LOST ImAGINATIONS

Heaven or Hell

2011-11-20T20:03:00.001-08:00

I have come to love Streaming.

However, it does make it difficult to keep my train of thought in crowded areas such as the city. I never know when someone will enter my mind as they did before. This is why winter became such a pleasant time for me. Because unlike the summer and fall I did not have the constant hum of the surrounding fauna in the back of my head at all times along with the thoughts of others.

After reading up to this point, and knowing what it is I can do, you may be wondering why it is I tried so desperately to keep the thoughts of others out of my head for so many years. The best answer I can give is the influence of parents over their children can have a powerful affect on the mentality of a child.

I was the only child of an elderly couple, secluded from the rest of the world in their activities, thoughts, and living. The only comfort they had in this world did not come from one another, but the word of Christ, which was preached to me through the steady, stern, beatings that can only come from those of a seasoned farmer.

They were well beyond the recommended years to have children, but for their entire life together they wanted a child, and worked very hard at having one. Not because they wanted someone they could love and bring them closer together, but because they wanted a little person who would carry on their name and religious teachings, a person that would be as steady as themselves in their walk on the narrow path of righteousness in a world of sin; instead I was born. Ask and ye shall receive.

According to my parents I was a child possessed of a sin they would/could not tolerate. They believed my ability to Stream and hear the surrounding trees came from Lucifer himself. I tried to explain to them the voices that would not allow me to sleep at night, showed them the stories of other people’s thoughts after the strangers had come and gone, the constant feeling I had of others in my head, and they attempted to persuade the demons from my mind the only way they knew how; to break me with labor and consistent beatings by my father as my mother stood idly by reading scriptures and calling for a savior that would never come. They were unsuccessful.

During these times of believed exorcism I was forced to stand naked, leaning against my bedroom wall with my arms and legs spread as far apart as possible. I was not allowed to move as my father caused impact after impact, hit after hit with such force from a leather strap used to secure the livestock that I was knocked from the mind of my enraged father to the pain being unleashed on my body. I could hear fragments of phrases and scriptures over the sound of my own beaten flesh as my mother read from her Bible. Eventually, after nearly an hour of relentless preachings from on high his anger and muscles would be exhausted, my mother’s voice would fade away, and my welted and bruised body would be kneeling on the floorboards not knowing where or who I was, only the definition of pain.

“Only God has the ability to look into man. All others are false,” my father would say as sweat dripped from his shirtless torso. I learned to keep my abilities a secret and hide my accidental slip ups in the confines of my Bible, the only possession I was allowed to call my own. However, no matter how hard they beat me, or how physically exhausted I was when I was set free from their wrath, the voices would always return, sometimes stronger than before. And it is those voices, not the hard hand of my father, or the intolerance my mother had towards her evil son, that made me believe in a heaven and a hell.

It was years later, after I had left the torturous confines of that house, and began searching for a couple I would never find, that brought my mind to the body and soul of a man named Charlie Wilkins as it passed from this world to the next. The Streaming happened without warning, as it always did, but it was the thoughts of a man as his body lay dying and his soul left this existence that made me believe in a higher power rather than the chastisement of my parents. I am not sure exactly how it occurred, but my mind traveled to the afterlife with a man who would not make the return journey home.

Heaven or Hell

The movement of steel atop frictionless steel was the only sound Charlie Wilkins could hear as shadows of slow moving bars across grey cement floor came to a halt, with a snap and click of a prison cell lock down. Charlie stared, absent of thought, through the rough with time bars; through the bars across the void of bottomless darkness; across the void and into a cell the exact same width, diameter, and solitary isolation as his own. He stared without blinking, without comprehending, feet together, hands at his side, head straight, and face expressionless when, all at once, five senses returned to proper working order and brought life back to his seemingly dead limbs. His eyes blinked, and with the impact of eyelash to closing lid, screams of sorrow and despair rebounded through the bars, and off the walls to bombard his ears. Although his eyes remained affixed to the world outside those emotionless bars, his face no longer held an expression of calm tranquility as the dimness of the impending surroundings came into focus, causing the illusion of walls closing in around him to become an absolute certainty.

This was not the living room he was sitting in less than ten seconds ago.

To his left, an empty, blank, grey cement wall; to his right, the same impenetrable blandness of grey; beneath his scuffed, never before polished, but still laced shoes was the same grey cement that occupied the ceiling above his head. In front and behind Charlie Wilkins saw steel bars, a grey wall, and a stranger in a black trench coat with a single unlit cigarette dangling from his white, chapped lips.

As Charlie squinted through the darkness, and the cloaked figure came into view, the quiet stranger spoke the haunting words he would come to understand the full magnitude of in the approaching constant present.

“Welcome to Hell.”

Charlie did not respond. Instead, he simply looked and studied the individual before him. At first they did not immediately make eye contact, but as Charlie continued to stare the coated stranger looked up from the ground, locking on to his gaze. As Charlie looked into the eyes of the unknown man, he realized there was something more to this man’s appearance than what immediately met the eye. Something darker, something evil he was unable to define, but knew without saying. Unable to look away, his gaze was drawn deeper by an unknown force of curiosity. As their eyes continued to connect, a stiffness grew in his chest, making it seem as if a blanket had been wrapped around his ribs to slow the quickening beat of his tell tale heart. The air in his lungs became an empty vacuum of ice, leaving him breathless, and stepping towards the only possible escape that was locked and preventing him from any exit.

“I wouldn’t do that just yet if I were you.”

Not listening, he turned, hands gripping the bars, gasping for air. In doing so he looked outside his cell to the underworld below.

Instead of inmates trapped in cells awaiting for the moment when their bars and locks would open to allow them a few moments of fictional freedom, while remaining behind chain linked fences and barbed wire. Instead of a floor he believed would become the path to the life he created for himself he saw an infinite dead end. Instead of blindingly bright orange jumpsuits and fictionalized Technicolor dreamscapes of dulled spoon breakouts, he saw a darkness more horrible than any Hollywood land studio could create through their safe barrier of bright lights and green screens of manufactured imagination.

To the left, right, and far below, men and women, the old and the young, whites and blacks, red skins and brown skins, people of wealth and people of poverty were trapped in 9x5 cells that encompassed his entire field of vision, creating a well of lost souls that descended so far down the grey bars and black abyss compressed into a single black hole of terror. Some cells contained only one person, standing solitary and alone, screaming for any companion to quench their need to no longer feel lonely. Others looked as if they would explode arms, legs, and lungs, reaching and yelling for any relief from the tears, cries, anger and sadness that filled every square inch of the cell. There were no prison guards to keep the peace, no floor that would lead to an eventual escape. There was only cement and steel that descended into shadow.

However, not all was in darkness.

Above, rather than despair and torment, there was hope in the form of warmth and light billowing up, over, down, and into itself. Rays of gold, masked by consistent slow moving white cumulus, shined down from on high to rob the last semblances of peace from the already despairing individuals who not only had to live in Hell, but look up to a Heaven they could never touch, no matter how hard they stretched.

“I told you not to look.”

Startled back to the world behind the prison bars, Charlie wiped tears from his moist cheek as best he could, but the hollowness of emotion remained lodged in his chest as the impact of his situation became more of a certain reality.

“You weren’t ready to look.”

Charlie remained standing with his back to the stranger while shaking his head. The air had not yet returned to his lungs. “All those people…all those people trapped. I don’t understand. What is this place?”

The stranger slowly, methodically, breathed in through his unlit cigarette, staring a hole into the back of the new inmate. “I think you know.”

Unable to take the intermingling sight of beauty and hideousness before him, Charlie turned back into the cell to look into the shadows. The stranger remained silent, leaning against the back wall. Charlie continued to shake his head in disbelief while attempting to make sense of it all. He looked from left to right, hoping to see answers that were not there.

“How did I get here?” Charlie tried as best he could to remember the last moments of his life “The last thing I remember is sitting in my living room, watching TV while eating dinner and…”

“What were you eating?” the stranger asked as if it were a normal question given the circumstance.

“What?”Charlie looked up in confusion.

He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth to speak with more clarity. “I said, what were you eating?”

The question seemed too absurd to answer. “Does it matter?”

The stranger shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t. Odds are you choked on your food. Maybe you had a heart attack, or, better yet, were shot in the back of the head by a wife who secretly despised you and had been fucking the mailman for the last five years.”

Charlie stared at the stranger. His head began to reel. “What are you saying? Are you saying I’m dead?”

“Unless you know something I don’t, that’s the only way you end up here.” The stranger took a puff of absent nicotine. The knowledge of his dismal surroundings, rather than the common comfort of his living room, became more and more real with each passing moment causing anger, frustration, and confusion to rise in his always complacent demeanor. He turned back to the bars in sheer panic, to join the screams of the countless others.

