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Author's Note ~ Every detail reveals the secret of what's inside. No page need be turned to solve the mystery, only a perceptive eye and the limitless power of one's imagination.
Sequences of Thr3E
“Overlaying theory grants humans the ability to think. Our higher process of thought enables us to ask questions of why, and how. But what I don't understand is our contingency of time. Time is in a basic form, just a human response to the randomness of the universe. We use it in our modus operandi to organize our thoughts and through the means of schemes we categorize things based on sequence of time and event. But since this basic repetition of the three means can be separated and broken down, can humans learn to utilize certain aspects, and not others?” The means in which are refered to are thought, time and reality. These three functions operate in a dictorial fashion. By theory, the paradigm can be separated and split into monogamous forms; time – reality; thought – time; thought – reality. By losing the buffer, or middle man, the sum of said dichotomy and their separate variables now have a direct correlation on the another. “For fuck's sake Issac, get off the ledge!” A pistol aimed right at Issac's forehead forewarned him that Conway's threat was serious and that higher ups had given the order to expel his soul from the face of this planet. Conway pulled down the safety and steadied his aim. His line of sight became parallel to Issac's retina. He squinted his eyes to help hold him aim. Moving his focus along the shaft of the gun compensating in his aim with the motion of his expanding lunges moving his aim just the slightest bit. This insured an efficient kill. The cold air runs down his trachea biting at his throat as it pases into his lunges. Conway stands there, wondering what Issac could be thinking this very moment. His persistence towards the subject of the three means and abstract thought made him question Issac's sanity. Issac has no history of instability. What the fuck is wrong with him? “Have you lost your marbles Issac? You're standing on the ledge of a 60 story building, preaching to me these precious three means of your...” Before Conway could his lasting syllable Issac turn his body 180 degrees. His face now glanced towards the spatial gap between the skyscrapers. Below people hustling at their normal day lives unaware of Issac's unscheduled landing. He could feel the wind winding through his hair, circling around his hands which began to stretch out over the open air. Sweeping the hairs that sprout from his arms, the breeze whispered into his ears, taunting him, swaying him to finish it. “The funny thing about all of this Conway, is no one knows.” Looking at the ground squinting, forcing his eyes to focus on the meandering ants below, “People have no idea. They ignorantly wader about fixating themselves on the trivial terms they call an existence. Completely out of tune with reality. Life's wheel of consistency hangs only by a mere thread and yet their daily practices continue unhindered, unaltered.” Issac turns to face his advisory. Their eyes connect, sparking an energy that curses the surrounding air. “You don't need to run Issac.” Twisting his neck, glancing towards to streets, Issac whispered, “They always run, that's something no one can ever change.” The click form Conway's gun signaled the hammer was in position to fall, ready to ignite the line of events. “Then choose you next move Issac.” A smirk came across Issac's face. Giggling at the redundancy of the comment, “If there is anything to learn from all this, it's the fact that there are no such things as choices.” Issac's thy muscles tightened as his knees folded. His weight shifted and soon became weightless. Before his mark left the steady concrete roof, Conway, fired one deafening shot. His hands recoil as the shell casing shook hands with gravity. The spinning bullet zipped by Issac's head ripping the air in every direction.
Schmidt 3 The Mark “Fucking hell.” A man's voice whines. “Oh, Saint Merry of Peter's pearly white gates my head hurts.” A masculine voice rebutted, “Whats wrong suga pie?” The man glanced over to the blond haired beauty laying under the covers. A distraught look came across the mans face as he realizes the voice belonged to a very masculine looking man. “Your head hurts because you drank to much, silly. Take a few Advil and you'll be fine.” The man leaped up from the bed and danced his way to the bathroom. “What the hell...” The stunned man through to himself, “What the hell did you do last night Marcus?” The firm man shuffled back into the bed room with two different sets of pills. “Here you go. Take these, give it 10 minutes, and you'll be dandy.” Marcus looked at the rationality of the situation and found himself confused. He knew he had bisexual tendencies when intoxicated, but never had he awoke next to such a beautiful creature and not remember his or her name. Realizing this he opted for the medication hoping that in the retreat of mental consistency during his high, this situation would be put to rest. “Thanks.” “Here you go studly.” The mans arms retraact in a flamboyant manner from handing Marcus his escape. “So, did you enjoy yourself last night?” “What exactly happened last night?” “Hah, well if I remember correctly, everything. And let me tell ya, evrathing was fanfreaking-tastic!” Marcus chuckled at this because even when hes inebriated he preforms well. As he focused his mind on trying to remember the past evening the nightstand next to the bed started to vibrate. A red Razr set to the Vibrate setting shook