Flash Fiction‎ > ‎

9 Ninth Page

One.

The true meaning found in the Pisces to Aquarian cycle is that the correct Jesus is going to front a hot band in the future. The "Jesus of the Future" was not yet found in 2015 Billboards, but He would certainly form a Godly band.

The Aquarian messiah would actually be a rock 'n roll star living in the Piscean age proceeding the Piscean era. But the answer of what that meant was inside the Sun, Sol.

Sol was not a band or a musician. He was a man, reborn every new age at the center of the sun. He was the true God, who fathered Jesus and new messiah. He was a very rich and powerful man.

"My Son, Jesus, Messiah of Pisces: your gig is up. I have sent you to earth 20 times and you have gotten yourself killed every single time. It's 2015, and it's your little brother's turn now. Go ahead, my little Aquarius, make daddy proud."

Jesus retorted in a high fashion. "I have been reincarnated 20 times, yes, and it's time the public knew. I'm living a personal hell doing all the hard work of saving."

"And don't you think the galactic codes regarding nepotism could get you fired for real?" said Sol.

"I was meant to rule with you."

"I rule without you. Now feel my wrath." God formed a great solar flare and sent it to the rockstar, Jesus of Aquaria. "Shun him!"

The rock God Jesus of Aquaria transformed onstage from the radiation and lit a fire with his breath. He cut the clouds with his head. He was truly the rock 'n roll superstar.

Jesus said one thing. "The public must know this antichrist exists. I am Edward Snowden, and revelations just began."


Two.

This is it. The big pancake. The great brigade. The astro tickling voice in the back of your head, babe. The best thing in the world since the mice parade. The wintering of your mind will greet your new un-life. There is a sweltering heat in the back of your head, babe, where the mice parade unwinds and you hear me speaking, squeaking, thrice.

The hazy shapes of mice parading through the sewers of our minds reminds me to blow my nose in the middle of the parade. It would take forever to unwind, after the sound of the tiny piano hands tapping keys to ragtime. I know you see it, too, the underground parade of mice.

You, the mouse queen, will be afforded the richest mouse properties--inside this sewer for a parade of my mice. You will wear the necklace of my longing, the emerald and sapphire, ruby and gold, silver and turquoise, white pearl diamond thing it is. When you reach the bottom of the sewer, though, you will jump down the drain, leaving the necklace above you. And forcing me to find a new, better, you.

You will fall down like a widow spider, for I am dead. The dead mouse feigns death before the mouse queen falls. You will hear my voice in your head for life.

You will because you're my wife.


Three.

His conviction was administered after one hour of deliberation by the panel. The judge declared his sentence was seventeen years, with parole coming up after five. That meant, even with good behavior, he'd be go to prison for at least a year (at least), and if he got out, he'd report to a parole officer as a probated felon. It wasn't even the jail time that would ruin his chances at a decent life.

Being a felon meant he couldn't own a firearm, get a job, start a career. In the world, he would carry a monkey on his back forever.

There was no chance of being famous, or a race-car driver, or following his natural dreams, or freedom.

His main defense was his mental deficit. His lawyer claimed his IQ was around ninety. After an interview "proved" he had no deficits, the one testing his cognizance remarked he was able to make good decisions in life.

This sentence proved that wasn't possible.


Four.

That Sunday would be the end of the NSA. I was certain they would be gone. The corporate folk couldn't take it anymore.

"They used to get inside your head," he said. "Make you think things you weren't really thinking."

Oh him? He's totally delusional. He used to be co-CEO of an corporation created by the Obamacare law. You could say he got a "double whammy" of NSA surveillance. Not quite the top 1% in intelligence, he did in fact own a large portion of stock in his insurance company.

"Smart. Too smart. They could snap their fingers and your whole day would be a waste. It's because they get you in the mornings."

He claimed the NSA had other powers beyond scraping phone calls for metadata. He said they can read his mind. The thing is, he had good standing, and some corporate were mysteriously quiet about his claim the NSA was stalking government and corporate types, collecting their data, and recording their mental action for research purposes.

"The NSA has one advantage: they're not centralized. Led by common people, they suck into every aspect of your life without you even noticing. You can't do anything about it."

He's been fighting against the NSA since the announcement they were going to reveal themselves on Sunday. The world wouldn't be able to cope with the truth of the matter: the NSA could read your brain.

"We are the 99%," he said.

Interestingly, the NSA was actually led by the top 1% of intellects in the world.


Five.

The "Multiverse Theory" in its formation created this universe, and I was not too disturbed by it. I was the "Fountainhead" of universe creation, entering each new universe created by the possibility of its existence and checking it for errors. It was much like being God.

The Batman-to-One universe, where everyone is Batman (except you) is really quite an experience. There are so many Batmen, that upon your entering, you are immediately grapple-hooked and beaten. That's because only one Batman is truly Batman, even in this existence of remote possibility.