“Someone let me out! I’m not supposed to be here, there’s been a mistake. LET ME OUT!!”

He shook the bars for freedom. The stranger laughed at the man’s ignorance.

When no possibility of an answer ensued and the door refused to budge, Charlie turned back to look at the man shrouded in darkness. “Do you know what all this is, or why I’m here? For certain?”

“For certain? No. I know nothing for certain, but I do have my suspicions.”

“What would those be?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it’s not.” Charlie grew anxious for answers.

The stranger laughed, taking another slow drag of the useless tobacco before answering. “That this, this cell, these bars, the people, the screams, all of it, including the clouds above your head is Hell and all of us are trapped in it.” The stranger continued to look to the ground as Charlie stood in silence listening to the answers being given to him, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No. I don’t believe it.”

“Like I said, it’s just my suspicions.” Charlie stood in silence unable to comprehend what lay in front of him. The stranger looked up and studied the average blue collared man standing before him, before smiling something sinister.

“I know what you’re doing,” the stranger said. “I’ve stood where you are standing. I’ve gone through the mental checklist of where I was when I ‘bit the big one’ in your case, what I was doing, what this place possibly could be, the possibilities of mistaken identity, everything and anything, including the wanting.”

Charlie looked up in confusion. “The wanting? What do you mean the wanting?”

The stranger looked up into the questioning eyes of Charlie. His stance did not change and his back remained against the wall. “You know what I mean. The wanting. The wanting to not only look and admire what we can only assume to be Heaven from a caged cell, but to actually be there. The wanting to be some place warm, soft, and full of color rather than trapped in this cold box of cement. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I saw it in your eyes as you looked up and those pretty little tears fell to the ground. I know because I did the same thing. I screamed to be let out, believed that they had made some sort of mistake, that I wasn’t supposed to be here, but no matter how loud I screamed no one came. No one ever comes.”

The stranger stood quietly as the echoes of misery bounced off the walls and down into the thick darkness that no light could penetrate. Both men stood in silence, one with his back to Hell and the other with his on it, staring at the other.

“What happened next?”

The stranger gave a crooked smile of dingy teeth and a chuckle as his gaze shifted back to the cement floor. Feelings of apprehension returned to Charlie as he took a half step back.

“Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. That’s the problem. But there’s no reason for me to tell you all this. You’ll see soon enough. Because you will scream, you will wale, go insane, try and hurt yourself just like all the others, but soon enough you’ll come to grips with the situation just as I have, and all those people eventually will.”

A scream of agonizing torture not far away caused Charlie to jump, rocking the foundations of his twenty one grams of immortality. The stranger continued without flinching.

“Let’s take this cigarette for example.” He held it up as if it were the primary evidence in a defense case and Charlie was the judge and jury. “Do you know how many times I’ve thrown it out of this cell and into that bottomless pit behind you? Me either. I lost track around seven hundred thirty six. However, let me assure you, this cigarette is not the only thing I’ve thrown over into the void below. I’ve thrown my clothes, my jewelry, and tried killing myself by wrapping these necklaces around those bars, strangling to death. After each and every one of those instances I blinked and awoke to find everything and myself returned to the way it was; breathing, fully dressed with this cigarette in my mouth, and no closer to getting out of this hell hole”

Charlie stood with his back to the cement bars wondering if it hurt to die for the second time, but said nothing. The stranger took in a few deep breaths, calming himself he looked down at the cement floor and put the cigarette back to his lips. Smiling, he murmured, “At least I’m not up there.”

But Charlie’s mind had transitioned into auto pilot as his mind remained in a constant loop of replaying the moments of his life, looking for any indications of why he was there and not where he believed he should be. He looked back and knew he wasn’t the best, or the most honest person in the world, he knew he made mistakes the same as everyone else, but he was still a good man, wasn’t he? He went to church with his wife when she decided they needed to. He never took any risks for fear of failure. In fact his life was the test book definition of ordinary. He did what his parents told him as a child and even now never questioned their authority. He went to the college they wanted him to, married his college sweetheart, came home to his wife every night, and went to work every morning. He never made a wrong decision. He always followed routine. Going through it all he knew there had to have been some mistake. He never committed any crime, he wasn’t the most religious, but he was no criminal. He deserved to be let out. This train of thought and realization brought him back to the consciousness of screams and lost souls. “What did you mean when you said ‘At least I’m not up there?’”

A slow, menacing smile spread across the stranger’s face. Taking the unlit cigarette from his lips, while keeping his eyes closed and head towards the ground, he pointed it to the cement ceiling above his head. “Up there.”

Charlie looked up to the ceiling. “Up where? In Heaven? Why wouldn’t you want to be there?”

The stranger shook his head and opened his eyes to the afraid man in front of him. “No. Up there, in the very top cells where you can see everything, the majesty, the beauty, the amazing grace, everything clear as day. To be so close you can taste it, but still be trapped in a cage would be too much for even me to bear.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because up there you can’t escape the reality of your fate.” Charlie still looked confused. The stranger stood up, off the wall, to explain. “The reality that you will never get out of this cell to be with your friends, your family, and love ones. Up there you are reminded of your place and how it’s not with them, while down here you can hide from that light, those clouds, and the feeling of being inadequate. That’s why I stay back here, away from those bars and everyone’s screaming for what they can never reach. You see, what sets me apart from them is I know I’m never going to leave this cell so I refuse to be reminded that others are in a better place than I am.” He breathed in deeply on the cigarette to calm his agitated nerves.

“In my opinion the best place to be is down there, in the darkness. Down there it’s like being back on Earth. It’s true, you can’t see for shit, but what’s the point in seeing in this place? I’d rather be deaf, dumb and blind. Down there you don’t know where you are, why you are there, or that heaven or hell even exists for that matter, just like on Earth. Everything is a mystery and you’re not left wanting. Not like here. Not like in this Hell.”

Feeling as though he had gotten his use out of the cigarette he flicked it towards Charlie, through the bars, and down into the void. Charlie watched as it plummeted into oblivion, falling without cause or care past the flailing arms outstretched from forgotten cells only to turn and see the cigarette back on the cracked lips of the trench coated man.

“So why are you here?” the stranger asked, taking another puff of the cigarette as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Did you figure it out yet? Was it because of some adulterous affair, drugs you experimented with back in college, or, maybe, your relentless torturing of small animals as a kid?

“I’m not supposed to be here,” was all Charlie could think to say.

“Right. That’s what they all say,” the stranger said as he laughed. “That’s what I said. I went through everything in my head justifying all of my decisions, but in the end it doesn’t matter. There is no need to lie to yourself. You’re already dead. So, out with it. Why are you here?”

Charlie became more and more frustrated with each condescending remark from the hooligan in front of him.

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

A snap and click came from the door at Charlie’s back. He jumped forward to watch in wonder as the bars created an open hole that could lead to his freedom. “What did I do? What happened?” Charlie stared in confusion. He looked back to the stranger for answers, or, at the very least, a heightened reaction, but he stood in silence before raising from the wall. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. You tell me.”

“I don’t know, you’ve been…how do you know my name?”

“There are a lot of things we know about you Charlie,” the stranger said as his face was illuminated by the tip of the now lit cigarette, exhaling white smoke. “But none of them are of any importance right now. The important question is, what are you going to do?”

Charlie stood, paralyzed by fear and horror. “What’s going on? What is this? Who are you?”

The stranger walked towards the open cell door. In the fraction of an instant the stranger grabbed Charlie by the throat and threw him against the grey cement wall with such force and speed, Charlie lost all sense of cognitive ability as all the air escaped his lungs and none was allowed to take the place of its leave of absence.

“What are you doing here?!” the stranger yelled, cigarette falling from his lips to the floor.

“What?” Charlie moaned while trying to fight off his attacker.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? The stranger shook the air from Charlie’s lungs as he pounded his back against the wall while squeezing his throat shut. Charlie tried to speak, but no words came. There was no more air to propel thoughts from his brain to his murderer, and no strength to keep his eyes from closing and the world from going black as he fell lifeless to the cement floor.

The stranger stood above him, breathing deeply. The cell door remained open. “You need to make a choice, Charlie.” Reaching down and picking up the man with the ease of a child’s backpack, he threw Charlie through the open door to the darkness of screams below. Coming to consciousness before passing into shadow, Charlie looked up to a dream of light and beauty blurred and impossible to reach as he fell further into depths of Hell, until, after a moment, the movement of steel atop frictionless steel was the only sound Charlie Wilkins could hear as shadows of slow moving bars across grey cement floor came to a halt, with a snap and click of a prison cell lock down. Charlie breathed in deeply, filling his empty lungs with billowing white fog as his eyes opened to a blinding light of gold and white. Rather than screams of pain and agony filling the empty space between the bars there was silence and underlying whispers of strangers and forgotten loved ones. Outside was a blockade of compacted incandescent white that revealed only the movement of shadows and light by people he would never meet or see. Inside, was something much more tangible and terrifying, adding fuel to the pervading stagnant mist of forgotten memories and lost moments of joy, never to return.

