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The First Story (part IV)

I think of all the stories I have seen come and go over the years, from the formless to those that have been given form, and I wonder how humans can be so narrow-minded to think that the scope of their lives can echo into eternity. Don’t get wrong, each one does, but it’s a gentle ping against the measured span of something that even I can’t really comprehend. Every time I come ‘awake’ not ‘woke’ mind you like some of those morons that think they have a handle on this world, I’m six years of age, and I remember everything. When I say that, I don’t just mean the previous life. I remember EVERYTHING.

That’s kind of why I feel that I was brought into the middle of something, or maybe into the second act, as humans would understand it. Of course, there have been days when I think I’m in the third act, since so many humans think that we’re living in the end of days. They have no idea what it means to watch a civilization actually die out. I’ve seen it, and that shit isn’t pretty. Imagine an entire race of people either giving up, killing each other, or finding a way to eradicate each other with the worst possible methods to be found. That’s serious hatred, and todays ‘woke’ individuals have no idea what real horror and oppression is like. I do wish I could tell them, but a lot of these nitwits wouldn’t believe me in the first place.

Back in the day, I could have been considered a god for all the things I know. Now, I’d just be another kook for opening my mouth. The story that’s still being told has reached a seriously messed-up chapter, but all I can do is keep observing and taking notes. The final story is coming at some point, but the first story is still being told.

(to be continued)

The First Story (part III)

It’s amazing to realize that when we look up at the night sky that many people think of emptiness, of absolute nothing. To be fair, such a though is kind of nihilistic in nature as well. Maybe that’s not the right word, because plenty of people do look to the heavens in order to seek guidance, understanding, and perhaps even a glimpse of the final reward that they believe is there, waiting for them when the lights go out for the final time.

I don’t want to spoil that thought, even if I’ve been there and know that this universe, this reality, isn’t empty, but it’s not built the way that others think. I’m not an atheist, I do believe that there’s a higher power at work. But as far as guiding us goes, that force is kind of like an absentee parent that comes around every so often to shake things up and remind us that life has meaning. The only trick is that we don’t get any definitive answer from a higher source, unlike many religions would tell you. What we get are mixed messages that have to be deciphered and are often taken to extremes that a lot of people get annoyed with and don’t want to think about.

A story that’s been told can be received in many ways. But one of the things I’ve learned in my long, long existence in this world is this: people will believe what they want. Even if a person follows someone else and subscribes completely to their idea, they still do so because they want to believe in something. Telling people that the story of this world began with nothing doesn’t force them to invest a lot. In fact, it kind of has the opposite effect, since many who think that they have a good handle on how the world works are bound to think that they know better. Hell, ask any organized religion and you’ll get a sermon on how the world was created by this deity, or that deity. People say they want to hear the truth, but in reality, they want to hear a validation of their beliefs.

They don’t want the truth, they want THEIR truth.

(to be continued)

The First Story (part II)

Imagine being formless, but able to recognize that you have no substance. Imagine that you know that something is happening, that the very shifting of the fabric that makes up the strange forces that are pulling at you from every angle, but you can do nothing about it. That is how we all start out you know, but luckily, most of us have no cognitive function that allows us to remember those moments. It’s been said that some folks can remember their birth, and that some have flashes of their early days within the womb. I suppose this was kind of like that, especially since I couldn’t move, but there was the feeling of being able to look around, despite not having any form.

This doesn’t feel like the most primal form of existence if you can believe that, but it does feel like something that cuts to the core of existence, since I could see, but I couldn’t understand that it was everything happening all at once. Years, days, months, none of them existed since there was no concept of them to worry over. Form was meaningless, light was another stimuli, and as matter began to gather together, smashing into each other as it formed humongous clumps and continent-sized masses that continued to slam together and create new forms, new shapes that went sailing through the unknown blackness.

That wasn’t the first story though, if you can believe that. Nope, the story had already begun, no matter that many people would claim that nothing happened before the sudden expansion of the universe. But to that I have one simple question.

Where in the world did all that energy for a new universe come from?

(to be continued)

The First Story

The first stories had nothing to do with humanity. We weren’t there to see them, so in our blind arrogance and lack of humility we don’t tend to think that they’re important. I mean really, how many documentaries do people watch compared to human interest stories? I’ve watched the action, the adventure, and the weeping drama and romance tales that humans come up with, and even if I am one of them, kind of, I have yet to find enough stories that would create a stunning tableau that might equal that which the world around us can provide. You want my opinion? Meh, you’ll get it anyway.

