Week 40 - Double Visions

Double Visions

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Not sure what I’m seeing. What is it? My eyes are all fucked up right now. I hate to think I’m going to have to get glasses... I’m not that old yet, am I? It’s a blur. Things are blurry when in the morning or when I stare at the screen too long. Maybe I’m not sleeping enough. Maybe I’m old. I feel like I’m old. Fuck.  – from the private journal of Eddie Frost.

Edward had a problem. He thought it was his eyesight. In a way it was, but not in the way he was thinking. He could only imagine this was what it was like when people’s vision started to go. Blurred and fuzzy images. One minute in focus, another out. But he wasn’t thinking clearly, just as he wasn’t seeing clearly.

Even if he had been thinking clearly, he never would have guessed what was actually going on.

 There are images of blurred things. Objects. They overlap. Not quite seeing double, but I’m seeing two of something. It’s strange. Like something’s there that isn’t. Something extra. Something and then it’s gone. Spots in the corner of my eye, just out of sight. Something strange. Shapes that can’t possibly be there. If I reach out, they don’t last. If I focus, they don’t last. They’re there, I know they are.  But if I look too hard or too long, they always disappear.

I keep thinking that if I turn quickly enough I’ll actually see what it was.

I’d like to think it’s my peripheral vision playing tricks on me.

But what if it’s not? That has me a little worried. I’m talking myself into diseases I know I don’t have. But what if I do?

What Edward didn’t know was that he had been given a gift. Something new and unique. He didn’t see it that way. He had no way to conceive of it. He had been granted something special, something from the darkness, something that bound him to a far greater power…

Doctor says it’s not glasses. Doctor says it’s not a brain tumor. Thank God for that. I was actually scared. I had talked myself into believing such bullshit. Thank God that’s not the case. But still, they don’t know what is. That’s not good.

I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. I need more sleep. The lack of sleep makes me nod off and then I’m seeing something I’m really not. I don’t know if I believe that or not. If I’m nodding off all the time, then how do I need more sleep?

I can almost see them. I can almost make it out. I know if I just try hard enough, something will make sense. I know it’s there. I just have to be able to see.

The spirits, the dark and mysterious ones that are always swirling about, watching and interfering with people’s lives, had imbued within him a special gift. No one asked Edward. No one gave him a choice. That wasn’t how it worked.

I swear to God I’m not insane, but I swear something was there and it looked back at me.

The sight, the gift, the visions. A blending of the senses that allowed a glimpse into the other worlds. Not every pair of eyes could see clearly. Not every mind could handle what it saw. Unfortunately for Edward, his was one of those minds that couldn’t quite handle all that it was given.

Edward was not a happy camper.

My eyes! My eyes! Make it stop. Help me. Somebody help me. Please. What the fuck.

The spirits were coming through and Edward wasn’t equipped to handle it or to know what to do. It felt like madness. That would have made sense if it had been. Not that the mad really know they are experiencing madness. But madness would have explained it all. The visions, the half-objects, the mists, the fog of knowledge, all the things that seemed clear and unclear and incomprehensible at the same time.

There was no one to confirm or provide any sort of assistance. Not the doctors, not the medicine. Not the spirits. They didn’t provide guidance of any sort.

Daily. It’s daily now. Almost all the time. It’s too much. Everywhere. All over the place. Everything I look at, I see what’s there, what I’m supposed to and then there’s the other things. The other things that are there, but aren’t really there. No one else sees. No one else knows.

It’s too much. Nothing helps. Nothing stops it. I don’t want this. I don’t want to see. Whatever this is, I need it to stop. I’m not supposed to be like this. I’m not. I feel weak. I feel beaten down all the time. I’m tired all the time. I can’t sleep or I see things. I can’t concentrate all day. I look anywhere and it’s insane.

They tell me to sleep. To rest. How can I do that when it’s all the time? Nothing stops it. I need a break. I need it to stop. I don’t know what else to do. I know it’s not supposed to be like this. If this continues… if this continues, I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’m just so tired all the time.

It had to end. Edward couldn’t handle it anymore. He needed it to end. He needed a way out. He assumed that the visions were linked to his ocular system as opposed to something directly interacting within his brain.  He assumed that without his eyes, the visions would stop.

In a way he didn’t care. He knew he wasn’t in control anymore. He knew he didn’t know and wouldn’t know what it really was. But he needed it to stop so badly. He just needed it over, no matter what happened next. He couldn’t live with things the way they were.