“I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”

Charlie remained forward as tears blurred the dream outside his reach, making the nightmare more of a reality in knowing he was beyond the need for screams and wishes of darkness rather than light. He was in Hell.

Family Secrets

2011-11-12T08:59:00.001-08:00

I am back, but I am sure to you it appears I have not left the bonsai designed page of indented paragraphs.

I have found a secluded campsite just outside the city and I think I am safe with only the surrounding branches as a distracting, hum in the back of my head, like classical music heard from a distant room. I may now continue, hopefully with few other distractions.

Many stories are similar in their messages, but no two are the same. Like similar fingerprints of twins, each tale has a uniqueness that cannot be mimicked by another individual. The Streaming of the last story reminded me of how true this fact can be. A few years prior I Streamed a similar story of honesty and the necessity of family that many need in their day to day lives, but told of unspoken secrets that haunt many households. I kept this young lady’s words to add to the others I had collected over the years. I see it only fitting to retell. Perhaps their story will help the clarity of understanding why I devoted my life to retelling the stories of others.

Family Secrets

Hey old man. How is everything? Stop staring at the page in disbelief, yes, this is a letter. You know, the kind people like you used to write and send before the invention of toilet paper and electricity. How old are you now, anyway? Is it just over six hundred or seven hundred years old? I can never remember. I know we haven’t talked much, but you were on my mind so I decided to drop you a line. Sorry I haven’t been home very much over the last few months, but this new job has been sucking up so much of my time I have hardly been able to breathe, let alone make the four hour drive back to see everyone. I know what you’re going to say, “Work is no excuse for ditching family,” and I’m not, it’s just I have a lot to do. With this being my first real job after graduating I want to make a good impression. And besides, you know how I like to stay busy. Mom says I get that from you so you should understand. She does. We both have the need to be perfect in everything we do. The only difference between the two of us is you succeed while I…sorry. I know how you hate it when I do that.

Anyway, how’s Carol? She looks good in the photos you emailed. Short hair suits her, but you probably hate it, being the old fashioned man you are with your stern beliefs that a woman should have long, flowing beautiful hair to represent the extension of her eternal soul. Hopefully you were able to read all that from your firm stance in the 1920’s. Give her a kiss for me, and tell her we have to go to Macy’s this year when I come home for Thanksgiving. That was the one stop we were too exhausted to get to last year so we have to go there first. Don’t roll your eyes. I know you are. We go out every black Friday. It’s an insane tradition of waking up at four in the morning, fighting through crowds, and standing in hour long lines to make sure we are the few, lucky, one hundred individuals who get that free fleece blanket, or crappy mp3 player. It’s stupid, I know, but what else are we going to do on the day after Thanksgiving? Sleep? We’ll leave that to you professor.

Let’s see, what don’t you know about my life? For the most part there’s nothing new. Work is stressful, but fun, Jason and I are doing well, and I’ve been thinking about going back to school. Not right now, of course, but one day. I need to get my masters. As you said, “I’m too smart not to go back to school.” I’m starting to think you were right. Besides that, everything is pretty much the same, for the most part. Except…well, there is one thing.

Actually, it’s the reason for this letter. It’s nothing important, or relevant for that matter, it’s just a photo I found when I was unpacking. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s nothing bad. Nothing like that. To be honest I don’t even know how I ended up with it since I’m not even in the picture. Maybe I stole it the last time I was home because it reminded me so much of Tara, Jasmine, and myself when we were that age. Who knows. It’s of you, when you were a kid. Three, maybe four years old. You’re in a front yard holding hands with Mom, and Uncle Darren. It must have been around Christmas or something because it looks cold and all three of you are dressed up like you’re going to church. Mom is in a black dress, Darren’s in a sweater, and you’re in the ugliest sweater vest I have ever seen in my life! If I had to wear that thing I would have had the same scowl you had on your face. You know how they say some kids are cute when they’re angry? You were not one of them. Just thinking about it makes me want to crack up.

You three looked so different then. Younger, yes, but different in a way I can’t explain. Almost like you’re not even the same people that helped raise me. Like the people in that photo are familiar strangers who I think I’ve met, but I can’t be certain. Is that what time does to you, add so many layers that by the end you’re indistinguishable from who you used to me? It’s frightening to think that my kids, or nieces and nephews will look back on my photos and think the same things about me that I’m thinking about you. I don’t want to forget who I was, but some days I can barely recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. I guess it comes with getting older, but it’s scary. I know, just as you do, we can’t go back to being those people in those photographs. All we can do is look back, remember, and hold on to a piece of that person as best we can, no matter how hard it may get at times. Easier said than done, right? It still makes me wonder what happened to you three to make you hate one another so much. Especially you and Darren. I’ll probably never know since you or Mom won’t tell me and Uncle Darren’s gone.

Seeing him in that picture really made me miss him. I can’t believe it’s been two years since the accident. It seems wrong in some way that time kept moving so quickly after he died. Almost as if I were betraying him by living from one second to the next while he didn’t. I know he wouldn’t want me to think that way, but it still doesn’t change the way I feel. And I know you may not feel the same way and don’t want to hear all this, but you didn’t give him enough credit when he was alive. I don’t know what happened between you two, but he was a better man than you think he was, and he deserves more respect than you gave him at the funeral. He helped me through a lot. And I know your thinking what he could have possibly helped me through, being the screw up that he was, but he helped me more than you realize. More than any of you realize. I tried to tell to you about it last time we talked, but you got so angry and frustrated I just dropped it. But I can’t just let this go. Not this time. I won’t let this be swept under the rug and forgotten like so many other secrets. You need to quit being so stubborn and listen to what I have to say. I don’t mean to be so forceful, it’s just I love you three so much, but you make me so angry when I have to choose sides, even when one of you has died. It’s because of that simple fact I never told any you or Mom about about…God, how do I write this? So much has been going through my head since Jason and I moved to Ohio I’m not even sure if I can, or want to tell you, but I will. No more secrets.

Did you know I almost dropped out of college my sophomore year? It wasn’t going to be forever, just until things calmed down. There was so much that happened all at once I wasn’t sure I could handle it all. That was the year you and Mom got on me about my grades slipping, and you and Darren got into an argument about it. Do you remember? Uncle Darren thought I was just stressed and needed a break, and you said I just wasn’t concentrating hard enough. I remember that battle between you two because Uncle Darren wouldn’t back down. He normally did, but on that Easter day he didn’t. Afterwards, did you wonder why? Did you ever wonder why he didn’t stop defending me even with you constantly telling him how worthless he was, and how you didn’t want me to end up like him? It’s because he knew something you didn’t. He knew that for the last week I had been at his house staring absently into a TV screen when I should have been in school. He knew something was really wrong with me…because I told him. And do you know what he did? He didn’t ask prying questions, call you or Mom, or try and get me help like I know you would have. He bought me a bus ticket, picked me up at the station, and let me work it out on my own because he knew, without asking, that was the best thing for me. He let me talk to him when I needed to, be alone when I needed to cry, and hold me when all I could do was sit in silence. He was a good uncle whether you admit it or not. What he did, then, meant a lot. It still does.

You see, something happened. Something I don’t want to talk about, and I’m not going to. I’m sorry, I really am, and I love you, but I can’t. Not with you. I’m not telling you all this to make you upset, or to start asking questions. I’m telling you all this to let you know there was a time when things got really bad for me and you had no idea, but Uncle Darren did and he helped me in ways you couldn’t.

Not that you’re a bad uncle. I’m not saying that. What I am saying, is the same way I see different people when I look at that picture of you three standing in front of your old house, all three of you see someone different when you look at me. You and Mom see me as this perfect child; the niece or daughter that gets the good grades, behaves, has the good head on her shoulders, but that’s not the way I feel. I feel average. Although you two see the good in me, there is a lot about me you don’t know, and you never will because you don’t want to. What you want is what you’ve always gotten, the perfect image of a young woman you believed to exist when I am much more complex than that. But because that’s the person you wanted to see that’s the person I became for you and is why I can never tell you about what happened to me. Until you can see me the way Uncle Darren did.

I’m not writing this to hurt you. I’m writing this to tell you I love. And to tell you that I also love Uncle Darren just as much. No more, no less now that he’s gone. No matter what he’s still family and when it boils down to it, family is all we’ve got. I love you Uncle Kevin, and don’t forget to give Carol a kiss for me. Take care of yourself and don’t be angry with me. We’ll talk more later. Until then, I miss you and I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.

