Neural Narrative Collective: storytelling

Showing posts with label storytelling. Show all posts

Unwanted

by Glen L. Bledsoe

The story you’ve read in the papers. The unloved child who disappeared and was discovered turned into a statue made of precious materials has inspired a number of fictional treatments in books and movies. Which is the real story gets muddled each time the tale is retold, but one need only look into the sad eyes of the statue once a living little girl to know that every child needs love to grow into an adult.

The Corridor

by guest contributor Tim

Henry Firenze wasn't expecting death, but then, death wasn't expecting him either. All of these things run to a schedule, we are told. Henry went out one morning to buy a coffee, and Henry met his end crossing the road.

On Earth, there were the usual recriminatory investigations that accompany tragedies. The ripple impacts of his death, so enormous for his immediate family, grew smaller as his relationship circles with the rest of humanity grew wider, until they faded out entirely. By and large, the world neither knew nor cared about Henry or his death.

This realisation, that the world, in general, doesn't care, may have been one of the triggers for the idea of religion, back when man's brain was new and unexplored. Somebody, somewhere, must have been depressed about the idea of the uncaring Universe. Whether they then made up the comfort of a God or whether God existed and gave him that comfort is debatable. It always was debatable, here on Earth.

For Henry, the debate was settled. He found himself in an afterdeath state, and instantly realised there is indeed more to life than an Earthly existence.

He "awoke", though that isn't the term, to his new reality. A room, not like a prison cell, not unpleasant, but comfortably featureless, as if it didn't wish to impinge upon him, didn't want to give him any ideas.

Henry was confused and puzzled and worried and intrigued to find that all these very human emotions and reactions still existed here, wherever or whatever here was. In fact, he decided, he was still pretty much the same Henry as he had always been, and that gave him some sort of comfort.

He sat for a while on his featureless chair in his featureless room, half shocked, half remembering what had just happened on Earth, and he grieved. His grief was mellowed by the realisation that if he was here after death, then his family would be too in some way, some time, and he would see them again.

At that point, he realised that if this was so, then surely his predeceased parents would be here. Was there no way they could welcome him, be here to greet him? He frowned.

Henry got up, and walked to the closed door. Ideas of what might lie on the other side pierced him, each colourful image dancing its temptation.

He imagined (and was pleased to discover he could still imagine) a garden, or a warm cosy room, where his parents would smile and nod and laugh and exist, and they would all be forever reunited. A moment later he imagined a fiery pit and sharp pointed forks and grotesqueries, and for a few seconds, he thought the bravery required to open the door would be beyond him.

Henry opened the door.

There were no signs, no scents, no sounds

Outside were none of his imaginings. Outside was a corridor, matching its features with his room, which is to say, there were none.

Henry coughed tentatively, trying to disturb whatever may be there by the least amount, either from fear of offence, or just from fear. Silence.

Henry walked from the room into the corridor, and immediately the door through which he had come vanished as it if never was.

The corridor pulled him left or it pulled him right. It didn't care which way he went, it just offered him the chance to go. It was a corridor of potential energy waiting for him to make it kinetic.

As neither direction offered anything over the other, with increasing puzzlement, Henry walked.

The corridor was long enough that its vanishing point was in fact its only feature. Nowhere was there a junction, or a mark on the grey walls. There were no signs, no scents, no sounds. Henry could see and hear and feel nothing but himself and the noise he made with the corridor. He walked on.

After what seemed a long while he began to think that his body would surely soon begin to make its childish demands. Feed me. I need a drink. I'm tired.

His body felt none of these things. It was as if it had moved into eternal stasis. Henry decided he could feel worried about this stasis idea - he chose not to, unsure of where that mental path might lead him.

The path he was on, though, just went on. After what felt like an impossibly long passage of time, Henry stopped. He turned around. In both directions the corridor was identical, as if he was caught between two opposite mirrors.

Henry burst into song. A note, flat, made no difference, except to himself. It was a relief to hear himself, not just his footsteps. The sung note hung and broke the muddy silence.

The corridor dampened the noise, the very opposite of a bathroom. It didn't, thought Henry, seem intentional. It was just a result of its structure.

