Anthology Complex VI by M.B. Julien - HTML preview
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282-0646: I will give you all the time you need. I just want you to remember. I love you more than your wife ever will...
⸿ A month ago, I had a dream. The best way to describe it was a sort of purely abstract experience. It was a three-dimensional world which consisted of a white boundless reality. Contained within this reality was an array of shapes and an array of colors.
I myself existed as a yellow sphere. In the corner was a blue box, a bit further, an almost completely flat green rectangle, and surrounding myself and all of the other shapes was a large red wall circle. I rolled myself over toward the red wall and realized there was no escape, but as I then decided to roll toward the green rectangle, a progress bar began, which had a black background, to fill with white. I continued to move toward it and rolled myself onto the nearly flat green rectangle platform, but nothing happened.
At this moment, it clicked in my consciousness that this was perhaps a puzzle.
Moving now toward the blue box, the progress bar continued to fill, and once I reached the blue box and began pushing it toward the red wall, the progress bar began to reverse and unfill. I stopped immediately and reversed directions, going instead toward the green platform. The progress bar was nearly filled when finally the blue box was atop the green platform, and when the progress bar was completely filled, the red wall was lifted.
It was at this moment, though it had been there all the time, that I noticed a cinematic display in the background. It seemed to be an infinite amount of white balls falling onto red and blue cubes. Some white balls fell on the red cube, others on the blue cube. And in the corner of that display, were a number of black balls which were contained within a larger gray box. And all of a sudden, that larger gray box was opened and the black balls came spilling out, joining the white balls in hitting the blue and red cubes.
I rose up from my computer chair and entered a dark living room. I passed through it to enter a dark bathroom. And I realized it was not the bathroom which I wished to go to, and re-passed through a dark living room and into a dark kitchen where I turned the light on.
There I found the cell and a notification that someone had sent me a message some time prior.
Bobbi Dreams: Love yuo
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Mr. Spookie: Love you too
I sat down at the kitchen table with headphones and began listening to music. I couldn't sleep so I figured I might spend the late night with rhythms and lyrics from different periods all over. It is fascinating how music, like a dream, can transport you to other worlds.
What a thrill... With darkness and silence through the night. Sometimes I forget I'm still awake. I think I've lost you, tell me I'm dreaming. I want that purple stuff. Fuck the constitution. Are we part of the solution or are we part of the pollution? Mama told me there'd be days like this. Maybe I'm seeing what I want to see. Living in a fish eye lens.
It's like a favorite song that we love to sing everytime we hear the music. The palace of mirrors, where dark soldiers are reflected. Who are you? You look so familiar. These photographs mean nothing to the poison that they take. Sing it out to some dark cloud chasing and wasting for our own desires. I closed my eyes and I slipped away. Look at how the time goes past, but I'm all alone at last. All my pictures seem to fade to black and white. I love you, I love you, and all of your pieces. You're building a mystery. I feel love when I'm lying in the midnight hour. The devil's in your mind. It was all a dream. At night I can't sleep. In the clouds we count our dreams. Let the music play. Of memories, there are not many left. The Sun shines, and people forget.
I am reminded by the song of many moons ago when Derek stayed in this very apartment. I remember he asked me if I was a writer. So he would not ask another, I said yes. And he went on asking if I chose it, as if choosing an occupation was a strange concept to him. I thought and said, “I think it chose me.”
And still, there have been moments when I wrestle with the notion of creation. I understand now, and perhaps understood long before I realized, that to rid myself of Brandon I must sell the home. The car is gone, but the home remains, and so does still that conceptual American dream.
But one who destroys a dream is often seen as an antagonist, definitely not a protagonist. But who among us has never destroyed a dream? The parallel does not lie in the common thread of success, but in failure. Success is reserved for heroes. For antiheroes there is failure and a creative way to manage that failure. Sometimes managing that failure means entertaining unpopular opinion. Despite this, many will find sympathy for the one who must traverse the path of moral obscurity, perhaps even moreso than the hero who is blameless. If the human is more likely to relate to the antihero than the hero, what does that tell you about humanity?
Kane passed through an area designated as a low-income township. On his way to the town's municipal building he passed by a library that had been under construction for 115 | TIMELESS
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seven years. When he got inside the municipal building, he found Kaylene, to which was a woman he had been giving books to for as long as the library had been under construction. These books, totaling up to too many to count, were being saved as donations to input into the library once construction was complete. But it had been a long time of book donation, and seven years is a long time to wait to see your deed turn to fruition.
Nevertheless, Kane walked again pass the unfinished library, hoping one day it would finally be complete.
When Kane returned to his living space, he noted a sleeping FKII on the living room couch, slouched to a ninth degree. He put a blanket over his son, and then went into his study to survey a selection of new novels.
Down below were Lynne and the narrator, who were also with Sara, and who were talking about allowing Sara to go on a date with a boy. After it was decided she could go to the movies with this boy, the narrator retired to his own living space.
I wonder, if two atoms cannot overlap, is it so that two times cannot overlap? Before I could ponder I received a message on my phone. It was Lynne, and soon after it was a message on my door.
As she sat next to me she seemed somewhat docile. But also seeking attention. She wanted me to know she was there but almost in a shylike way.
With the television on I layed there silently thinking about the rigidity of love, but when the thoughts ceased I became aware of Lynne's engorged breasts. The average amount of milk a woman's breasts can hold, combined, is 4.7 ounces, but Lynne was not the average woman; she was a creature of sexual animalism.
The urge of deconstruction that night was more powerful than the preservation of innocence, and shortly after I found myself caressing the base of her left breast. I guided my hand mentally with every desire of the senses to reach the erect nipple where after with satisfaction I made my way back down to the base.
There was no indication from Lynne that what I was doing was unpleasant, and this led to the manipulation of Lynne's breast with my tongue. Each movement of my mouth on her breast seemed to bolster the milk supply and it wasn't until I had trouble breathing that I removed myself from her.
Lynne then turned herself around onto the couch, searched for a location with some kind of criteria or criticism in her mind, and then made her body figure as if she were awaiting penetration.
A man's love for the woman was here before me, and it will be here long after I am dead. On to my knees I crawled to Lynne and took hold of her body, where after I made the gentle thrust into her.
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I knew that when I saw her sitting on my couch and made her breasts visible for me to see, that this is what she wanted and why she came here in the first place.
When we were finished with the first, I sat on the couch and she climbed onto me.
She sitting on me and facing toward me was my favorite arrangement. The sound of her moaning and the look of her half-opened mouth; the intensified gaze of her eyes into mine; I am confident that the most distinctive feature about a woman is her eyes and the way that she will look at you.
A few minutes after we were done, that docileness was gone as was the attention seeking and shyness. She joked, asking me what a movie like what we just did would have been named. She suggested “Mommy's Cockpit 3.”
When she noticed me thinking, she quickly changed the title to “Daddy's Cockpit 3.”
And soon I replied.
“Neither of them work. Daddy's Cockpit makes too many mentions of the male. And Mommy's Cockpit makes the woman sound like she may or may not have a dick.” “Then what do you suppose?”
I thought again, but then she said another, “Toss It Up.” “No number, so this is 'Toss It Up' the original?” She nodded, “The original that inspired countless sequels, prequels, sidequels and spin-offs.” I nodded. After a short while I told her that we should work on the behind-the-scenes photographs for her upcoming movie, “Mommy Adventures: The Booty Report.” “I'm game,” she laughed out loud, “you know I'm game,” she replied, and the rest of the night was a dream.
This was mostly just a bra and panties. Though the white panties which had yellow flowers were loose on her body and flapped, and her bra, where the breasts would gently push against the fabric, it was completely open to expose the nipples and all of the breasts themselves. In her hair was some kind of beaded hairband.
Very fluffy and lacy panties, and a very fluffy and lacy bra. And in her hair, a pink bow which stood out clearly. She also had on a very light brown wig that seemed soft to the touch.
She was mostly nude and had on only flappy panties that were laced and flowery in design. She didn't have on a wig, but her natural hair was all wet.
Heart-shaped gold earrings, low black heels, ultra black stockings, and a red corset that seemed intently keen on exposing her breasts. She was a secret lover.
The first thing I noticed was the black lacy fabric that seemed to choke her neck.
And then I saw the misty black top that was connected to her black stockings which was connected to her black heels.
She had nothing on but large pearls hanging from her ears, hanging from her neck, and hanging from her lovely upper arms.
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This one came with a curly haired brown wig and a light green outfit. The outfit itself was a green lacy bra, flappy green panties, and something of a green lacy shirt with small flowers that could be opened from the middle. Her feet bore heels that showed a lot of her skin.
She had on a black hat that was flat on the top and in the front was like a baseball cap. A very colorful bra that had strings and beads hanging from it. Very minimal string panties. And finally simple black stockings.
When the inevitable conclusion of the dream was met, I gave her eighty dollars; a Grant, a Jackson and a Hamilton, though I had to find all of that money in my closet, a closet which she was standing in front of because she was looking at herself through one of the mirrors she had brought from her home. When I put my hand on her side to get through, I noticed that she didn't flinch. So when I handed her the money, I noted this. It was awkward, because already she realized that in the past she had flinched when I sometimes touched her. Again, only a slight flinch only noticeable if you are looking for it, but there nonetheless.
She theorized that it was in fact the nude photographs that ironically made her more comfortable, but she couldn't be sure.
I later went to go lay on the bed behind her and watched her from the mirror as she changed clothes. And you know, with mirrors, that person can watch you back. And this was all we did. We used a medium to tell lies.
Inside the beauty salon, a hairstylist retold a joke she had heard from her daughter, Pattie. Latasha and all of the other women in the room laughed at the discomforting joke.
Soon after, a woman waiting asked Latasha what she was selling, which was a brand of make-up suited to fashion the woman of tomorrow.
Nearby were Becca and Felicity, who were watching the conversation through a pair of binoculars. “I still can't believe how quickly she's losing weight. And seriously, though, where did you get binoculars?,” Felicity asked. Prior to this, Rebecca had explained her and Tasha's lottery ticket scam plot. Becca handed over the binoculars,
“You see how she just applied a small bit of foundation onto that woman? That's the target.” And soon they both moved into position.
Back in the beauty salon, after the woman confessed that she would not be able to afford what Tasha was selling, Tasha joked that she should play the lottery. “No, seriously, a few years ago I won seven-hundred dollars on a 5-dollar ticket.”
The woman's friend was now finished with her session and the two were on their way. Off in the distance were again Felicity and Becca. “How did you guys decide who does what?” “Well, we noticed that most women were more comfortable buying from me, and I'm pretty sure it's because I'm white.” “Oh, so this is okay because you're 118 | TIMELESS
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exploiting racists?” “Indeed, pay attention.”
“Excuse me, miss,” Becca called the woman who had a bit of foundation applied, “I bought this lottery ticket but forgot that I only had twenty bucks and now I can't take the train back home. They won't accept refunds so I was wondering if you wanted to buy it off me.” The woman, standing with a bit of foundation on her face, thought back to the conversation with Tasha. And more, thought on the complexity of fate and probability. If she had been an avid player of the lottery, she would have been thinking on the fact that what Becca had in her hand was only a 2-dollar ticket, but the average person does not play the lottery. And so, at least this time, the scam worked, and soon Tasha and Becca split the profit of eighteen dollars between themselves. When the two offered to buy Felicity lunch, Felicity laughed at the elaborateness of their scheme.
J une 26 th , 1951
Something strange is happening on Pool street. Yesterday one of the chiefs of police went around the area and put all of us girls in a van. They didn't arrest us, but they drove us to one of those sinemas. Not a cinema, but a sinema, the ones that show sex movies.
He and some other cops sat us all down and told us that effective immediately, all prostitution would be moved to Pool street. This means no Warrick, no Cromwell, no Georges, just fucking Pool street. How are any of us suppose to make any money? They also said no pimps, the only person we have to pay is ourselves. Supposedly there will be cops stationed there for our protection. I don't know. I think they are opening Pandora's box with this one. We'll see how tomorrow goes.
A
ugust 27 th , 1968
Morley got me the first audition spot for a local pageant, but I'm not sure if I'm okay with what I did to get it. One of his investors can bribe some people, and Morley told me that statistically, the girl with the first audition spot is 70% more likely to be chosen because you will be the first person they see. Sometimes they don't even go past the third person and everyone else just ends up going home. To GET that first spot though, I had to give a handjob to the investor. I don't know what's up with these guys, but he had me wear long latex gloves and had two bowls on the side of him. One was water filled with ice and the other was recently boiled water. He asked me which hand I use to write, then told me that that hand goes into the warm water and the other hand goes into the cold water. I guess he preferred the better hand to be the warm one. I dipped my right hand into the warm water, then tugged his dick up and down until he had an orgasm. Then he 119 | TIMELESS
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told me to switch hands until he orgasmed again, and told me to alternate between each orgasm and that he was a quick cummer with a fast reload. So then I dipped my left hand into the cold water and then tugged up and down again until he orgasmed. I think he must have cummed at least 20 times. Each time I switched hands I felt like I was done with a workout. I imagine the sensation between alternating warm and cold orgasms must feel good, but I am never doing anything like that ever again. Not compromising. I'll quit before I do anything like that again.
J anuary 18 th , 1974
I was at a New Year's party drinking and drugging and fucking and yesterday I heard from someone else who was there that some disease may have been passed around. I don't know if he called it a virus or a bacterium or whatever, but some guys have been getting sick and some of them are saying it's a sickness like they've never had before. For now, I feel fine, but I think it's time to chime off.
May
14 th , 1985
Went to my first class today! The teacher is so nice! (and handsome). The other students are helpful as hell. I had to change my schedule at Pool Girls to fit in and my boss is proud of me even though this means he'll be losing me eventually. I'm not his best earner anyway, he'll survive.
A
ugust 1 st , 1992
I decided to make a business decision and get breast implants. I know, it's sudden and uncharacteristic of me, but the films I'm making aren't drawing enough attention and I'm barely getting by. My chest is bigger now and so is my confidense!
Nov
ember 30 th , 2009
There's a lot of competition in the web cam modeling industry, and a lot of us women make a decent living off of it, kind of, but something dangerous is about to happen to that world. A new company that was once partnered with the sites we all use has created something like a programmed girl. That's what everyone is calling it. It's in beta right now, but so far all you have to do is upload a picture of a girl you like and the software generates a 3D model of her and she basically becomes your cam girl. I'm not sure how it 120 | TIMELESS
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would work with how she speaks, but any of these women are supposed to have thousands of variable actions or something to keep them realistic and so you always see something new. I still don't understand how you can interact with them. Something to do with artificial intelligence. They actually respond to what you say, and if you ask them to do something they'll do it. So weird. I've seen a few pictures of the generated women and you can easily tell that they're programs. I hope it doesn't evolve. That will be bad for business for sure. It's hard enough to compete with all these other girls, now I'm going to have to compete with a would-be customer's co-worker or neighbor who doesn't even know she's camming!
