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THE FLOWER
by
Hugh Aaron
Somewhere my Ma found an old iron pot which she painted black and put some kind of tall plant in it. All last summer she left the thing on our front porch where it did mighty well, and even had a single flower for a little while.
But one night a frost came and it withered the plant badly so my Ma took it into the house and set it on the floor beside the fireplace. When my Pa saw it he said, "What is that?" and my Ma explained that it used to be a beautiful plant and will be again. "Huh, you'd waste your time on that miserable specimen of vegetation?"
Well, my Ma watered it every night before I'd go to bed, but the thing never really got to look much better. It sort of flopped over the edge of the pot and looked droopy like a damp rag. I'd see my Pa look at it once in a while and smile a little.
About a month ago my Ma was watering the plant in the pot when my Pa said, "Don't you know when you're licked?" My Ma said, "It's far from dead. In fact it's having a baby. See, there's a little sprout just showing above the dirt." My Pa said, "Nah, it's dead." Then my Ma said, "If it can have a baby, it's alive enough to stand on its own two feet." Well, my Pa just scoffed.
Well, last night you should have been here. A flower was born here. My Pa saw the thing by accident as he sat down in his chair with the newspaper. When my Ma came into the room she looked at the flower and told my Pa supper was ready. My Pa got up and he kissed her. He looked at the flower and he told my Ma he loved her. And you know I felt the same way about my Ma after I saw the flower.
The Book
by
Oonah Joslin
There was once a little girl called Paige whose most prized possession was a very large picture book full of fairy tales. She had to be careful that her little brother didn’t get hold of her new book for he would surely rip the pages and cover the pretty pictures in crayon.
Every night Mother would read to them and Paige would follow with her fingers as best she could, the words of each sentence, and look at the delicately colored pictures with awe. Chapter by chapter she learned about the Brave Tin Soldier, The Ugly Duckling that became a swan and The Emperor in his Birthday Suit. But the story that moved her most was the plight of the Little Match Girl.
Then one day her brother was taken ill. He cried and cried with pain and when the pain lessened he looked limp and tired. A fire was lit in the bedroom and the doctor was called out. He pronounced that the little boy needed urgent treatment and that until transport came, he must not be allowed to go to sleep. There was great commotion about the house. Paige felt she was just in the way.
“What shall I do?” she asked.
“Petey mustn’t go to sleep,” said her mother. “You can sit with him and make sure he stays awake.”
Paige sat by her brother feeling helpless and small. It was close to bedtime. The firelight played on the walls and ceiling so, she could barely stay awake herself.
Suddenly she remembered her book. She would read him a story to keep them both awake. Paige fetched the book. “Now, I want you to listen to me Petey,” she said. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Once upon a time…” she began and she got to the end of the first sentence but she couldn’t remember where to go from there. Did your finger go down and across or across and then down? Oh, if only she could remember the story!
She tried reading from left to right: “ Th-gi-at-rs de-kool d-na sm-ra de-red…” then from right to left: “They s - sh – ood – ow - shold-e-red arms and look - ed s – st – st – r”
She didn’t know half these words.
“Petey, are you still awake?” she asked and shook him to make sure he was. “You’re not to go to sleep, hear?”
Paige leafed through the book until she came to a story she knew well. “The Little Match Girl,” she started. “Once upon a time…” then she looked at Petey’s little body lying beneath the covers in the flickering firelight and he looked so white and pale, she wondered whether his star would fall that night?
“I don’t like this story,” she said. “Would you like to look at the pictures, Petey?” and she began to make up wonderful stories of her own to go with the pictures and every now and then to keep his attention she asked, “What do you call this Swan, Petey?” or “Do you know what color this is?” “How many ducks are on the pond, Petey? Petey?”
“What?” he said sleepily.
“When you’re better, you can have my picture book… Petey?”
They came and whisked him away.
Petey’s star did not fall that night - but neither of them ever forgot the story.
© Oonah Joslin, Author
© Phuong Tran, Photographer
Too Far Away
by
Alison M Pearce
Rick examined his mustache in the distorted reflection in the medicine cabinet. There was two of him looking back at Rick’s tired face, one on each side of the crack caused when he’d hit it.
The mustache made no difference. Rick still couldn’t look at himself without seeing Toby, and the familiar ache of loss filled his chest. Leaning over the basin, he splashed water over his pale cheeks and ran his wet fingers through his sandy hair, streaked liberally with grey.