At that thought, Henry's inner chimp woke his curiosity, and he moved to investigate the wall more closely. It was of one-pieced smoothness, a tube almost. It curved over his head like an underground tunnel, perfect in symmetry. Henry's half-hoping fingers pressed against it, seeking some comfort, some sense, perhaps, of the organic. He got back no such sense.

The temperature was perfectly bland, the feel was perfectly bland, the light was perfectly bland.

Henry sighed, ever more puzzled. At last, he made a decision. He turned around, and walked back the way he had come. There were only two choices, and one had no apparent advantage over the other.

Still the corridor lead Henry onwards, straight as a vector. Did it, and thus Henry, have a destination? Or was this the afterlife, an endless walk with no idea what for or why? Was this hell?

It was, Henry estimated, a day or three after he had started walking that he was edging towards giving up. After all, his body needed nothing, and walking further seemed pointless. He could just sit, sit here, perhaps for eternity. It's fair to say that Henry was becoming depressed.

He made himself walk on.

A few days later, Henry was staring ahead glumly, resigned. His eyes saw nothing but corridor, the penumbra of darkness that defined the limit of his vision ever moving from him, until he became aware that it wasn't. That patch of darkness ahead had moved nearer.

His breath-rhythm picked up. It was a change. Something had changed. That little patch of darkness was a destination. It was a place, and places are where humans want to be, even dead ones. Henry wanted to be where the darkness was, to fire up his somnolent new-thing neurons. He walked faster, ran, stumbled, craved and pushed himself.

The dark patch grew nearer, measurable, reachable.

Henry arrived. The darkness grew around him, until he could see nothing. His hands in front of him, he adored this new state of blindness, this new reliance on underused senses. He walked forward, tentatively, slowly, then with increasing confidence. He celebrated the difference.

At last he was running forward, utterly blind, into the darkness.

And then the sound of his footsteps, the low thudding heartbeat of his feet, changed too. A slight softening of the sound. A sonic evolution from clay to bell. The floor was changing.

Henry reached down and used his new sight, his fingertips, to feel the floor. It had definitely changed. It was more metallic. And soon, his groping hands gave him what he had craved. The floor was no longer smooth. It had a patterned roughness, and pattern meant intelligence and design, and pattern meant Henry had found something, something incredible.

His delight was intense, a state now so unknown to him it was as if he had never experienced it before. Its old novelty ran over him with wash of cold, and a clarity came to his thought. This was not enough. There must be more.

Henry stood up and a new Henry walked on into the darkness.

This time, it wasn't long before his sensitive eyes picked up a few welcoming photons. Ahead lay light. After leaving the light and running into darkness with the excitement of a child, this new light, this potential, this possibility, almost made Henry explode with excitement. He ran again, and quickly this time, quickly.

The light welcomed him. He thought it was a religious experience, heading into the light and for a while he found it funny that God would be so unsubtle, so obvious, so well, God. He ran into the light.

The corridor lay in front of him, as it had before, just the same. Endless. Nothing was ahead except more corridor. The floor had returned to its uninteresting featureless state.

Henry's tragi-comedy filled him, filled him so much his emotions topsy-turvied until he was sobbing like a baby, crouched on the floor. There was no other sound, nothing apart from his sobbing.

It felt like some hours before he stopped, and looked and thought, and worried again. At last, Henry got up and headed on. What else was there to do?

A long while passed, and Henry once again saw darkness ahead. This time, he didn't care. He knew what he would find. He felt he had explored all this place, if it was a place, seen all that this place could offer.

He walked on, once again with feet encouraging time to pass, as if without them time would not move. He entered the familiar wonderful horrid darkness.

It was a surprise then, when the darkness presented him with an obstacle. He had had his hands ahead of him, an instinctive danger warding, when they made contact. Henry's heart almost stopped, though he realised that his heart was never going to stop. His hands had met a wall.

A moment's investigation. Henry had reached a corner. This place had corners and he was briefly filled again with the joy of it.

Then, not allowing himself the extreme of emotions he had recently gone through, he played it down. A corner. It would lead to another corridor. It would go on forever.

Henry walked forward, a new direction that felt exactly like the old one. It took no time at all for Henry to slip back into his walk, into forward movement that achieved nothing and whose only benefit was that was its opposite was nothing.

The darkness ahead once more gave itself up to light. The light that pulled and tempted and promised. A hollow promise, Henry felt, a nothing dressed as a something.

Henry walked from darkness into light.