J une 11 th
We took four more houses. Really only 3.5, because a family was moving out of one of them. I'm mad at myself that I didn't think of something like this sooner, I'd have so much money I wouldn't know what to do with all. The only thing is, doing this this much has made me paranoid. I always feel like someone knows what I'm doing, or Yadia is snitching on me to the police, or someone is watching. All my clients know me as “Ada”
but the difference between a “v” and a “d” is a wave dredging up the deep and distant past.
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(2:3 / 6 / VI)
Part 10
M.B. JULIEN
Chapter 91
LOVETAP
2:3:10:91
THE narrator woke up in the morning to find there was no milk in the refrigerator.
Leaving home, he walked past the vacant apartment of 2C, down the backwell stairs, and exited through the backdoor of the apartment building and entered the alley. Inside Chase Mart, he ventured toward the milk, where he saw two brothers playing in front of a display of candy. One brother gave the other a lovetap, and soon the mother told him to stop that. After grabbing a gallon of milk, the narrator made his way to the checkout.
Sara and Zachary waited just outside the theater for Zach's mother to come pick them up. They had just finished watching a newly released movie titled “Lovetap,” which was genred as a romantic comedy. “That movie was funny,” Sara told her date. He laughed and agreed. “I thought the end was kind of corny, but it was cute I guess.” In her mind, Sara replied to Zach's comment and thought that the ending was one of the most romantic things she had ever seen, but she did not say this outloud. “Yeah, the ending was kind of cheesy,” Sara laughed. When finally the mother arrived, Sara and Zach entered the vehicle and soon were dropping Sara off. Zach exited the car as Sara did and met her halfway, where he was intent on giving her a hug. The hug was something Sara did not anticipate, but when she saw it coming, she too embraced Zach as he embraced her. “See you in class tomorrow,” Zach said. “Yeah,” Sara smiled.
“...a club called 'Lovetap'. The body, which has now been identified as the body of Jamal Wise, was found in the late afternoon a little while ago after a group of kids who were playing in the construction zone came across the buried corpse. Initial assumptions is that this murder was done by the drug organization which previously owned the construction site until it was seized by the government. The incarcerated owner...”
Se
ptember 8 th , 1968
I got in! I'm going to be in a beauty pageant! I cannot believe this. I cannot believe how much my life has changed in such a short span of time! I met a woman in the waiting room who was also auditioning except it was for a movie role. I think the movie was called Lovetrap. Or maybe Lovetap. I can't remember. Anyway, she was super nice and gave me so much advice about being in the entertainment industry. “Money can't buy beauty, but money can buy lipstick.” After she said this to me, she tried explaining it, by saying I guess as far as entertainment goes, you only need to be beautiful on the outside.
The woman was hilarious. She told me she had just found out she was pregnant and wanted to snag the role before she started showing. She's going to name the baby Evelyn 122 | LOVETAP
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Knights. I think it's such a cute name! I so hope she got the part she was auditioning for.
In a couple of days I will be going back to the office to begin my training for the big competition. Jesus. I'm going to be meeting new people, going all around the world, trying on so many different types of outfits. It's going to be amazing!!!
After launching Pigeoner on my personal computer, I was invited by Lynne to join her video chat. After connecting, I saw her face on my computer and the background of my parents' home; she had spent the entire day there preparing the home for its first open house the day succeeding.
But right now was a time for break from all of that. This meeting between two minds was coordinated yesterday after I paid Lynne a Hamilton Grant for more photographs.
Soon she disappeared from the video and in my waiting period I noticed she had something of a small watermark, or perhaps signature, in the bottom right corner of her display. It only popped up perhaps a minute or so after she had left, and I soon noticed that it was in fact the logo of the MissPlay brand; a black heel with which the stiletto was circled by a grounded wedding band ring.
When she came back, her show began and she displayed to me the first selection in tonight's broadcast.
All in pink. A very lady-like pink hat, a pink bra, pink panties, a pink shirt, pink knee-length socks, and very short pink heels.
She had on pink stockings that were cute attached by straps to her panties. This was one of the views that I've seen so far that didn't expose her privates. On it were small pink flowers, and the top consisted of a simple pink bra with various shades of pink. Her fingers were done with nails that were at least half of an inch.
This seemed to be an outfit that women wore to bed. A purple top that was like a bra and a nightgown that went down to her thighs.
Another simple nudity. White flappy panties and long white socks that went all the way up to the part just a little above her knees.
Almost see-through black stockings. Almost see-through one piece. Three or four gold bracelets. And those large gold earrings.
Perhaps the outfit I had seen her most in; a flowery bra and panties.
I captured all of these photographs of her with the touch of a button on my keyboard and they all saved automatically to my hard drive. And I noticed now, that in each photograph, even the ones with explicit nudity, she deliberately allowed her face to be in them. If I were there with her, I would have given her a lovetap.
A
pril 2 nd
, 1978
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I've been so sick for so long. This hospital has been my home for so long. I've met someone here who has been my rock. I guess I'm in love. He was in the entertainment industry like I was and went by Dick Bomer. In my washed up and decaying years he's the only lover I've had, both emotionally and physically, and I am thankful for that. For him. Not to be naughty, but he has the cock that never stops giving. I didn't realize it, but I had actually met him briefly years earlier on the set for the “Spectra” music video. I would have met him on the Tuesday before, but he told me that he didn't work on Tuesdays because Hitler was born on a Tuesday. He is funny like that. He's always giving me lovetaps and showing signs of affection in strange ways. Even when I'm at my worst.
Before this disease, I was 160 pounds. Now I'm 127. It must be a miracle to find someone who will touch you even when you have red and brown patches on your skin.
A flash illuminated my apartment, and then I saw an identical flash illuminate Lynne's webcam space a second later. Followed the loudest crash of thunder I've ever heard did too from her webcam sound, and then rolling thunder rolled on from me to her.
“This storm is literally passing through us,” Lynne suggested through her computer.
She was now changed back into her regular attire and still every bit as suggestive.
As the storm passed through, we spoke about a lot of random things and random occurrences throughout random times in the month.
“Have you ever heard of Sourhand?,” Lynne asked. “Who?” “Sourhand. Sara was telling me about him and I've seen him like three of four times throughout the storm.
Basically, when you see or hear something that isn't actually there, like a flash of something, it's supposed to be him, and the more times you see him, it accumulates and it will get to a point when he can actually kill you physically. So if you've seen him like a hundred and twenty times, soon he'll be able to kill you the next time he sees you.” “Well thanks for putting that into my head,” I responded.
“I'd like for you to put your head into my head,” she joked. “How can you be so deep yet so vain?,” I joked back.
As the storm rolled away, I thought about all the places I had manually built in my dreams. Dark rolling roads. Crashing green waters. I thought about how often I have revisited them. Time and time again.
Nothing in a dream is ever truly original; a rolling road may have come from a movie, green waters may have come from a combination of things done earlier. And in the same light, I wonder if anything in reality is truly original; a lot of ideas come from misshapen dreams.
This makes me wonder; where did the first truly original idea come from? I feel like 124 | LOVETAP
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in order to come up with an idea, there must have been a skeleton of that idea in a former state; that is to say, all new ideas come from the shells of older ideas the same way new people come from the shells of older people.
The only thing I can think of is that the first truly original idea, the originator of ideas, came from the universe itself. One could say an idea must come from a conscious being, and one can also say that the universe itself is capable of consciousness.
With reference to the idea of the “natural selection of concepts,” I propose that the universe itself is the original source of originality. The first idea came about to a learning universe, who in its leap toward sentience committed the momentous action of self-creation.
All this thought occurred rapidly and soon I believed I saw a figure sitting in my eye's corner. When I turned around quickly and looked at it, it was gone, and I was alerted to the fact that Lynne had sent me the symbol of a “lovetap” on Pigeoner. “You look like someone just busted in your back door,” Lynne responded.
“I want to bust in your back door,” I joked. “How can you be so deep yet so vain?,”
she joked back.
Inside the Spookhouse were Dave and Kane, who in their solitary hotel room played a game of chess. The problem was, however, that Dave did not know how to play the game of chess.
For a few minutes Kane was teacher and Dave was student. Once Dave knew all of the movements and the objective of the game, they both sat down to play chess on the wooden table.
Kane was impressed with Dave's movements, decision making and strategy and knew there was more to Dave than his child-like antics. But Kane, this time, was not impressed but surprised by what Dave would ask him in the middle of the battle.
“Have you ever seen a dead thing before?,” Dave asked Kane. “What do you mean?
Like a dead person?” “Sure, even a dead animal.” “I have not,” Kane answered.
“I saw a dead skunk once. First I saw it alive but later on it died because it was sick.
When you see something that is just dead it's not really a big deal. I think it becomes a big deal when you see something that you've seen alive become dead. I think it's because you got used to seeing it one way, and then suddenly it's in a way you have never seen it before and it will stay that way forever. Like this town. People used to live here but now it's dead. It doesn't really affect us because we never knew it when normal people lived here, we only know its haunted side. But I think if someone who used to live here when it was alive came back and saw it when it was dead, they would be sad. That's how I felt about that skunk. I wish I never saw it when it was alive, I wish I just saw it after it died so it wasn't so strange to me. Whenever I think of that skunk, it reminds me that right 125 | LOVETAP
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now I am alive, but some day I will have to die just like it did.”
Kane was not sure how to respond to Dave's monologue. But looking at the board during his turn, he saw the way to checkmate, and responded in this fashion.
After the two left the Spookhouse, they made their way to the backend of the church where they found the rest of the group. “You guys disturbing spirits again?,” asked Sara, and at the backend of the church, the seven sticks soon dabbled in cartography.
“We are here, at Sanctuary,” Kristie said. “So then that puts the Spookhouse and Satan's Playground right there,” Gun Ho replied. “Draw Lamb Boulevard and Freedom Street here, then,” Pattie said. “And right here I think would be the Powerdeath building,”
Sara said. “Bleeder Medical goes here, then,” Dam finished.
Other locations placed on the children's map were as followed; The Field of Cicadas, The Mordrake Hotel, Lovetap, West Specter High School and The House that Death Built. With this, they were detailing death.
“I found out today that Sourhand's real name is Hudson R. O. and that he was a photographer, some kids think that when he sees you he is actually taking snapshots of you,” Sara said. “Who is Sourhand again?,” Pattie asked. “Oh, you weren't here when I told everyone. You know how sometimes when you are doing something and then you think you saw something but when you look where you saw that thing, it isn't there anymore? Like you're seeing stuff?” “Yeah.” “Whenever that happens, that is actually Sourhand. He appears for a split second and then disappears.” “That's not that scary.”
“Well, the thing is each time you see him, he materializes more and more each time and it gets to the point that he is actually physical and he can actually physically kill you.”
“How many times am I allowed to see him before he can kill me?,” Pattie asked anxiously. “No one really knows, I don't think. And the thing is I think it also applies to hearing things. If you start hearing things, it's Sourhand,” Sara finished.
But Dam Son continued, “The only other person who can exist outside of this town other than Glabella is Sourhand, so when you think you are seeing and hearing stuff at home, it's Sourhand, but the thing is Sourhand can't kill you unless you are in the abandoned town.” Pattie now became visibly paranoid. And the fact that she suddenly received a wrong-number call did not ease her situation.
Suddenly, all the talk of more lore reminded Gun Ho that he had recently printed out some information on a few more residents of the abandoned town. When he went to show the rest of the tourists, they became as detailed.
Tommie Cleaver was a young girl who was born in the town while the town itself was enduring the spread of a virus. Unfortunately for her, she contracted the virus at her young age and died, only to be reborn as a cleaver-wielding psychomaniac who broke out of a strait-jacket but never took it off.
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Not much is known about The Icer, who is said to have been living underground in the abandoned town since the 1800s. Whenever someone is buried in the town's main cemetery, he is rumored to have dug up the recently buried corpse from the underground, opposite the way you would dig up a body from the overground, and gently places their remains in a freezer.
The story of the Birdman is one of note. It is such that one day he took care of an injured bird, and when that bird got better he set it free. However, the bird came back with a mate, and so he created a bird house for the two, as well as for all of the other birds in the area, and it got to the point that it basically became a spot for all birds. The rumor is, however, that one night, for an inexplicable reason, the birds in residence attacked him and killed him, and now it is said that when you see a bird or birds in the abandoned town, it is the Birdman searching for his home.
Drawdé Mordrake, the final lore character on the list, was of whom Gun was most excited about, and his existence could only be properly detailed from a local encyclopedia:
Drawdé Mordrake was the name given to an apocryphal 19th century heir to an unspecified English peerage who was said to have suffered from a form of Diprosopus.
According to sources, he had an extra face on the back of his head, which could neither eat nor speak out loudly, although it was described as being able to laugh and cry.
Drawdé reportedly begged doctors to have his "demon face" removed, claiming that it whispered to him at night, but no doctor would attempt it. He committed suicide when he was merely 22 years old. Encarto Encyclopedia, page 43.
"One of the weirdest as well as most melancholy stories of human deformity is that of Drawdé Mordrake, said to have been heir to one of the noblest peerages in England. He never claimed the title, however, and committed suicide in his twenty-third year. He lived in complete seclusion, refusing the visits even of the members of his own family. He was a young man of fine attainments, a profound scholar, and a musician of rare ability. His figure was remarkable for its grace, and his face — that is to say, his natural face — was that of an Antinous. But upon the back of his head was another face, that of a beautiful girl, 'lovely as a dream, hideous as a devil'. The female face was a mere mask, 'occupying only a small portion of the posterior part of the skull, yet exhibiting every sign of intelligence, of a malignant sort, however'. It would be been seen to smile and sneer while Mordrake was weeping. The eyes would follow the movements of the spectator, and the lips 'would gibber without ceasing'. No voice was audible, but Mordrake avers that he was kept from his rest at night by the hateful whispers of his 'devil twin', as he called it, 'which never sleeps, but talks to me forever of such things as they only speak of in Hell. No imagination can conceive the dreadful temptations it sets before me. For some 127 | LOVETAP
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unforgiven wickedness of my forefathers I am knit to this fiend — for a fiend it surely is.
I beg and beseech you to crush it out of human semblance, even if I die for it.' Such were the words of the hapless Mordrake to Versman and Welltead, his physicians. In spite of careful watching, he managed to procure poison, whereof he died, leaving a letter requesting that the 'demon face' might be destroyed before his burial, 'lest it continues its dreadful whisperings in my grave.' At his own request he was interred in a waste place, without stone or legend to mark his grave." Encarto Encyclopedia, page 44.
