whole story so the reasoning minds of this world will be able to contemplate a means for my escape from death. You may think me dead already, since my body has released it’s soul. However, I speak of a far worse death. At this time, my soul and my body are still alive, yet they are separated from one another. However, if I am to continue existing in this manner, my soul will surely perish. I can now feel it’s diminishing willpower flux and fade. It is not a comfortable feeling to say the least. This is my confession: I am a murderer. I believed I was a very good one at that.
There is a much worse crime, I have found, than homicide. There are a group of people who are, at this very moment, committing spectracide. If I had thought for one moment that my crimes would do to a soul that which has been committed unto me, I never would have murdered. It was not as if though I felt I was forever taking a person’s complete life away. They at least had an immortal soul and an immortal heaven to run to when their bodies could no longer withstand the punishments I inflicted. At the time, and I realize now how foolish it was to believe this, I felt not as though I was taking their lives, yet saving my own. I seem to be getting ahead of myself and am probably not making complete sense, so I will attempt to tell my story from it’s beginning.
Let me first explain my murders in a feeble attempt to excuse them the best I can. My father was a damnably strong man full of life and vitality. Because of his nightly excursions to my bedroom, and my a**l cavity, I was not so strong and vital. In my youth, I felt as if though my father drained me of my life-force with his constant probings. My peers always seemed to have a veritable cornucopia of energy. Enough, at least, to constantly dump me in the trash cans or stick my head in the toilet regardless of how many years I was their senior. I was constantly bullied by my peers and would try to lose myself in the pages of forgotten books as an escape from the reality which was my life. I found a certain modicum of contentment being at least a mental superior to my peers.
During one of my excursions into the world of literature, I found a book which told of certain pagan rituals once practiced by tribes of men who had not yet been told of the new God worshiped by white man. These rituals were based mostly upon phallic symbols and the healing powers thereof. The human p***s was an important part of these rituals and would oftentimes include many sculptures carved out of it’s likeness. The p***s was used as a conduit, door if you will, which would carry life-force from one place to another and strengthen those in possession of the phallic symbol, carved or otherwise.
Finally, I thought, I have proof of my suspicions about my father. He was draining the life-force out of me with his constant visits to my bedroom. He was draining the life-force from me so he could be immortal. Of course, I would soon wither away because I was his sole battery. After I passed, he would certainly victimize others. Of course, he would try to find somebody young and full of energy which I would have been if it were not for his intrusions. Perhaps I would end up like my mother. Her death was explained easily away by my father as a heart attack. However, what of her youth at the time of her death? I believe my father drained her of her life-force the same way he continued to do with me. If he ever were to find another woman, well, surely he would choose to reproduce with her just to keep his vicious cycle going. I would, of course, eventually die like my mother had before me if I were to let him continue. I resolved to put an end to my father’s phallic rituals and nightly visitations.
My father kept a baseball bat at the side of the door in the kitchen. This implement of destruction was placed there to ward off criminals who dared to come in while he was still in the house. It was also used as a tool to keep my mouth in check if I ever became too presumptuous and disorderly in my thinking for his comfort. He would rarely hit me with it, and only in the pit of the stomach when he did. He mostly held it in his tight grip as he flailed it around yelling and ranting. He bellowed about how my deplorable behavior would certainly cause me to end up like Mr. Gates at his factory job. Mr. Gates was what my father referred to as ‘wasted flesh’ due for a few quick belly punches if ever I began taking on his traits. He was also my father’s boss. I was disallowed from touching his tool of correction because I was so weak and ‘wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it in the first place’. Oh, but I did.
I didn’t plan an elaborate display of courage and forethought in this, my first murder, but it was easily enough explained and excused after I had done it.
