by James Wymore
My new host burst from its cocoon. I was lying on a long thoroughfare that ran for a few hundred meters forward and backward. This new context was hard to resolve until it fell into place that I was on a giant branch of some sort. Colored, and even textured, like concrete. A great creature stood before me. It had a long, flexible neck that resembled a geoduck ending in a round orifice. A ring of numerous pale red eyes, on short stocks, surrounded its neck and it turned this way and that, until I, or my host, began a low whistle at which they all focused on me. The other end connected to an odd, leathery egg-shaped body sprouting massive wings from its sides. It had six legs terminating in hydra-like tentacles, rather than claws.
With a swift motion of its swaying neck, it struck like a snake and swallowed me whole into its monstrous orifice. I slid quickly into its gullet. I was pushed down into a chamber where, like a tadpole, I squiggled around to face the opening, then wriggled up the esophageal passage a short distance. I opened my own mouth wide and glued my lips to the edges of the great creature’s throat, sealing me to it in such a way that anything that went down this throat would enter first into mine.
Since my arrival, I was flooded with an intensity of emotions. Something akin to fear and anxiety mixed with confusion. In all my rebirths on Earth, I was able to understand all the forms of communication and language. Would that be true here, too?
It was. A strange contentment enveloped me. A kind of peace and sense of safety. I felt all this because I knew this was my mother. She would care for me. Occasionally a sticky mass of food would come down her mouth and I would devour it with delight. These were tastes I had never experienced. After the food passed through me, I would expel it. What I didn’t use was passed out and was welcomed by my mother for her nourishment.
One day, after around thirty meals, my mother released a strange chemical. Immediately knowledge, color, and smells began to seep into my pores. It gave me access to her life, like a cheap copy of my experience in Hell. It assembled the memories of all my mother’s ancestors. I was an ordinal moment in a long sequence of past lives. My body absorbed these chemicals, ordered them, and put them together into long chains of crystal-clear recollections.
I was a future ruler. Part of a distinguished tribe that had conquered many patches of the tree islands in which we made our homes. The trees were complex, fungus-like organisms that formed broad webs made of thick webbing, like the one upon which I sat as I emerged from my cocoon. I knew the songs, combinations of sounds and smells, and stories of my people. I felt rejoicing and pride at my age and glory at the life that lay before me. I would rule with honor and holiness!
Then I felt my mouth detaching from my mother’s throat and she began to squeeze me out with force. During the time inside my mother, I had changed and developed into something other than the tadpole that entered. Suddenly, with great force, she shot me into the world. I rocketed upward a few feet and then began to fall. The branch I sat upon was high, and as I fell, I knew exactly what to do. I burst from a thin glassy membrane and stretched my newly formed wings vaulting into the sky for the first time. I was surrounded by my subjects, by relations, and by my tribe, all winging our way skyward, all singing with joyous abandon, whistling and calling me by name as they accompanied me into the warm orange light of a red dwarf star which nearly filled the sky with its glory! My air sacks expanded, swelling my ovoid form to the limits of its elastic and flexible body. Then, with violence, I forced the air though my mouth and let my scream sound clear and potent into the world. In joy! In power! In the ecstasy of existence!
I have by now explored hundreds of worlds. Isabeau has been with me still from time to time. She almost seems to be resolving in greater clarity. When she is in a partner of my host, our recognition triggers delight. I have long conversations with her and I imagine she responds. There is no way to know if they are real, but I seem to sense moods and dispositions. After billions of eons, perhaps we will improve enough to genuinely talk?
Right now, I am descending into a Jupiter-like gas giant. I am a bubble creature, and my buoyancy-bladder has been ruptured by a blast from a
I have one more story to tell.
It is not of any of the alien worlds I have traversed—and truly they are no longer any more alien than Earth was, as they have been made known to me at depths that not even the inhabitants understand.
The story I want to tell you is about how I have learned to endure this Hell. “Endure.” That is not the right word. I do not endure it. I relish it. And it is no longer Hell. It is life. Or a stage in life. Its duration does not matter to me.
Certainly, I slip into old patterns of thought. I am human after all, as when I discovered that upon reaching the first form of life that lived on Earth—at which time I convinced myself that after that event I would be released from Hell. No, I did not escape, I was to be reborn in a near endless cycle of alien births. Yet it did not take me long to recover into that calm I had come to appreciate as I traversed the incarnations of plants and bacteria prior to my transfer to other star systems.
Back on Earth, my host was born into a royal family in high cold mountains that rose above the plain like granite gods. The air was clear and fresh and it was a time of prosperity and peace. As a prince I was taught to fight and to enjoy the pleasures and rights of power. I married a woman chosen by my father and had children as expected. My wife cared little for me. My children were cared for largely by others.