Ahead was a door.

It wasn't possible for Henry to analyse this, in his state of mind. His body, newly unencumbered with physical human failing or wants moved forward to the door. He opened it, half-expecting by now that it would be the door to the room where he started.

The door opened onto a landing. From the landing lead two staircases, one that went up and one that went down. There no lights or sounds to guide him.

Henry went to the meeting point of the stairs, and he looked down and up. Below, he could just see that the staircase was short, turned, and lead to another landing. It looked pretty much like the one he was on now. He looked up, and in the same way, the turn of the short stair seemed to lead to another identical landing.

Each had a sign that said "Floor seven"

He was beyond thinking, but some half remembered religiosity in him made him choose the upwards stairs. As he did so, he noticed, by the doorway, a sign. It had words printed on it. It said "Floor Seven".

Henry was overcome, again and at last. A place that showed it HAD a place, it was a meant thing, it had some sort of purpose. A purpose that he could figure out, that he could work on. Something to DO.

Henry almost ran up the short staircase, arrived at the next landing. The landing offered another staircase up. It offered a door. Next to the door was a sign.

The sign said, simply, "Floor Seven". The door next to it lead to a corridor.

Jow went up another stair, another dozen, another hundred. He went down a thousand.

Each landing was identical, and each had a sign that said "Floor seven", and a door, and each door lead to corridor.

It was on perhaps the fiftieth year of wandering that Henry paused in his impossible endless march up the stairs, or perhaps it was down. He hardly knew.

Then, far above, so very far above, he heard a voice.

Henry sat down and began to cry. Then he sat and waited.

The voice was louder now. The owner of it was coming down the stairs.

Henry thought about getting up about running towards it.

He thought about all the nuances of interacting with the voice's owner, with the questions and delays.

He thought about sharing their experiences, the puzzles. He thought about the answers.

The voice was nearer, just a few landings up. The words were unintelligible, but the changes in tone and pitch were clear. It was self answering voice, a mono-dialogue.

Henry stood. Without, in the end, much thought, he went to the door of the landing he was on, opened it, and went through, closing it silently behind him.

Muted by the door, the voice grew as loud as it ever would, passed by the landing, and faded as its owner went on downwards, down the stairs.

Henry turned. The corridor lead into the far distance.

He began to walk.

The Fifth Sound Change

By guest contributor Tim

The dog heard it first, as dogs always do.

The old man paused a moment, with the bird half carved, and watched the yellow pup shift uncomfortably.

The old woman said the dog needed walking, but the old man knew that wasn't so, for they had walked together already that day, down by the river.

As he recollected that thought the old man remembered something else. He remembered how the yellow pup had been edgy somehow. Not mischievous as he often was, not hurried. Just uncomfortable, and in the way that Masters have, the old man had felt it too.

But the warmth of the house, and the smell of fresh coffee, and the soft welcome home creak of the wood under his feet as he had stepped onto the porch had reassured him, and he forgot.

The clock warmed the air with its brassy chime. Ten o'clock, and thoughts of white sheets and soft blankets were imminent.

The old man looked down at the worn spot where the dog should be, but the pup was gone. He was under the kitchen table; his refuge when a great storm was due.

The old man went to the back door and looked out. The sky was sugared with stars, and in the west the last embers of daylight were fading.

For some reason, tonight he became aware of The Sound.

In normal circumstances, such as they were, he would have tried not to notice it, but it was almost as if there was a slightly bitter quality to it tonight. As this idea began to fight to the surface, he began to sweat.

It was too soon. Surely it was too soon.

Hurriedly now, he went back into the house. The old woman glanced up, saw something was wrong, and with the intuition they all had, these days, thought as he did.

Together, silently, they moved to the calendar and flipped it back.

"Ten months", said the old man. "Ten months", he said again, as if the repetition could stave off the unavoidable.

They looked at one another, and tears began to form.

Down in the village, others had picked up the change in The Sound too, and already panic was beginning. This would be the fifth Sound Change, and there was no preparation that could alter it.

A few started to discuss ideas, again, scream them, really, as they had four times before; the busy-busy-make-work brought comfort to very few.

Almost five years previously, a shape - no more than that - a shape had appeared in the sky.

After the initial panics and enquiries were over, of course, the military found it entirely impervious to their weapons; indeed, impervious was too strong a word. The shape ignored them and nothing reached the target.