4th Part One

2011-09-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

Old age has prevented me from moving as quickly and as far as I used to.

It is one of the tragedies that accompany time on its coattails, like dust on a wedding gown. No matter. This is as good a place as any to continue my tale. The busy minds of others make it difficult to concentrate, but I have had practice at blocking them out.

Where was I…ah yes, I was speaking of the trees. It may appear out of the ordinary, but when I was young I found that I could not only connect with the minds of others, but I could feel the seasons as they awoke, thrived with activity, before finally subsiding and slumbering into winter. As I grew older, my abilities grew in strength. By sixteen my thoughts were no longer my own as they were not only drowned out by the overpowering thoughts of other individuals, but also by the constant presence of roots and the thickening of bark as they rumbled in the back of my head, like the excitement of a hive of honey bees. My moments of greatest peace were in the…

4^th

My best friend died on July 4th 2008. Actually it was the 15th of June 2006 when he passed, but it was two years before I cared he was gone.

I still don’t know what exactly happened on that day, since no one has told me the full story, and I’ve never asked, but from what I can tell he was speeding when the police tried to pull him over. Some say he was trying to out run the police, others say he was late for work and couldn’t hear the sirens through his helmet. The only thing we know for certain is that the pursuit lasted less than five minutes. Apparently, in that short amount of time Virginia state police thought their best plan of action was to back a police cruiser in front of his path seconds before passing, launching his body through the air at over 80mph to come skidding to a stop across unrelenting pavement. The Kawasaki and his body resembled one another in gnarled flesh and steel. Unfortunately, he didn’t die on impact.

The last time I saw him alive was July 4th 2004. Back then, if someone would have told me that in two years I would be enrolled back in school, working my way towards some future I still don’t have planned, while Danny’s face and body made such a forceful impact with the pavement it would shatter most of the bones in his body, I wouldn’t believe them. I was in Maryland staying with my sister over summer vacation when we got the phone call. My sister cried. I showered.

Danny was not my best friend then. To be honest he was just another relative who I would to see at family reunions and forget the moment I was in the car driving home. He was five years my senior and it is for that reason he was more like an older brother than a best friend. An older brother who never told me what to do, or how to dress, but he is someone I did look up to. Not because of his good moral character, but because he could get any woman he wanted by simply looking at them.

Danny had this ability to charm every individual around him with nothing more than a smile that was deemed perfect by everyone I knew while I spent most of my time reading unknown authors by flickering fluorescent light. He had the looks of an Adonis while I soared easily under the radar of any and all women. And he had the self confidence I could only imagined myself to have. To most of my family he was damn near perfect. He was everything I thought I wanted to be, and now, he’s dead.

On that 4^th of July 2004 we sat on the tailgate of his truck talking about our lives. Rather he talked and I listened. The Kawasaki that would one day lay in a wreck on the side of a highway not far from his dying body was strapped down behind us to the bed of the truck.

Ten minutes before our conversation we both had been chewed out by aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, and grandparents, for our poor life choices. They yelled at Danny for buying a motorcycle and joining the military, and me for dropping out of college after receiving a full ride to Bowling Green. Danny argued back, giving his side of his own story as I stood silent, taking the abuse and wondering why I decided to come home for the holiday when I could have been in Maryland working.

Sitting there that afternoon , stuffed full of pasta salad and questions about the future, I asked for direction on what I should do from Danny. He didn’t offer any. He didn’t believe I needed it. I remember him telling me there was nothing he could tell me I wouldn’t figure out on my own. I thought it was nonsense at the time, and in a way I still do, but I’m starting to understand what he meant.

Rather than lecture me on what he believed I should do, he commended me on taking some much needed time to myself to figure it out. He understood what it meant to suffer through the ceaseless late night arguments of parents who were meant for divorce and figured I could use some time to myself. Back then I thought he was the coolest cousin because he had a motorcycle he refused to give up, no matter how much he was bullied by family members. Now, I look up to him because he let me make up my own mind. Unfortunately, I would be the one who would live to understand that sometimes family does know best when it comes to certain situations.

That night we saw the fireworks down by the river, just the two of us. Reds, greens, whites, and purples shook the glass windows of corporate buildings as their lights exploded and extinguished in the partly cloudy sky, raining down sulfur and ash over its reflective surface. It was a normal show. The only problem was I didn’t want to be there. I remember my friends Collin, Keith, Brandon, and others calling my cell phone wanting me to see the show with them in a spot by the Peoria Yacht Club, but I couldn’t pull myself away from Danny, or, rather, he wouldn’t pull himself away from me.

I want to tell you that I wanted to spend the night hanging out with my cousin now that he is gone, but I can’t. The fact that I had driven twelve hours cross country by myself made me more impatient to see the people I had grown accustomed to over the majority of my teenage years. The bar-b-que and family function was over. It was time for me to get in my car and forget he existed until we saw each other on some other holiday. But no matter how many hints I dropped he would not take me to my car to join my drunken friends.

“Forget about them for one night. They’ll be there tomorrow.”

That night, there was something in his voice I could not say no to. It wasn’t his normal tone of confidence, and control over himself and the situation. It was something much different. It was loneliness. An emotion I didn’t think Danny had. If it had been anyone else I could have had the strength to say no, but hearing those words come from him guaranteed my compliance. The guys and drunken girls would just have to wait until later.

Rather than just seeing the fireworks and heading home to talk, as I expected us to do, we drove around the city both of us had grown up in, but neither of us had seen in over a year. We made our way from the, stand still traffic of downtown cars making their way home, to Bradley Park. We drove down University Street, past the mall and out of the overpopulated city of flashing lights and billboards to the outskirts of the farm filled suburbs. We passed Willow Knolls Shopping Center, the newly built Prairie Hills Mall and headed toward the perfectly uniform suburban homes surrounded by soy bean, and corn. We drove through neighborhoods I had never seen as if we were going to visit an old friend, but we never stopped, and we never said a word. The houses were as silent and dark as the inside of Danny’s truck.

Soon, we found ourselves back in the city limits. We kept driving through town until we reached the south side, were Danny spent most of his life, and I knew very little about. We drove past small houses of weather exterior paneling and steel bared windows filled with laughter and bottle rocket explosions from fenced in front yards. We passed corners of excitement, sidewalks of laughter, and conversations by people who were celebrating a day of independence from the daily grind of a nine in the morning to seven at night and the company of friends.

As we passed the houses and sidewalks, full of excitement and miniature explosions of red, white, and blue I looked over at Danny. Looking at his profile I saw a smile on the side of his face as he looked through the window at the families he knew and understood first hand, and loved.

Still we drove on.

We passed the grave of my sister’s first child who died during birth, the Baptist church of my Uncle T.C., the grave of our Uncle Eli who died of cancer a few years prior, and countless houses of friends and family who had either moved away or passed on. I could tell all of these places meant something to Danny, but I didn’t know what. He drove as if he were looking for something or someone, while to me the streets, and buildings all looked the same from when I got in my car and drove six hours away to attend a college I would drop out of after attending for only a week. Nothing had changed in my teenage eyes and nothing would for years to come. But time has a way of altering one’s vision.

When I first got back into town a few days prior, and saw the city lights far below as I drove down I-75 I expected to see the city completely transformed, but as I entered, and the distant lights grew closer, I felt no magic in the town I once called home. I remembered when I was a kid, half asleep in the backseat, and seeing those lights as we drove into the city after being gone for a week or so on a family vacation. Back then I remember feeling something special as we made our way to our own driveway and half made beds. It felt like home. But as I got older the city began to feel less and less like home and more than a vacation spot filled with old friends who loved to drink and have sex with no consequence. But for Danny, at least on that night, I think he still saw the city as home. As we both used to.

Something made him not want to put the car in park that night, and made me want to pull out my hair from boredom. While Danny was looking to the past for answers on how to grow old and stay sane, I was looking through my text messages asking when I was going to get to the party that had migrated from the riverfront to Collin’s house. But times change and thoughts mature. My only regret is that it took me so long to catch up to Danny’s.

Oliver Lee Reveals His Abilities

2011-08-16T16:40:00.000-07:00

Sorry I was gone for so long. I was on vacation with the Sams family and had the time of my life!! Thanks for another great year in Chincoteague. Love you all! Below are two of the first stories Oliver Lee Streamed and reveal his ability to read the minds of those who have a story to tell. The italics is from the point of view of Oliver Lee. Enjoy, and feel free to leave comments.