Since the loss of his
twin, Rick felt like part of him had been torn away as well. Like the crack in the mirror, he felt as though he’d been split apart.
Glancing at his watch, Rick noted that Mass would have begun by now. Sandy, Rick and Toby’s best friend since high school, had rung him this morning and begged him to come.
“I”m too busy,” he’d replied to her desperate pleas.
“Rick, I know you,” she’d said softly, “I know what you’re thinking. But God is still with you. Don”t turn away from your faith.”
He’d slammed the phone down, not wanting to hear another of her “everything happens for a reason” garbage. What logical reason was there for Rick’s twin brother to be killed, and in the way he died? How could
No. That was unfair.
It must be hell for
Next time he saw
Rick’s head popped back up at this thought. He stared at the mirror with tear-filled, unfocused eyes.
Didn’t God care? Or was he just too far away to hear the cries of those who still believed in Him?
***
The coarse woven mat under Aasimah’s knees itched uncomfortably as she knelt in prayer. Prayer! What use was there anymore? It was a ritual of habit now, rather than one of true belief. As Aasimah lowered her head to the ground, her mind wondered to the paperwork, sitting like a testament of failure, on the kitchen table back at her tiny flat.
She had looked forward to moving to this new country, away from the war and the bombs, so much; but her dreams had turned into a nightmare. Within a month, Aasimah’s husband had left her for a younger woman. She had endured endless taunts on the streets. The words “towel head” and “terrorist” followed her everywhere.
To make matters worse, the war had followed Aasimah to her new home. In the last six months there had been two attacks by suicide bombers. Suspicion and hatred toward Muslims ran high.
Aasimah didn’t bother to defend herself against the constant stream of bitter abuse hurled in her direction. What was the point?
Tears of grief, shame and longing for acceptance burned her eyes. The peace and happiness she expected seemed too far away to hope for any longer. Allah seemed to far away. It seemed no-one could hear her silent cries anymore.
***
The bus inched its way along the traffic packed road, creaking and groaning like a tired old woman. Aasimah caught the man across the row from her glancing in her direction once more.
He was older than her, and quite handsome still with a shock of
This was one of the things she loved about public transport in her new country.
There was a young man with a bright pink Mohawk, avidly reading a battered copy of
Everyone was different, unique, yet they all sat together on this bus in perfect harmony.
As the bus slowed suddenly and pulled into a bus stop, Aasimah adjusted her veil self consciously, feeling the man’s eyes on her yet again. The bus door creaked open and a young Arabic man, his shoulders slumped and defeated, stepped onto the bus and handed the driver some change.
Aasimah’s eyes sharpened as she noted a suspicious bulge at his waist line. Years of traveling in the midst of a war zone had honed her senses to impending danger.
“No!” she yelled, jumping to her feet.
Everyone looked in her direction, their eyes showing their surprise. Slowly, the young man turned towards her. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, which were red-rimmed and filled with fear. His hand twitched nervously on the mobile phone held tightly in his fist.
“Don’t do this!” Aasimah begged, “Look around you. What have these people done to you?”
“I must,” the boy answered in Arabic, “Allah has commanded me.”
“No he has not,” a calm voice from the back of the bus spoke. Turning to look, the bus occupants watched as a tall black man dressed in white stepped forward. Nobody had noticed him before, which was odd as his presence demanded attention. Silence fell as he continued, “A man commanded you to do this for his own selfish reasons. Ones you do not truly believe. Allah, or God if you prefer to call the Creator by that word, sent you here for another reason.”
A radiant aura of peace seemed to emanate from this strange man as he strode to the front of the bus. Gently he took the phone from the young man’s suddenly limp hand. “You were sent because you doubt. You question. You believe the Creator is too far away. You are not alone in this belief.” The man turned, sought out Aasimah and then the man with the sandy hair.
The young man with the bomb sunk to his knees, clutching the stranger’s white trousers as he collapsed in tears. Placing a hand briefly on the would-be killers head, the man continued, his voice filling the crowded space with awe and love, “The Creator is never too far away. Look, listen and you shall hear Him inside of you all. Be at peace my children.”
There was a sudden flash of white. Everyone blinked rapidly at the sudden glare, and when they could see again, they gasped.
The stranger, the angel, had disappeared.
© Alison Pearce, Author
©Nick Cowie (Photograph in story)
(Editor's Note: In Arabic the meaning of the name Aasimah is: One who protects.)