“This is all too exciting,” said a scared Kane, and when the instinct to open a fridge to receive cool air and settle down kicked in, Kane opened their black fridge to find a number of drinks and candies and general junk food. He told the others to come look, and they soon realized that this was the promise of Lady Glabella.
Each of them hesitantly took what beheld their eye, and holding what it was they desired, they each looked blankly at eachother.
“What if it's poisoned?,” Dave asked. “Yeah, what if she's evil and she poisoned all this stuff?,” Kane added. The suspicious looks on their faces grew ever so more suspicious. “Kristie, you should bring some home to your dog and give it to her,” Pattie suggested. Kristie resented the idea.
The crew continued to look at eachother, each of them slowly opening the contents which their hearts desired. And slowly, then suddenly, Dave took a bite of his candy bar.
The others watched on in anticipation as he chewed. And chewed. And chewed. “It doesn't taste poisoned,” Dave remarked, and then took another bite. And so did all the others, sipping and biting and chewing the goodies that Lady Glabella had left for them.
Still traversing the low income housing projects, Charles Foster Kane was in search of the digital dream door when he happened upon a group of strangers who were gambling with dice in an alleyway.
Wearing a full suit and holding a briefcase, it was strange to see the likes of Kane standing and watching the dice game that was unfolding. It was strange until one of the players noticed him and said “Wassup ole man, you wanna play?” “Kendrick, roll the shit,” Tina yelled while giving him a lovetap.
Kendrick's attire was the complete opposite of Kane's; where Kane was professional, Ken was completely informal; an old jersey of the city's football team with the surname
“Faulkner” on the back, accompanied by the number “39.”
Kane politely refused, and then Ken rolled the dice but lost. When the dice were given to another player, Kane quickly worked the odds and wanted to tell Kendrick to place a bet. Kendrick did not place a bet and watched as all those who did win money.
Before the next roll, Kane moved in closer to Kendrick, then worked the odds, then tapped Ken on arm, making a gesture for him to place a bet. Kendrick politely refused, 128 | LOVETAP
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and soon he saw all those who placed a bet win money.
On the next roll, when Kendrick went to place a bet, Kane tapped his arm again, indicating that he should not. This time Kendrick listened, and he was saved from losing a sum of money.
As the rounds went on, Ken listened to the advice of Kane and never lost another penny, instead only gaining dollars. When the game was set and the rounds all done, Kane, Ken and all the players vanished, and the pedigree of fate was left fragmented.
CAM41101: Lovetap
CAM30300: Bleeder Medical
CAM59274: The Mordrake Hotel
CAM18219: The House that Death Built
CAM00183: In front of the church could be read the sign which reads “...as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord. And you are her children, if you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening.” Several hours of monitoring this camera would eventually show the conclusion of a church session.
663-9914: ...did she mean March first, like the date, or march first, like marching first?
552-1699: I'm almost positive she meant the date.
663-9914: Well, whatever she meant, she has game and needs to lovetap that.
552-1699: I've been hearing that a lot lately. The game thing. What does that even mean?
663-9914: It's like, you know how men say 'he had the balls to do that'?
552-1699: Yeah...
663-9914: Well game is like that, but for women. I think it's short for female gametocytes or something.
552-1699: What the hell is a female gametocytes?
663-9914: Another name for the female egg cell I think. If I remember right, the expression is supposed to mean like all the sperm cells are fighting over that one egg cell or something.
552-1699: I see. So when a female is described as having game, it's kind of like the old expression of having game, meaning to have skills, combined with women parts basically?
663-9914: I guess so...
⸿ In a dream I had seven years ago, I sat beside my dying father as he fought the illness of cancer. His face was that of death's face. His time was that of death's time. And 129 | LOVETAP
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it was not just time that was distorted in his mind, his entire universe, held together by crossroad strings of dementia, could never be accurately known to him as he sat decaying on a bed battling a disease without mercy. Each night, as the darkness immersed within his tangled thoughts upon the floor, he withdrew more and more into a confounding reality until it became irreality. And until his death, his chamber was a syphon for unconcern and allowed him to endure the sight of death until he entered that irreality permanently.
Sure, it was the cancer that eventually led to his death, but often I wonder what really killed him? Death rarely comes at us in one angle.
At which point do you begin the walk to your grave? There's a moment when an event occurs and you are now on your way to your death, but when does that occur? How connected is it to adjacent events. I've often wondered this under the context of the sorites paradox; in life, if you have a whole chain of events that lead to your death, and one by one you take away one event, at which point is the story of your death oversimplified?
A woman named Tonya wakes up one morning and begins driving to work, and while making a right turn, she suddenly loses control of her vehicle and is hit by oncoming traffic. Tonya instantly dies.
Stating Tonya's death in this way will almost always result in an oversimplification of the story of her death, because we as the observer were unaware that the day before, Tonya had her vehicle repaired, but was repaired with defective units. And so we must now include this event in the chain.
It is possible that this remains oversimplified. What if we learn that Tonya, one week earlier, read an article about the importance of vehicle maintenance and this influenced her to have her car checked because of a few minor annoyances, and the check-up revealed she needed a new part, that part being the defected part that would later be installed into her vehicle.
And a month prior to reading that article, Tonya had a conversation with a co-worker about which sites he had bookmarked on his home computer. Of course, one of the websites would be the website that Tonya would find that article about vehicle maintenance on, which she would visit after hearing how great their articles were.
And a year earlier, Tonya hired the new regional manger of her district who would later hire the employee who told her of his favorite websites.
And a decade earlier, Tonya made the huge life choice to leave her home country of Colombia to live in the United Kingdom, where she had recently landed a job at the company she would later become a boss in.
Now that we have sufficient data, let's begin removing some key events that ultimately lead to Tonya's death. Isn't death investigation fun?
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We remove the latest event in the chain; Tonya moving to the UK. If we remove this event, obviously Tonya is less likely to die the way we have been told, but the point of this investigation is not to show how easily the pedigree of fate can be fragmented, is it instead to investigate at which point Tonya's unfortunate demise becomes oversimplified.
I believe we can remove Tonya's decision to move to the UK as this is very far removed from her actual death. In the process to avoid oversimplification, we must also avoid overcomplication; it can be argued that technically every event in your life can be attributed to your death, and this would be an obvious overcomplication. I guess that's actually an oversimplification, but for the vocabulary of this thought, we'll define it as an overcomplication as using every event in a person's life is simply too much data. If we were to make a turn down that deadly road, another could argue that even events before you were born will have lead to your death. A quick example is a brother sleeping with his brother's wife and having a child with her, and that other brother vowing to kill the unborn child, and thirty years later keeps his promise.
Let us remove the next event, which was that of Tonya hiring a new regional manger.
This event, too, is very far removed from Tonya's actual death. She hires the person who hires the person who will tell her about a website that has an article about vehicle maintenance that she will read and act on. If I tell Bobby it would be cool to rob a bank, and then Bobby goes and tells Paulie what I said, and then Paulie tells Jordan what Bobby told Paulie, and then Jordan rounds up two of his pals and they think the idea is cool and they rob a bank and kill a person in the process, I hope I am not blamed for the incident.
Let us now remove the conversation that Tonya had with her co-worker about a website that had an article about vehicle maintenance. You might cry “No!,” as this is a very essential part of the chain and definitely is close to Tonya's soon coming death, it clearly involves the very reason why she dies; vehicle maintenance. But I'm inclined to believe that it is actually the next event you cannot remove from the chain; Tonya reads the article and decides to have to her vehicle checked.
This is only my opinion, as one could decide that the pivotal event was her talking to her co-worker, or even her submitting her vehicle to the repair shop after it has been checked and they go on to repair it with a defected unit, but this is primarily the question of this thought in the first place. If you continue to add or subtract events from the story of Tonya's death, at which point are you definitively certain she begins to walk to her grave? And a supplementary question that also must be answered is if you continue to subtract events, at which point is the reason for her death oversimplified? And of course if adding, at which point is it overcomplicated?
Thinking of this now, I realize that it is an incredibly strange feeling to know that 131 | LOVETAP
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there is a literal second in each person's life when they make that turn on the road and begin driving toward their own death. And it is incredibly difficult to pinpoint that literal second with definitive accuracy. That second is each individual's oblivious peace with the darkness.
At exactly midnight, I walked into my bedroom and while doing so I heard a voice.
At first I thought I heard a voice, but then realized it was only in my head. It was only when I heard it again, and it sounded more like Sara, that I realized that it was not a voice in my head but a voice coming from underneath the couch. When I reached for the walkie-talkie that found residence underneath the couch, I replied to Sara's radio calls.
Since her mother was not at home, she came to me to talk about her date with the boy whom she liked and whom had liked her. She talked about how much they had in common, how nice they were to eachother, how much fun they had when around eachother. She spoke of all the things one speaks of when suddenly tapped by love, and this lovetap was no exception to the rule. When she gave me a chance to speak, I only told her one thing through the small speaker of the walkie-talkie as my eyes stayed fixed on the glowing half-moon; “People are like Rubik's cubes, once you figure out one side, you figure out all their sides.”
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Chapter 92
FORM AND VOID
2:3:10:92
ON his way back home, the narrator walked through the alley which connected Chase Mart to his apartment building. At one point he noticed a bright pink bicycle in the yard of another apartment building. It caught his eye because he had walked through this alley many times before but the sight of something so bright never caught his attention. Once inside his home, the narrator walked into the composition notebook room and walked toward the shelf of dreams where he quickly scribbled a note, more or less a thought, he had had while out; “quantified persona.”
May
27 th , 1985
One of the oldest and most philosophical of questions is one that has been extremely tough for men to answer. It has basically been asked since the dawn of modern man but is not actually about men themselves. As a man, which do you prefer? A woman's boobs or a woman's butt? Obviously the answer will change from man to man, but I think a huge factor in what a man prefers actually has to do with something that at first will not make much sense; clothes. Just think about it. Most of the boobs and butts that men will see will not be nude, they will be covered in clothes, and so I think if the clothes make the boobs or butt look more sexually appealing, than the man will come to prefer that option.
Right off the top of my head, one example are tight blue jeans. If a woman walks around in tight blue jeans and a less than tight black shirt, do you think her front will get as much attention as her back? Probably not. The same goes for a tight white shirt and less than tight blue jeans. The boobs will win, hands down. Clothes have no place in the skin industry, but it has a way of driving it. Some women, fortunately for them, don't really have to worry about that question because they have a nice pair of both. And others, like Kharmah, while at first glance look like they don't have either, but in a different position, they have the kind of ass and titties that grow. Her body is kinda like her personality, unassuming until you see it up close. It kind of reminds me of that Eevee book, the one about the man who steals a dog and has sexual relations with it. When I read it, I remember picturing the narrator in my head and thinking I would never think someone who looked like that would be a dognapper and a sexual dog abuser. I wonder what happened to that book. I'd like to read it again. I think it was missing the cover and first page though. Still a decent book despite the content. The other day at work I met a man who was new in town and thought his shit didn't stink. After I gave him a lap dance he said he'd give me $250 if I sucked his dick. This man literally said he was backed up and 133 | FORM AND VOID
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the jizz would come racing down his 9-inch cock and into my mouth. I wanted to vomit.
One, I don't do that kind of stuff, and two, I'm not even into chocolate candy. It made me realize that it's so easy to profit off of lazy people. Like a man who doesn't want to do the hard work of being in a real relationship with a real woman who is willing to pay to take shortcuts. And it doesn't even just apply to sex. Instead of re-building an old house, which would cost less, most people just buy a new house that someone has already worked on. It costs more, but it's less of a bother. I'm not interested in being a new house.
I would like to take the time to build a life with someone. I hope to go through all four seasons. Once I get my education, I'm taking my son and we're going to live for real.
The word “hope” would not exist in a reality where humans know their fates.
Language and the words we've created have a way of defining our reality itself, and if one day aliens from another reality came and studied our dictionaries, this alone would tell them what they need to know about our reality. In the same vein, imagine the words we would discover in a distant aliens' reality. It seems that words create worlds.
⸿ One dream that often comes back to me time and time again is a dream of a giant.
In a world very unlike our own, I found a giant crying just before an ocean. He had been crying in a hidden secluded area so that others would not see him, and his actions reminded me of a word of this world; “veiom,” which was defined as “the concept that abstract properties are not always proportionate to physical size.”
I learned after talking to the giant that he had been crying because though he had been a giant, he had only the strength of a single human. And what was worse, though he had been a giant, he carried the emotion of a single human. This was a world where giants were powerful and awesome not only in strength, but in emotional stability. This giant, however, was the very definition of veiom.
Hearing a honk, I looked outside and saw Lynne opening a minivan. It was my turn to unload various items from the home into our apartments.
As Lynne walked into the apartment building, she passed by the narrator who was on his way to unload the minivan borrowed from Olya.
Walking into her kitchen, she was greeted by the smell of cooking food. For a moment she checked on the state of the food, tasting just a small portion of it, and suddenly she received a phone call.
669-8488: Hello?
891-4462: Hey it's Junior, I wanted to talk more about your promotion. Is now a good time?
669-8488: Perfect timing, I just got back home. I'm a little in the middle of moving.
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891-4462: Oh yeah? Where are you moving to?
669-8488: Right now I'm just moving some things from a house to my apartment, I haven't figured out where I'm moving to exactly yet.
891-4462: Ah well I hope the moving process works out well for you. I wanted mainly to talk about some of your responsibilities as the general manager.
669-8488: I know I'll have to work more hours, but could you tell me what other things it will involve?
891-4462: Well technically you will be working more hours, but you will be doing a lot of things from your home.
669-8488: Really?
891-4462: Sure. Basically you are taking my position. Or at least many of my responsibilities. I no longer want to micromanage each branch and want to deal mostly with the finances of the business, so I'm leaving the complete operations of the airport cafe to you. You'll be in charge of all the employees, creating schedules, you'll be putting in orders, training new people, payroll data, et cetera et cetera. And don't worry about our budget, I'll get you the numbers you need every month.
669-8488: Oh okay, that sounds good.
891-4462: So does this sound like something you are comfortable doing?
669-8488: It does, I think I will be good at it.
891-4462: Well you've been my best associate so far, so I'm depending on you to keep that up. I have to go now, but I'll be in touch.
669-8488: Thank you for the opportunity, Junior.
891-4462: You earned it! Goodbye.
669-8488: Bye.
Lynne soon returned to her cooking, but before she knew it, the narrator had opened her door and told her that everything was unloaded. She yelled back to him, saying she would have the next load ready in about forty-five minutes.
After I closed Lynne's door, I went back to my apartment a little tired from unloading the minivan. Most things went in her apartment but a fair share also went into mine, and now as I look at my apartment, I realize it is slowly beginning to look like someone just moved in. Or I guess was moving out. Sometimes I have to walk sideways just to get from one place to another.
