September 21, 1993. Billingsgate, Ohio. 1
He was sure he was insane.
The voices came in a chorus of competing shouts whenever a decision had to be made. It was like there was a actors troupe camped on his frontal lobe; different characters whom were all over sensitive and egotistic shouting for attention. Simple decisions as a boy about which toy to play with had led to a diagnosis of autism because the cacophony of personalities within him. As a man he was a trembling nervous wreck, swallowing a daily buffet of anti-depressants.
The pills gave him enough clarity to sense the desperation he felt to have peace. He had resolved to try one more time for professional help, and if that didn’t work he was going to blow his brains out and shut them up forever.
Them. He called them the Family.
They had names and desires and sometimes some spoke louder than others.
“Either way...I’m fucked up.” he said. He glanced apologetically at the receptionist as he filled out his paperwork, sorry, his smile said; I’m crazy.
The pen dropped to the hard grey carpet, his trembling fingers fumbling with the clipboard.
“Thank you, Mister Chavez. The doctor will see you now.”
* * *
The walls were adorned with a dozen certificates showing various degrees and course completions. There was the doctors chair and one long couch which he occupied, crushed into the left corner. The mostly
bald dome of the doctors head reflected the dull flourescent lighting. The rows of books glared dustily like spectators at a beating from the wall to wall bookshelf behind him.
“So...multiple personality disorder, schizophrenia, depression. It looks like you’ve got quite a battle on your hands. I’m Vincent Delargo,
but please call me Vince or Doc.” He extended his large hand across the
space between them and after first cringing like a beaten dog he grasped it in one sweaty hand.
“I’m...Gerald. I’m needing some help.”
Vince sat back in his wheeled chair and grinned broadly. He said; “ You’d be surprised how few people can say that. It’s very refreshing. You’ve come to the right place.” He smiled reassuringly at his new client. He tapped the thick folder on his lap. Gerald waited with a subtle look of desperation in his eyes, like a half starved dog who must still wait to be fed though the masters plate is piled high with meat.
“So...what are the main issues today?”
Gerald raised one eyebrow in question. You have read my file, haven’t you? Where to begin; an autistic idiot savant with serious personality disorders. He felt cursed with a keen sense of self. Overly sensitive in the extreme, a genius with numbers and science, but a social disaster incapable of holding a job.
“Well, I’d like to take one more opportunity to...cure me. The drugs aren’t working so good now.”
Vincent placed the thick folder on the floor next to his chair and began writing notes on a yellow legal pad. After a long pause he looked hard at Gerald.
“What’s the main issue?” To him, Gerald looked like a man on a perpetual ledge, ready to jump headlong into madness. Yet there was a quality in this patients eyes that many of his others did not have. This one was appraising him, and he felt somehow exposed.
“The voices.”
“You hear voices in your head? What do they say?”
Gerald looked at him warily.
“They argue.” he said.
“Do they argue with you?”
“No, each other” He looked to his feet as if ashamed. “And they try and tell me what to do.”
Vincent was scratching notes onto his pad. Unseen behind them on a
shelf a tape recorder was slowly turning its wheels documenting everything they said.
“Do they tell you to hurt people?”
“Not so much.”
“What kind of stuff do they tell you?”
The yellow note pad tilted slightly and Gerald caught a glimpse of the page.
“They like to count. Like...you have written seventy three words on that page of paper...about me.”
Vincent gave no indication he was counting but he quickly confirmed the number of words on the page.
“Interesting. What else do they say.”
“They say to stop taking the medication.”
“Huh. Why don’t you.”
“Because they talk too loud and I can’t sleep.”
“Is there any one voice that stands out louder than the others? Or, should I ask first, do they have names?”
Gerald had began to relax now. He felt good talking about his problem. He glanced at the doctors head and counted the hairs without realizing he’d done so.
“They are all named Gerald. Or, I mean that they are all me.”
Vincent noted on his pad that this was definitely not a typical split personality disorder trait. He was certainly a patient with an interesting problem.
“ It’s as if every lifetime has a different voice, and sometimes they all shout at each other. It’s like I can’t pick what color of shirt to wear because some of Them don’t like it. They start yelling to pick another shirt, but the others shout them down, and soon I’m reduced to a wreck on the floor, unable to leave the house because we can’t decide what to wear.”
On the legal pad he jotted; Lifetimes.
