Aliens, SHEEP and Other Things

Throw in the towel

2008-02-08T07:04:00.000-08:00

“Chapelhill, next stop Chapelhill…” The voice droned on about the diner car closing in half an hour as well as a variety of routes that were available if one was to choose the train as a primary form of transport. I was back in the train. I raised my hand to my face, getting a good look at the lines that ran down the palm and the veins that travelled up my wrist and up my arms. My legs were intact, I moved my feet that were sitting snugly in my shoes. I looked down at the manuscript that was lying on the table, most probably at the page that I left it at.

So what really happened there? Was it real? I looked out the window as the train ground to a halt. A white sign on the platform read Chapelhill. I shot up from my seat, if I was to get out at my stop I would have to get a move on it.

After my rushed departure off the train I decided that I would check into a local hotel as it was late enough and get an early start in the morning. At least I could rest my head and try to figure out what was going on. I didn’t really take much notice of the small little hotel that stood tucked away from the road. There was a small lobby with a fireplace holding centre stage, a dark teak coffee table was surrounded by dark red leather couches that resembled an aging man’s wrinkled face. I took no notice of the proprietor or even how much the room cost for the night; I just muttered the words “Single room for the night.”

He muttered back some inaudible reply which was followed by the jangle of some keys that had the number 016 on it. He pointed up the stairs after which I followed the directions. If he had told me dinner was to be served at 7:30 sharp or there was a bar on the premises I wouldn’t have heard a thing as my mind was somewhere faraway.

I crashed out on my bed as soon as I entered the small one bed room that had a tv positioned on a table opposite the bed. I didn’t even bother changing my clothes or having a look around as to where I was, or if I had accidentally stumbled upon the wrong room. I curled up on my bed and closed my eyes, I was exhausted.

I found myself standing on a large conical sphere. I did not know how I had gotten there but stood and watched the blue colour that the object was omitting splash here and there. It was strange the blue light seemed to be moving and darting. There was no movement in me, all I could do was watch. I immediately thought back to the strange episode I had on the train. Was it a vision? Was it real? It couldn’t be real. All of sudden the sphere started to shutter. I had to grab onto something, or otherwise I would fall off! Panic struck me as the object began to shake with more intensity. I had to jump off, there was nothing to hold onto. But I couldn’t I was stuck. What was I to do! I heard it then a roar and a tremor of a sound boomed through the air as the object started to move slowly, building momentum ever so gradually. I surmised by the previous jolts that I had managed to stay on so hopefully I would continue to stay on. All of a sudden it started to spin like a table-top, faster and faster in intensity. I panicked, opened my mouth and screamed for help, “Someone get me off this thing!” But no one came to help, the spinning did not stop as I continued to scream.

“Help! Help!” I opened my eyes, to find myself lying in a sweat soaked bed. I was back in the hotel. The little room that I had booked for the night was still there, my leather shoes and bag had been thrown at the foot of bed.

I tried to get my head around what was happening to me, why was I being subjected to a slew of intense visions and dreams. What was going on inside my head. I thought for a second, racked my brain for another second, and thought of slamming my head into the wall for the other. What was I to do? I decided to take a shower, and then head out for some fresh air and coffee. Maybe that would do me some good.

I found a nice little café on the outskirts of the town that brewed mugs of coffee and had fresh pies of various sorts. I decided for a traditional apple pie with a bit of cream on the side. A little gust of wind blew through the rustic café as I took another bite of the pie, finishing it off with a swig of coffee. The shower and the coffee was a good idea. I felt good. There’s nothing like a bit of a scrub, some fresh air and a bite to eat. I thought for a second, I could get used this, living in a small town where life is quieter, where the population is smaller than the amount of daily shoppers in a shopping centre. I could just disappear and forget about everything, forget about the reason why I had come here in the first place.

No! Something inside me snapped. I had to continue on, a nice little bit of pie and coffee was my treat for the day and that was it. That was it. I struggled to find the right thoughts for such a realisation that someone was probably waiting for me somewhere hoping that I would help them out. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I asked for another drop of coffee and this time went the adventurous route of a strawberry and blueberry pie. I then pulled out that all dreaded manuscript out of my bag, and started to read.

The end

2008-01-28T08:18:00.000-08:00

I thought about the predicament I was in. While the symbol of a tower could be translated as the tower of Babel it meant more than that, it meant that my world and everything that was in it was going to come crashing down. Not that it already hadn’t happened, the death of my father put my world in a spiral, wasn’t that enough of a violent tumble? Wasn’t the falling body a metaphor for my feelings? Wasn’t that enough of a blow? I realised that there was more to the card then predicting my present unlucky situation. The popular story surrounding such a card was that a fool who wanted to stamp his mark on the world built monuments and structures. Perhaps such an idea was a haphazard one at that, in the end his ambitions came to nothing. The false structures that were viewed as great and structurally sound were light and flimsy. The card stood for false structures and beliefs that would be crashing down and it wouldn’t be like a little scrape it would be a violent gut-wrenching crash that would change things for ever. The death of my father was a catastrophe if there ever was one, and by the looks of things more was to come.

There were different meanings –it signified change, a shake up, a surprise wake up call. It also signified a humbling, suffering a blow to the ego, falling off ones high horse, a financial downturn, a complete and utter falling down. A nervous breakdown? I never had the pleasure of experiencing one. Then there was the sudden spark of the angel, a revelation, a moment of truth where one was given the answer and everything that was unknown became known.

What was the truth? Such an in depth question required an in depth answer. I could come up with no answer for such a complex question. If I was to know the truth I probably wouldn’t have been looking at such a card or even wondering what such a card meant.

So I thought about the truth for a second and thought of the word illusion instead. What were illusions, what was real anymore? I could not think of illusions in my present unknown state because I was having problems with such a term, but I could think of my previous state when I was matter, when I was flesh and bones, when I could view my arms and legs and think of myself as an entity. I could define myself through what others saw and what I saw of me through them. Was my life an illusion? It couldn't be. It was not possible.

Nothing built on a lie, on falsehoods, can remain standing for long. A poorly built building will suddenly fall; a house built on a deck of cards will not last long. What was the truth I thought, if the structure was a lie, a building made out of falsehoods and pretenses? I looked at the scene, the falling tower, the rubble with bodies wedged here and there. The ground, the only thing that remained permanent and constant was the hill that the tower had been built on. Better to tear it all down and rebuild on the truth. It was not going to be pleasant, painless or easy, but it was all for the best. But what was I to tear down, and rebuild. It was real and what was fiction, what was the truth and what was false? It was too much to think on. I assumed that such an image was more metaphorical than a real falling down of a building though such a possibility could be likely. A literal meaning could not be ruled out.

9/11 popped into my thoughts. Such an occurrence might have been a literal interpretation on the tower card. The falling down of the towers were literal but metaphorically the falling of the towers symbolised the waning of America, the failing values, a ‘look how the mighty have fallen’ statement may have been a good caption underneath the photograph in the paper. Such an image of the twin towers was a literal, real-life tarot card if there ever was one.

Everything went white again, not even a line or a dot in my view. I felt very down all of a sudden -a toe pulling, eye scratching type of down. Maybe this was my falling down, my complete and utter end.

The Tower

2008-01-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

On the table was laid out cards that were turned upside down. They were all in a row, it was hard to tell how many of them were there as it looked like they stretched out in all directions and the size and shape of the table surface was changing in rapid concessions. Judging by the laid out cards one was supposed to pick one. I assumed that what ever lay on the other side would contain some sort of image or detail that would help me figure out what I was doing in such a place. At least it would do no harm to take a peek, who knew it might be my way of such a place, a door back into reality. When one as no discernable hands it is difficult to pick up a card and turn it face up. I thought for a while, staring at the card that I had set my eyes on picking up. How does it work? The frame changed like when a scene is edited or the lights go dim for a second. When I looked at it again it was lying face up.

It was an image of a tower.

Not a good card to pick up. Actually to pick up such a card was damn right freaky. Though I was no expert when it came to tarot cards, I knew such a card did not forebode well, and not a card that anyone with a little insight in reading the cards wished to get. It was a tower constructed with stone, turrets lined the top of the tower, two windows that were barred lay directly over each other. I saw no possible means of entry. The tower was positioned on a little hill that was surrounded by rocks and shrubbery. I couldn’t really tell what the measurement of the structure was but it looked as if it reached to the perfect wide blue sky. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, the scene seemed calm, there was nothing to warn of a coming judgement or marauding troops. All of a sudden the card came alive as a flash of lighting flew through the sky and hit the tower. The sound that followed was so deafening that it seemed like the sound was inside my mind. All of a sudden I saw the top half the tower crack off, a man with an orange beard, flew through the air, beams and bricks started to fall, as the sound of screaming people mingled in with the sound of the structure complaining as it cracked.

I did not like the sound, it seemed to have a life of it’s own as if the sound was growing, undulating into a mighty monster that would take hold and strangle everything in its way.

The scene then froze. The cracked top of the tower suspended in the air, the falling man, the sound of the scene echoing in a prolonged boom.

What did a tower signify? I went back to early civilisation and the Biblical mention of a tower called the Tower of Babel. This contains similarities to such a scene where God destroys a tower built by mankind to reach Heaven. I thought about this, about seriousness of such a card, and how it symbolizes failure, ruin and catastrophe.

I was one unhappy camper.

It's only a line

2008-01-24T06:54:00.001-08:00

I saw a black line form, first it was squiggly but as it stretched it grew in thickness and in clarity. It stopped suddenly. All it was, was a line as if it had been drawn with a marker. It stayed stationary. I looked at it for a while, waiting for some sort of movement. Nothing.

What could one do with a black horizontal line? I thought about moving it with my mind but nothing happened. How in the world did I even get into such a state? I knew my name, it was Tom, Tom Bates, a simple first name at that. Tom was a nickname for Thomas –one of twelve apostle who was called a doubter. Tom often referred to the male animal such as tomcat or a tom turkey. Tom was also offensive and derogatory name for a Black man who was abjectly servile and deferential to Whites. I never heard such a term used before but I knew that such a term existed. I knew my age, I knew who I was, I knew I had been reading a manuscript that had been written by Charles Neville, and that I was travelling on a train. I had my memories intact, but I couldn’t clarify my present situation, how I got into such a predicament and how I was going to get out of such a place. Though I did not even know what place I was in, if one does not know where they are how will they get out of the place that they are in. If I was to get out of such a place how would I be certain that I would return to the train and be sitting in an upright position? If I was to leave my current predicament how was I to me certain that I would not be transported to worse off scenario.

I continued to stare at line, not really knowing what would come of it, or if I had lost the plot and had gone crazy. You know certain things can throw you off kilter; a close death in the family might just be enough to set one off down the road of madness. Madness, what was madness?

A little bit of brainstorming might help. Insane…mad as a hatter… fool… foolish… idiotic… silly... mental…a condition…mental illness…brain damaged…brainsickness…crazy…dementia…deranged… disturbed…lunacy…unbalanced… ‘not quite right’…absurd.

I stopped thinking watching the line grown in width and height. I stared at it, zoomed into the blackness as it filled up my view. The blackness disappeared just as quickly as it came. Now I could see something, a three-legged wooden table stood in front of me. It looked sturdy even though it was not leaning up against anything. I could see what looked like cards laid out on the table. I neared it with my eyes or what could be termed my visual perception as I was unsure if I had eyes or not.

A lesson in drawing

2008-01-21T16:53:00.000-08:00

Now such pondering seemed to border on the absurd. Why was so much thought given to such a number and why was sixteen such significant? I could have pulled the number two out of my hat or sixty-eight. I am sure there was some significance there. Looking at the number two brought up all sorts of things significant to religion, sports, arts, mathematics and a played a significant role in ones life albeit discreetly.

Thinking about numbers seemed insane, especially when I had no clue as to where I was. It wasn’t dark anymore, there was just nothing to define. It was as if I was staring at a blank page of white paper. I was confused, deeply confused and I couldn’t stop thinking. All things banal were forming in my head. How does one come to terms with a death in the family? How does one even prepare for such an event. It was head scratching stuff. I tried to lift my arm, but there was no sign of an arm. I looked down, there was no sign of feet or legs. Perhaps the only thing that existed was my subconscious, the only thing that I had now were my thoughts. Such an idea sounded insane but I was stuck in such a situation. I tried reasoning with myself, tried to come up with a logical explanation as to how I got into such a state, but such thoughts fizzled out before I could even latch onto one idea or reasonable explanation.

What was one to do, when nothing existed but ones thoughts? I could draw.

Draw…with what?

I had no hands as far as I could see no pen or pencils. Did I even have a head or a discernable face? It was all quite a struggle to get ones head around. Well if I was still thinking I should have at some container that my thoughts filled, a head is the most suitable container for thoughts. I thought about other containers like a bright red coke can, or a tin of sardines, perhaps a nice cored apple would be a good place for my thoughts to stew.

So the only option was to draw? I never learnt how to draw, of course I scribbled a stick figure here and there that was it. I thought for a second if I was to draw something what would I draw, would it have to make sense? Could a draw a horse’s head that came attached to a bicycle and had a tail as a rear. Would I draw flock of flying pumpkins who were battling it out for supremacy against their flying turnip cousins in the sky? I could give it a try. I looked into nothingness and thought, long and hard about what it meant to draw, about shapes and sizes, about colours.

What is drawing? I thought for a second and then decided that when one draws a writing tool has to be used to make marks on a certain space or apparatus. How does one teach themselves to draw when they have never learnt, it was a tiring concept, one that I could do without thinking about.

No thinking for a while. That would do some good. So I just stared into the empty space.…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

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6teen

2008-01-18T10:51:00.000-08:00

Bang! All of a sudden I jolted upright and found myself standing up. I glanced around expecting to be travelling on a train, expecting the chatter of the passengers, a screaming blue eyed baby would be making a poop in his nappy. A wide-eyed blonde girl would be drawing alone on a sheet of white paper her parents leaving her for the diner car. A tall man, with a bushy black-beard would be rummaging around for a bit of lettuce that he lost in his whiskers. But there was none of that, not even signs of the train seats or overhead compartments. Nothing.

I used my eyes to survey the scene. Nothing. Though I knew I was standing, that was a start, though I didn’t know what I was standing on. There was no colour, no feeling, nothing to grab onto and say: “I am standing on ground!” But I could think at least I had that. And so I decided that I would think away. What is 4x4? Sixteen. I imagined the numbers, the logic, and the equation holding together a bit of the world a bit of what was real. Sixteen must have been of some significance so I thought I’d take it further. “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed,” typical thing that pops into ones mind.