Annie’s Painting Bluebells In The Sky
by
Sheila Deeth
When they tore down the pub next door to school they left one long wall standing. The administration bought the land and set the children the task 
of painting a mural - angels, they decided, on a blue backdrop, scattering flowers to the ground.
"Well, at least they're not pretending that the students are angels," said a passer-by.
"Maybe they think they're flowers," said another.
The children did in fact look as bright as any summer flower from fall to winter. They wielded withered paintbrushes, rusty cans of donated left-over paint dotting the ground, and splotches and splatters of sunshine adding color to their overalls.
Painters were assigned their tasks according to grade and height. Annie was in third grade, and the more artistic and reliable of her grade were working on the flowers. Annie being neither, she had a can of bright blue paint and an assignment to paint sky.
"But the sky's up there," said Annie, pointing over her head.
"Never mind. You can paint this sky here." As if, being blue, the background had to be sky.
"It's a wall."
"Make it a blue wall."
"Maybe it's heaven."
After a while the teacher realized that Annie was painting dots of color instead of filling space. She asked her why.
"I'm doing flowers," said Annie, "like everyone else."
"But I thought you were doing sky."
"I want to be like everyone else."
The teacher looked at the splotches of blue standing out against bare brick. "You can't do flowers in blue, Annie," she said. "The background's blue."
But Annie answered, "They're bluebells in the sky," and refused to change them.
Since Annie was rather a stubborn child, the teacher let it go, assigning a second grader in the next lesson to fill in the gaps. When the mural was finished, no one would ever know there had been bluebells where there should have been sky. It all looked very good.
That winter, Annie got one of her frequent infections and was absent from school. She grew so sick that she eventually died, and everyone was dismayed, unsure how to respond to the tragedy. The school held a huge memorial, and somehow - no one quite knew how - the art teacher managed to find a large bunch of bluebells to place in Annie's memory in the entrance hall.
But by spring, both girl and mural were mostly forgotten. The waste ground where the pub had stood had become a basketball court. One of the angels sported a wide metal hoop as an unlikely halo. And the paint was already weatherworn, fading and chipping and scarred with streaks of black. But one bright patch of pale blue sky sported a ring of glorious color, where Annie's bluebells stubbornly refused to die.
When a new mural was planned, sheep and rabbits and a tractor in a field, the art teacher made sure that Annie's flowers were left untouched, blooming safely in the sky.
© Sheila Deeth, Author
©John Siebert, Photographer
The Last Meeting
by
Terry W. Ervin II
I didn’t get back to
The last time I’d attended services at my old church, I was in elementary school. My parents had divorced and Mom took my sister and me to stay with Grandma while she went to school. Grandma insisted we go to Church every Sunday.
There weren’t many kids at Church. It was usually me, my older sister and two other girls. Grandma always phoned the Pastor and worked on a committee to get more children in the church. Besides Pastor Don, the only one who seemed concerned was my Sunday school teacher. Every now and then a new kid would show up, but only for two or three Sundays.
Grandma told everyone, “Prayer needs to be followed up by action.” She said, “It’d be this Church’s epitaph.”
My Sunday school teacher agreed with Grandma. She knew a lot of stories about Jesus and helped the Pastor during Children’s Moments. They told us things about God that kids understood. Now, when I think back, I understand the congregation’s polite laughter when one of us kids said something.
Everybody trusted Pastor Don. Grandma said it was because he trusted in Jesus. Since Grandma did, and Pastor Don did, and my big sister did, I did, too.
It seemed like the adults were always going places. My sister and I wanted to go to church camp but Mom and Grandma couldn’t afford it. Grandma didn’t get to go to retreats either.
Still, there were always old ladies hugging and saying hello. I got used to that. One man that was a lot older than Grandma always shook my hand. He treated me like a man.
A year later, Mom got a job in
The jarring rumble over the railroad tracks interrupted my reminiscing. I turned left on
I straightened my tie and slid on my sport jacket while admiring the fiery red and yellow autumn leaves. I saw the red ‘Thou Shalt Not Skateboard Here’ sign. It reminded me of a block party sponsored by our Church. It’d been boring, with mostly adult games like bingo and checkers. Grandma got some chalk and a neighbor’s ball and showed us how to play foursquare.
After she and Pastor went to get a drink, Ricky, an older kid from school showed up on his skateboard. He started to ask my sister what we were doing when one of the men who always ushered pointed to the sign and yelled, “No skateboarding, young man.”
I was really embarrassed because Ricky flipped him off and skated away.
