Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  You’re probably all saying to yourselves, “Is Michael Eisenstein just a self-absorbed, spoiled kid?”

  Fair enough.

  But then I want you ask yourself just one question. Have you ever played tug-of-war with an egotistical serial murderer? Worse, does he want you to become him?

  I continue to pet my favorite robotic dog. Perhaps Terby can help me.

  CHAPTER 4

  June 9, 2378

  11:26 a.m.

  Have you ever hated anything, like, really strongly—you know, like I did when my mom made me stay in my room and do homework? Well, like most boys, I wanted to do my own thing. Hobbies? I liked mixing music from different genres just to see what I could create. You know, like combining baroque music with ancient rock. Can it be done? Sure, I’m living proof. I also like to paint, although I don’t paint normal stuff. Why? Because I don’t know what normal is.

  Wasn’t it cool when the ancient Jackson Pollock let his muse rule and would just impulsively put the brush to the canvas until his creation was there, right in front of his eyes? I also wonder what it would be like to combine inventions—you know, just place them together. How about changing our three-dimensional world to a four-dimensional world? “Can it be done?” I start petting Terby again. That’s what I do when I think aloud.

  My mother is really frigid when she’s not depressed. Some of her paintings have really neat images. My favorite is her conception of dark rain. She loves to hide faces inside of things, juxtaposing them in different, sometimes bizarre, places. I think they call that pareidolia. Yeah, that’s it. It’s a weird phenomenon where people place really odd images inside other strange images; sometimes it even involves sounds too. My mother loves to draw alien eyes and place them on her own face, followed by images of rain; sometimes the rain is dark red… sometimes it’s black. What do you think that means?

  My dad? Exactly who is my dad? Word association… Eisenstein! You may not realize this, but the word “Eisenstein” is a vocabulary word in the twenty-fourth century. It means “genius,” but more accurately, it means “obliteration!” How about eradication, ruination, demolition? Once I sat down and drew a picture of my dad. Odd? Perhaps it was… a little. My initial view of him was one of death. But all these strange images popped into my head. First I saw a baby in a crib. Then I saw a child, a teenager, a young man, and then my pops. Okay, I have to admit it; I do love my dad. Maybe that’s the problem; I love him a lot. Sorry. I know this doesn’t make sense.

  Anyway, I drew his grave. But there was no grave. Why? Because his body had disappeared. It had been blown into a million pieces. But there was a bench—a nice bench—and it had his name on it. It was really windy. I was looking down upon him. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t; it was too difficult. However, I was placing flowers on his bench. I felt so sad, so remorseful. I stared at the bench, wondering where things went wrong. I pulled up my collar. It was really cold. I wished things could be different. There was a man calling to me in the distance. I didn’t know who he was. I hoped he had the answers. I put my paintbrush down. It was over.

  I continue petting Terby. I see my dad by the front door. He’s holding an electronic briefcase. No, silly, you can’t really see it. I’m just jackin’ you around. He holds it in his hands, cleansing it with a special cloth. It looks like a pair of eyeglasses. It has been said that Shiva, the Hindu god, reveals all truths. You know, like the dude we call the chakra brown eye. It’s been said that he can actually lead you down the path of spirituality, and maybe even God.

  Well, I’m not sure that’s my dad’s briefcase. But I do know that he wears a set of eyeglasses containing all the mathematical formulas, scientific principles, and sometimes just notions of theoretical truths in his lenses. You think that’s strange? Not really. When it’s your job to protect the earth from falling meteorites, subatomic light beams, and just simple things like WMDs on steroids, you need your own arsenal of info, right?

  Terby sends me an electronic text to make sure I wave to my dad before he leaves. I wave. Does he see me? Will he wave back? No, there it is—that sound. What sound? An electronic beep. My father’s baritone voice speaks in hushed tones, and there it is again—the serious face. The sad face. The face that says “Someone else owns me.” Then he waves. The door closes, and there is another span of silence. He’s gone to another world. I won’t see him today, or probably tomorrow. You know how that goes.

  As I pet Terby, a simulated sound clearly emerges from her mouth. Is it pleasure? What do you think? Try petting my belly and see what you get!

  All right, you’re probably asking yourself, “Why is this kid by the name of Michael Eisenstein staying in his room when it’s a beautiful day outside?” Are you saying, “Gotcha!”?

  Terby knows. “What do you think, Terby?”

  I can hear Terby’s electronic brain swirling, coming up with a very official scientific answer. I pull the ticker tape out of his mouth. The answer to the dilemma is “Michael Eisenstein doesn’t have any friends!”

  I hear a staccato knocking at the door. Monica pokes her sad little quivering nose inside.

  “What are you doing, Michael?” she inquires.

  I nod. “Nuthin’.”

  She smiles, flashing her dimples. “Why don’t you call someone you know and go hang out somewhere, like other kids?”

  Wow! There it is—“Like other kids.” Don’t you hate that?

  I smile. “Sure, Mom.” She forces a smile and closes the door.

  I put my headphones on and listen to a song by a group called “Ambush Tide,” nicknamed “The ATs.” Clever, huh? This pop group satirizes our latest problem—that of whether these ETs are going to hurt us badly.