Secret worlds and secret places and the shadows of the other things that are hidden in there. They watched. The eyes saw. They observed and studied. Edward couldn’t tell. He couldn’t see. A million and one other realities folded and layered and blurred tightly together. It was impossible to see them all. Impossible to comprehend.  

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to see. He couldn’t take it anymore. The eyes would have to go, blinding himself just to be rid of the visions.

And once those were gone, anything and everything else might have to go too. Only then could it all stop.

The spirits swirled and watched and waited, and eventually they would move on.

Week 39 - My Cat in a Box

My Cat in a Box

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Some cats were good luck, and some cats were bad luck. Ed wondered what sort of cat his was. He couldn’t really say for sure. Ed wasn’t superstitious by nature and he didn’t really know what to look for. There wasn’t much about Mr. Harrington that had ever been lucky or unlucky. Mr. Harrington was just a cat. Flip, disinterested and incredibly annoying whenever he wanted food. Just like most any cat. But how was he supposed to know anyway. Emily had found the cat, Emily had named the cat and Emily took care of the cat. Ed didn’t pay much attention to that side of things.

It was too bad. Ed could have used a bit of luck right now.

The door had been left open. That wasn’t supposed to happen. There were safeguards built in. Redundancies set up. There was supposed to be a procedure in place. The door wasn’t supposed to stay open. But plans too often fail. That was far too obvious.

Black cats were considered bad luck. But that seemed to be some old wives’ tale. Mr. Harrington wasn’t a black cat at all. There was no such thing as luck. There was preparation and chance and the point they two met on a graph. No such thing as luck. Some cats were considered magic. Witches always seemed to have cats. Egyptians cats too. His mind was wondering. He was missing the point. The point wasn’t good or bad. Lucky or unlucky. The point was the question and in asking, creating a possible solution.

Ed forgot the question. He forgot. He could have used some luck right about now, but he forgot.

Ed’s eyes were watering. Something in the air. Some irritant. He didn’t have the strength or the time to consider what it was. There was nothing he could do now, even if he could have figured it out. It was all too late.

The door was left open. There was no telling what had come in or out in that time. Nothing was supposed to come in or out. But something had obviously gone wrong. The gate was left swinging. Anything could have passed on through. Anything at all. Like an airborne pathogen. That sort of thing. The things they hadn’t accounted for. The things no one thought about. The things that weren’t supposed to be possible.

Here he was, dying, but still worrying about what should or shouldn’t be possible, even though it most certainly had happened. Or so he thought. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe it was in his head. Or maybe it only happened to him. That was the point, wasn’t it? The infinite possibility of uncertainty, where only the interference of observation could create or determine the outcome. Where was the luck in that? Any outcome was possible, if only he could figure out how to look for the right one. He didn’t know what to look for. He didn’t know the clues. He didn’t know how to see. What had he seen? What had he done? How much of this was his own fault?

There should have been other people there. Guards. Doctors. Lab technicians. Where were they? Ed could barely muster the strength to lift his head and look around. There was no one there. He was all alone. That was no way to die. That was no way to leave this world. He was sure there had been other people. But there were none now.

Last night he had had several dreams of his daughter. Not his daughter as she was, but as she would be. He met her as an adult and she had been so happy. So full of life. It made him smile. Even now, he found the strength to smile. Or at least he thought he was smiling. He couldn’t really tell if his face moved or some muscle twitched at all. For all he knew, his face was already frozen.

Emily had named the cat Mr. Harrington. She looked so old in his dream.

The dream seemed so real. He felt her hand. The texture. It seemed as if he had really been there. Dreams weren’t supposed to feel that real, were they?

Where had he gone?

But what if he was still alive? What if this was the dream and he could still wake up? What would happen then? What if he was in the dream and here, at the same time? Split in two worlds, split in two? Would he still be there, in the dream, with Emily? If he died here, here on the floor of the lab, would he still be somewhere else at the same time? If something could come through the door, why couldn’t he do it too? He liked that idea. He liked that someone somewhere might carry on and that he might get to be there with Emily.