A second inspection of the sign revealed it was a newer, larger one. I strode up the front steps and tugged on the heavy wooden door. Locked.
“Hey, mister,” called a voice. “The bus left a while ago.”
I turned to see a boy in a blue windbreaker struggling to untangle himself from a long leash. His beagle pup continued to bound around, wagging its tail. I waited until he’d extracted himself before asking, “Bus? Something special going on today?”
The boy shrugged. “Don’t think so. My brother’s scout troop moved their stuff to that church down the street.” He tried to point, but the puppy wouldn’t cooperate. “I got to carry the flag.”
“Why did they move?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, mister. They’re building something inside. A bunch of guys with ladders and drills were here all week.”
Just then a cat darted from the bushes, exciting the puppy. The boy waved while being towed down the street.
I walked down the steps toward the Church’s message board on the corner. At that moment I discovered the stained-glass was missing from two of the south wall windows. A mesh grating backed by thin bars had replaced the majestic windows that years ago I gazed at when things got boring in during in church. I stared at the defaced windows until I made it to the corner. A posted message read, ‘Last Trustee Meeting, 7:00. Monday, October 9.’
In the car, I checked and verified Monday’s last meeting was scheduled to end by 5:00. I considered asking at the gas station about changes at the Church. Maybe the window removal was due to crime or vandalism. Maybe the congregation had grown and built a new church outside of town. Though, in my heart, I doubted those possibilities. I drove past the gas station, having already decided that I’d attend the last meeting.
The vision of barred windows disturbed my thoughts all evening and the following day. My morning prayers focused on concern for the Church and its congregation. Luckily I managed to slip out of Monday’s business meeting early. Still, slow traffic and farm equipment hindered my progress, and I arrived a few minutes after 7:00.
A small moving truck was parked out front and four cars sat in the parking lot next to a small bus. I hurried up the front stairs, just as I had years ago. I recalled a Sunday, wearing one of the yellow children’s choir robes. Yellow was a girl’s color, but one of the men in the big choir gave me his black folder to hold while I sang. He understood.
The interior walls bore the same teal paint. The fact that the coat rack in the hall was missing, along with every picture and certificate, distracted me. I forced myself to slow when I heard a deep voice leading a prayer.
Four people sat huddled around a table. An open laptop rested next to the graying man who led the prayer. Another computer sat in front of a younger brunette, probably the secretary. Numerous files and papers lay scattered in front of each attendee. Everyone stood except for an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair.
A man, who I thought I recognized, introduced himself as the Chairman of the Trustees. “Are you a representative from the district?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “just a visitor.” The oppressive atmosphere drowned my voice.
The chairman pulled out a folding chair. “You’re welcome to sit in.” His sincerity managed to slice through the heavy moment.
I needed to gather my thoughts. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve had a long drive. May I use the restroom?”
“Certainly,” said the chairman, pointing the way.
“Please, don’t hold up business on my account.” Their smiles dimmed as I walked past. Through the closed door I heard muffled discussion, as well as a power drill’s sporadic whine.
I washed up, checked my tie and turned toward the meeting when the power drill’s activity again drew my attention. I bypassed the meeting and slipped into the sanctuary.
Most of the pews were gone. Those that remained sat against the north wall. Up front two men were busy disassembling the pipe organ. The magnificent instrument still plays in my mind when I sing hymns. The two workmen finished packing the largest copper pipe in a padded crate and looked up as I approached.
I found myself walking down the center aisle even though it wasn’t necessary. Bars had replaced another stained-glass window since yesterday. Even the altar was gone.
“What can I do for you?” asked the older of the two workmen.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just came to see what you were doing.”
The workman looked over his shoulder. “We’re packing up the pipes of this old organ. The boss’ll be in tomorrow to supervise the rest of the job.”
“Yep,” the younger workman nodded. “Didn’t take’em long to find a home for this old thing.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Church in Cincinnati,” said the older workman.
“Why?” I asked, too stunned to inquire anything else.
The older worker shrugged, “Closing up shop here, I guess.”
The younger man added, “Boss says the new owners are big-time excited.” He stared at the north wall. “This place had an awesome sound system.”
“Maybe in the sanctuary,” laughed the older worker. “Came here once, four years ago with my grandson. When I told my wife how good the sermon was, she said she missed it. The speaker in the nursery sputtered so much static she turned it off.”