I came home from school and quickly grabbed the ‘corrector’ from it’s resting place. My father saw that I had displayed a lack of respect for his most prized of possessions and came at me knowing I would surely shrink away and drop his toy. I held the bat with both hands, still allowing it to touch the floor, and kept my face from showing anger or alarm, giving him a false sense of security. The look on my face was not actually planned as a lure. It was only the look of intense concentration upon my task. I had to concentrate if I were to complete this mutiny. He came at me charging, as was his way, with his hand held out for me to give him back his beloved wooden treasure. I would dream later that he was holding his hand out in an apologetic gesture as if he were saying, ‘Son, I love you. Let’s try to start from the beginning and act like a real family for a change.’ I would always wake from this dream knowing it was just that; a dream; with no basis on his real feelings or desires. When he came close enough, I swung the bat with all of my deteriorated strength toward his left temple. The top of his skull gave birth to a jet of blood which sprayed the ceiling. His body flopped to the right, and then to the ground. He didn’t move after this. I thought he may have been still breathing, he probably was at the time, and if he were still alive, he could still punish me. I dropped the bat and ran to my room. I didn’t weep while I was in my room. I waited for him to come in and punish me for having dealt him such an agonizingly painful blow to the head. I clutched my pillow and waited for his arrival and penetration.
I woke from a dream, not from my father’s presence, in the morning. I dreamt of my rebellious act and it’s consequences. When his head cleaved and spurted blood, it also squirted out a bright blue haze which crackled with energy. His pilfered life-force came out of his skull and clung hard to my body. I could feel my mother’s warmth in this life-force even though I had never even known this woman, nor do I remember her touch. This force made me strong and tightened my muscles to ungodly proportions. The weakened and skeletal form of my father sat up at this time and smiled as he remarked in a guttural voice, “You’re right, son. I guess it is your turn to be immortal. I’m sorry.” The last of his blood came out of the opening in his head like blackened, cold lava. When I awoke, I was actually startled and surprised my father had not yet come to visit me. I figured he was probably stitching up his wounds before he attempted to approach his blasphemous son again. He was also probably polishing his ‘corrector’ as well. I didn’t cringe and let this fear overwhelm me, however. I got up out of my bed and walked proudly out of my bedroom determined to tell my father that if he wanted to live, he would have to find another source for his rituals. I would, at least, no longer put up with the draining of my life-force. When I walked into the kitchen, he was still in the position I had left him in the night before. Seeing this, I busted out one of the small windows on the door entering the kitchen, from the outside of course, and called the police.
The police made up my alibi for me. They had to because I wasn’t saying anything. They probably chalked up my cold expression and silence to the effect of shock. I was to have been asleep in bed when some unknown intruder tried to break into the house. My father tried to attack the intruder who was so frightened he gave my father one whack on the head with the baseball bat so that he may walk away from his botched criminalities without a scratch. It came as no surprise to the police when they found my fingerprints on the bat. Of course they were there. What young kid doesn’t like to go outside and bat around the ball a few times with his father? They didn’t seem to notice the lack of a baseball in the house.
Since I was only fourteen at the time, and had no other family, I was placed in foster care for a few years. My foster family was kind enough. The father was an architect and the mother was a housewife. They showered this poor addition to their family with warmth and love. They would probably cringe if they realized I was the direct cause for their extra dinner setting. They had one daughter, however, who was soon becoming a constant thorn in my side. She was a homely girl; fat and cross-eyed with braces in her head which would remain there long after I had finally left. She didn’t torture me like the other kids in school. She acted as if though I was her best friend. I was two years older than she, thus, I was her big brother. She would constantly tell the other children at our school if they didn’t mind her, her big brother would kick their asses. This became more fuel for my attackers to use against me when I was accosted. I had more fights than I was capable of handling. Besides, I was still a weak child.
I resolved to no longer accept the punishments of my peers now that I knew how gain extra strength from the practicing of the old pagan rituals. I knew it would be difficult, but I was determined to either match, or surpass the strength of my foes. My ‘sister’, since she was the cause in the increase of my beatings, would have to be the solution as well. It would have to be her. I was too gangly and weak for any other person to agree to it. She acted unsure about it at first, but she never threatened to tell her parents about my proposal, so I knew she was wanting to be convinced. The only person I had trouble convincing, was myself. I could not cause my p***s to become erect with her at first, but I found a trick.
