Day 322 - Excursion

 Excursion

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

She asked me if I recognized her and I foolishly answered honestly. It seemed to disappoint her, but I can’t imagine what other response she could have been expecting. Perhaps I should have lied, I told myself. Rarely did such a sophisticate approach me. Rarely meaning rare, meaning never. I had been coming to parties such as these for nearly eighteen months, and yet each might as well have been my first. I had always heard there was a prejudice against new money, but I hadn’t experienced it until recently. Apparently, there were the well off and rich and then there were the beyond rich. I had somehow accidentally found my way into a whole class I was unaware of and unprepared for. I felt honored that anyone would even speak to me.

When she asked me to accompany her, I thought she might be leading me to the front door. When I realized we were headed further into the manse I wondered if I would need a costume or password. I joked I had forgotten my Venetian mask at home, and she straight-faced told me it wasn’t that type of party, but if there were to be an Eyes Wide Shut style sex-party later I wouldn’t need to hide my face. She may or may not have been joking but I could not tell.

I was taken down a passage to what I thought would likely be a wine cellar in any other home. Here it was bottles of liquid, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol. Red, thicker than wine, but thinner than paint, with a hint of metal that made me queasy. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to know. Then the clothes began to come off, and I was distracted.

She took my shirt off and I let her without much fuss. Her dress remained intact. I wanted to make a snide comment or two, but this was her game and I wanted to see where she would take us. Besides, whatever was about to happen, there seemed to be plenty of time for her dress to come off later.

She rubbed some of the liquid onto her hands and began to massage my chest.

Something in her movement was unlike any massage I had received before. Something in the liquid was different from any oil I had experienced in the past. I grew lightheaded, but feel a rush of freedom and energy I had never felt before. My heart raced and my muscles contracted. I felt alive. Young. Strong. Ten years of age and abuse were erased.

Whatever the secret these people had, I wanted to be part of it. However weird it seemed, what she was doing, rubbing what I didn’t want to know, I decided I could look the other way. Old money, old ways, they seemed to have the answers.

I asked her why me, and she told me she liked my smell. Not my money, not my profession or good looks, but my smell.

I asked her to keep going, and she asked if I was sure I wanted to be inducted.

I asked her what I was being inducted into, and she smiled at me. And that was when I noticed her fangs.

Day 321 - Slip Slide Away

 Slip Slide Away

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Keith sat on the steps to his back patio, listening to the trickling sounds of the water running over the edge of the spa and falling into the pool. There were thorns in his shoes, and he was tired of tracking dirt among other things into his house. One of his many failures as an amateur gardener. He was also tired of stepping on pointed objects hiding in the carpet and having to try and use tweezers to pull splinters from his fingers and toes. He needed a new pair of gloves. Probably better glasses too. But those would have to wait, unless he had already taken care of it some other time and forgot about it. If so, there could be a package waiting for him now on the front door step.

He was supposed to be at the meeting twenty minutes ago, so he’d need to leave soon. Time wasn’t always linear, but he could usually figure it out. Some of the others said it was like a river and they let the flow carry them this way or that. Maybe the waves got bigger the further you went. Maybe you did get carried away whether you wanted to or not. Keith had other plans and didn’t have time to waste on such lack of control. Time was meant to serve a purpose, not be an enemy to defeat. If he could only control whether he was early or late, well, that was enough for him.

After Keith went inside, lo and behold – mud. Again. Not from him. Or, not from him right now. Someday one of him would need to learn to clean his shoes before entering the house. Hopefully it was one of him in the past who hadn’t learned his lesson yet and not him from the future who had just grown lazy. Still though, back in the past, he hadn’t learned to jump that far into the future. And he couldn’t really remember tracking mud like this into his house or doing it so often. So, there was a very good chance that someday he would be doing this to himself, perhaps to complete a time loop, or perhaps because he was a jerk and just wanted to torture his former self.

There really was no time for this now. He had places to go. A meeting he was about to miss. And if there was something a time traveler boss hated, it was when people showed up late. The mud would have to wait. Teaching himself a valuable life lesson would have to wait. Time, for all his ability, was not his friend as it finally ran out.

Day 320 - Recovery

 Recovery

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

From the Journal of Sir Phineas Arthur Alexander, Explorer. 8^th of July, 1893.

 

 

…and so, we were invited to the temple to watch the ceremony. Not wanting to offend, we accepted of course. Later, I deeply regret having seen what I saw, and in retrospect wished there was some way to have politely declined.

The slathered the body with blood. We were not warned or told what to expect, only that we would be witnessing a miracle. Elderly female, carried out on a platform by two men and placed upon the alter. The blood was most likely animal, although we were not informed on this either. There had been goat and pig and the feast beforehand. So likely the blood had been gathered during food preparations.

I was of course, familiar with certain blood rituals I had witnessed on my travels. Some even drank blood of another in some futile belief they could gain their strength or stamina. I watched a marriage ceremony where the loving couple cut their hands and bound their palms to share their blood and life, symbolic or otherwise, as a way to ensure a union and successful future together. Many of my predecessors wrote of native customs, blood of enemies and that sort of thing. Some island cultures sacrificed animals in an attempt to cast a spell or placate some deity of nature.

