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Email: Bruce is out roadtripping

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konamouse
Official uF Dietitian

Joined: 02 Dec 2002
Posts: 8010
Location: My own alternate reality

Email: Bruce is out roadtripping

It's been a long time since Bruce wrote to Heather.

> Hi Bruce,
>
> Haven't heard from you in a while. I think you
> mentioned something about a school reunion upcoming?
> Highschool or college? When do you leave, when are you
> coming back? Any plans for a Las Vegas vacation soon?
>
> FYI, even though I am no longer "chasing" anything,
> I'm still planning to stay in touch with you.
>
> Peace,
> Heather

Heather,

Sorry it's been so long since our last communication. We were busy launching the new website, and then some other things came up...This is complicated, let me start from the beginning.

Last Tuesday I received a message that a potential account out in eastern Ohio had decided to commit. Since I was already headed to Western Pennsylvania for some reunion festivities with my high school, the timing seemed perfect. So I decided to take the road trip by car, and kill both birds with one stone. . .

I arrived in Youngstown around noon on Wednesday, after spending the night in a small town off Route 80. When I get to the offices of Youngstown Specialty Metals, however, my contact at the firm tells me he has no idea why I'm there. The company board is still weeks from making a final decision on who to hire, nobody there called me, blah blah blah. I make the best of the situation by meeting a few of the other upper level decision makers, and get a couple of ideas for how to streamline our proposal to make it more economical -- so maybe the whole visit won't turn out to be a total waste. But when I leave the building and head out to my car, I'm certain that either my secretary is incompetent, or that Barry's playing some kind of sick joke (the kind that get wise ass web designers fired if they keep them up). But when I call, the office swears that a phone call from someone claiming to be YSM's Director of Marketing was logged by our off-hours answering service at 5:43 PM Tuesday. I'm skeptical, but 400 miles east, so what am I going to say right then and there?

I get back to the garage where I've parked my car, and notice that somebody has attached a bumper sticker on it -- for someplace called Williams Grove Amusement Park in Mechanicsburg, PA. Logic would indicate that the only place it could have been attached was at the previous night's motel, but I loaded luggage into the car in the morning, and would have sworn it wasn't there then. . .

This damn amusement park bumper sticker is sitting on my back bumper. Naturally, I can't help but make the logical leap from Williams Grove Park to Ash Grove Park, and start wondering if something more is going on than first meets the eye. It didn't help matters either when I looked a little more closely around the back of the car, and notice a couple of peculiar looking scratches on the trunk lid, near the locking mechanism. The lock appeared undamaged on closer inspection, and none of the contents of my luggage were disturbed, but I left the city with a lot on my mind.

Back over the state line, I turned south on I-79 and headed down to pick up the Pennsy Turnpike east. . . As I drove, my mind was wandering, and with the reunion coming up, I guess my thoughts were turned toward my youth. . . and all of a sudden, I realize that I'm almost sure I've been to this amusement park before, with my parents back when I was a kid. The place is probably less than 2 hours from where I grew up. It's a second rate attraction with maybe 30-40 rides, and the usual midway with carny games of chance, and booths with fortune tellers, souvenirs, and junk food. At the time I think I liked it fine, though it certainly would pale today compared to a place like Disney World or even HersheyPark here in PA . . .

Now, mind you, I don't remember any stories about the freaking thing up and disappearing, transforming itself into a graveyard or anything like that. still, there was just something wrong about the whole chain of events. I decided not to press on to my hometown, since my hotel reservation for the weekend's activities didn't start til Thursday night. So I pulled off the Pike at Bedford and settled in at a Comfort Inn that was far from a Comfort. The hotel had been hit with a power outage earlier in the evening, and about half the rooms had no lights or A/C. . .

My hotel room in Bedford, fortunately, was one of the lucky ones.
I read for a bit, went down to use the exercise room (little more than a treadmill and exercise bike set up opposite a TV with CNN on), and decided to turn in early.

I can honestly say that as a general rule I don't remember much about my dreams. But on this night, I seemed to be tossing and turning from the start.