One day, after a beautiful beating from the boys which found me walking home with a blackened eye and a torn shirt, I found my solution. I huffed all the way home angry with myself for being so weak. I imagined how I would defeat them if only I had a better body. I imagined tearing off their mandibles and biting off their noses. The blood would stream out of them as they ran away from me in horror, carrying their bodily fragments with them for a hopeful re-attachment. The ideas kept swimming into my head. A compound fracture showing splintered bone fragments which would certainly be irreparable. A caved-in skull which caused the permanent loss of eyesight. Bloody and gruesome was my mind’s vengeance, and effective. As I dreamt of these things, I became aroused. I could hardly wait to try out my new tool on my ‘sister’. Luckily, ‘Father’ was at work, and ‘Mother’ was away on errands when I came home. That left me alone with Tisha.
It didn’t feel to me as if though I was taking any of her life-force at first. I became worried because it felt like she was taking mine. Then it came. I felt convulsive and shocked as if though I put my p***s in an electrical outlet instead of Tisha. I backed away from her, panting, and noticed my p***s had begun to shrink again. Tisha asked me if I liked it, to which I had no reply, then started stroking my back in a loving manner. I was repulsed by her touch. She was rather repulsive, yet I did not cringe away. I looked back at her and noticed the blood streaking her upper thighs. I looked down at myself and noticed the blood on me as well. I started to become erect again. I felt the sensation of her energy being swept into me once more that day.
Tisha and I continued like this for the entire duration of my stay with my foster family. She had actually started losing weight and began looking more like a woman than a disgusting little girl. She had her moments when she decided to put off our meetings because she had found a boyfriend at times, but when they left her, she always came back.
I tested my newly-gained strength on the weights in gym class and had lifted more than I had ever thought possible. The boys who had constantly tortured me continued with their beatings. I made them feel uneasy, however, with the smile which lit my face while they were hitting me in the gut.
One day, I resolved to take their beatings no more. My body was rather strong now, and I need not put up with it any longer. One day, two boys grabbed my arms and held them behind my back while a third, larger boy faced me. He started off with, “Hey, you ******** geek.” I’m not quite sure what followed. I do, however, remember ending up on top of the biggest of the three boys with my crotch just above his rapidly beating heart. I also remember how erect this caused my p***s to become. I don’t recall how I ended up in this position, but I do remember the effect it had on my life’s future decisions. There are those who say they remember the whole fight as if they were there from beginning to end. They recall me biting into the flesh of the three boys as if I were a mad dog. Maybe I did. I’m not quite sure. There was, however, an abundance of their blood on the sidewalk.
I was never again accosted by the boys in school anymore. I was also treated differently by my foster family after they had heard of my battle. They looked at me as if though I was a time-bomb with only five seconds left on the clock. The visits to Tisha’s room were cut short for a while, mainly because her parents were fearful of what I might do to her if she were to anger me. Yet, there were still times I could get her alone. I believe Tisha only allowed these visits after what I had done because she too was fearful of what I might do to her if she were not to comply. Hell, I could even visit her when she had a boyfriend now.
I left for college after high school and my foster parents bade me a fond farewell. They were probably grateful I hadn’t bothered to give them a call or word of gratitude since my departure. They never inquired on how to reach me if ever they wanted to see how I was doing. I don’t suppose Tisha would ever tell anyone about our sexual encounters for fear of my reprisal. If she has a hold of this publication, she would surely know who I am, yet she would most likely never brag about her acquaintanceship with me. If she were to cry rape at this time anyhow, the better for it. That would be sweet revenge on the b*****d who stole my body. I, however, am beyond reproach and feel no remorse for my actions.