the red oak table. “555-7865. Who is this?” Marcus muttered to himself. “Who's that? You're boyfriend?” “I don't know who it is. Ive never seen this number before.” The phone continued to buzz. “Well answer it, it could be Mr. Rigt holl'a'ing at cha.” The man snickered. Marcus took the crimson phone and flipped it open. Placing it parallel to his ear he began to speak, “Hello?” “Hello, Marcus. What are you up to?” A voice answered. “Who is this?” “Well I don't condemn you for forgetting the sound of your brother's voice.” “Holy shit my pants, Issac. How the hell are ya?” “You know how life is, stressful. It's almost as though there is not enough time in the world to accomplish even the most simple of tasks.” “You always did love to utilize your time wisely. Mom and dad would be proud.” “I know they are.” “What?” “Nothing.” At that moment Issac's normal uppity, go lucky, over pronunciation like voice indicatively went sour. The mood rapidly shifts to a somber, solemn tone. Like many of the times Issac has contacted Marcus, it was because he was in need of something. “So... What is it this time Issac?” “Well, I happen to be in town for work and I thought I would ring my big brother to see if he would accompany me to lunch today? It has been over 2 year Marcus since the last time we have spoken.” “You were known to keep a tight agenda.” A wispy voice interrupted their conversation, “Who are you talking too?” The mans
Schmidt 4 fingers began to caress Marcus's back with a touch as light as a feather. This immediately sparks a tingling sensation inside of Marcus. Goose bumps shoot all over his back as shivers course down his spine. “Wow big bro. Who is that?” Issac spoke mockingly. Marcus batted the man's fingers away, regretting the decision after he stopped. “No one”, Hastily spoken, “Where do you want to go for lunch?” “You happen to be the one who lives here. You also happen to be the one who knows where around here is good.” After several moments of deliberation on Marcus's part he finally arrived at a destination of choice. “The Acilica Restaurant. 44th and Continuum. Know how to find it?” “I'm sure I can ask the driver of my taxi. 12:30?” “12:30 is fine. Ill see you there.” “Goodbye, brother.” That was odd. Hes never called me brother before. Marcus thought to himself. “Everything okay stud?” “Yea everything is fine.” Marcus paused in contemplation. A second passed and his male instinct took control. He glance towards the blond who was now getting dressed. “Oh, no you don't.” He grabbed a hold of the man and laid him on the bed. “Now, where were we?” Means To An End (109) In looking further into Trichotomy, Thought – Time – Reality, operates in a liner but circular pattern. Traveling in a sequence of events never out of said sequence. The whole thinking behind this paradigm is that Time is in fact a thought. It is humans innate ability to organize the randomness of the universe. Time can even be refereed to as a sixth sense. Sense is in fact a thought, humans can learn to gain control of said thought. By surpassing Time and eliminating it from the paradigm we find that Thought directly effects Reality. If thought can directly effect reality then humans can, in theory, control existence by abstract thought. Looking down at his watch Marcus sees the time 12:41 flash in a red dotted fashion. Over and over again unmercifully the seconds pass. With each, striping him of time with his step brother. “Finlay, I can see the damn building.” Marcus uttered to himself. About 2 blocks ahead there was a building with the lettering “D R E E M O R” spread wide across its lower floor's face. Waltzing through the twirling door, Marcus entered the skyscraper. An elevator with the sign above it spelling out “ACILICA EXPRESS ELEVATOR”. The fast paced elevator was a direct shot to the rooftop where an elegant restaurant stood. Life times went by, seemingly, as the elevator made its forty five second climb to the peek of the metal behemoth. The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Glass mirrors scared the walls as ivory and gold hung from the high ceilings. “Can I help you, sir?” The host asked. “Yes, reservation for Depot. Marcus Depot.” “Yes Mr. Depot, please follow me.” No sign of Issac. Marcus thought. His brother was always very timely, so not seeing him him here and well troubled him. The waiter sat him in a two person white cloth covered table that overlooked the bay. A beautiful sight to any person who is moved by such aesthetic beauty. Admiring the waterfront Marcus notices something in the top side of his vision. A shadow if he may assume. The shadow, with the passing milliseconds, grew more profound until one could clearly make out that of a person. A man began to free fall off the 60 story building, plummeting towards the ground. He came closer to the window almost in view now. Even closer, now you