OBRUNS+EDBSI+IZT+BOQQPZDGFC+ZOC+BPTOS+KPUF+IZT+CDFM+EPQFRI ZENXDE[+BPLNZOCFQ+RJBLMFRT+IZT+MZDDE+UGF+INSHANO+XGJKF+QQ
FRJCFMU+TKFDQ+GNMKPVT+DKPRFKZ+CDIHOC[+BME+ENDSPQ+QFCFLQS
135 | FORM AND VOID
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JNO}
+SID+QPZE+ID+SBJFR+HT+OHHG[+J+XHMK+RFD+XPT+TQNO+UGF+INVQ+SI ZU+XNSCT+EN+MPS+RQDBJ+ZOC+SID+SSTUG+HT+XHUGPTU+GNSL+ZOC+
UPHE[
⸿ There is something about the dusk atmosphere with its orange tint that is laced onto the horizon and layered by a blue crystal. Something obvious yet oblivious. I have seen now that it is true the senator lives a lie.
In the months passed, I have attempted to expose this lie first through accusations, and then through evidence.
I told the authorities. I told law enforcement. I told other politicians. Anyone with any amount of power to cease this abuse of power. But my efforts were in vain.
When I took the second approach, I now provided evidence. I followed Dusk through the dark streets of the city, through the dark streets of the country, into places of degeneration, into places of praise. I followed him everywhere and every crime he committed I recorded. And when I provided these evidences to the same people who shoved me aside from before, they took more interest yet my efforts remained in vain.
This undue process left me shaken, almost confused, until I realized that the approach taken toward the allowance of evil was much simpler and much straight forward. I came to the conclusion, dissociated to my character, that I may have to threaten Dusk with violence.
That night thinking upon my decision toward violence, I fell into a deep sleep, a nightmare of sorts, where I walked through the wrong door. It were two doors who stood next to eachother, and I chose one and not the other.
In American football, the final second of a football game can be decided by a field goal. If the team attempting the field goal is down by two points, making a field goal will award the attempting team three points, therefore ending the game and the attempting team winning by one point.
After the ball is kicked, detailing one of many scenarios; if the ball sails a few inches to the right of the left post, it is considered good, but if it sails a few inches to the left of the left post, it is considered no good.
With this, you can deduce that the future of an entire football organization can be determined by a few inches.
The physical difference is only a few inches, but the metaphysical difference is magnitudinous; a win can be the start of a dynasty while a loss can be the start of a drought. In this respect, we can see that the physical and the metaphysical are improportional to eachother. The difference between a few inches is not equal to the 136 | FORM AND VOID
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difference between a dynasty and a drought. It makes one wonder how physical space can shape metareality. What if you shrink yourself and those few inches become few miles?
Are they still improportional? I know that we as humans have designed rules to interpret physical nature and its mechanics. And many rules determine the metaphysical nature of physical outcomes.
A final thought on this concept leads me to the true scale of the universe. We can measure the distance between inches but not the distance between a dynasty and a drought; one final question remains, a simple question with no scientific basis or sound logic; is the fact that we can measure physical reality an indication of how small our tangible universe really is?
Another sound of honking told me that time has progressed and Lynne was back for another load. I carefully moved through all the storage in my apartment and passed her in the hallway.
Lynne again entered into her apartment and smelled the food being cooked. After she had checked on it, she re-exited the apartment into the hallway to go downstairs into the basement of the building. Once there, she opened her storage locker and began taking things out. One of the items she took out was the manuscript of her book of poems, which she placed momentarily on the washer behind her, but then a thought occurred to her. She rushed back upstairs, checked on the degree of the stove, and then was relieved. She then marched back to the basement where she found what she was looking for and soon left the basement.
Entering her apartment again, she could hear the dim sounds of a documentary playing on her television in the living room. “...World War I started because of a single wrong turn...,” she thought she heard. The idea fascinated her, but by then the narrator had finished unloading the vehicle and it was time for her to return to the parents' home.
Who is the architect of our world? Not just the realworld, but even the dreamworld. Is it something conscious? Something unconscious? Something intelligent? Something simple? Is it more or less an entity? Or perhaps it is nothing. Who really knows?
Only a few years ago I became aware of an entity called “The Dreamweaver.” I also came to realize that this entity may have been responsible for the library of dreams.
The Dreamweaver in effect is something that can weave through the fabric that separates the realworld and the dreamworld. Reality and fiction. It can traverse through that fabric that separates dreams from reality, all in real-time and dream-time.
One of the abilities of the Dreamweaver is that it can pass through both worlds with objects. And the Dreamweaver has interacted with you more times than you can count.
Do you ever have dreams where there is an item that continually shows up, and then suddenly you run into that object in the realworld? Many myths will tell you that it was 137 | FORM AND VOID
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the Dreamweaver who took that object from the dreamworld and placed it into the realworld. Such was the tale of Myeesa, who every other night dreamt of a golden crown until finally she came to wear that golden crown in the realworld as she admired her reflection in a river. And vice versa, do you ever come across an object many times in the realworld that you eventually come across in the dreamworld? Those same myths will tell you it was the Dreamweaver who passed through the fabric and into the dreamworld to place it there.
Passing through both realities with objects is only one legend of the Dreamweaver, but the true legend of the Dreamweaver lies in something much more difficult. The Dreamweaver is most known for its ability to weave through the realworld and dreamworld with ideas. And even more notably, it is known for planting the idea in the interpreter's mind the same way it can place an item in that plane.
I believe such was the case with, well, my case, many years ago before I began writing my dreams. I was young, and while the memory has now faded at the edges, I remember staring at a collection of novels and thinking about how one mind could experience all of these stories over the course of many lifetimes. How some lives would occur before others but there could never be any way of telling which were the former or the latter.
It was at that moment that the Dreamweaver had planted the idea of the anthology complex in my mind. But the concept of the complex was not born with me, it is an idea that goes way back to ancestral dreaming, and it is without infallible reason that the Dreamweaver is as old as any dream.
At the audio of another couple of honks, I went out to the minivan to unload the car as Lynne walked back into her apartment.
Tending to the foods she were cooking, she became aware of some ingredients she did not have readily available in the household. Soon, she took the back alleyway to Chase Foods where she sought to seek these lost ingredients.
Upon the passage back home, she was suddenly shouted at from a distance,
“Lynnette!” When she turned to see who it was, she noticed a woman in a window of a first floor apartment building.
“When did you get back?,” Lynne asked Mary. “About a month ago,” Mary replied as she watched Alondra play with Anthony. “She got promoted,” Imani, which was the name of Alondra's mother, said aloud in a funny way. It was learned to Lynne that Mary had recently relocated back to Chase, though living very far away, after receiving a second promotion. While in town, she was visiting Imani, who within her time gone had become like a sister to her.
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Mary, and then pondered her own promotion. When she arrived back home, she saw that the minivan was unloaded, and after a bit of cooking, told the narrator she was leaving again for another load.
After Lynne closed the door, I was thankful she volunteered to pack up the house during the open house. Right now there are a wave of potential homeowners wandering around it while a real estate agent guides them, and having to traverse pass through all those bodies is not something I'd like to do. Lynne doesn't seem to mind, though. Not as far as I can see.
When I sat back down I stared at Dave's water pistol and thought more on the real estate agent and their ability to sell a home. The patience required as both a seller and a buyer.
You and I can agree that decision drives the dynamic world. Inside every second, billions of decisions are made. But no decision is ever sound. Take into account that every decision made is made based on only a certain amount of information. Meaning no one is ever given 100% information before deciding on a decision. If you cannot attain all of the information necessary to make a sound decision, you run the risk of making a bad or partially bad decision. If the problem is binary, you can make a completely bad decision or get lucky with a good decision; if your problem has a spectrum, you can end up with varying degrees of success and failure.
We go back to the idea that billions of decisions are made each second, and imagine the construct that a large percent of all decisions ever made, by lifeforms or any conscience entity, was based on information that may have been absent or wrong. If no decision can be sound, or if no decision can be accompanied with 100% information, we come to the conclusion that most action in our world is made off of less than 100%
information. And what to make of such an inconclusive world? It is the bearer of tragedy.
It causes a young person to enter a field that is not beholden to their personality. It gives another person dreams that cannot be realistically realized. For others it causes them to miscalculate risks. For a rare few it may result in good fortune. But for the rest, when it rears its ugly head, it is only in the later stages that they realized what they didn't account for. Or perhaps for future information that was not yet readily available to them. The baseless decision is the difference between being murdered by a bullet with your name on it and a bullet with someone else's name on it.
In my dreams, beyond revelations, after the war between God and Satan and the universe is no more, I have walked into the Church of Michael, the first archangel. There inside that elegant house I have read the Book of Michael, and not only that, I have heard the voice of that angel.
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other things, genes. Not so much the function of them, but the appearance of them, and I learned that one of his crowning achievements was the artistry behind the “patience”
gene.
Working for decades, the irony didn't fall short on him; it took patience to create the visual of the patient gene. And when he was finally done, born was the effect that could cure impulse. Born was the effect that could cure baseless decision. And those who had patience ruled over those who did not.
A knock on my door told me that I hadn't heard Lynne honk her horn, and when I got up I saw that I was right; inside the minivan with her were her offspring.
Dave and Sarah came walking down the second floor hallway, and for a brief moment Dave stopped in front of my door to ask me a question as Sara went on. “Have you ever heard of Bowbat?”
Lynne made her way downstairs into the basement of the building for she had forgotten that she left her book of poems on the washing machine top. When she arrived to collect it, she saw a figure in the distance looking downward into it.
The figure turned around as he was startled by Lynne, then set upon a gaze by the two; Lynne was embarrassed that her work was being read, and he was embarrassed that he had been caught snooping into another's work.
“I'm sorry, I saw this here and couldn't help but read it,” Charles Foster Kane said walking over to Lynne to hand her her book. “It's okay,” Lynne was still embarrassed.
“Have a good evening,” Kane said as he went for the stairs. But Lynne, as embarrassed as she were, was equally curious, “Did you like any of the poems?” Kane looked back and almost looked eager to answer the question.
“I only had time to read a few, but Mist Falling On Cedars struck out to me, because it was almost written in a childish way, or in a way meant for children, but it is definitely mostly adults who are bigots, so I found that irony very funny and at the same time unsettling.” Lynne was taken aback by the dissection because this was nothing she intended, but nonetheless took it as a compliment on her prose. “Yes, I was definitely trying to show the dichotomy between children and adults and how sometimes literature meant for children is really meant for adults,” Lynne almost blushed.
“Where did you study?,” Kane asked. “Well, I went to college but only for a couple years,” Lynne replied. “Ah, have you published this book? I'd love to purchase a copy.”
“Not yet, but I can e-mail you a copy if you'd like.” He agreed.
By the time David left my apartment, we had gone on from a bizarre sport to the subject of death. It truly made me realize that in some way, death is connected to everything.
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Dreamweaver can pass through plains carrying objects or ideas, humans do not possess this ability. As far as we know, I guess. There is no evidence that in death we can pass on with anything, material or immaterial. But there is, however, evidence of the fact that we can pass from the realworld into the dreamworld carrying ideas. This doesn't tell us that we can travel into the afterlife with ideas, but it lends itself to the debate of living the material life.
The fact that one can travel with ideas but not objects may perhaps be a way to objectionably define the immaterial life as more important than that of the material life.
King Solomon has said “They take nothing from their toil that they can carry in their hands,” which is in reference to the fact that one may work very hard in life but cannot take their rewards with them when they die. They must instead leave them behind on Earth for the one who comes after them.
It is also in reference to something Solomon says repeatably in his work, that it is best to find satisfaction in one's own toil. “To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness,” all which are immaterial things that God would give you to help you find satisfaction in whatever materials you possess. I believe this is confirmed by two verses which come near the end of his work, “For this is your lot in life and in your toilsome labor under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the realm of the dead, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.”
I often try to remember that when it is time for us to move on, whether it be from a place or from a segment of our life, there is only so much we can carry in our hands, but in our minds, we can carry universes. When the homeless woman walked past the wealthy woman's estate, the wealthy woman asked the homeless woman what it was she had left to live for. And the homeless woman quoted a line from her favorite poem, “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.” When the wealthy woman turned back around to look at her estate, she wondered which it was, and when the homeless woman reached the end of the road, she wondered which she was in.
I had on a presentable shirt when the buzzer to Lynne's apartment went off and signified that Pedro had arrived with his family. Lynne placed the final plate on the dinner table and went to answer it while telling Sara and Dave that their guests had arrived.
I got up to greet them the moment they walked into the house; a father, a mother, two daughters and two sons. The moment I saw the mother, I could have sworn I had met her before but couldn't be sure of it. And I could have sworn in the same breath that she also swore while breathing at the same time as me that she had met me as well someplace.
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It wasn't until about ten minutes later, after the all the children had went into the bedroom, and while we were all sitting at the dinner table eating, that someone finally spoke up. “I know this might sound strange, but have I met you two before?,” Dakota asked.
Pedro looked at his wife confused, thinking it was most likely that Dakota was confused. A look of relief grew on Lynne's face, “I have literally been wondering if we've met before since I opened the door. I feel like we have definitely met before but I can't remember where.” “It's strange. Do you go to San Rashida often?,” Dakota asked. “I work there, but other than that, not too much.” Then she looked at me. “Not at all, really,” I answered. “Wait, you've met him as well?,” Lynne asked. “Yes, I'm pretty sure.” “Then I guess we can narrow it down to a time when we were together and in San Rashida,” Lynne suggested.
“Do you ride the train often?,” I asked. “Hardly,” Dakota replied. “Lynne works at the airport. You visited your mother last month. Maybe it was then?,” Pedro assumed.
“Hmm,” Dakota hummed. “It's possible,” Lynne also assumed. “It's so weird, I'm basically 99.9% sure I've met you before, but I can't for the life of me remember where,”
Lynne finished. I was 99.9% sure as well, and from the looks of it, so was Dakota, but for the rest of fifteen minutes we couldn't recall the event.
574-1806: ...
669-8488: ...
Toward the end, Lynne and Dakota exchanged phone numbers by one calling the other. And after they all left, Lynne and I immediately began discussing all the possible circumstances that may have led to us meeting Dakota, but we could think of not a single one that dove out into reality.
Pedro, Dakota and all of their children arrived home about an hour after leaving Chase. Entering their home, Dakota mentioned to her husband that she needed to make a phone call to a friend who was waiting. Pedro told his wife in return that he was tired and was going to turn in for the night. He promptly went away and into their bedroom.
835-8811: Hey Kota.
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Hey Kota.
574-1806: Hey just got back from dinner at a friend's, what's the word for the two on two tournament?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Hey just got back from dinner at a friend's, what's the word for the two on two tournament?
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835-8811: I'm in.