Attempts were made to communicate, but it was as if the shape wasn't there. It was unapproachable, just floating, just being. Nothing could get to it, and nothing came out of it.

Weeks went by, and then months. After a time, the world began to think of other things, and the shape became part of the background, an inexplicable new reality.

And then, with no warning, as night fell under the shape, came The Sound.

It was not a human sound, but humans reacted to it.

It grew louder and sharper, a lemon juice minor key that began to hurt, began to penetrate. People began to cry out with the pain of it, and it grew more intense.

The Sound enveloped the world, a blanket of agony.

People fell to the floor, tried all they could to block it out, to no purpose.

People died.

But not all people. About half of the world's population were affected.

At evening they had been living their lives, complicated or simple. By the morning, half of the world's population was dead.

The Sound didn't stop, but only half of the world was left to carry on. Everyone everywhere could hear it, but it didn't affect them as it had the others.

Body counts were made, and enormous resources spent on disposal of the corpses.

Religion, in all its physical and spiritual forms was invoked and placated and explored and begged.

The shape didn't move. The people of the world, traumatised, tried to carry on. Cities became towns, and towns became villages.

Fewer people, fewer resources - the world stepped back. Once again, the world carried on, what was left. After a year, healing had started.

The Sound never stopped.

One night, a year later, there was a shift in The Sound, a slight change in volume, and turn from sour to sweet, to cloying. On edge, the world once again became aware.

As night fell under the shape, The Sound changed, immediately.

It was the same pattern as before - half of the world was affected, writhed, died. Horrified, the other half watched.

There was no pattern they could discern, and families were split for eternity.

The remains of the world renewed efforts to communicate, now with much reduced efforts. Again, it was fruitless.

Helpless, once again the world settled down to inevitability.

Twice more, exactly a year apart, The Sound changed.

It was worse now. It was predictable.

Half of the world knew their dying day was coming. Hope faded that there would be a solution. Across the world, in parts, civilisation broke down entirely. In other parts, perhaps due to geography, or luck, or attitude, people banded together for support, formed little settlements and villages, lived as best they could.

Each time The Sound changed, there was killing pain for a few hours, for half of them, and then they were gone.

Today then, was the fifth change in The Sound.

The old couple knew it was coming, and they knew there was nothing to be done. They held hands in their front room, half breathing, aware that either or both of them might only have moments.

The Sound began to shift, It began to morph from its old form.

And then - it stopped.

The Sound was gone, after five years of lethal dissonance.

The Sound ended, and the shape, whatever it was, whatever its purpose might have been, simply went away.

Silence fell all over the world.

And the remaining population, those few that had survived, couldn't stand The Silence.

The Silence came, and the last humans, every one of them, died.

A Study in Reds

By Glen L. Bledsoe

In this illustration we see famous detective Stanislock Lenin (far left and Dr. Hanson, his assistant and biographer, (center) receiving a report from agent Svyatopolk Jones on the latest machinations of Stanislock's evil twin brother Vladimir Lenin. (Yes, another evil Vlad!) The epic struggle between the two brothers will come to a head when they struggle on the edge of a swimming pool in downtown Los Angeles where they both will plunge into the deep end and disappear until the next book.

The Legend of Ankh-Helos

By Glen L. Bledsoe

Ankh-Helos (Achilles or Achilles as his story was retold later by the Greeks) was a mighty pharaoh of the early Iron Age who while crossing a shallow stream in a remote area of the lands of the Egypto-Dutch Empire was bathed in the light from a mysterious disk in the sky. Some say it was a meteor of dark matter. Others suggest it was otherworldly visitors. Whatever its source he soon discovered that the parts of his body not submersed in the water became impervious to any weapon known: wood, stone, bronze or iron.

During a battle with the Sea Peoples he lost his lower right leg. To protect his left leg he tasked the Hittites to forge him a war boot made of iron. Then commanded the magicians of Mesopotamia to conjure a throne with feet that would carry him to battle where he would swing his scepter scattering his enemies before him by the score.

Mr. Ectoplasm

By Glen L. Bledsoe

Jimmy Allen Cotton was raised by his aunt after his parents went to jail as a result of being involved in a Ponzi scheme that cheated quite a number of people out of their retirement funds. Jimmy's Aunt Sally had her own business. She was a medium and fortune teller plus she had a pet washing facility that made her a little money on the side.