Outside, it began to rain -- hard -- or maybe that was only in my head.
In any event, I suddenly felt myself brought to wakefulness (though what I 'saw' suggests I was fast asleep). I felt as if I was walking outside as the storm raged around me. There was thunder and lightning, but I didn't feel any concern for my safety -- up ahead there was an old, delapidated building -- maybe a farmhouse, or even a fixed-up barn. A dark haired female was sitting inside, painting on a canvas. The light inside was dim, but every so often a lightning bolt would cross the sky and make everything bright as noon for a few seconds. In those flashes, it appeared the young lady was painting a pair of outstretched hands, which in the flickering light seemed to reach straight toward me.

She turned to speak to me as if she knew me, though her face was unfamiliar. "Traveler", she said. "Do you know the way?" "The way to what?", I responded blankly. "Diana will mark the trail, but only the brave of heart should follow." "Dale's Diana?", I said, not even knowing why I'd made such a connection. She shook her head, sadly, and turned back to her painting.

"There is not much time", she said. The thunder crashed, and again the lightning illuminated the room. There seemed for just a second that there was something in the painting I should recognize, but when the light faded to black, I awoke in a cold sweat, back in my bed . . .
Heather, I hate to rush through this one, since I've missed talking with you so much -- but time is passing here, and I really want to get back to the boat and get ready to set sail come morning. I'll write more at the next mooring (if I can find another internet cafe).

Bruce

_________________
'squeek'
r u a Sammeeeee? I am Forever!

Posted: Wed Jul 09, 2003 12:55 pm
Last edited by konamouse on Fri Jul 11, 2003 10:48 am; edited 1 time in total

vpisteve
Asshatministrator

Joined: 30 Sep 2002
Posts: 2441
Location: 1987

...and there is indeed a www.williamsgrovepark.com

Looks real at first glance, though.

Posted: Wed Jul 09, 2003 1:08 pm

phensley
Decorated

Joined: 11 Apr 2003
Posts: 183

It looks real cause it is real. I doubt their going to make up 12 links to an imaginary park.

Posted: Wed Jul 09, 2003 5:25 pm

LazarusLong
Unfettered

Joined: 20 Mar 2003
Posts: 453
Location: 93 miles SW of Ted Kaczynski's cabin

phensley wrote:

It looks real cause it is real. I doubt their going to make up 12 links to an imaginary park.

What about Ash Grove Park? Wink

_________________
"Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea."

Posted: Wed Jul 09, 2003 5:31 pm

konamouse
Official uF Dietitian

Joined: 02 Dec 2002
Posts: 8010
Location: My own alternate reality

Bruce went to Williams Grove Park

Heather,

Back online again tonight for a short while -- If this whole internet cafe thing isn't a ripoff; I have more of the story typed in to send when the connection timed out on me last night.

After that dream/nightmare, sleep was hard to come by the rest of the night.

Finally, near dawn, I dropped off into a deep slumber, and slept right thru my wake up call. By the time the maid's insistent knock on the door roused me, I was half willing to convince myself that my 'dream' had been nothing but a bit of improperly cooked meat (as Scrooge once said). But outside, the day was warm and sunny, and I still had more than 24 hours to kill before I was truly expected back in my hometown for the reunion events. Almost without actually making a conscious decision, I found myself getting back on the Pike instead of heading northeast, and driving toward this Williams Grove Amusement Park.

Two hours later, I pulled into the parking lot, which the park shares with a half mile racetrack across the street. Even for a weekday, the crowd seemed a little light, and after I paid my admission and walked through the gates, I soon saw why. The years have not been totally kind to Williams Grove. The folks running it obviously work hard to keep the place up and running. The grounds and concession stands were tidy, and the staff seemed friendly and helpful. But many of the rides looked dated, and in need of more than just a fresh coat of paint. It's a scooter speed thrill park in a Xtreme motocross world. Maybe that's why there were more moms and small kids than teens standing in the lines. I rode the flume and the cyclone, feeling a little self-conscious, and had a hot dog and a pretzel for lunch.

As I walked along the midway, I thought about Dale and his experiences with the strange fortune teller. Sure enough, there was a brightly colored canvas tent at one end of the midway, with a sign above it proclaiming Absinthe the Great. No lines -- no waiting. I couldn't resist going inside . . .

