9 Tales From Elsewhere 2

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  “You called, and I answered.” The Bohème rose from his seat, plucking the dart from his skull as if it was a hat pin.

  I bowed and asked the purpose of existence.

  “To be fucked over. I am your Author; I am your Audience, and now you will be fucked and fucked and swallowed because this is a Wounded narrative. Repent, Job, in dust and ashes.”

  I slit my wrists and stabbed deep into my right thigh--a petty Dolorous Stroke. The man’s chest and forearm muscles bulged and grew. I disgusted him; I turned him on. All is one.

  “The Bohemians were mere props, but they understood me. Do you?” The Author doffed his hat and his veil fell away, revealing his majestic gray beard. “Go ahead, John Doe: Say something clever. Entertain me.”

  And then I said it; I said “I,” and the Author’s bloodshot eyes went wide, as I punched my survival knife, clip point down, through his Blue Chakra and out the back of his neck.

  “I!” The blade meat-sawed down through his throat. “I!” The Author fell to his knees, gurgling, but my left hand clutched his hair, keeping him upright.

  “I am!” Down through his clavicle, his sternum, and into his Heart Chakra. “Who I am!” For Blue, for Green, for Red--for my loyal birds, for Epsilon, for all of us--I split each one of his Chakras open, all the way through his pubic bone, clam-shelling the Bearded Man open. His intestines coiled like garden hose at my naked feet.

  “You are who you are.” And the Bearded Man’s eyes rolled back, and he smiled a foamy pink smile because I finally understood his Authorial needs. This has happened many times, through different settings, different genres, with different characters--but the central narrative stays the same: He creates us, lives through us, fucks with us, and when He is bored, He consumes and recycles us.

  “A good juggler respects his props.” My blade punched deep into his right ear. “Think about that.” I withdrew, spun, and heel-kicked the Author into the maw of his own Wound. Like a wet tail, his entrails followed until they, too, were gone.

  Blood spots dotted the air, the ground, the sky, widening and dripping, as if reality itself was crowned with thorns.

  “I couldn’t do it.”

  Esther Jordan was right next to me.

  “The screen door was unlocked, and Mom was passed out on the couch. I stood right over her, and my hands were shaking. I couldn’t do it. Tell me--” Esther unzipped her orange juve-farm jumpsuit, sliding it off her freckled shoulders. “Does that make me weak?”

  I wanted to say no, but my knife was lockjawed between my teeth. I had become what I was meant to be: a living Jolly Roger--a Black Flag of Death.

  “Kayla told staff I was on laundry detail.”

  My punctured thigh and slit wrists throbbed and oozed with each heartbeat. Esther took my hands, sleeved in red, and held them to her breasts. “Got time for a swim?”

  She smiled, and as this narrative collapsed, we jumped in together, falling straight into the infinite Wound, straight into God’s Red Chakra, the base furnace of reality; and as we burned and dissolved, becoming One, we became something else. Maybe a little different, maybe a little better. I don’t know yet.

  But perhaps you do. The Albion, Cromwell’s, London Falling--the name of your favorite pub, it's a minor, unfinished detail, but I’m sure of this: You will meet a shirtless, sunburned man in the parking lot, and he will juggle seven balls for your pocket change. So, if this jongleur bows and weeps, please comfort him; and if he laughs through clenched teeth, feel free: laugh with him; but if you dare ask him for enlightenment--for your place in my narrative--he will offer you a pitted sawback blade; and, for the love of God, kill this Buddha on the Road quickly, lest he speak and you listen.

  Because upon returning home, as you fumble for the light, your household animals will see what you have become. Now, my little prop, do your duty: Entertain me. Scream your Syllable, scream to Me, while I watch your cats and dogs pounce on you, drag you down to the floor; and--as if peeling back a curtain--gnaw the bones hidden behind your naked blue throat.

  END.