He tried as much small talk as he could with the new patient in the remaining time. There was a few moments of silence as he finished his notes for this session. He smiled warmly at his patient. He was certainly the most challenging of the current roster, but Vince was afraid that he would not come again as so many did. It was easy for the mentally challenged to admit there was a need for help, it was not easy when helping involved divulging secrets or changing behavior.
“I want to see you again next week. I’m confident I can help you and in fact I have a homework assignment; I want you to find someway to put these voices to work for you. You have this much life experience, as you put it. Why not put it to work? If there are a thousand voices in your head perhaps there is a good way to get them to team up and do something useful.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Write a novel, create world peace, cure cancer, or
build something” They talked for awhile and the session was over. * * *
August 22, 2008. Mission Viejo, California.
There was a flurry of activity in tunnel two. They were one thousand feet into a seven mile tunnel connecting Orange County with the Temecula Valley. Seventy five men worked at a time in shifts of six hours inching the hundred million dollar tunnel digging machine forward through solid rock. The back of the machine was only two hundred feet inside the mouth of the tunnel as it was eight hundred feet long. As the machine ate through the earth steel plates and concrete were laid to create the walls of the tunnel. A massive conveyor belt ran through the center of the tunnel digging machine, called by the manufacture the T.D.M 5500. Crushed rock and dirt were swept along the belt to be processed at the mouth of the tunnel for gems and mineral content.
Today there had been more than the usual contents running along the belt and the entire operation was shut down so that they could be inspected. Environmental concerns dictated that archeological finds had to be reported immediately.
Henry Bren was looking at the mouth of the tunnel from two thousand feet from the window of the Bell jet helicopter. He was sure that the digging had stopped because of yet another find of a wholly mammoth tusk or some such nonsense.
As the whumping of the chopper blades stirred up a cloud of dust the helicopter sat down on the white X bracketed with strobe lights. The twin mouths of the tunnel sat embedded in the base of the mountain with curving waves of concrete arching from either side, ending erosion for hundreds of years on this West slope of Mount Santiago. If this was a stoppage because of another batch of bones he was going to sack Don Mcman on the spot. He’d afford him the dignity of a private meeting, but that was it. Henry was a hunter, and the prey was profit for his corporation. He was more than that, he was a blind hunter, smelling only the money, and seeing none of the consequences.
More than the money from the tax funded super project to connect the desert valley with the coastal plains the Mission Viejo Company would likely reap hundreds of millions of dollars from the gold and silver deposits that would be extricated as a byproduct of the TDM. These mountains were at the Southern edge of the San Gabriels, which at some four billions years old were some of the oldest exposed mountain ranges known. Geological uplift had banded the entire center of California with unbelievably rich core contents, the most important of which remains gold.
I want them to keep digging! By the time the door opened he was as red faced as Ted Kennedy after a fund raiser and the crewmen with the company logo; MVC averting their eyes much as the vicars to Caesar had done two millennium before. Although, if he had to make a historical comparison to himself it would have been to Alexander the Great and his vanquished enemy was the competing Orange County fortune five hundred companies in the ranking of the Dow industrial averages.
The man who drove him into the tunnel via a electric truck had a distinctly ashen look to him as if he had spent many years digging tunnels. But this wasn’t the case. Normally, this man as assistant director of operations would not be driving a cart or working day to day digging the tunnel.
Along the flanks of the road leading to the mouth thin rows of mobile trailers that housed the eight hundred full time employees sat like a shanty town on wheels. Although an additional five hundred union workers processed the tunnel tailing for ore and moved the millions of tons of earth remnants away where they were sold to engineering firms needing compact able soil for fill dirt on construction projects, they lived in neighboring cities. The revenues alone for dirt, sand and gravel sold equaled the cost for the roads, housing trailers and full time private security for the entire complex. That was one of the beauties of government funded public works contracts was that the project was funded not only for the tunnel digging operation, but MVC was contracted for tens of millions of dollars in disposal for the earth that would be removed in the process.
“Ah, Mr. Bren?” The driver looked nervously at the boss.
“Yes.”
With his statement they were reduced to the same playing field. Yesterday, he would not have thought to speak to this man unless spoken to. Let alone to use profanity. The whole world and most of human history had just changed forever, but his boss didn’t know it yet. Just yesterday I was a devote Christian, he thought as they neared the cluster of men grouped around the front of the TDM. In light of their discovery, all concepts relating to human history would have to be reviewed.