I had decided to major in anthropology and theology in college. For someone so devoid of human sympathy, I did quite well in these studies. I actually did quite well in all of my classes. I didn’t have much of a social life and was able to concentrate on the books better than my more sociable peers. The only social place I visited was a coffee shop which doubled as a bookstore. From this place, I was able to attain a variety of ‘sources’ for my energizing rituals. I read more on the phallic rituals and had found certain symbols written on the body of the ‘source’ could induce a greater amount of energy received. I didn’t keep the same ‘source’ for very long because of this. I had a good-looking body and was quite charming when I wanted to be, which made me at least worth one good night’s entertainment, but there were very few girls who would put up with my bizarre behavior in bed for much longer than that.
It had begun to occur to me, after many disparaging looks at myself in the mirror, I may have been doing something wrong within the rituals. It was not a question that I was gaining more strength from my ‘sources’. This was proven by the ever-increasing amount of weights I was able to push during my testing sessions. However, I was still aging. It was also disturbing to me to know none of the ancients were able to gain immortality from these rituals. My father, after all, was able to be killed. Therefore, there was no way to become immortal through my current phallic rituals. I could not accept this fate. I had to become immortal.
The bullies who had plagued my life all throughout my youth were actually owed a debt of gratitude for the solution to my mortality problem. I began to ponder on the incident which stopped all of their meaningless beatings I once succumbed to as a worthless sack of ‘wasted flesh’ and turned me into a frightful beast. The one detail which scraped to the surface of my memory was the disturbing erection which occurred while I lay on top of the larger bully’s chest. This was rather unnerving due to my preconceived notion of sexual orientation. I always wondered why I became erect while on top of a male. I then realized that it was not a question of my own sexuality, but rather a hint of what the answer was to my aging problem.
The heart is, after all, the source of life to all of the body’s vital parts. It was my deduction that if I were able to come into closer sexual contact with such a vital organ as the heart, I may then be able to achieve the immortality which had, until then, eluded my desperate grasp.
I purchased the knife at a flea market from a man who was not overly concerned with whom might be purchasing his wares. It was not a fancy or showy knife like the others on the table. Worshiping a blade was not my intention. As long as it performed the task for which I intended it too, I was fine with it’s plain looks and sloppy craftsmanship. The blade was dully fashioned, but I soon purchased a sharpening tool and spent time learning and mastering the task of honing a new edge. The blade was only four inches long and was connected to a plain, wooden handle. I decided to carve the pagan symbols I had usually painted on my ‘sources’ into the shaft of my knife. I was quite proud of my craftsmanship as the knife soon became as much a pert of me as my other appendages.
I finally received my childhood home as a part of my inheritance and moved back home. I took a job as a clerk at the local Booksmart hoping for a modicum of peace and solitude. I began reading numerous volumes of fiction in an effort to quell the frustration and anger which surrounded me while I stayed in my old dwelling. If I could lose myself in the pages of modern lore and fantasy, there would be times when I could actually walk through the house without viewing my father’s reflection. There were nights, however, which would never seem to cease in their mad torturing of my sanity. I could feel my father’s presence growing stronger about me as I remained weak and helpless. On these nights, I would procure my energies from the local streetwalkers.
Do not assume that I speak only of the lower denizens of our society when I speak of streetwalkers. Though I am quite positive some of them were ladies of the night, not all of them sold their flesh to desperate men. The details of their size, age, or physical attractiveness made no difference to me. I would readily thrust both my man made and God given shafts into their chests regardless of what kind of woman they were. The details of their occupations and moral standards, dilapidated as some of them were, did not matter. All of them had beating hearts and pumping blood. All of their screams were easily stifled. There were a few whose chests were not as easy to core as the others, yet I was always able to persevere. I always took money and belongings from the women so as not to alert the authorities of my actual motives.