Aunt Sally took Jimmy in and made him her assistant during seances. He was the one who created the illusion of ectoplasm coming out of his aunt's orifices (if that isn't too crude of a word to use). Much to his Aunt Sally's delight Jimmy discovered that he could exude ectoplasm from his fingertips and from the corners of his mouth without any gimmicks.

Jimmy took to the stage and soon became famous. He performed before audiences around the world and was even invited to perform for the President of the United States at the White House. However, at a reception for a show he put on in Cleveland, Ohio someone challenged him to eat a jar filled with hot peppers. Jimmy won the challenge and $50 USD in cash, but the burns in his mouth made it impossible for him to exude ectoplasm again. Jimmy, however, was not discouraged and opened up a dry cleaning business and was quite financially successful. He still looks back at his days on stage as Mr. Ectoplasm as the best days of his life.

The Four

By Glen L. Bledsoe

School was over for the day and the custodian came in to sweep and empty wastepaper baskets. I don't remember how the topic came up now, but the old man said, "I ever tell you the story about the Elk's picnic I went to a few years back?"

He knew he hadn't, but that was okay. He was about to tell a story and even though I had papers to grade I shook my head.

"Well, we were all standing there with plates full of baked beans, potato salad and fried chicken when just off to one side we noticed a group of people walking along a path dressed in formal clothes, but old fashioned. Like 1920's. You could see they were having a conversation. Even though we all stopped talking and stared, strain as we might we couldn't hear a word they were saying even though we weren't that far away. At one point the Four turned their heads sharply in our direction as if they'd heard something, but stared right through us as if we weren't even there. The path they were following made a sharp turn as it approached a stone faced outcropping. But instead of turning with the path the Four walked straight into the wall and vanished without a trace."

"Ghosts?" I said.

"I don't think so," the custodian said. "I think they were caught in an imperfection of time. Some bubble that briefly leaked light from their time into ours or maybe vice versa." Then he shrugged. "I got other rooms to clean. See you tomorrow."

The Unfortunate Store

By Glen L. Bledsoe

ASTORIA, ORE - Experts say that these new businesses unfairly target poor neighborhoods and the economically disadvantaged. Almost overnight businesses that buy, sell and trade misfortunes are springing up like mushrooms after a rain. Where did it all start and how do these businesses impact our communities?

Beaverton businessman Philip Henri-Bones, owner of a large chain of laundromats in the Pacific Northwest and newly opened "The Unfortunate Store," (pictured) in Astoria says he got the idea after reading James Joyce's short story "The Sin Eaters." The notion came to him that those who wish to shed the emotional weight of their personal tragedies might shift them to someone else-for a price. What makes this so devastating to our poor neighborhoods is that minorities who are well used to things going pear-shaped are taking on these burdens in exchange for quick cash at an alarming rate.

Dr. Jean Sheldon, Professor of Statistical Burdens and Calamities at the University of Oregon said, "The poor are experienced in bad luck and so they are more emotionally fortified when things go wrong. The well-to-do are taking advantage of this trait and in exchange for significant fees are shifting their guilt and social burdens onto the poor."

This has attracted the attention of the Oregon Fortunes Commission (OFC). Spokesperson Earl Wittles says he believes that laws are probably being violated, but admitted that this is a legal gray area. State Senator James Coville told reporters he has plans to introduce legislation to address these matters in the upcoming session in Salem.

The managers of two of the largest chains "Tragedy Depot" and "Tough Luck World" did not return phone calls from our reporters.

The Bather

By Glen L. Bledsoe

This illustration depicts the legend of the moment before Dooth, the leader of the Funnelbeaker peoples, first gazes upon Mar-Thol (who is about to disrobe to bath in the Nile) and becomes besotted with her beauty. They marry only later to be cursed with immortality with the memories of each other's face erased by Arka-Arkitutti, the Witch-Queen of the Sea Peoples. For eternity they criss-cross the planet searching for one another with aching hearts.

Somebody needs to write an opera around this.