Schmidt 5 could make out his suit and red tie. Closer, brown hair and broad shoulders. Almost in direct symmetry, you could see his hands and a gold wedding band on his left ring finger. Time stopped for Marcus. Their eyes met. Face to face the two bodies remain still in time. Marcus could make out the texture on the man's skin. His brown and hazel eyes. He could tell this man was in distress and yet he had a calm look upon his face. His mouth half smirked with a smile only a brother could love. For the first time in 2 years, Marcus saw Issac. For the first time in history fear gripped every membrane within Marcus's warm interior. As quickly has Issac entered the picture, he exited. Passing out of Marcus's sight, Issac hurtled towards the earth's surface, gravity wasting no effort accelerating the timely man. “What the FUCK!” Marcus panicked, syllables spewed out of this mouth. His tongue lost all control, legs went weak as he stumbled to the elevator. Making it to their doors, rapidly he started pressing the button. The door opened and Marcus entered. He could feel the blood pulsing behind his eyes, every muscle spasming. His head begins to learn towards black as though night is about. Its 12:51, night does not appear for 7 hours. With every ding showing a passing floor Marcus comes closer to the realization of his brother's demise. The doors open. Having regained of motor control he runs through the lobby and slides into the turning doors. Before Marcus can exit glass prison that is the twirling door he sees the blood. The outside world chaotic. People screaming, cars screeching. Marcus feels the heat creep down his chest. His heart beating as though trying to escape his skeleton. He approaches the lifeless body. The ground underneath cracked from the sheer impact of the body. Everything stops. No tears would find their way out. No scream would echo through the streets. Merely silence from Marcus and Issac. Not knowing what to do, Marcus turns around and walks away. No words, just silence. It's All Linear Marcus gets home, bends down and picks up the package that was left for him. The images still fresh in his mind, haunting this thoughts. A sudden vibration startles him. His phone located in his left pocket is ringing. Only buzzing twice, signifies a text has been received. He pulls out his phone. (1 New Message – Read) Appears on the home screen of his phone. With little force he presses “Read”. The text reads as following. It was nice to see you again, Brother. Love. To: Marcus Depot From: 555-7865 Sent: 1:21 P.M. Received: 1:22 P.M. End Part One
Subtle blips of ideas run in and out of the mindless man. His attention fixated on nothing, and nothing it would stay. For 12 years John Smith worked for a high powered accounting agency. His life consumed by numbers. Mathematics was always a strong point for John. In high school he received a thirty-six on his ACT and had been enduring college level math and science courses since his sophomore year in attendance with Willard High. Everyday to John was the same. The morning bus left at 7:42 and would drop John off at work promptly at 8:30 every morning. This extra time gave John 30 minutes to par take in his favorite activity, day dreaming. He would sit in his off-white cubical staring at his computer screen. Every once in a while John would glance over to his Hawaii calendar and check out the beauty that is printed onto the lavishly shiny paper. Every pixel aiding to manifest the concept of true Spartan beauty. He dazed off looking with first intentions at his eyes only, moving towards his chest and then his nether regions wishing something would come into his life. I need to do something. I'm fucking bored with this bullshit excuse for a life. John stood up. His head ducked above the cubical wall. He glanced around the white office floor and a sense of hatred rushed through his veins. Everything was so peaceful, pleasant, and mundane. All spark and pizazz was striped from the robotic workers ,who seemingly were unaware of their lack of excitement, went around as if life was perky. Look at these pathetic fuck-tards. John thought to himself. I think it's time I finally did something about this. He glanced down towards his feet and commanded them to move. Fear struck him. It was as though John's feet somehow rooted into the floor. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The following deep breaths flowed in through his mouth, down his trachea, and into his lunges. Clinching his phalanges he moved his feet. Step by step John moved out of his cubical and down the boring hallway. He noticed a congregation of people around the windows. People pushed past him, running down the hall towards to growing group. He ignored these ignoramuses, fixating on his attention only on his destination. He could see it, the bosses door. With every step closer to the door, the harder his heart beat against his chest wall. He could feel the pulse in his finger tips, which now have a layer a sweat to help calm his nerves. He pushed past the group of lowly people steadfast on his mission. He stopped. Closed his eyes once again and took in the last breath of air before he would confront the big man. His eyes open with a fierce intent. They appear different now than they did before he closed them. A new set of confidence coursed through him. He could feel the gel in his hair start to flicker. The sweat from his head beaded down his neck. He wrapped his and around the door handle and began to turn his wrist. Blackness struck his eyes. His hand loosened from handle and fell limp. The only thing John could hear was the sound of cracking glass and the splatter of liquid. The color of crimson splattered against the prosaic room bringing a new life of color to the office. John heard the screams, but had no will to react and his body fell lifeless to the floor. The part of his head that remain intact with his body perch against the door. The rest coats the walls of the humdrum office. The crackling of glass, the shrills of screams, and the pain of death were the last thoughts to echo through John Smith's mind. They were in fact, the last ideas he would have. Exodus “Coming up in later news,” news anchor Madlin Bradshaw said, “A stray bullet fired by a police officer in mid pursuit flew between the gap of two downtown buildings yesterday and killed a civilian worker. A look inside this raveling story, and more, next on News 3 at 7.” The news channel cut to commercials. The musty room echoes with the resonance of the channels
