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Disciples of Oblivion


DISCIPLES OF OBLIVION
I left work a little after ten. The night was warm, and a gentle breeze caressed the streets. I felt good.
Everything was coming out just fine for me this year: I had proposed to my longtime girlfriend, and she
had said yes; finally, I had managed to buy my first brand new car, and I had gotten a raise at work. Life
really is about the moments, those beautiful sweet moments in time where everything just clicks. I think
it is these moments that make the rest of life bearable; we hold on to them in dark times; they are our
true comfort. Since I was feeling very happy, I decided to walk home and stop by Tommy’s Bar and have
a beer. It was a safe neighborhood, and the night air felt good.
Tommy’s Bar was a fairly clean, middle class establishment. It was a friendly place, and it felt mostly
safe. I also liked some of the regulars. I sat down on one of the front stools and ordered a beer—just
one—and nursed it for about fifteen minutes, talked to some of the regulars about nothing of great
importance, paid my tab, and then left.
Halfway down Vernon St., between the Pharmacy and the Supermarket, I saw a tear in the air, a rip in
the fabric of existence, if you will. My first thought was that somebody had spiked my beer; however,
since I was feeling very clearheaded, I did not believe this to be the case. My beer had not been spiked.
This, unfortunately, only left the possibility that I had gone insane.
While I stood there, contemplating the potential deterioration of my mind, I heard a startled gasp.
Across the street from me was a young couple. The young man had light brown hair and was wearing a
red shirt and jeans; the young woman was also wearing jeans and a pretty flowery white blouse. She
had long blonde hair. Both of them were staring at the rip in space.
This, I am ashamed of admitting, was a great relief for me. I know that I should have much greater faith
in my own reasoning ability, but at that moment I felt a magnificent sense of relief that other people
were seeing what I was seeing.
“Hey,” I shouted across the street, “are you guys seeing this?”
“Yeah,” said the blonde girl, “what is it?”
I was about to answer her when the rip began to expand. What at first seemed like a slash in reality
became a hole in the air—again, I’m tempted to say a tear in the very fabric of existence.
The hole resembled a giant amoeba. It was about four feet in length and three feet in width. Inside the
amoeba was darkness so deep it seemed an absence. Out of this darkness something slowly emerged.
In a grotesque parody of birth, a bald head popped out of the darkness. Following the head, came a
shoulder, then the body, until, finally, a full grown creature, resembling a man, stood in the middle of
the street. He was dressed like a medieval monk.
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