Inside the tent was sparely furnished with a table and four chairs in the center. There was a hokey looking crystal ball in the center of the table, and candles burning with a pleasant scent (sandalwood perhaps?) scent scattered about. Absinthe walked up to me and motioned me to one of the seats. He was an older gent, with a ruddy complexion and piercing blue eyes. Remembering Dale's tale, I was half expecting the gent to have six fingers on one hand, but instead, his left sleeve seemed to dangle freely at his side, as if he had no hand at all there (illusion or truth -- who knows). Absinthe eyed me closely, and said "Absinthe the Great sees all. Do you wish a general reading, or have a specific question you want answered?" That brought me up short. It certainly seemed like a longshot that this mountebank had anything to do with Dale's problems, so telling a story about wish-granting fortune tellers and paths between worlds seemed out of the question. And I must admit, I'm not the sort of guy who wants someone to tell me who the love of my life is supposed to be.
Finally, I thought of Don Marzano and his boys. "I have some . . . associates who are currently experiencing some problems," I said. "I'd like to know how their problems are going to work out, and whether their problems are going to carry through to me." . . .

Absinthe listened non-committally to my question, and frowned. "Nothing about love or money, eh? Well, it's your choice. Let us see what the portents reveal." It seemed like the candles around the room all flared in unison.
For a moment, it was completely silent outside the tent, and my eyelids felt heavy. If I'd had anything to drink in my hand, I'd have suspected Absinthe of slipping me a mickey -- as it was, I don't know how to explain it. While I sat there, my senses oddly dulled, Absinthe spoke some words (in Latin, I think, or maybe italian) and stared into the crystal. Suddenly, however, he looked up at me curiously. He was speaking softly to himself, and I couldn't hear all the words. . .

Absinthe muttered something like . . . "soo gia afferatto." Then in English, "he does not know". Still feeling logey, I managed to respond, "know what?". And instead of answering, Absinthe rose abruptly from his seat and walked over to open the tent door. "I'm sorry", he said. "But I cannot help you. There is a disturbance in the cosmic forces that prevents communication.
Here is your money back. Please go."

So I passed back outside, but after this strange turn of events, I had no intention of just going away. I walked about 50 yards down the midway, and loitered at the periphery of one of its games of chance (throwing rings over milk bottles, as I recall). Sure enough, within a couple of moments, Absinthe rushed out of the tent, and headed for the park exit at a rapid pace that seemed to belie his apparent years. I was following along behind, trying to act inobtrusive, when suddenly a couple of teenagers running carelessly in the opposite direction crashed into me and knocked me to the ground.
The impact was inconsequential, but as I struggled to my feet, up rushed one of the youth's parents, solicitously trying to find out how I was while yelling curses at his wayward charge. By the time I could extricate myself from his misplaced concern, Absinthe had vanished from sight. I waited around for nearly an hour, but the fortune teller did not return. So finally, I departed, now really wondering to myself what on earth was going on. . .

Heather, you are welcome to pass any parts of this particular road trip story on to anyone you feel you can trust.

Bruce

_________________
'squeek'
r u a Sammeeeee? I am Forever!

Posted: Fri Jul 11, 2003 10:47 am

Myssfitz
Unfettered

Joined: 26 Feb 2003
Posts: 695
Location: In the pasture

So now we have two fortune tellers with plant names and hand deformities.
Hmmmm.

I have to search some more, but here is something interesting.

Quote:

On the first plane we have the names. Each name corresponds to an abaisi or to a minimum set of abaisi which are exactly alike. The names refer to differences among the abaisi regarding bodily deformities. Here we must clarify a point. There are names of abaisi which do not refer to one specific abaisi, that is, unique, but rather to a class of abaisi which are the same and which have the same defect and the same name. in this case, equality occurs by the deformation which they all possess. We observe a clear inversion in regards the production of differences between ibiisi and abaisi. in the case of the abaisi, it is the deformity which produces an equality of bodies, and the distinct deformities produce differences in bodies, marking singularities. In the case of the ibiis it is the perfection which produces differences between bodies.
http://www.ifcs.ufrj.br/~marco/Minhas_Webs/conferencia_nomes-standrews.htm

_________________
Well, Moo

Posted: Fri Jul 11, 2003 10:58 am

dmax
Unfictologist

Joined: 09 Jan 2003
Posts: 1387
Location: Location: Location!

And, as we know, there is someone with an "A" that we are looking for.

So now we have a likely suspect...

