Category: fiction

The Pilgrim Effect

He awoke in a leather recliner that he didn’t know and stared at the large television screen.

White on black, 04/08/04 was shown. Beneath it said 3:02 AM. The two pieces of information floated around the screen like they were tied together.

The room was cold around him. He needed to pee. He needed to drink. He felt parched but also like his bladder was ready to burst. He stood to attend those matter.

Mental cohesion began undoing. He didn’t know the chair or the floor. The walls weren’t familiar, nor was the other furniture. He didn’t know them, but then, he did. They came to him like long ago learned and forgotten information, forgotten because it wasn’t used. Then he was saying to himself, “Oh, yes, I remember buying that recliner.” He regarded it with deeper thought.

But then, he didn’t remember this body. Taking in his hands, he processed their shape and condition. He understood, these are not the hands I fell asleep with. He understood, but these were the hands I fell asleep with.

Trying to reconcile the dichotomy between what he saw of himself and his furniture, he looked again at the television. At 3:04 AM, he should be going to bed. He should turn off the television. He looked for the control to do that, asking with irritation, “Where is the remote?” It should have been with him at the recliner. With that reasoning, he considered, maybe it fell between the cushions.

As this was thought, he saw a remote in his mind and knew that it was a virtual device generated by a chip in his skull. He just needed to think of the remote and what he wanted it to do, and the remote would do it. This was information that he should have already had, because he’d been doing that for years.

He reconsidered the date. He’d fallen asleep in twenty seventeen. That date said 04/08/04. The oh four was for twenty one oh four. Yes, because that’s what year it was. His hands looked different because he’d received a new body in twenty fifty-six for his one hundred birthday.

They’d told him this might happen. Becoming unstuck in time, he’d time-traveled in his dreams.

4

Time Suck

What does space travel, laundry, and cats have in common?

Why, they’re all time sucks, of course.

My wife shared information from an article about time savings and modern American life. Most households, particularly women, have seen a dramatic decrease in how long it takes to prepare meals. It used to require about two hours per meal. Of course, breakfast was rarer in those days.

On the other hand, laundry is an area where people don’t save time. The reasons derive from our attitudes toward hygiene, washing clothes, the increasing specialization in clothing, and fashion. We have and wear more clothes, and change them for more uses, whereas we used to accept being a little dirtier. The increased quantity and specialization equals more time doing laundry.

My time sucks today were more prosaic and had less to do with modern living. One involved a clogged toilet in one bathroom, a clogged sink in another bathroom, and a vomiting cat.

I’d just finished bathing and dealing with the clogged sink when Quinn puked. I was whining to myself about the sink and my hairiness. I’m sure that’s what caused it. The master bath has two sinks, and it was my sink that was clogged. He bugged me for food. He’s a small critter with a high anxiety level that causes him to leap up and race out of a room, so I’m always trying to fatten him up and encourage him to eat more. I fed him, per his request.

Then it was time for some morning business. All was successful, until the flush. Water rose and nothing went down. As I swore about that, I heard puking in the other room. I raced out in time to witness Quinn heaved a hair ball and his meal.

His deed was done on the hardwood floor. That means clean it up ASAP. I grabbed toilet paper and did the task. It was still warm, of course. Some dribbled onto my hand. I gagged reflexively, not a lot, and not as much as I would have in the past. Still, I wonder what it is about warm puke that causes me to gag.

Then it was back to the toilet. I’m not usually religious but facing a clogged toilet usually coaxes a prayer out of me. “Come on, flush,” I said, flushing. Then I corrected myself, “Come on, go down.” My prayers were answered, restoring my uncertainty about God’s existence.

Back in the office, I encountered another time suck. The story in my novel in progress requires Handley to take a shuttle. She enters the airlock but then what does she do? What’s the Avalon‘s layout? To address that, I needed to make a cup of coffee. Coffee helps me think.

Then I sketched the shuttle’s layout with pencil and paper. I should have been satisfied, but my secret geek required me to go to the computer and Illustrator and do it properly. That led to demanding details about the shuttle’s space capabilities, intended purposes, crew requirements, cargo capability, blah, blah, blah….

Done at last, ninety minutes later. By now, I was staring at the rear end of ten thirty. Gadzooks, time had been sucked up.

Of course, I need to point out that space travel wasn’t really the time suck; it was the creative process of writing about it. Does that count as a time suck? Maybe not. I suppose that I didn’t need to go into such detail to create the shuttle, but that’s my nature.

I reckon that’s a confession. It’s really my nature that’s the time suck.