  MIRROR, MIRROR by David Siegel Bernstein & Susanne Shay

  The last thing Cole remembered was going to bed, alone, after more drinks than advisable at the Muddy Charles pub. Then, he woke up to the insistent beeping of what sounded like his alarm clock. At least, he thought it was his alarm clock. It beeped like an alarm clock, but he couldn't see it through the thick gray fog enveloping him. He tried to move through the haze, but could barely keep his balance. He didn't know which way was forward, or even which way was up—there were no points of reference—no walls, no ceilings, no anything—just the thick gray haze.

  He kept calling for help, but his voice was muffled. Even to his own ears, it sounded distant. And, there was no answer, never an answer. Overcome with terror, he screamed.

  The screaming helped, sort of, because he saw some movement from far in the gray. He ran towards it. Or rather he believed he was running; he couldn't be positive because, when he looked down, he couldn't see his legs—only gray mist. But, he seemed to be getting closer to the movement—it was less amorphous, more focused, but still unclear. He finally stopped when the movement failed to get any clearer—it looked like a flickering image being filtered through Coke bottle lenses.

  He could just barely make out what looked like rippling water and a shiny white blob.

  ><><

  Robyn Santos clutched the edge of the bathtub for support, eyes tightly shut, silently counting to three. Opening her eyes, she looked down to see well-muscled hairy legs. Legs not hers—and another part completely new.

  Shaking violently, she rose from the water and, finding a towel hanging beside the tub, dried herself off. The bath had offered her no relief from what she knew was a psychotic break. She padded out of the bathroom and into the unfamiliar bedroom where she had awakened earlier. When? Minutes? Hours? She dropped onto the disordered bed and curled to her side. She felt disconnected and numb. She wanted to scream, or cry, but something deep inside her kept her sedated.

  "Geez, put some clothes on," A male voice said. "Nobody wants to see that."

  Reaching behind her, she pulled the edge of the blanket over her body and looked up to see a tall black man with a shaved head standing in the doorway. She hadn't heard the door open but, irrationally, she wasn't frightened or even startled. It was as if she'd been expecting him.

  "Cole! Get up. You want Heinlein to flunk you?"

  Cole? Who's Cole? She repeated the name in her mind. The name sounded so familiar. She rolled out of the bed, wrapping the blanket around her. Seeing a wallet on the nightstand, she grabbed it and stumbled back to the bathroom. She slammed the door shut behind her.

  "What's wrong with you?" The stranger called after her.

  She ignored him, opening the wallet and sliding out the driver's license. She took a deep breath and looked at the picture. The face on the license was the same one she saw in the bathroom mirror.

  The name on the license read Cole Barnett. Robyn's heart pounded. Barnett was her maiden name. And his birth date on the license was the same as hers. The scientist in her knew this was important, only she couldn't remember why.

  She opened the bathroom door a crack and saw no sign of the stranger in the bedroom so she stepped out, looking for something to wear. It was a typical student bedroom with a computer on a messy desk, Klimt poster, piles of books, a mound of dirty clothes stacked in the corner. The room began blurring and she swayed slightly, not feeling quite connected to her body. The dizziness quickly passed and the room came back into sharp focus. Now, to her surprise, she knew this room. She walked to the worn bureau and remembered—top drawer, that's where the Jockeys and T-shirts are. She slipped them on as if it were something she did every day, adjusting her manhood. She found a neatly folded black oxford shirt in the second drawer and a pair of mostly clean khakis rolled-up on the floor next to the bureau, and quickly dressed. She ran her hand along the strange flatness of her chest.


  "You gonna be up for bar-night tonight?" the black guy called from the hall. "I really need some action. Hey, you dressed yet or what?"

  She frowned. He's still here. As she zipped up her fly she wondered if maybe this guy also lived here. Maybe he's this Cole's partner. "Yeah… I'm ready," she forced out. It was the first time she'd heard the body's voice. It sounded rusty and horse.

  The stranger stepped back through the doorway, shaking his head. "Man, you look like crap. You okay to go?

  This time when she saw him she knew him, and she recognized his look of impatience. No they weren't lovers, they were roommates. Faint thoughts echoed in her mind, in a real voice, growing in intensity, punching through confusion. The thoughts said, it's Devin. He's my best friend.