***

Alive or Dead
“…and the home, of the brave. This concludes our broadcasting for the evening.”
These were the last words of the television as the black and white images transformed from pictures to incandescent static. He lay there on the firm couch, fully dressed with a blanket over his shoulders as he stared into the screen, not moving or thinking, just watching and listening; listening to the white noise from the television and contrasting silence throughout the house.
Around him, lights from the Christmas tree gave off shadows of red and green that reflected strips of silver tinsel across the coffee table. There was no one in the house. There were no sleeping bodies in the deserted bedrooms above his head so there was no fear of waking children, relatives, or a nonexistent loving spouse. No distant family, or old college friends were visiting for the approaching holiday. He was alone. While other individuals had loved ones to share the days of fellowship and brotherly love, he had no one. This may have upset others, but to him it was just the way he preferred it.

He was not a misanthrope, but after so many years of unintended seclusion he had grown accustomed to spending his time alone. In the darkness of the house there was no fear of saying something out of place, or feeling as if he were being phony to himself and the seemingly fake people around him. When he was alone he was just himself without the fear of losing his personality in doing and being what others thought best of him. He enjoyed who he was so he enjoyed being alone, it was as simple as that.

Thinking of the comfort of being alone in a house and life that was all his own he began to lift his head from the stiff couch pillow. His neck was stiff and awkward to move. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he sat up, falling to the ground with the same muffled sound of compacted snow falling from the bare, frozen branches outside his window. He stared back at the screen, turned to his left, and looked outside into the neighborhood of last names and mailboxes. He saw the other houses with their Christmas lights of red, white, green, blue and thought of other families. The thought of how their beds and blankets allowed them to dream of pleasant days to come, protecting them from the mounds of snow and ice outside their homes, while he cherished the night and the winter reality stretched out before him. He sat, stared, and admired.
After a few moments he stood up, slowly, and taking the cover from the floor, folding it into his arms. He smiled as he turned off the television with the twist of a knob, carried the blanket under his arm, up the stairs, and into his room where he slept, and dreamed.

Black Hair, Green Eyes
It was silent as the snow fell outside the one bedroom apartment window of the women he had met less than twelve hours ago. She lay asleep as he stared at her expressionless and serene dusty brown face. He examined each detail of her profile’s flawless features while listening to her slow steady breathing in an attempt to lock this memory away inside the vault that was his mind.

Her eyelids were closed, but he knew that behind those thin black eyelashes were eyes that left him speechless when he first looked into them; green eyes with a hint of brown. When seeing her across the crowded room less than eight hours ago he knew that if he stared too long and too deep he would lose all sense of himself to their unforgiving gaze. The black silk that was her hair flowed down and stopped just below her neck. It was kept and neat, even as she slept, and rested neatly behind one ear.

In the black cascade of beauty there was one renegade strand that would not comply with the orders. It passed down the center of her face, around the left eye to mingle with the eyelashes, across the cheek, and came to rest below the ear, at the jaw line. Moving down her faultless smooth skin that covered her high cheekbones he studied the genius architecture that gave existence to the flat yet slight roundness of the cheeks that were not striving for perfection, but touched on it. The slow steady breathing that escaped her dark slightly open lips let him know that she was asleep, having no idea how beautiful she really was.

The sun is rising. I must travel with the fleeting darkness.

There is no reason for me to keep moving from one town to the other, but old habits die hard. All I carry with me now is myself and this binding of paper. All I need are a few more days to finish the retelling of their story of love and fear. Afterwards…well…we shall worry of that when the time arrives. The trees store secrets few know.

Who is Oliver Lee?

2011-07-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

Below is the first entry made by Oliver Lee in the diary he is using to chronicle his life. This is where his story begins and the audience learns of his abilities to Stream stories and connect to nature. Enjoy the read. And if you find anything interesting or have a question feel free to leave a comment.
Later days,
Kenny

There are no other Liturians.

I have looked and found none. I am the only I know to have this abnormality, however, let me assure, I am just as human as you. The only difference being I was born with a purpose I could not escape, while others must search for theirs. I am not sure which is more frustrating.

Before I continue I would like to extend my apologies and beg your forgiveness at having to suffer through my shaky handwriting. These old hands have written enough lines to extend from this galaxy to the next. They have traveled from the past to the future and back again, to the depths of human consciousness to expose their hopes, despair, love, and fear so excuse me if they shiver a little in the cold when I am not Streaming. Time has taken its toll on my limbs and the miles they have traveled.

Very little has been explained, but all will be in time. Patience, this is just the beginning.

My name, the one many have come to know me by, is Oliver Lee. If you have not heard it whispered on the back of a stray breeze, or lightly in your ear like the secret of a playground playmate, you may be wondering why an old man such as myself is outside in the cold air on a night such as this. The reason is simply, because it is beautiful. The stars shine down rays of distant sunlight through an unfiltered sky, the old fashioned street lights guard against the night surrounding this park bench in this quant town of gnarled, intertwined roots beneath solid trunks existent in a state I know only to be in the Midwest.

All are asleep and silent. Come the morning I will be gone. The ability to vanish with the coming dawn like the memory of a fleeting dream is not beyond my realm of ability; not yet at least. Until the first rays of the sun begin to brighten the clouds and the sky into two distinguishable objects I will sit beneath the artificial light of these illuminating orbs and listen to the thoughts of this town’s oldest denizens, the ever growing limbs and leaves; they store secrets few would believe.

The trees are pleasant here. Their thoughts are calm, kind, silent, and old, but still retain a hint of youth from when they were saplings so many winters ago. The only tragedies they have seen are the harsh storms of Mother Nature that they can never avoid, only endure. They grow tall and spread their roots wide without seeing the flaws of human nature. Unlike other trees in a park very distant from this one, these limbs have only seen young lovers kiss beneath their branches, not the act of it being ripped away. Few trees have, but word, like roots, spread.

The thoughts and stories of these trees are the only medicines that now calm my nerves. I will sit for a while longer and listen to them speak with one another as their leaves silently maneuver through cycles invisible to the human eye.
They are very talkative tonight. They always get this way when they feel the seasons begin to change from summer to fall. For them it’s like getting ready for Christmas as each prepares to have the best decorated branches of the year. I love to listen to them around this time as they move from constant excitement into a slow slumber that will carry them through the winter and into spring. If there is one thing I am sorry about it is the fact that this will be my last autumn among them. Pity, I would have liked to return to this park one day. It is soothing for an old soul.
I wish you could hear what they are like. Their voices are just as elegant as their exteriors; rough sometimes, but perfect in their imperfections. They speak to one another, carrying messages from one place to another, and they harbor memories both good and bad. They all have distinct voices, just like any human. Each species has its own personality, its own style. Some whisper, while others have voices that cannot be ignored. After all my years of writing the stories of others I have never been able to properly describe what they sound like. The oldest of them speak the rarest, but when they do I hear them no matter how far away, or what season.
I apologize. At my age rambling becomes a way of life. Let me begin.

Everything and everyone has a story. This is one of the few things I have come to know over the years. The trick is learning how to listen. This story is mine, but it is one I share with many characters; people I have never met, but know better than their most intimate lover; and objects that have existed for so long they have their own tales to weave; places that were believed to be hidden, fake, or lost to the world. However, above all others it is about a couple. A couple that has changed my life more than they will ever know.

I was born with no abnormalities. There were no complications with my mother’s pregnancy. I am not from another planet as some may believe, or the last of an ancient race that has been forgotten and has now died out as the centuries have passed. The only reason I mention this is because I know what rumors have begun to circulate about my origin. The reading of my stories over the years by the young that have progressed into old age have caused some imaginations to wonder who the author is behind the words. Few if any now know.

The only characteristic that set my childhood apart from that of other children is my refusal to speak until nearly the age of four. The only logical explanation I could come up with over the years, to somewhat explain the development of my abilities, is my absence of voice allowed me the time needed to understand the people around me. Not only know what lay on the surface of their personalities with what they said, but understand what set them apart from others by what their mouths did not say, and what their bodies could not hide. I understood what made people tick before they said a single word. It is a talent I have learned to prize and covet above all others. This may have been the beginning of the link from my brain to theirs. However, of this, I cannot be certain.

One of the earliest memories I can recall is sitting in the kitchen of my childhood home, staring at my mother and father as they moved with calculated and memorized movements, each preparing for the day that lay ahead. Their small voices in my head grew stronger and weaker as they would enter and leave my presence as if they were each separate, but distinct radio stations, and I was the receiver going in and out of range.

I didn’t know what the voices were then. How could I? I was too young to know what I was hearing was technically impossible. Because no one else seemed to hear them, and they appeared to be the voices of my parents, I believed it was all part of the active imagination of a know nothing child. Sometimes I wish I was right.