The newspapers with the bumbling sheriff’s picture next to a picture of the most recent of victims when she was alive and well never spoke of sperm samples being taken from their chests. As far as anyone was concerned, I was a nasty mugger who wasn’t satisfied with taking only their belongings, but their lives as well. “We are doing all we can to find this perpetrator and bring his heinous crimes to justice.” On occasion, he would mix the words around slightly to make himself look more determined and noble. As far as I knew, they were not even close to discovering the perpetrator of these heinous crimes. They never called on me or gave a public description of the suspect which would lead to my capture. They were absolutely clueless. That is, as far as I knew.
I met Jacob, the ringleader of my current misgivings, while reading a book and tending the cash register at the Booksmart. He had a book on ancient aboriginal American culture and religion in his hands preparing to make his purchase. “That’s quite an interesting book you have there, sir.” I said.
“Actually, I have already read it and have cross referenced certain parts of it to detail my current studies into aboriginal American religions. I borrowed it from a friend of mine who has a similar interest in such things and, well, I seemed to have worn his copy down to irretrievable disarray. I am purchasing this one for him to replace the one I have ruined. I would also like to order another copy, if I may, in the hardcover edition.”
“Sure thing. Let me just find the line number on that one while you fill out this card with your address and phone number.”
While I looked for his book in the ordering catalogue, he completed the card and began looking at the things in my work area. “That’s an interesting book you have there yourself.”
I looked up from my search to see what he was talking about. It was a piece of fiction I had just started and was about to give up on due to it’s poorly executed style. “Well, it’s alright, I suppose. I just wish the story were told by a more creative author.”
“Oh, I would have to agree with you on that. But there is at least one line in there which makes the reader take a second glance on the creation of the universe. It says something about deicide in there. Deicide, of course, being the murder of a god. Can you imagine, a seemingly immortal entity actually becoming as mortal as you or I? It makes you wonder.”
“It would only cause one to wonder if they were ever under the impression that there was any kind of god at all.”
“Oh, but there is a God. Well, more than just ‘A’ God, all of the gods exist.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. Zeus, Odin, the ancient Egyptian’s Ra, and so on, they all exist to this very day.”
“Really?” I said with a patronizing smirk on my face even though I was remarkably interested in this man’s opinion. “What kind of proof do you have that any of them exist? Or are you just another one of those people who relies on blind faith alone?”
“No, no. There is an actual scientific explanation for the existence of gods. But, look at me. I seem to be holding up the line.” There were three people standing behind him looking impatient to get on with their day’s proceedings, but I hadn’t really noticed them until he pointed them out. “If you want to discuss this further, my phone number is on this card.” He handed me back the contact card I gave him to order the book he wanted. “Feel free to call after six-o-clock any day. I’d really like to continue this conversation. My name is Jacob.”
I shook his hand and replied, “My name is Patrick. Nice to meet you. Yeah, maybe I’ll give you a call.” After he left, I felt an emptiness due to the early withdrawal of an interesting conversation. I really wasn’t doing anything after work that day anyway, so I thought I’d give him a call that night.
He seemed eager to meet with me and told me to meet him at Gotta Lotta Java, a coffee shop not too far from the Booksmart. He was already there when I arrived, sipping on an espresso and perusing the day’s newspaper. He looked up from his paper to see me standing at the table and stood to greet me. “Patrick. Nice to see you again.” We shook hands and sat facing each other. I ordered myself a cappuccino and we both commenced with small talk about current events.
He started talking about the book I had so recently sold him on aboriginal American culture when I found an opening to continue where we left off in the Boksmart. “Now, what did you mean when you said you had scientific proof of the existence of gods?”
His face grew serious denoting that he was going from casual conversation into deep conversation. “Well, actually, Einstein had it first, but did not realize the ramifications of his discovery. You are familiar with his theory of relativity, are you not?”
“Sure,” I said. “E equals M C squared, right?”
“Right. But do you have any idea what that theory means?”
“Well, it means energy equals mass times the speed of light squared.” I replied.