I looked where the altar once stood. “Well, I’d better let you get back to work.” Both nodded as I turned. I flinched when the power drill growled to life. I’d seen businesses fail, and it was always sad. Could a church fail? I’d heard of it, but never my Church. Although I hadn’t set foot in this Church for almost twenty-five years, I still considered it mine and a part of me. What would I tell my sister? What would my grandmother have said?
I reentered the fellowship hall only to see that business had been interrupted. The chairman and the secretary stood along the bank of windows, talking to a young, bearded man.
I tried to conjure the memory of a Sunday with the pipe organ, the stained-glass windows, the altar, and lit candles, but the conversation foiled my attempt.
The visitor asked, “What am I going to do?” He looked down, sliding his hands into his jacket’s pockets.
“I’m sorry,” said the secretary. “There’s no longer a food pantry.”
Sadness and frustration spread across the young man’s face. “A guy I know said to come here. Said when he lost his job, he got help here. He’s got kids, like me.”
“Where are you staying?” asked the secretary.
The chairman patted the visitor on the shoulder as the secretary copied the address down. After she double checked the information she said, “I’ll be over tomorrow morning at 9:00 and drive you wherever you need.”
The chairman handed the man several bills from his wallet. “The grocery’s still open.”
The young man took a step back and raised his hand in refusal. “It’s okay,” said the chairman. “You came to our Church looking for help.” He smiled and nodded while maintaining eye contact. “For your wife and children.”
At the mention of his children, the man slowly took the money. “Thank you,” he said.
“Any time.” The chairman shook the young man’s hand. “Could you spare one more moment for a short prayer?”
The young man almost declined, but the secretary’s warm smile brought a nod and reflecting smile. Everyone bowed their head and the chairman prayed for support to the young husband and his family, and thanked the Lord for allowing the congregation an opportunity to assist. That was how I remembered the Church.
A seat had been left open for me at the end of the table as the meeting continued. The chairman shuffled through a few more papers, marking off with a red pen as he went. “Okay, we’ve found homes for all of the memorials and donations including the crosses, baptismal basin, altar, pictures, Bibles, and hymnals.”
Everyone at the table nodded solemnly.
From his wheelchair, the treasurer spoke up as he handed several papers to the secretary. “These are from the bank. The CD interest has been set up to pay into the missionary fund.”
The chairman nodded and said, “Divided equally between the Native American and the Russian ministries?” It wasn’t really a question. “We’re permitted to park the bus in the lot and they agreed not to cut down the memorial trees for ten years.” Then he asked a quiet woman to his left, “The antique dealer?”
The quiet woman struggled to hold back a tear. “He said the rest of the windows would be removed by Friday.” She slid a check to the treasurer. “To be deposited. Insurance and upkeep of the bus.”
“The basement remodeling is nearly complete,” said the chairman. “Security doors and reinforced windows are being installed.” The chairman noted the expression on my face. “Do you have a question, or concern?”
“Yes,” I said. “The bars, the windows. Who purchased the Church?”
“The county,” said the treasurer. “It’s to be an activity center for troubled youth.”
“Minimum security,” said the chairman. “They’ll bus them in for counseling and day programs. The sanctuary is to become a gymnasium.” He looked to the secretary. “Have our visitation permits been approved?”
She nodded with an expression of sorrow. “Yes, but we’re limited to three hours a week. And we’re not allowed to directly minister to the children. Strictly secular, unless they ask.”
The chairman shook his head and muttered, “Finally, our Church will be filled with children. But now,” he sighed, “we’re barred from introducing the single thing they need most.”
The Clearness and The Impenetrability
by
Boris Glikman
My companions and I realise suddenly that we are actually in the world of the dead.
We walk towards an open-air market that has many different stalls and see a newspaper headline about a boy from Titanic telling his story of what it was like to go under. This newspaper also features letters from road-kill animals relating their experiences of the last moments of life and the first moments of death.
I go to the CD stall first. It is selling music that musicians have composed since their deaths. I am particularly excited about finding John Lennon’s and Jimi Hendrix's new post-death albums. I also purchase Beethoven's 11th and 12th symphonies, Haydn’s 200th Symphony and the completed version of Mozart's Requiem. Poor Mozart never did finish it during his lifetime, but thankfully in this dead world he has had plenty of time to work on it.
Next to the CD stall is a bookstall. I browse through books that tell of the experiences of dead people, how they met their end, what their deaths felt like and what existence has been like for them since then.
Those who are concerned that death would bring an end to their personal hatreds and conflicts can be reassured that in this world they will be able to resume with renewed energy and the kind benefit of limitless time all of their old animosities and feuds.