The Bather

This illustration depicts the legend of the moment before Dooth, the leader of the Funnelbeaker peoples, first gazes upon Mar-Thol (who is about to disrobe to bath in the Nile) and becomes besotted with her beauty. They marry only later to be cursed with immortality with their memories of each other's appearance erased by Arka-Arkitutti, the Witch-Queen of the Sea Peoples. For eternity they criss-cross the planet searching for one another with aching hearts.

Somebody needs to write an opera about this.

The Marriage of Arnold Finley

By Glen L Bledsoe

The Marriage of Arnold Finley painted by Eyk Van Jens circa 1433 has been the subject of little controversy since its discover in an attic of an abandoned home in Amsterdam more than 150 years ago. Most art historians view it as a simple picture representing the matrimonial bond between Arnold and Marie Finley. However more recently a group of speculative phenomenologists have proposed that it is the first record of what is called iPhone Brain Swap Syndrome (iPBSS). This occurs when two people (usually teens) share the tangly bits of iPhone earphones and due to the circuitry of the iPhone their conscious minds momentarily switch bodies. While the couple in the painting do have a certain vacant look on their faces they most certainly are not wearing a shared iPhone earphone. The technology hadn’t even been invented then and most people in those days used flip phones.

The Woman from One Million Years AD

By Glen L. Bledsoe

Governmental representatives and news reporters from around the world gasp as the air shimmers over the plaza of the United Nations building. A metallic sphere appears out of nothingness and settles softly on the ground below. A door hisses open and a tall woman with a large, hairless head and wearing flowing coral colored robes ducks through the opening and walks down the ramp.

"I see you received my invitation," she says. "Good. I bring you greetings from one million years into the future. Know that Mankind survives. Science, Arts and Culture flourish. Our kind has spread throughout the solar system and the galaxy. It is important for you to know that, in spite of the challenges, you will prevail. Do you have any questions for me?"

Professional Henry DuBois of Pierre and Marie Curie University in Paris holds a microphone in one hand and a stack of cards in the other. He says, "I have so many questions from my colleagues from around the world. But before I begin I must make a comment. Your appearance clearly demonstrates the founding principle given to us by Darwin. Evolution! I am gratified to see that mankind continues to evolve in the future and physical changes take place. Our puny heads have so little room for brains. Your beautiful head has evolved to increase its capacity for a much more massive brain. I cannot even begin to grasp your ability to cogitate compared to our own."

"Evolution? This?" The woman from the future points to her head. "This isn't evolution. This is the latest spring fashion.

The Curse

By Glen L. Bledsoe

The story of how a group of Funnelbeaker tribespeople from the area which today is the Netherlands were driven south by a megadrought 1400 years BC must wait for another day. How Dooth their leader joined forces with Egypt to defeat the Sea Peoples must also be delayed as well as the history of the establishment of the brief but powerful Egypto-Dutch Empire.

Today the tale you will learn is how Arka-Arkitutti, Witch-Queen of the Sea Peoples cursed Dooth when her ships were sunken, and her army made slaves. How she blessed and cursed Dooth as she was about to die.

As Arka-Arkitutti stood bound to the stake she said, "Dooth, you are a mighty warrior and leader of your people. You have defeated me in spite of all my magics and charms. You and the Egyptian Pharaoh will build a mighty but short-lived empire. You and your wife Mar-Thol will live forever as is your reward. Your punishment: you will be separated, perpetually seeking one another across the world and across time. Dooth, while your heart continues to burn with love, you will be unable to remember your wife's face as she will be unable to remember yours. You may cross paths a thousand thousand times looking for each other and not recognize each other's features."

And so across time Dooth, now known as Father Duvall, searches without hope for his wife. He knows not to waste his immortality. He performs good deeds wherever and whenever he is.

The Guardian Angels

By Glen L. Bledsoe

Every third Thursday of each month, year round, a group of women meet. Ostensibly they are a book club, but that is just for appearance sake. These women are watching those who don’t believe anyone knows or cares who they are. They watch the deserving who need a break. The watch the unrecognized talents who just keep trying. And when these women can they tip the scales in the favor of those unrecognized. These Guardian Angels aren’t everywhere. They don’t have chapters in every city. But they do what they can. Which means just because you don’t believe that someone is watching, don’t believe that your work and talents are being recognized, that doesn’t mean that you don’t have a Guardian Angel who is going to unobtrusively see to it that your talents and skills get what you have earned and richly deserve. Someone is always watching.