 

0

Real News

Somewhere in the well of night, he discovered streams of energy and creativity. With Amazon streaming a movie, the cats asleep in the office around him and a single desk lamp on, he started typing short stories. None of them were greater than three thousand words. Most were flash fiction.

Three movies later, dawn’s light was creeping in around the blinds. He was spent. Normally, he would then pragmatically edit the stories before submitting them. This time, he thought, what the hell. A few were submitted for publication but six of them were just posted on his blog. Basking in the glow of his accomplishments, he was surprised and pleased to see one quickly collected views and likes.

Then there was a comment awaiting approval. Opening it up, he read, “I don’t know how you found out the truth, but you should not have published it, you fucking idiot. They’re going to come for you. Resign yourself because you can’t hide. They will kill you. Do what you can to save all your loved ones.”

He read through the comment three times, furrowing his brow more with each reading. It didn’t make any sense at all.

These stories were all science fiction.

2

DeeMichael

I’m supposed to be writing, but instead I’m procrastinating. I know what I’m supposed to be writing. I wrote it in my head this morning. Then I got here, turned on the computer, opened my documents and said, ready, set…in a minute.

Instead, I surfed the news.

My name is Michael.

It’s a pretty damn common name. At one point, during the beginning of a conference call a few years, eight people were on. Four were Michaels, and one was a Michelle.

I was scanning headlines today, and I saw another variation of Davonte. I’ve seen several variations the last few days. I don’t know the name’s origins. At one point, it was pretty unique. Now it’s becoming common, although I don’t think it’s as common as Michael, yet.

But after that, I thought, I’d always wanted to change my name. I’m tired of being a Michael because there are so many Michaels. But what can I change it to?

The answer came to me today. Mom’s nickname is Dee. My name is Michael.

I could be DeeMichael.

Maybe that can just be my writer’s name, just to separate us and provide clarity when I’m talking to him and he’s talking to me. Right now, it’s just, “Michael this, Michael that.” It gets pretty Michael-tedious.

But if he becomes DeeMichael, we could have a better conversation. Instead of just urging Michael to write, I could tell DeeMichael, “Hey, man, get on it, DeeMichael. What’s the matter with you? You’re supposed to be writing.”

Giving my writing ego a different name can be tres freeing. I can tell others, “I was talking to my writing friend, DeeMichael, and he said that more Americans believe Elvis Presley is alive than believe Jesus ever existed. Over half of Americans believe Elvis is still alive.”

Michael – that’s me – is a shy, deferential guy in most situations. DeeMichael can have a more exuberant personality. He can be more energetic. Probably is. As my creation, I can also make him younger. He can have different tastes, hobbies and habits. He doesn’t drink alcohol. “I’m not adulterating my body. It’s my temple.” He does take in caffeine. “Coffee is good for you.” Facts don’t matter to him. “I’m a writer,” he says. “I’ll make up my own facts. According to an essay I read in the Union of Concerned Scientists newsletter, most facts are been overtaken by greater understanding and insights within ten years, and are no longer true. You can look it up. You know it’s true.

“Look how facts have changed in the last couple hundred years. Science used to say egg yolks were bad for you, and then egg whites. High cholesterol was supposed to be bad for you, too.

“Used to be that they said smoking cigarettes didn’t cause any problems. That’s a fact you can look up. Doctors and actors endorsed them. They wouldn’t endorse something that, something that hurt people, and they weren’t, because they thought they were safe. All the science said they were safe, and then it turned out that they’re not safe.

“Look at the use of mercury in hats. That was considered safe and normal. Lead in paint, lead pipes, lead in gasoline. For that matter, gasoline was a brand name, like Kleenex. It’s a fact. Look it up.

“People never thought humans could fly. Never thought they’d reach the Moon, neither. Now we have a secret Moon base established up there. It has a population of ten thousand.

“Oh, yeah, it’s up there. You don’t know about it because it’s secret. But I have a cousin with a friend? Used to work for the NSA. He told me that there’s a secret base up there. Ronald Reagan established it. The budget is secret. It’s part of the Defense budget. That’s why it keeps growing. What, you really thought it was to build a bigger military? Why? We already have the world’s largest, more powerful military. We don’t need a bigger, more powerful one.

“Reagan built that moon colony up there because they realized the climate was changing and there was nothing they could do about it. So the colony was established as a place to save humanity. They’ve taken all the important paintings and things up there already. Everything in the Louvre, MOMA, and all those places are fakes.

“That’s why climate denying is so important now. They need to ensure climate change takes place, or we’ve wasted a lot of money. Plus, studies have shown that if there’s global warming, flooding and storming, it’ll scour the planet clean. Then they can come back from the Moon and start fresh with a clean planet.