6 and 10 equals 16

8 and 8 equals 16

4x4=16 - Already done

16 follows 15 and precedes 17.

Sixteen is the minimum age for being allowed an official driver's license in many U.S. states. In Australia and Canada, it is the age one can begin to get a learner's license.

Sixteen is the minimum age for getting an adult job in most states and provinces.

Sixteen is the age of consent for many countries around the world it is also the minimum age to get married with parental consent in many countries.

Sixteen is the legal drinking age in France, Germany, Austria, The Netherlands and Portugal.

Sixteen…sixteen…the word scrambles in my head, the letter juxtaposing, twisting, like ballerinas in the air. I try to think back of memories when I was sixteen, the scent of summer mingled with the sight of giddy girls with a short little skirts running in the cool breeze. If one could employ a professional to keep ones jaw shut and stop the wet warm drool from running down the chin and neck one would. I tried to latch onto to one unique memory other than that sneak peek into the girl’s changing rooms or when I nestled into Brita’s breasts. Granny died when I was sixteen. That was significant! She died alone shacked up in some hospital bed. I was still learning what emotions were, the adolescent that I was still hadn’t come to terms with such depth, well not yet. There was the usual crowd of mourners dressed in black. I remember stifling a sob, while I secretly celebrated such a death with a slug of my grandfather’s forty year old bottle of whiskey that he kept on an upper shelf in his study. I could remember the biting taste, the oakiness of the mature malt burning my throat as it slid down into my stomach. If drink could tell of something, open up a greater understanding of a moment then the whiskey sunk into me, saddened my soul and made me weep not outwardly, but inwardly, where all was locked away. There was no time for viewing, for looking at the multi-channels to get a view of what was really going on inside. I quickly forgot about such a death, besides I had other important things to do, girls being the highest thing on my list as well as keeping up with…nothing really.

Does an age really say how old you are? Does an age help create the essence of the individual. Does age really matter? At the age of 82 one could have reversed back to the state of a baby, drooling and shitting all over oneself. Age…? How does one age? The body ages overtime, like a piece of fruit we all rot away one day.

I collect my thoughts and get back to sixteen…

You can get the number sixteen with four to the power of two. The number 16 was used in weighing light objects in several cultures. I thought of the stiff upper lipped British they had 16 ounces in one pound, the Chinese, always resourceful, used to have 16 langs in one jin. Ounces and pounds I think to myself. Back in the day weighing was done with a beam balance to make equal splits. Heaps of grain was then divided into sixteen equal parts this was a more successful division than to split the grain into ten parts. Sixteen was a very practical number when it came to calculations and figures. Chinese Taoists did finger computation on the trigrams and hexagrams by counting the finger tips and joints of the fingers with the tip of the thumb. Each hand can count up to 16 in such manner. The Chinese abacus uses two upper beads to represent the 5's and 5 lower beads to represent the 1's, the 7 beads can represent from a hexadecimal digit from 0 to 15 in each column.

16 is the base of the hexadecimal number system, which is used extensively in computer science.

Previously microprocessor were 16-bit microprocessor and they ran 16-bit applications.

In tarot, card No. 16 is "the Tower".

The amount of waking hours in a day in an "8 hours of sleep" schedule, I would be lucky to get that much sleep.

There are sixteen pawns on a chessboard and each player has sixteen pieces.

No Thoughts Please

2008-01-18T09:11:00.000-08:00

I glanced out the train's window just to get a breather. The manuscript was a real killer, actually a right pain to read. I had thought too much about what Zorg meant, what SHEEP meant, what anything really meant. What was life, what was the meaning, the purpose to existence? If everything was to eventually cease what was the point of living? Did everyone have a soul? Why were some people referred to as being soulless? Was there really a soul, and even a collective soul? What would a collective soul entail? How would it work? It sounded like some communist crap. If I have two cows and your neighbour has no cows then I would give him one of my cows so we are equal. If my cow died, why then my neighbours cow would have to die as well so collectively we remained equal. Things didn’t work like that.

I had these idyllic notions in my head, what the world should be like, how mankind should treat each other, and what laws should govern the masses. I knew my notions were likely to fail, you have to have power over the masses and yet you can't exert too much control, you had to make it look like the masses were in power through covert control. There was great complications, life was not as simple as waking up, eating, or having a shit, there were all these systems and subsets built into society, ideas and formalities that were never even thought of or considered. If one was to look at it from a cynical point of view we were controlled and manipulated to think and act a certain way and when we thought we were acting on our own initiative and using our head it was only because we had been programmed to think so. If one was think about it we were all mindless robots and that was a pretty bleak picture. Perhaps thinking outside the box was really still thinking inside the box. When one thought too much on who really had control – society or the person it made ones head hurt. Overthinking? What an odd word, my doctor had described it as a condition. It was bizzazre, though the more I thought about it the more I realised that I was afflicted with such a thing. It was driving me over the edge. It was too much -time for a little time out.

Outside flocks of sheep dotted the green, rolling hillside. I thought about the colour green, perhaps the colour had some significance - maybe it contained a memory? I shook my head as i continued to stare, only this time my eyes zoomed past the sheep over the hills and into the sea-blue sky where nothing existed in my mind only a deep empty nothingness that pulled apart body and mind, that ripped apart all I had ever known.

No thoughts, no inward struggle, no "Who am I?" questions or a childlike 'Why?"

It was dark, like I had wandered into a cave without a torch. I should have been afraid, I should have but I could not come to such a conclusion as I my mind was completely and utterly empty.

Empty...empty...empty...

Zorg543

2007-10-31T11:11:00.000-07:00

1966- 1970 over 150 Ummite documents were received by various persons totalling well over 1000 pages. Strangely enough further documents would continue surfacing for many subsequent years. The author of these documents remains UNKNOWN to this day.

UNKNOWN...UNKNOWN...UNKNOWN...

In the documents there is reference to the discovery of earth which was 15 years prior to their arrival in 1950 a Norwegian ship by chance contacted them through Morse code enabling them to find out vital information which later allowed them to bring back a group of explorers to gather more information on the earth.

From the letters gathered it was clear that the The Ummites were amazed, seeing the multi-cultural society that existed on earth, but they were also worried and frightened about the chaotic state of the world. Apparently their civilisation had more advanced technology, and that they weren’t interested in disturbing our social evolution.

Some letters gave great detail in their civilisation as well as detailed drawings of ‘vehicles’ and other graphs of their world. Philosophy and "the concept of God" are strongly featured in the Ummo letters. Several letters are devoted entirely to these subjects. Also mentioned are Ummites' morals, ethics, human beings' free will, man's role in the universe, the end of existence, the soul, and the collective unconscious (or collective soul as the Ummites call it). In several letters the Ummites discuss Earth's problems, including abortion, the oppression of women by men, and problems they see in our education and political systems.

Many scientific subjects are described in detail, including network theory (or graph theory), astrophysics, cosmology, the unified field theory, biology, and evolution. Some of this information is thought to be dubious pseudoscience, but much of it is scientifically accurate. However, Jerome Clark notes that Dr. Jacques Vallee argued that the scientific content of the Ummo letters was knowledgeable but unremarkable, and compared the scientific references to a well-researched science fiction novel -- plausible in the 1960s, but dated by the standards of the 1990s.

[notes] Hypotheses and proposed explanations

Several hypotheses about the real authors have been offered:

* It's been proposed that the Ummoism is genuinely what it claims: Communication from extraterrestrials.

* Some people think some class of secret service, such as the CIA or KGB, may be responsible, but their motivations and aims are unknown, and no proof of such a scheme has been presented.

* Dash notes that some suspect that the Ummite material was "an attempt by a socialist group to publish radical material that could not otherwise appear under General Franco's dictatorship." (Dash, 300)

* Others suspect one or several religious sects, but the Ummo authors do not, in any letters, at any time, suggest that their beliefs become the foundation of any "rite", or worship. Nowhere in the documents is an incitement to such activities.

· The most popular hypothesis, however, seems to be that the entire affair is an elaborate hoax, perhaps perpetrated by a student group composed of scientists and philosophers. As noted above, a Jose Luis Jordán Peña claimed in 1992 that he had instigated Ummoism, but people who have met him say that he does not have a sufficient background to have authored the texts.

I turned the pages.

Upon discovering that there was a fatal error in the system which I was aware of what sort of calculations it did but unaware what was the purpose or use for such software system, I realised that the calculations keep on coming up with Zorg543. What was Zorg543? A name of a system, a supercomputer? It didn’t make sense as the calculations were always contained with a certain subset of numbers even when different calculations occurred.

I put the book down it was too much to take in, what did this have to do with anything. Besides it didn’t make any sense.

Chris Linton

2007-08-08T07:39:00.000-07:00

I opened my eyes, blinked in rapid concessions for a bit just trying to get accustomed to the light, streaming in the large train window. I could feel a nice little wet spot on my shoulder jacket, a bit of drool leftover from my sleep. I became aware of a man with his stomach peeking out of his Hawaiian shirt sitting in front of me, little pockets of fat bulge here and there nicely complementing his man breasts. He wore a bright blue baseball cap that had faded letters displayed on it that I could not work out, little tufts of dark brown hair ran over his ears and down the nape of his neck. I couldn’t make out his eyes or his face.

“Uh-hello,” He said taking his cap off. I could see his light blue eyes now and his sagging tanned face.

“Hi,” I said, looking down at his camera that was out on the table. It was a bulky one, with a large screen display.

“…You from around here?”

“Well not too far,” I said not really interested in giving any details away to a stranger.

“I’m on my holidays now, thought it about time to get away from it all, that means my wife mainly.” He chuckled, a deep guttural laugh. I could tell by the laugh and the look in his eyes that his was a pleasure holiday, the wife out of the picture, on his own.

“Digital?” I asked pointing at the camera.

“Yeah,” He said looking out of the window, “Got some fine photographs of the countryside, you know with cameras like this these days anyone can be a photographer, quite simple really, just point and shoot.”

I looked outside the window, admiring the sea like sky undulating like foaming waves, rippling a rich deep blue. It had been a long since I had sat back and admired the beauty, everything was taken for granted these days, in fact I didn’t think much of most things that were around me anymore.

I glanced back to the manuscript that was sitting on the table. Forgetting about the passenger opposite me, I flicked through the thick volume, wondering if it was even worth reading such a thing.

“What’s that you’re reading there?”

“Umm,” I glanced over . “just some manuscript” I flippantly exclaimed.

He must have seen something or recognised who I was, “You like that Tom Bates guy, who know the son of that murdered guy who bought the book off Charles Neville who strangely enough was also murdered.”

I glanced out the window while the fat man plunged his finger into his nose, thinking no one was watching pulled out a little bit of sticky snot rolled it around in his fingers for a bit and then flicked it hurriedly away. I turned by attention towards the man.

“Yeah, I’m Tom Bates,” I replied, hoping I didn’t have to shake his hand, who invented handshakes anyway?

I thought about it for a second as the train slowly ground to a halt. As far as I knew there was no one person that invented the handshake it just seemed a normal practise for so long. Definition for handshake I thought: A handshake is a custom where two people grasp their right or left hands, this is normally followed by a short shake of the grasped hands.

When is the handshake initiated? Well normally at meetings, greetings, partings, offering congratulations, or completing an agreement. Its purpose is to convey trust, balance, and equality. Handshakes possibly originated as a gesture showing that the hand holds no weapon.

I glanced up at the stranger well his hands weren’t holding anything so he was no threat no weapon in his hands.

“I’m Chris Linton,” He replied a grin stretching across his face, “Just call me Chris.” No hand raised for a handshake and no gesture followed on my part, he must have realised that I had spied him at his dirty little habit.

“So what brings you out here? I mean other than for sight seeing not many people come out to the country anymore you know with all those outbreaks of foot-and-mouth and the crazy chicken virus it’s just safer to stay in the city.”

“A cousin,” I replied. “She has been bothering me for so long, ringing me up all the time to come over for a visit. I gave up on her persistent nagging so here I am.”

“You know I’ve thought about divorcing my wife and marrying one of those Asian brides you know the ones you can get of the internet. I always wanted a petite Thai girl, we would start a new life somewhere out in the country.”

I shook my head, what a strange thing to say.

“Huh?”

“Oh, never mind me, I’m just full of nonsense these days, I think it has something to do with old age setting in.”

The useless chit-chat continued, as I tried to look interested but I was somewhere else, thinking about the book, the disappearance of Samantha, my father’s death and my search for Mr. Retro.

A few stops later Chris Linton disembarked off the train, wishing me luck with my visit to see my cousin. A little smile crossed my face, a strange character and some strange topics of conversation too; I straightened myself out and got back to trying to make sense of the book.

One Ticket and Ummo

2007-08-08T04:06:00.000-07:00

I bought my ticket to Chapelhill, which was the closest I could get to Whitely by rail from there I would have to take a bus. I boarded the train, I picked a car that had a few passengers dotted about on the seats, I sat next to the window on my own, opened by backpack and began to read.

I skimmed through a few pages as the train jolted a bit as it prepared to pull out of the station; a little cry from a baby was carried down the carriages. Nothing was of interest really, I listened to the whine of wheels as the train gather momentum over the rail tracks.

SHEEP more mention of SHEEP. I shook my head, where was all this going? It seemed like a typical Charles Neville book, nothing out of the ordinary, the same over the top, believe this if you want type of thing, but you know I’m pulling your leg.

I turned a few pages, when something caught my attention to the next chapter entitled Ummoism next to it was scribbled the words – second-half of last century – claims of aliens from the planet of Ummo –communicating with people on earth.

During 1960 through to 1970 a series of letters and documents detailing Ummoism was sent in large to UFO enthusiasts. These works have been considered a hoax, though to put it in a more charitable light- a work of fiction.

It is unknown as to who started this wild story but a certain individual named as José Luis Jordán Peña has claimed responsibility for instigating Ummoism. An interesting group to note is the strange Bolivian cult who call themselves the Daughters of Ummo”

I put the book down for a second and thought about Samantha and the strange language she was studying and how she believed that the language she was studying would be a benefit to mankind sometime in the future. I tried to think what it was that she was studying but for the life of me I couldn’t think of the name. I picked up the book again.

Important dates

March 1950 Ummites land on Earth in the southern French region of Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, in the area of Digne-les-Bains. The letters that were received nearly ten years later mention three spacecraft with some explorers coming from their planet. They describe how they found planet earth, their arrival on Earth, analysis of our habits, their language, and scientific descriptions of their activities.