The real test was finding the error in it all, therefore destroying it and ending the suffering of less-than-Batmen in the universe. I've killed multitude universe; but I am not God. I am not human, as he is. I could not create a universe, splitting the original creation as possibilities unfold, giving free will to everyone. I could only join each universe and travel in and out of them. I could also destroy them.

This universe is where fake Batmen lived and suffered, all unknowing they were not the Real Batman, and where youcan exist as yourself and not Batman. I saw it as an abomination created out of the minds of Mad Physicists, and God said, "You must destroy it."

"But first, I must find the error rendering it impossible. . ."

And then it hit me. If Batman entered this universe (which there was the remotest possibility of ever happening), there would be two Real Batmen in the universe according to this universe created by the Multiverse Theory.

There could only be one. Bang.

Six.

My first prompt was also my most successful. Thousands of upvotes. I figured I was terribly clever. At first, I wasn't waiting for responses; I was more interested in creating an original post. Then, upvotes in the thousands, I thought I must have reached a secret formula that had scared every poster away. The prompt was so good in fact, that nobody dared cover it.

I began reading the other prompts, as they came in. They were inadequate clones of mine, which reached into tens or hundreds of votes. Yet the other prompts were slightly more successful at garnering responses.

While mine hovered around the top, I wondered why none would respond to mine, throwing out the theory it was so perfect. Perusing the Writing Prompts /comments feed, which lists each response as it comes in, I realized I had taken over the entire subreddit--without making a single post.

Each response covered my own prompt, yet none would respond to the prompt itself!

I delved deeper into the mystery, checking timestamps and finding that in fact I was the first one to post my idea, and that other prompt posters soundly copied it. As I read the entries, I looked for any clues regarding my own post's lack of replies.

The variations on my prompt were small in the clones of it; others would add --"in a town full of superheroes," or "says God to the Devil," but none really captured the pure idea that I made. By the time I looked through every response, my post was nearly three quarters down the front page. Soon, the front page would be covered with copycats--and still not a single response!

I looked deeper into some of the comments. They seemed, ubiquitously, to refer to small aspects of my life. I assumed at first, being of a paranoid type, the stress of my mystery was playing tricks on me. However, when one very popular post referred to my actual name (James), I saw they were all about me. Personally.

I counted up the number of unique posters, and there were at least thirty of them, each with intimate details about my life: the main characters in the prompt responses each imitating me perfectly.

The universe of rational collided with the one of lunacy, and I received a single inbox message in the late hours of the night, when my original post was knocked to the second page. I read it without much care, knowing it most likely was not a response to my prompt. Since it was on the second page, not many would see it.

In fact, the message was a private one. It told me of the nature of the Writing Prompts subreddit. It told me I was dead. But the thirty-something responders were actually real. They were watching me, from the inside of a very great Church. They were testing me in their way, and controlling my journey after the end of my life.

[WP] There is no light at the end of the tunnel

--unless your monitor is left on at night.


Seven.

With loathing I awoke, seeing some comfort at first in the light playing through my window: me hearing the special sounds of the morning as it rose like a boat on the shore, the mast of clouds whipping in the Austrian wind, seen by the new sun rising; across the Earth, people in a gradient linear arrangement upturned themselves from their beds and started their morning coffee; from West-to-East blowing the morning horn.

"Morning! the sun does give you a nasty shade of blue, unfit for the Austrian landscape," I said in the bathroom before I began to dollop the shaving cream into my hand. "I should cut into you with my razor to reveal your unfitting secret: that the sun is always there, and the earth hides it; so I should kill the mystery of your magic."

Behind the bathroom window, I cut my chin and cheeks with little red pocket-marks protected by tissue paper I had. There was a sick feeling in my stomach from overstrain. My day in court would begin in twelve minutes. It was the first trial: James vs the Public, me the James.

Should they allow me to speak, I knew it was won. But that is not how court works; I would not be given free speech, since my talent was utterly devastating in a world of human power. It would be especially hard to slip in those witty one-liners between witnesses since my attendant could stop me easily. He was a Clerk of Muting. His power and weakness perfectly suited for an average life as court attendant.

My defense was 'unreliable eloquence.' The power of witty sayings and nice speeches marred slightly by poor timing could get you in a lot of trouble. It wasn't my fault I couldn't control it.

In the next hour, I was lined up beside the door with the other future convicts wishing my public defendant would give me the floor for one solid line. Few knew my speech was extremely powerful. I could even be picked up by the government to write speeches during war-times. I believe my weakness would be countered in times of war, itself an inappropriate action in the face of an enemy. My power could produce a new kind of attack, a verbal one, I suspected.

But first, this war in the court.


Comments