As I grew older the voices did not go away. Instead they did just the opposite; they grew stronger. The thoughts of others in close range to our country home who were passing, or camping in the nearby woods would creep in through the floor boards and windows, into my mind, telling me who they were and what thoughts kept their mind from being at ease. These individuals were always excited, worried, or stressed as they intruded on my stray thoughts like an unwanted relative showing up unexpectedly to visit. It occurred few and far times apart at first, but as the months and years passed I began to hear them more. And like an unwanted relative I could not force them to leave the confines of my brain until they saw fit, no matter how hard I tried; and I did try.

When this did occur, more often than not, I found that my hand moved freely of its own will, moving from left to right. It only happened with my left hand, my writing hand. It took all my effort to keep it under my control and not its own. It was not until the age of thirteen I realized my hand was not only moving of its own accord, but writing words, sentences, paragraphs, entire stories of the images I was seeing in my mind. The amazing thing is they were not in my handwriting, and none of them resembled one another in style or print, except three.

I still have the first few stories from when I was a boy. This was before I began to block them out. It’s just coincidence I had them stuffed between the pages of my Bible the night Oliver Lee was born.

The Story of a Boy: Part 5 (Who is Oliver Lee)

2011-07-21T10:29:00.000-07:00

“Who is the author?” the young boy asked, not seeing a name or a title on the front cover.

“Someone I am sure you have not heard of.”

“Is it fiction?”

“In a way,” the old clerk said while passing the young boy and walking back towards the filtered sunlight of the front of the store. The boy’s interest was piqued.

“In a way? What do you mean in a way?” The boy followed behind.

Once leaving the catacombs of ancient books the old clerk stepped to the side. He looked out over the store, through the glass to the foreign world he did not understand, enjoying the sight of the now busy sidewalk of strange people with a renewed smile. The young boy stood beside the old clerk, staring at the man, wondering why he never saw him though the dust layered windows when he had been there the entire time.

“There was a man,” the old clerk said slowly as if feeling the words in his mouth before speaking them. “He wrote stories. Short stories and nothing else, as far as we know of. His name was Oliver Lee, or, rather that is what people called him. No one really knows who he is or where he came from. All anyone knows for sure of him is that he wrote. We call it fiction, he called it reality. Not because he thought of himself as anything more than a normal man, but because every story he ever wrote was told to him by a stranger, whether they wanted to tell it to him or not. They may not have come out and said it to him as I am talking to you, but it was through their own voice they told him of their dreams and nightmares. It is said they spoke to him through…a subconscious stream of thought. I am not sure how it was done, I’m not sure anyone is, but apparently Oliver Lee had the ability to do so.” The old clerk turned to look at the boy. He gestured with his hands as he spoke.

“You see, Oliver had the ability to read people’s thoughts. Not all people’s thoughts, but only those who had a story to tell. The words would come to him as if in a dream and he would write them down on loose sheets of paper, paper towels, napkins, anything he could get his hands on. Once finished he would leave them for others to read. It is only through these stories that we know of him and how he became silently famous. Some people say they have seen him, but no one knows for sure. He traveled from one end of the country to the other, from state to state writing stories and leaving them on tables or abandoned counter tops for all his life. He never spoke, only wrote, except once. When he gave me the book you hold in your hands.” The young boy looked down at the beaten cover. “It’s his personal diary. It has the few stories he decided not to give back to the world. It’s all written long hand, and can be hard to read at times, but it’s worth it. It gives you a glimpse at what it means to be human - to have emotion and to tell stories.” The old clerk stopped a moment before finishing. The young boy stared into the cover. “It’s now yours to read.”

The young boy looked up confused.

“What? I don’t want this. This isn’t why I came in.” He held out the book for the clerk to take back.

“Are you sure about that?” The old clerk smiled. Ignoring the extended text in the boy’s hand he began picking up books, moving them to different places throughout the store as he walked. He had a speed to his methodology that made the young boy marvel. Regaining his focus, the young boy tried to come up with a plausible excuse to not leave with the book

“Excuse me, sir. I can’t pay for this. I didn’t bring any money. If you would hold it while I ran home…”

“I didn’t ask for money.”

The old clerk continued to do his work.

“Do you want me to return it when I’m done?”

The old clerk said nothing.

The young boy looked around the store in hopes of finding any sign of explaining what was happening. He looked down at the unopened book in his hand. He began to open the cover when the old clerk noticed what he was doing and ran to him, dropping the books he held in his hands onto the floor.

“No! No! No! You can’t open it here.” The old clerk explained.

“I don’t understand,” the young boy said with frustration. “All I wanted was to come in and see who worked here, maybe look for a few books I haven’t read yet. Now you are giving me something I didn’t ask for. What is going on?”

The old clerk smiled at the young boy’s innocence.

“You have read a lot of books, and I’m sure you are extremely intelligent, but there are a lot of things you don’t know or understand. Not all knowledge can be found in a book. Sometimes we just have to trust that we are making the right decisions. That’s something you are going to have to learn. And whether you admit it or not, you know that book is the reason you came in here, and it is what you were looking for. It’s what kept you standing outside of my shop all summer long in hopes of discovering what lay in wait for you on the other side. You’re different from the rest, you are different from your father, you did what he couldn’t, you came in. It is up to you to find the rest of your way. ”

The old clerk said nothing else. Confused, bewildered, but knowing the old clerk spoke the truth, the young boy began to walk towards the door. Upon reaching for the handle he turned to ask the old clerk a question, but he answered before the words could leave his lips.

“He said, ‘Read.’ Nothing else as he handed me the book and walked out the same door you are.”

The young boy stared into the faded wooden floor for a moment before opening the door and walking out. The bell above the door jingled for a few seconds before finally settling into silence.

The young boy walked into his house and closed the door as if in a daze. His father was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper - the young boy did not notice. He was completely engrossed in the mystery he held in his hand that he had yet to open.

“What did you find?”

The young boy looked up as if emerging from a dream.

“A book.” The boy mumbled more to himself than his father as his gaze shifted back to the cover of the black diary

“What kind of book?”

“Fiction.”

“Who’s the author?”

“A guy named, Lee…Oliver Lee.”

“Never heard of him. What does he write?”

“Mostly short stories.”

The young boy’s father leaned forward in his chair to have a better look at the binding of the book. “That looks like a pretty old book. They made them to last back then, you know. Not like books today.”

The young boy did not hear his father. His mind was on overdrive attempting to process all of the events that had just taken place. Everything seemed so strange; the old clerk, the constant rearranging books, the giving away of a diary the only of its kind, and the knowledge the sales clerk had about him and his life. It all happened so fast the young boy wasn’t sure what to make of it all. There were so many questions, and yet no one there to answer them.

The father noticed the young boy’s lack of attention to their conversation while studying the boys perplexed expression. He was amused and impressed at the boy’s focus on a universe of words rather than other problems, and troubles most kids his age were getting into.

After realizing he had been silent for quite some time the young boy looked up from the book and at his father.

“What are you doing home? I thought you had to work.”

“I came home for lunch,” the father said. The young boy shook his head in understanding and returned to studying the black cover.

The father laughed. “That book must be pretty interesting if it’s absorbing so much of your attention without even reading the first page.” The young boy smiled. “I won’t bother you. Go on and start reading. Just make sure you tell me how it is. We’re still on for this weekend right?”

The young boy nodded in agreement and went up the stairs to his room. His father went back to reading the daily paper before returning to work.

The young boy sat in his room confused and dazed. In his hands was a book he did not ask for, from an author he did know existed. His room was filled with books he loved to read. His shelves were filled with classics, the dark spaces beneath his bed hid away horror and fiction rather than old issues of Playboy other boys his age claimed to have beneath theirs. Corners and window sills contained tales of adventure, wildlife, nature, humanity, friendship, anything he ever wanted to do or be was found on those pages.

Black letters on a white page was food his soul could not get enough of; books were his passion and was why he decided to take the journal from the Antique Books Store at the request of the old clerk, along with an unexplainable attraction. He hoped the contents would lead him to answers the old clerk refused to give.

Leafing through the pages he saw the words were small and had been written in different forms of ink, pencil, and upon closer inspection different handwriting. The pages appeared rough, and woven into the cover as if from another book. He had never read a book that had been written free hand before. Being one of the first to read the words of another person before anyone else made him shiver with excitement. It was like discovering another planet, and being the first to explore its surface. There was no telling what lay inside. After settling his curiosity on what was in store he began to read.

The Story of a Boy: Part 4

2011-07-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

With no other words between the two of them the old clerk began to walk towards the back of the store, the young boy followed close behind through the make shift paths of books to the rows upon rows of shadowed shelves. The old man continued to speak as he walked.