February 6, 1966 -Madrid. Jordán Peña reported a close encounter of the first kind saying he saw "an enormous circular object with three legs and, on its underside, a curious symbol: three vertical lines joined by a horizontal bar. The two exterior lines curved outward at the edges, which made the pictogram resemble the alchemical sign for the planet Uranus." (Dash, 299)

Other such contacts were made that year such as Fernando Sesma receiving typewritten documents claimed to be from an alien race known as Ummites. Photographs also showed up in mailings.

I put the put the book down, sighed, and whispered to myself, “So that’s the language Samantha’s learning. Strange!” I looked outside the window the rolling green hills in the distance slowly neared as the train shuttered, flew past a few farms and into the darkness of a long black tunnel.

The Message and an Introduction to SHEEP

2007-08-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

I dialled the number with my mobile, and listened to phone on the other end ring over and over again. No one was picking up. I continued to listen until the answering machine took over and a deep gruff voice said: “Charles Retro here, meet me in Whitely, 15 Careview Estate, come alone.”

A beep followed, but there was no point leaving a message.

I hung up, thought to myself the significance of the message, the code must have been right, I must have deciphered something.

Contact Charles Retro?

I did that and now his voice was telling me to meet him in Whitely which was a good ways a way. I scratched my head, trying to think.

What did Charles Retro have to do with anything, what did he have if anything to do with me? I unzipped my back pack and pulled out the volume that my father had bought off Charles Neville entitled “Essential Things About Life,” I flicked through it something in my mind told me to read it, so I positioned my back to the wall and started reading.

In 1947 September 18, The National Security Act in the United States created the Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA. Elsewhere a new committee was formed called, SHEEP this handled and transmitted errors within a complex software system that until now has remained a secret.

This manuscript is the sole ownership of Charles Neville, who forms part of the SHEEP committee.

While all previous writings have been debateable as to their source, the writer as taken great care to describe and relate all he as been privy to over the years.

I turned the page

A few years back I was approached rather veraciously to join this team and to be in such a committee. Certain trial runs were done on trivial errors on some system subset nothing noteworthy or even thinking about, after which I was accepted.

Each error within the system was given a unique identifier. The format of these identifiers was usually standardised in the early stages of the system construction.

Errors were categorised by sub-type, usually relevant to the domain of the project.

The committee was composed from members in the system. The committee meetings were never of the personal nature and communication was done solely by e-mail correspondence.

A member of the committee team proposes the error, after which a debate occurs then followed by a between all members to determine if it is indeed an error and if it should be included in the list of errors. In most cases a majority vote was required but in certain instances certain members were had more weight in voting matters than others.

I put the book down, a strange book, to say the least, I surveyed the mess in room once again, thinking about Samantha and how she wanted the book, and how she had disappeared. Judging by the state of my apartment they were looking for something. I shook my head and continued to read.

I have been a member of SHEEP for three years now and my time working on such a committee has yielded certain truths and strange occurrences that I have not been able to explain. One thing that this work entails is secrecy no information regarding such a project is to be mentioned not even as small talk. Though since working on such an endeavour I find reason to write down my experiences and suggest that there is something greater than you and I.

I put the book down. It all sounds so absurd, I thought shaking my head.

SHEEP. Something greater than you and I?

So Charles Neville found religion? I shook my head again. Something was telling me that it wasn’t absurd and I had the book for a reason. Maybe someone was looking for the book, the detective mentioned it maybe they thought Samantha had it? Maybe Charles Retro could help? I threw the book in my backpack and slowly lifted myself off the ground. I would have to go looking for some answers--it was time to go to Whitely.

Some Sort of Code

2007-08-05T10:13:00.000-07:00

I decided that I was not going to stick around not when someone had grabbed Samantha by the arm. The boy had given me no description of the man nothing to go on, not even a he was wearing sunglasses comment. I useless walked around the shopping centre looking for clues, looking for glimpses of the girl that I was supposed to be meeting. A few shoppers glanced at me, gave me looks like that they knew me, probably seen my face on TV or something. After a useless ten or fifteen minutes of wandering around I went home not knowing what course of action was to be taken.

My apartment had been turned upside down, the TV was lying face down on the ground, the couch ripped to shreds and the material shelled out, The books from the book cabinet were strewn all over the floor books from my college years were torn out and littered all over the floor. The kitchen was strewn with saucers, and cutlery, the contents of the fridge were thrown about as if a tornado had entered. A little lonely bruised tomato sat in the corner of a counter top all alone from all the other bits of vegetables that had seemed to have it in for that little lonely tomato that even the vegetables had been calling a fruit.

My room was a disaster the bedding had been stripped from my bed the mattress shredded, picture frames were smashed all my clothes littered across the floor. Aftershave bottles kicked around the room made the room smell like a perfume factory but it didn’t do much to lighten my mood.

I threw the backpack on the ground, after which I followed hitting the floor of bedroom hard. What were they looking for? Who was it that had entered my apartment? Would they come back? Were they waiting for me outside, somewhere? Were these the same people that had taken Samantha? Who really was Samantha?

I took the napkin out of my pocket. Studied it, puzzled and bemused all at once. Now it did not look too complicated, come to think of it, it was a lot easier than it looked

01 000001 000001 00000001 01 01 00000001 01 0001 01 0000001 00001 001 0000001 0000001 001 00000001 0000001 000001 000000001 00001 001 0000001, 1

I assumed immediately that it was a code a simple code, consisting of only ones and zeros meaning it was binary. I found a sheet of paper and assumed that each number was to correspond to a word perhaps. These binaries would most probably represent a number as I vaguely remembered one of my previous co-workers was trying to explain Unary coding to me one day. He said each sequence of binary numbers corresponded to a number so assuming one was one and two was zero one, one could keep up this sequence. This was a simple example of such a code. So with a pen in one hand I wrote out what I assumed might be the corresponding number

1 1

2 01

3 001

4 0001

5 00001

6 000001

7 0000001

8 00000001

9 000000001

10 0000000001

From that I looked at the napkin and wrote out the corresponding numbers.

2, 6, 6, 8, 2, 2, 8, 2, 4, 2, 7, 5, 3, 7, 3, 8, 7, 6, 9, 5, 3, 7, 1

Half through doing this I realised how overly simple the entire code was and all I needed to do was to count the numbers to get the corresponding numbers. Now that I had the numbers I had to think about what they were supposed to lead me to.

My phone started to buzz from my trouser pocket, alerting me to a message I received on my phone. I picked it up and read the message informing me of cheaper rates with my service provider.

I looked at the phone, the key pad and then back at the message. My eyes then brought me back to the keypad realising that a number corresponded to three letters.

Try that, I thought.

2 – a, b or c? B maybe?

6 – perhaps o?

6 again? n

8? T?

Start again. 2 – a

6- m

I was confused; I itched the nape of my neck thinking that might help things.

Start again.

2- c

6- o

6- n

8? T, u or v? Perhaps t?

2- had to be A and then I realised that it spelt contact. I double checked it. C-O-N-T-A-C-T. Looked good.

After all the stupid little letters I came up with something: Contact Charles Retro. Though the last few numbers meant nothing and made up no word. Looking at it again I realised that perhaps it wasn’t supposed to make up a word but was supposed to be exactly that numbers, Charles Retro’s number -95371.

So I had Charles Retro’s number? The criminal who was on the run? Why would Samantha ever have his number?

I would have to ring him to find out.

Waiting

2007-08-05T08:16:00.000-07:00

I arrived at the cafeteria at exactly 3:58. Two minutes to spare. I looked around at the people passing by, an old lady in a pink poka dot dress looked oddly out of place, perhaps she had already started reliving her years as a young girl. A large pregnant looking man with green shoes was brought to my attention, he squeaked and squawked when he walked past me. A little red head boy next to a water fountain with his mouth full of chocolate ice-cream was screaming like a little red fire engine.

Smiths was within eyesight as I stood with my back leaning on the window of the cafeteria. Two minutes passed and then it was four no sign of Samantha, I recalled the conversation on the phone checking and rechecking in my head what she had. Over-thinking was beginning to take over.

“Meet me at four at Smiths, I’ll be by the cafeteria, and bring the book.”

It was starting to annoy me this sentence playing and replaying inside my brain.

Maybe she said, “Meet me at five at Smiths.”

Maybe I dreamt it. Maybe…maybe… I blinked my eyes a few times realising there was this young kid with a red baseball cap and and a wine coloured apron around his waist. He was standing in front of me, trying to get my attention and break my gaze.

“Excuse me, excuse me…”

I drew back, his pimply adolescent face was too close to mine for comfort.

“Heh?”

“I just cleaned those windows a half hour ago, you know how long it takes to get smudges off…?”

I stopped listening and tried to survey the scene behind his head, looking out for Samantha. I looked at my watch – 4:03.

I focused my eyes on the boy in front of me and said: “Sorry, just waiting for someone didn’t mean to be a prick and all messing your windows up that took you so long to clean.”

He scowled somewhat, sensing the sarcasm in my voice.

But he ignored offering a curt answer back and replied, “Waiting for someone?”

“Yeah, just waiting, didn’t mean any trouble.”

“Don’t worry man, I mean no harm just my boss is a bit of a bitch sometimes always getting on my case, you know I think she had it in for me at the start and she’s just looking for an excuse to fire me.”

“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” I smiled.

“Well now that you mentioned it there was a woman waiting for someone in pretty much the same place you’re standing in not long ago, she had a coffee inside and then she took up her waiting position here.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had blonde wavy hair, kind of reddish and brown if you ask me. She was about your height and slim. I’d say on a rating from one to ten, I’d give her an eight, and I don’t give girls eights very often.”

I smiled ahhh the good old days of puberty.

“So you scoring with her?” he gave me a playful nudge on the shoulder.

“Huh?” I replied a little disarmed, my eyes fluttering around the shops trying to keep a look out for Samantha and then return my attention to the boy I was talking to.

“Or is she just some project you are currently working on.” He chuckled to himself. A roar came out of the café, a loud bark of a roar that made him turn his head inwards.

“My boss, got to go. But if it helps any she left with a man, she looked frightened, he had a firm grip on her arm, don’t know why. When I cleaned up her table there was something written on her serviette like she was trying to get a message out, I put it in my pocket for some strange reason. I thought maybe she was leaving me her number or something, but it's some strange long number sequence like God knows what.”

He took the napkin out of his pocket, it was all crumbled up now. I took it from him and said thanks and let him get back to his job.

It was 4:10

Charles Retro – Most Wanted Man

2007-06-13T17:17:00.000-07:00

Charles Retro was the one to blame for revisiting the Bestow tragedy, bringing up the past that apparently had been erased. Somewhere men in dark corners sat in echelons of power shaking in their black polished shoes. Charles Retro had to be disposed of quickly and quietly.

He sat on the same chair his grandfather sat on, a musty arm chair with faded grey flower stitching. He positioned himself as close as he could to the fireplace where a wood fire danced, the shadows leaping up on the walls licking over the thick drapes that stopped any light from getting in. He stared into the fire and then the mirror that was over the mantle piece realising his eyes were just as red as the flames.

What to do? What to do?

He glanced over at the news paper on the floor, the headlines read:

Charles Retro – Most Wanted Man

A cool breeze ripped through the small room, as he shuttered thinking of what bacon and croissants would taste like with a bit of melted butter, a dribble of maple syrup would go down a treat. He shook his head to rattle out any more trivial thoughts he might have and thought of the article in the paper.

A song popped into his head:

“Baa, baa, black sheep have you any wool…”

This time he lifted his hand in the air and struck his temple, the previous rattle hadn’t been enough. He studied the picture of himself on the headlines it looked more like a mugshot:

Brown curly mop of hair

Green serious eyes

A scrunched up nose

A pouting mouth

In need of a shave

Conclusion- serial killer

He looked at himself in the paper and then ran his hand over his curly dark brown beard. Thinking. He was always thinking, thinking of some far away place, thinking of what plan of action to take, was the little cool breeze earlier really a warning a foreboding of things to come? To much thinking is bad for you, makes one go cuckoo. He knew this; he developed grey hairs from over thinking, developed long lines on forehead, and constantly checking behind his back. Now a fugitive has to constantly check behind his back, because after all a fugitive is on the run for whatever reason. He closed his tired eyes, enough thinking, maybe he would give up and hand himself in and then it would all be over. He would sleep on it.

3 Retro vs. the State

2007-03-03T04:12:00.000-08:00

The court case had begun; it was Retro versus the state. There were few victims still living from the tragedy. The courthouse had six large marble pillars that held up the large grey stone building, built the beginning of the 21^st century it had withstood numerous attacks from the air as well as ground assaults. It had once been a Bastille of power and now for a number of years had been used as judicial power. This is where laws had been passed and over turned.

This time the court heard the terrible events of June 1984, evidence was used to build the case up in Retro’s case.

Maggie Chris Diary Entry 1984

20 June

I have heard the voices now for the second night; I cannot shake off the feeling of foreboding. It has been dark everyday for a week, which is unusual for this time of year, it should be bright all year around in the day well at least most of the day.

Food supplies are running low. Basic food staples are impossible to get, the nearest town has apparently run out of rations and now I’m hearing voices.

21 June

Somewhere inside of me exists another me, perhaps it is evolution and I’m beginning to evolve into what I am not certain, a bug, a beautiful butterfly, a stone cold rock. Perhaps I am just beginning to realise that everything in life has connections, when we are die we make way for life, when we live death makes way for us.

The voices are getting louder, I can’t even hear my own thoughts anymore. There is no signal on the radio, not even a crackle is heard out of the old wireless, no one tells me what is going on though I fear for my life, I looked outside my window this morning and I saw a man hanging from a tree. I have to stay inside.

23 June

What is happening? It is strange that even a crumb of bread feels like a feast, a glass of water tastes like red Italian vintage. Every where I look it's dark, not pitch dark, and just light enough to make out shadows or someone running by the house.

26 June

I feel like living under quarantine. Something is wrong something doesn’t feel right, I counted to a million today to pass the time, I am not sure if the date is right or what year I am in any more

27 June

I ate the last bit of food today. Tomorrow I will be brave and step outside.

30 June

I am covered in spots. I do not like what I am changing into, I would rather die then look like this. I think I’m going crazy.

End of diary entry.

Transcript of phone conversation between a male resident of Bestow (population 2,500) and an operator.

June 20 11:34 am

“Hello?”

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I live in Bestow something strange is going on, does anyone know anything about it?”

“Authorities are doing everything to help!”

“There are no authorities here! Listen lady, we were first issued with warnings to stay inside then nothing. Some of the people in the town fled to nearby villages, some went to get help. I saw a lady literally melt in front of my eyes and you tell me the fucking authorities are doing everything to help?”

Commotion heard in background, shouting a round of gunshots, then silence.

End of phone transcript.

The case was squashed, not enough factual evidence.