_________________
That sounds like something HITLER would say!

Posted: Fri Jul 11, 2003 11:17 am

konamouse
Official uF Dietitian

Joined: 02 Dec 2002
Posts: 8010
Location: My own alternate reality

Another email from Bruce

He appears to be okay with me sharing his tale with "my friends". And he apologized for making me wait two days to hear the next part of his story (since this obviously happened last week).

Quote:

Heather,

Yes, I think of this road trip story as something to be shared with those you trust. Sorry for the interruption, but I had a very important guest, Ms. Shapiro, sharing accommodations on Apollo's Mirror the last two nights. She too needed to be brought up to date on things, and we're still trying to hammer out what if anything we should try to do together. But all that is still to come -- back to the 'story'.

Feeling more than a bit unsettled by the way my encounter with Absinthe had ended, it was back to the highway. I reached my hometown just before 5, and checked into my hotel. I found messages waiting for me at the front desk from two of my old school buddies, inviting me to join them for dinner at The Flaming Hearth, a steak place that passes for haute cuisine where I hail from. I called the restaurant to confirm the reservation time, showered and changed, and drove on over.

My two friends have done reasonably well for themselves. One, Bob Walters, never really left town, commuting to the local community college. He's in insurance, married his high school sweetheart, and has two 'tween-agers'. It's fair to say his life and mine don't have much in common these days. The other, Hank Dandridge, went on to Penn State like I did, and even was on the Crew team with me during our Freshman and Sophomore years. He's a civil engineer in Pittsburgh now, who works for one of the city's biggest firms. Hank's divorced, and based upon the weekend appears to have an even greater fondness for alcohol than I remember. Still, by the end of dinner, we were all back in the late 1980's again, reminiscing about old times, exchanging 'whatever happened to's', and speculating about who would show for the reunion and who would be missing. It's amazing how easy it is to fall back into old familiar rhythms, isn't it.
The evening passed pleasantly, the drinks flowed, and I was grateful that I had a short drive back to the hotel.

Bruce

_________________
'squeek'
r u a Sammeeeee? I am Forever!

Posted: Mon Jul 14, 2003 11:54 am

konamouse
Official uF Dietitian

Joined: 02 Dec 2002
Posts: 8010
Location: My own alternate reality

Continuation of Bruce's story

This was in my email box this morning:

Quote:

Heather,

Once again, my apologies. I've been using my on-line and on-phone time trying to run a business from long distance, with mixed results. But I'm overdue to continue the story, so here goes:

On the drive back to the hotel, as I took things nice and slow. Still, a couple of minutes after leaving the restaurant, I noticed a car following steadily behind me in my rear view mirror. My first thought, of course, was the local cops -- but when the minutes passed and no sirens flashed, I decided it was just my imagination. Still, the other car stayed on my course even as I pulled into the hotel lot, and seemed to halt momentarily at the lobby entrance before it reversed course and pulled off into the night. It was some sort of large sedan, probably domestic make, with New York plates. I tried to catch the number, but all I could make out was the last two digits ('66'). It was probably a good indication of how pleasantly buzzed I was that the first thing that came into my mind as I watched the car disappear into the night was not the question of whether I was being tailed, but the name of that old TV show 'Route 66', which used to be on in reruns on the local UHF station when I was a kid. If you're too young to remember it, it was a story about two guys with a hot car who drove around Southern California having adventures. One of 'em was the guy who wound up on Adam 12 years later . . . but I digress, sorry . . .

Anyway, I was feeling no pain (really sort of surprising in itself, since I can usually hold my liquor pretty well). After the previous night's struggles, bed seemed like what the doctor ordered, so I soon dropped off to sleep with the TV on in the background. And just like the night before, my slumber was starkly interrupted by a vivid dream . . .

In my dream, I found myself walking along an unmarked path. I was in the midst of a tangled thicket of trees and brush, on a hot and humid summery afternoon. To the north, on the horizon, it looked like the glade or forest I was in opened up into boggy marshlands, and there was a distinctive, pungent smell in the air. There was not a sign of life or human habitation in sight, though for the life of me I couldn't imagine what would have brought me out into such a desolate, unwelcoming spot alone.