Schmidt 7 overture. Marcus is sitting at a kitchen table staring off into space, his mind wanders aimlessly. Flashes of the previous day zoom through his head as though reliving the experience every 5 minutes. Nothing can wash his blood coated hands, they are dyed in his guilt and self pity. It was a hot summers day and Marcus to shocked to move his muscles. He had been sitting at his dank kitchen table since 2 pm the previous day. The boxy television set flickering all throughout the night. It was now 7:09 and the morning news cast had cut to its first commercial. Now, cold food rest on the table, the smell of 8 hour old microwaved pizza still scents the air. Marcus's mind is blank, still, and forgotten. His heart racing as with every passing minute his brother's mutilated body crashes down upon his mind. As though stuck in Satin's mouth being masticated upon for the rest of eternity. Every sense cut off besides that of pure unadulterated agony. Someone knocks at the front door as though trying to wake the dead. Marcus's eyes shift towards the ruckus, squinting as though trying to see through the door. “Marcus Depot, open up, this is the police.” A girl proclaims. Mustering every bit of energy he could he found the will and courage to reply. “Doors open.” The door slowly openes making a screeching noise on its turn inwards, and stopping after hitting the wall. The gate to the outside world revealed two police officers. One female, height around 5'7, lip stick poorly applied and pants so tight her badunk badunk was nearly hanging out. The other officer was a male, around 6'5 and packing a keg. “May'a, we come in sir?” The girl said. Marcus brings his arm out and extends his hand in such a gesture that the police enter the sulky apartment. “What can I help you with officers?” “Sir'a, we need to inform you of some bad news. Your'a, brother committed suicide yesterday and'a... Well, we just wanted to stop by and give our condolences.” “We are very sorry for your loss Mr. Depot. But we do have some questions for you, if you don't mind.” “I guess now is as good of a time as any. Can I offer you gentleme...Can I offer you two some pizza?” Both of the officers look at the pizza box laying on the floor by Marcus's feet and see how the grease has solidified into the cardboard box. They both returned with a kind nod as an insinuation for “They were good, but thank you anyways.” “Mr. Depot, we'a, need to know where you were yesterday at around... oh lets say 12:301:00ish?” “On my way to the Dreemor tower to see my brother. He had just called me that morning and said he was in town and wanted to have some lunch. I'm from around here so I picked the Acelica Tower.” “What'a time did you two agree on meeting there?” “12:30” “What time did you arrive at the tower?” “Around 12:50” “Did you see your brother fall?” Marcus turns his head looking directly into the eyes at the man who asked the question. The officer stands there completely still and forth going. He seems to act as though there is nothing strange or demented with the query in question. “When he past the 56th floor window I looked right into his eyes.” This seemed to trouble the female cop who now figits, looking around the gloomy apartment as though in search of something. “What is this all about officers?” The female cop went calm and looking Marcus directly in the eye said, “We have suspicion to believe your brother was forced off he ledge. A bullet fired
Schmidt 8 at him, missed and hit a civilian across the street. The bullet blew his face partially off.” “Wait why would the man fire a shot at a person who is on a ledge? More importantly why did he miss?” The male cop pauses before he answers, “Who said he missed?” Shaded Red Marcus looked dumbfounded at the two police officers who stood inside his apartment. Contemplating the notion that the man who forced his brother off a ledge fired one bullet towards his brother, whom which was already jumping off said ledge, to actually hit a person in the parallel building for whatever means. The air in the apartment suddenly went still. Marcus could smell the must from the women's worn out uniform and the grease in the man's hair. The officers stood there looking at Marcus for some kind of hint, or clue as to what really happened. Nothing sparked his mind. Marcus could feel the impatience growing within the room. The officers blood vesicles started to pulse with a greater force. As soon as Marcus was about to say something to break the awkward silence a man waltz into the room, pointed a silenced hand gun at the Male officer's head and pulled the trigger. Without hesitation the man fell to the floor. The thud could be heard for what seemed to be miles. The female cop reached for her fire arm, but found herself face-to-face with a bullet. Entering through her left cornea and exiting her left temple. Following her partner she collapsed to the floor, falling as though a rag-doll would. Her arms and legs spread out as a geisha's fan. Their bodies lay still. For several moments the man didn't move, until the gun that just finished judging the two officers found its eye towards Marcus. “Get up, and don't talk.” Uttered the gunman. He shifted his eyes towards the dead bodies to account to the fact they were really dead. “You must be Marcus. Well Marcus, nice to finally meet you. I am an old friend of your brother's.” The man extends his hand out to notion a hand shake. “The name is Conway Grillot.” Cheddar Mix Marcus was poised with a question. A man claiming to be named Conway has just entered