2.9 Samantha

2007-03-03T03:37:00.000-08:00

I can't remember falling asleep, though I was rudely awoken to the sound of the telephone. It had a terribly high tone, one which would bother anyone. I looked around to see where I was. There were empty bottles on the floor, a couch, and a TV in the corner. I was in the living room. I slowly made my way to the phone and waited for a response on the other end. There was silence for a moment.

“Is this Tom?”

The voice sounded familiar though I couldn’t attach a name to the voice.

“It’s Samantha.”

Samantha, Samantha …

“Extraterrestrial Studies?”

I remembered now, come to think of it I had completely forgotten about the university student and the eccentric course she had chosen. There were other more important things to think about.

“I just thought I’d ring you to see how you were.”

I didn’t reply, maybe I should have asked her how she had gotten my number but I didn’t think of it at the time.

“Not great,” I said. “Been driving for hours.”

Bang! Bang! I heard a heavy banging it was coming from the front door.

“Just one second.” I said and then turned to the door first checking through the peephole who was on the other end. A man wearing a dark navy jacket stood on the other side – it was only the postman.

I opened the door and found the postman handing me a brown package.

“You are Mr. Caldwell ?

“Yes,” I replied. I took the package off him, closed the door, and threw the package on the coffee table.

I was back at the phone

“Sorry about…so you were saying?”

It was silent on the other end, only a little crackle could be heard which was followed by a mumble of a voice or two and then Samantha said, “Do you have the book?”

“What book?” I questioned her something wasn’t right.

“I don’t know what book you are talking about.”

The dial tone went dead, and I left standing, questioning the strange question. There was a book and for some reason she was interested in it.

I stood for a while and then turned my attention to the package I had tossed on the empty couch. After examining the date and realising it must of got lost on the way I unwrapped it.

In my hands was a stack of papers the first page entitled. “Essential Things About Life,” and then next to it in poor writing was – working title. I flicked through the pages there was what looked like a complete history of sheep, purposes, function and duality, but then turning to the first page I realised there was a name just under the title – Charles Neville – the publication that dad had recently purchased for a ludicrous amount.

I sat lost somewhere thinking about such a manuscript, dad must have mailed it, though there was nothing to link him to it, no return address, no connection. Then there was Samantha’s request for the book, perhaps someone had gotten to her, her voice sounded oddly shaky. Whatever was going I was holding the book my father purchased, unless there was another copy but I was sure there was only one.

I flicked through the TV nothing on as usual, I found myself dozing off and suddenly been woken up by the ringing of the phone. I stumbled and then tripped half the way flying towards the phone.

“Hi it’s Samantha again; sorry I couldn’t really talk before.”

I grunted.

“Meet me at four at Smiths, I’ll be by the cafeteria, and bring the book.”

The phone went dead. What was the need for such secrecy?

And what was the book it couldn’t possibly be the book my dad had bought.

I thought for a second, thought why my apartment had not been searched, if indeed I had assaulted a cop. What was the reason for such a strange request, what was Samantha up to?

I checked my watch ten to four, that didn't leave for much time, on foot Smiths was about eight minutes away and that was by walking briskly, I ran into my room pulled a backpack from under the bed threw the manuscript in my bag and then slid my feet into a pair of white trainers.

Maybe meeting Samantha would answer some of my questions. I was about to find out.

2.8 Looking for a Book

2007-03-02T16:31:00.000-08:00

It's funny when you are driving with a breeze spilling in the windows and you think to yourself if you could do that your entire life, hit a breeze head on, it reminds me of the sea, a cool refreshing breeze, laughing white gulls, a splash of waves on hot red skin. I was driving in my red rental Ford, the gears automatic. I drove up a little hill passed the green grocers, slowed down when I saw the triangle sign, “Children at play.” I then drove past a red brick school a basketball court, a yard on the side, no playing kid in sight, past a large rose garden and then turned off up a gravel driveway. Not a soul in sight, no camera men, news reporters, a policeman on his guard.

Everything was quiet, yellow stripped and black tape was spun around all entrance points, a crime scene was to be protected. I glanced around making sure no one was around and then slipped under the tape pulled out the set of keys from my jacket pocket and slowly opened the door. I did not want to create a stir.
The wooden floor creaked as I walked passed the empty foyer through, the sitting room and into the study where rows of books surround one, enclosing everything but a small dusky window that let in little streams of light. I could still smell my father’s smell, the musty odder of cigars, his Old Spice aftershave that clogged up the nose. I imagined my father a little heavy-set his grey hair thinning, a trace of light spraying dust particles on his brown cleats.

The detective was looking for a book, a book by that famous author, the only reason I could think of is that they knew my father was in ownership of the book and wanting it for himself and noticing the real value of such a volume of work sought to steal it for himself. It made sense, perfect sense, and I being the sole inheritor of such a work would make me a target, vulnerable to those looking for quick money. Though I thought about the possibility that he was only working for someone.

I scanned the dark teak wooden shelves, the complete collection of Egyptian Artefacts and Relics chronicles in forty volumes, an entire list of ancient books. A copy of the Canterbury Tales laid weighted down by a black leather bound copy of twenty thousand leagues under the sea written by Jules Verne both priceless in their own rights. More dusty books, lines and rows, columns and inches of space filled up under sitting chair under the round brown table that held up a rustic reading light that had a naked bronze lady as a stand holding the bulb in one hand and clutching her pubic area in the other. Perhaps she shaved. My eyes scanned all the shelves, no sign of the book that the detective was looking for, of course it could have been hiding, but knowing my dad it would have been in plain view for all his guests to see, the perfect host showing them his new baby. But I couldn’t work it out as much as I tried. The place looked at first glance to be un-touched but the more I looked the more I realised that certain books were only out of place, like the American Almanac that was amongst the entire works of Shakespeare. Little Woman was sitting page open on the embroidered brown cushion chair—a strange occurrence. It never dawned on me when I picked up the phone and my dad’s death was confirmed that he was killed over his books, perhaps it had been a break in, that was what some reporters had been speculating though the police report on his death had not been released as of yet.

I checked everywhere and after a while I got tired and threw myself on the carpeted floor trying to piece everything that had happened, a father dies, then being accused of his death, and being held at gun point. A strange occurrence doesn’t happen everyday, at least not with me. And so I wondered what the hell to do next, I assaulted a detective, if I wasn’t a suspect I was now, forget about a break-in. I continued to look, over volumes, through the study, inside the room, desecrating the crime scene, putting my evidence on landing, on bathroom tap, on the wooden banister, all over cabinet handles, a roam around the garden my footprints left in dirt.

After a while I assumed there was nothing more to be done and so I climbed in the noiseless car and turned out of the driveway and onto the long stretch of motorway. I would drive home, forget the flying. The roadside lights shuddered on after a time the luminous reflection of the lamps on the windshield left a glare as I continued to drive a little short drizzle developing. I kept on driving, driving, with strange things filtering through my mind, 'over-thinking' again. Why did I hit the detective, that was obvious but why had he threatened me in the first place? I couldn’t even attend the funeral, no mourning black for me. I decided I’d go home and try to work things out. I’m sure they’d understand when I told them the story, not some silly story that the detective probably already made up by now. When I got home in the dark and parked my car down some isolated spot I realised that it was probably the wrong place to park it after riding the lift slowly up high floor levels. It was late, I slid the key into my door and threw myself on the couch, and first making sure I had taken the gun out of my jacket pocket and laid it on the glass coffee table.

I sat down on the couch and strangely enough thought of this story that I think my father told me when I was young. In 1953 a sheep farmer by the name of John Marley, was hammering wooden posts deep into the ground when suddenly from the sky a white bright oval shaped light sped past him and scuttled into a nearby field, where sheep lay idly grazing. He ran to the spot and was never heard of again. I remember that story, don’t know why. I reached over to the remote for the TV me being lazy never turned it off standby. The phone started to ring, the irritating wail, the high pitched cry. I listened to it ring five times before slowly making my way to the phone that was on wall. I picked it up, just to make the ringing stop.

It was dead on the other end. A prank call.

2.7 Books, Equations and a Virgin with a Gun

2007-03-02T13:12:00.000-08:00

I took another swig of the beer, swished it in my mouth, and then let the liquid slip down my throat. I felt my head, a terrible headache shot through my head.

“What the fuck?” Now I wasn't one for swearing, but the situation warranted it.

My detective had drawn what looked like a gun; he was pointing it straight at my head. “Now you listen here,” he shouted his trigger hand was shaking, new at the job. “I want you to tell me everything you know.”

“Everything I know?” I imagined shaking my head trying to get some sense out of the questions. Well I knew about accountancy, I knew that the square root of 3,289 was 57 rounded by the decimal point, I knew male belly dancers in Turkey were called rakkas and was apparently an old art form. I knew the capital of Burkina Faso was Ouagadougou and the language predominately spoken was French. I knew a man skilled in the sixty-four arts of Karma Sutra was looked upon with love by his own wife, by the wives of others, and by courtesans. I knew this; perhaps detective Ron Howard was interested in this.

Square root of 1? One of course.

And I knew I was standing in front of a man with a gun.

“Tell me where it is?”

I glanced down at the bottle that was in my right hand, my mouth was dying for a sip of the cold sparkling drink.

“Where what is…?”

“The book…!” The gun was nearing my head.

“Ummm,” I said. “What book?”

“Your father’s book.”

I know it wasn’t time to joke, but I found the situation funny, me dying for a drink, a gun raised to my head and a shaking detective looking for a book.

“Well my father has thousands of books…” I realised what I said and retracted my words, “Had thousands of books…had…”

“The book from that guy, that famous author…”

Why was the square root of one one? What was the reason for having positive and negatives, wholes, and halves, one’s and two’s, odds and evens? And why was a detective holding a gun at me, it seemed absurd.

Why was a virgin a virgin? I thought of this for a second, putting aside any questions to do with square roots or scientific measurements. Virginity refers traditionally to a person who has not yet engaged in penetrated sex, in the case of a woman vaginal intercourse. At times it’s sometimes used to describe someone who has not engaged in sexual activities in general. I was standing in front of a virgin with a gun, I could see it in his scared eyes, his shaking arms and bending knees. He never had to kill someone before, and from the look of him he had been told by whomever that he would no longer be left with such a title. Now it was strange perhaps that I referring to him as a virgin with a gun, but it sound logical, his hand nervously on what I assumed was a smith and Wesson, not because I had one but because I had seen it on numerous occasions in this thriller called, ‘Prism.’ Where John Manson, the guy with a mop of blonde hair, a chiselled jaw line and steal blue eyes refers to his gun as Mr. Smith, now this movie was rated as the number one worse movie of all times, but it didn’t stop me from remembering it, from remembering John Manson get up from his leather chair, neatly prop his mature Cuban cigar on the crystal glass ash tray and say the lines that I could never forget, “Have you met Mr. Smith?” And immediately the silver gun that was in his holster would be in his hand, finger on the trigger and the entire clip rattling out of the chamber. A mess of a body would be on the floor waiting for the cleaners to arrive.

He was no John Manson, I realised this.

Bottle + head + raised bottle + interaction with the head = a man lying unconscious.

Theoretically this would work, but the angle would have to be right, speed and velocity would have to be taken into equation as well what would the action equal other than a knocked out man. Loss of beer? Yes, but there was more in the fridge. Perhaps it would mean that if I knocked out this guy who assumed a role as a man of the law, I would end up in trouble with the law.

I would have to take the chance. I lifted the beer high in the air, it felt heavier than usual and smashed as hard as I could on the little man’s head. I remember his eyes, afraid, knowing if he pulled the trigger he could avoid it, avoid the crashing down of bottle and glass. He couldn’t pull the trigger, he never had it in him, never wanted to say stare into the eyes of another man and say, “Goodbye, I’m sorry I had to kill you.”

I discovered that Bottle + head + raised bottle + interaction with the head equals just that— a man lying unconscious. He was lying there still as ever, blood on his head the gun lying next to him on the floor, glass all around him, I still had the bottleneck in my hand.

I threw myself down on the couch where the detective once sat, now he was lying sprawled on the white carpeted floor.

“Book…?” I questioned myself. “Book…? B-o-o-k…?” What did a book have to do with anything, why would a book result with a gun being raised to the head? Why would John Manson use a gun? To protect himself, to revenge the killing of his red haired wife, his son and his little dog? I mean killing people was one thing, but a dog as well was asking for it. John Manson took on everyone he felt was responsible for the killings. There was a reason, he never raised a gun and said the word book that would have been daft.

I raised my leg and kicked him in the stomach just to make sure he was still knocked out cold. There was no reply, not even a little whimper or a, “Pardon me, but that is my stomach you are kicking, would you mind?”

What to do? I thought for what seemed like forever, the light from outside crept through the dirty yellow net curtains and splashed a bit of orange light on the head board of my bed. The radio is still whining on about another million displaced in some famine in a place that could be the moon as far as I was concerned. What about the moon? Where children dying there? Maybe I could give some money so I could ship some poor Martian kid a goat so that his family could survive and possibly start a farm to breed more Martian kids. Anything was possible.

The gun was on the floor. I took a moment to think of my actions, though I really didn’t know why I done such a thing, or why the gun was pointing in my direction in the first place. I shook my head.

It is the truth that testifies, I’ve built a rocket that will reach the sky, take time to consider my love, my body fits yours like a glove.

Who wrote lyrics to such songs? It was the pits, and the thumping bass and beat mixed with a screaming synth made it even worse. The voice was falsetto somewhere in between a male and female sound, a crackling filter was running through it. Now such a thing was clever, I had to give the music producer credit and if I had a hat I’d take it off and say, “Fair dues!” Opposite sexes could relate to such as song perhaps women would say it sounded more like a man’s voice, it was full-bodied well toned and sexual. And the male sex could also attach any fantasy to the voice that they might picture as a robust 18 year old who liked to grab the bull by the horns. This meant that at least two types of marketing positioning was in place, guarantying greater success in the difficult world of the music industry. Now Michael Jackson was testament of such, he disguised himself as his sister though still retaining his male characteristics set off to conquer the music industry Ultimately this would lift Janet Jackson’s crestfallen image though it would be interesting to see the result if she became white like Jacko.

Sometimes the world is irrelevant; everything you have been taught at an early age is only what your parent’s parents’ passed down before them. So what is there to believe then if you realise that everything you believe is really your parents passing down generations of belief. There comes a time in your life when you decide when you wake up one day and decide for yourself if what your parents taught you is true. Of course you can deduce certain things like maybe your father taught you to drive, told you where the hand brake is and when to use the clutch. You use the driving skills he passed down on you, therefore to you that is a truth. Now religion is an entire subject, which can leave the head in a muddle and cause one if not careful to get overly engaged in pragmatic arguments. Say you were a Catholic since an early age because your parents took you to mass where you said a thousand Hail Mary’s. Now some little Muslim boy may question your belief in a virgin and tells you Muhammad is someone that you should get into. Now who is right? Everyone as everyone things they are right, in their mind and in their parent’s mind their religion is the one true religion.

