The Compendium of Imaginary Stars

by Steve Benton

  "Um, hello. What's that?"

  "Oh, things. All sorts of things here and there, hither and thither."

  "Are you a foreigner?" asked Glenn, noting the man had a European accent.

  "No, oh no," he laughed, "I am from much further away."

  "Right. Well, I'm…"

  "Glenn. Glenn Davies. Yes, I know well who you are, young man."

  "You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don't know your name, among other things."

  "Well, I have had many names throughout my life, but please, call me Bob."

  "Bob? Not Robert or Norbert or anything like that?"

  The man shook his head and lightly laughed. "No, just Bob. And I have come here to speak with you. Could we meet, perhaps this evening?"

  "Um, I'm getting together with my girlfriend tonight."

  "Oh yes, the girlfriend you never knew you had."

  Glenn's heart nearly stopped. "How did you know that?"

  "An old woman died in your hallway today. Then she was no longer dead. Do you not find that to be odd, Glenn?"

  "Who are you?"

  "Bob. I already told you, young man. My name is Bob."

  "Okay Bob, I have a lot of work to do. It was nice meeting you." Glenn was getting nervous and wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

  "We need to have a talk, Glenn. You see, your mind has just acclimated and you are now finally seeing reality."

  "Reality? How's that? I think I'm going insane."

  "Glenn, do you remember your vacation in England when you were a child?"

  "Yeah, sure. It was my first time overseas. Why do you ask…and how did you know that, Bob?"

  "The shard of metal you found at Stonehenge. I assume you still possess it."

  Glenn instinctively brought his hand up to guard the necklace he had made from that very object. It was a memento from the last vacation he had taken with his father before the man passed away.

  "Yes. I still have it. It's a necklace now. Why?"

  "Tell me, Glenn. Do you know anyone who has… died?"

  "Just my dad. When I was a kid. Well, and my neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, but she's not really dead. Why?"

  "And you were wearing your necklace when she passed?"

  "Yeah, I was. Always. Dude, what the hell is going on? How do you know my name, and how did Mrs. Wilson die, but didn't die?"

  Bob sighed. "You possess a piece of a very powerful object, millions of years old. Think of it as ancient technology. It gives you certain… abilities."

  "Huh? I don't understand."

  "You died today."

  "No I didn't. I'm right here."

  "A terrorist's bomb exploded right behind this couch. In fact, at this moment Homeland Security is combing through the wreckage – just somewhere else."

  Glenn thought back to his earlier vision.

  "Okay, this is weird. What do I have? What's wrong with me?"

  "Oh no, my boy, there is nothing wrong with you. No, nothing at all. You are merely able to realize one of the truths of the Universe."

  "And… what's that?" asked Glenn.

  "That no one ever really dies in the way you believe."

  "Okay, now I'm really confused. This morning I saw a flash, and then I was broke, drinking my last cappuccino. I go home and my apartment is updated, Piper's my girlfriend and I have a popular blog. What gives?"

  "Whenever someone dies in a timeline their consciousness transfers to an alternate line, or schism, retaining no memory of their death. They simply continue living with no memory of whatever it was that caused their demise. Likewise, no one else knows they have continued. You, however, actually see death, and travel with whomever it has touched. You happen to have gone through two in one day. First when you were atomized by that most unfortunate bomb, and then later when Mrs. Wilson passed."

  "Look, I'm a writer. This is way beyond anything I've ever imagined. But if you're right, how come my life got better once Mrs. Wilson came back?"

  "Were you imagining a better life when she died?" asked Bob.

  "Yeah, come to think of it. I was. I was thinking I was gonna make it with my writing and get the hell out of that rancid apartment complex."

  "And now things are better, I would assume."

  "Yeah, so what's next?"

  "Well, you continue to live your life, of course."

  "But, what if I die? People die everyday. Why doesn't my life get better when they do?"

  "Only the deaths of those whom you know personally, or those you see with your own eyes can trigger the effect, bringing you along."

  "Oh wow, so I'm immortal?" asked Glenn, excited at the prospect of eternal life.

  "No, my boy. Not at all. Everyone eventually dies, but from old age. "

  "Mrs. Wilson is old."

  "But it is not yet her time. Anyway, I must be off. Please, do not abuse this gift."

  Glenn looked down and again touched his necklace, trying to do the math in his mind. He had something that let him remember death that didn’t happen.

  I could write a cool story about this.

  Looking up, he couldn't see Bob anywhere.

  ###

  Later that evening, Glenn lie back in his new, king size bed, with Piper sleeping next to him, her small curves moving which each gentle breath. He put his hands behind his head as he formulated a plan.

  If I can see someone die and I'm thinking good thoughts I can shift to a better timeline.

  ###

  The following day, Glenn called his only friend, Joe Walker, who worked as an orderly at a local hospital. He had a plan, and knew his buddy could unwittingly help.

  "Hey Glenn, what's up? How's Piper doing?"

  "Um, she's good. Yeah. Anyway, I have a writing project coming up, and I'd like to get access to the ICU for some research. Can you get me in?"

  "Sure! You know, a couple of doctors here read your blog. You're becoming sort of a celebrity."

