spaceboy135
Well-known member
Something black silently swooped across the night sky. “Bird,” thought George. Then one of the blinking stars in the sky moved. “Airplane,” George thought. Suddenly there was a blinding beam of purple light in his eyes, and he felt himself leave the warm surface of his rooftop and float up into the bright pillar that shone down on him. “UFO,” George thought. He’d already seen this happen in the movies.
It was no UFO. Instead, there was a voice. “Georgie.”
“Where am I?” He whirled around—or so he tried, but there was nothing to whirl with! He tried moving his eyes, but there was nothing to see with! He groped about as blindly as a bat with his hands and tested the
surface with his feet, but there was nothing but moist, dark air.
“Georgie, this is your conscience.”
“Why did you call me Georgie?”
“Because I love you, Georgie, and I want you to be mine forever.”
Frantic George began to feel uncomfortable, except that his gut was not there to feel uncomfortable with. If there was anytime to feel uneasy, now was the time for his brain to start sending Uneasy signals to his heart, gut, arms, legs, and face, but he felt as though he were now some kind of gas. Like helium, floating in the summertime air.
“Get away from me!”
“But how can I leave the one I long for?”
“If you are my conscience, aren’t you supposed to be in my head?”
“No. I come from a parallel universe.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I didn’t like the George on the Other Side. He was jobless, stiff-necked, fat, lazy, and as low self-esteemed as anyone I’ve ever seen. I tried being patient with him, helping him work out his problems and getting him to stop living in his mother’s house reading comic books and, and…”
“I… I was a loser? Comic books?”
“AND you were thirty-five, George.”
George felt sick to his stomach—or at least he would have. Sometimes the brain has neural messages to send but nowhere to send them to. “Thirty-five?”
“But you! I’ve searched all the Earths, all the different countries you’d lived in, all the different time periods you were born in, I’ve soared across all different galaxies and… and you. YOU are the George I’ve always wanted to be with!” George felt the disturbing sensation that can only be described as his own thoughts being fondled, carressed, and adored.
“Wh-what did you do with the ot-other George?”
“Oh. I killed him.”
“What!”
“Threw him into a lake—Legion-style.”
It took George a while to understand what was meant by Legion. Then he understood and exclaimed, “What! That’s awful!”
There was a cognitive chuckle. “No, no, George… I’m just kidding. I just left him the way a wife leaves a negligent husband in the middle of the night: silently, secretly, and quickly. I ever so patiently hovered above him all night and into the next day to observe what was to become of his body, which was and is still alive, by the way. The next morning his pampering, jolly-bird mother came in with breakfast on a stand-up tray, and—well, what happened next wasn’t very pretty. Let’s just say breakfast in bed wound up becoming breakfast on the floor.
“They wrestled his bulging frame into an ambulance and lugged it down to the emergency room. Comatose, those ignorant white-coats replied. They figured the cause to be excessive brain inactivity due to physical stagnation and overload of hypnotic, televised radiation. ‘And the comic books?’ the mother asked. They shrugged and said that he must’ve led a pretty pathetic life. Said he was going to be ‘out’ for a while.”
The sparkling purple gas flared up in all shades of red and thundered, “Well, good riddance! All the sitcoms and movies and commercials he stuffed me with! I wanted to die. There was nothing for me to do but sit and watch in horror as he stared, stared, and stared… ate, ate, and ate… slept, slept, and slept. I wanted to kill him, strangle him to death, anything to make it all stop and go away. No work, no play, no friends, no adventure or learning or goals or love or religion or…
“But… but look at you,” he said, simmering back down to his purple demeanor. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to be. You’re strong. You’re the life of the party. You’re in love, for Pete’s sake! You’re in love with living life, with all the boundless mysteries and virgin territories the world has for you to stake your flag in. In love with learning. In love with getting to know people. You’re…” You’re this and that, this and that-- the list of flatteries drug on and on.
So George interposed. “Excuse me. But I’m afraid there’s only room for one consciousness in this head. I’m afraid I can’t let you come in. And that’s final.”
The hushed purple spirit seemed to glance nervously down at the inert George on the rooftop. George’s ghost did the same. Purple began slowly to descend; George did the same, and the two picked up pace and picked up pace and screeched down to the body like two roaring comets.
“NO!!” Purple shrieked. “Don’t leave me!”
Purple flung George’s consciousness out of the way, sending him hurtling into space, and dove down into George’s appendix. George awoke with a start, scrambled to his feet on the rooftop, looked down at his arms in the moonlight, his legs, lifted up his shirt to see his abdomen, and howled with victorious exultation.
(Yes. The appendix is the housing of your soul. People think that the eyes are the window to the soul, but that’s not true. Your belly button is.)
Meanwhile....
Something like an eternity passed of wandering through silent spiritual storms in space. An eternity of thoughtless, emotionless, and benumbing existence, no sound, no sight, no thought-- but existence, nonetheless—the most basic awareness that awareness can be. The ghost of George floated through all fifty dimensions, all seventy-two parallel universes at the speed of orange (speed in the upper dimensions can become confusing).