It was time to leave, enough speculating, it would be smart of me to leave the man on the floor and take his gun.

So I did just that.

2.6 "Where were You on the Night...?"

2007-03-02T13:05:00.000-08:00

“Tom… are you awake?” A voice called out, which was followed by a heavy bit of banging.

I groggily moaned some incoherent mumble towards the door.

The banging stopped.

The radio clock groaned. “It’s nine o’clock, and now the news with Tom Devon. The headlines: man arrested for drink driving was in the nude…”

It was too much for me to listen to such trivial things. I slowly got out of my wet bed, turned off the radio and then made my way towards the door.

“Eh, hello,” it was the pixy headed investigator; it looked like he picked up a few new pimples overnight. His face was covered in thick yellow puss.

He didn’t ask to come in, he just flew through the door, gave a disproving glance at the state of the room and then sat down on the old torn up couch that was covered in a pink flowery sheet.

“So,” he said folding his legs. “I have a few questions I have to ask you? Where were you on the night your father was murderer?”

Ummm... an interrogation, I thought

I kept on standing, put my hand on my hip and said, “When was my father murdered exactly?” It sounded comically even asking such a question; I knew precisely where I was that night, I was in bed, I drifted off to sleep counting sheep.

“A day ago…?” He questioned looking out of his rimmed glasses. Strange, even he was unsure.

“I was in bed. It took me four hours to get here by plane so you can assume I don’t live across the street.”

He grunted one of those Vietnamese Pot Bellied pig noises a deep low bellow that I had heard once in some rundown farm when I was a kid.

“But you could have flown to see your father than flown back.”

“Yes,” I replied. “It is quite possible; you know air travel makes anything possible these days.” I shrugged my shoulders, shuffled my feet towards the whining fridge and pulled out a beer. I didn’t even think of offering the detective one.

“You know you have been named in your father’s will as the sole beneficiary.”

“That’s news to me; you know wills are private affairs, family business.”

“It was vital to the case you have to realise that.”

“Realise what?” I sipped on the open bottle. “Realise that you are hinting that I am responsible for my father’s death so I can take his millions?”

“I never said that!”

I pointed my long index finger at him, raised my voice and said, “Realise this you piece of shit, you leave me and my family alone, I’ve come home to bury my father, I won’t have you poking around and making things worse for us. Can’t you let us mourn?”

“Calm down now, it’s only an investigation, you have to realise that we can’t leave a stone unturned.”

I felt like running up to him and strangling him on the spot, and then I could be charged with murder. There would be a reason then. A smug smile stretched my face as I envisioned the detective strangling, choking on his red leathery tongue, begging for mercy, screaming as I watched his brown glassy eyes pop out of his skull. Yes I was capable of murder, murdering him. I could see him now lying dead on the couch a little trickle of blood staining the carpet, a little scrub with Vanish carpet stain removal would solve the problem. Perhaps if I just neared him, I scuffled my feet forward.

“You listen here, detective whatever your name is…”

“Ron, detective Ron Howard…”

“I don’t care what your fucking name is; you leave me and my family alone or else…”

“Or else what?” he said bolting upright brushing the creases off his black suit that looked like he had purchased it from a second hand shop. It even smelt like mothballs.

I was staring into his little rimmed glasses, his breath smelt like aftershave, Old spice, a lovely aftershave which reminded me of my granddad still smelling of the musty stuff in his closing coffin. Why did the dead want to smell good, it wasn’t like anyone would go sniffing around his stiff, pale cold body, seeing if he smelt good?

I raised my hand high in the air, wanting to smack the little man for even suggesting I had a hand in my father’s death. A father is an important figure in a family; you don’t excuse a sibling of killing his father unless you have just cause. And it was only a wild imagination of his that would give him reason to believe I was the culprit of his death.

2.5 Grab Yourself A Beer and Listen to some Tunes

2007-03-02T12:55:00.000-08:00

The hotel room that I was staying at was small a little red lamp stood on the bedside locker. I had left the light on, the wall was covered in pink little flower wall paper the background was purple. Somewhere in side my head I saw my dad swimming in the sky saying something like it would be okay and that he would stay around for me. That was a load of rubbish I reached over for the bottle opener that somehow made its way underneath the bed. I tired to think how it got there. Perhaps evolution was involved or maybe he grew legs and walked casually under the bed. Perhaps the bottle opener was whistling some tune or maybe it was thinking of all its other bottle opener family that were waiting for him back home. His wife was probably a recovering alcoholic. It probably hated me, hated me for squeezing him and using him for my pleasure. I opened the bottle and put it to my mouth the warm liquid drained down my throat. I lied down under the green satin covers. There was a little radio in the corner of the room on top of the silent TV. “I never knew how much I loved you, Palm springs never looked the same without you.” The lyrics made my head spin, I watched the drink slip out of my hand and the beer slowly dripped out of the long bottle neck. I was going to smell like a drunk. It’s not everyday your father dies even though we were estranged at times I still called him father.

I couldn’t get it out of my head, how he died, where he died, when he died.

“If I had a prison I’d stick you in it…the sunlight needs no miracle to light your eyes.” I couldn’t get those lyrics from Harris Turner, they were strange lyrics almost enough to stick you in a coma and let you hear yourself be heard.

You die in blood and tears, for seven years the time in the night is almost over for the end is here.

Another rubbish song.

Who the hell came up with the lyrics?

My bottle was gone, the drink and everything. The covers I was hiding under were wet, I could feel the beer seeping through the covers, the bottle opener probably made it back to his family by now.

I don’t know when I fell asleep, but all I remember next is waking up with the light streaming through the window, a loud banging noise getting louder and the radio.

Don’t worry baby, don’t worry baby, I’m your man…baby…baby…oh baby…I’m your man.

2.4 Investigation

2007-03-02T12:39:00.000-08:00

I could not come to terms with his death; it was a strange and surreal experience. I did not want to go back to the house where I grew up and relieve my childhood memories. They were not bad memories just uneventful meaningless blimps on a radar screen. I would have to go back for the funeral, it was only right.

The flight was routine I slept through it.

When I arrived at the house it took forever to get from the driveway to the front door a gang of reporters jostled wildly with each other, while police nosed around the property it was still a crime scene, there was no way they would let me stay in side for the night.

When it finally hits you that the guy that helped conceive you from day one is dead it’s difficult. Sure he didn’t have to carry me around for nine months making sure to eat for two, though he already ate enough for two. He didn’t have that connection that all mothers are supposed to have with their children; he didn’t have that mothers love. But he was my father, and he was there for me more than my mother was. He taught me how to ride my first shiny red bicycle down the street, and when I got it down after a week he roared so everyone could hear him, “That’s my son!” and then I would proceed to crash into a roadside tree or get all nervous and the bike would mysteriously come up from under me.

He taught me how to drive, where the clutch, brakes and accelerator could be found. He taught me a lot of things; I guess he was a good dad. When things such as death occur you think a lot about silly things, like what was running through the persons mind at the time, did the person have anything to eat, how was their fridge stocked for food, did they step outside the front door to pick up the daily paper? Silly things like that seem to enter the mind, and then there’s the question as to what the person was wearing before the death, were they in the nude, had they just engaged in the act of sex. It was late so my dad was probably in his bed clothes and no sexual partner in his bed, though it was probably on his mind at the time.

“Hello,” the voice interrupted my thoughts momentarily. It was deep and gruff.

I replied, “Hi.” No need to even look up at the voice.

“We want to ask you a few questions, we could take you down to the station, but I think the hotel would suit better.”

“I made no arrangements for a hotel.”

“Everything has been taken care of no need to worry about a thing.”

My father is dead I think I should worry about that and the fact I can’t even step inside my families’ home. I think I should be worried. The way he died should worry me. He died helplessly in his sleep.

“I don’t want to talk now,” I replied raising my head, a short balding man with brown eyes and a wrinkled grubby white shirt just about covering his belly.

He grunted loudly, “We only want to ask a few questions.”

I was having none of it. “I will answer no questions, not for the media and not for you.”

“But…but…”

“I want to be left alone, can’t you respect that.”

“It is needed for the investigation.”

“I sure hope you’re not the one leading this investigation.”

He grunted again, “Yes I am along with Sergeant Barker.”

I shook my head, and imagined the speckled grease stains next to his chest pocket on his shirt was oil stains and a red smudged stain was ketchup that oozed out of low fat burger.

2.3 Let's Ring Someone

2007-03-02T07:50:00.000-08:00

All that day I did nothing like every other day.

Pakis, Arabs, Caucasians, and Blacks did not know how I felt I tried not to think about dad, about his death, about finding a job, about calling Beth and ask if I could sleep with her one last time to comfort me in my remorse. I was with her for two years, I thought maybe I could talk to her. I had to talk to someone.

I don’t know how it happened but it wasn’t long before I was talking to her, trying not to cry though she had seen my sensitive side once and that was when we broke up.

“Beth,” my voice must have sounded shaky.

“Are you ok, I haven’t heard from you in ages?”

I blurted it out, “My father’s dead, I think he’s been murdered…”

She gasped a gasp similar to when she was climaxing. “Are you ok?”

What do you think, of course I’m not ok, I felt like roaring down the phone, but she did not deserve that. I would save my anger for a greasy hot dog vendor, crying children, an overweight bus driver that had been glued to public transport and the list went endlessly on.

I said nothing, she said nothing.

“I can come over if you want?”

I smiled, I would have liked that very much, but I couldn’t trust myself with her, and it wouldn’t be right on George. George was her new man, ten years her senior balding, greying hair a real suit and tie man.

“No,” I shook, “I’ll be ok, just want to talk to someone.” If I wanted to talk to someone I would have just dialled any random number.

“Hello,” I would have said, “I want to talk to you about my father’s death. Do you have time?”

“Get lost you fucking freak!”

“But…but…”

“If you ever ring this number again I’ll get the frigging cops on you do you fucking hear!”

We stopped talking, I ripped the phone out of the socket, she wouldn’t be coming by, I felt terrible, the bed would be my only comfort.

A nationwide hunt had gone underway for the murderer of Mr James Caldwell. No stone would be left unturned, nothing would go unnoticed.

2.2 News

2007-03-02T07:42:00.000-08:00

The price war was over and my dad was declared the winner. The grand prize of the book worked out to be a cool two and a half million. Proof of its authenticity was declared. Publicity is a good thing and maybe my dad secretly had realised this and had gambled with this and it worked out in his favour. Steven Spielberg’s company wanted to buy the rights for his story and numerous other propositions had been raised by other interested parties. It was an exciting time for my dad he was very wealthy now and a variety of new and interesting doors were being opened to him.

When such prospects are opened little things change like supermodels wanting to come over for sleepover and unlimited amount of cocktail parties held in your honour. Little things make life easier like a mortgage being wiped off your house, access to the finest property worldwide. New friends are available and religion such as Scientology welcomes you in with open arms. Sometimes I wished I was rich, my father had turned his gamble into a gold mine.

It was late, I checked my watch, 3am in the morning and I couldn’t sleep something was bothering me, I knew it, I neared the widow. Traffic still rushed below though I couldn’t’ see much but dots below and city lights. Some thing told me to ring my dad. I checked my watch. There was a time difference by three hours it would still be late for me to call. I had to call. I crawled out of bed, hardly even bothering to look out in front of me. I found the phone about a minute later and lazily dialled the number. No tone, nothing. Strange. After dialling a few times, I gave up and went to bed; there was no point worrying about it.

It was all over the news the next day as I sat glued to the TV with a bowl of cornflakes in my hand, the milk tasted like it was sour. “Man dies in his house!” the news presenter shouted out from the box. He was wearing a green tie which did not go with his salmon pink shirt. Who in God’s name dressed him? The house was on a high embankment, surrounded by tall green leafy trees. A garage with a black door was on the right of the house. The main building was a two storey bungalow, red brick house. A conservatory had been recently built at the back. A row of geraniums and tulips were starting to blossom in the garden. The phone started to scream.

“Hello?” It was my mom

“Hi, mom,” I replied, I hadn’t heard from her in ages.

“Are you watching the news?” her voice started to shake, it sounded like she had been crying. It had been a while since I heard her let alone cry.

“Are you ok?” I asked, my voice starting to shake, not knowing what she was going to tell me. Obviously the news would not be good. I thought of my cornflakes soaking in the chipped bowl. They would be soggy when I got back to them. I did not enjoy soggy cornflakes. I thought what it could be, something had visibly shaken her up. Was it Rice, her little brown and white terrier, had she died? I remembered briefly the dog pottering around the kitchen when I last saw mom. That was ten years ago and I briefly remembered that the dog had cancer and was given a month to live. Rice had probably died and gone to doggie heaven years ago.

“It’s your dad,” she finally spit it out, “He’s dead!”

It suddenly hit me; the house was our house, the house I had grown up in. The house that dad had worked so hard for.

“Dead…?” I questioned not believing it.

“Yes…I…I…” She couldn’t speak anymore. She was sobbing uncontrollably; I never heard her sound so terrible - like a sick dying cat.

I wanted to fall unto the floor immediately, I didn’t care if I hit my head off the wall or split up skull. Dad was dead; nothing would bring him back, nothing.

2. My Dad and Lucky People

2007-03-02T07:05:00.000-08:00

I woke up on Tuesday, a normal occurrence for a Tuesday, the phone was ringing in the hall. It could have been two people calling, only two people called my house phone, my mum and my dad.

“Hello,” the voice replied on the other. It was a deep throated voice, male in his late sixties, an egotistical bastard—my father.

“Hi dad, why are you ringing me?”

“Can a father ring his son anymore? Jesus what’s the world coming to?”

“So how are you dad,” I replied not wanting to humour him.

“I’m good; your mother came by the other day to pick some of that junk of hers that she had been storing in my shed for over twenty years. What even entered her head to think of using it now?”

I shook my head, I never knew what to say to my dad anymore, it seemed like every time we talked we had the same conversation a thousand times.

“You find a job yet?”

“No nothing yet, no wants to employ a stock analyst anymore.”

He yawned a loud hold nothing back type of yawn, like a lions roar.

“So how’s mum?” I had always been close with her, though that was twenty years ago.

“You know her, she’ll be happy doing anything. She teaches Yoga down in some gym, still with that vegetarian.”