I turned around in a complete 360, trying to get my bearings. Though I'm no woodland guide, there was a trail of bent branches and trampled grasses that made it plain I had come to this spot from somewhere to the southwest. But knowing my 'direction' didn't seem to make it any clearer where I was headed to next. Suddenly, there was a rustling behind me, and a flock of black birds emerged from a thicket, flying as if startled by something. And sure enough, I thought I could just dimly make out another human-sized form moving on the other side. I pushed through towards that person, hoping for guidance or maybe just companionship . . . but I stopped short in surprise when I got close enough to see that this person was the same young lady from the previous night's dream. "Who are you", I asked, or perhaps demanded -- the whole situation seemed to frustrate me, even in the context of the dream. "I have had many faces and many names through the ages", she replied. "You may call me Sarah, as the others of this place do. Why do you seek me now, when you have ignored my calls before this?" '

Does it make sense that one can become angry in a dream? If so, that's what I was, for I nearly screamed at her, "What do you mean, why do I seek you? It's you who are invading my dreams!" She smiled ruefully at me then. "That is not how this works. I am always here, at the periphery of consciousness, at the edge of sight. I am visible only to the eye that needs me, audible only to those who seek the knowledge I bear. And yet I do sense your confusion. Perhaps the need which drives you is not your own? Do you bear the burden of a loved one, or a friend?"

"Perhaps I do. I have a friend who is in great torment. He has lost those he loves, and seeks to find the power to restore them to life. I cared for them as well." "Indeed? Then remember this, and tell your friend. Belief has power. So does unity. Whatever he seeks, it cannot be found by one man alone.
Tell him what you have seen. Tell him that a picture tells a different story to every viewer. It is only when the stories are shared that the universal truth is revealed. . ."

That damn dream ended so abruptly. I wanted to pursue matters further with this frustrating woman, to ask her to speak plainly (even if it meant revealing myself to be insufficiently erudite to grasp her oblique riddles). But I woke (or perhaps came to) with a start. My body was bathed in sweat, almost as if I'd been taking that walk through the woods. I decided that a shower was in order, then spent another hour watching bad cable TV and half-reading the novel I'd packed for the trip.
Finally I dropped back to sleep, and like the previous evening my sleep was uninterrupted for the rest of the night.

In the morning, I got up and put on my jogging clothes, and gave myself a good workout running through the hills of my childhood hometown. When I returned, I showered and changed again, then set out to find breakfast and a copy of the Wall Street Journal. The diner in the center of town has been there since World War II times; an old railroad car that had been set on a concrete piling, and run by the same Irish family since before I was born. The corned beef hash is renowned throughout the county, though I've reached the age where it's hard to totally enjoy the taste without imagining what the meal is doing to your cholesterol count. Still, this was reunion weekend, so I threw caution to the wind, and had hash, scrambled eggs, and toast.

I'll write more later after moving my boat to a new dock.

Bruce

_________________
'squeek'
r u a Sammeeeee? I am Forever!

Posted: Mon Jul 14, 2003 10:32 pm

konamouse
Official uF Dietitian

Joined: 02 Dec 2002
Posts: 8010
Location: My own alternate reality

And Bruce concludes his long weekend adventure

And this came to my email later this afternoon.

Quote:

Heather,

Quick thought before I resume my narrative -- you kept asking me about Dale's old professor. I never had him myself -- but I remember a couple of occasions when Dale came back from class, or one of the professor's 'field trips', badly shaken up. Have you or any of your friends had any luck finding him or contacting him yet?

When I got back to the hotel, I planned to laze by the pool, but as I entered the building, the desk clerk called me over. "A couple of people were here asking for you", she said, nervously. "Did they leave their names?", I asked. "No, but they were certainly someone you'd remember by appearance." "What do you mean", I inquired. "well, they were both dressed in suits despite the heat, and kept their dark glasses on inside here the entire time. They also had some sort of mark or tattoo on the inside of their right wrist, though I couldn't make out what it was supposed to represent." For the half dozenth time in a few days, I stood there dumbfounded. Surely these were the same 'dead-eyed guys' that I'd seen at Dale's meeting with Don Marzano. What on earth were they doing here, looking for me? And were they still nearby? I asked her to ring my room immediately if they returned, but not to send them up unless I instructed her to do so. Then I skipped the elevator for the back stairs, and practically ran to my door, looking over my shoulder for pursuers every ten feet.