This was something altogether different.

The woman was dead. I swear. But they smeared the blood and then something happened. Something I’m not sure was real. Something I can not forget, even if it was imagined or a dream.

The woman rose. She wore the blood like a new skin and she rose.

My companions were unsettled to say the least. These people, this society, seemingly did the unimaginable, the IMPOSSIBLE!

The woman rose and walked and then they drank. They poured wine over her shoulders and down her body and they drank it as it fell from her. This was repeated until the blood was basically washed from her naked body, now stained with wine, but clearly nude. They seemed to believe they would gain some life force from her, now that the blood had been used and she had been resurrected.

Our host had promised an unbelievable evening, and we were not disappointed.

Later, amongst ourselves, we debated if what we had witnessed was theater or chicanery of some sort. No one wanted to believe what they had seen. There are of course certain plants and roots that can be used to create illusions of the mind and momentary lapses into hysteria. But none of us reported feeling anything out of the ordinary, that is until the ceremony began.

I can not help but wonder if what I saw was true, and if so, what other wonders this world has yet to present to me. Even if this is the final miracle I witness, my time dedicated to exploration has been nothing but a success.  

Day 319 - One Way Ticket

 One Way Ticket

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

I was told that “…this gun is magic.” I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I was told I had a real gun, but I needed this gun. That was important. I tried to hold on to that. Keep it in focus, keep it in the front of your mind, I told myself. There would be some reason for it, I was sure. But only if I could remember.

Stay close and follow the path you’re used to. Words to live by. The unknown here will kill you.

The man was well dressed with a flat stomach I was jealous of. His jacket seemed to glow or shine, and he had an unbuttoned vest on underneath. It looked like there was something strapped under his arm, but he never opened his jacket enough for me to see. He had a plan though. Protection. A locket on a chain. Maybe a pocket watch. Maybe a container full of pixie dust or some other such sprinkle meant to save his life if need be.

I was told to follow and to stay close. And I tried. I tried. But a blink sometimes is more than a blink and a second can be infinity. The scenery changed with a whisper or a stray thought. The guide was gone. Not my fault. Not my fault. Didn’t matter.

She was trapped, I was sure of it. I didn’t know why or what her loop was. Something in her mind. Something in space or time. Or someone playing a terrible trick on her.

My magic couldn’t help her. Whatever had done this to her was something beyond my reach or understanding.

“It won’t… It can’t… It’s not real…”

A poor mantra, but a mantra all the same. Repeat it enough and maybe you’ll believe it, I thought. Whatever hell the poor woman was living, her words alone were unlikely to change it.

Why was I here again? To save myself? To save someone else? Did I have a way out? Something was nagging at me and I was pretty sure there was something else I was supposed to think about.

There was a gun in my jacket pocket. Not my gun. But a gun. I was obviously worried about some danger of some sort.

“Don’t--”

I heard a gunshot. Not my gun. My gun was in my pocket. I could feel it against my arm when I pressed against my jacket. But who shot?

A woman held a gun, knowing she had to break the loop. She only saw one way out, and that was to shoot him. She held the gun and fired.

For one second, she reached out to stop herself, stop what had happened, what she had done.

One second was not enough. The gun fired and the window closed and the loop began again.

She tried to tell herself “Don’t shoot…” but only had time to start to scream “Don’t--” before the gun fired and she watched in horror as her other former self shot him in the head.

The loop repeated. The loop continued. Over and over, she saw no way to stop it, no way to change it. All she could do was relive it. One second of time, one second back and over, but she always made the same mistake. Her past was impossible to prevent.

There was a man, a guide, someone who showed her the way, gave her a word or two to say. The man had told her the road was difficult but the road was possible. Why couldn’t she remember what he had told her? What was she supposed to say? “Don’t!” was not enough. There was something else. Something she couldn’t remember.

Maybe the man would come back. Maybe the man would help her escape. The loop couldn’t be broken but the loop could be sidestepped and she could maybe just skip over it. If only she knew how. If only she hadn’t shot him. If only she hadn’t been given the gun. It wasn’t her gun. It was someone else’s. But she couldn’t remember where the man went or why he gave it to her or what she was supposed to do. All she could do was repeat and watch and repeat and watch as the horror continued.

Day 318 - Locked Away

 Locked Away

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

He took pictures and locked them away, in drawers, cabinets or buried deep in stacks of boxes.

“Remember,” he would tell himself, and then he would lock them away and set them aside.

They would bring him their trinkets, their stories, their pain. He would take them and put them in drawers or cabinets or bury them deep back of storage sheds.

“Forget,” he would tell them, and when they left, they seemed a little lighter, a little happier. He did them a service, he would tell himself. He did them a kindness.

There was a locket, one that lovers would put pictures in. The silver chain was broken, but he kept it anyway. His mother’s, or at least it was in a box of her things. He hadn’t known his grandmother. Or her great grandmother. It could have been any of theirs. He didn’t know and it was too late to ask.

