A Grim to his Reaper

Life City seemed to sparkle in the morning sun, its many skyscapers reflecting light like tall prisms and casting patterns over the streets below. And for once, Reaper didn’t mind.

The Greatest Race

Bang! The gun fired and the race was on! They all knew they should pace themselves, knowing the duration could last up to five days. But, of course, there were always the hotshots who pulled in the lead, shoving their way past all the others, lacking neither care nor consideration in their single-minded determination to win the prize.

Sam was not one of these. He was a gentle, contemplative soul whose goodness was only matched by his quiet tenacity. His mantra was slow and steady wins the race – not terribly original but effective, nevertheless. He knew this was his chance for greatness and he was going to give it all he had.

Of course, the wise guys, being who they were, all hurled their insults as they passed Sam early on.

“You’re so slow, you’ll cross the finish line in a pine box.”

You’re so slow, they’ll measure your finish with a calendar.”

If you were any slower, you’d be going backward.”

“You’re so slow, they should give you a parking ticket.”

The berating continued and Sam did his best to ignore it. But as he secretly suspected, many of the smack-talking speedsters ran out of steam and were sidelined. Who would want those blow hards to win this type of race anyway? What could they bring to the table? Hubris, arrogance, rudeness? Does the world need more of that?

Sam thought of all he could accomplish if only he could win. Cure cancer? Be the next Bill Gates? Solve world hunger? Actually, all he really wanted was to be was an honorable soul and a great man. But when he mentioned that at the starting gate, the others laughed and pushed at him from all sides.

“It’s not about doing good, you moron. It’s about winning!” They laughed.

Sam didn’t care. His self-perception wasn’t based on their opinions. He knew what he wanted and who he would become — hopefully.

Thirteen hours later, most of the racers had given up. Injuries, lack of stamina, knocking each other over — some even lost their way. Sam? Well, Sam was still plodding along.

He saw the finish line ahead, but much to his disappointment, he wasn’t the first to reach it. Then he noticed that the others weren’t getting through the barrier. Sam swam up and with a silent prayer and all his might, he pushed through the wall in a burst of glory and purpose. He had won the race. The egg had been fertilized. Life will find a way.

“I’m going to be an exceptional human being, “Sam quietly promised himself.

And he was.

 

 

A Friendly Voice

Filtered air is tasteless, but fresh air is deadly.

An empty school in an empty town is as safe as anywhere.

The fire is small but personal.

Remember Jacob

Jacob turned 25. Exactly. And his mind opened. It wasn’t the first time. In fact, it was to be the last of the three great openings of a rememberer. His powers became full-fledged. He had always been a remember, but this birthday marked the unlocking the fullness of his potential.

He remembered being a young child. And figuring out who he was. He remembered the power that came from remembering. He remembered the stories of the time before he lived, when reality was fluid and changeable. And how Eternity had provided gifts to man, to cement the truth. It was when he was a child, he learned the three great truths of remembrance.

1. There is only one rememberer who is charged with keeping order in reality. A rememberer is always good, noble and true. Jacob hoped he became a rememberer because he was good. Rather than the other way around.
2. A rememberer’s most powerful changes are to make something more true. Anything else is weak and temporary.
3. That which a rememberer has forgotten cannot be brought back. And the way they perceive their memories are how reality is. Any change they make to their memory affects reality.

Jacob thought back to all the warnings he had received as a child. “Careful Jacob, you might hurt yourself.” “Careful Jacob, I think you might be coming down with a cold.” “Be careful Jacob, you might be allergic to that.” The warnings had led him to become more and more cautious until he perceived himself as sick. And so he was. But as he reflected on the memories of his sickness, they appeared flat — almost hollow. Something wasn’t right. Jacob remembered the first time he reached into himself and changed a memory. A dollar bill changed into a higher denomination. It hurt his head as he did it. How did changing this dollar help anyone. And the change was a lie. It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple hours.

Mr. Jones had him do many changes like that.

Then Jacob remembered all the times his patron, Mister Jones, had told him about the state of the world. As Jacob reflected, he recognized the vague language and indecisive ambiguity which characterized Mister Jones descriptions. Much like the memory of his sickness, these memories seemed “off.” Fake.

There was a knock on the door and Julie stepped in. For his entire life, she had been caring for Jacob through his disabling sickness. She was warmer than Mister Jones. She never tried to get him to remember things that he did not want to. She was short. And tired. Perpetually. Her small frame belied a strength that pushed her through many trials in her life. She had always been so kind. Today she seemed especially distressed. Her voice wavered as she said,

“Good morning Jacob. I brought you food.”

“Julie. You seem scared. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Julie stammered out the one-word answer. A brief pain flitted behind Jacobs eyelids. A lie. He made eye contact with Julie. She looked away. Despite being 40 years his senior she often seemed to be afraid of him. Jacob thought he knew why now.