“Of course, some of these big storms, like that Cyclone Debbie that just hit Australia? Man made. Yep, we can control the weather. We’ve been able to control it on a small scale for the last twenty-five years. But now it can be done on a bigger scale. Cylone Debbie was another test.

“It’s true. You can’t look it up, not on the normal Internet, but you can look it up on the secret Internet. Yeah, that’s right, there’s a secret Internet, used by the United States government, along with some of the world’s wealthiest people. That’s where the truth resides. Once you become a billionaire, you’re invited to log on. It’s true, man. Someday, it’ll all come out. Then you’ll see.

“All those wars going on in the Middle East? Fake news, just to distract and confuse people. It’s a front to help divert resources to the moon base. And Donald Trump isn’t POTUS, either. That’s all a fake government. The real government works in secret. It’s not led by Barack Obama, either. All that political stuff coming out of Washington, D.C., is just for show. Believe me. It’s a fact. That’s why Congress never really passes anything. They’re just supposed to be putting on a show, which is exactly what they’re doing.”

That DeeMichael. I’ll tell you what, he’s quite a character.

 

1

Slippage

Yesterday, forced to curtail writing to do other things and – gads, socialize – I was distant with others. The writing didn’t leave off and the writer didn’t stop, so a secret fog shrouded me from engaging with others. I felt like a few beats off.

Today, sensing the story’s climax and denouement, looking forward to completing the novel, forced new introspection. I can’t hurry this. Why am I trying to hurry it? More correctly, why am I trying to rush the story and curtail activities?

Realizations continue to emerge about what’s transpired and what needs to happen to reach the end without shorting the characters, situations or reader. The concept editor stirred from his fortress of judgement to deliver some withering insights about continuity, logic and my made-up background physics and quantum mechanics. Utilizing an unctuous and belittling tone, he became a bit of an asshole in the process, demanding more information about how chi-particles interact with organic entities and the arrows of time.

“Let’s think about the permutations,” he said at one point. I groaned. Already sulking about what he perceived as an assault on his creative and intellectual processes, the writer didn’t react.

The concept editor pressed us on all sorts of issues. “If there is one now, what are the characters remembering?”

“They’re not remembering anything, they’re experiencing a sense of belief that they’re remembering because they’re experiencing shareover of similar nows that are slightly ahead or behind of their moments of now,” the writer answered with elaborate patience.

It seemed like the concept editor hid a sneer in response. “But if the creatures, like Humans, don’t come to be until a chi-particle inhabits them, they why would they all be experiencing nows now?”

That agitated the writer. “No, no, that’s not how it works. Yes, they came to be when a chi-particle granted them a spark of self-awareness – ”

“Self-awareness that the chi-particles don’t have?”

“Yes, yes.” The writer was almost frothing. “The chi-particles don’t have awareness. They’re driven by their nature and their properties.”

“The same properties and nature that drives the organisms they inhabit.”

“No, no. Take a flea.”

“A flea.”

“If a flea bites you, you react.”

“So the chi-particles are like fleas?”

“For that simile, yes, for the purpose of illustration and clarification, yes. The flea’s nature, properties and behavior causes it to bite and suck, with collateral effects on its hosts. Its hosts don’t respond in like manner, but by itching and scratching, by developing sores and other issues.”

The concept editor appeared doubtful.

“Do you see?” the writer asked.

“I see,” the editor replied. “I’m not convinced, but I see. Finish the novel, and they’ll we’ll see.”

The writer glowered at him. “If you’ll let me.”

An uneasy accordance to continue with the writing was accepted. I tell you, the two of them will be the death of me.

Time to stop writing like crazy, at least for today.

0

The Reality

Khalvin rolled out of his bed with a snort and dropped to the floor.

Something had awakened him.

Everything seemed normal.

He moved to the reveal and transparented it.

Starry skies held outside. The ship still moved. Moonlight lapped the dark sea. He pinged his Backhand for the ship’s location. Systems confirmed they remained over the California Sea. Airspeed was ninety. The outside temperature was eighty-four degrees. Their destination was forty-nine minutes away.

Ordering a water bulb, he plucked it out of the air as it arrived, massaged his head against lingering sleep, and considered what to do as he sucked up water. He didn’t know what had awakened him. A dream’s wreckage drifted through his consciousness. He’d dreamed he wasn’t himself, Khalvin, but another person. He didn’t know that name, and he didn’t look as he now looked, but he knew it was him.