The cat was going to outlive him. Strange thought indeed. No one ever bought a pet thinking the pet would outlast them. He wondered what would become of Mr. Harrington, would he starve? Or survive? Dead or alive, dead or alive. The two ways it could go, but he wouldn’t be around to see it. Would someone else find him and take care of him? Maybe the cat was damned. A demon. A haunting. Maybe the cat had been his curse, his bad luck after all. Ed wished he had never bought that cat. It was too late for those sorts of thoughts. What was done was done. No changing that now.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder, if he was gone, then who would feed Mr. Harrington?

Week 38 - The Moment Thief

The Moment Thief

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Bruce remembered things one way; Natalie the other. It wasn’t so much that they had different memories of how they met; it was just that they had totally different memories of how they met. Different standards of what constituted a first meeting, different order of events, different focuses on different bits of minutia.

Bruce remembered seeing her across the open courtyard of their college dorm. Natalie knew for a fact that they had met three weeks earlier at a party where a mutual friend had invited them both. Bruce didn’t remember her at all that night. It wasn’t the alcohol or that she didn’t make much of an impression. He just didn’t remember their conversation at all. At all. Natalie never let him forget that.

But that was years ago and a million memories ago and time had moved them together then apart the together again and once again apart. They were friends and then they weren’t. They were lovers and then they weren’t. They had many many moments between them and many many memories that had been shared.

That made for a good friendship. They knew each other well. They remembered things. There was still a love and bond between them, even when there wasn’t. The pain, the pleasures, the sacrifices together. All of it added up to become a larger whole. They trusted each other. Even when they weren’t walking and hadn’t talked for years. It was an easy thing to fall back into – a belief that the core of the person was consistent all these years later. That the other person was still essentially the same as the person they had each fallen in love with. Trust had always been the foundation of their relationship. Trust was what kept them together in this current form of a relationship.

Someone, that someone being the woman sitting across from him, had taught him the meaning of love a long long time ago. And love making. Two not too different and yet totally separate things. Trust, respect and admiration were three words that had been used to define their relationship. They had decided that was the rational approach to love. But that didn’t cover everything. It didn’t take into account the lust or the heat of desire. It didn’t take into account the chemicals that were released or the psychological scars or impressions that were left behind. It didn’t take into account desire and wishing something meant something instead of it all just being some calculated risk management list of taking stock and balancing between positives and negatives. It didn’t take into account that part of a person that when the brain shut down, the body still wanted something. It didn’t take into account the moments, the pauses, the delicate little dance between smiles and innuendo. Trying to make such a strict definition didn’t take into account moments like these.

Every year or so they got together and picked at old scabs and tried to see what they could find. Sometimes it was nostalgic. Better times it was passion. More often than not it was pain and a little bit of regret. Once or twice it was boredom. That might have hurt most of all.

They had been talking for just the right amount of time. They had passed the boring chit-chat phase, passed the catch up and the recaps and broad strokes of generalizing life. Now they were into the deep and meaningful phase. This was the dangerous phase. This was the phase with the intrigue. They were familiar, but enough time has come and gone that there were new and fresh experiences to explore. They had their old routine and they could slip into it easily, but there was just enough mystery, just enough unknown to keep things moving.

Then she yawned.

He had seen that yawn before. It was an honest yawn. Not dismissive, just honest. She was tired. And there were no butterflies in her stomach to counteract that. Not adrenaline pumping, not secret desires. No passion. She was tired and it was getting late and that was that. They were too old to power through for just a little lust.

The moment was there, and then it was gone. Like a memory forgotten. A moment stolen. Whisked away in the middle of the night. He saw the past. He saw the future. He saw what could have been. But this moment, this very moment past, that had been taken from him. That had been lost. He hated that he could see everything except for the moment as it was happening in front of him. He lived the moment, but he wasn’t ever in the moment. There was no such thing as now. There was always what had just happened and what could happen next. He had no appreciation for the here and now. And maybe because he had no appreciation for it, he didn’t deserve it at all.

Where had it gone? Who had taken it? The moment had been stolen.

He imagined a Moment Thief, lurking in the shadows, ready to steal his joy, his happiness, his bliss. The Moment Thief had come and stolen this precious one, ruined it. One second of the space-time gone. Lost to him forever. What would the Moment Thief do with it? Relive it? Feel his joy, over and over. Feel his pain. Laugh at it. Revel in it. Live a better life. How many moments had been stolen like that? Gone from him, gone from his memory. Taken by someone else to make some other dream with them. Time would forget. Memory wouldn’t miss it. Memory blurs and blends and makes things up as it goes along. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t remember all the details of how he first met Natalie. They had been stolen away from him.