The Magical Shepherdess

By Glen L. Bledsoe

A Shepherdess by the name of Miss Gowz
Tended Sheep the size of large cows
She sold wool to the spinners in town
So they might knit socks, scarves and gowns

Retold Children's Rhyme from the Egypto-Dutch Empire

The Autobiography of Jacob Henrik

By Glen L. Bledsoe

Jacob Henrik was a man dedicated to perfection. The secret of his success, he would tell everyone he knew or happened upon the street, was his attention to details. No problem could escape solution if one methodically applied his resources to sorting through the intricacies and correcting errors every step of the way. It was his formula for success. It had made him one of the wealthiest men on the eastern coast of the Americas.

As Jacob Henrik approached his fiftieth year he decided that it was incumbent upon him that he share his secrets to the world at large to not only running a successful business (or string of businesses as was his case), but to lead a better, healthier, happier life. To that end he decided to write an autobiography--an autobiography of a man who attended to details.

Jacob Henrik knew his strengths and he knew his weaknesses. While he was master of ledger books and business agreements, of railroads and coal mines, and he knew that his 8th grade education left him unprepared to take on the telling of the story of his life in print. He understood that certain work had to be delegated, that one man could not take on every task, but could oversee the tasks of those who he managed.

Over the period of several months he dictated his life’s story to a secretary who in turned handed the text over to an editor who in turn sent it to a team of proof readers who line by line wrangled the tangled rules of spelling, punctuation, grammar and capitalization, then double- and triple checked their efforts until they were satisfied that their work was polished and perfect in every way without error. Upon Jacob Henrik’s approval they sent the book to the printer.

Upon receiving 35,000 copies of the book, almost seven and three-quarter tons of paper, which were placed in a special storage unit designed to preserve the volumes in pristine condition until ready to be given away to relatives and business associates, Jacob Henrik opened a fresh copy of his leather bound life story to the title page to autograph it and noticed:

“The Autobiography of Jacob Henry”

His last name was misspelled.

The Lost Children (Part 2)

The Lost Children (Part 2) by Martin Sercombe

Two of the boys decided to take matters in hand.

Together they would hunt for a new home,

a place where life might be a little easier.

They looked for a boat to take them down river.

On a misty morning they rowed downstream towards the ocean.

Soon after, two of the girls followed behind.

But the coastal town proved as desolate as the city they had left behind.

Wild storms had destroyed much of what they found.

Making it hard to choose a place to call home.

The Value of Now is Always One (1)

By Glen L. Bledsoe

The true nature of time is counterintutive to the every day experiences of our daily lives. Everyone would agree that the present is fixed (that is simply is), but what is not apparent is that the future and especially the past shift to assure the stable experience of the present. That is to say, the Reliability of Now.

History, memory, archeological reilcs and records of all kinds are soft, malleable. Events can ony be measured as numeric probabilities, and as such given values only between zero (0) and one (1). The farther back into the past, the less certain the event becomes, the smaller the value, the more flexible the event becomes, the more stable the present. It may be thought of as less an issue of altering the past to suit the present and more an adjustment as to the likelihood that events did or did not occur as they are understood at the present. Which leaves events of the past as shadowy, nebulous and as open-ended as the future.

The closer to an event to the present, the higher the probability value until we reach the present, which is the only thing we can give a value of one (1)--simply because it is.

The future is much like the past. The future shuffles itself to make certain that the value of Now is always one (1). The future and the past have only a single purpose, which is to create the present, the Now. The Past + the Future = Now. Only in this way can we move through time. Without it we become unstuck.

How will this understanding change your life and how will it improve your experience and appreciation of Now?

Father Duvall

By Glen L. Bledsoe

FATHER DUVALL, an itinerant priest, draws crowds to listen to him preach wherever he goes, whichever chapel, church, synagogue, temple, mosque, community center, manor or home invites him. He, in the company of his traveling companion Brother Neb (who in spite of being blind greets everyone he meets by name whether he has met them before or not), travel from village to village, town to town, crossing county and country borders, continents from century to century.

Father Duvall speaks. Father Duvall takes confession. Father Duvall witnesses. Father Duvall listens and advises. Father Duvall chastens. Father Duvall investigates. Father Duvall aids those who need him in meaningful and life-changing ways. He sometimes is known by other names, other appearances, but his work is always the same.