“Yes, it means that, but do you realize what that could mean as far as the creation of the universe?”
“Is this just another conversation about the Big-Bang Theory?”
“No, Patrick. The Big-Bang Theory is preposterous. That theory has been used by too many scientists to prove there are no gods, yet there is too much compelling evidence to the contrary to believe they don’t exist. If Einstein’s theory is taken as fact, however, it would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that gods do indeed exist.”
“Okay, you have my attention. Explain yourself.” I settled in for what I assumed was going to be a long-winded religious doctrine which I had probably already heard about or had discovered through my own personal studies.
His eyes grew brighter at the prospect of actually having somebody to share his idea with. In my mind, I yawned. “Okay, Patrick, if you take away all of the matter from the universe, and you take away the space wherein the matter exists, what do you have left?”
“Let me guess; God?”
“Don’t be short and simple with me, Patrick. I’m talking about the very creation of God.” His face grew serious and I could sense his disappointment with me. “If all things of matter and energy were taken away and space itself were also gone, you’d have only one thing left.”
After attempting to squeeze a more sophisticated answer from my brain and coming up completely empty, I said, “Nothing.”
“Well, there is one thing which can not be destroyed and continues to exist regardless of the existence of space, matter, or an observer to acknowledge it’s existence. That one thing is Time. The passage of Time will continue and has no beginning and no end. It’s simple code is to continue to exist or Survive. Nothing can stop it. Time Survives no matter what. Do you see?”
“Well, I’d say so, but there would be no Time if there were no measurement of it.”
“That’s not true at all. If this Earth did not exist to spin around the sun and give us three-hundred-sixty-five days a year, Time would still pass. There need not be a measurement of it for it to exist. Time simply survives.”
“Okay, I get it. Not Time as it is measured, but Time as it passes. What does that have to do with creation?”
“Time is the one and only thing which must exist no matter what. Since there is something which does exist, and continues to expand, Space must be provided for it. Am I still making sense?”
“Yes, but isn’t Time, the way you’re describing it, infinite?”
“Isn’t space?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“So you agree that because Time exists, Space must also exist, and they both must continually expand.” I nodded my agreement. “However, Space expands into nothing. More Space is provided and continues to expand even though it can not. Because Space must expand outward from nothingness, a lot of Energy must be created because of this phenomenon. The Energy produced from this phenomenon is now encrypted with the code given to it by Space and Time. That code is, “exist, regardless.” Or, put simply, Survive. Insects know the message Survive though they have very little minds. All of the inhabitants of this planet, animate or inanimate, know the need to Survive. And why not? It is in the very structure of our molecules. It is the one thing everything has in common. Now that is the best evidence I can give you to show that Energy can become encrypted with a code. Now, let’s take a look at the human brain. When the brain is excited with thought and contemplation, it gives off a burst of Energy from the neurons. These bursts of energy can be measured with an electroencephalograph. Now, according to Einstein’s theory, this Energy created by our brains will slow down and become matter. However, instead of the Energy being encrypted with the code to Survive, these are encrypted with another code. These bursts of Energy are given the details of our beliefs. If we believe we have an immortal soul which is much brighter and more intelligent than our human forms, it creates this as it slows down. If we believe in a Heaven and a God, the Energy creates this too. The Energy becomes that which we so strongly to believe to be the truth. Of course, every human does not have the same beliefs. The Norwegian Vikings felt their souls would be carried away by the Valkyries to Valhalla. In turn, they most certainly were. There were bards who sang of watching the Valkyries swoop down to the battlefield to claim the fallen heroes. Of course they saw it. It was real. Not to you or I, yet real to them. That is all that mattered. They believed it was the truth so hard, it became the truth. Through modern religious beliefs, we too have created immortal souls with immortal heavens to house them. We have been doing this ever since we could, and we will continue to do this for as long as we have a brain on this Earth. Time and Space have finally achieved the essence of the original code it gave to Energy; Survive. Though that proves the creation of heavens and gods, the whole thing is truly just an illusion.”