I wondered why dad even bothered to talk with me, we had always been very distant, it was a wonder we were talking at all.

“You seen that someone is going to publish that unfinished book of that writer?”

I could have guessed that guy would enter the conversation. I shook my head, “Can we talk about something else?”

“The originals are going up on eBay.” He ignored me. “I put a bid on it,”

It was a surprise that my dad was anyway interested though he had introduced me to the writer; his library was full of signed copies and special limited editions. If he could he would have purchased the same air that Charles Neville breathed.

“How much did you put down for it?”

“750,000…”

“What…?” I gripped the phone tightly. That was probably all the inheritance money that would have passed down to me.

“If that’s not enough, I’m going to re-mortgage the house…”

“What?” I was livened now. Was he senile? “Dad, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I know, I know it’s another crazy thing that has entered my head, but I want that copy so bad, do you know how much value that will add to my collection?”

“Do you know where you’ll put your collection of books when you realise that your house has been repossessed? Forget about even thinking of moving into your car, they’ll repossess that too.”

“I sold the car,” he chuckled, finding no seriousness in the situation.

“And why did you go and do that?”

“I needed to so I could have a nice round figure of 750,000.”

“Why didn’t you just put down a million to begin with that would have been more logical.” I roared down the phone.

“You know that’s a really good idea,” I heard the phone banging off something and then silence, my dad had gone to get a pen to write down my no brainer.

“So did you say one million?”

I was tempted to cut him off then and there.

“Dad, do whatever you want with your money,” I said.

“I’m doing this for you son, when I’m gone I want you to live a comfortable life.”

What good would books do to make my life more comfortable? It didn’t make any sense spending all the savings on a book.

I looked at the biscuit tin clock on the wall. A makeshift clock that I had made when I was twelve, other boys my age were burning Barbie’s and torturing scrawny Pete in an imaginary underground bomb shelter. Pete would be screaming in the dark as his captors shouted, “Tell us where Osama Bin Laden is hiding, and we won’t take away your manhood! Tell us!”

It was time to go.

“Dad, I have an interview in half an hour I have to get ready now.” Lie.

“Ok I’ll leave you, don’t be a stranger you hear. Come over any time…”

That’s if you still have a house when your crazy bidding war is over, I felt like shouting down the receiver, but I didn’t, I could never do that to my dad.

Life had funny ways of dealing with you. There are two types of people those who are lucky and those who are not. My father was one of those lucky ones.

There were secrets for lucky people.

Secret #1. Lucky people don't believe in luck.

Apparently my dad didn’t believe in luck either.

Secret #2. "Bad" stuff happens to them too.

My dad had his fair share of problems. He separated amongst other things.

Secret #3. More people quit than lose.

My dad lost a fortune in the Asian financial crash, he went back to small investments even after everyone else folded and admitted bankruptcy

Secret #4. Betting on losing hands makes losers.

My dad never gambled with money that he knew he was going to lose. Never.

Secret #5. Most good luck comes through other people.

My dad knew people, a rake of people this meant that his chances of success were heightened. And he made sure he knew the right sort of people.

Secret #6. Good luck favours those who have prepared.

My dad was well educated, knew what he wanted and planned long and hard, he expected results.

Secret #7. You can attract good things, too.

When people see your success they come to you. They see the fruits of your labours and they trust you with their money this in turn means that you will profit off them.

I should have known from his future success he would come out the top dog in this one. Just this time it seemed like he had lost it.

The bidding war lasted a week as it specified that the bidding would only be open for a week. TVs all over the world beamed out the news. Profiles were done of all the important bidders; my father was one of them. His home was run over with journalists, one would think they were UFO enthusiasts camped outside the house and spilling onto the road. It didn’t bother my dad; he would have offered them all into his place for the three daily meals if only he knew how to cook for himself. TV dinners were designed for him.

1.9 Murder and Tom Cruise

2007-03-02T06:49:00.000-08:00

Charles had his daily cup of coffee, the granulated kind without milk and with fake sugar, and ten spoons just so it would be sweet. He took up his position by the teak desk that he always sat behind and wrote his latest books. It was some kind of mad quest for him, an inborn habit, a manic depressive writer of sorts. He liked being in full view of the large glass windows from there he cold look out at the freshly cut lawn and the perfectly kept trees that lined the driveway. When he was in need of fresh inspiration he would go down to the city park pick his favourite bench near the water and write. Sometimes an adult like kid who amused him with his dwarfishness would throw bread out to the ducks, the crows ended up with a full bread belly.

Today he would write in his own home outside the city, it felt like a writing day, the sun was shinning and all appointments had been cleared. Mrs. Neville had been treated to a day in a health spa; the brats were away at St. Mary’s boarding school. He was happy with himself as he wrote line after line on a pad that he kept on filling. He was an old fashion writer, he didn’t believe in typing it out on a computer, ink and paper suited him better. However being an old fashioned writer didn’t stop him from getting someone else to type it for him, after all that was what being a famous writer was all about. After writing at a furious amount he stood up and looked outside the window. Mr Henson the gardener was out moving the lawn for what was probably the hundredth time in the month, the grass could have done with a rest. The red satin curtains framed the old windows, highlighting the grandeur of the writers status.

Ten hours later Charles Neville was found in the shower bludgeoned to death.

The news came as a shock to the literary world as well as the entire universes somewhere in mars a few martins sat around sipping Sex on the Moon discussing the death of a literary genius.

It was constantly on the news; the bare breasted news channel presenter looked emotionally traumatised by the entire events. Did her mother ever tell her that you have to get to know people first before taking off your top? There was no exploration for her boyfriend he that already met her tits before he met the woman who owned them. Newspapers bore the news in their bold highlighted font.

The pope flew in for the funeral even though there were a few things that Charles Neville and the pope disagreed on. Bono was there, got to add a few words about clearing world debt and to mentioned his new world tour dates. The usual crowd pleasers turned up, Rick Marty sporting his tight ball hugging denim jeans, Britney Spears appeared who had recently come out of hiding after nine years, and her children were still in child protection. Tom Cruise, who had eaten all his children’s umbilical cords and didn’t look any better for it, turned up to promote The Return of Mission Impossible.

The media had turned the entire thing in to a fiasco; a popular magazine bought the rights to the funeral meaning they were the only ones that could take pictures of such an event and if anyone else decided that they would take even one photograph they would be sued every day of their natural life. Even thinking of taking a photo might lead to arrest a fine or even a stint in prison.

It was common knowledge that it was no accident or suicide. If a man has three stab wounds in the heart and one on each side of his back one assumes that it was murder not self mutilation. Now Charles may argue that if disassociation of gravity was employed such a thing was possible but a lot of people knew that a lot of what he disapproved in his books was just really good writing and not much truth could be found in such thoughts. Though thoughts such as his were written so well that people ended up concluding at the end of each book that he indeed knew what he was talking about and the there was truth in his musings.

1.8 In Pursuit of Knowledge

2007-03-02T06:15:00.000-08:00

When I got home that night and crashed out on my bed with a bottle of Bud I realised that the casual equation of a bunny rabbit’s jump was 5 by the root of x squared. Samantha now that was a nice thought , I closed my eyes forgetting about the bottle that was most probably spilling all over my sheets. I thought of doing an equation and figuring out what made her move, what made her hips swing. Perhaps if I worked out the speed and divided that by time . I was an idiot . A stupid one at that, who could have still been in the company of Samantha. I let the word spill out, "Sam-an-tha!" Each vowel sounded like a burst of energy a pop of a cork, a gentle burst of air.

"Or you can call me Sam." I heard her say, though she was nowhere to be seen. Now why did I always become infatuated with a girl just after meeting her? I had developed such a problem from an early age, around about sixteen when I had a crush on Alison and she kissed me. I vowed from then on that I would marry her. We would go grey together. Ten years later she married a millionaire. I think it was for his money. I closed my eyes, thinking of the hips, thinking about aliens, spilling my beer and not caring. I had her number and I was going to call her.

I woke up with a headache, the world seemed larger than it ever had. It took me what seemed like hours to walk just a few feet to the bathroom. Why have headaches. My certain audacity the previous night had disappeared. Looking into the mirror I decided that calling Samantha would only mean that I was desperate. And I was. I would play the waiting game as all good stratigest would. How long I could last would depend on my nerves. If I played it right I would have her. Though the thought of if I hadn't messed things up with her in the first place I would be in the right place. A perfect opportunity wasted. I got dressed, had a bowl of muesli with banana chips and raisins and then I headed to the library.

People who hear voices was my first call of research. They had a large section of books; a lot of them were in the psychology section, though there was a small corner of the large library devoted to the topic of over-thinking. Dr. Jacques Phebes was some unknown theorists from what I read from other authors. The librarian recommended that I read, “Voices and the Alembic Study of the Human Brain.”

I turned to page 59. And read.

In the true sense of the word the human brain is capable of greatness. Human kind have been pursuing the highest state of knowledge. No one pertains full human awareness. Awareness develops at an early stage. Funnels and buckets entertain such knowledge, the brain has a series of intertexture particles and this must be unlocked for complete attainment. Monks are the only ones that have come close to achieving human perfection, deities are a perfect example of what a complete human being could pertain, but the knowledge doesn’t exist. Different various memory techniques, such as the Gobler technique and the Mahler theory are all instruments in pertaining fulfilment. This is all covered in pervious chapters.

As of yet I have not perceived the path to higher achievement. I cannot understand why a cow is satisfied in only eating grass, if some chemical was to be released in such a grazing animal perhaps certain functions could be triggered.

Voices inside the mind release certain triggers inside the brains neurological path that releases toxins that change the functionality of the brain. This makes the mind able to command the brain to perform extraordinary feats.

I skipped a few pages.

These voices could be aliens or a connection with another world…Perhaps aliens may in the future use this as a form of mind control…aliens…aliens…aliens.

I put the book down. I had enough of such nonsense it was time to stop my quest of higher knowledge of the subject and go home.

1. 7 Mrs. Haven

2007-03-02T06:09:00.000-08:00

The sky is dark, the bright yellow sun has gone down. Not a sound is heard coming from a semi-detached house. The neighbours frantically bang on the door, try to peer into the window searching for some life inside. Mrs Haven, a grey haired old woman with a slight limp due to fact that she carries her dachshund with her whenever her two legs carry her around is the occupant of this brick house. She has not been seen in weeks. She always keeps to herself, though she would be spotted occasional peering out her window or hobbling around her concrete garden.

A worried neighbour gets on the phone and rings the police, it’s about time someone checks up on the person who lives in 148 New Grove Road. There is no life inside, no light can be seen. A squad car pulls up with flashing blue and red lights. A tall officer turns the ignition off, gets out of the car, slams the door behind him and talks with the concerned crowd. The cop is stupid, doesn’t realise he needs a warrant to even think of entering the house. He knocks a few times, no answer. He peeks through the window; the curtains are drawn so he cannot make out what is going on inside if anything. He tells everyone to go back inside and that he has everything under control. A few days later he comes back with the all important document saying that he can gain access to the place. There is this musty smell that bites into the stomach. There’s a body dressed in a green flowery dress on the floor in the sitting room – its dead Miss Haven her little skinny brown, glum faced dog stands guard. There was going to be no investigation, the corners report was that the woman died of starvation.

1.6 Bananas and Rotten TV

2007-02-03T09:38:00.000-08:00

When I got home, I threw myself on the worn leather brown couch and without thinking turned on the TV. Nothing on. I flipped through the channels, TV was shockling bad. A mouse was running on a wheel on one show, it was named whiskers and the clock on the bottom right corner of the screen said that he had been running on his wheel for thirty minutes. Change of channel a man dressed in red and black plumes and with a beak was running around a chicken farm causing the clucking chickens that were contently pecking at the ground to scatter in all directions. Terrible TV. And the more I flicked the worse it got.

I thought of Samantha, thought of how I messed things up, thought of the bit of paper in my pocket with her number.

If a girl gives you her number what does that mean? What does a number signify? A number as in a telephone number was a way in which someone could be reached, a personal number that someone had so you could get in direct contact with them. Was this what she wanted? Did she want to meet again? Was this her way of saying, “I find you attractive, let’s meet again.” But I didn’t think she would want to meet again as I had acted like a jerk without realising it, though I had been a jerk nonetheless. It was confusing. Terribly confusing. I scratched my head just above my ear which was located on the right side of my head. A favourite place of mine to itch.

Now let’s be logical, I thought, you have a condition that few people have called over- thinking. You found this out today. You went to your favourite café, met a girl named Samantha, she told you she was studying extraterrestrial studies, you were invited back to her apartment, you started to think too much, you freaked out, she gave you her number, and then you bolted. I mean being told you have some strange and unusual disease and then meeting a girl who is learning to speak Alien doesn’t happen often. Come to think of it I never heard of it happening to anyone before.

I realised at once what was the problem and why I was not still in Samantha’s touching her soft skin and smelling sweet perfume off the nape of her neck. I would still be there if it wasn’t for my over thinking. And that was worrying me. I thought about the prescription and the regime that I would have to undergo if I was to tackle my problem. I laughed out loud, a large “Haaahaaa!” split out of my mouth. It sounded so absurd, I shook my head, rattled it for a second thinking I could somehow cause my brain to revert back to its normal way of thinking, but it didn’t seem to work.

I flicked the channel to a show where a tanned short man with a bushy moustache was standing next to a bunch of bananas explaining the basics, “Banana is the common name used for herbaceous, cultigenic plants in the genus Musa, which, because of their size and structure, are often mistaken for trees. Bananas are green when they are picked, yellow when they are ripe, and brown or black when they rot. Bananas are cultivated for their fruit which bear the same name, and to a lesser extent for the production of fibre and as ornamental plants. Bananas are of the family Musaceae. Globally, bananas rank fourth after rice, wheat and maize in human consumption; they are grown in 130 countries worldwide, more than any other fruit crop. Bananas are native to tropical southeastern Asia but are widely cultivated in tropical regions. In popular culture and commerce, "banana" usually refers to the soft, sweet "dessert" bananas that are usually eaten raw. The bananas from a group of cultivars with firmer, starchier fruit, generally used in cooking rather than eaten raw, are typically known as plantains. Bananas may also be dried and ground into banana flour.”

Televison was rubbish, I had decided that there and then. I flicked the TV off, threw the remote down and slowly walked towards my bedroom where I would sleep for as long as possible so I could rest my head. If only I could somehow switch off like a TV, now that sounded good.

1.5 Aliens and Tea

2007-01-26T13:41:00.000-08:00

It was still bright outside, though the sun had already begun its slow descent into the night. I followed her past the line of scented lemon trees and over a wall. I told myself not to panic and just follow the axe murderer to her secret location.