  Robyn ran back into the bathroom and finally vomited. She knelt by the toilet, trembling. Now she was hearing voices. Real voices. With sound.

  You heard me? You really can hear me?

  A sensation of relief piggybacked the foreign thoughts in her head. The voice continued, I've been trapped here since yesterday. Please, you have to help me!

  She was beyond shock, beyond confusion. What the… There is someone in my head! And I know who it is. She lay down on the floor, head butted against the base of the toilet. The voice in her head belonged in her head. It went with the body. It was Cole. The real Cole. What happened, she thought.

  The answer came: I… don't know. I can see out of my eyes. I can see my bathroom, but I can't control my body. I've been screaming for hours. Thank God you finally heard me. Who are you?

  It made some sort of sense an actual Cole existed. I'm the one who brought you in the bathroom. Somehow I'm in your body.

  There was a pounding on the door. "Oh no you don't!" Devin called. "Get outta there. If you make me late to class again, I'm gonna kick your tail."

  "I'm not feeling… uh… myself," Robyn said. "I think I have the flu."

  "Yeah, the Budweiser flu. Get moving. You're going to class."

  Robyn didn't know what to do. She was either crazy or something enormous, something impossible had happened, but she didn't know what to do about it.

  Just go along with him. You'll be alright, said Cole.

  Why?

  I don't know, Cole responded. It feels right. Besides we can't stay here and hide. We've got to figure out what's happening, what to do.

  She walked out and followed Devin into the apartment's living room. Cole nudged her along, setting her on auto-pilot, she went along, there was no reason to fight him. She recognized this room even though she'd never set foot here before. She grabbed a gray backpack hanging from one of the mismatching kitchen chairs, slung it over her shoulder, and started out the front door.

  The T.S. Eliot poem, the one about April being the cruelest month, popped into her head as they exited the building and the warm spring day. She sighed. He had no idea of just how cruel it could be.

  A wave of recognition hit her as she saw the row of mailboxes on the front of the building and closed the entrance door. She knew the place. Not as Cole knew it, but with her own memories. Why hadn't she recognized it before, at least from the hallways? There must be other holes in her memory besides the gaping one on how she'd lost her mind. She hadn't lost her mind, she corrected herself humorlessly—she'd gained a mind, and the wrong face and genitals.

  A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she walked down the granite steps. She'd walked down them thousands of times before, when she was a young and hopeful creature of promise and prospects. This building was where she and her husband Stephen had first lived. Stephen? Oh my God, how could I have forgotten him? They'd lived here because it was only a fifteen-minute walk to the MIT campus where she was a graduate student in physics and Stephen taught math.

  They must be going there because she'd picked up enough from her inner Cole to know he was a student. Like her, he was smart enough to test into MIT but, unlike her, he lacked focus. Lack of focus plus taking a few years off to bum around Europe was why he was still an undergrad. Weird. She remembered having the same opportunity to travel but had turned it to down, putting her education first.

  Lucky for them both MIT was where they were heading. The place might have the resources she needed to make sense of this mess and to save them both. She would contact Stephen. He would know what she was doing last night, and what had caused this. All she had to do was make him believe it was really her in this body.

  On the way, Devin made them stop at the corner ATM machine. She didn't have to watch him punch his code onto the keypad to know his PIN was 4152. The number spelled out JANE the name of the most popular girl back at their old high school. Easy Jane. Obviously, these were more of Cole's memories—her first impression had been wrong—Cole and Devin were both definitely heterosexual. Cole's PIN was 4172, for Kate, the girl he'd lost his virginity to in the 11th grade. Vivid and startling memories of that night made Robyn uncomfortable.

  A girl with long straight flyaway blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes, nearly hidden behind retro black framed eyeglasses approached them. The Cole part of her mind recognized her and his attraction to her made Robyn a little queasy. Her name was Perri Waterford.

  "Hi Cole," she said. "I don't suppose I can see your chem notes?"

  Robyn just stood staring at her, not knowing what to say.

  "Well?" Perri said.

  "Um… I don't have them with me."