So it's Friday at noon, and I've just been made aware that DEG's are here in my hometown, 'hunting me down' (sorry for being overdramatic, but those were the words that stuck in my mind). What has Dale done, I wondered. I thought about contacting Dale, but decided that they could well be monitoring such communications. Lacking a clear plan, I decided the best short term strategy was to 'hide in plain sight', keeping to public, well traveled places. In a town the size of mine, that is not all that easy to accomplish outside of the morning and afternoon school bell, or church on Sunday. As I left the room, I thought back to all the spy movies I saw as a teen, and took a few hairs from my hairbrush and tucked them into the door jamb, where they could serve as my early warning if anyone entered while I was gone.

I drove out to the outskirts of town, to the Fair Winds shopping plaza (which sits on a nondescript piece of flatland that we used to employ as a ballfield in my younger days). Now there's a man-made pond with illuminated fountains on the grounds, and 77 hip and trendy stores and boutiques. I spent most of the afternoon browsing and searching for anyone on my trail. But there were no signs of anything amiss, til I drove back through town and past the diner I'd visited that morning. Between the diner and the hotel is an old water tower that the town teens would climb to the top of in summertime. There was freshly painted graffiti on the tower, a large circle with a number of smaller circles painted inside it -- I think nine or ten in all. I recalled seeing the same graffiti on a number of spots in Aglaura when I went there looking for Dale in April. Well, that cinches it -- I thought. They're here, and planning to stay . . . at least til they find me.

You think of contacting the police at a time like this. Then you think about how much you believed this story until it began to happen to you, and realize how pointless it would be. You think about running, too, let's not lie about it. But even though my feelings for my old hometown have not always been warm and fuzzy, it didn't seem fair to subject the locals to these 'creatures' -- particularly when they were there to find one particular person -- me. So I thought to myself, well, then, let's get this over with. If they wanted to kill me, presumably they could have already done so. Best to find out what they want.If they know I'm here, they know WHY I'm here. So go to the reunion, and get this over with. (Sounds like a plan, eh? Oh, yeah, helluva plan).

Back at the hotel, the desk clerk has heard nor seen no more of the DEG's -- but as I reach my doorstep, the hairs have fallen to the floor. Now I'm wishing I carried a gun -- or Mace -- or something useful. But I don't, so I open the door. The room is empty, but my stuff has been ransacked and scattered all over the floor. Nothing appears missing -- (and why would it -- I've got nothing they want, so far as I know) -- but there's something creepy about going through your possessions after someone else has been pawing through them. Things don't quite seem to be yours anymore.

After cleaning up the room, I got dressed and was one of the first to arrive at the country club for the reunion dinner (still full of confident bluster, I guess . . .). But things stayed uneventful right through dinner. I sat, smiled at the small talk, and listened to the old stories with half an ear.
Hopefully, none of old compadres thought me rude or disinterested. I'm not typically the life of the party, anyway -- more of an observer than the center of attention. Folks were there to see how the class president and the prom queen had turned out, not what had happened to the former chairman of the Future Achievers Club.

The organizing committee had opted for a DJ instead of a band -- so after the tables were cleared, we were treated to a steady stream of the era's hit singles. I danced a couple of songs with 'Lainie Forbes -- we dated off and on for most of my junior year, and remained friendly afterwards. She moved to D.C. to go to American University, and her husband Stan is a tax attorney for a well connected firm there. He was too busy with case work to tag along, and it was easy to get back into our old back-and-forth patter. She's got a great sense of humor, and had a lot of interesting stories to tell about the Washington social scene. The time was passing cheerfully --

But then I saw them . . . two men of nondescript height and weight, loitering by the door. Although they were obviously not part of our group, nobody seemed inclined to question their presence. In the days since, I've noticed this is a common reaction -- to many folks, it's like they aren't even there (or is it just that they wish that they weren't?).

They did not seem to be in any hurry to approach me, so I made my apologies to Lainie, and walked straight up to them. "You want to see me?", I said, trying to sound bold and unafraid. "Well, here I am." The man's voice was soft, almost expressionless. "Perhaps we sssshould go ssssomewhere more quiet." "Here is fine, thank you -- I don't have any desire to be alone with you."