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: I'm in.
574-1806: Yes! Are you sure?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Yes! Are you sure?
835-8811: For sure.
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: For sure.
574-1806: Bounce, bounce, now who got game when it comes to this basketball?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Bounce, bounce, now who got game when it comes to this basketball?
835-8811: Facing other opponents that's over six feet tall.
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Facing other opponents that's over six feet tall.
574-1806: Can you shoot a three-pointer?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Can you shoot a three-pointer?
835-8811: Can you do the finger-roll?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Can you do the finger-roll?
574-1806: Can you cross-over, drop it down then take it to the hole?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Can you cross-over, drop it down then take it to the hole?
835-8811: Can you hoop it up? Alley-oop it up?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Can you hoop it up? Alley-oop it up?
574-1806: And when the ball is loose how fast can you scoop it up?
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: And when the ball is loose how fast can you scoop it up?
835-8811: Have your game-face on, I hope you're quick on your feet.
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Have your game-face on, I hope you're quick on your feet.
574-1806: Playing on concrete and taking NBA to the streets!
CBORD-WYONIU5G-CONT632[SPYWARE-MONITORING]: Playing on concrete and taking NBA to the streets!
Pedro laughed a bit to the tune of hearing his wife and her friend sing over entering a basketball tournament. And underneath the laughter, yet, he felt the guilt that came with 143 | FORM AND VOID
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spying on someone who trusts you, and never had he understood better the fact that before you can tell a lie to someone else, you have to lie to yourself first.
CAM00456: Men and women with suits and medical masks on seem to be discussing something in front of a row of vehicles.
CAM00183: In front of the church could be read the sign which reads “Thus David triumphed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone; he hit the Philistine and killed him, though he had no sword in his hand.” Several hours of monitoring this camera would eventually show the conclusion of a church session.
CAM53321: A family is shown moving out of their home of thirty years.
CAM77600: A man's face appears right in front of the camera as he disconnects it.
CAM99894: Hospital beds with oxygen tanks are shown being rolled out of a giant hotel.
Walkie #6: I got him here on the roof of the apartment at the corner of Gerald and Tube. I need back up or he'll escape as I climb up.
Walkie #2: I'm not too far from there, on my way.
Walkie #3: Yeah same.
Walkie #6: Alright I'll keep an eye on him.
“You're trapped!,” David shouted at Kane during a game of fugitive, “Pattie and Gun are coming and there will be no where for you to run.” Kane stood on the rooftop, thinking of his next move and how he would avoid capture. He glazed over the rooftops and knew he would have to attempt perhaps the most dangerous action that was ever performed in the history of fugitive.
Kane, leaning over a corner of the edge of the rooftop, looked down at Dave, who was looking up at him. “You got any bandaids?,” Kane asked. “Why would I have bandaids?,” Dave replied. After a moment of silence, Dave asked, “Why? What happened?” “Cut myself getting up here.” Another silence. “You got any candy, then?,”
Kane asked. Dave dug into his pockets and eventually threw Kane up some pieces of chocolate candies.
“Hey make sure you wipe off any blood from that cut, so Teddie Machete doesn't come after us,” Dave told Kane. “But it's still daytime,” Kane replied. “True, but still, I don't want some dog with blade teeth biting into my eyes,” Dave answered.
During the discussion of Teddie Machete, Sara arrived unexpectedly, “I thought I heard some people speaking over here.” “Yeah Kane is up there but I can't climb up because as soon as I do he'll climb down on the other side, so can you go stand on that side of the building so he has nowhere to go?” Kane watched as Sara promptly went to 144 | FORM AND VOID
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his only reasonable escape.
As Dave went to climb onto the rooftop, Kane threatened to jump onto the next rooftop. Observing the distance between the two buildings, Dave did not believe Kane had the guts, but there were times in the past when Kane went over-the-top. This was solved by the appearance of Pattie and Gun, who as soon as they arrived were positioned by Dave; Gun was sent to guard the entrance of the building that Kane threatened to jump onto; there was no roof access to that building which would trap Kane if Dave could occupy the current rooftop that Kane was on; and Pattie was sent to the next possible rooftop that Kane could jump onto had his roof-jump attempt to the next building been successful.
After everyone was stationed, Dave began climbing toward the rooftop. As he began to slowly foot the rooftop, Kane prepared to make good on his threat. Pattie watched from two rooftops away as he positioned himself to jump. Sara and Gun watched from below as he backed himself up. And David, watching from behind as Kane ran toward the other rooftop, watched on in terror.
Kristie, walking toward the incident, was amazed to see Kane's feet as they leapt off of the rooftop and into hangtime. She gasped for air as she saw Kane, all five feet one and one-hundred and twenty-three pounds of him, barely land on the edge of the next rooftop.
Kane laughed as he rolled to the center of the next rooftop while all of the others went into a frenzy. None of them could believe what they had just seen. The physical and athletic determinations were unreasonable to them. And after they had collected themselves, they again prepared to collect Kane.
With no access to the lower levels and Pattie guarding the next rooftop, Kane was stuck. Gun could not climb up to him, so there was only one way to actually get to Kane; Dave would have to reiterate what Kane had done only moments prior. And though he was prepared to do this, it was not to be as Dam's voice came through the walkie-talkies.
Walkie #1: Hey you guys should come over here right now. There's a big ass game of some game going on at the school.
Walkie #4: What?
Walkie #3: What do you mean some game?
Walkie #1: There are a bunch of people playing a game here at the court of the school. You guys should come here now and see this!
Walkie #2: We're coming now.
Kane was able to jump back onto the other rooftop so they could all join Dam in this supposed new game. When they finally made it to the school, they could hear the large 145 | FORM AND VOID
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gathering of a loud crowd.
Dam had waved his peers over and when they got to him they saw that he was with Lady Glabella, who had run into him on the street as she was heading over to the school for the game. On the way, she both invited and explained to Dam that this game, called
“Bowbat,” was played annually to celebrate, honor and remember all of the people who died from the virus that plagued this town ages ago. When Dam and Lady Glabella got to the school and to the game, he was given a piece of paper that explained the game to him:
“Each team is split into two groups of 75 attackers and 75 defenders. The defenders begin in a defensive orientation respective to their pole, while the attackers assume position some measure away from the other team's pole. A team concedes if its pole is brought lower than 30° to the horizontal (beginning perpendicular, or 90°, to the horizontal).”
Before the tragedy of the virus, the game was played annually in Woodmire, and the game itself was a large attraction for the town itself, attracting thousands of people from San Rashida, Paradise Island, Grand Searle and Ocidico, as the event went on for three days. Even as the town was being abandoned, people came to see this wonderful event, but now it has been reduced to something that is only ceremonial.
Lady Glabella saw amazement and wonder in all seven of the children's faces as they watched the event, but she couldn't understand. Not thinking much about it, she joined them in spectating.
The wonder in the children didn't come from the game itself, as strange as it was. The wonder came from a practice so human. It was only some time ago that Dave and Kane spoke of a dog who could smell blood and had blades as teeth, but this, it was so ordinary, and that is what made it so strange. These were human people doing humanly things in a place so empty and abandoned. The final vestige of Woodmire before it is completely enveloped by lore.
A
ugust 13 th , 1992
I've finished my first movie as a straight-up hardcore pornstar. I guess I'd say the transition wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be, but I'd still rather be making more meaningful movies. This movie right now has two possible titles. Thug Wife, a play on “thug life,” or Thuglover, a play on “niggerlover.” As you guessed it, it's an interracial flick starring Roxy Nights and a bunch of dark and lovely gangbangers. Literally. The story has them running a large drug organization and I'm the shortie they call when they get jungle fever.
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The movie itself is pretty self-explanatory, but one thing I did love about it was the box art. It's one of those police office board of suspects boards and it has all the black guys on it and in the middle of the whole thing is a random white woman. I don't know why that made me laugh so hard, it's almost as if I were apart of their gang. I guess really, in the movie I am. Maybe in the sequel they'll start selling women and they'll hire me as deputy of operations. That sounds out there. But since I'm practically all fake now, it doesn't hurt to make fake movies. One thing I wonder is, and I know these movies had very little impact to begin with, is if these movies will have any impact AT ALL. Any positive impact. Will they bring two people closer? A bridge to bring people closer in general? I don't think love conquers all, but I do think physical attraction conquers all. A racist white man is powerless if he finds himself physically attracted to a particular black woman. His physical and sexual attraction to her will defeat any form of bigotry he subscribes to, I think. He doesn't love her, he doesn't even have feelings for her really, other than lust, but how can you belittle an entire race if you want to fuck one of their members. Maybe sex is how we can all get along. Allow the thought and possibility of making love with anyone to enter into your heart and maybe we'll all become tolerant. I don't know. One thing I do know for sure is that the porn industry is like the only superficial industry that recognizes that everyone is beautiful. There is a type of porn for everyone because everyone wants to love and make love. Even if you think something is unattractive about yourself, someone somewhere out there will find it attractive. Some of them will even pay to see it. I am all for porn, even the lowly hardcore porn, and I do believe it is more positive than it is harmful, but I guess we still need to observe the harm it brings. Porn will always somehow be a rejection of women the same way romance novels are a rejection of men.
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Chapter 93
16.5.13.4.1.19
2:3:10:93
AFTER leaving the compositional notebook room, the narrator left additionally to check his mail. After checking, he saw that he had received an additional mail of 1F. It appeared to be some kind of science magazine, and promptly he went to give it to its rightful owner. After knocking and waiting, he noticed one of its top stories: “Fleeing Woodmire: They weren't allowed to leave the town, so many of them devised a way to escape.”
“After all those bodies were found there, I've tried to avoid driving through it,” the hairstylist said in reply to Olya. “Did they ever find out who did the killings?,” a waiting patron asked. “I don't think so,” Olya replied as the hairstylist turned her head. “I love the feel of your hair,” the hairstylist commented. Olya thanked her.
“Imagine having to drive through Woodmire after dark,” the patron said. Both the stylist and Olya gave a shocked facial expression. Before either could comment, a new patron walked into the salon. “Hey Tasha,” the hair stylist welcomed her, “haven't seen you in a bit. Where's your friend I gave red hair? Oh, and how's your mom?” “Becca is around, and my mom? She's good, she's planning on getting her hair done tomorrow.”
“Here I hope.” “Definitely here,” Latasha laughed.
Soon the hair stylist told the patrons of Latasha's salesmanship, telling them that Tasha sold beauty products and was interested in studying cosmetics.
A few minutes later, Olya was done with her appointment and began gathering her things to go, but she was curious to see what Tasha was selling and struck up a conversation with her.
Tasha, one plus one by all, detailed the many beauty products she was selling, and at one point even sprayed a bit of perfume for Olya to smell. When Olya asked the price of some of the products, she was amazed at how expensive they were. “I'm going to have to put in twice as many hours at work before I can afford that!,” Olya laughed. “Work? You should just play the lotto,” Tasha joked. “What's that saying? 'If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have no luck at all',” Olya finished. “Well here, let me give you this for free so you remember me after you put in those extra hours.” Gently, Latasha applied a bit of foundation onto Olya's face, and then showed her a mirror. Olya was surprised at how well it worked.
After leaving the hair salon, Olya began walking toward her vehicle when suddenly a young woman approached her. “Hi, I bought this lottery ticket but didn't realize I wouldn't have enough money to take the train home, I was hoping you'd like to buy it off me?,” Rebecca asked. At first Olya understood she had no use for a lottery ticket, but 148 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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simultaneously occurring with this thought was the young woman from before's joke about playing the lotto. Olya made many advances to and from in her mind about buying the ticket until finally she asked, “How much is it?”
“Twenty dollars? I thought lottery tickets were like five bucks?” “You can win more money with this one, that's why it costs more.” Olya thought more on the subject until she convinced herself that buying this lottery ticket could not only be fate, but also points toward karma because she is helping this young woman return home to her family. Olya reached into her purse, gave her a twenty dollar bill, and then received the lottery ticket in return. Rebecca thanked her, and then disappeared.
The home was bought today. In a week or so will be the last time I'll see it. I'm in it now with Lynne to gather the few remaining materials.
As we went about the house, she was curious about where we may have met Dakota, and I could tell she was wondering it the entire time.
At one point she offered the suggestion that maybe perhaps we briefly interacted with her while we were on our way to PaintDrive. But I had no recollection, nor she, of ever interacting with anyone besides the employees that night. Then I offered the suggestion that maybe perhaps we briefly interacted with her while we were on our way to the subway, and possibly she was on her way to see her husband. But she had no recollection, nor I, of ever speaking with Dakota on the platform of a subway station.
The wonder soon ceased as I came upon Lynne's collection of boxed lingerie. Still daylight out, earlier in the morning she told me she wanted to do something dangerous this time. Something along the lines of taking pictures in the wooded area near the home that contained a pond. For a moment I saw in her eyes the type of sexual confidence that allowed for danger. She went back and forth and dwelled on it until she decided it was too dangerous and would just settle for the backyard where she would still retain some amount of privacy. And the greenness of the grass, brownness of the trees and the blueness of the skies, we were in the backyard.
The first one had a large black rose pearl earring a top that covered most of her chest in flowers, and a bottom that covered most of her engaging waist in flowers. To the side was a dress that came along with it.
The next one was like most of the other stocking combinations but had no garter belt and was connected directly to her black top. What was different about this outfit were the oval shaped sunglasses that came with it and the platinum style hair color wig.
She was all in red. A lacy red silky top that went to her waist where you saw nothing but red string panties. Next were red stockings and red ankle strapped heels.
The last came with a red wig, fishnet stockings and zebra-stripped heels.
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booty jiggle as she walked away toward the home, at one point whistling back to a bird who potentially whistled at her.
The first thought, which led to a series of thoughts, was the corruption of her beauty.
Not her sophomoric beauty, that was lost long ago, but her sophisticated beauty. And by the time I was on the third or fourth thought, I possessed the guile of the deranged.
When I got back inside, only a few moments later I found that the same whistling that came from the bird and Lynne was now repeating in my mind. Naturally, with exponential thoughts I began to wonder why melodies can get stuck in someone's head.
Though the womanly form still maintained a large area of my mind, and though I had the pennant desire within my loins, I went forward with abstract thought despite the fact that it may not have been nor logically nor pretty.
Why do melodies get stuck in our heads? I introduce the idea and possibility that it is because of birds. But when did the first singing birds appear? And in relation to that, when did the first humans join them in habitat?
A melody getting stuck in one's head, I am going to assume, must come from some kind of evolutionary advantage or a way to increase the chance of survival.
If there is a moment in early earthly history where birdkind and humankind traversed the same plains, there may be evidence to support the thought that a melody gets stuck in a human's head because of singing birds.
Consider the greater honeyguide bird; it calls out to humans to guide them to bees'
nests, and after the humans have attacked the bees' nests, the bird feeds on the remains.