He’d been somewhere he couldn’t fully perceive. It seemed like a shop. Others were there, but he didn’t know them and didn’t speak with them. Music he didn’t recognize played above burbling conversations and crisp clacking and clinking noises. His dream self barely noticed. Sitting and bent over a keyboard, he was busy thinking, typing and talking to himself.

The image lingered with him, powerfully real. Wondering it meant, he considered the California Sea and thought of the ruins purported to be under its surface. In many ways, being here on Earth, about to explore ruins, seemed more like a dream than the dream he’d just experienced.

He realized he’d been Human in the dream. He was a Cat. He’d always been a Cat. To be Human….

He smiled. That seemed like the strangest dream of all.

***

Sorry for the shaggy cat story. Blame it on my dreams. Cheers

0

Last Night

I checked last night before going to bed: still a man. The three AM rise to pee told a different story.

I felt odder when I walked, a warning that I’d suffered the change again. I was supposedly awake and walking, going to pee, but was stumbling through a dream’s fading chaff. I wasn’t really thinking, moving in auto-mode. It wasn’t until I raised the toilet seat and lid and flicked on my Fitbit to give me light to piss that I discovered my missing pecker.

It always happens during the night, and people are always asleep. I’m black again, too, although not as black as one of the other times. I’ve been through this change enough to be angry, irritated, resigned and frustrated simultaneously. While sitting and peeing, I reflected on how long it had been since the last time (three weeks) so I had clean female clothing available. I don’t know why it makes a difference. Male and female clothing fit me differently and I feel ‘better’ wearing clothes appropriate for my sex.

Except shoes. I won’t wear heels. No way.

I have no cosmetic experience, so that’s always an interesting aspect. I go without make-up. Mom is a natural beauty and my sisters are gorgeous. I thought that gave me a chance, but no; I look like a female version of my father. My mustache and goatee automatically sheds during the change and my physical structure changes. I have a rack of floppy boobs and I’m busty as Mom. You’d think all these changes would wake you when it happens but it never wakes me.

By the way, Mom and my sisters look great as men, too. Some people have all the luck.

When I first read reports of it happening to Trump, I thought it was hilarious. That was the first I’d heard of it. It wasn’t so funny when it happened to others. There was nothing funny about it when it happened to me four days after it had happened to Trump. At least I wasn’t moved to kill myself. Many men do when they awake as a woman. The percentage of women killing themselves is much smaller than men after they suffer the change. Women seem to adjust better. The percentages of suicide drop as you experience more iterations. This is my eighth or ninth time, I think. I think. I don’t know.

No one is forthcoming about what started it. It might surprise you to know that the Internet has some theories. Some of it involves secret government activities. Some claim it’s the Russians, but female Putin vehemently denied that. Others blame Muslims, GMO food, witches, sorcerers and aliens. Some put the onus on an angry god.

I hate this erratic cycle of changes. I wish I’d stay either a man or a woman and one race or the other. It doesn’t comfort me at all that everyone in the world is going through this, no matter what age, race, culture or religion. I’m not a violent person but I swear, if I ever find those responsible, they will pay. How?

It’ll depend on whether I’m a man or a woman.

2

Hairy Now

It became a little hairy with my thinking today as I coped with chi-particles and now while writing the novel, ‘Long Summer’. 

I was dealing with the side-effect suffered by intelligent, organic creatures when a now is forced into existence. I simply wanted to vet and standardize for myself what that side-effect meant. That vector of thought shot me back toward the chi-particle structure, earlier rudimentary chi-particle thinking about how it evolves and devolves, and the relationships established with Hawking’s three arrows of time.

So, weirdly, the chi-particle has imaginary mass and energy and gains real mass and energy as it slows down. Dropping to the speed of light, the chi-particles gain mass and energy and releases other wave/particles/energies that develop into the chemical elements of the known universes, but also deliver time and gravity, time occurring to create a now associated with a wave function collapse. When the collapse happens, then reality is formed through an intersection of the box with the three arrows of time – psychological, thermodynamic, and cosmological.

But – this is where it becomes hairy – I recognized that the chi-particle not only exists in a state of imaginary mass and energy, but also imaginary time. It seems like an ‘of course’sort of concept, but I struggle to keep it pinned in place in conjunction with the novel being written.

I’ve been trying to further understanding of how the chi-particle interacts with the known theories of relativity and matter. I’ve always (ha – I came up with this about nine months ago) theorized in this imaginary existence of this imaginary particle that travels faster than light that isotopes and variants exist. Chi-particles exist in everything in the a half state. Once they’ve achieved real mass and energy, they continue decaying. As they decay, they shift from real properties to negative imaginary properties. I haven’t evolved any theories about what this would mean to the box of now created during the wave function collapse at the intersection with the arrows of time.