“Mr. Jones knows, doesn’t he? Know that I’ve had the third opening. He knows I won’t be fooled now, doesn’t he?” Julie’s lip quivered as she tried to say something. Anything. She started to cry.

“I’m so sorry. I thought maybe we could convince you. I thought you could stay and keep remembering and changing things for him and it would be alright.” Julie paused. “I’m so sorry. I… I feel so terrible, Jacob, I feel like… I’ve just been despicable and-” Jacob interrupted with a shhh noise. She seemed glad for the excuse to stop speaking. Jacob took a memory of this moment. Cementing it in reality. He then reached into himself immediately and examined the memory.

She was so sad. She seemed so weak. So pitiful. Her wilted blond hair curled like thorns around her tear-stained cheeks.

That can’t be right, thought Jacob. The Julie he knew wasn’t weak. Or despicable. She was strong, noble. And silently, he imagined what that moment should have been. His memory shifted. And changed. He forced his power as a rememberer to change reality. But this time, it felt good. It felt right. And as he opened his eyes. Julie had changed, too.

She was taller now. She hadn’t grown, but rather stopped slouching. Her shoulders were set against the weight that had been on there 25 years. And her eyes were bright. Determined.

She looked like royalty. She looked like Jacob had always thought of her. She gasped and glanced at her reflection. While her body hadn’t changed, she certainly had.

“Thank you,” she said. There was no sadness in her voice now. Regret, determination, but no sadness.

“You know I have to leave now,” Jacob said. Mr Jones had been using his power as a rememberer for years now. Misleading and tricking him. But when he turned 25, Jacob could not be tricked any more. Mr. Jones couldn’t have good intentions with him now.

Jacob examined his memories again. Some of the lies might be too cemented in his mind right now to overcome immediately. He looked at Julie and asked, “I’m not sick, am I?” Julie didn’t have the words and just shook her head.

Jacobs memories rewrote themselves. The hollowness that had existed in his memories dissipated as he saw things as they were. He knew what he had to do. He knew how to set things right. And for the first time in his life. Jacob stood. Some things are meant to be abandoned.

 

Lighter. That’s how I would describe it–lighter

Before and After

On the plus side, I am still alive.  Or, so it would seem.  I cannot see anything in this pitch black box, even enough to know if I am indeed in a pitch black box as opposed to a mildly blue one or in an oval and orange sensory deprivation chamber.  The real point is that I cannot see anything.  Tactile sensations are different.  I can feel the metal table under me – do sensory deprivation chambers have metal tables?  I wouldn’t think so.  I can hear the table echo and vibrate as I try to elevate therefrom, only to crash back again as if I was held by bungee cords – loose enough to permit some minor motion but not enough to allow arising from and actually leaving the table all together.  Oddly, I feel no harness or restraints.  These elastic cords must be my own weakened state rather than ties that bind.

“Hello?” I speak out, tentatively, hesitantly, testing both my capacity and willingness for spelunking this black cavern.

No one responded.

“Hello,” I call out a bit more energetically.  This time, I saw something.  Well, I did not really see saw something but heard saw something, like with echolocation.  Am I a bat?  Ok, that’s not likely.  If I were, I would not be asking myself if I were a bat, only where to drop my guano or capture the next tender tidbit to eat.

“Hello,” I screamed at my full decibelic range.  Colors and lines, sights and dimensions flash into view, brighter than a sunny day in Florida.  Though tinged with red, I now see everything and, for a few seconds, know the dimensions of the room.  I got a glimpse.

I experimentally mutter under my breathe, continually, until I find a mantra I can sustain, potent enough to echolocatively illuminate the green box, for I now see it is green although tinged with red.  The muttering need not be much – barely above the sound of rustling leaves, it just needs to be continual to see in the dark.  I can see in the dark, which to be honest seems a bit weird.  To the left, there is a door.  And, so, to the left, I go, rolling first to the floor then using the walls to help me stand up.  No bungee cords are holding me back; rather it is total physical exhaustion.

I test the door handle; it moves.  Tentatively, like a 5-year old kid opening a closet door expecting to find a lurking monster to leap out at him, I swing open the unlocked door, slowly, cautiously.

As a child, I watched the Wizard of Oz.  I was always amazed when Dorothy swung open the door and revealed the Vista Color Oz.  Here too, I swung open the door to reveal something as wonderful and grand as going from blacks-whites-and-greys to Hollywood 35mm VistaColor.  Architecturally, it seemed like a normal midsize suburb town in middle America – Main street lined with shops, cars, pedestrians and scatted litter here and here.  Chromatic, it was alive.  I could see different shades of red in the America flag, not from the shadows and wind waves but from the uneven weathering of the fabric.  The subtleties of color differentiation shouted from everything – the kids lolly pop; the melting ice cream cone; the rustic car ablaze in the sun.  Everything was brighter, crisper, more vibrant.