"I am ssssorry you feel that way. We bear you no ill will -- and indeed, we can be quite generoussss to those who aid ussss . . . Or perhaps you know that already." The echoing, sibilant S's reminded me of a snake, as did his mottled complexion. "I assure you, I don't know what you're talking about. My only concern in this matter is to do what I can to help Dale." "Missster SSSprague, yesss. He iss why we have come."

The DEG continued on. " Mister SSSprague doess not ssseeem to be making much
progressss. He has not found the Wish . . . or the items of power we ssseek. He wanders through the woods, but he does not see -- or at least he pretends he doesss not. The longer he delaysss, there iss danger. Danger to him, and danger to those he lovesss. You will tell him thiss, yes? You will help him
ssseee the urgency. Understand, Missster Abbott, if Dale cannot fulfill his bargain, we will turn to you, or Keeler, or to his friend the Doctor. SSSomeone will ssserve, or all will pay. And as we aid those who help, pleassse be clear -- we can also punissssh those who stand against usss. SSSurely that isss not what you intend, Missster Abbott?"

There I was, planning to stand tall -- except with every word, my resolve seemed to be fading away. Each hissed SSSS seemed to run a chill down my spine. I now wanted nothing more than for this conversation to be over. "No, no, I'm sure Dale is doing everything he can. You must realize, however, that we're just regular humans -- this sort of business is not something that comes naturally to us." The second DEG, who had been eying me silently up til now, laughed harshly at this response. "All of you are playing the parts you were destined to play. This is the final act of a tableaux that has played out over an entire epoch. It will end this time for good . . . for one side or the other. Make sure you pick the right side." And just like that, the audience was ended. They turned on their heels and departed.

That was the first and last time I've spoken to the DEG's -- but not the last time I've seen them. For the rest of the weekend, they were always lurking somewhere nearby. When I got back to New York, they were in the streets outside my apartment, and around my office. Not the same ones each time of course, but it hardly matters. They all look more or less alike, and I somehow have the impression that they all share a sort of unified consciousness, whether it be a 'hive mind' or an ability to pass on information telepathically. (God, listen to me. I sound like I'm raving. No wonder Dale broke down for a time -- who wouldn't. And I don't even have the added torment of having caught my family up in the crossfire).

After 3-4 days of it, I had to be free of their eyes constantly on me. I slipped away from my building in the heart of rush hour, leaving my car behind in favor of a cab. I went to the marina, picked up some supplies, and took to the waters.

I've been moving around the NJ/NY coast, not mooring anywhere for longer than a night or two. Sooner or later, I'll have to face the music and go back home. . . but not just yet.

Bruce

P.S. Will my denouement be worth the buildup? After a couple of weeks' time, I guess I no longer see it with quite the same eyes that I did then. In truth, all I've experienced, Dale has probably gone through five times over. Maybe with your help, you all can even figure out something from these events that will help Dale's cause. I'd surely like that -- like this to turn up something -- to mean something beyond the disruption of my normally well-ordered life.

Thanks for your help and your friendship. BA

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'squeek'
r u a Sammeeeee? I am Forever!

Posted: Mon Jul 14, 2003 10:37 pm

MageSteff
Pretty talky there aintcha, Talky?

Joined: 06 Jun 2003
Posts: 2716
Location: State of Denial

Re: Continuation of Bruce's story

Bruce sent an e-mail to Heather talking about a dream...

konamouse wrote:

.. "That is not how this works. I am always here, at the periphery of consciousness, at the edge of sight. I am visible only to the eye that needs me, audible only to those who seek the knowledge I bear. And yet I do sense your confusion. Perhaps the need which drives you is not your own? Do you bear the burden of a loved one, or a friend?"
....Tell him what you have seen. Tell him that a picture tells a different story to every viewer. It is only when the stories are shared that the universal truth is revealed. . ."

Possible tie ins
Edge of Sight - DEG's can only be seen by a small fraction of the population of Aglaura. Iris is one of them.

a different story for every viewer could also be paraphrased every observer, as in Lorenz transformations... the intersection of two worlds that are moving in a different angular direction, just separated by a few degrees of difference...

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Magesteff
A small group of thoughtful people could change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has. - Margaret Mead

Posted: Mon Jul 14, 2003 10:44 pm

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