Now in my head various thoughts were forming which was probably not uncommon for an 'over-thinker'. One was do you sleep with the girl the first time and secondly do I hear voices? Now sleeping with the girl the first time you were introduced to her had resulted in problems the girl after partaking in the act of sex would probably figure that I was only interested in sex. This was true in some situations, anyone could admit that there were times that they just needed a good lay and admitting this was not shallow but truthful. Menstruation hindered sex, I knew this, clever boy. I was thinking about sex due largely to her bottom that was swaying two feet in front of me, hypnotising me saying, “Come to me you know you want it!” Now that brings me to the notion of hearing voices. I didn’t know, though I did know I made up voices in my head, which was ultimately my voice but I gave them accents, a speech impediment at times humoured me.

Did aliens exist? The whole question went way over my head; I followed the great pair of legs, over another crumbling wall down a little worn path with bits of dirt and gravel. I looked at a pair of footprints that lay off to the side in the mud. Aliens, I suggested to myself. I kept on walking, following further down the path, a few trees led off to the side, more footprints. I was never a tracker before, not even in my previous life, but I had instinct, I knew that if I would follow those footprints they would lead me to a UFO crash site, aliens would be arguing over how to fix the ship so they could get back to their planet. I shook my head, it would lead me to no spaceship, I would probably discover a student crashed out down some alleyway slumped on the floor stoned out of his mind.

Did aliens have passports? I watched my feet walking out in front of me, as I continued to follow lovely legs.

“Samantha,” I said. No reply.

“Samantha!” I shouted this time.

“Yes,” she spun around. “You don’t have to shout.”

“Sorry, I just had a question, do aliens have passports and do they have a previous life?”

She giggled, “You do come up with some silly questions.”

I frowned; I could’ve dropped to the ground then and there and laughed about her story and how she had dedicated her life to studying aliens. My questions were not silly, they were highly logical.

I had to explain myself. “Well for example an alien can’t just go wherever the hell it wants to without a pass or permission to travel to such a place.”

“And who told you this?” she smirked.

“No one, it’s just logical that you can’t go wherever you like without the proper documentation, maybe some places do not treat aliens very nicely.”

She smiled, the both of us standing on the worn out path, I had never been in such a place before. And that brought me to the question of the previous life.

“Was an alien someone else before they were conceived, do they have to be conceptually conceived to live?”

She looked puzzled, her eyes widened.

“Say, I think I was an alien in my previous life. Could an alien have been a human in his previous life?”

“Ha-ha,” She was laughing at me now, I had never laughed at her notions. “Doctor Bates, you tell me!”

I smiled, “Well if I was an alien in my previous life, couldn’t I somehow unlock that bit of information and somehow retrieve such information?”

It was a thought, a stroke of genius on my part.

She didn’t seem too sure, perhaps she thought I was just playing along with her and I really thought she was insane and I thought it was my duty to mankind to take her on as a charity case.

“Come on,” she spun around, “there’s no point standing here. Let’s go back to my place and we can continue the conversation.”

The building was tall, it sat on a green hill, a number of other buildings surrounded it. I swore upon seeing the grey building cluttered with windows that it was some sort of modern leaning tower of Pisa. A few people were hanging around on the green; it was well kept for a student place. The lift was broken, which was typical. The ground floor was cluttered with rusty bicycles and empty bottles that would never make it to the bottle bank. My eyes followed Samantha up the old wooden staircase that probably had all sorts of bugs boring holes in the woodwork.

I moaned, the walk had been long enough and now stairs. “Don’t worry,” she said skipping up the stairs, “we’re nearly there.”

Twenty flights later we were there.

The room was small, one large couch took up the room, a TV sat on a table at the corner of the room, a large window let in the light and a scene below. I could see a lot of the city from here, the stadium wasn’t too far away, government buildings were a collection of toys. Samantha was making a lot of noise in the kitchen, probably getting the mugs together for tea; I could hear the kettle loudly boiling.

“Do you take sugar?” She shouted out.

“No!”

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

Everything went dead quiet. No sound was heard coming from the kitchen.

“Umm, Samantha?” I called out.

“Yes,” she replied opening up the door to her room. She was holding a tray with two mugs, a teapot and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Spoons were also included. She sat the tray down on the coffee table and then jumped wildly on to the bed.

“So,” she said. “Let’s talk about aliens, you know you’re the first person I meet that's actually interested in what I do, and I might even get you interested in coming back to college. Some of the things you talk about are quite interesting, maybe you could research it.”

I sensed a hint of sarcasm there, but I wouldn’t say anything to it.

“Belief in extraterrestrial life,” I said, “when were they first mentioned in our history?” A little quiz for her.

“The first important Western thinkers to argue systematically for a universe full of other planets and, therefore, possible extraterrestrial, possible extraterrestrial life were the ancient Greek writers Thales and his student Anaximander in the 7th and 6th centuries B.C.E. The atomists of Greece took up the idea, arguing that an infinite universe ought to have an infinity of populated worlds. Ancient Greek cosmology worked against the idea of extraterrestrial life in one critical respect, however: the geocentric universe, championed by Aristotle and codified by Ptolemy, privileged the Earth and Earth-life (Aristotle denied there could be a plurality of worlds) and seemingly rendered extraterrestrial life impossible. The Egyptians may have suggested a belief in extraterrestrial life, though the supernatural and the notion of aliens is difficult to distinguish from that of gods, deities, and such."

I coughed on my tea. A lot of information there. "Here’s the thing and just off the top of my head, why am I not an alien?”

“Because you are from this world are you not?”

“Yes.” I tried to remember where I was before I was born, couldn’t. “I think I am.”

“Your mother gave birth to you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you're not an alien but of this world.” Her language sounded very archaic.

“But I am an alien to other life forms, if life does exist outside of our world.”

“What are you getting at?”

I raised the cup of tea to my mouth it burnt my hands; she was already digging into the biscuits that looked like they were reserved for guests.

I replied, “I don’t know trying to sound educated I guess.”

“You’re not doing a good job of it,” she laughed.

“No?”

“No.”

“Do aliens have souls?”

“Souls…?” She stopped munching on her biscuit. Any more questions from me and she would be choking in my arms.

“And do they have brains?”

“What do they wear when they go out for the night?”

“Do they enjoy sex?”

She took a sip of tea smiled and then said. “Do you want to find out?”

“What are you an alien?”

“Yes,” she giggled. “Born on planet Ziqar and was sent to repopulate the earth.”

“Hmm.” I laughed I knew where this was heading; she started to bounce on the bed, yet she remained seated. I should have played along but I said, “What accents do your voices have?” Perfect opportunity destroyed.

“Eh?” She wanted it to go somewhere.

Stupid me, I realised it at once though there was no back tracking at least not in my mind.

“They’re just like ordinary voices,” She shrugged her shoulders and shoved another biscuit into her mouth the crumbs falling on the bed.

Do aliens have souls?

Do buildings have souls?

I slapped my head with my hand. Stupid me thinking stupid thoughts, think about the girl sitting on the bed, think, think, think.

Why are aliens green?

Why are vegetables green?

Do souls have a brain?

I think I was coming to something. In western civilisation people believed that they had a soul, the soul needed a body to survive, however what happened when the body died? The soul would have no brain therefore what good is a conscience if it has no brain? The relation dawned on me suddenly that humans needed the body to be joined with their soul after death thus resulting in perhaps the soul taking over the bodily functions and somehow charging the brain. If this was true then bodies would still be useful, but would it be morally acceptable. What if aliens stole our souls, what then? Would life cease to exist or would it be a form of mind control? I shook my head, really gave it a good rattle, but still no sense could be seen.

Over-thinking.

Why does a duck take to water? Why does it like the water? Why couldn’t I do what a duck did, why couldn’t I float endlessly on? It was strange, I imagined myself sitting on the bed a giant duck, sipping it’s tea and dreaming of setting sail like a boat out on the ocean. I looked at Samantha, she was a green bug eyed alien, clucking, and hitting her tongue off the roof of her mouth, making strange and unusual sounds.

Where was God in all this peculiarity, why did I continue to exist? Why did I develop an over imaginative brain. Perhaps I had always had such an imagination I thought of the time when I was small and my hair was beach blonde and being taken to the zoo for the first time. The penguins terrified me. They looked like soldiers dressed in tuxedos - soldiers in a battlefield dressed like they were ready to go to a ball. The monkeys made me shake and the lions seemed to whisper that if I came any closer to the bars they would have as a starter before their main course. The main course turned out to be the warden.

Now in my mind God could have been anything, a sheep for all I mattered he held no real image in my mind. Why did pictures always portray God as an old bearding man, and why did he always stay old? Was he ever young? And did anyone ever manage to get a picture of him? If someone was able to take a portraiture shot of God they would be rich. Somewhere a tabloid photographer was chasing up the sighting of God, he was probably somewhere in Himalayas.

“God…?”

“Yes,” he replied somewhere inside my brain. “Are you an alien?”

Samantha just sat there sipping her tea, embracing the silence.

“Why are biscuits that are made with chocolate pieces called chocolate chips?”

“Umm, you tell me?”

“Eh? Do you want more tea?” It was Samantha, interrupting me.

“Ok,” I replied, holding out my cup.

“You are strange,” she blurted out. She watched my eyes as she poured the tea. “What made you decide to be an analyst?”

“My father made me decide said it was the best option for me. I agreed with him at the time. Though come to think of it I could have been a baker or a janitor and he would have thought it was a good career opportunity.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a janitor.” The cup was filling up; if she didn’t stop pouring it would be burning a hole through my pants.

“When!” I said. “When!” The tea was getting dangerously close to scolding my balls.

“Huh?”

“WHEN…?!!” I shouted desperately.

She looked down at the cup of tea, grunted nervously and said, “Oh!” The pouring stopped; I brought the cup to my mouth and started to sip.

There was nothing in the room to say that Samantha had a fascination for aliens, not even a plastic alien on the windowsill. I was skeptical, like she was having me on so I feigned silence, until it was time to go. I only said the word, “Goodbye!”

She reached over to a pen on her bedside table, tore out a scrap of paper and quickly scribbled something on it. Then she slipped it in my pocket. I left through the front door without a word down the steps and through the little path I had followed her.

1.4 Small Talk Over Coffee

2007-01-26T12:57:00.000-08:00

When I arrived at my regular cafe everything was quiet. A giggling couple sat in the centre of the cafe sipping on espressos, occasionally puffing away on cigars. The smoke traveled through the air englufing the little place in a thick sweet fog. Immediately my eyes were drawn to the corner of the room where a woman sat trying to escape the smoke. Her blonde hair hinted reds and brown and her eyes jumped out at mine. She noticed my gawking though she looked away hiding her face behind her cappuccino.

I thought about my condition about 'over-thinking' about what were the side effects of the medicine. Would it leave me paralysed in the leg or my eyes dropping out of my head?

I found myself standing in front of her table not knowing why I had the nerve to go over to her let alone to open my mouth and say, "Hello." I spotted the book that she was reading immediately the book was by Charles Neville she was on page one hundred and thirty-two. My mind did not think of asking why was a blonde reading such a book, blonde jokes or statements for that matter were beyond me. The book told me she was somewhat intellectual for a Charles Neville book was all about equations and theories that built the world. What he did was set out on a journey to disprove a lot of what was deemed common sense. Sometimes I felt no point in reading his works but his hypotheses were so out there and interesting that I couldn't ignore his writing.

She turned the page with her long red varnished nails.

Page 133— The Dissolution of Newton’s Law. Theory of Truth

In Newton’s time gravity was taken for granted. It was Newton that defined it and gave it a name, not that he invented it, no it was always there. Now that chapter was the most confusing because my mind also knew that gravity could not be disproved. A dog would not be able to urinate on a lamppost without the aid of gravity, nor would he be able to walk with its paws on the pavement. The act of sex would be a problem, though Karma Sutra would be an interesting proposition. Now gravity was needed without it everything would float away, the water would surge towards the heavens and killer sharks and humpback whales would be completely baffled if they had to swim in the sky. Charles argued that there was such a thing as switching gravity on and on off through various mechanisms known as combustion of gravity. Her eyes were a distraction, green like a cucumber, though I don’t know why a cumber entered my head at that precise moment. She sat there a little white sticky bun in one hand and a cup of steaming coffee in the other.

“Charles Neville,” I said referring to the name of the author of the book.

“Charles Neville,” she retorted, “I thought he’d look a little older. I’m Samantha by the way, nice to meet you Charles.” She smiled a great big smile, I could get used to waking up every day to that smile.

I didn’t deject to being called Charles at least for the time being she could think of me as a crazy intellectual who wrote such confusing theories that they were deemed good.

“So I see you like reading,” she said smiling her smile. “I’ve noticed you here before. Quite a cosy place, though I don’t see it as being a typical hangout of a blue collar worker.”

“Yeah,” I replied suddenly feeling conscience of where I was. I started to look strangely out of place.

“Never mind me, I’m just trying to wind you up.” She must have noticed I was standing. “Why don’t you take a seat with me and I’ll treat you to a coffee.”

“No, I’m ok.”

“Look,” she said raising her voice, “I’m the one offering, you can’t refuse a good looking girls offer, it would be considered impolite.”

I accepted her offer and sat down in the seat next to her. She signalled with some sort of reassigned hand signal to the long haired man who was trying desperately to cut an apple pie into a perfect nine. No doing mate.

“I’m Tom Bates,” I spurted out, not willing to go on with the pretences, though I knew she could tell that I was not a best-selling author.

She smiled as the act of cutting apple pie into a symmetrical slice was being transformed. “So you’re not an author?” She asked mocking.

“No nothing as interesting as that.”

“Then what are you?”

“I was a financial analyst.”

"Was?"

"Got fired yesterday, but it's ok I hated it." I really didn't a job was a job.

“So what did the financial analyst do?”

“It is boring work really. I worked in an investment bank, reading company financial statements and analysing commodity prices, sales, costs, expenses, and tax rates in order to determine a company's value and project future earnings. I regularly met company officials to gain a better insight into the company's prospects and to determine managerial effectiveness. It was my job to keep abreast of new regulations or policies that would affect the industry, as well as monitor the economy to determine its effect on earnings.”

She scrunched up her nose and gave me an expressionless look, “So you really are boring then,” she giggled. “Do you know how stuck up you sound when you discuss your profession?”

"Coffee, please!" I could have stood up and roared but the man was still struggling to come to terms with cutting nine pieces out of perfectly round pie. Why didn’t someone just buy the whole damn thing off him? And why the figure nine?

I laughed realising she was just trying to make small talk; there was no need to get all strung up over it.