his home, murdered two cops without any signs of mercy, and is now waiting for a hand shake from Marcus. Realizing this man still holds a gun tightly gripped within his finger, he darts his hand towards Conway's, hoping his slight hesitation won't cause the him to fret. Their hands meet with a firm squeeze, following with a gentle shake. “So you knew my brother?” “Yea, we go way back. We both worked for the same office firm for the past two years.” “What office firm would that be?” “Telecom Integrated Metric Enterprises.” “My brother never really told me anything about his personal life. Where he worked, his marital status. Hell I could be an uncle and not even know it.” “Relax, you're no uncle. But I'm here more on business Marcus. You see, your brother had a document. One very important to him and me.” “What sort of document?” “A journal. The brown leather bound type. No lines on the pages. We both always had these crazy ideas, almost as though we would write down out childhood dreams as adults.” Marcus chuckled at this. Thinking of his brother using his imagination, let alone dream to be anything other than a mangy old office worker who sits inside a 3 wall cube all day, seemed unnatural to him. “I'm afraid I don't have...” Before Marcus could finish his sentence he remembered the
Schmidt 9 package. He has been so focused on the death of his brother and the sight of his splattered body sprawled across ground, he neglected to comprehend the fact the mail came. Marcus stood up and walked over to the table that stand next to the wooden door frame. The sun illuminating the farthest wall where the door stood still. The brown package had no mailing address, no return address or anything to signify where it was going. Conway looked questionably at Marcus as he started to open the package. Scraps fell to the floor as the brown covering became less concealing with every passing tear. The book was brown leather, with a flap and a tie to wrap around. The trim of the book is a shimmering gold that flickers in the radiance of the sun. Conway's eyes shifted at the sight of the book. “Is this the document you were telling me about?” “Yes.” Marcus's fingers fiddle with the pages as he begins to open the document. Conway's eyes widen at the sight of this. The mood of the room suddenly shifts as Marcus notices Conway's hand start to tighten. His fingers slowly curl around the black handle of the gun. The TV, still shuttering in the background, becomes more noticeable as the overture from News 3 signals their return from commercial break. “A man yesterday,” the News Anchor said, “a little after 3 o'clock was killed in his downtown office. A police officer perusing an armed criminal fired a shot on top of a downtown building. Missing the man, the bullet flew from building to building. Penetrating the glass window of the 58th floor and stricking the office worker in the head. The man died instantly. The police officer goes by the name of Conway Grillot and has fled the area for the current moment. He is charged with misuse of his firearm and murd...” The TV cut out as the bang ricocheted off the walls. Marcus's whole body tensed at the sound of the gun fire. After turning around only does Marcus's arm is in an offensive position, the gun's barrel aimed directly for the television. With little resistance Conway moved his aim from the, now destroyed, TV towards Marcus's torso. “Give me the book, please.” Confidence took a hold of Conway. His voice moving to a much lower, serious tone. “Ok.” Marcus replied. The book landed at Conway's feet. The thud of the landing bounced around the room like a child. Marcus, without looking away, squats down and retrieves the book. “Thank you. Now, I must be going.” Conway slides towards the door, reaches behind himself and turns the rusty knob. his sight never leaves that of Marcus. Slowly moving around the door, now through it, Marcus face leaves Conway's sight. The door closes and shakes the room's walls. Marcus hears the footsteps of Conway descending the stairs of the building at an alarming rate. He's running. Marcus thinks to himself. Why... Its almost as if he is running after something. Going against his better judgment, Marcus leaps over to the door and enters a pursuit with Conway. Two steps at a time, Marcus tries not to lose focus. His feet moving faster than his eyes was able to see. As though going into another dimension, Marcus exits his apartment building and into the busy streets of the hustling city. Heads bob all up and down the street. Marcus searches for Conway's brown, long hair. He spots him. About two blocks down Marcus can see him running. Conway takes an abrupt left down some back ally. Marcus following him, trying to catch up with the runner. Thoughts run through his mind of what is really inside the leather book. Could it really be just their thoughts and dreams? Or could it be something Issac wrote to him in an attempt to warm him of his death, or maybe of who he thinks his killer could be? He doesn't know. All Marcus can really focus on is trying to remember which ally he saw Conway take.
Schmidt 10 Sweat began to bead down his spine, the droplets cooling the portion of epidermis they come into contact with. It has got to be this one. Marcus stand in front of an ally with a very narrow pathway. Only feet separate the two buildings from merging. The path winds, twists and turns several time until Marcus came to a turn. As he rounded the corner his vision caught the sight of a familiar face. At the end of this alleyway stand a man around 5'11, brown, short hair. Marcus stared at the man in bewilderment. “Hello, Brother”, The man said.