“Curiosity. That is the first time anyone has put it so elegantly. You have the makings of a good writer, my boy. I can sense these things. Being around books all my life allowed some hints of the craft of storytelling to rub off on me. I’m not an expert by any means, but I know talent when I see it. Most people think the key to good writing is to throw a bunch of words on the page and see what mess they can make when, in actuality, it’s about limiting your words to tell the most effective story. But, like I said, I’m not an expert on the matter, but I have picked up a few pointers on good literature over the years.”

The old clerk continued to speak as he searched the shelves. The boy studied the titles as he walked past, recognizing authors from all ages he had already grown to know very well, but would love to understand better. The pages seemed to call to him to be picked up, held, but he resisted the temptation and listened to the hypnotizing words and attitude of the ancient sales clerk.

“Let me guess. You were curious about what/who occupied this lonely space.”

The boy said nothing. The old clerk did not take his eyes off the un-alphabetized shelves.

“I’ve seen you looking in through the window from across the street.” The boy looked up startled. “It’s okay. Many people are, I should say, were curious, as you so eloquently put it. Not too many people pass through my door these days, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“How long have you been here?” the boy asked.

“For quite some time,” the old clerk said softly as a pulled a small, black, book from the shelf. It looked beaten, used, and old. The young boy stared at it as he spoke.

“Every time I looked through the window the books were always arranged differently, but I never see any customers. It’s almost like they don’t even know the store is here. They walk by without giving it the slightest attention. Everyone I mention it to seems to have noticed it at one time, but have forgotten about it. It’s like they wanted to come in, but never did.”

“So why did you?” the old clerk asked. The boy paused again. Feeling as though he were being tested he thought of the best answer he could.

“Because…because there was something about this place I couldn’t walk away from. I didn’t want to be like them and forget. It was almost like I was…”

“Looking for something?” The old clerk said, finishing the young boy’s sentence. He didn’t answer, but he could feel the clerk was right.
“Why won’t people come in? Why do they seem to have forgotten this place exists?”

The old clerk paused to consider this question. As he continued to dwell on the best answer to give, his demeanor took a slight turn from joyous to nostalgic. He stared into the boy’s eyes and spoke slowly about the changing world in which they lived.

“Because the need for books is becoming extinct. People in your generation want information, fast. Always fast. Whoever can supply the quickest knowledge is deemed the winner by an audience that has grown ignorant over the years. They know nothing of the dedication it takes to obtain the wisdom they think they have and so know nothing of the work it takes to live a good life. Not a rich life, or a mistake free life, or pain free life, because there will always be mistakes and there will always be pain, but a life filled with purpose cannot be obtained through the click of a mouse.”

As if waking from a dream the old clerk blinked a few times, paused, and focused on the book in his hands. He laughed to himself.

“Perhaps it’s just my old age talking. When you get older you see the problems of the world and think of a mythical golden age that never existed.”

“That sounds like something my dad would say.”

“Mine too,” the old clerk said too softly for the boy to hear. He turned to look at the boy and their eyes met. One was filled with the passing of time looking into those that still had an entire lifetime to look and learn. The old man smiled as he handed the book to the boy. Breaking eye contact the young boy took the book in his hands while studying the cover. It was black, and worn away, almost as if the pages on the inside had been ripped out and replaced with those of another. Although it looked old it was sturdy.

The Story of a Boy: Part 3

2011-07-16T18:10:00.000-07:00

Before he could ask a tentative hello he saw a stack of books with legs in khaki pants walking forward from the back of the store towards his general direction. The legs walked to an empty section of the floor that wasn’t already overcrowded with books and dropped the stack with a thump followed by a heavy sigh. The boy looked with shock at the sight of another human being, besides himself, in a wonderland of novels. The sales clerk, however, seemed un-phased.

“What can I help you with young man?” the clerk asked while taking in a deep breath and letting a smile spread across his aged face.

The clerk was old, much older than the boy expected to be on the other side of the moving stack of books. He wore a white collared shirt, a pair of tan khakis on top of polished black shoes, round glasses, a wrinkled face, white hair, and black bow tie. No signs of his age could be heard in his voice or seen in his quick movements. In everything, besides his appearance, he exhibited the movements and enthusiasm of a high school student working their first afterschool job. Suddenly shy from lack of human contact, other than family and the school librarian, the young boy said nothing.

“Are you looking for fiction or nonfiction?” the sales clerk asked, staring through the boy as if probing for answers. “Fortunately we only have fiction. Young boys at your age need only fiction. It helps the imagination to grow, and last into old age. Are you looking for science fiction or fantasy? Realism or modern? Tales of foreign lands and jungles, or of Victorian names and customs? Whatever you need to become the man trapped away inside those bones can be found on these shelves and tables.” The old clerk bent down and tapped the young boy’s chest. He stood up as he continued to speak.

“Any life, date, or time is trapped within the confines of each page that has passed from one owner to another; from one child’s hands that have matured into adulthood to finally end up here once it has fulfilled its purpose for that individual. Not to die!” he said sharply to the boy, making him jump. “Oh no, never to die. The written word never dies. To hibernate, maybe, but to be ready at a moment’s notice to pass into another person’s possession to teach the lessons the fictional characters have to give. To take the reader from the deepest heart of darkness, or to the moonlit skies on a flight with Tinker Bell to battle Captain Hook.” He picked up the book of the boy in tights for a moment before putting it back on the table.

“From water to land, Europe to Asia, there and back again in 1001 Arabian nights to continue on in the never ending story of life. That’s what these books do. They take you on your wildest fantasy, whatever they may be, and in the process teach you a small portion of what it means to be human – to tell stories.”

The old man paused. He looked around the store as if he stood in the center of the Coliseum and the books were his adoring audience. He wore a half smile that portrayed youth locked away behind his creased features. After taking in the moment of make-believe applause he looked down at the boy. The smile remained on his face.

“So, tell me young man, what fantasy are you in search of?”

The young boy said nothing. He stood in awe that there was another individual like himself and his father that loved books as much as they did – possibly more. The old clerk continued.

“I know what you want. A young man like yourself, secluded from the rest of the world as you trap yourself inside the realm of literature. You’re seeking adventure in a strange land. You want castaways. How about… The Mysterious Island? I have a first edition that will make the words come to life before your very eyes.”

Surprised, the young boy spoke. “What did you say?”

“The Mysterious Island? By Jules Verne?” the old clerk said with the same smile spread across his face.

“No, about being secluded from the rest of the world.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you? If you weren’t than you wouldn’t be in here, now would you? You would be outside on that sidewalk with all those other people, or playing with other boys your age somewhere causing mischief.” There was a pause as the young boy went over the logic of the sales clerk in his head.

“I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”

“So, what do you say? Is the Mysterious Island the book you’re looking for?”

“I’ve already read it, sir. And I didn’t come in looking for a book,” the young boy said shyly.

“Sure you did. We just have to figure out which one it is.” The old clerk rubbed his hairless chin methodically in contemplation. “Already read The Mysterious Island, huh? Not too many boys your age have. Not too many people have, period, especially in this day-in-age. I thought you looked exceptional. That’s why I suggested it.”

The young boy slowly spoke again, unsure of where the conversation was heading, or the intentions of the eccentric sale clerk.

“I like to read the classics. They are my favorite. My father has most of them. He says they are from when he was a boy.”

“You must take your love of books from him. Surprised I haven’t met him. Maybe one day.” The young boy said nothing. “I take it you have read Robinson Crusoe?”

The boy shook his head yes.

“How about the Hobbit, The Odyssey, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Tarzan, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Pride and Prejudice, The Count of Monte Cristo?”

The young boy shook his head yes to them all.

“Read them all? I’m impressed. Seeing as how you have read most of the books I was going to suggest, and you are a very well read young man, what brings you into my store?”

The young boy thought of the best possible way to answer the question.

“I’m not sure, sir.” He paused for a moment, trying to find the words. “It seemed…it seemed as if I needed to come in. Almost like this store appeared one day and it was all I thought about. I know it sounds crazy, but…I guess, what I’m trying to say is, for lack of a better word, it was curiosity that brought me in.”

“Curiosity?” Letting the word hang in the air for a moment the old clerk smiled, then chuckled lightly before responding. “Follow me.”
(Continues in next blog)

The Story of a Boy: Part 2

2011-07-14T04:00:00.000-07:00

With a heavy a sigh and little hesitation the young boy walked across the street towards the door of the Antique Books Store. With determination and force he placed his hand on the latch handle of the door and pushed as if it were made of lead. It swung open with ease, sending his feet tumbling over themselves as he stepped inside. Using the door handle to regain control, he paused and looked at what had been calling him to enter for so long, but had refused to answer before that moment. Taking a few steps inside, he let go of the handle and stood silently as the door slowly swung shut before slamming into the frame with a crash and light jingle of a bell, reverberating throughout the dust and shadows resembling the catacombs of a vacated tomb.

