by Drue M Scott
Malachi was the most handsome specimen of a man that Levi could ever remember seeing, and his tender composure, mixed with genuine empathy, drew Levi in. For a moment, he felt like a soul in need of transitioning and Malachi was his guide. Recounting the fear that must have been present in the two handsome gentlemen that had so recently passed, Levi let his thoughts wander back to their final moments. Clearly, they must have felt horror as they fought off their attackers before then fighting to remain on top of the waterfall. It was a drastic turn of events considering why they had ventured to Venezuela. Suddenly, he felt his own energy reach out for Malachi’s peaceful caress. “How is that possible?”
“Love” Malachi could see his one-word response was gaining him little ground in helping Levi understand. “Let me switch this over to something more rooted in worldly terms.”
Leaping up from the bed in a flash of blue/white light, Malachi grew in size to resemble a giant from the early centuries. Unclothed with taut muscles and violently aggressive mannerisms, he forced his student to the bed. Pinning him down and breathing heavily in his face, Malachi began speaking again. His voice was a chorus of chaos as if war had found a means to vocalize and shouted its demands. “FEAR DISRUPTS YOUR ENERGY!”
Phasing out and quivering back into visible energy away from the bed, Levi gasped for air that he suddenly realized was completely senseless. He wasn’t breathing; he hadn’t taken a real breath in more than 150 years. The sudden change in his teacher, though, frightened him.
“My point,” Malachi outstretched his arm towards Levi as he turned from the bed. The grotesquely large muscles beneath his darkened skin and patchy hair undulated in time with his words. Smiling distorted his face in a way that held no pleasure. Stepping inward and within a barely perceived millisecond he was his normal size and stature, again, beautifully covered by the soft cotton scrubs. “If you were to have died just then, your energy would have been split.”
“Spirit and conscience.” Levi’s eyes conveyed his understanding though his composure had not fully recovered from the fright.
“Love is the cosmic joiner of many things. But fear, fear is the ultimate weapon against love. There are positives and negatives in all things, duality in eternity. There are no clear lines that separate good from evil or right from wrong. Because they are nothing more than flesh-driven words to add structure to the fallible constructs of human understanding.” Moving to place his arms around Levi, Malachi kissed his apprentice on the lips. It was a gesture of sharing energy, of conveying acceptance and understanding. The two men’s entities sparked a bluish-green light throughout the room. Holding him close, Malachi released controlled bursts of his energy to Levi. “We cannot judge right from wrong, nor can we stand in condemnation of the actions of others. We are here to guide souls onto their next path. Whether it is returning to Earth, remaining in Idir, becoming a transition guide such as you and me, or simply hiding in the universe to sooth the unsettled mind they carried over, we let what will be, be.”
“But you said that I choose, too. What is it that I choose?”
“Yes. We are energy. Therefore, what you see and what you project are totally up to you.” Malachi filtered his body into smoke and let the scrubs he once wore fall to the floor. “You see me as vapor because that is what I have chosen to project. However, you can choose to see what I actually am.”
“Energy!”
“Precisely.” Reappearing as a naked woman in her late 80s, heavily wrinkled with leather-like skin and sagging breasts, Malachi questioned vocally projecting a raspy voice. “Will you choose to see what I’ve projected, or will you choose to see me for what I really am?”
Something Strange Happened at the Park Today: part 2
The sun was beating down on him hard that day; Sergei let his memory float back as he stood staring at a bluish-white hue which threatened to overtake his entire garage. The light emanated from the far right corner, directly opposite of where he stood. Shadows, casting long against the wall, made funny shapes that danced across his line of sight temporarily blinding him to what could be seen. The light was warm and carried with it an energy that further aided in his recall of the day’s events.
It was just over six months ago, and he had journeyed down to the park just outside the city to relax. His recent divorce and subsequent move plagued his sense of calm, and he figured getting out for a spell would help alleviate the worries of life. The sun and its warmth were a pleasant departure from the cold of the north, and he took great pleasure in it. He was a new resident to the Atlanta area and loved that winter arrived in this over-populated, southern city months after the average first snow fall in the far reaches of Canada. The blue sky, like a vast ocean suspended from the heavens, seemed so infinite; he could lose himself for days simply staring up at it. Various shapes of billowing, white clouds speckled the sky and added a texture he was certain he could reach up and touch.
The memory gave way temporarily to the light building strength across from him. Blinking hard to blot out the vibrancy, which now fully engulfed his two-car garage—filled with everything imaginable, except a car—Sergei gave in fully and allowed the memory to wash over him.