“Wait, wait. You just told me how gods and heavens are true and actual, and then you say the whole thing’s an illusion? I don’t get it.”
“Well, to say that your soul, my soul, these heavens and gods are all surviving as separate entities is a lie. There is no separation. We are all the Universe. Did you know that the word Universe translates as ‘one; turning in on itself?’ Of course, we are led to believe that we are all separate entities which inhabit the Universe, and not just a piece of it, but that is a lie. All we are, or ever shall be, is Energy created by Time and Space. Matter is nothing more than Energy moving slowly. Does it make sense now?”
“If I am to believe Einstein’s theory of relativity, than the rest of it makes sense as well.”
“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t believe a word of it. Once you do, do you realize what you would be doing?”
“What’s that?”
“You would be killing your immortal soul because your brain, which has been building it up, will know it is only an illusion. No, no. It is not a good thing to accept this as truth at all.”
“You.................You’re right. What have you done to me? Telling me this and asking me to ponder on it is killing my soul. Why would you do this?”
“Relax, Patrick. Do you think I could remain so calm if I had not already devised a plan for saving my own soul? There is still a way for those of us who believe this way to maintain our immortal souls. As a matter of fact, we continue to do this in the physical form.”
Continuing to go along with what Jacob was telling me could possibly lead me into some other avenues of achieving my personal goal of immortality. After all, what I have been doing was not having the effect I desired as I could still feel the effects of aging on this body, and I would constantly have to live in fear of my crimes being uncovered. “Okay, Jacob, I’m sorry for the accusation. Tell me more.”
“No need to be sorry. This is a hard thing to have to deal with. However, if you choose to be one of us, you will have nothing to worry about at all.”
“Wait a minute. This isn’t some kind of crazy cult where everybody drinks the magical fruit punch at the end of it all, is it?”
“Ha! No no no! Nothing like that, I assure you. We don’t kill people. We have devised a set of rituals which will strengthen your current immortal soul and bond it with a jewel set in a ring. Once your body passes on, you will the ring to another person. When this other person wears the ring, your will overpowers theirs, and their soul will pass on to whatever heaven or hell they believe exists. Your soul will completely take over the body. The rituals must begin immediately, however, because your immortal soul is already losing a little of it’s strength. Are you up for it?”
“Wait.. I do have to ask you; why did you choose to let me know this? Why am I being chosen to join your group?”
“It was not on purpose. I have talked to others about this theory but they had never believed me. If they had, they would also be in danger of losing their immortal souls and I would have to help them as well. However, if they didn’t believe me, then I would add their names to the list of possible choices of bodies when I leave this one. So, to tell you the truth, if you did not believe me, I would have willed my ring to you and taken over your body.”
“That’s murder!”
“No, it’s not. There is no death when one has an immortal soul. As long as the person has an immortal soul, they will never die. Come with me and we’ll begin the process. We have a place in the basement of the large church I’m sure you passed earlier down the road.”
As we left for our destination, I began analyzing the entire conversation. I then realized a paradox in what he had said to me. “Jacob, if you know belief shapes reality and there is no true thing as an immortal soul, how can you trap it in a jewel?”
“In most religions, there are rituals designed to help those involved to strengthen their views of Heaven and God. These rituals also keep the congregation from delving too deeply into questions of their faith. Our group has even more intense rituals which keep the mind too preoccupied to worry over the truth of your soul. Once your soul is bonded with the jewel, the mass within the jewel is then responsible for keeping your soul intact. You no longer have to worry about it.”
This all sounded too good to be true. I hoped beyond hope that this would work for me. I certainly could not continue along with my ritualistic sacrifices for too much longer. I had always wanted to be immortal in the human form, and here this man was, telling me it was possible.