Indeed, many wars that those in the living world think have ended with signed peace treaties are still raging in full force and with unabated ferocity and rage in this world, with slain soldiers picking up their weapons and resuming their formations.
The Hundred-Year War has now become the Six Hundred-Year War and First and Second World Wars have amalgamated into one conflict, with Kaiser Wilhelm II and Hitler assuming joint direction of the German armed forces and the Allies being commanded by leaders from both the First and Second World Wars. Japan is in a deep conundrum, not knowing which side to take, having fought for the Allies in the First World War and for the Axis in the Second World War.
There is a whole paranormal section devoted to such esoteric, mystical subjects as Near Life Experiences (NLE) and making contact with the living world, which here has the appellation of “The Impenetrability” due to its characteristic feature of being composed of dense substance and because of its cryptic nature.
As the properties of the dead world are directly opposite to that of “The Impenetrability”, its denizens call it “The Clear World” or “The Clearness” and refer to themselves as the clear beings.
I pick up a book that addresses the NLE phenomenon. It describes how during NLE there is the sensation of drifting through a tunnel, away from a dazzlingly bright, warmly comforting light towards darkness and of accompanying feelings of great agitation, anxiety and confusion.
Consequently people in The Clear World dread the NLE and do all they can to avoid exposing themselves to circumstances that could make them leave The Clearness and return to the world of The Impenetrability.
Indeed so great and all-pervading is the fear of the NLE in the Clear World, that it is considered to be an imperative civic duty on the part of any citizen of this world to help those beings who are undergoing or are in danger of undergoing the NLE. All citizens are required to learn to recognise the symptoms and signs of NLE, and to know the First Aid procedures for preventing a clear being from returning back to The Impenetrability.
Sometimes overenthusiastic citizens take the symptoms of NLE too literally and one sees a person, his loud protests ignored, being dragged out by his legs from a tunnel just in case that unfortunate fellow could be experiencing the NLE.
Another book deals with the society structure and daily existence of the Clear Beings. It turns out that the epitaph “R.I.P.“ that the grieving relatives affix to the tombstone could not be more misjudged and incongruous, for a person’s existence only really begins when they die and become a Clear Being. No, there is no time in The Clearness to read a book, let alone rest in peace, so rich and vibrant is life in this world.
Possessing an unlimited life span, the clear beings are free from the many life-sapping insecurities and anxieties that stem from the ever-present threat of death and that plague the people in The Impenetrability. The only fear that blights the joyous existence of the clear beings is the possibility of returning to the land of the living. Consequently, in the wars that still rage in The Clearness the objective is to make the enemy alive again.
And so we have this paradoxical situation in which the impenetrable beings are tormented by the fact that their lives have to end in death and the clear beings are tormented by the fact that they might possibly become alive again.
As with all human communities The Clear World has its hierarchy. One often sees a particular citizen surrounded by hysterical groups, which vary in size from just one or two to hundreds and thousands, showering flowers on that citizen and begging to be set any task so that they can experience the ecstasy of fulfilling the desire of their idols.
A particularly curious sight is of certain beings that have no devotional groups accompanying them and yet they still throw flowers on themselves as they make their way along the street.
I was mystified as to how these particular citizens gained such fame, devotion and fanatical following, why they were always followed by the same unchanging group of devotees and why some groups were quite small while others consisted of hundreds upon hundreds of followers.
At first, I was of the opinion that these beings made an exceptional contribution to the welfare and happiness of humanity back in The Impenetrability and that their devotees consisted of all those people whose lives were saved or improved by their work. My reasoning, however, was woefully off target.
Given that the overriding and most powerful factor that animates the existence of the clear beings is their fear and hatred of the Impenetrability, the citizens who are the object of such fanatical celebration are those that back in The Impenetrability were called murderers and their devotional group consists of all their victims.
The murderers of young impenetrable beings are held in an especially high regard for having given a child a way to partake in the glory of the existence in the Clear World.
A uniquely intimate and extremely loving relationship exists between the killer and his every victim. The victim is forever in debt and devoted for all eternity to his killer for having had the courage and wisdom to overcome the ridiculously misguided taboo against murder that exists in The Impenetrability and enabling the victim to escape the dreary clutches of the living world.
As suicide victims are their own murderers, they throw flowers on themselves as they walk, making certain that others know that they too possessed the bravery and intelligence to escape the living world.