Ancient humans may have relied on certain melodies that, when followed, helped them survive, such as in the case of the greater honeyguide's melodies. Memorizing and having this melody repeat in your mind would be a good way of being able to identify it quickly and effectively, and this process brings us to today where melodies infest our minds and like to stay a while.
In short, I believe it is possible that melodies get stuck in our heads because long ago we relied on birdsongs for many forms of assistance. This tactic of course has stayed with us, even though now very few of us find it necessary to survive, but it makes you wonder what current tactics we use today that will be found suppressed in humans millions of years from now.
The thought of the future ironically made me think of something from my past because in my past's present it was done for the future.
When I was younger and watching television with my father, I was introduced to the idea of time capsules. Soonafter, my father and mother convinced me to create a time capsule of my own, so for all of ten minutes I gathered various toys I owned that I no longer was interested in and buried them in the backyard. Walking over to the spot 150 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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currently with a shovel, I began digging back toward the time before chaos.
I didn't bury it too far, and when I removed the box from the ground, at first I had regretted ever even having the idea to plant nor dig up the artifacts.
It was when I walked into the nearly empty living room that the bottom of the box ripped open and all of the toys fell flat on the ground, some going this way and others going that way. One toy managed to knock over an uncapped water bottle that I supposed belonged to Lynne, and slowly a pool began to form in the void.
It was easy to find a mop that Lynne was using earlier in the day, and as I mopped the watermess my mind became lost in thought.
There are often lost places in the metaphysical realm that you can't find your way back to. In a certain sense, it's what they mean when they say “you can never go back home.”
And it is almost infinitely easier to travel in the real world than it is to travel in the dream world. How do you even begin a trip back to a place in a dream? It is easier to travel a thousand miles back to a former location in the real world than it is to walk a few feet to a bed and dream of a former location. Despite the fact that that dream place is literally a part of you, it is much more difficult to find.
Indeed, to get back to that dream place, it is determined by the awesome frailty of fate or chance, whichever you insist, versus the free will and decision making process afforded to you by just traveling in the real physical world. And even when traveling in dreams, it is extremely difficult to get to where you want to go if your dream doesn't automatically begin there.
But finding the place you want to be, whether it is in the dream or in real life, brings a sudden satisfaction to the individual. People who you communicate with often you become fond of. Nothing more than fondness a feeling of familiarity. It is why the stray find comfort in the smiling. That smile gives them a dream home; a place to be and a place where they are wanted.
Ah, her sweet smile. It conquers the lynneliness. She makes me feel so good. I guess these pictures sometimes aren't any more purposeful than for jerkoff purposes. Leak a little bit of breast milk. That's the trick and I'm going now. Two hands. Pound. In and out, back and forth, up and down. Tao. God damn it. Why did I just think of Tao. Well, that's it. It's ruined now.
J une 28 th , 1951
Pool Street used to be where all the girls no one wanted went. The specialty girls. An albino girl. A girl who stutters. Sexy in their own way with a mind for slanging tit but 151 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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with a fatal flaw so they get sent down here. The first day it was just a bunch of girls hanging around, and then the police brought all the hammies down to Pool street in a wagon and let them out. Told them all prostitution was done here now. They could do whatever they wanted here as long as it was done only here, as long as they paid, and as long as they didn't make us do anything we didn't want to do. Any guy who was looking for sex on any other street was arrested, any gal who was giving sex on any other street was arrested. One thing Peaches has already mentioned is the fact that us Hamilton girls will have to bring down our prices to compete with the Jackson girls. The Grant girls.
The Benjamin girls. It will get to the point that they either just drive us out of business or we have to work three times as much just to make what we were making before all of this happened. The only other hope we have are the specialist men who were our loyal clients already. I had an appointment with one earlier today. This guy likes the way the back of my head looks and is always restyling it to look a certain way. He fixes my hair, and then puts me on a couch facing away from him and he takes pictures. He likes to cum on my ass if he thinks he's outdone himself with a particular hairjob. Some days if I don't feel like going back to work, he lets me stay over. One time he's even let me spend the night.
If this experiment by the police doesn't end soon, I might have to tell him that I love him.
I might even have to marry him.
May
11 th , 2010
“ Upward flows the Truth form” and “16.5.13.4.1.19” are two tattooes I just got to help me remember to not be depressed. My number of viewers have gone down since the introduction of these virtual girls. Still, my last show was decent and I made SOME
money, which is better than no money. I brought out the Dildozer and that thing is a moneymaker of sorts. During the show it gave me a London creampie and I was cockrocked. A creamsicle cock full of jizz and after insert it right into my coinslot pussy.
I've been told I have a pornstar face, but my pussy isn't so loose that when it opens up it looks like a butterfly. This website used to be a Princess Pool, but now it's just a cesspool. The custom virtual women now look lifelike. You basically can't tell if it's a simulation or not minus the taskbar. You want to see your guy friend's girlfriend naked?
Get a picture of her and upload it. If you have a voice sample of her, upload that too. If not, try the voice creator. Once the image is uploaded, the 3D model is created. Did I mention this affects pornstars too? Oh yes, you can use the models to generate hardcore porn. Imagine the possibilities. You can literally bring back dead pornstars and create new content. I had the idea of taking selfies of myself stylized in different ways and offering them to the men who use this virtual thing. Maybe use it to my advantage and 152 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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make money off of it. Maybe if that works, I can create a platform for other women to sell images of themselves to sell to the virtual guys. I don't know. Things could be worse.
If you write philosophy you'll be poor and die hungry. If you're pretty and post nude photos of yourself I guess you'll get by. I always have my beauty to fall back on. My life may not be perfect, but my lashes are.
In the early hours of the warm blue morning, Charles F. Kane entered Sumn Yung Guy's motor vehicle and they began their travels to the train station.
Guy, while driving, noticed a book Kane had in his bag, and being intrigued by the title of the book, which was “The Devil and the Judge,” he asked him about it.
Kane thought about the question and then about how he would answer it. Finally he decided that the only way to answer Guy's question was to ask him the book's most important question: Say you were walking on a road and suddenly both God and Satan approached you. They tell you they are both about to make you an offer, and you can only accept one. Satan's offer is that should you be cast into Hell, he will make sure you are put in a place with a less intense fire and less suffering. God's offer is that should you be lifted into Heaven, he will make sure you are put in a place with the greatest of the greatest of rewards and position. Which offer do you accept?
This question was asked to Guy, who for a moment thought about it. Finally, Guy answered that he would accept Satan's offer. Kane agreed with him, too saying he would accept Satan's offer, and then went on to tell him about the book itself.
In a court of jungle law, Satan sat in the defendant's chair awaiting the judge. When the judge arrived, all rose and then sat. After sitting, the judge saw that Satan had no attorney at his side. This was because there was no one who could defend Satan's actions.
But came soon Satan's request to approach the judge and he was allowed. When Satan reached the judge, he made him an offer. Satan told the judge that if he were to allow Satan to go free, should the judge be cast into Hell in the afterlife, he would make sure the judge was put in a place with a less intense fire and less suffering. The judge thought about the offer for a moment, but eventually, perhaps inevitably, he agreed, and only a few moments later declared a mistrial as there was no one to defend the Devil.
Kane, having read this book more than once and having read a tremendous amount of literary analysis for it, explained to Guy that this book was not really about the Devil or the judge, but really about the inference and implication of what people really think about themselves and how people really judge themselves. It was also an assumption on what the Devil thought about people. Perhaps above all, it went into the hypothesis of how the world viewed itself as the average person would accept Satan's offer over God's offer.
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that would remain with him for the rest of the day. “We all want to be good, and some of us are even decent, but in our hearts we know that Satan was given reign over the Earth.”
Finally reaching the town in which he worked, Kane saw that construction on the library was now moving speedily. This excited him.
After telling Kaylene of the sight he saw, he said he was compelled to donate a third of his books, and also began telling her about an author who lived in the same apartment building as him.
At lunch time, Kane noticed that he had received a message from Guy. He had been thinking extensively about what Kane said the story really meant, and Guy wondered if he himself had a low opinion of his own character. Being a taxi cab driver, often he would find himself talking to customers if they were inviting, and to the inviting, he asked them the same question Kane had asked him only hours earlier. He told Kane that he must have asked at least fourteen people so far in the young day and only one of them said they would take God's offer. While this softened his insecurity, he was infinitely curious about the individual who would take God's offer. When he told her that she was the only one who has answered in that way so far today, she responded. “Faith isn't just about knowing that God is good, it's also about knowing that you too are good.”
“We should leave the fridge right there, right?,” suggested Pattie. “Yeah, leave that shit right there,” replied Kristie. “It's nice, it's straight,” finished Sara. The three had recently moved the black fridge to the side of the church's backdoor entrance.
While still sitting at the backend of the church, Christina asked Sara about her alleged boyfriend, but Sara only shrugged the topic back into obscurity and gave the implication she was no longer speaking to Zach. This was the same type of shrug Pattie gave only a few days earlier when asked about Toby.
“Do you guys think the story about Lady Glabella is true?,” asked Sara suddenly. The story Sara had been referring to was the pinnacle urban myth told of Lady Glabella: She killed her son and then hid his body, and when she realized what she had done, she rammed her forehead into the stove repeatedly.
Like many things said about the abandoned town, Pattie and Kristie were agnostic about the stories told. They neither believed nor denied in the tales. And things were about to get a bit less stranger as they heard someone lugging something in the distance.
“Oh, hello!,” Florella said to the girls. “Speak of the Devil,” Pattie said under her breath. And just like that, Florella took a seat next to them.
For a long time the girls learned about the history of Woodmire, of at least what Florella could tell them. And while the histories were terribly unlike the urban myths of horror they had heard before, they were every bit as intrigued. Perhaps the most intriguing of stories was about Florella herself, when she told them why she still lived in 154 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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the abandoned town of Woodmire.
The volatile relationship between her and her son was known to most of the community, and every so often after an argument her son would vanish for hours. After an argument one day, her son vanished but never returned. When her son still had not returned the next day, Florella awoke after sleeping in her basement, but because it was still dark and she was still tired, she walked right into a support structure and bruised the area just in between her eyebrows. When she arrived at the police department to file a missing persons report, the police were dismissive of her as they assumed she fought with her son and he would promptly return. This was not the case, and the guilt she feels had forced her to stay in the same home for decades in the case he should one day return.
After Florella's departure to the grocery store, the girls remained to talk about what they had just learned; of Woodmire and of Lady Glabella.
603-2305: Hello?
892-7419:
603-2305: Heeeeeelllllllllo?
“No answer, just static,” Gun said to Dam after answering his phone to no reply. The four boys had been lounging around in the dead playground just outside the murder site of the apartment building.
“I heard that the town's seasons are like, backwards. In winter, everything grows grotesquely and in spring everything dies,” said Kane. “But we just saw leaves in spring,”
replied Dave. “Fuck, you're right,” Kane said after thinking for a moment. “You see, not everything we hear about this place is true,” Dave said to the other three boys.
After Gun got up from a comfortable place he was sitting, Kane snatched it and the comfortableness together.
“Say, who do you think named this town Mirewood, anyway?,” asked Kane.
“Mirewood, I thought it was Woodmire?,” replied Dam. “I said Mirewood?,” Kane asked. “You definitely just said Mirewood,” Gun added. “Mirewood!,” Dave said suddenly while throwing up his arms in a dramatic fashion. Everyone wondered why he had just done that, and in his retort, he reminded them all of a scene from a horror movie they had all watched earlier in the spring. Then promptly he neverminded.
“I'm sure this town was incorporated by the Mirewood family,” said Gun sarcastically, “right after they figured out how to create zombies.” “Weren't they the first to invent moving statues?,” added Dam. “Actually they were, and Maeve Mirewood's statue is rumored to be somewhere on the edge of this town,” finished Gun.
“All right, all right,” said Kane impatiently, “we all know you guys are just making 155 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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this stuff up.” Kane looked to Dave for confirmation, but suddenly Kane's phone began ringing.
655-3684: Hello?
892-7419:
“No one answered, but I heard white noise,” Kane replied. Gun's mind began to process the fact that this had just happened to him. “What was the number that called you?,” Gun asked. Kane got up from his spot and walked over to Gun to show him his phone, and immediately Gun recognized it as the number that just called him only a few minutes before with no answer.
“Strange,” described Kane. “Should I try calling back?,” asked Kane. “No,” said Dave, “they'll get some of your data or something if you call them.”
Kane took the seat next to Gun and then suddenly asked a question that had been on his mind the entire day, “Is a hot dog a sandwich?”
“No,” answered Dave almost immediately as the others thought about it. “But if you put cheese and ham in a hot dog bun, is that a sandwich?,” asked Gun. “Yes,” answered Dave hesitantly, thinking it may have been a trick question. “So technically, if you put meat in a hot dog bun, it's a sandwich, which is what a hot dog is right?,” finished Gun. “I don't know, I feel like a sandwich is more just a, like, umbrella term or something,”
included Dam, “like how you can use basketball to refer to both the NBA and the WNBA even though the NBA and the WNBA are two different things.” Everyone thought about Dam's analysis, but before anyone could agree or disagree, Dave's phone began ringing.
922-0193: Hello?
892-7419:
922-0193: Who's there?
“Number?,” Gun asked. “Eight nine two, seven four one nine,” Dave responded.
“That's the same number that just called me and Kane,” a confused look came upon Gun's face. Then Gun noticed something. With the arrangement of the seating, this now placed Dave as the closest individual to where Gun and Kane had been sitting when they received their calls. He relayed this information to the others and they saw that he was correct in his notice.
This location was at the very center of the playground, and soon Gun told Dam to occupy the place that seemed to attract this telephone number. And then they waited. And waited.
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Laughing softly, Gun asked “Yo you guys remember when Kane punked Dam, when he slapped the basketball out of Dam's hands?” Everyone except Dam began laughing.
Interrupting, Dam said “What about when Kane punked Gun? Remember? We were playing baseball and Kane was pitching and he was throwing some smoke. Gun started crowding the plate so Kane smacked him with the ball right in the arm and since we were playing with blood rules he didn't get to walk. Gun backed off off the plate like a little bitch.” All laughter transferred to the new event, but suddenly stopped when Dam's phone began ringing. All eyes were on Dam Son as he answered the telephone call.
446-3709: Hello?
892-7419:
922-0193: Who is this?
Dam nodded his head as he hung up the phone as he knew what the question would be. But staring at the number on his phone, and seeing it for the first time that day with his own eyes as opposed to hearing it, he seemed to recognize it. “I've seen this number before,” Dam persuaded, “I've seen it somewhere in this town.” As the conversation of the telephone went on for about five more minutes, every better part of those five minutes had Dam trying rigorously to remember where he had seen this phone number before, and then, suddenly, it hit him. “I remember!,” he shouted, “it was in the field where we saw that firetruck in the ditch!” “What do you mean, it was on the firetruck?,” Gun asked.