Humans tend to turn inward when the world they live on reminds them of how small they are. With the stories they tell, humans get to be the ultimate, whether it’s a hero, a villain, or even a storyteller, like me. Personally, I enjoy a good story, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen one.

I know, I know. That sounds like arrogance, ego, and pride. I get it. But living this long, and remembering everything that’s come before, is as much of a burden as it is a benefit, or a curse, as I’ve known it before. And to be honest, I don’t live much longer than the average human, but unlike the average human, I come back, again and again. The memories of my past lives don’t usually kick in until the age of 6, but definitely no older than 8. What I am until then is an average child that could swing one way or another. I don’t become a different person, I’m not some vampiric or possessing spirit that eliminates another soul to take over. I’m simply reborn, and I don’t regain my memories until a certain age. Imagine the feeling of carrying around a lot of baggage that you can feel, but can’t see, or hear, or touch.

That’s kind of what it’s like.

I was there when the first story began, and let me tell you, it was as strange as you can imagine.

(to be continued)

7 Moments (part VIII)

I’ve heard that the moment we’re born we start dying. I’ve also heard that death comes quicker once you fall in love, or something like that. This last vision is the shortest, but the most painful as I mentioned. I did mention it, didn’t I? I don’t know, I can feel myself slipping, and that could be a good thing since in this moment I’m reminded of the agony that I felt when first thinking that I Amy was breathing her last.

The only upside is that we’ve both lived long and fruitful lives. We found happiness with each other, we fought through adversity and won, and we created five wonderful children. We’ve enjoyed our grandchildren thoroughly and had the chance to see them grow into fine human beings. A couple of them even made us great-grandparents before our time was up. But despite the fact that we knew it was coming, holding Amy in my arms as she took her last breath was the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life, barring the death of my sister. I couldn’t do anything this time, but unlike the day my sister died, it was not as sad or as tragic, because she’d known, as had I.

We did the one thing that no human can stop, but so many of us fear; we grew old. When you begin to age, you will find that life becomes less about the frantic struggle to survive, to thrive, and to ensure that you see the next day. You’ll find that it’s a matter of moments, and the ones you choose to live in until the last breath leaves your body. I’ve had my seven moments, and I pray that Amy was given her best moments before she breathed her last in my arms. The warm smile she gave me as her heart stopped was pure Amy, kind and accepting of the world we live in, and everything it comes with.

Ah, I guess my moment is here. I can hear my wife calling me. It’s time to go home. My moment’s up.

The End

7 Moments (part VII)

Two visions in one? I can handle it, especially given that I’m as proud now as I was only a moment ago. All five of our children grew strong, healthy, and sound of both mind and body. They knew we loved them, and supported them in everything. We had three daughters and two sons, and among them, one of our daughters turned out to be a lesbian. She was so afraid to tell us that she went without saying anything for nearly a year, until her mother found out. When she did, Amy and I sat down with her and explained that she could be a damned werewolf and we’d still love her. After a brief bit of awkwardness (I didn’t know anything about the LGBTQ community at that point) we accepted her completely and in time, she met and married a very lovely woman and they adopted their own kids. I always joked that they cheated by missing out on childbirth, but they were happy, and I was happy for them.

My oldest daughter became a tenured law professor at UW in Seattle, while our other young lady went on to become a mechanic after attending trade school at Clark Community College in Vancouver, Washington. Our eldest son became a world traveler and funded his lifestyle by becoming one of the most popular influencers on the internet, and one of the most useful since he was essentially paid to take a vacation. Damn, if only they’d had that when I was younger, haha. But a few years after he started, our boy met and married a fellow influencer, and together they had two children that they, somehow, educated throughout their many trips together.

Our youngest son kept his feet in one place more or less and went to work for Clark County as a roadworker while putting himself through school. As of now, he’s one of the more solid crew chiefs the county has, and along with his wife, a kind and gentle woman, they make the type of living that keeps them, and their four children, exceedingly comfortable and able to enjoy life. Our other daughter surprised the hell out of me and became a renowned historian, and much to my chagrin, she ended up looking over my family tree, as well as Amy’s, to see where we’d come from. I’m proud to say that she doesn’t judge us by our beginnings, but she told me that she had to know.