There had been pictures in the locket, but he had removed them. He didn’t know who they were or why they were special. They were just faded, black-and-white images of the past. If they had ever existed at all, any secrets they held were long gone.

The locket there were concentric circles intermixed with a maze of some sort. It looked like chaos, but he supposed it was supposed to seem mysterious. Maybe his great grandfather had been a hypnotist and his great grandmother had worn this by his side. The design entrapped and confused the viewer and made them more susceptible to suggestion.

There were symbols sketched on the back. Icons growing out of a vine of sorts. He recognized the ankh and what looked like a star. There were symbols he didn’t recognize. Cuts and divots that might have been an ancient language like cuneiform, or something more modern meant to look old. And there was a pyramid with an eye staring back at him.  

All seeing and all knowing, he thought. It was like the image on the dollar bill. Masons or Illuminati or something like that. The spirit guide that would lead us all to some sort of mystical promised land. Which of course never really came. But it was enough of an idea to inspire followers and a million mysteries and conspiracy theories.

He had only meant to help people. Release them from their pain and suffering. Let the past be the past and let it fade away. It was a noble goal. He was sure of it. But noble or not, things didn’t always work out as planned. It turned out that “forget” was often more powerful than “remember.” Whatever he was supposed to gain from their loss, it hadn’t quite worked out that way. He seemed to be losing just as much as they were.

What did the symbols really mean and why couldn’t he remember who it had belonged to? It would have been easy to be scared. Easy to let himself be swept away in the moment of lost memory.

“Remember. Remember.” It was his mantra, his chant, his desire and his goal. “Remember who you are.” Please. He could have said please. He could have begged and cried and negotiated, but there was no one to barter with.

He read their palms and turned the cards and sometimes the voices whispered something in his ear. Sometimes the whole world was at his fingertips. But most of the time things were blind and blurry and lost to him.

There was the noise of fluttering and rustling wings. The birds were on the move. What secrets did they know and why wouldn’t they share them? The owl told no tale.

“Never Forget Who You Are.”

The importance of the phrase and the mystery of the locket were lost.

Somewhere buried deep inside, he felt the fear that everything around him knew the answers he so desperately sought.

He closed his hand and grasped the locket tightly. Alone and lost in the world, with only one meaningless clue. There was no path forward, only the fog of mystery that buried him so deeply.

Day 317 - Shimmer

 Shimmer

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

When George was young, he didn’t know what he was looking at. He saw what looked like a glowing shadow encircle a man on the street and then suddenly enter his mouth and nostrils and disappear down the man’s throat. He didn’t know what he was looking at. He was a child and the man didn’t seem to react, so George thought little of it, and convinced himself he had imagined the whole event. He soon discovered he had misjudged the situation.

A one-time occurrence could have been blamed on a trick of the light, or an overactive imagination or a dream creeping into waking hours. A second occurrence might make some question their reality or sanity. George took it as something strange and rare. Perhaps wonderful. Certainly special. A gift. Then he began to see more and more.

Energy of some sort, or a distortion of light. Or perhaps he could see someone’s aura. Afraid of how others might judge or treat him, George was cautious in the way he asked questions or what he revealed to others. He was curious if he was sick or had a tumor or cancer of some sort. He also spent a fair amount of time in and out of therapy. But he never wanted anyone to think he was crazy. So, he studied on his own and researched what he could to try and find possible medical explanations.

If it was medical, he survived a great many years with it. If it was mental, he had learned to live with it. If it was a message or a spiritual epiphany of some sort, he didn’t know what it might mean. George didn’t think he was a prophet or a messenger, but he sought some spiritual guidance just to be sure.

There seemed to be an infinity of colors, but broadly speaking, George saw them as mostly shades of light or dark. He didn’t know what they meant or why some people had one or the other or a mix of both. He couldn’t understand how or why they seemed to live around people, usually surrounding them in some shape or another, but then on rare occasions they invaded the person’s body. What the energy did to them or inside them was unclear.

Eventually he had the thought that he likely had such energy around him as well. If he did, he couldn’t see it. It wasn’t in front of him, and nothing appeared when he looked in mirrors. But every time he had a sudden change of thought or emotion, he wondered if something else was swirling around influencing him. He needed to find another like him, one who could see the energies and see what existed around him. But it wasn’t like he could take an ad out or anything. The would be crazy.

George remained suspicious. There were shadows everywhere and it seemed as if the rest of mankind had little clue as to this facet of existence. There was something there, existing, just out of the normal range of perception. He doubted he was the only one who could see it, but feared any others might be locked up by now. Or worse, what if some how these shimmering things realized and understood who could and couldn’t see them and had eliminated any others. But if so, then why was he spared? Why was he allowed to live on, painfully aware of this greater truth? What did they want from him? How could he ever know?

George stayed at home more and more often, afraid of his fellow man. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The shimmers were everywhere, but it seemed safer to stay hidden, stay alone, careful never to say or do the wrong thing. Solitude and silence with the lights turned down low.

Day 316 - Glimmer of Light

 Glimmer of Light

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

A wall of darkness. A doorway of shadow. Night had come early.