A stolen moment would be a great and powerful thing. If he could figure that out, he could become a master of space and time. It would be a chance to claim everything and rebuild and reuse it somewhere else. Take the little parts away, and put into a new vat, mix them up, and watch them grow. He could build something better. Build a world full of other people’s moments. All the best parts. All the beautiful and wonderful moments. It would be a world of perfection.

Bruce snapped out of it and looked back into her eyes, a hint of sadness reflected back at him. He could see it, that the moment has passed. He had her and then he lost her. Maybe she had wanted something to happen. Maybe he had failed her. Or maybe the moment had. He could have leaned closer, could have gently placed his hand on her arm, could have said the right thing, told the right joke… could have done any number of a million and one other things than what he had actually done.

Maybe she was just too old for this and was lamenting the loss of that part of their relationship. Or maybe he didn’t know how to interpret her inner thoughts as he once had. It made him a little bit sad, and sad that there was no way to steal back those moments past. No thief, nothing to be reclaimed, just lost and slowly faded away, back into the fog of memories long gone.

The moment was there, but now it was the past.

Week 37 - We Us; All the Lost and Forgotten Little Ones

We Us; All the Lost and Forgotten Little Ones

Matthew Ryan Fischer

For a moment it seemed as if he was floating. For a moment. Forever. For a moment, suspended in the air. Suspended in space. There was no future and there had been no past. It was just a stationary moment, lost and overlooked, slipped away from all the rest. It was his moment. Him. A sole soul. Not a piece, not a part, but a man, whole and complete. Slipping through the ether. A lost and lonely thing, a soul, floating and forgotten. He defied gravity. He defied logic. He defied reality. Just for a moment. Just for a moment.

Then he fell.

He was falling. Anxiety overwhelmed. Fear kicked in. Fight-or-flight, but there was nothing to fight and he didn’t know how to achieve flight. So instead he fell. His arms flailed with nothing to catch onto. Shortness of breath. This was something. It meant something. He had done this.

He fell, slow then faster. He was speeding up. He was going to come crashing down. He opened his mouth to scream.

And then he woke up.

Eyes wide, mouth open, but he didn’t make a sound. He was standing. He had been standing anyway. Not falling. But he was startled when he woke and he lost his balance, and then he really did slip and fall.

Jules. Julian. Jules. That wasn’t quite right. But he wasn’t thinking about his name.

Jules caught this breath. It had been a dream. A memory, but a dream. He had been ten or maybe twelve and he fell from a tree house. He landed on a wooden fence post that pierced his side. The fence had broken and he had tumbled to the ground and blacked out when his head bounced against the hard earth. He remembered waking up scared. There were people looking down and staring at him. His friends. His brothers. They looked scared. That scared him even more.

He hadn’t done any major damage, but he had come close. He had to have the splinters and the shards removed, and had been stitched up. He remembered the aches. He remembered having to sit still. He hated sitting still. He had always hated sitting still.

That was so long ago. Why was he dreaming about that? He instinctively touched his side and felt for the scar. It was so long ago. It seemed like forever.

Slowly the fog of sleep faded away and his cognizance returned. That was when Julian realized he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there.

Command Pilot Webber had been having a most pleasant dream. Up until the moment the alarm when off inside his head. Then his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and he was suddenly awake. There was no actual alarm or blinking light, there was no need. He was linked into the computer, so even when he was asleep, he was aware. He opened his eyes and forgot all about whatever it was he had been dreaming about. He was momentarily foggy and a little sick to his stomach. Coming out of cryo was like that. He was well trained and prepared, but his body never felt quite right. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but that was how it happened to him. The brain trust could tell him it was all in his imagination, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass about their opinion. He knew what was happening inside his gut and in the back of his head. Cryo gave him the willies, but it was all a part of the job. He worried about what it was doing to his body, even though everyone assured him there was nothing to it. Oddly enough, as much as he worried about what he could feel in his gut, he hardly ever worried about the electronics in his body and in his brain. Coincidentally, the nanobots in his brain didn’t give him a second thought either.