I’m proud of my kids, and I always have been. Ah, I can feel this one fading, and I’m not surprised, the good times are always over too quickly. The one that’s coming now is a doozy, but believe it or not, it isn’t the worst. That doesn’t mean it isn’t painful though.

(to be concluded)

7 Moments (part VI)

My biological family was like a rash that wouldn’t go away no matter what was done. My father, my uncles, they were pieces of shit and people knew it. Even my extended family knew it, but they were still willing to come after me, even following the verdict. The next two people to come after me were my aunts, of all people. Women that had been abused, mind you, were willing to take Amy and I to court to. get this, take our kids away from us. Since Amy had no family to fall back on, and I didn’t give two shits about my own any longer, we were on our own save for our friends, who were willing to go to hell and back for us, God bless them.

And we did go to hell, even if that hell was another courtroom. This vision cycles between various scenes though, one of the worst being at our home, where my Aunt Katherine, a beaten woman that had somehow been empowered by the death of her husband, decided to take the law into her own hands one day. I’d been at work that day when Amy had called my job, speaking frantically that my three aunts had been there, and that they were trying to get into the house. I’d told her to call the cops and barricade herself and the kids in our bedroom, but it’d been just a bit too late.

Aunt Katherine had found a way in through the back door, jimmying the lock somehow as she’d come surging in, screaming about how our kids were her right, that they were blood, and they were better off with her and their other great aunts. She’d almost managed to snag one of our kids when things turned sour very quickly. From what I was told, Katherine grabbed one of the twins and was about ready to fun out of the door with our eldest girl (we’d had three other kids at this point, all of them adorable and the loves of our life) when Amy had gone berserk.

Todd and Jane Gimley, our next door neighbors, had heard the commotion and come running, only to find Amy surrounded by my three aunts. For women in their 50s they’d been ready to throw down apparently. But once Katherine had been confronted by Amy, the other two had lost all their fire, as my wife went feral according to the Gimley’s, who had no reason to lie to me. But I saw the truth of it anyway, since when I arrived to find my other two aunts screaming and crying to the cops, and Amy in the back of a police car, I’d seen what was left of Katherine, and to be completely honest, I was proud of my wife at that moment. When I’d heard the whole story, I was even prouder, and immediately sorry that I wasn’t there. I left work that day as quickly as I could, risking my job in the process, which I don’t regret. But when I arrived home I felt like such a heel, despite the fact that Amy stood up and did what she needed to do.

It took a while for Amy to recover from paralyzing Katherine, as she’d landed on the older woman hard enough, and at such an odd angle, that her spine had fractured, and she’d been paralyzed from the waist down. Amy hadn’t stopped there however, as she’d rained down an ungodly number of blows upon Katherine, leaving her nearly blind in one eye and with a nose that would never set correctly.

Was I still proud of her? You’re damned right I was, but I was still sorry that I hadn’t been there. The toll this took on Amy was immense, and it took years for her to come to terms with it. I wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

Time for another positive moment, yeah? God, I hope so.

(to be continued)

7 Moments (part V)

We don’t value the good moments in life enough, I think.

Maybe it’s the idea that horrific moments are so disruptive that our minds keep going back to them, wondering how in the hell we were blindsided so easily. But as I watch my wife, Amy, holding our newborn twins, one girl and one boy, I can’t help but feel my already deceased heart warm once again as I look upon the two swaddled bundles in her arms. Amy and I met not long after the trial, where what was left of my biological family disowned me for good, thank God. I was found not guilty, as the slaying of my uncles was deemed to be self-defense and the defense of others, even though my sister and foster family were beyond saving. Maybe the jury believed that my uncles would have come for me next. If that’s the case, then they were right, since the three men would have ended my life shortly after.

But I met Amy while I was in group therapy, court-ordered, and we connected immediately. She’d come from an abusive home as well, and together we created our own little nucleus, our own family, that when bolstered by friends and those who cared about us became our whole world. She helped me just as much as I helped her, and in exchange we gave each other the greatest gift anyone could bestow upon anyone. We gave each other a reason to hope, and to move forward. I can still see the eyes of my two oldest kids when they first opened, my son with his electric blue eyes, and my daughter with the same forest-green eyes that I remember from my childhood. My sister’s eyes. She would carry my sister’s name as well, and both children received as much love as Amy and I could give them.