“Boss, you aint gonna fuckin’ believe what we found.”
Mr. Brens almost non-existent upper lip disappeared in a disapproving frown as he looked askance at the driver. Like a puzzled hound dog his head cocked in a tilt as they entered the mouth of the tunnel. He wondered if he hadn’t misheard him. The only people who used profanity in his presence were in order; his wife, his father and his stock broker.
* * *
The TDM was segmented at its head. Like a giant mechanical centipede the machine inched along through the soil. As the tungsten steel teeth devoured the stone and soil the force of the drilling rotation pulled the mouth along. Workers using hydraulic jacks forced the terminal housing into place. The terminal housing was followed by a void in the machine where rebar was laced and precast concrete arches laid to form the raw surface of the tunnel. With every ten feet of progress in digging a new section of conveyer belt was laid to wisk the tailings to the processing points.
It was first on the conveyer belt where things had gotten a little strange. Along with the crushed rock and dirt bits and pieces old rusted metal had began to appear.
The electric cart stopped twenty feet short of the cluster of MVC executives gathered near the conveyer belt. They didn’t talk. Their faces were painted with the expressions of confusion and concern, like the face of parents of a injured child. The air smelled of top soil and oil. Henry Bren exited the electric car and began to stride to the cluster of men. His usual swagger was gone. The whole scene was making him nervous.
They all looked up as he approached. There was not the usual at attention stance they would all normally have. Gone were the suit jackets and hard hats. The majority of the twelve men had turned their attention back to the dirt wall of the tunnel as soon as they had noticed who it was, which definitely wasn’t normal.
Henry felt for the first time in twenty years of corporate take overs like just another one of the guys.
“ So, what’s going on?”
Don McMann turned to him.
“Well sir...we stopped the dig, because...because...” then he simply gestured to the wall of the tunnel. They moved aside so he could see. The first thing he could think was; I fucking knew it! Another fosil!
But this was obviously no wholly mammoth. The pause lasted a full two minutes. It took at least that long to wrap his head around what he was seeing, but still he had to ask; “What the fuck is that?”
Don actually touched his shoulder and Henry was glad, because he was now the only thing keeping his balance. Henry felt a very strong desire to sit down; right here, on the dirty floor.
“Sir...It’s a man.”
One trembling hand wiped his thin upper lip. Henry looked decidedly ashen, as if he was about to vomit. The executives subconsciously took a small step backwards around him.
“Its not a man!” he said shrilly, “It’s a fossil!”
Twenty seven year old James Tamps had not been a distant enough family member to greatly fear his job status at the Mission Viejo Company because of pointing out the obvious to his boss Henry Bren. He thought Henry was a colossal idiot. He loved seeing him prove it and couldn’t resist the knife blade of sarcasm his reply carried. He said it slowly as if speaking to a five year old at a museum.
“ Yes Henry. It’s a fossil alright. A fossil of a man in a space suit and helmet in three billion year old rock.” There was a brief snickering but aside from this brief exchange they all continued to stare at the find.
No one was surprised by his response.
“Has anyone told the press?”
“Not as far as we know sir.” It had been three days since work had stopped because of the find. Most of the workers would have only seen the conveyer belt contents.
“Who was on duty?” Henry snapped.
“Barnes and Tolpin, sir.” one of the executives replied.
“I want a meeting with them tomorrow morning!”
“Yes Sir.”
His brain was spinning out of control. Paramount was to keep the project moving. His eyes had become hard and he looked at each man in turn before he spoke.
“Gentlemen. I don’t know what this is or what it means, but if one word leaks out of this tunnel about this I will personally see to it that the balls of the babbermouth hang from MVC’s flag pole by morning.
“We will notify the authorities when I say!”
He glowered and began to pace.
“We...will...keep...digging!!!”
July 17,2004. Spencer Research Center, Antartica
The immaculate frozen desolation swept away into an icy fog in all directions away from the observation post. It was way too easy to fall to sleep at the post out here. That was why the music was loud. The howling wind was replaced only occasionally by a numbing silence. Here, three hundred miles from the arctic coast there were no birds, no howling wolves or other disturbances to muck up a perfect storm of silence.
Only the wind. When the wind blew, nothing happened.
Like tonight. The wind shouted with hurricane force voice outside the kevlar shell of the observation outpost. No one had specified what exactly there was to be observed. But surely there was nothing to hear but the wind, and that was why Ted Nugent was blasting from the boom box.