It wasn’t a particularly busy day, and the beauty of early fall held a mesmerizing power over all who ventured out into the sunlit park. Benches lined the green lawn like thrones, from which one could gaze up into the full, thick leaves of the encircling trees. Fall had yet to steal the life from the vegetation, but the nights were getting cooler and soon the green would certainly be replaced with the colors of autumn’s return. The distinct aroma of the air when change is on the cusp of reality was heavy in his lungs that day. It was a scent that revved his thoughts uncontrollably and landed them upon an old saying he vaguely remembered from his youth: all things that live must die, and all things that die will live again. It was an odd recollection Sergei had thought; how does smell conjure such ideas? Pulling his shirt from his body awkwardly, Sergei laid himself back in the grass feeling its prickly blades scratch his pale skin. Rolling his shirt into a make-shift pillow, he rested his head in the perfect position to watch the transfiguring clouds act out their play on nature’s vast stage. I must appear as a blemish to the eyes of the creator gazing down from so far above. Sergei continued to ponder thoughts, which were far more complicated than the simple contemplations of most. His shorter stature and thick limbs were, in fact, slightly odd, but he was not a frightful appearance. He was assuredly stout—damn strong if he were to describe it himself—and he held a confidence in his demeanor that suggested he could handle himself well in a fight. Strong facial features of Russian descent and a perpetual need to smile further offset his appearance. With scowling features in contrast to his happy demeanor, his appearance felt like a contraction of stereotypes. His knowledge and life experience were the only real things that gave away his age of 42. There was a time he endlessly worked for 6-pack abs and large “guns,” as he laughingly called them, but real concerns of life had overshadowed those superficial desires at least five years prior. He was far from out of shape and the remnants of his past fitness still showed, but he was more an “everyday guy” now. Most of his friends thought he looked better for it. He was contented with himself, and though life had been throwing him curve balls, he was determined to pick himself up from this momentary downturn. He would start this moment as he soaked in the beauty around him and rested. With his legs stretched out straight and his arms folded behind his head lending support to his shirt-pillow, he was the most comfortable he had felt in what seemed like years. His tight-fitting shorts, slightly tighter than he remembered them being, clung to his thighs further emphasizing the small amount of sweat his body excreted. The color of his skin on his arms and face was pale, but his torso, which rarely he exposed in public, was whiter. Half glancing down at his body, the sight of his bi-color flesh raised an insult to his lips. I guess this is what they mean by a farmer’s tan. He laughed out loud at the thought.
Su
ddenly, the air went cool, and goose bumps rose across his body. Its quickness tickled the sensitivity of his underarms. He swiftly unfolded his arms from behind his head and clasped them across his chest. The brightly lit world he was so enamored with was speedily becoming something far darker and colder. Sergei, lifting himself from the ground, intently watched the sky above; it was changing. Clouds moved at what seemed an unnatural pace, which caused him to further question what was happening. Perplexing, the atmosphere seemed foreboding. Yet, there was no evidence to indicate anything more happening than random people enjoying the southern sun on an arbitrary Thursday afternoon. A terrible sense of loss suddenly flooded him and nearly brought tears to his deep hazel eyes. A quick survey of all that surrounded him revealed nothing of immediate concern, but somehow, he felt like the universe had released a tormented gasp of pain. With the pain’s easing intensity, the sky faded back to normal. It was supernaturally rapid in its return to normalcy but still slower than it had changed only moments earlier. The calm he was so hoping for, the release of stressors and memories the park was meant to assist him with, had left. With little knowledge of how or when, he found himself upright and scanning the entire environment. Pacing the circumference of the park, Sergei felt a strange draw to a nearby park bench. It was slightly isolated in comparison to the other benches and set just inside the shadow of the trees. Cautiously, he approached it. Something felt seriously amiss. The sky began to darken again. Glimmers of a blue hue danced briefly across his line of sight. Unsure if he saw what he thought, Sergei apprehensively continued to step closer to the solitary bench. Shivers wracked his body. He wasn’t shivering from the cold or even like he was witnessing some emotional stirring moment in time; the shivers seemed to originate within him from far deeper than any superficial twitching of his skin. They radiated out from a single spot centered directly behind his heart. As quickly as the reverberations rippled through his being, they dissipated into nothing. He gave it no further thought figuring it to be residual emotional response to rapidly shifting sky and the strange call to the solitary bench. People were to his left and right, some blocked his path forward, and a few behind him gazed up into the morphing sky. Sergei’s attention was transfixed on the bench. He was so intent on the bench, he didn’t notice the strange brown spots of dead grass burning their oblong shapes into the healthy green sod beside him. Those around him had noticed when, finally, his eyes shifted downward in the direction of the dead spots. Puzzled, his knees weakened. He had never felt so feeble in his life. Having suffered many injuries over the years and several instances where emergency surgeries were required, Sergei was fully aware of what it meant to feel helpless. This feeling was worse. Nothing seemed comparable to the disbelief that overpowered him as he gazed at the dying grass, which looked like footsteps paced out in front of him. His aching body responded as though darkness had become an entity and was purposefully draining him of his will to live. Most of the park goers had already packed their belongings and were headed to their cars when the crack of unseen lightning shattered the once peaceful area. The sheer pressure of the thunder rattled in his chest. Instantly, fear grabbed hold of his heart. It was now far darker than he had ever seen the day; yet, it was not quite night. It was a haunted dusk-light that simultaneously illuminated the environment, yet concealed some darkness clawing its way to shroud the world in a monochromatic haze. All the pleasantness of the afternoon had been vacuumed away, and in its place sour scents of burnt plastic and rotting vegetation mixed with a foreboding aura took hold. A ripple in the air, the best word he could find to describe it, yanked his attention farther ahead in the direction he was going. Somehow, without consciously being aware of it, Sergei was walking to the right of the bench he had sworn he had originally intended to visit. Reality in that one spot, hovering just in front of him, appeared as a reflection cast upon a lake and disturbed by the throw of a stone into its mirrored image. The grass, trees, and slight uphill pitch to the land, as well as everything near it, warped momentarily bending to the hue of what little light remained in the forced twilight. He wasn’t sure what was transpiring, but there was clearly activity, some great disturbance taking place, and though he couldn’t see it, it didn’t detract from the fact that it was happening.