This moment is fleeting, dammit all anyway, and I see it fading even as the twins blink several times, no doubt taking stock of a very strange and alien world that they have a lot to learn about. It’s strange, but now that I think about it, the moment we open our eyes, we might get a glimpse of how things will look when we close them for the final time. Thankfully, life steps in and draws our attention away from that final moment long enough for it to fade for a while. The vision that replaces this pleasant scene isn’t something I would have wished for, but I can at least understand why it would come next.

Pain was an old friend early on in life, and it made its presence felt more than once over the years, as I recall the moment that washes away the pleasing tableau.

Damn, I really didn’t want to remember this moment. Maybe that’s why it came up in the first place.

(to be continued)

7 Moments (part IV)

My father, my biological father anyway, wasn’t an only child. The image that comes up is one that kindles the fire that burned so fiercely long ago. My sister and I had survived being left, we’d survived a man that used her as a…

Excuse me.

We’d survived, that’s all anyone needs to know. But my father’s brothers had never accepted that we were taken from their family. That might have been touching had they been any better than the old man. But our uncles had taken turns with my sister, thanks to my piece of shit father. That’s not something anyone wants to hear, is it? Well, tough shit, I had to live through it, my sister had to endure it, and the only reason I never did was that none of them wanted to bugger a boy, no matter how horny they were. But they came after my sister again, and this time I wasn’t able to do anything. Well, I wasn’t able to do anything to save her, at least.

I blamed myself for this for years to come. My sister was a young woman when our uncles found us, and Thom and Marie weren’t enough to fend them off. I see the three big men standing in front of me, one of them thrusting his hips as I can hear my sister crying in response. The difference between this time, and the first time, is that I don’t have a baseball bat. My point of view is shaking, and I remember that moment, and I know why. I was ready and willing to kill again, but I didn’t want to. My father was an accident, believe it or not. My uncles were intended kills, since they were just like their brother, my old man.


The shotgun in my young hands bucks, and two of my uncles explode in a red mist. The other uncle is quicker than I anticipate, and he threatens to cut my sister’s throat with a knife. It turns out that this is the same knife that he cut Thom and Marie’s throats with as well, as the blood on his hands at that time was revealed to be theirs in court, during my trial. He stabbed my sister twice in the throat before I was able to fire again. You can imagine what happened, since I hit my sister as well. But she was already dying, I’ve tried to tell myself.

She was already dying, I still think as the vision changes. Good God, is there any vision that could lift me up after this?

It turns out, there is.

(to be continued)

7 Moments (part III)

I find myself wondering if these visions are going to alternate, a bad one for a good one, or a horror for a blessing, that kind of thing. I killed my father when I was young, I remember that, and I remember never regretting it. My sister and I were transferred to a foster care home, and then adopted by the people I can see now, Thom and Marie Dervish. I was ten and my sister was eight when we were brought to the Dervish home, where we spent many great years.

One of the best, and in my mind one of the most defining moments of our lives, was when the adoption process was concluded, and my sister and I became a part of the Dervish clan for the rest of our lives. I’ve heard so many horror stories about the foster care system in this country while growing up, but my sister and I were lucky. The Dervish’s weren’t perverts, they weren’t freaks, and they were ready and willing to care for two kids, one of them a murderer, after they’d heard the particulars of our case. In fact, the entire family, and it was a big one, had been welcoming from the start. We’d gained more cousins than we knew what to do with, but no brothers or sisters.

I can remember this moment vividly, when our case worker had come over to the house to check on us, and to deliver a surprise that only I and my sister had been ignorant of. Our adoptive parents, oh screw that, our parents had invited most of the family over for a barbecue, and had dropped the news on us that day, that we would be staying for good, that we were now a part of the Dervish clan. I can recall several moments in my life when I’ve been this happy, but this is one of the first that stands out in this manner. But like all happy days, it’s fleeting, and I can see darkness flitting around the edges as I try to maintain the vision of my sister and I being crushed in a group hug that included aunts, uncles (no creeps thankfully), cousins, grandparents, and family friends. I felt safe that day, because my sister felt safe, and better than that, she was happy.

But like I just mentioned, good times are often over too quickly, and I can see this one fading as the last one did, no matter how hard I try to hold on. What replaces it is something I had hoped to forget, especially since it was another point in my life when I truly became my biological father’s son.

I don’t want to look, but I can’t close my eyes, and I can’t turn away.


(to be continued)