The music was also loud because there were strange sounds that carried on the shifting snow drifts when the wind was picking up. It reminded Air Force Specialist Gregory Allen of the moaning sounding the singing sand dunes made in Death Valley. In the loneliness of the station it was too easy to hear voices on that wind, and for the mind to wander, and that was why they kept the music loud.
“Holy shit did you see that?”
Major Stephan Briggs was at the window as he usually was. Gregory preferred the computer monitors displaying the security camera feeds and the high speed internet connection that accompanied the computer banks.
Briggs pulled the plug on the boom box and the room seemed to grow colder as the sound of the moaning wind filled the chemical smelling air of the station.
“What was it?” he didn’t get up. Briggs had been getting a little cabin feverish lately. He had been slowly edging the volume up louder and louder
lately when the wind was blowing and pacing when not on watch.
Briggs grabbed the binoculars.
“There is something in the clouds.”
There was a raw edge to his voice, a husky sound like a man on the verge of tears. Gregory subconsciously noted that Briggs was carrying his sidearm. That too, was unusual.
“ What a helo?”
“ I don’t think so.”
Briggs was on the last leg of a distinguished military career. This was considered a prestige posting; they were both career special forces operators, and this was a top secret air force development center, far more secret than Area 51 had ever been. With the extended duty of the post and sensitive nature of the facility it was a high paying gig. A cold, lonely maddening job, it seemed to Gregory that the strain was taking its toll. He picked up the headset and keyed the mic.
“ Let’s contact Ops Center.”
Briggs replied distantly; “Okay, lets do that.”
Gregory stood and walked towards the window where Briggs stood as he began the transmission.
“Ops Center, Ops Center, this is outpost four, do you read me?”
Static. Wind.
“Ops Center, Ops Center, this is outpost four, do you read me? Over.”
“OP4, this is Ops, go ahead.”
Briggs was watching him intently now, and he was looking out the window.
“Ops, this is OP4. Is there any air assets off station, over.”
There was a few minutes of radio silence. The room was beginning to hum as the wind speed increased. Outside thin clouds raced by three hundred feet over the outpost, bands of gauze in a milky night. The window was heated so that visibility would not be hampered by frost or snow.
Gregory stared at the boiling sky. Every few seconds a star would appear and then disappear between the clouds.
“OP4 this is Ops, all birds are on deck, over.”
“Roger that Ops, out.”
He looked at Briggs whom was looking out the window again.
“If there is something there, old buddy, it’s not one of our helicopters.”
Briggs was quiet for a full minute.
“Ya...what could fly in this weather?”
Gregory swapped the Ted Nugent for some Patsy Kliene and turned the volume up half way.
“Right. Why don’t you get some sleep?
He stood there for a long time. Finally he seemed to relax and sat down at the control panel. Gregory stared out into the howling wind for a few minutes until the patsy disk began to skip. He was too preoccupied to feel the hairs on his neck begin to tingle.
A low hum had began to get louder in his ears. With the song changed he turned to sit back at his desk, and caught a glimpse of light through the clouds.
Suddenly the air was sucked from his lungs as the tempature plunged
to minus 40 degrees inside the post. He fell to his knees and began to crawl towards the now open door. Briggs was gone; he’d thrown open the door and ran screaming into the wind. Spots began to dance in his vision and he knew there was a good chance he was not going to make it to the door. If the door was opened for more than a few minutes all they would find was a guardcicle frozen to the floor.
Gasping he dragged himself forward and gripped the edge of the door. He looked for one second for Briggs but the stinging wind all but blinded him.
“Briggs” he shouted even as the door closed again. Briggs was probably dead already, without a parka in this cold. The skin of his hands had been flash frozen when he touched the outside edge of the door trying to close it and now began to protest the injury. He stood slowly and made it to the window; there was no sign of Briggs. This would have to be reported immediately. But he stood there and stared at the clouds. Patsy was asking who’s sorry now?
And something moved inside the clouds.