Young clear beings, in particular, love their killers with the intensity that never even existed between them and their parents back in The Impenetrable World. Sometimes their unflagging devotion and endless expressions of gratitude wears out even the most patient of killers.
There are also books speculating about the possibility that people exist in the world of Impenetrability before they are actually clear, a world wildly different from The Clearness.
According to these books, in The Impenetrability all people come into existence at the same age and form, namely at the age of zero in the form of a tiny, helpless being. The inhabitants of The Impenetrability are apparently all composed of solid, crudely wrought material that deteriorates over time. Their bodies, this book claims, are incapable of such simple actions as penetrating physical objects, making themselves invisible to sight and overcoming the tyrannies of gravity and time to move freely in all the four dimensions.
The purported existence of The Impenetrability is a hotly disputed subject in The Clear World and is the cause of an ancient and deep rift in its population, contributing directly to major conflicts and catastrophes throughout its history.
For The Believers the existence of Impenetrability is a fundamental and crucial plank in the foundation of their world-view and is of inestimable significance to their spiritual and emotional wellbeing. The Believers are of the firm opinion that human beings undergo a period of growth and development in The Impenetrability that prepares them for their real existence in The Clear World. Our characters and our destinies in The Clearness, according to their sacred tomes, are shaped and determined by our experiences and our lives in The Impenetrability.
The Unbelievers reject any claim of person’s existence prior to The Clearness. They cling strongly to the view that it is beyond the scope of human knowledge and reason to comprehend what occurs prior to a person coming into being in The Clear World and therefore all such discussions are just empty words. According to their creed, the clear beings come to exist in The Clear World already possessing, ready-made, all of their attributes, abilities and imperfections and that the destiny of a clear being is of his making only.
A favourite way of passing the time for The Unbelievers is to mock mercilessly, to the point of tears, The Believers for their blind, unquestioning faith in some imaginary world, asking them to point to where they think this world is situated.
Partly as a way of countering these attacks upon what they hold most dear, a sizeable proportion of the Believers has formed a splinter movement that goes by the name of The Believing Believers.
For this schismatic group the act of believing has become more important than the issue of what it is that they actually believe in, namely the existence of The Impenetrability. In effect, belief has disassociated itself from what it was based upon in the first place, and it is this pure mental state of faith, in and of itself, that has now become an object of veneration and a source of spiritual and emotional nourishment.
Indeed a vast majority of The Believing Believers no longer remember what it is that they believe in, only knowing that it is their faith that distinguishes them from The Unbelievers and gives them the identity and the security that they so cherish.
Recently, there have been unmistakable signs of rising levels of tension and antagonism between The Believers and The Believing Believers, with The Believing Believers accusing The Believers of undermining the whole movement. The Believing Believers are of the opinion that by obstinately holding on to the belief in some conjectural world of The Impenetrability, The Believers infect their sublimely pure faith with an imperfect and uncertain element as well as making themselves vulnerable to the attacks from the Unbelievers.
Those who have studied the past events of this world and are now studying the present state of affairs are predicting that in the future eras, there will be cataclysmic conflicts the likes of which this place has never seen.
These conflicts will no longer be between The Unbelievers and The Believers, but rather between The Believers and The Believing Believers, given how vociferous and zealous The Believing Believers are in proclaiming that their faith should not be sullied with any alien ingredients and how ignorant they are of where their faith came from in the first place.
Another splinter group that has garnered wide recognition is the Clear-Again Believers. This movement puts great stress on the significance of the Near Life Experience that I have mentioned previously. The rising popularity of this movement is a clear indication of the extent to which the phenomenon of NLE has impressed itself upon the Collective Consciousness of the populace of this world.
A key feature of the Clear-Again movement is the initiation rite that is centred upon the re-enactment of NLE, of experiencing the dread that it provokes and the feelings of relief and ecstasy that arise in one after escaping its clutches and becoming clear again. Hence the name of this group, which, incidentally, in our old parlance would be known as the dead-again movement.
To make the NLE re-enactment as close as possible to the real thing, very narrow, dead-end tunnels are constructed, with bright, shiny lights being put up at their entry points.
The Going In part of the rite is conducted in absolute silence and consists of crawling through the tunnel and never looking back. The director of the ceremony decides when they have gone far enough, and proven their courage of staring The Impenetrability in the face.
In the Coming Out part of the ceremony, the director commands a member to pull the crawler out by his legs and this is accompanied by shouts of great jubilation coming from the participants surrounding the tunnel. The new member has officially become clear again and now can bear the title of a Clear-Again Believer.