Absent mindedly I took a step out into the street, only to stumble on something.  As I tripped falling forward almost as if I were a tree being felled by lumberjack “Timber!” style, I glanced back to see the offending stone on which I had stepped scout out of the way, then instantly re-oriented my eyes down, hands outstretching to the fast approaching concrete.  Boom!  I bounced.  I was back standing up again; in fact, I over bounced a bit, and was wobbling for a moment or two like a rolly-polly back and forth until I caught my balance.

Whoa.

What just happened?

I stamped my feet; the ground was solid enough, hard as … well, concrete.

This time, with a bit of apprehensive, I deliberately fell forward, swinging through space like a pendulum, and watched, in surprised, as my arms acted like high-impact shock absorbers, again bouncing me back up to vertical.

Whoa again.

I could see in the dark.  I could bounce off concrete streets.  Who was I?

****

He has become one of us.  Can he handle it?

                Perhaps, though I think it may be harder if he learns who he was.

****

As I stood there looking at my hands, at my forearms, which all looked like they always were, though to be honest, if I couldn’t remember my name how could I be sure I correctly remembered what I once looked like.  Some things are abandoned for a reason, like self-awareness.  With that thought capture me, I turned back around to re-open the door I had just walked through, to see if I could re-learn anything from my dark echo-chamber.  Only there was no door, just a plate glass window thourhg which a Five-and-Dime shop stood.  Given the angle of the sun and my own position, the window both showed me counters of retails goods as well as my own reflection.

Tentatively, I reached up to touch the scar across the left side of my face in the mirror.

“Hello, Jeromy”, a voice called out which eventually I realized was attached to the short kid standing next to me.  “Yep.  You were ugly before.  You are ugly now, though the scar almost makes you bearable.”

Before I could even catch myself, I asked, “And you are?”

“What?  You dolt!  Don’t you know your own sister anymore?”

****

                Check the coordinates.  Did we send him to the “BEFORE” coordinates and not the “AFTER” coordinates?  This is not good.  Not good at all.

 

The Mine

 

Jake, Josh and Jeremy had been best friends for as long as they had memory. Nothing and no one came between them, except their parents who, periodically, grounded them from seeing each other because they were always getting into trouble.  They weren’t bad kids, but trouble was determined to be their friend, too, and insisted on tagging along uninvited.

It was early June and summer had just started. The weather was perfect in the California Hills above their homes, and that put the boys in the mood for an epic adventure. Josh had recently heard about an old abandoned mine that was reportedly still full of gold but had been deserted because it was haunted.  All from wealthy families, the gold interested them less than the idea of a haunted mine.

In their customary never-ask-for-permission-manner, they slipped out of their homes quietly, with backpacks full of flashlights, water bottles, and granola bars. A note sat of each of their kitchen tables: “Out with the guys. Back by dinner.”

After hiking for nearly three hours, talking about the ghosts they would battle and the gold they would haul out, they reached their destination: a boarded up, ramshackled hole in the side of a hill covered in “Beware” and “Keep Out” warning signs. Everything about it screamed danger.

They couldn’t wait to get in.

Under the eyes of two watchful condors in the trees above them, they pulled the rotted boards away one by one, most easily giving up their long hold on the outside of the cave. The entrance was pitch black and dust billowed before their flashlights in tiny, furious cyclones. With just the slightest of misgivings, they eyed each other, each silently daring themselves to be the first to enter.

Josh, the oldest of the three, bravely took the first step. From the moment he entered the mine, he felt an unusual thrumming in his heart as a voice whispered in his head, “Turn back!” But when did he ever listen to that voice? Where’s the fun in that? He took a few more steps as his trembling hand betrayed his building anxiety.  Jake and Jeremy were close on his heels, each silently attempting to steady their mounting nerves. Ten minutes later, they quickly lost their sense of direction when Josh’s flashlight suddenly went out.

“That’s not funny, Josh. Turn it back on,” Jeremy warned, trying to hide the unease clearly evident in his voice.

“I didn’t turn it off,” Josh replied, hitting the flashlight on the side of the cave wall. He had put fresh batteries in it this morning and he knew it was working. His discomfort increased. Both Jeremy and Jake reached into their backpacks to retrieve their flashlights, but astonishingly, neither would work.

“What are the odds of that?” Jeremy asked, laughing nervously in the stillness of the black.

“Zero,” boomed a voice in the distance moments before the cave swallowed up the three screaming, doomed boys.

Some things are abandoned for a reason.