Marcus's eyes widen as he glances towards the man. Standing across from him he could see a slender man, normal in height. His build was nothing extraordinary but he stature confident; looks as though he carries a heavy pedigree. The man's eyes shutter towards Marcus, a smirk comes across both their faces. The pounding music in the background rattles the eardrums, the sound of the bellowing crowd beats Marcus to his very core. Goose bumps run up and down his spine. The depressants coursing through his veins, hormones captivating his attention, and seductive thoughts fill his mind. There is was again, the look from the man, this time less subtle, more confident, as though he's picks his mark. Their eyes connect and an energy ignites a spark nearly over exposing the room. The blinding light rattles and fades by the sound from the DJ's synergistic music. Marcus starts to become apprehensive as the man paces towards his direction. Abby, telling him about this wonderful new Thai restaurant she found, bounced to the aft of his mind, her voicing growing quiet. As her voice fades colorful lights wrap around the room streaming down from the ceiling mounted fixtures. Every footstep booming as Marcus's heart begins to pound as the man approaches. Marcus brings his left hand up to his face and breathes a huff of warm air into it.. Scents of Vodka, Tipplesec, and Redbull fill his nose. While his right hand holding the glass filled with the libation. His body begins to perspire, only an arms length away stands his looker. Leaning against the bar, the signals bartender asking, “Scotch on the rocks, please.” The bartender nods in affirmation to the man's request. Marcus has his back leaning against the wooden bar, he twists around and replicates the position the man has taken. Stomach pressing against the bar, arms bent and leaning over, followed by a very debonair look. A smile reaches across both their faces. “You ever been to The Complex before?” Marcus asks the man. He chuckles and replies, “Once or twice.” The way he spoke it made Marcus think he was lying and the even larger grin that took place upon the mans face after stating his comment confirmed it. “What about you?” The man asked. Marcus couldn't help but reply with, “Once or twice, maybe.” The bartender returns and places the scotch down next to the man. “Charlie put that on my tab.” Marcus notions the bartender. The man smiled and nodded in appreciation. Marcus placed his hand out and said, “Marcus Grillot.” The man followed with the same motions, “John Smith.” Neurotic Mishaps Marcus's eye widen as he looks at his brother dead in the eye. There is no mistaking it, this was undoubtedly his brother. The click of shoes begin to clap against the pavement as Issac slowly steps towards his brother. “It's been too long big brother. How have you been?” “Wha... What are you doing here Issac?” Marcus tries with all his will to keep his cool. In the last day and a half he has been his brother fall to his death and a gun man shoot two officers point blank in the head, but none of that compare to see the, seemingly real, ghost of his late brother. “I'm here because I want to be here. I'm here because I want to get you out of this.”
Schmidt 11 “Out of...” Marcus's breath begins to get heavy. The feeling of weights pushing down upon his chest holding him from getting proper intake of air. The feeling grows, pressure strengthening. With every bit of energy Marcus could muster he gasped, “What?” “You need to get a hold of yourself Marcus. You're having a panic attack and you need to breath.” Marcus collapsed to his knees. Issac ran over to him and knelt. Placing his hand on his back Issac said, “Normal but deep breaths.” “What is going on Issac?” “In due time I will try t explain everything. But right now we need to get out of the open and into some shelter.” “Where can we go? My... My apartment has two dead cops and blood is everywhere.” “Did you let Conway take the leather bound book?” Still grasping for air, “I just didn't let him take it. He had a gun. Care to explain to me whats going on?” “Lets get out of the open and somewhere safe. I'm worried Conway will show his face soon.” “You don't have to worry about me bro.” “No offense Marcus, but I'm more worried about me.” They begin walking towards the south side of town where Issac had a car. A red Honda Civic with a parking ticket lay parked out in from of the Civil tower. Marcus approaches this with extreme cation. “Thats me.” “This red civic?” “Yep.” Issac pushes the unlock button on his remote key chain and the car doors unlock. The car chirps and the headlights flash. Upon entering the vehicle Marcus notices that new car smell. The doors shut and the engine sparks to life at the turn of the ignition. The car moves out from its parallel spot and starts speeding down the road. The feeling of protection overcomes Marcus's body and for some reason, he feels safe while he's with his brother. “I saw you fall from a building.” “Yes, I know.” “ I saw your body spread across the concrete like butter on bread.” “That couldn't have been pleasant.” “Not really!” “I can't tell you what you saw wasn't real. But I can tell you, Im not dead. Otherwise, who would be driving this car?” That comment made Marcus chuckle. “Good, a smile. Its about time.” “So tell me brother, did I really witness you fall of the roof?” “Yes and no. Hard to say. Did you see me fall, yes. Did you see me fall, no.” “Right...” A look of confusion comes across Marcus's face. “I wouldn't worry about it anyways. As you can clearly see I'm fine.” And with that statement a bullet enters and exits that car. Entering through the front windshield and exiting driver side window only missing Issac's face by mere inches. The windshield started to crack, spidering out as though sinking in the ocean as the pressure continuously built with the darkening depths. Marcus and Issac looked around frantically in the direction the shot came from. Only to notice a white Nissan Altma with its window rolled down and a pistol aiming for the them. Issac accelerates the car, pushing on the gas peddle until his foot met the floor. The revving of the car ricocheting off the surrounding buildings as the white car began its pursuit.