“Yeah, I think it was the firestation's number.” Quickly, Dave suggested that they confirm this by visiting the truck itself, and just as quickly they all agreed and began their march.
On their way to the firetruck, the boys grabbed and added the girls and explained to them of the weird occurrence that had just occurred and why they were marching to the field in which they saw the abandoned firetruck.
Passing the clocktower, they finally arrived at the fields, and soon at the firetruck that laid strangely in the ditch.
Dam Son went into the ditch and searched around it for the number as the others watched, and once he found it, they all watched as he looked back and forth at the phone and the firetruck. Once he confirmed that it was an exact match, a sort of pending fright came over all the kids. Was the town calling to them? Was it aware of them? Aware of their presence? A callback to the number yielded no response as there was no service at that location. A quick search inside the firetruck by all of the kids prompted nothing.
Nothing but the fact that this place was ethereal.
Niko, described as a white male, thin, glasses with thick frames and six feet tall, 157 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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received a phone call from his sister, Shantea, described as a black female, chubby, often stylistically dressed and in possession of a classic polarizing attitude. The two siblings spoke of their Asian father, who adopted them long ago when he was a medic in the military operating in Vietnam.
Shantea gave note to Niko, who in addition to being his sister was also his assistant as they both found employment in the world of artistic endeavor, that their father was having nightmares again, this time about fire. Niko had been traveling with his boyfriend at the expense of business to view an art gallery when he learned from Shantea that earlier in the day their father, who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, was transported back to the time of his time living in Woodmire and repeatedly attempted to call the firestation to tell them of the fire. He became angry when he learned that each dial resulted in absolutely no dial tone.
Lynne and the narrator were in the narrator's apartment when the both of them were reminded of a movie they had watched earlier in the week. Like they had done with many previous movies before, they began reciting some of the movies most premier lines.
“You're a fucking nutjob, you know that?,” the narrator recited. “Nutjob?,” Lynne asked in a reciting manner.
At this very moment, Dave and Sara had been passing the narrator's apartment door through the second floor hallway when they heard the faint recitings. “You want a nutjob?,” they heard their mother ask, “I'll give you a fucking nutjob,” she finished.
The two looked at each other, and then at the door, thought for a moment, and then at eachother again, then proceeded down the stairs to the their venture. They, like the rest of the children, had subtracted the truth and told their parents that they were having a sleepover at a friend's home.
About half way between Woodmire and Chase the motor-road hastily joins the rail-road and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a meadow of moths, a purgatory between two worlds; a fantastic landmark where terror grows like trees into ridges and hills and evil branches who strangle like arms, where ashes take the form of choking lungs and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of monsters who move dimly and already crumbling through the sickly air. Occasionally, a line of thick fog crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the monsters swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
The group of seven first met at the backend of the church at seven o'clock PM.
Though it had not been dark yet, darkness was approaching. And when darkness did fall, the seven became victim to a confusing Mirewood.
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“This is why we shoulda came when it was still light,” suggested Pattie, who feared the town would begin to shapeshift as Alondra had mentioned before. As the children walked on, they came across new portions of the town they had never seen before.
The clocktower was not new to them, but what was new to them was the time it displayed. “You guys, every time we've passed this clock, hasn't it always been stuck at 1:23?,” Sara asked the others. “Indeed,” Kane answered, “And now not only is it moving, it's currently at 3:21!,” Sara said in an exciting yet frightened manner.
“What if the 3:33 time is based off of the clocktower and not our real time?,” Dam Son asked. “Well, we'll know in a few minutes then,” Dave replied, “but either way, some biblical shit is about to happen at 3:33.”
As they walked on, no one really mentioned it, but Sara's excited fright had put in all of their minds that the clocktower was somehow now alive. As alive as any of the monsters they had only ever heard of, and perhaps the unassuming clocktower, unbeknownst to them and in retrospect, was the first true monster they ever saw in Mirewood.
For a small amount of time, the kids compared the kitchen knives they all brought, then suddenly they each heard a sound. It appeared to be the sound of birds, a few of them flying overhead and from tree to tree. The children continued to walk, thinking it was somewhat cool to see so many birds flying at night, but at one soon moment Sara let out an extremely loud scream. As the other children were now tense, wondering what she had screamed at, she merely pointed as she ran, and when the kids looked in the direction she pointed, they saw an owl staring at them with the spookiness that could only come from Mirewood.
All the children were running now from a stationary owl, and when they finally collected themselves, it was in front of the old dirty pond.
“Give me a Gotz Hotz,” Dave demanded from Kane in need of a refreshment after the scare. As Kane looked through his bag, he realized he had forgotten the bag of candy in his room, “I got none.” Dave, disappointed, replied, “You got no Nimeys, you got no Gotz Hotz, what do you got?” “I gotta get outta here,” Kane replied still in half-terror.
Looking into the distance, Kristie responded, “No, we are here,” she emphasized the
“are.” This is when they realized they were next to the pond, which across the pond was the old playground, which of course is where it was rumored that a portal to Hell opened up at 3:33 AM, and just inside the portal; any observer could see all of Mirewood's monsters' souls.
Walking around the pond they finally came to sit at the playground in which near proximity was the murder house. The first checkpoint was midnight, and when it came by the children had talked many things. The girls talked much about Florella, who they were 159 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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now simply calling “Flo,” and about her immense game because she lives without power.
Kane asked if the others thought it was possible that a song could get stuck inside a bird's head. The subject of hotdogs as sandwiches came up again, as to which Pattie commented that perhaps a hotdog could be a “sub-sandwich” in a joking manner.
All of this conspired into the subject of foods and made Dave say “I feel like an ice cream.” Kane thought it weird, and replied, “I feel like a chicken running around with its head cut off.” Dam Son looked at Kane strangely, then proceeded to tell the others what he had learned of the Ice Cream man within the week.
“Apparently he was obsessed with roadkill, so he would pick up dead animals on his routes and store them in the ice cream truck's freezer, and sometimes kids would find animal body parts in their ice cream,” Son finished. “Eww!,” all three girls whispered so as to not awake any ghosts.
For comedy, Dave began whistling the tune so immediately associated with the Ice Cream man and his ice cream truck, but not more than three seconds into the whistling, Sara noticed a figure in the corner of her eye.
It was the figure of most likely a youngish woman who had noticed them, and in the darkish terror of her silhouette, seemed to be staring right at them. When the languid figure began walking toward them the fear of the children was raised exponentially.
Some of them almost began to sit up.
Finally revealing herself under a dim light, it was indeed a young woman in very revealing clothing. The presence of the youngish woman felt strange to them all, but not in the way it would feel strange if, say, it was the Ice Cream man or any of the other lorish characters the children had heard about. It was strange because, in fact, she was the opposite of any of them; she seemed to be ordinary, a human, and without wickedry.
“You guys are brave to be out here at this time,” she laughed as she sat down in between Pattie and Kristie, “you do know this is Woodmire, right?” “We came to see the portal to Hell open up at 3:33,” Kane blurted out because of fear. The youngish woman laughed again, “I've never heard of that one before.” “What's your name?,” Kane asked, again out of fear and a hint of suspicion. His reasoning and theory was that the lorish characters were voids of evil and would not remember anything personally identifying.
“Sierra,” she said, bringing a sort of calm to Kane.
The next checkpoint was 3:00, and by that time Sierra was still sitting with the children talking many various things. “Hey, it's almost 3:33,” she noted. They all came to note this as well. And she saw the fear raise in their faces just a little bit.
“Do you guys want to hear the scariest story ever?,” Sierra asked. They all, very hesitantly, said yes and yeah and okay. “All right,” she said, and then began.
“This is not just a scary story, but a real story,” she emphasized the “real.” After the 160 | 16.5.13.4.1.19
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presence of the realness sunk within the children, she continued her real scary story.
“There was a little girl named Maeve who only knew darkness. She was born in a pitch black shed and in that shed is all she has ever known. Despite not being actually blind, she has never seen anything but darkness, so the concept of sight is nothing she would ever understand. Each night a figure comes to her shed in the darkness to feed her and then leaves. Most of the time, though, when the figure is not bringing her food, in the distance she hears the faint sounds of chainsaws and people screaming. Something that, while she has no understanding of, has managed to make her bones chill even on the hottest nights. And one night, while she laid asleep, the figure brought someone into her shed. She did not see this or see the person, but when she awoke, she became aware of the person because they began speaking. 'Hello? Is someone there?,' the voice asked. She responded, saying yes, and the other voice continued. 'Sorry, I cannot see you because I am blind,' the voice apologized. Maeve now understood blindness to be the same disability she herself had, even though in reality she did not. And that night the other voice told her that she was dying from being attacked by the figure which brought her here, but during the attack she managed to steal the figure's keys. Upon her final breaths, the voice prayed that one day Maeve be given the blessing from God to finally see.
Taking the keys from the voice, Maeve found the door and unlocked it, then freed herself from the shed and entered the dark night. She began seeing forms and shadows as she walked toward the sound of screams and chainsaws. Finally, she found herself walking through a playground... This very playground we are in now... Headed toward that apartment building there,” Sierra pointed northward and the children gasped. “With each step through this playground and toward that building, the chainsaw and screams grew louder and louder. She had no idea the terror she was about to witness. She had no idea the terror of mankind because she had been blind to it all her life. And then finally, she arrived at the window and looked through it. There, she saw a man, wearing the head of a horse, and sawing the waist of a woman who was still alive. Once the woman was completely severed in half, Maeve screamed and the figure looked at her through the evil horse's eyes. The fright Maeve felt was unbearable, and just at the window, she began clawing out her own eyes so that she could return to the peace of the darkness.”
The children were terrified that the story happened where they were now, but their terror also came with many questions. Eventually Sierra revealed to them that the story was not actually real but a scary story you tell people using the settings of your current location. If she had been telling this story in a supermarket, then the supermarket was to be the setting so that the audience could feel the horrific presence of Maeve walking through where they were in the supermarket. And because they were at a playground, Maeve walked through a playground.
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Still entrenched in some form of hostility, everyone at the playground became aware of a shadowy figure moving in the distance on a sidewalk. It seemed to be that of a fat man, bald, who was walking his dog. Perhaps of most likely a neighboring town, it seemed to be that this man was simply walking his dog and taking a leisurely stroll through. And just like that, he was gone.
As everyone sat, talking and half spooked, souls were rattled when suddenly Pattie received a phone call. Everyone looked to her, and she looked around, as if to ask if she should answer it. Eventually, she did.
331-8994: Hello?
892-7419:
“All I heard was static,” Pattie remarked now a third spooked. “Number?,” Gun asked. “Eighty-nine two, seven four nineteen,” Pattie responded. The boys made note of the fact that they were receiving calls from that same number earlier and spoke of the firetruck located in the ditch once more. And like clockwork and at 3:13, a cousin to firefighters drove past them and parked the marked car next to a corner in the street.
They all watched as the police vehicle sat there, seeing only a shadowy figure move within the vehicle until it decided to turn on the lights inside the car. There they saw what looked to be a cop, sitting there inside a sitting car for a moment, only to drive off soon after.
At 3:30, everyone prepared for the revelation of Hell. At 3:32 everyone watched their phones as the seconds counted down. With only a few seconds remaining, Kane touched from forehead to heart and from shoulder to shoulder after saying under his breath,
“You've opened Hell's portal here on Earth for this poor mortal.”
And then it was 3:33. But 3:33 had struck the same way 3:32 had struck, and the same way 3:00 and 12:00 had struck; uneventful and with silence. The kids were stuck between two feelings. Disappointment and relief.
What was unknown to them, while not the Devil, was a figure watching their every move. Tracked along a dirt path, down a sidewalk, through the Spookhouse door and standing at a first floor window was none other than Bill Freyman, who on a rare night wanted to revisit the home of his murders. He watched the children, from afar, as if colorless eyes leering from the darkness.
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Chapter 94
THE HAUNTING OF WOODMIRE
2:3:10:94
SEARCHING for tools through his parents' home, the narrator came across an open textbook in the garage. Among the many highlighted sections were two that stood out to him; a section which spoke about Saint Brendan and Brandon Hill, and another that highlighted the quote spoken by Abraham Lincoln: Judge Douglas cannot fool the people; you may fool people for a time; you can fool a part of the people all the time; but you can’t fool all the people all the time.
Every room in my parents' home is empty, and this is a way I have never seen or thought of it before. In a way it seems new or as if it's been given the chance to start over.
And in perhaps removing all of its contents and the last person who knows about what happened here, its haunting too has been removed as well. I have closed the door behind me for the last time and will never walk through it again.
Walking back home, I thought about life and death but under the veil of thermodynamics. I thought about a place where the concept of life and death were never conceived at all.
In a region of space where there is no outcome potential, nothing can die. Most likely, nothing can birth, either. It is interesting to note that the concept of death only comes into play at a certain temperature. This tells us that death is not permanently prominent as there are times death itself is not a potential outcome. In other words, certain concepts like death may not be within the body's range of influence. If the temperature is too low, there may be no influence of death. The concept of death basically doesn't exist in the region's calculations. This would help lessen the load on the calculations because you don't have to factor in death.
Taking this idea into account, there would be regions in space where universal abstract concepts, such as death, birth, movement, evolution, they simply would not exist and would eliminate the idea of universal abstract concepts altogether. There are better questions than "is there other life out there?", but we just don't know what those questions are. The universe is so vast and there are so many mysteries it can hold. What if there is a region of the universe that has never known the concept possibility of life and death because temperature-wise, it has never gone above a certain degree? Indeed, there would be places in the universe where the concept of death or life do not exist and never have existed.
It may also be that the universe at large cannot die because its default state is absolute zero. This may make the universe the one immortal entity we will ever know.
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backward toward my parents' home. I look at it one last time, and I go back in my mind and realize now, that many years ago when I lived in that basement going days without light, that those were my happiest years. Those were, unequivocally, the years I was happiest.
C-32/13:56:02: The narrator's mother is seen entering the home with her toddler.
C-33/14:22:54: The narrator's mother pulls a plant from the garden in the backyard.
C-32/15:07:11: The narrator is seen getting off the bus and walks home.
C-32/15:33:13: [Camera Malfunction]
C-32/15:35:52: [Camera Auto-Restart]
C-32/15:35:52: The narrator walks across the street to a neighbor's home.
C-32/15:36:47: The narrator and a woman walk back to narrator's residence.
C-32/15:45:39: An ambulance and police arrive on scene.
C-32/15:57:04: More police arrive on scene.
C-32/16:01:05: The narrator's father arrives on scene.