  "Cool. Well, I'll give you a call when I get there. Thanks, man."

  ###

  Glenn had already passed three days walking through the halls of the intensive care unit, still grabbing and studying patient charts. On that particular day he got lucky, hearing an alarm when someone's life signs were failing. Rushing to the location of the alarm, he peeked into the room, while trying to imagine himself as a world-famous author, married to Piper and living in a big home by the ocean.

  The alarm flatlined, as Mrs. Wilson, his neighbor, passed on from the world of the living.

  ###

  An ocean breeze gently blew into the massive, open sliding doors of Glen and Piper Davies' estate in San Clemente. He was working on his latest novel, a sequel to the wildly successful One Life, Many Deaths. Sure, he got the idea from everything Bob had told him in The Java Hut, where his wife used to work, but he didn't see any harm in writing about it. He looked up from his laptop just in time to see a very plump Piper bring him one of her famous cappuccinos, and then give him a light kiss on the cheek.

  This isn't bad. Nice home, great career, he thought to himself, as he reached up and touched his necklace.

  She's not so hot now that she's all fat n' stuff. Maybe it's time for a change…

  Glenn wanted more. He wanted more money, more fame… and the new domestic employee.

  That maid, Cassy Lapella, was a gorgeous, highly educated woman from Venezuela. However, her family had lost all of their wealth when a new government had taken over. Forced into menial labor for a couple of years, she managed to make it to the United States on a tourist visa, and took a job as one of the servants in the Davies household. Glenn of course found her attractive, and frequently flirted with the girl.

  "Señor Davies, I am sorry, but I cannot be with you. Señora Davies is pregnant. It would be wrong," said Cassy, as Glenn cornered her off in the palatial home and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  "Cassy, don't worry about Piper. I have a plan. It's foolproof. Honestly, wouldn't you like to have all this?" he asked, waving h
is arm out to the ocean.

  "Yes, I would. Very much, but what do you propose? Are you going to file for a divorce?"

  "Don't worry about that," said Glenn.

  ###

  Later that afternoon he asked Piper to shoot some photos on the patio overlooking the ocean.

  "Okay, honey. Lean up against the railing and put your hands on your hips," said Glenn, as he focused his digital SLR in for the shot.

  Piper leaned back, and as planned, the railing gave way, with the woman plunging to her death on the rocky shore below.

  But Glenn knew she wouldn't really die.

  ###

  "All rise for the honorable Judge Angela Morton," called out the court bailiff.

  A small woman in black robes entered into the chamber and took a seat at the bench. Still standing was Glenn Davies, accused, tried and convicted of the murder of his wife, Piper Davies.

  "Mr. Davies. You have been found guilty of murder in the first degree with special circumstances, and a jury of your peers has sentenced you to death. Do you have anything to say before leaving this courtroom?"

  Glenn shook his head, laughing inside. He looked back at everyone in the courtroom, seeing Cassy, one of the prosecution witnesses, seated in the rear. He hadn't taken into account that, even though the woman would willingly destroy a marriage, she would have morals when it came to homicide. Still, he sometimes wondered why he didn't traverse over with Piper when she went over the edge. But it didn't matter anymore. He had bigger fish to fry.

  "Very well then. I had hoped you would show some remorse, but perhaps you truly are the monster the prosecution made you out to be."

  Somebody will die in jail. Then I'll be free.

  ###

  Standing before a caged window inside the state penitentiary, Glenn emptied his pockets, handed over his wallet and maintained a smirk while being processed as a prisoner.

  "Remove your necklace, please," said the guard behind the cage.

  "What do you mean, I can't keep my necklace? I need it!" he cried out.

  "You don't need it, Davies. Where you're going you won't need anything."

  "No! I have to keep it! You can't take that!

  One of the prison guards ripped the chain from his neck and handed it through the cage. The processing guard dropped the jewelry into a box and handed it back to an assistant while other guards dragged the screaming man away to solitary confinement.

  A struggling Glenn looked back to see a tall prison guard with a long, gray beard and braided mustache give him a remorseful look, and then take the necklace out of the personal belongings box before fading from sight.

  END

  PAST RETOLD

  "And how does that make you feel, Eric?"

  "Huh?"

  Eric had been looking out the window again, zoning off in thought. He didn't care for his court-ordered anger management sessions. He found them to be a complete waste of time. Nothing had changed, and he was already on his fourth doctor since his assault conviction. He just went through the paces; he had no feelings of remorse.

  Nine months earlier he was out in a bar with some friends, and saw a man hitting a woman near the bathrooms to the rear of the club. Eric beat the fellow senseless, which again dragged him into the all-too-familiar criminal justice system—but this time as a defendant.

  "Eric, last week I asked you to write a letter to your mother. She sent it back, 'Return to Sender.' How does that make you feel?"

  "Dr. Cooper, to be honest, there's nothing I can do. She still blames me for his death."

  Eric's latest psychiatrist, Dr. Meredith Cooper, sat back in her chair taking notes, half-moon spectacles perched upon her thin nose. "You spent four months in a hospital thanks to your stepfather's abuses. The fact that he died in prison is no fault of yours."