  Devin turned from the cash machine, tucking a fresh wad of twenties into his worn leather wallet. He saw Perri. "Hey, baby. How's it going?"

  "Its going. And I'm going to class. You need to watch out for this guy." She nodded at Robyn. "He's weirder than usual."

  Devin hit Robyn on the shoulder. "You ain't lying."

  Perri smiled and turned to leave. Calling back over her shoulder she said, "I'll see you guys at the Muddy Charles tonight."

  Robyn watched Perri walk away, admiring the sway of her long blonde hair. Robyn realized she was feeling more of Cole's attraction to Perri.

  "So, when are you going to ask her out?" Devin said. "Everyone knows, she likes you. It's a sure thing."

  Robyn's feelings were all wrong. She had never considered another girl. But now, somehow it didn't feel dangerous or exotic, or even different that she could be interested in Perri. But what about Stephen? Her head started to hurt. "Don't push me. I'll get around to it—when we don't have an audience."

  Devin shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Let's just move it."

  They walked briskly to a twelve story redbrick building where they wove through streams of students to finally arrive outside a crowded lecture hall on the first floor. Devin shoved her back before she could follow him in. "Dude, get out of here. You're already late. I'll see you at 3:30 for the game."

  Robyn stood alone in the rapidly emptying hallway, not sure of where to go. Where had this indecision come from? She knew she needed to get to Stephen. His office was here in the math building, but she couldn't remember its number. She located the building directory near the stairwell. There was no Professor Santos listed. She sighed. So more had changed than just her body.

  "Barnett," called a voice from down the hallway, "were you planning to join us today? Or, do you have something more pressing?"

  She turned and saw a chunky man with wiry gray curls thinly scattered across a shiny scalp. The Cole in her recognized him. It was Dr. Heinlein.

  "Well, are you coming?" He said as he turned his back to enter the classroom.

  She walked into a small room usually reserved for discussion groups and took an empty seat in the back. It looked like Dr. Heinlein wasn't popular enough to attract many students. She didn't even remember a Heinlein in the math department, at least not in her old reality. The only Heinlein she'd ever heard about was a science fiction writer.

  He lectured in a colorless drone while scribbling equations on the chalkboard. She shook her head, looking at his notations. She was not at all pleased with this reality. She was supposed to be a grad
uate student on the verge of a PhD in physics and not stuck in undergrad calculus wearing a man's body.

  Robyn ignored the lecture and tried to contact Cole. He had been silent since they left the apartment. What was he doing? Was he still there?

  Besides his silence, her main obstacle to finding a solution were the holes in her memory and the bits of Cole's that were filling them up. So, whatever she was going to do, it had to be soon, before there was too much Cole and not enough Robyn. She was on the clock.

  She needed help and, unfortunately, he was the best she had. Once more she called out to him. Cole???

  ><><

  Cole had been too busy to respond to Robyn. He had been gaining more control of his environment, but it took a lot of effort. The more he concentrated on some memory, his not hers, the more the grayness around him faded and his vision cleared.

  But her yelling was starting to ruin his focus. To silence her urgency he needed to answer her. What?

  ><><

  Robyn relaxed a little. He was still there. We need to get out of here and get some help. Who's currently in charge of the physics department?

  Professor Chen.

  Robyn was relieved for the first time today. Good, I know him. He might be able to help, if we can just explain what's happening.

  No! He'll think I'm nuts if you use my body to tell him there's a woman inside of me trying to get out.

  For God's sake, what's wrong with you? This is more important than your sexual insecurities or your male ego. When he didn't reply she continued, Fine, then what's your plan? What are we going to do?

  I'm not sure, but I have an idea of where you may have come from. You could be from a parallel universe. Like in that Star Trek episode with the evil Kirk.

  Robyn scoffed, then considered. In his naïve undergrad way, his suggestion helped, it got her thinking about the word: parallel. Then, it hit her. It's was obvious. She should have remembered sooner. This has nothing to do with a parallel universe. It's a parallel probability. Don't you see? No of course you don't. I may be the only person in the world who understands. This was the focus of my dissertation, trying to tie parallel probability to quantum theory using…