Schmidt 12 The streets were busy with the hustling of everyday life in the city. Issac weaving the car in and out of traffic, drifting around corners, anything to make sure they were not caught. With every turn and move the white car continued its relentless pursuit. A ramp to the freeway leading out to the suburbs of the city lay only yards away. “Take I44!” Screamed Marcus. A screech of the tires and a round of the wheel put them on the speeding freeway. The cars now picking up speed as the traffic decreases. Marcus whips his head around to look out the rear window, the white car still hot on their trail. “They're still there!” “I know, I know.” Issac, now maneuvering in and out of lanes avoiding car at all costs. “We need to lose these guys.” “Who are they Issac?” “People who think we still have the book most likely.” “The leather brown one? The one that Conway took?” “Yep, thats the one.” “Why is this damn book so important?” “Look, it's hard to explain at the mom...” “I'm getting really tired of this waiting game! Do you best, now!” “Fucking A. Okay, okay. But if we die its your fault.” “Issac!” “Fine. The book hold the secret to many things. One, the one they are after, is an explanation of how humans trained themselves to achieve Brahman.” “Brahman as in Hinduism supreme deity, Brahman?” “Yes but not really. See we use Brahman as a term more or less. Displacement of thought into the pattern of time functions only as a role to humans to organize the randomness of the universe. With this organization do we, humans, discover what we know as time. Time, in essence, is a way for the animal mind to linearly construct a method for storing our lives information. Example: You remembering my death. You know for fact that you saw me fall from that building, but yet, here I am. Driving this ca.. Holy shit!” The car swerved around a Jeep and onto the grassy medium. Bouncing and rumbling, the car speeds through the grass as though cement, until Issac corrects this and reenters the highway. “Jesus... What you saw was potential.” Marcus's eyes met Issac's and in the most dumbfounded tone imaginable Marcus asked, “What?” “Like a ball on a table it has potential. Potential to suddenly roll or fall if the table decides to shift or move in any way. If the table were to stop existing then the ball would fall.” “Stop existing? You mean as though it were to just... Not be there any more?” “Yes. If the table were to stop being there then the ball would fall.” “How would the ball be in the air in the first place?” “Not the point. What you saw was a potential me. I could have jumped off that roof, but I didn't.” Flashright “So, if you didn't jump who did I see?” Issac sighed while twisting the wheel to avoid more cars. By this time the white car was only feet away from Issac's red Civic. Trying to identify the person who was in the drivers seat was a difficult task because the windows were tinted. Issac sighed and went on to explain, “You did see me and it was real but it just wasn't in our reality. You had, what people call, a flashright.” “What?” Spoke Marcus in the exact tone used earlier to clarify his confusion. “A flash-forward is when you see the future. A flashback is when you see the past. A
Schmidt 13 flashright is looking to the right, or left for that matter, of the space-time continuum.” Issac glanced towards Marcus only to see a half dumb, half scared look upon his brothers face. “Meaning that what you saw was one of many form of my life that could have been. Every decision people make holds potential for people, and that potential is what you saw.” “So what I saw was something like a premonition?” “To some extent yes.” “So I didn't see you fall...” Marcus uttered to himself, “Did I see those two cops die?” “Yea, they're dead.” Marcus spun his head around to check on the white car, and sure enough there it was, right on their tail. “How are we going to lose them?” “Like this.” The highway was separates itself from the outer road by 20 feet of grass that continues off the highway and into a ditch like separator. Issac sees the opportunity where the ditch raises up and becomes a hill like mound. This poses a perfect time to cross over onto the outer road. Marcus sees what his brother is attempting to do and gives a nod, then clinches his fingers around the oh-shit handles and braces himself. Issac takes the wheel of the car, slams on the breaks for a brief moment. This makes the perusing car slam on its breaks and swerve away from the side of the highway. Issac turns the wheel 48 degrees off the freeway and enters the grassy median. Half was through the car hits a small bumps throwing the steering wheel off and Issac loses control. The red Civic continues on a path of 720 degrees circling out of control on the grass. The car comes to a stop. After giving the experience some time to sink in, the brothers look at one another and Marcus yells, “GO!” Issac forces of the gas peddle to the floor and the car speeds off. “Did we lose the white car Marcus?” Issac asked. Marcus looked out the rear view window, nothing. “No, sign of them. Wait... God dammit! Here they come.” In the rear view mirror Issac could see the white car gallivanting down the road at an alarming rate, running at the red car like a bull to a matador's cape. “Hold on Marcus.” A head was an intersection where the lights were red. Issac accelerates towards it in an attempt to run the light. The white car shows no sign of hesitation and continues to follow, even when having knowledge of their plans. They both charge for the intersection, peddle to the mettle. Fear consumes Marcus and Issac but its to late. The Civic entered the intersection at 90 miles per hour. Issac could see a yellow truck in the left side of his vision crossing the line into the intersection. We're not going to make it. Marcus thinks to himself. With every passing second the cars comes closure to one another. The red civic now in the middle of the crossing and yellow truck outside Marcus's window. They pass the yellow truck and just barley make it. The yellow truck taking off their rear bumper. Marcus turns his head to the rear to look for the white car. He sees the yellow truck, all the sudden, burst like a water balloon. Glass spews everywhere like liquid and the yellow truck pushes down the road attached to the white car. “Whom ever they were, they're dead now.” Issac said in relief. “How can you be sure?” “At 90 miles per hour, that kind of hit will kill anyone. Even if they are wearing a seat belt.” “So, we're safe?” “Not really. Not until Conway gives us that book back.” “So we're going after Conway? How will we find him?”