To be con-freaking-tinued, if I ever get this bored again.
It was no UFO. Instead, there was a voice. “Georgie.”
“Where am I?” He whirled around—or so he tried, but there was nothing to whirl with! He tried moving his eyes, but there was nothing to see with! He groped about as blindly as a bat with his hands and tested the
surface with his feet, but there was nothing but moist, dark air.
“Georgie, this is your conscience.”
“Why did you call me Georgie?”
“Because I love you, Georgie, and I want you to be mine forever.”
Frantic George began to feel uncomfortable, except that his gut was not there to feel uncomfortable with. If there was anytime to feel uneasy, now was the time for his brain to start sending Uneasy signals to his heart, gut, arms, legs, and face, but he felt as though he were now some kind of gas. Like helium, floating in the summertime air.
“Get away from me!”
“But how can I leave the one I long for?”
“If you are my conscience, aren’t you supposed to be in my head?”
“No. I come from a parallel universe.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I didn’t like the George on the Other Side. He was jobless, stiff-necked, fat, lazy, and as low self-esteemed as anyone I’ve ever seen. I tried being patient with him, helping him work out his problems and getting him to stop living in his mother’s house reading comic books and, and…”
“I… I was a loser? Comic books?”
“AND you were thirty-five, George.”
George felt sick to his stomach—or at least he would have. Sometimes the brain has neural messages to send but nowhere to send them to. “Thirty-five?”
“But you! I’ve searched all the Earths, all the different countries you’d lived in, all the different time periods you were born in, I’ve soared across all different galaxies and… and you. YOU are the George I’ve always wanted to be with!” George felt the disturbing sensation that can only be described as his own thoughts being fondled, carressed, and adored.
“Wh-what did you do with the ot-other George?”
“Oh. I killed him.”
“What!”
“Threw him into a lake—Legion-style.”
It took George a while to understand what was meant by Legion. Then he understood and exclaimed, “What! That’s awful!”
There was a cognitive chuckle. “No, no, George… I’m just kidding. I just left him the way a wife leaves a negligent husband in the middle of the night: silently, secretly, and quickly. I ever so patiently hovered above him all night and into the next day to observe what was to become of his body, which was and is still alive, by the way. The next morning his pampering, jolly-bird mother came in with breakfast on a stand-up tray, and—well, what happened next wasn’t very pretty. Let’s just say breakfast in bed wound up becoming breakfast on the floor.
“They wrestled his bulging frame into an ambulance and lugged it down to the emergency room. Comatose, those ignorant white-coats replied. They figured the cause to be excessive brain inactivity due to physical stagnation and overload of hypnotic, televised radiation. ‘And the comic books?’ the mother asked. They shrugged and said that he must’ve led a pretty pathetic life. Said he was going to be ‘out’ for a while.”
The sparkling purple gas flared up in all shades of red and thundered, “Well, good riddance! All the sitcoms and movies and commercials he stuffed me with! I wanted to die. There was nothing for me to do but sit and watch in horror as he stared, stared, and stared… ate, ate, and ate… slept, slept, and slept. I wanted to kill him, strangle him to death, anything to make it all stop and go away. No work, no play, no friends, no adventure or learning or goals or love or religion or…
“But… but look at you,” he said, simmering back down to his purple demeanor. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to be. You’re strong. You’re the life of the party. You’re in love, for Pete’s sake! You’re in love with living life, with all the boundless mysteries and virgin territories the world has for you to stake your flag in. In love with learning. In love with getting to know people. You’re…” You’re this and that, this and that-- the list of flatteries drug on and on.
So George interposed. “Excuse me. But I’m afraid there’s only room for one consciousness in this head. I’m afraid I can’t let you come in. And that’s final.”
The hushed purple spirit seemed to glance nervously down at the inert George on the rooftop. George’s ghost did the same. Purple began slowly to descend; George did the same, and the two picked up pace and picked up pace and screeched down to the body like two roaring comets.
“NO!!” Purple shrieked. “Don’t leave me!”
Purple flung George’s consciousness out of the way, sending him hurtling into space, and dove down into George’s appendix. George awoke with a start, scrambled to his feet on the rooftop, looked down at his arms in the moonlight, his legs, lifted up his shirt to see his abdomen, and howled with victorious exultation.
(Yes. The appendix is the housing of your soul. People think that the eyes are the window to the soul, but that’s not true. Your belly button is.)
Meanwhile....
Something like an eternity passed of wandering through silent spiritual storms in space. An eternity of thoughtless, emotionless, and benumbing existence, no sound, no sight, no thought-- but existence, nonetheless—the most basic awareness that awareness can be. The ghost of George floated through all fifty dimensions, all seventy-two parallel universes at the speed of orange (speed in the upper dimensions can become confusing).
To be con-freaking-tinued, if I ever get this bored again.
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