  "What does any of this have to do with that asshole in the bar?"

  "Eric, we are merely attempting to address any underlying issues you might have. By understanding your anger, we can come to a solution that will help to calm your rage."

  "Rage? That guy was beating his wife. There's no excuse for that."

  "I understand your protective nature, Eric. It is due to the trauma you suffered as a child. You were your sister's guardian for many years. But you don't need to protect anyone anymore, especially strangers."

  "Oh, yeah. We'll just call 911 and wait for an hour while some poor woman bleeds out all over the ground? No thanks. I'll take my chances and do what's right."

  "Now, about your mother…"

  "You sound like Freud. Look, I don't understand my mom. I've already said that," Eric droned. "This happened when I was a kid. She'll never get over it."

  "Well, I believe it is you who needs to get over it. It's time to move on, Eric. You have a great career in engineering and a promising life ahead of you, and—"

  "I only got into college because that bastard's family was rich and they paid us off," Eric blurted out in anger. "If it wasn't for the money I would have never gotten my education."

  Dr. Cooper shook her head. "No, Eric. That's not true. I saw all of your transcripts from before the incident. You were on the right track. And you owe the family of Gordon Cisne absolutely nothing."

  "Well, he's dead and Mom hates me."

  "Eric, I don't believe your mother hates you."

  "Maybe you should talk to her, then." Lifting his wrist, he looked at his watch. "So, are we done?"

  "Yes, it is that time. I'll see you next week, Mr. O'Neill."

  ###

  Eric entered his home and went straight for the refrigerator, pulling out a thick, rib eye steak. He was about to throw it onto a frying pan when his phone rang.

  "Hey, Cindy. What’s up?"

  "How was your session today, big brother?"

  "Same as always. She asks me questions. I lie. How's Mom?"

  "She's okay. No, wait. She hates her apartment."

  "I would too. That place sucks. She should never have sold her house. Can we move her?"

  "I talked to her about it, Eric, but she likes wallowing in misery."

  "Typical. I'll give you a call tomorrow. Wanna do lunch?"

  "Sure! You buying?"

  "Of course. Love you. Bye."

  "Love you more!"

  Still holding his phone, he used his free hand to throw the steak onto the frying pan, which was immediately followed by the crackling of hot oil against meat and the tantalizing scent of searing animal flesh. Less than two minutes later he slid the steak out of the pan onto a plate and made for his home office.

  Falling back into his desk chair, he grabbed the steak with his hand and started to chew on it voraciously, holding the plate underneath his chin to catch any drippings. Eric looked around at various pictures in his office, concentrating most on the photo of his deceased father.

  Richard O'Neill died shortly after Cindy was born. Someone had cut the brake lines on his car, and he had driven off the side of the road one evening on his way home from work. The culprit was never identified, but Eric always suspected who it was: the man who lost in a battle of love for his mother during their college years. Gordon Cisne.

  Eric was halfway through his meal when an old newspaper article in a picture frame on the wall caught his attention.

  He used to read it every day.

  Eric dropped his plate onto the desk with a glassy clang. Standing up, he walked to the wall, pulling the picture off its hook and setting it on his desk. Steak back in hand, he studied the old article, starting with the headline:

  'Dog Boy' Survives Near-Fatal Attack

  He always despised that label—Dog Boy. Witnesses to the incident claimed Eric had turned into an animal and attacked his stepfather, which resulted in the man beating him over the head with a shovel. Eric lifted his free hand to his face and brushed his unkempt, reddish-blonde hair to the side, feeling the souvenir left by the shovel's sharp edge. It was still thick and swollen, even after sixteen years.

  He hated the scar
. It reminded him of that night.

  Eric had just turned thirteen, and was at the local pumpkin patch with his mother, his little sister and his stepfather. It was three days before Halloween, and Cindy wanted a large, beautiful pumpkin. Their stepdad said no, but she begged for it, so Gordon picked it up and smashed it on the hard earth—then he punched Cindy in the face. She was only four-years old at the time. The last thing Eric remembered was seeing red—and then waking up in the hospital two weeks later, a titanium plate in his skull and a permanent scar crawling down the side of his face as mementos.

  Eric could never understand why his mom would side with the man, even to the point of defending him in court. Yes, Gordon Cisne was wealthy, handsome and well-connected, but he was abusive to the extreme. He was also a religious fanatic, and forced his wife and her children to attend his cult-like church five days a week.

  Gordon would use anything as an excuse to raise his hand; a light left on in an unoccupied room, a plate left unwashed, or even a substandard grade on a paper (only A's were allowed). Eric's mom, Nancy, was the primary recipient of Cisne's wrath, but Eric usually managed to get into the mix due to his protective nature, and almost always to his own detriment.

  Eric finished his steak and wiped the juices from his fingers onto his pants leg. Putting the picture back, he looked at another framed newspaper item on the other side of the same wall. Dated approximately six years after the first article, its headline said Child Abuser Attorney Killed in Prison.

  He didn’t even bother reading that one. He remembered it all—every gratifying word. Within a week of the article's publication he threw a party at his house while his mother was at work. He had even made a banner that said Burn in Hell, and hung it over the front door.