Schmidt 14 “I know where he is.” Marcus glances back towards the intersection and watches the yellow truck drive off past the intersection. The red Civic stopped in front of the DREEMOR Tower. Upon entering the building Marcus felt strange. A sense of deja' vu came over him, itching at his spine. They entered the elevator and continued up to the top floor. Looking at this brother Marcus sees the same confidence he saw before, no questioning, sturdy and valiant. The golden doors open and the two step out. “Stairs, Marcus.” Said Issac pointing towards the sign hanging from the ceiling. They entered the stairwell and continue up. All the doors they pass through are unlocked, some are already open. They get to the final door and stop. The brother look at one another, no words need be said, and open it. The daylight from the outside blinds both of them. The smell of tar and heat enters their nasal cavities. Their eyes adjust to the sun and reveal Conway, dead. A man stand over him, gun in hand. He turns around only to be John Smith. “You?” Marcus questionably said. “Smith.” Issac added. “You were working for Conway I take it?” “Yea. I was hired by Conway to find this book, but I had no idea it contained the future.” “But you're dead. I saw it on the T.V. This morning... How could you still be alive?” “What you saw was a flashright Marcus.” Issac said. “So he's already beginning to understand his side-sight? I read about it in this little book of yours.” Smith asked. “What?” Marcus adds. “Look Marcus what ever he tells you its not true. He doesn't know the truth.” Isaac said whispering. “I know every possible outcome, every potential happening.” Marcus's eyes focus, suddenly becoming more determined. “What's in the book?” Conway smirked and said, “Your true futr...” Before Conway could finish his comment Issac quickly reaches around his back with his left hand and pulls out, from under his shirt, a pistol. Smith reacts raising his gun and pulling the trigger. At the same time Issac fires one shot. Marcus feels a sudden rush of pain, followed by a warming sensation. Blackness overcame his eyes, swallowing his mind, then, nothing. Means to an End (42) The distance between the mind and reality stretches based on how humans interact with the world around them. In order to create just a way as to understand the world and its apparent randomness our minds create time. A liner method of storing information based on sequence of events. Some call it chronological stimulation, most call it, Time. The differentiation of time and reality, however, can be misconstrued and, even more so, bent. Marcus's side-sight allows him to see current lives of people based on their interaction with the world and the decisions. But the most important thing to remember, these happenings are not real. Confusing can set in and one can lose one's self in the mix of realities. It becomes nearly impossible to distinguish reality from side-sight. “Fucking hell.” Marcus quietly cries. He opens his eyes and notices the mundane looking room. “Good morning, Mr. Grillot. How are you feeling?” A women dressed in all white asked. Her name tag said she was Anne and that Marcus was in Saint Luke's Hospital. Before Marcus could answer the nurse's question a police officer came into the room. “Morning Mr. Grillot. I'm afraid we need to ask something of you quickly. We found your
Schmidt 15 stabber we just need you to identify him.” Marcus nods to the officers request. “Follow me please.” Standing has never felt so painful before but Marcus manages to walk over to a wheelchair and sit. 6 floors down and 12 doors later, they reach to morgue. The room was dull and gloomy, smelling only of sanitizer and death. Marcus enters the room, the nurse rolling him up next to a body that is covered by a black tarp. Marcus stands to get the best view of the, now, deceased. Upon entering the room the cop hands a brown leather book to Marcus saying, “He was found holding this, it has your name in it.” Marcus looks down at the book in utter confusion. The police officer walks over to the cadaver and asks, “Is this the assailant?” The police officer folds down the tarp. Marcus's chest fills with a warming sensation, the body of the deceased is broody mutilated. Face smashed in and body broken; it looks as though the man fell from a skyscraper. Passing the desire to hurl Marcus manages to mutter, “Issac?” End
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