This simulated acting-out of the near-life experience is considered by some rather reckless members of the movement to be but a mere shadow of the real deal. They flaunt their bravura and daring by deliberately subjecting themselves to situations that they know will bring them close to the edge of life.
These foolhardy clear beings then take great pride in describing in detail their exploits, of how they feel their bodies acquiring a solid and unwieldy form, of sensing some intractable, unyielding power emanating from the ground and cancelling out their free movement capabilities, and of the astonishingly intense feelings of impending doom.
I tire of reading all this esoteric stuff and continue my promenade through the market.
There are flower stalls selling wilted flowers, fruit stalls selling dried up, rotten fruit but otherwise everything is exactly the same as in the living world.
All of a sudden, an astonishing insight strikes me. I clearly see a way to resolve the endless conflicts between the factions and make this world one again. It now becomes my duty and my mission to spread my revolutionary, world-changing solution to the whole population of The Clearness.
I gather around me my first group of disciples and impart to them my Two Worlds Are One Gospel:
" Given that there are no differences between the dead world and the living world, except in the names that we designate them by, how can we prove that this is not the real living world after all? Given that we cannot even remember any differences between this world and the real world, how can we then tell that the real world even existed in the first place?”
I employ a mathematical argument to embed my solution in a firm, scientific soil.
“Suppose there exist two worlds, the real world and the dead world. Designate the real world by X and the dead world by -X. But on the other hand the 2 worlds are identical and therefore it must be that: X = -X. Solving this equation we find that X = 0, and if X is zero then so is -X.
So we get this absurd result that neither world exists. It then follows that our initial assumptions were incorrect and that there can only be one world. We can call it either the living world or the dead world. It is just a name and it makes no difference in the end."
Three Wise Boxes
by
Julie Ann Shapiro
Three boxes sat on the kitchen table draped in sunlight. One said “happiness”, another “tranquility”, and the third posed a question, “what makes a rabbit’s whiskers’ twitch.”
Carol reached for happiness first and tore open the green ribbon so fast it cut her fingers. “Some happiness,” she groaned. Inside the box contained air. She inhaled and felt nothing just the emptiness of the box.
Not wanting to take a chance on disappointment she chose tranquility and sat all day meditating in front of the box. When the sun fell from the sky and bathed everything in a pinkish orange she retrieved the box asking about a rabbit’s whiskers.
Carol bit her lips, crossed and uncrossed her arms and opened the box, inside it contained one word, “Fear.” She held it in her hands and twirled around the room. Carol knew this fear well. It’d been a constant presence one that kept her up at night with worry and doubt and in the day caused the familiar tightness in her throat and chest. But not now, she danced a bit with it and felt a whole open breath move from chest to stomach as the sky turned blue and twinkling stars beckoned her to look outside. She opened the window, inhaled the cold night air and watched as fear went sailing away.
With only one box remaining she lit a vanilla candle, inhaled the sweet sent and weaved back and forth with the flames. Drifting from side to side she felt the earth rotating, vibrating within her and she began to hum, the rhythm she felt from limb to limb as her whole body danced feeling one with the earth. Soon the candle flickered with a strong gust of wind and Carol too wavered in her moves and bounced from side to side. She bowed, blew out the candle, picked up the box and placed it on the top of her closet shelf and closed the door slightly, just so she could get a glimpse of tranquility whenever she wanted.
With The Boy With The Golden Ring
by
Tom Sheehan
The baker Connaughton looked out the window at them. A strange glow was fuzzy around the boy’s head. Connaughton was drawn to him. He had been pulled from the back of the bakery when he saw the boy standing at the window looking so hungry. In Connaughton’s blood raced a new sensation. He could feel it coursing. It was the same feeling he had when the anthem was played. When he heard a beautiful psalm it came to him, or when a far and lovely voice at nightfall sang an old song he had nearly forgotten, the special way it came out of the past bringing all kinds of delightful company with it, like a Percy French song echoing from the Cliffs of Mohr. Oh, he thought, the deliriums of joy.
Connaughton waved them into the shop, in from the cold and the swirling snow. The tall man shook his head and pointed to the boy. Even in his shabby clothes the man bore to Connaughton a sense of regality and pride, yet he had a kindly presence about him. The man refused a second invitation and again pointed to the boy. As bidden the boy entered the bakery and Connaughton put six rolls and a cup of coffee in a bag. The boy looked back at the man standing outside the win