A disquiet settled on my host, and we wondered together at the meaning of life. How is it to be lived? We became discontent. His wealth brought him no joy. We saw the ascetics, traveling from town to town in poverty, begging for their food, searching for wisdom and meaning. He decided to follow them. We left all behind. The trappings of wealth, of sex, of all the advantages that life had so far offered. We starved ourselves, fasting, walking dangerous roads. He walked naked through the harsh and lowly winters. But we found nothing in austerity, any more than what we found in wealth and prosperity.
We ended the life of an ascetic, but wandered still. Looking for what would explain the endless cycles of birth and death, which, as you can imagine, had special relevance for me. I suspect you know who he was. As did I. I had felt his influence in millions of his followers for thousands of years, in countless people whom I had been. So you can imagine I anticipated what was coming, but to experience it first hand, to perceive as I did, his enlightenment, changed everything.
We were walking along a river. The day was hot and sweltering. A large tree giving abundant shade was mothering a sandy bank and we stopped to rest. We were preoccupied with our questions. What was life? Why was it so full of suffering (a universal on every planet I’ve visited)? Why are we so discontent, no matter what our circumstance?
As we rested in the shade of that tree, our minds were adumbrated with light. It was attachment to our goals, to our dissatisfaction with our present. We wanted to be elsewhere, always looking ahead to a time and place that would we believed would end our dissatisfaction—always convinced if we could escape this moment or embrace that event, it would all be made right. But it never was. We had to let go of that myth. We had to embrace the present. If we are truly eternal beings, if life is endless, then the present was the only reality, and we must find contentment by being there. Suffering would not end. How could it if we were endlessly trying to end it—thinking that we would be able to escape it?
I thought of how miserable I’d been in my incarnations in different hosts. Always thinking about the time it would end. That somehow I would escape this Hell and then, finally, be happy. I had lived millions of
millions of lives, wanting to rush through them, to get to the end. To get out of Hell. To be free. Then in despair, I realized there were eons ahead.
The only way to escape the misery of this repeating cycle was to embrace it. To be content with the present I’d been given. To stay put in this duration and live. I did not know why such a profound realization did not release me. I could not imagine learning something more profound. I’m still trapped, but it at least provided a way to cope.
After that, I tried to live in the present. To forget that I would move on. That there was an end I was trying to reach. I tried to be in the present. The more I practiced, the better I became. I remember once when I was a great sequoia, those long-lived trees that grace the great forests where I used to live. I let that calm and still way of being wash over me. I did not look forward to being something else. I did not try to escape the boredom and frustration of wanting to move on. I was still and let that stillness fix my mind on the present.
I occasionally slip up. Especially as I anticipate a meeting with Isabeau. As when I was rushing toward the beginning of life’s creatures on Earth and the thought that I was nearing the end became my focus. I let the crushing despair take me when I did not escape the repetitive cycles I endured in host after host, but as I screamed the joy of existence in that first alien creature I inhabited, my desire to enter the present returned to me. And so it has.
Do you see what a gift I’ve been given? I will be billions of creatures. Each with something to teach. Each with an almost magical way of being and a presence in a given duration. In Isabeau, I appear to have been given a companion who was ever near and ever far away.
God is merciful? Perhaps. Even so, I have seen such wonders with such varied eyes I feel myself the most blessed of creatures. It is true that I suffer, but thinking about its end is no longer my focus.
Now, I try to discern what is to be learned from it. Both suffering and joy have things to teach, and I try to imbibe lessons of these beings. Oh that I could write the nearly infinite number books it would take to describe the things I’ve experienced! Of the people, both wise and ragged, which I have come to know! I would place them in an endless library that all might enjoy the depth of experience of these beings. This , I think, is what it must be like to be a god .
Hell? Existence can be such, and is, from time to time. I am not oblivious to the suffering around me, but then I remember: I will never stop existing. There will always be futures to anticipate and dread. But I will no longer focus on escape. Rather, I will find my place in the present. Now, when I awake from whatever dreams the night has held, in whatever creature I inhabit, I turn my thoughts skyward in gratitude that I have this chance, despite its terrors, to experience so very much of existence’s presence and grace.
Do you see the gift I’ve been given?
To hold on to the moment. To the now of wherever I am.
Do you see it? The gift?
Post-Mortal Vagrancy | The Right Side
James Wymore grew up on a heavy diet of movies and books that morphed his real life adventures into imaginary worlds. His published works span the fiction spectrum, including many different genres in the best-selling Actuator series. He’s an acquisitions editor, running games with hundreds of players at conventions.
http://jameswymore.wordpress.com
A Very Personal Hell
Michaelbrent Collings is an internationally-bestselling novelist, produced screenwriter, multiple Bram Stoker Award-nominee, and one of the top indie horror writers in the United States. Find him at michaelbrentcollings.com .