But further, for there to be an awareness of now when the wave function collapses at the intersection with the arrows of time, a sufficient aggregation of chi-particles for a particle species – such as Humans, for example – must exist for them to have an awareness and knowledge of their own existence. It’s at that point, when the ‘Human’ chi-particles aggregate, that Humans can reach the point of, “I think, therefore, I am.” Yet, it’s fleeting. Humans can’t understand beyond these moments of time (with the associated arrows) because once the chi-particles decay to the point of negative imaginary mass, energy and time, Humans cease to be.

Meanwhile, playing with the periodical table of elements to establish how this all fits together, I realized that the table becomes a multi-dimensional matrix in order to accommodate the chi-particles.

I needed to write all this out to think it out, stabilize it and make it ‘real’ to me. I’ll tell you, I’ll be happy when I finish writing this novel. I look forward to returning to simpler thoughts and plots.

Now I’m done writing like crazy for today. It sure was crazy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

0

Last Meal

For my last meal, I went all out. Prime rib with horseradish sauce, roasted new potatoes, roasted asparagus with a small spring salad. A blackberry cobbler with real vanilla ice cream. A nice pinot noir to drink with the meal was requested for the meal, with a Praeger tawny port to drink while smoking cigars after my meal. Although I’ve made friends and re-established three friendships with others who died and are here, I’m dining alone. I like being alone. The Caretakers weren’t surprised. About half the people request solitude for their last meal. The other half like being part of a big party.

As I understand it, and they made it clear in orientation, I’ve already died, killed in a car crash in my new Ferrari. I can’t believe my timing. I was just making it big. Now I’m dead.

At least I don’t need to worry about my heart and cancer any longer. Or my hair. I can’t gain weight or do anything to this body. I won’t have it tomorrow morning. I’ll die and be reborn, starting over.

Doing the stroll, I say good-byes to the world. Bright orange poppies proliferate in a sandy field. Birds wheel, collect and land. A comforting sea breeze chops up the ocean. Waves splash with sunshine. This place, Aition, is temporary. It reminds me of the central California coast, just south of Half Moon Bay, where I lived my life. Born and raised, a California native. I stayed there, except for Vietnam, marrying twice and divorcing the same, with five children resulting from these unions. Richard, one of my boys, had preceded me in death. He was the oldest and the brightest. I tried finding him here but he’d already left, they said. I would have like to see him again. His death in a plane crash gutted me.

These thoughts carry me to the Solarium. I sought a final glimpse of my new sun and planet. Looking at them, I still can’t accept the truth of what I’m being told. The sun is the size of an orange. My planet is like a blue, green and white pea.It’s already populated with eight billion humans. I’ll join them tomorrow.

I kept asking, “Is this a model?”

No; that’s the planet. Those are all planets and suns.

“How many?” I wonder aloud.

“Billions and billions,” they reply.

Expanding my scope of seeing, I look up, down and across from the overhang where I stand. It looks like billions and billions.

I’ve compared my new Earth to the Earth that I left. It’s several suns over. They look pretty much the same.

We never cease, they told me. We just leave one place and go to another. This stop is a sop to us because we’re always wondering what happens when we die. It’s not a good sop. It opens up as many questions as it answers, and then, I’ll die here, be reborn elsewhere, and have most of my knowledge gone.

“How do I get a job here?” I asked a couple of the Caretakers. They’re all beautiful, perfect people and seem serene and happy. Why not? They’re living the perfect life. “Who do I see?”

“You can’t do anything to get here,” they all answer. “You’re born to here,” Juarez said. “Just like you’re born to other worlds.”

It seems capricious, arbitrary and unfair, just like the world I just left.

Time to eat. See you all later.

I suppose.

0

The Spot

My long haired beast’s fur was matting again. Letting him sprawl on my lap, I began cutting, sorting, combing and unknotting lumps of fur. Working down his belly toward his tiny pecker, I discovered a black thing.

I could not tell what it was. It wasn’t a tick nor anything else I’d ever seen. It seemed almost like a dimple, yet something black stuck out, and the immediate area around it was discolored.

Calling to my wife, I requested the magnifying glass as Quinn waited and purred. I continued examining the space. There was something there. The horrible fear that wracks pet owners was swelling in me. Cancer. Disease. Not again! Not another! Not little Quinn.

My wife handed me the magnifying glass. She’d also brought a flashlight. Together we bent over and looked.

“What is that?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t say what I was thinking. I was thinking, it looks like a small spacecraft has crashed into my cat’s belly. 

I know, I know, it must be something else.

1

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