“So what do you do?” I asked, though I could have guessed she was some sort of student who was studying in the nearby university whose motto was, “Knowledge learned is knowledge earned.” I smiled inwardly there was no such motto like that, though I wondered what that would translate into Latin, would make for a great inscription.

“I'm a student,” she giggled, and immediately I knew what she meant by the giggle. Images of her at her desk swotting away did not come to mind but her in a tight t-shirt, a pair of blue jeans in some campus apartment having a good time on booze and drugs. Sex would be included in the images somewhere.

“And so…?”

“Extraterrestrial Studies.”

My eyes widened, she was having me.

“No, no, it’s the truth, right now I’m studying about the Ummri, and I can choose to learn it as a second language next semester if I want.”

I had forgotten all about the apple pie. “So are you one of those crazy UFO activists?”

“No, no…it’s a proper field of study, not as crazy as you think.”

“So what will you be able to do when your studies are over?”

“A lot of different things, but I want to go into research, alien abduction interests me the most.”

The coffee came steaming hot; I could have sworn that some of the stewed apple from the crust of the pie was floating in my cup though I didn’t complain. Certain things bothered me at times, but this wasn’t one of them.

“You believe in aliens?”

“What are you saying, are you saying that my religion is based on something to do with aliens? Are you saying that maybe God is one of those green big eyed aliens? Maybe he was ET?”

ET never existed, or did he?

“Do you think aliens are something that exist?”

“No, I don’t believe in aliens. Though I have nothing against an alien if one was to exist. Aliens in my mind have been invented so that movie studios and authors for that matter can make the story more interesting. I mean you could have a guy driving on a long a road, lets make that a dark eerie road, not a single light but the headlights of the car, all of a sudden the engine goes dead and the man is sitting in his car scared shittless, not knowing what to do. Getting your attention?”

“Yes,” she shrugged her shoulders, though she knew what the reply the answer would bring.

“Now to heighten anticipation, suddenly a bright light appears in the sky and bang the terrified guy disappears from his car, the light then disappears and you have the car sitting on the road without it’s driver.”

“I know what you’re getting at numerous other ideas could be assumed such as was the light so bright that at the time of the man’s disappearance he got out of the car and went to get help, was the light really a UFO or was it just a passing motorist. You see you can’t assume what something is, you have to be certain.”

“But I thought that in your area of study it’s all about assumption.”

“No, it’s an assumption.” She giggled a soft little childish giggle that made her breast jiggle. I liked it when she giggled.

“But it can’t be considered a fact.”

“You’ll be surprised what has been discovered about alien life.”

“So your studies are a secret to the ordinary man on the street?"

“I wouldn’t call you ordinary,” she said touching me on the shoulder, “but yes not everyone knows about what I study a lot of it is because people just ignore it.”

“And what do your parents think?”

“They wanted me to study medicine, my dad died when he heard the news and my mum was so shocked she became unconscious and has been in a vegetate state ever since.” No smile on her face.

My mouth widened, “Seriously?”

She laughed and said, “Seriously they were shocked and upset, but what could they do I always wanted to study Extraterrestrial activity. Ever since I heard voices when I was young, I knew I had to major in that field.”

I was cruel at times I could not pass up the opportunity to throw a comment back at her. “Voices.” I smirked. “Wouldn’t you decide to study paranormal activity or it would have been easier to see a shrink. It would have saved you choosing the wrong career path.”

I wouldn't tell her about my little secret, about my over-thinking.

She seemed unaffected by my comment. “It seems funny I know, but I think those voices were aliens and they’re communicating with me, in the future I’ll be one of the few interpreters able to stop the alien invasion.”

“Invasion…?”

“There’ll be in an invasion soon; there’ll have to be interpreters for negotiations.”

“Negotiations?” I took a sip on the coffee, realising that she was dead serious. What was I thinking accepting a drink along side her. I fiddled for my phone in my jacket pocket, desperately hoping someone would send me a text message requesting my immediate appearance somewhere across town.

I sipped my coffee, I was sitting next to a crazy one someone crazier than me yet I found her highly interesting. She was different, no one I knew discussed hearing voices and an alien invasion on the first meeting. I would have loved to have an invasion of my own kind all over her, though we wouldn’t be aliens for long.

I realised I had grown quiet and my coffee was nearly gone. The sugar granules were appearing, making it obvious that I hadn’t stirred my coffee long enough.

“I hope I didn’t freak you out,” she said breaking the silence. I started swirling the coffee around in the cup.

“No, no,” I said looking into her eyes, “It’s ok, never talked to anyone like I have with you. No one really talks anymore.”

She smiled. I knew what she was thinking, she was saying in her mind that she agreed with me, no one bothered to talk anymore and when people did it was normally over video conferencing or phone. Real face to face communication was becoming a rarity.

I thought of the voices inside her head, what were they telling her? Were they telling her to invite me over to her apartment for a drink? Were they telling her students were only allowed back into the apartment? Were they telling her, I was an alien and here was the perfect opportunity to study me?

I opened my mouth and spoke, “WAMA KAL COR TAZXA PORO.”

She looked at me strangely; both her eyebrows had strangely connected. She said something; I didn’t have a clue what it was, though I could tell she was expecting a reply.

“Huh?”

There was no explanation, nothing at all. The only thing I could think it was, was the 'over-thinking'.

“Do you want to come over to my place, don’t worry, I don’t have anything like an alien autopsy going on there. Martha and Martin have gone away on a field trip so we have the dorm all to ourselves.”

I shrugged my shoulders draining my cup, “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

She paid the guy at the counter, though I tried to shove the money into his hands first. She anticipated this move and had the money already shoved into his palm. I proceeded to tell her I owed her and that I was in her debt. She told me it was only a coffee and it wasn’t like she saved my life. Maybe she didn’t save my life but she changed it. After paying we left the man who was brooding over the dilemma of cutting the chocolate cherry gateau into thirteen pieces.

1.3 Put on Your Thinking Cap it's Time to Think Outside the Box

2007-01-26T12:03:00.000-08:00

He was sitting on his black leather chair his hand to his jaw thinking away. A little bit of light splashed on his blonde hair, haloing his face. He was young enough to be a doctor, though his brown eyes said, "I have seen a lot for my age."

He was making a little grunting noise just below his throat, trying to think. I sat next to him wondering if it was as bad at it looked. He opened his mouth to say something and then quickly drew away and continued to swivel his chair. I was puzzled by such a reaction to what I had told him - that I was thinking too much. He listened to my heart, checked my pulse and did a variety of little checks but he was somewhat puzzled to the point of bafflement.

I listened to the sound of his tapping feet under the desk it was mixing in with the sound of the clock, with the sound of his little low grunt.

"So what is wrong with me doctor?" I asked after a moment of uneasy silence.

He sat upright, tore a piece of paper from a notebook on his desk and drew a square. It was four sided, nothing out of the ordinary.

"What is it?" He asked.

Puzzled I cocked my head and said, "A square?"

"Yes, and?"

"A box?"

He looked up at me and said, "You have to think outside it."

I glanced up at him while my eyes enlarged not really believing what my doctor was telling me.

The doctor continued, "How do you think outside the box?"

"Ermm." I thought. How does one go about thinking outside a box, how does one develop thinking inside a box in the first place?

"You see Tom, you have a what is termed as 'over-thinking'." He was pointing his hands at me.

"Over-thinking?" I was confused, never heard of such a term.

"Yes it is when you think too much." That's was an overly simplified version of what he thought my condition was. Perhaps it was too simple.

Was it a disease? Would I have to live with it all my life?

"I know, I know it sounds wild but it's something that has been appearing a lot more with males in their mid twenties to late thirties. Some say it is brought on by anxiety, but really no one knows at the moment what triggers it."

Wonderful!

"You can still live a normal life, there is no need to give into such a condition. With the right medication and mental exercises you can not only deal with your problem but possibly overcome it. Recently a doctor in Holland devised the Outside Thinking therapy, which is a programme of different exercises that will get you to think outside what he terms a mental 'square' or 'box'. You are undergoing a mental flux at the moment where your mind is stuck inside this space and with this therapy you can get outside the 'box' and think freely, releasing your thoughts. Inside this space all your thoughts are trapped and at the moment they are firing on all cylinders but these thoughts remain stuck."

It was all too much for me.

"So it will only get worse to get better. You also have to realise that this method is very much on early stages of research and has only been tested on a few patients. I advise you to continue on this therapy for six months, take all the medication that I subscribe to you. I will meet you on a regular basis to discuss your progress."

I put my hand to my head. Great news! It sounded so absurd.

"I'll get the subscription done up right away, and I'll give you all the instructions on how to carry out the therapy. Any questions?"

I shook my head.

There were lots of questions, a lot of them he couldn't answer so I just kept quiet. I got up from my chair, picked up my coat in my arms and left through the door I came in. I took all the information of the therapy and the subscription on the way out. What news! I deserved a coffee for all my troubles.

1.2 Sitting at the Doctor's

2007-01-26T09:57:00.000-08:00

I studied the round face of the clock, followed the ticking of the minute hand and the slow movement of the hour hand. The walls were an off-colour white, a coffee table positioned in the middle of the room was surrounded by a dozen odd chairs. When I first entered the room I realized I was the only one there. A bunch of magazines cluttered up the coffee table; a sailing journal, a supplement from some paper titled, "How to Look Young in Fifty Easy Steps." I picked up a few magazines just to try to pass the time, but it was useless. I hated the articles they had inside.

I sat trying not to think of thinking, looking at the clock and tracing its every tick. But the more I tried to resist the temptation of holding back my thoughts, the more it became inevitable that my brain was building something up, building up a great explosion of thoughts. My palms began to sweat and my legs started to shake violently.

Don't think, don't think, don't think.

Why are you here? Why is the coffee table of a wood variety? What kind of wood was used? How old is old? Why is love red? Those were only questions, stupid questions that I seemed to have stored somewhere especially for a time such as this. My legs started to shake even more; I tried to resist but it was useless. I sat on my hands, thinking that it would do something to calm me. It didn't.

Light is light and dark is dark. Huh? Such silly little thoughts. Room. I held the thought gathered in my mind and spelt it: R-O-O-M. Perhaps such a word contained an equation, some hidden secret. I thought about it for a second and then jumbled up the words in my head. M-O-O-R. Room spelt moor. It spelt M-O-R-O. Somewhere I had read that the Moro Reflex was a response to unexpected loud noise, or when the infant feels like it is falling. It is believed to be the only unlearned fear in human newborns. There was a study done once called the little Albert study which used the startle reflex in a conditioning experiment to make him fear white fuzzy things. Perhaps something like this had been done to me. Though I do not know what the conditioning could have been, it definitely couldn't be white fuzzy things. I tried to think about it but the more I thought the more confused I became, almost to the point of losing it. Would the doctor hurry up! What was taking him? I noticed no one had entered the room nor left it, and I had been sitting in the waiting room for about thirty minutes, from what I gathered. Either he was with a patient all that time or he was...he was...he was?

"Mr. Bates!" I heard a husky voice shout out from the hall. "Mr. Bates! Doctor Martin will see you now."

I slowly got up, made my way to the door and pushed down on the handle, opening my world to the hall and the doctor who was waiting to tell me the awful news that I was crazy.

Chapter 1

2007-01-24T14:01:00.000-08:00

1. Thoughts and Traffic

I woke up to the sound of traffic below. There was no need for an alarm, the cars took care of that. Gathering by the light that was struggling to get in through the old rusty blinds it was early morning, perhaps just when the sun starts to rise.

I tried to go back to sleep.

Nothing would work. The tossing increased and when I dove my head under my pillow, trying to block out the noise and the light it was pointless. My mind became active, though I don't remember when it turned on and the neutrons fired up. The day before was whirring around inside somewhere in me replaying the incident. I could almost see my reflection on the bald shiny head of my boss. His glaring blue eyes frightened me, the flare in his nostrils made me jump back.

"You're fired, you're fired!" he shouted. I hated people shouting; screaming got people nowhere. I covered my ears and then cringed.

There was no reason for it. No explanation as to why the sacking occurred. The only answer that came was: "We're cutting down on overheads." That was it, apparently there was no need to further explain oneself. I thought about it for a while with my head in an open staff locker trying to tell myself in the dark crampt space that everything would be okay, that I could find another job after working in one for ten long shitty years.

Now I had my head under my flat pillow thinking faster than I really wanted to. Any bit of softness had been lost ages ago.

Job, job, job...Money, money...sleep, sleep, sleep. The thinking continued on and on. Suddenly I had enough of the clattering below, leapt out of bed, ran towards the bathroom, and doused my head with cold water from the white ceramic sink. There's nothing like a cold bit of water in the morning to wake you up, to reposition your thoughts and to get you to focus on the day ahead.

I couldn't focus. I raised my head up, glanced at my face in the large mirror that was full of dried toothpaste from a ritual called brushing one’s teeth. I hated brushing my teeth, and now the tongue had to get a good scrub - that was where all the harmful bacteria hid. I ran my hand over my rough, leathery face. Stubble - I needed a shave. I tried not to think, tried not to tell myself, "You were fired, so you need to find a job."

If my father showed his face I would have loved for him to say, "You can ride off my coat-tails anytime, Son."

That was a fictional incident; such a thing would never happen, I was sure of that. My mind started to spiral out of control. I continued to stare into the mirror, into my eyes, and wondered if luck had anything to do with my current position. Luck had nothing to do with it; I was not superstitious nor had I ever had notions of becoming such.

I found myself back in my bed, deciding that job hunting was no longer on the agenda. I owed myself a lie in. I shut my eyes and scrunched them closed to stop any bit of light from entering.

Why? Why what? Why? I thought for a while under the covers, huddled in a fetal position, a stream of images and thoughts filling my mind. Somehow my mind was having a field day at my expense. When I pictured Dad in my head I saw a stubborn, greying-haired man wearing round glasses, standing hunch-framed under the door. Mother was smiling, her green eyes spoke to me and said, "Hello."
I heard a dog, and the sound of whirring car engines followed. The whirring increased, followed by a screech and then a loud boom. Something wasn't quite right. I had no headache, no pain establishing itself anywhere, just a lot of thoughts that were collecting like a snowball slowly rolling down a hill and then gathering up momentum.

Why is there such a thing as coffee? Why can't hands exist on feet? Why does red offer certain connotations that green does not? Now such questions are what an eight year old may ask himself or his parents, but he quickly learns that such questions are pointless and will only wreck the head if such matters are continually thought on.

I never had such a problem with thinking too much, come to think of it. I think I had, at various times of my life, been accused of not thinking enough. This was different, though. Something wasn't quite right. I would have to pay the doctor a little visit.