As I walked with Jacob, I began looking at the people along the road and wondering what it would be like to live within their bodies. Maybe that brunette girl on the sidewalk. She would definitely be a feisty little lesbian. Maybe that young boy riding his bike across the street. I would love to know what it would be like to be raised by a loving family. I suppose the possibilities were limitless.
We went to the church and walked behind the pulpit into an area behind the wall. Jacob unlocked this door and locked it back behind us as we descended the stairs into the basement. There was a little bit of activity going on down the stairs. It didn’t sound like a large party. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was horror-stricken to see the police commissioner sitting at a table reading the newspaper and sipping a drink.
“David,” Jacob drew the attention of the commissioner by calling out his name, “this is Patrick. He was unfortunate enough to believe my babbling and has need of the bonding ritual.”
The commissioner stood, looked me over with mild interest, and held out his hand. “Well, Patrick, how are you? Better after you start the rituals, I imagine. You should have told this old bugger to be on his way instead of listening to his rantings.”
“Old? Look at you, David. You’re grey around the temples and a bit more wrinkled than I.”
“You know that doesn’t mean anything, Grandpa.” The two of them laughed a reserved sort of laugh. Apparently their little jokes meant that this body-switching had been going on for quite some time. The commissioner put his arm on my shoulder, and I tried not to flinch. “Come on, Patrick, let me show you your ring.”
“You already have on picked out for me?”
“Well, no. I mean, not for you in particular. We do, however, keep an extra one around for just such occasions.” He moved aside a painting which had been hiding a wall safe. Within the safe was a small, red, velvet pillow with a ring on it. The ring had a red jewel set in it, which I assume was a ruby, and two symbols on each side. There was the symbol of infinity on one side of the ring and the Ankh, the Egyptian symbol of eternal life, on the other. “Go ahead, try it on. It might actually be your size.”
I should have seen it coming. I was such a fool! I tried on the ring and immediately became a wandering soul outside my body. I suppose if I had some sort of heaven or hell to go to, I would have gone there, but now that I was convinced there was none, I could not leave. I tried getting back into my body to no avail. I became outraged and tried to attack the conspirators. That didn’t work either.
“And that takes care of that.” The commissioner looked up and around, knowing I’d still be wandering around. “Justice has been served. Did you actually think we didn’t know, Patrick? Now your murdering days are over and you have nothing to look forward to but oblivion.”
Jacob smirked as he joined the commissioner in his taunting, “You see, Patrick, now that you know the truth about your immortal soul, you’re destroying it. It’s alive now, but soon you will be nothing more than a memory, and a distant one at that.”
Whoever was in my body also spoke. “If you had not taken the life of my granddaughter, Patrick, we never would have done this. I had no body to go to because of you.” The three of them went back into the sitting room and reunited with the rest of the group leaving me behind in a fit of rage.
Since this time, which has been too long, I fear, I have been wandering about the Earth trying to find some sort of salvation for my fading soul, and have found none. However, I have devised a plan for getting help with my problem.
There once was a man in Florida who found himself infected with the A.I.D.S. virus. Of course, he was an average man with little means of support and definitely no resources to find himself a cure. Though nobody would ever credit him with finding the cure, he deserves a big round of applause for the work he’s done. He would lure young girls, eager to have a little fun during Spring break, into a hotel room. Many of these girls decided a good time would be to have sex with a perfect stranger they’d never have to meet again. When they awoke, there was a message written on the mirror of the bathroom: “Welcome to the wonderful world of A.I.D.S.” When these girls went crying back home to their rich parents, there was a sudden interest in finding a cure more quickly. Before this, everybody just kind of accepted that the disease only affected people of a certain class anyway and only a few were concerned with finding a cure. Currently, there are multiple treatments for A.I.D.S. Strange, isn’t it? Ingenious too.
I have just told you what Jacob told me. If you believe what you have read, you too have no place to go when you die. Your immortal soul is wasting away. In an effort to save your own soul, perhaps you will devise a plan to help me save mine. Thanks ever so much for reading. Good luck!
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