Pivoting on his heels while pulling his shirt over his head, a force invisible, yet equal to an explosion, knocked him back ten feet, and he landed heavily on his left shoulder. The inertia of his backward movement carried him fully prone to the grass, and a sudden pain overpowered him. Breathing became labored, and his muddled thoughts could not comprehend or find the reason for what was happening.
The vivid recollection of pain abruptly yanked Sergei from his memory as he grasped hold of his left clavicle still fascinated by the light in his garage. Despite the phantom pain and the sudden realization his memories had the same power as though he was living the events again, there was a calming sense of peace swelling within his chest. He was not fearful of the light or the oddity of its growing strength, but more intrigued by the lack of unease that was present in his current thoughts. The memory, however, seemed far more important than any urgency related to his present situation. He closed his eyes.
Lifting his injured body from the ground slowly—the pain would not allow any speed to his movements—Sergei noticed the ripple, again. This time, however, it was moving rapidly from place to place. It encompassed the whole park and sent trees and patches of earth sailing in all directions. People were screaming, but their cries of fright fell muted on his ears. Fire erupted to his left, and with an echoing boom, another unseen force propelled him an unimaginable distance further twisting his already broken body. His strength was gone. He thought, fear should be ravaging me immobile, but he could not hold any thought or idea for more than a second. He knew he was hurt badly, but he also felt warmth within him that seemed a far larger sensation than the damaged flesh of his body. Death could have taken him slowly or swiftly at that time, and he would have been accepting of it. He knew his legs were broken, his collarbone as well, and the warmth rapidly spreading underneath his cut-off denim shorts and down his right leg, cemented the knowledge he was bleeding badly. It was all a surreal scene of mayhem and, amidst the chaos, a peace, almost tangible, rested upon him and eased his eyelids closed. The approaching sirens and screaming park goers were the last sounds he heard before complete silence and darkness were the only things left.
Instantly, he was alone again standing in his garage; the light was gone. Had it ever really been there at all? He mused. Surely, something that intense would have brought the neighbors by. Someone on the street would have noticed. Where is Mrs. Schteklestein? He mockingly imitated her voice within his head: It’s Schteklestein with a k and rhymes with bean. He couldn’t help but laugh. She was one of his more annoying neighbors, but she meant well. Always poking around other’s houses, up and down the street in her floral pull over dress, her intentions could easily be misunderstood, but she was a kind old woman who simply wanted to make sure those around her were safe.; or to check and see if they wanted one of her homemade peach cobblers.
The disarrayed garage, one he had been meaning to clean for quite some time, was exactly how he found it when he first entered: covered in dust and eerily still. All of it except one old broken picture frame which used to hold a wedding photo of him and Desiree. The memory of her threatened to burst forward, but he held it back with the curiosity of what seemed to be words written on the glass of the frame.
“I am here.”
The message shook him temporarily. It was clearly written only moments earlier. The finger that did the writing sustained a cut from the spider web cracks that raced across the frame’s formerly smooth surface as evidenced by the small amount of blood rolling down the long edge of the once ornate keepsake. Reaching down for the silver-lined wedding gift, something he was certain one of her family members had given them, Sergei noticed another drop of blood splash onto the dusty surface. He dropped the old, almo
st-forgotten gift and watched it crash to the floor as he lifted his left hand slowly. Sergei realized it was his blood staining the frame. His index finger was bleeding down his hand now and chasing a pattern between the hairs on his forearm. He had written the message. Yet, he had no knowledge of having done so. Sickness welled up in his stomach, and the once peaceful aura, he had only just been experiencing, disappeared quickly. A mild shock threatened him, but he was much stronger than that and would have nothing of it. At least, those were the words he repeated to himself as he looked for something to cover his wound. With nothing else in sight, he wrapped his finger in the hem of his work shirt and turned to the door. In his speedy exit from the garage, he paid no attention to the shattered frame holding its three-word phrase, but what he had already seen played upon his retinas like the after-image of staring into the sun.