* * *
Billingsgate, Ohio. September 22, 1997
By now Vincent felt at home with Gerald. The sessions had gone strangely at first; he was the first client that had made him feel too attached. He had gotten so far wrapped up in the strange story of this wreck of a man whom claimed to be in touch with all his past lives that he had sought guidance from his college mentor. It was not considered professional or mentally healthy for a therapist to become overwrought at the ups and downs of the client. He had initially began to become at ease as his client had shown signs of improvement. But as he got to know him he found himself looking forward to this one client like no other. For one thing; the insights Gerald had into the nature of his own problems were astounding. If you could call them insights. To any outsiders trained in the objective diagnosis of mental illness this guy was a nut case. To Vincent the man was very convincing. He actually believed that he was what he said he was, or more properly, we was what he was victimized by; himselfs.
Vincent glanced at the clock, he would be walking in the door any second. He self consciously arranged the clutter on his desk and straightened his tie. That was one of the unnerving effects this guy had on him; he felt somehow like royalty. There was a certain charisma around him and the therapist wondered how many sessions had turned into situations where Gerald seemed to be counseling him.
More than once he had been poised to tell Gerald that it was time to move on, that he had done all for him that he could. Ninety dollars an hour was a nice fee and more than a few of his peers had been known to drag on the therapy sessions as long as the client could pay. But every time he felt that Gerald would seem to reassure him [ unasked, of course ] that the sessions were indeed valuable to him. Moreover, Gerald needed the sessions as he had used to need his anti-psychotic medicine. Vincent knew this because Gerald had told him.
The intercom on his desk buzzed. The receptionists voice intoned through the speaker that his appointment was coming in. He didn’t register the bead of sweat that formed on his brow. It was show time and this was to him the big show. They no longer met in the patient room but here instead in his office. Gerald had wanted that. Being equals in his mind had helped him open up and that was yet another way that this particular client had changed his routine. Now all patients went through a process; first the lounge where they both sat on chairs, to the chair couch routine so iconic to all psycho therapy sessions. Then as the sessions drew towards conclusion they would migrate here, to his office.
The door opened and Gerald walked in. He looked pensive. They shook hands and sat down. He was not his usual self and looked somewhat depressed. He waited for Gerald to start; he usually did. But not this time. “So...how are we doing this week?”
Gerald was a slender man with hair first showing its first hints of grey. Nearing the end of his third decade he looked more like fifty. Especially his eyes. His clothes always seemed to be the more extreme blend of style and color; designer jeans combined with dress loafers topped by a stripped button up shirt and bow tie. If he was trying to make a fashion statement it was that covering all the bases couldn’t be bad. His arms were lean and muscled, chiseled by a lifetime of hard work. That was his primary tool for staying sane, he often said; staying so busy that he didn’t have time to realize that he was crazy.
“This week I tried to stay busy.” Gerald knew what that meant; it was code speak for saying that this previous week had been one where he wished he was still guzzling pills.
“Oh? Was it a busy week here?” he tapped at his temple.
Gerald smiled and nodded. “ You know me well, Vince.”
He briefly consulted his notes and found no real help there on where to take the conversation. Whenever that happened he usually reverted to backup plan A.
“So, have you made any progress on the homework assignment ?”
“Not so much,” Gerald said. “ I’ve been trying to think of a good project to start but haven’t found anything new yet.”
Vincent chewed the tip of his pen for a moment. “ Is there argument from the Others?”
“Not really.” Gerald’s eyes got that faraway look to them. He was obviously debating something with himself. He looked at Vincent with a tweaked eyebrow. That meant he didn’t want to talk about “the Others”, which was fine by him. He found those sessions involving the subject of Geralds past lives rather disturbing. It made him recoil on some visceral level. He was perfectly content being a Catholic with mainstream Catholic beliefs. Taken on the face of things Geralds story was absurd; if the guy wasn’t so damned smart and full of insight to things in general he would have dismissed him at the get go. As it was you had to at least consider it. This was, after all, the guy that had unseated Ken Jennings as Jeopardy master of all time. They never talked about his stint on the game shows. It was if Gerald found them somehow embarrassing.
“ Well,” Vincent began,” remember to use what tools you have to get through it all. “
”Right,” Gerald replied.
“So how are the classes going? What are you studying again?”
“Right now I’m taking a class on metallurgy. I’ve been tinkering at the foundry with different alloys.”
Vincent make quick notes. Gerald had purchased a small brass foundry shortly after he began coming in. The old guy running the place had practically given it away.
“Oh? Whats that all about?”
“Combining different metals to create new metals. Trying to alloy them with non metallic substances. I’ve managed to mix aluminum with ceramics to form what I think is a new item but...I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Vincent asked.