Once the bell settled into silence nothing moved and the room was still as the boy admired the sight before his eyes rather than from behind dirty glass. It was like stepping into Oz after watching the first half of the movie on a twelve inch black and white television. It was a book lover’s dream.

In front of him stood endless upon endless stalagmites of pages, words, phrases, similes, metaphors, authors, and pseudonyms. To his right sat an outdated cash register of tarnished brass and elaborate copper buried beneath countless book covers. Narrow paths branched from the front door leading in all directions around tables, odd islands of books that had erupted in sections throughout the floor, and into the shadows away from the natural light of day into the foreboding shelves leading to the back of the store. Jutting books of aged leather and bound covers protruded from petrified wood bookcases. To his left and right were balconies he had not seen from the street corner. Stairs of bronze that seemed to be made of gold spiraled upward to the bookshelves of haphazardly arranged material. No words were spoken as the boy listened to still thoughts and adventures that lay in wait in every corner of the store for their tales to be reborn through the imagination of an unsuspecting boy, girl, or adult seeking to revisit their supposedly lost childhood. There was so much material he didn’t know where to start.

The young boy looked around the store for any sign of a salesperson, or customer. There were none. He listened to the silence of the unturned pages, the sound of his own breathing as he watched small particles of dust float past rays of slowly moving sunlight like miniature hot air balloons. Shadows and muffled soles against pavement could be seen and heard from the opposite side of the window the boy had grown accustomed to looking through throughout the summer. Now the Antique Books Store’s letters were backward and alien too him, like standing on the opposite side of a mirror.

If only they knew what they were missing,” the young boy said to himself softly.
He scanned the store in sheer amazement at how many books there were. The thought of all the stories and adventures that lay at his fingertips made him so excited he felt as if he could not control himself. He stepped forward to the first table of oddly stacked books on his path leading to other sections of the store. The hard wood floor creaked and moaned beneath his shoes as if someone were walking on the ceiling directly beneath his heels. His eyes locked on the first cover sitting on the table in front of him. As he studied the faded image of a boy in tights with balled fists resting on his hips he heard something move, shuffle, and fall near the back of the store.

The young boy looked up, startled.
(Continues in the next blog)

The Story of a Boy: Part 1

2011-07-12T14:20:00.001-07:00

Here is the first part of "The Diary of Oliver Lee". It begins with a young boy and a unique book store.

No one walked in or out of the Antique Books Store for months. The young boy of ten years, three months, and thirteen days knew this for certain. Because besides eating, sleeping, and breathing he did little else other than watch the tarnished door of the store for weeks in hopes of seeing any sign of movement inside its walls.
Contrary to the belief of other children his age, he did not sit outside the Antique Books Store’s door for days on end, eating the lint in his pocket and drinking rain water. However, when he did look at the store as he passed it on afternoon bike rides to the city library he was surprised to see the "Come on In" or "Sorry We’re Closed" sign turned to its correct invitation or apology.

Since the last day of school it seemed as if the used book store was the one object that occupied his thoughts. The problem with his mindless obsession of a store he never noticed before that year, was he had yet to go in. There was nothing holding him back from entering, and he was not afraid, but there seemed to be something unexplainable about the store that made it inaccessible to him. Sometimes he stared for hours through the glass of the store without seeing a cover move or a page flutter. However, each new day he looked through the Antique Books Store’s windows, the sea of words shifted in wave movement.

Monday through Wednesday they were be placed around the store on tables, counters, oddly placed on the floor, and in-between shelves. Thursday through Friday they would be stacked around the perimeter, making the ability to see through the dingy glass nearly impossible before settling into perfection on Saturday and returning to madness on Sunday to continue the cycle over again.

Family members were of no help when it came to answering questions about the store. His mother claimed she knew nothing about the shop, or that it even existed. His grandparents time traveled back to when they were children, remembering when they first had seen it as a child, but could not remember seeing it open in many years. The only individual that gave any nuance of interest about what went on behind those mysterious closed doors was his father who had the same love of books as his son. This passion for literature made the young boy wonder why he cleaned up after the students in the school rather than teach them.

“I don’t know who owns the store, son. I’m surprised it’s even still around. I remember seeing it as a boy but never going in. I was older than you, but after living for this long all the years start to blend together, like stories you heard but can’t remember all the details to, or dreams that have taken the place of memories. You’ll understand when you’re older, but I do remember never going in. I always wanted to, but never got around to it. Life has a way of getting hectic. Eventually, I forgot about the whole thing, or that the store even existed for that matter. Until you mentioned it I had completely forgotten. I can’t believe it’s still around. You should go in, just to see what it’s like and let me know what I missed.”

“Can you go in with me? I’m sure they have some cool older books you don’t have,” the young boy asked his father pleadingly. He was hoping the accompaniment of his father would break whatever spell the shop had over him from entering.

“I would love to son, but I have too much work to do. I have to get the school back in shape before you kids come back in a few weeks. The summer’s almost over you know.”

“I know,” the young boy said disappointingly.

“Listen, why don’t you go into the bookstore tomorrow, have a look around, then this weekend we can go back and buy a few after you’ve scoped them out. How does that sound?”

This was not what the boy wanted to hear, but accepting the offer as better than nothing he agreed. Realizing momentarily of the task that still lay in front of him the boy went to his room to get some rest, and build his courage for the day ahead. As he walked up the stairs, excited to spend some time with his father, the young boy couldn’t help wondering why no one seemed to recognize that the out of date shop even existed, except him.

(Story continues in the next blog)

LOST ImAGINATIONS

2011-07-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

Dear world-wide-web,

Welcome to my reality of LOST ImAGINATIONS. Let me begin by saying I hate to blog. The mere mention of the word brings to mind crying teenagers, and every piece of drama in their lives I could care less about. With that said, this blog is not a journal, a diary, or a collage of photos presenting the weird faces and activities of a child that me and my wife find to be the most adorable since (fill in cutest thing you have ever seen here). Instead, this will be a testing ground for (pause for dramatic affect) writing! Who would have guessed it? That's right, words in the form of thoughts that tell an imaginative story where the reader and author work together to create an elaborate world where there was nothing before. It's a lot like Pottermore, but not nearly as cool, or lame, depending on who you are.

LOST ImAGINATIONS will be used as a sound board for a book (a trilogy actually) I have been working on for about four years called "The Chronicles of the Last Liturian". The first book is called "The Diary of Oliver Lee", the second is called "Rustling of Fallen Leaves", and the last is "Love and Fear". At this point you probably have two questions: (1) Why am I doing this, and (B) who is Oliver Lee?

First, why am I doing this? The first book "The Diary of Oliver Lee" has been complete for over a year. For that year it has sat idly on my laptop, back-up jump drive, and printed manuscript untouched and unread by the public. Why not get it published? Because I work too fast. While working on the Liturian Trilogy I have been working on other writing projects and marketing other novels. So, I decided to finish all three books before beginning publication. I am currently in the middle of writing book two. The only problem is while finishing the books I am not receiving any feedback about what works in the novel and what does not work. It was posted on authonomy.com, but I took it down. Mostly because it was a site of authors for authors to speak to other authors about their work when I really want to hear from the people who would eventually be reading it; you. So, that is the answer to number one, but who is Oliver Lee?

My email address for the past four years has been oliverlee2007 and since then people have been asking me who is Oliver Lee (not to mention I have gotten emails addressed Dear Oliver). Oliver Lee is not real. He is a fictional character I created that has the ability to Stream stories from the thoughts of those around him. He tells the stories for those who can not tell their story themselves. "The Diary of Oliver Lee" tells of his life, his ability, the stories he has collected over the years, and his search for the first individuals he Streamed as a child. His journey is written in a diary and read by a young boy in Green Town, Illinois after finding it in an Antique Book Store. What is unique about the story, is that it is a book of separate short stories, telling different lives and events from people across the country, while remaining connected and interpreted by one consistent character, Oliver Lee. I got the idea from Ray Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man", a collection of short stories that come to life one after the other on the boy of a man covered from head to toe in tattoos. It's a unique form of story telling that has not been attempted by another author (as far as I know of).

Here is how the blog will work. I will begin telling the story from the beginning of "The Diary of Oliver Lee". Every few days I will add more of the story to the blog. As the days and months continue so will the trilogy, moving from "The Diary of Oliver Lee" to "Rustling of Fallen Leaves" before reaching the final novel "Love and Fear". The cool thing is you can change the story! If you read a part of the novel and have a suggestion on what could work better, leave a comment about what was good, bad, or was unclear. Feedback from you is what I want so I know what to change and keep in the story. So the more feedback the better.

With that said, and with no further ado (if there are no further questions), welcome to LOST ImAGINATIONS.