Heaven is the People You Love
Mette Ivie Harrison has published The Bishop’s Wife and His Right Hand, both part of the ongoing Linda Wallheim mystery series set in Mormon Utah. She has published numerous YA titles, including The Princess and the Hound and The Rose Throne. She holds a PhD from Princeton University, is an All-American triathlete, and blogs for Huffington on religion. She lives in Layton, Utah with her husband and five children.
Move On
Jay Wilburn is a horror and speculative fiction writer that lives in Conway, South Carolina near Myrtle Beach. He is the author of the Dead Song Legend Series, The Enemy Held Near , The Great Interruption , and My Racist Summer . Follow him at JayWilburn.com, his Facebook author page, and @AmongTheZombies on Twitter.
A Tall Vanilla Order
Tonya Adolfson is the best-selling author for FJ Publishing, a small press out of Boise, Id. Her series, Souls of the Saintlands , is due to finish out in June 2019. Her cookbook has several gluten-free and diabetic friendly recipes, and her costuming book, Surviving Your Own Creativity , teaches people how to make costumes they can actually wear. She spends her days editing and producing full cast audio books for self-publishing, indie, and small press authors. Her nights usually consist of killing bystanders for their magical boots.
A Little Dance in Paradise
As an Architectural Specifier, R.A. Baxter spends much of his time manipulating words and instructing builders as to the best way to construct a coherent building. This desire for coherence also forms the core of his philosophy of life. R.A. Baxter has degrees in Fine Arts, Science of Architecture, and a Masters of Architecture; but he would rather spend his time writing, something he has always enjoyed. He and his longsuffering family live in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains in Bountiful Utah. If you have any comments, questions, or highly overstated praise for R.A. Baxter, contact him at https://rabaxterauthor.wordpress.com/ .
The Egress of Hell
Michael R. Collings , WHC Grand Master, is an educator, literary scholar and critic, poet, novelist, essayist, columnist, reviewer, and editor whose work over three decades has explored science fiction, fantasy, and horror, emphasizing the works of Stephen King and related writers. He has served as Guest, Special Guest, and Guest of Honor at a number of cons, professional as well as fan-oriented, including three-time Academic GoH at the World HorrorCon. He has been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award® (Horror Writers Association) for non-fiction and for poetry. Retired from Pepperdine University, he lives in Idaho with his wife, Judi.
A Short Rest in Hell
D.J. (Dave) Butler is a lawyer, corporate trainer, guitar player, songwriter, and family man who writes adventure fiction for all audiences. His books include The Kidnap Plot , City of the Saints , Crecheling , Rock Band Fights Evil , and Witchy Eye (forthcoming). He also acquires books for WordFire Press.
The Armadillo’s Song
Through two wonderful mentored research experiences, Sarah E. Seeley had the opportunity to work with dead sauropods and ancient odonates while acquiring her undergraduate degree in geology from Brigham Young University. She hopes to study more dead things in the future and contribute to scientific discussions about what makes life on Earth so amazing. In the meantime, she explores the bright side of being human by writing dark fiction. Sarah writes fantasy, science fiction, and horror, and is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. To learn more, visit her author blog at www.SlithersOfThought.com .
A Hell of a Life
In addition to writing A Short Stay in Hell , Steven L. Peck is an associate professor in the Biology Department of Brigham Young University. He has published over 50 scientific articles in the area of evolutionary ecology as well as award-winning fiction and poetry, including AML’s best novel of 2011, The Scholar of Moab . A collection of short stories called Wandering Realities was recently published, along with a book of essays on science and religion. His work has appeared in everything from Newsweek to Analog . More about his work can be found at http://www.stevenlpeck.com/
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Curiosity Quills Anthology: Cast No Shadows
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Welcome to the shadowed woods, where the trees breathe with ghosts and the wind whispers of the past.
Twenty-six authors take you through haunted houses and cemeteries with tales that will chill.
Beware the dark, for the spirits await you.
The Keeper, by Dalia Roddy
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An ancient box is found, and its mysterious occupants released. They seem benign, the small, floating creatures freed from the box… until they begin multiplying. Until Guy, Saul, Emily, and her ten-year old twins find themselves sucked into a whirlpool of terror. For the pretty little floaters have bonded them, and are taking something from them… and giving back something even more dangerous.
What they give back is new to the world. It is something three desperate mercenaries want, and will kill to get. Unable to negotiate with their murderous hunters, Guy, Saul, Emily, and the girls find themselves fleeing for their lives.