Webber’s first instinct was to run to a commcenter. An old habit left over from a previous generation of tech. He already knew what was going on, even if he didn’t realize it yet. He knew. He just didn’t know he knew yet. The tech inside him made sure he knew before he was woken up. He still wasn’t used to how this new generation worked. Old habits and old training and he felt obsolete enough every day. All he had to do was stop and realize what his brain already processed, but he wasn’t thinking a hundred percent straight quite yet. He cleared his mind with a quick Namaste and the thoughts came hither, but it still didn’t make sense. Webber decided he better double-check and went to the nearest commlink.

Webber still wasn’t happy with what he knew even once he had confirmed and reconfirmed it. By then Commander Myers and Kirby the engineer had appeared as well.

“It looks like Earth,” he told them as they arrived.

“That doesn’t make any sense. There aren’t any ELPs in this vicinity.”

“No, I didn’t mean Earth-like. I mean, it looks like Earth. Just like Earth.”

Webber was right. It did.

No ship was supposed to be there. Not yet. Not right now. It wasn’t on the schedule. There were no transports, no shipments coming in or out, no customers or tours to be given. There wasn’t supposed to be a ship arriving. At first the Masters thought it might have been an interested party, arriving too soon, but they quickly dispelled that notion. The ship was alien, human. There was nothing human about the Masters or the Makers, despite cursory appearances. The planet below was far too human though. That could be a problem. Depending on the ship and who was on it and what they were capable of. The Masters were divided. They stood on the observation deck and watched. Then they squabbled and debated and finally watched some more. They were slow to resolution, slower to action. They preferred when work was completed on time and according to plan and they didn’t have to make any changes. They would have much preferred to sit and drink and let the Makers make and their Servers serve. That was always a much more enjoyable plan. Then when the planet was finished they could sell it for a tremendous profit and they could begin the process again.

But not here. Not now. Now and here, there was a ship, infiltrating their space and ruining their perfectly calculated schedule. It was frustrating really. No one appreciated how difficult it was to build a world from the ground up. Planets were like a fine piece of art – delicate and fragile. They required the perfect balance of a billion different things. Even when there was a proper blueprint. Even when there was a proper moment to build around. There were so many things to get right. And most often the smallest things would go wrong and ruin the entire thing. A little sliver of this or that. A broken ripple in space-time. Sometimes the terraforming didn’t stick. Sometimes the planet collapsed under its gravity. Gravity was a terribly difficult trick to get right. Gravity and atmosphere and the precise and proper distance from a satellite sun. Some planets could burn. Others would freeze. The occasional one would go spinning off its axis and fly into deep space for no reason whatsoever.

It was a cruel and fickle business, real estate. Even when they could get it right, even when a million and one things all lined up perfectly, there were customers that couldn’t come through on their end. Some people only thought they wanted a world to look after. Many only thought they could afford it. There were so many built that ended up going to waste. It could be tough, but when it went correctly, the profits were immense.

Things had been behind schedule already, and then now this ship had come out of seemingly nowhere. The Masters watched and debated, but then the ship and its inhabitants took it upon themselves to land and investigate things. That was extra annoying. Not only was their arrival going to throw the schedule off, but now they were down on the planet traipsing around. No telling what trouble they were going to get into now. No respect for the schedule. No respect at all. The Masters were not pleased at all.

It was raining. Webber didn’t seem to notice or care. He was preoccupied, looking into the mirror image of his face on another man.

“He looks just like you.”

“Yes,” mumbled Webber. He didn’t know how else to answer. It was very very surreal. It was not at all what he had expected when they had detected a living being and decided to investigate. He really had not expected to find himself on the surface of this Earth that was not Earth.

“Just like you...”

What am I doing here? Me, him. Either of us. Both of us. This is not at all what was supposed to happen today. I was asleep, having a very nice dream. He couldn’t remember what it was about, but he knew it was nice. I was having a very very nice dream. Maybe I still am. Maybe this is the dream. Things like this happened in dreams, he supposed.

Webber waited for the nanoprocessing to kick and a wake him up. That didn’t happen. Then he waited for it to make some sense of things for him. That didn’t happen either.

“This is a great big clusterfuck,” announced Commander Myers.

“Why Commander, I didn’t know you cared,” retorted Kirby.

Webber kept quiet, despite the fact that his mouth still hung open. He just looked at the name across from him – the window reflection of his face.

He had a million questions. A million thoughts, all racing through his mind. Unfortunately, just as he was about to begin asking them, that was the same moment that death rained down from above; the Masters had finally arrived at a decision.