“That’s not the point.” Gerald smiled grimly. “ I never sat out to “do” anything. I’m just trying to keep myselfs busy.”
Vincent noted that on his pad; “Myselfs”
Late that night as Gerald slept the argument continued. He tossed in his dirty sheets until 3 A.M. and finally pulled on his shoes. The apartment he occupied was above the foundry. As a result all of his belongings were coated in a fine layer of dust. As he walked in the darkness through the dingy apartment and down the stairs to the foundry floor the Others kept up the debate;
Mix more ceramic.
No stupid, it won’t be metal anymore.
When I was a young man we...
That won’t work because...
Try this instead...
He slammed a fist through the drywall and covered his eyes with one hand.
“Please stop.”
And for a change they did. Walking down through the hallway and out the door he crossed his office. Towering stacks of unopened mail crowded every available space. A light blinked meekly from the phone suggesting that he check the messages but they went unheeded for days at a time. Luckily for him there had been enough business grandfathered in with the place that advertising had not been a problem. Juan and Alfredo stamped out molds in the mornings and ground the castings down every afternoon; all he needed to do was order the ingots and box the product for UPS to pickup.
The large room where the metal was melted and poured had a oily smell. The racks of patterns looked down as he stood in the center of the room. Heat still radiated from the furnace that had burned ten hours before and the moon cast twisty shadows on the floor and walls. Doves cooed and fluttered in their nests upon the steel girders that framed the roof, disturbed by his early morning trespass.
Four long minutes past and he stood there in the near darkness basking in the temporary quiet of his mind and then he saw the half eaten box of doughnuts on the dim surface of a work bench.
It was like that moment in Close Encounters when the guy makes the Devils Tower out of a lump of mashed potatoes. He saw the shape of the doughnut and it stopped him cold.
“Oh shit.” he whispered. He knew the feeling; it was inspiration. And inspiration could be a real bitch. It had a habit of taking hold of you and there was no stopping it.
He quickly crossed the room and switched the lights on. He hadn’t noticed in the darkness but ants were roiling over the pastries and having a ball. He stood there looking at the doughnuts with his head slowly cocking to one side like a curious dog.
Absently he picked up a refrigerator magnet sitting on the desk and began using the polarity to push its twin around the wood table. The ants continued the feast and he stood there thinking.
Doughnuts and a magnet, he thought, what’s the connection.
Magnets were a strange thing. He had always been fascinated by them. Two opposing poles attracted each other; the opposite poles repelled each other. He pushed them around and then stuck them together.
He could feel the Others. When the voices came it always started with a feeling that he was being watched. He tried the exercise Vincent had taught him and focused his breathing into deep long pulls and forceful exhales. It worked for a few seconds, then they came.
What do you think you’ll do with that?
Dummy, he knows what to do.
Most disturbing to Gerald was when the voices spoke with accents in his head, or sometimes foreign tongues. Some were louder than others and the loudest of all was a British voice; he was loud and boisterous and very opinionated.
Here then, this male voice said in a thick cockney accent, if you could get those poles to move one another, what could you do with it?
What the hell, Gerald thought, am I supposed to answer?
Why don’t you makes yeself busy, limey, and make use of that doughnut.
Well, Gerald shrugged, using the same body language as if he wasn’t alone in the middle of the night in a dark foundry, how?
Don’t know dummy.
Can you hear me?
But now they began to shout in that competing chorus. It made his head hurt and he leaned one hand on the table. Not realizing he was doing it he brushed the ants from the largest doughnut and held it up. He wanted to call Vincent.
The voices rose to such a clamor that he began to see white spots in his eyes and crumbled dizzy to the floor. The Others were shouting now but he seemed to hear that cockney voice above the rest and as he slipped into unconsciousness it was speaking patiently as if to a child in a soft repeating voice that reminded him of the Tin Man.
Engine. Engine .Engine
He lay with his cheek pressed to the floor dimly aware that there was a pain in his forehead from hitting the floor like a imploded building. He could see the belt sander on its stand across the room but everything was tilted sideways and washed in a white fog. The view seemed to lock in place like a snapshot, multiply itself and slip down and to the left in cascading frames, he was now semi-conscious. He inhaled and puffed his air out creating a mini dust storm around his face.
His eyes closed and he dreamt of the cosmos.
Continued below...
Last edited by ATG (2007-12-14 17:04:25)