C-32/16:23:55: The narrator and distraught father are brought into the yard.
C-32/17:58:14: Two bodybags are brought out of the home and into an ambulance.
C-32/20:43:51: A shadowed face is seen in front of the camera.
C-32/20:44:38: [Camera Disconnected]
As I walked on in the early dead of night, I thought more on adjacent ideas to the concept of absolute death. If there are places that know no death and know no life, know no birth, are there perhaps places where other eternal and universal concepts are contorted? What are two major prime examples, time and space?
I have wondered in the past if temperature has an effect or influence on the way time is perceived, either objectively or subjectively. Can a certain temperatic degree make the flow of time's direction go backward? Forward? If the degree is high enough, could it completely disregard any form of traditional direction and instead move in random points? That is to say, instead of moving linear, as: 1, 2, 3 or 3, 2, 1, it moves 2, 1, 3.
Perhaps the amount in which time progresses or degresses is based on the current temperature. For example, a degree unit, whether it be Kelvin, Fahrenheit or Celsius, of 34 would move time units, either forward or backward, by 34. And a degree unit of 20,111 would move time units by 20,111. Basically, the temperature controls how much a unit of time is moved each time it is moved.
With this in mind I propose that the higher the temperature is, the more sporadic the direction of time becomes. If the unit degree is 50,329, perhaps time would not move linear in any direction but be given to random iterations of moving forward and 164 | THE HAUNTING OF WOODMIRE
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backward. This would mean that, in contrast, low temperatures would not move as sporadically and would not be given to random directional changes. Instead, a degree unit of, say 1, would advance a unit of time by 1, and the slight change of 1 would be so smooth and so stable that time would seem to flow cleanly in one direction, most likely what we perceive as time moving forward. It may even be that a low temperature forces time to move in only one direction, as opposed to a high temperature where directional time changes are frequent and chaotic.
Here on Earth, on a day of 80 degrees Fahrenheit, that temperature would be so low that advancement by 80 for each unit of time in a stable direction may not be noticeable to us.
As for space, its regards remain the same. As the temperature changes, I believe dimensionality changes as well. In a field where the degree unit is 0, or absolute zero, which is probably only possible in deep space, if even that, movement in space becomes one dimensional. You can only move forward or backward. To be more precise, you can only move in one direction. As the temperature increases and you introduce energy systems, heat, concepts of thermodynamics, this allows for two dimensional movement through space. And once you rise above a certain degree, such as on a planet like Earth, three dimensional movement through space is achieved.
In the backroom of a hair salon, Sara thought concepts of probability even though she did not know the elected term for it. And of probabilities she spoke with Pattie and Kristie as they talked about the exciting lottery win by Olya.
In the parking lot, just outside the hair salon and eating fast food from the trunk of Alondra's car, were Felicity, Becca, Tasha and Alondra, who did not speak of probability but statistics as they looked through for all of the lottery winners in their area.
In the main room of the hair salon were Lynne, Olya, Jasmine and their hair stylist, who did not talk about probability or statistics but moreso the incidence of rare events.
“You guys are game for Mirewood after three, right?,” Kristie asked. The others replied positively, noting that the last days of school were a piece of cake, and soon the three young girls walked through the main room of the hair salon and said goodbye to the women they passed.
As the four trunk eaters watched the three young girls exit the hair salon, Tasha revealed to the other three that Olya had given her fifty dollars of her twenty-three hundred cash money reward. Olya had gifted it to her because she claims Tasha was sent to her to give her the idea about lottery tickets. Naturally, she gave Becca twenty-five of the money, and after the handoff, Felicity noted that Olya actually winning money was
“Karma Incarnate.” And Becca, seeing that Tasha was finishing even a small bit of her food, offered to eat the rest. “You're going to be putting on some serious game with all 165 | THE HAUNTING OF WOODMIRE
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the weight you're losing,” she remarked as she snatched a french-fry.
As the women watched the three young girls walk out of the hair salon, Olya remarked on a number of other good fortunes and thought that maybe her life was on track because she had always had bad luck. And still on the incidence of rare events, she wondered what had changed the average. Nonetheless, she thought, it was game time.
Somewhere at midnight in the time that most other tenants were asleep, Kane was awake and re-reading his favorite novel, Spacetime Eternal.
"Keihgr, when I landed on Fernois, it was by chance because I was almost shot down.
It wasn't fate or destiny for me to recruit you and your sister, it was just chance. And heroes are not truly subject to fate. You both were just another pair of siblings in this universe we call home, and by chance, you both will be the ones who save us all. And that is what makes a person special, not that they were fated to do something great, but that they rose to the occasion by their own will, not by the will of fate. You and Kmia will be erased from history, but I will never forget either of you... I will see the both of you on the other side, where there is no space or time, yet all is eternal."
Kane thought about his past and how much he struggled in Haiti and how back then, he knew that he too needed to rise to the occasion for a better life.
339-STNC: This call may be monitored and recorded for record-keeping, training and quality-assurance purposes.
514-8755:
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[Caller: 514-8755]
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[Location: Undetermined]
339-STNC: This call may be monitored and recorded for record-keeping, training and quality-assurance purposes.
514-8755:
[Call Log Information]
[Caller: 514-8755]
[Timestamp: 19:57:07]
[Duration: 12 Seconds]
[Location: Undetermined]
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339-STNC: This call may be monitored and recorded for record-keeping, training and quality-assurance purposes.
514-8755:
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[Caller: 514-8755]
[Timestamp: 20:05:02]
[Duration: 17 Seconds]
[Location: Undetermined]
339-STNC: This call may be monitored and recorded for record-keeping, training and quality-assurance purposes.
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[Caller: 514-8755]
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[Location: Undetermined]
The haunting of Woodmire into Mirewood started with the powerful human ability of hyperbole. For this sense there was nothing literal and only things literary; what was so truthful at day became so fantastic at night.
Kane and Dave, separated from the group as often as they were, were standing in front of the large Mordrake Hotel windows and attempting to see inside. Dave was tempted to enter the establishment but was soon reminded by Kane of the events occurring at the meat plant. And yet Kane, as reserved were his opinions of exploration, tried to see deeper and deeper into the hotel from the outside.
“Dave, do you think we really caused the tragedy this morning?,” Kane asked Dave.
The tragedy in question was of note and was being followed on many major news networks and was therefore in international spotlight.
At around half past 3 A.M., on U.K. Route 33, which is England's largest highway, a massive sinkhole took the lives of one-hundred and ninety-eight people. The sight of the tragedy could only be described as the literal opening of Hell as a gulf of fire trapped many drivers into its grasp.
All of the children had talked it over while both in school and walking home from 167 | THE HAUNTING OF WOODMIRE
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school and to their favorite church, and then talked about it more when finally there.
They all felt guilty of somehow being responsible for the tragedy, but knew there was nothing they could do about it. Once the conversation stopped, Dave and Kane again began peering into the hotel curiously.
“Boo!,” they both suddenly heard in a voice they did not entirely recognize. It did not at all sound like the voice of a child, nor that of a teen, not even that of a younger individual; it was old and decaying at the corners.
The terrorized face of Kane made Flo laugh. And Dave, who was scared but not as scared, soon began to laugh with Flo. The only emotion Kane ever showed was a sigh of relief.
“Why don't you guys just go inside?” “We can't...” “What do you mean you can't?
Look around, there's no one here to stop you.”
At the end of this statement by Flo then emerged from the distance the rest of their friends. Kristie addressed Flo, saying “hello,” and they all joined the three in front of the large hotel.
“But what about Mordrake?,” Kane asked Flo. “Mor-who?,” Flo asked with a squint in her eyes. “Drawdé Mordrake... The man with two faces, one literal and one fantastic...”
“...He lives in there?,” Flo said pointing to the hotel.
“Yes,” Kane answered, “and if he catches you, he locks you inside one of the hotel rooms and waits for you to starve to death.” “Then,” Dave cuts in, “after you die he goes into the room and cuts off your face and then he sews it to the back of his own head. And then a few hours later your face comes back to life and you are stuck as his companion for eternity... Or at least until he captures someone else.”
This was Flo's first time hearing of this supposed Mordrake who lived in this abandoned hotel, and after she saw that every one of them believed in the fantastic tale, she began laughing. They were all sufficiently confused.
Flo walked past Kane, saying “Come on, I'll show you that Morjake isn't real,” and soon she entered through the decaying front door.
Kane looked back at Dave, then at everyone else, and then back at Dave who now was directly behind Flo, and soon Kane scurried to follow them. Not wanting to be left out of the adventure, the rest followed them into the haunted hotel.
They had all made it into the hotel, and though not one child said it to another, each of them thought it: Since Flo is with us, we are safe, but she claims there are no monsters in Mirewood, what if she is in on it?
Nevertheless, they followed Flo as guide; the abandoned hotel was dirty, filled with rust, was boring and was a statement true; but in their minds they developed an inconceivable nightmare as Flo led them from room to room and from floor to floor.
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They imagined in each room the many souls Mordrake had imprisoned, and they imagined in each hallway the deather ghost of Mordrake himself and whatever companion he took that minute as his second face.
But the more they rose inside the building, the weaker the fantastic nightmare became, until they reached the top and the fantasm of Mordrake was overtaken by the lie of Mordrake.
“You see,” Flo said, “there's no Morjake in here.” And soon the entire party went back down to Earth, where Flo left the children and retired to her home. Unbeknown to the party, however, was a Halloween mask on the ground floor of the hotel that they all missed. It could only be described as a mask that bore two faces, one face on each end: of a man weeping, and of a woman laughing.
Sir Absalom stood on a windy street in San Rashida where he hailed for a taxi. His plane had just landed at M.B.J. airport and he was now fully intentional on going home.
One, he was homesick, and two, he was literally sick as he was being bothered by what seemed to him to be some kind of virus.
After he had taken seat in a taxi, he in many words told the cab driver that his home was located in Woodmire, but that he would have to arrive so without going through Grand Searle.
It only took all of fifty-two minutes to arrive to Woodmire, the town Sir Absalom had called home since his exilation from Grand Searle. And while Sir Absalom would have to admit that there was a pain felt from leaving one area for another, and that there was even more pain felt while being reluctantly accepted into an area, he would also say that Woodmire was the town he was always meant for. Of course, this was probably an exaggeration, as Sir Absalom likely would mostly say that about anywhere that allowed him to live.
But from his reasons, Sir Absalom felt at home in Woodmire. It was a town with friendly, creative people with strange and alluring customs. One writer even described Woodmire as such: If you went all throughout America, this is the one place that would stand out. It is the closest we can get to visiting another planet. And I don't mean it would stand out, I don't mean it was like another planet, not because it was strange or weird, but because the people of Woodmire do everything twice as hard or twice as more. Take, for example, jazz decompositional, some of the music that has come out of Woodmire, it is something you will never hear anywhere else, and if you do, it came from Woodmire.
In the evening a few days later, Sir Absalom went to work, which was at The Mordrake Hotel. His first days of employment here, which came three years earlier, were met with scorn as Absalom was forced to disclose his past conviction. But much like the judge who commuted his sentence, his associates came around and allowed their hearts to 169 | THE HAUNTING OF WOODMIRE
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understand more on human weakness.
This evening, while doing his duties, Sir Absalom felt he was finally overcoming an illness he had had the days prior, but suddenly he fell violently ill. He was rushed to Reader Medical Hospital, where he was hospitalized for days. On his last day alive, he asked to see his horse, Cupid, whom he loved, but this request was denied as Absalom seemed to carry an undocumented virus.
A day following the death of Sir Absalom, one of his associates too, fell violently ill, and because there was a heightened awareness to this undocumented virus, strong precautions were taken, but it was already too late, for within a week, dozens were beginning to complain of the same symptoms Absalom would eventually succumb to.
In a month, people were dying and the town was put on high alert. After the first one hundred deaths, the town was declared to be in a state of emergency. The Mordrake Hotel was responsible for housing many of the sick, and local aid, even federal aid, was given to Woodmire, and the federal government did this all while keeping Woodmire locked.
No one who entered could leave...
⸿ “I have come from roaming through the Earth and going back and forth in it,” said Child Satan to Child God who sat upon a rock. Then soon I saw them leave, exiting through what looked to be a portal deep inside the woods.
After they had left, I walked up to the rock that Child God sat on and upon it I saw markings of a distinctive nature. They were strange mathematical symbols, and reading some of it, I partially understood its language. As I could see it, the language was still in its infancy, but it was advanced enough to demonstrate pythics and philosophical arithmetic.
The simple arithmetic of addition has complex indications. When we add, for example 6 and 7, the way the human brain has been taught to translate math will basically always end in the result of creating a new figure identity, 13. Instead of saying 6 and 7
can exist within the same system, we create a shorthand representation of that truth by simply stating "=13".
Sometimes important meanings and details can be lost in translation when we focus more on the answer, which is usually right of the equal operator, and do not pay enough attention to what is also the answer, that is what is left of the equal operator. We quickly understand that the end result is 13, but the notion that 6 and 7 can exist in the same system is every bit as much an important detail as 13 itself.
Math truly is a language, and just like every language, it can be interpreted and understood in many unique ways. I will give you an example. Take the equation (a+a+a...=U) where a is an atom and U is the universe. The "..." is to represent that you will eventually add every atom in the universe, indicating that every atom in this universe 170 | THE HAUNTING OF WOODMIRE
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can exist within the same system to tell us that the universe can in fact exist.
Now take that equation and flip it to (U=...a+a+a), and you can begin to see how our mathematical bias has a small way of understanding the universe: a+a+a...=U / (a [trillion] atoms make up the universe = the universe is made up of a
[trillion] atoms)
U=...a+a+a / (the universe is made up of a [trillion] atoms = a [trillion] atoms make up the universe)
Still, it is important to note the implication that a true statement is telling you the equation will function as intended. If we were to take (6+8=13), which is false, it would be another way of telling us that 6 and 8 cannot exist in the same system and a modification must be made.
To conclude, it is always noteworthy and good practice to remember that operators, whether they are adders, subtractors, dividers or multipliers, always have implications and indications to how they are used and should never be taken at face value.
Finally, I arrived at the towering apartment building Lynne had chosen for her new place of residence. I met the landlord outside and she allowed me to enter. I told her I was a friend of Lynnette's. “Ah,” she said, and then told me that the apartment I would be looking at was a floor under the apartment Lynne had looked at. She was aware that we would not be living together, but wanted to live in the same proximity.
The apartment was on the 21st floor. A wide living room, one bedroom and one bath.
I wondered if the smaller volume to my current home would mean them visiting me less often. Nevertheless, I liked it, and peering out of the living room windows into the morning city, I asked the landlord what we needed to do next so we could move in.
As I went to leave San Rashida, I saw a man riding a horse and a couple attached by a carriage. It immediately reminded me of a distant dream.