  You want to listen to it with me? Might as well, right? I don’t have any real friends. The song is called “Secret Conversations.” Here are some of the lyrics:

  ETs will take your soul.

  They’re hiding in your gardens,

  Watching your children.

  It’s taking a toll.

  I work so hard to be kind,

  Yet they’re lurking between my lilies,

  having secret conversations with my mind.

  Terby positions her head between her paws. Isn’t that ironic? My robotic dog gets it. closed doors… people afraid to turn on any of their electronic gadgets… phones being tossed into the garbage, afraid to think, afraid to breathe, afraid to feel. After all, the cloud knows…

  Hey, I’m listening to another song by a famous rock group called the “Mind Benders.” To tell you the truth, most people are afraid to listen to them. Do you want to hear something ironic? I looked up the definition of “mind-bending.” I quote: “intensely affecting the mind, especially to the extent of producing hallucinations.”

  Do you think that’s right? I pet Terby some more.

  “I’m not looking at hallucinations,” I say under my breath. What I see right outside of my window, flying in the skies, previously living under my house is not a hallucination; it’s real. Anyway, check it out; the song is called “The Watchers.” Take a listen.

  Dancing between my thoughts,

  Their almond eyes are always there,

  Invisible to most of us.

  Yet they’re controlling us,

  Watching us, making us all feel afraid.

  We now feel them, like insidious thieves,

  gazing, plotting, knowing our next move.

  We try to protect our children,

  Yet they’re lurking—lurking in the recesses of our minds.

  We’ll never know what they want (from us).

  They’re just leaving vague signs.

  CHAPTER 5

  June 11, 2378

  9:37 a.m.

  Anyway, like I’d really like to tell you what happens next, but I’m afraid you may not believe me. Do you guys remember whe
n I said that nothing is as it appears? Well, I’m going to take you into that world. Where does our earthly sphere hide its secrets? Well, you can look into the vastness of the mysterious oceans, or we can explore the breathtaking secrets of its waterfalls and caves.

  Did I tell you that I’ve been going to the same cave for the last six months? Did I tell you that I found some stuff—cool stuff? Did I tell you that some of it is from a prehistoric era, like somewhere between five thousand to fifty thousand years ago? Do I have your attention now? This cave is completely carved out of limestone and something called speleothems. But don’t be impressed by that! There’s something else in there.

  Do you want to go with me? Like, for real! Tell you what, put on your imagination boots. That’s right—imagination boots! Lace them up really tight. We’re headed for Queen Nefertiti’s chamber! Is that its real name? Not really. I call it that because it has an air of secrecy and just general frostiness. Anyway, I go there a lot. Remember: I’m not big on friends, so I have to carve out my own jollies, right? But before we arrive at our destination, we’ll need to survive Bone Falls first!

  Do you know what the most interesting part of any waterfall is? It moves. We truly don’t know what the essence of any waterfall is. Why? Because between the splash, the spray, and the crash is an energy—a secret energy that defines it.

  It’s warm on the island, so I don’t need to bring much. Terby strolls over with a T-shirt in her mouth that reads, “Oops!” No, it’s not a mistake. Actually Oops is sort of a nerdy scientific improv group that ruts to (grooves to) their music. Actually, they’re an antiwar ensemble displaying the path to our civilization’s demise.

  Anyway, I’ve visited Bone Falls a lot of times. But I’ve never really taken the challenge. Why is it called Bone Falls? Well, as legend has it, anyone who tries to walk across the bizarre natural bridge of stones on the top of the ridge ends up falling to his or her death. Rumor has it that all the bones of those who have fallen can be found at the very bottom of the ravine. Mom would have a fit if she knew that I went anywhere close to it. By the way, instead of Bone Falls, kids call this place Suicide Alley.

  On the way to Bone Falls, I pass through kind of a natural wildflower valley. They call it Orphism Orchard. The kids call it Orgasm Orchard—enough said. Anyway, it’s a really cool place. There’s a little path that runs through it, allowing you not to step on the many different species of flowers, like dogwoods, sassafras, redbuds, coralberry, and more. Sometimes you have to be careful while walking, or you might step on a teenager or two.

  I’m feeling good today. It’s a great day to die! Have you ever felt so sick of it all that you can’t keep going? Hey, let me tell you something you probably haven’t heard before. Have you ever experienced a reverse nightmare?

  Sometimes I just don’t want to wake up. There’s a great quote from an ancient dude called Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I know, what the hell is a Wadsworth? This gray-haired, ancient dude was kind of prophetic though. He once said, “Every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold, when he is only sad.” That’s why I like to stay asleep sometimes. Sleep is good; it’s reality that sucks the big one, right?

  Hey, I’m here! I trudge over to the precipice of the waterfall, peering downward. I used to think it was scary. Today—well, today it looks beautiful! I imagine the kids who’ve come here before me. All those terrified kids who have gazed below, wanting it, desiring it, craving their own demise. Today that sounds beautiful—even luring.

  The raging water rushes from above. It roars like a mighty lion swirling in a maelstrom of resilience, power, and glory. It can have me if it wants me. Did you know that many a kid has come here? After all, we don’t have a lot to live for anymore. The watchers are out there; It’s not our world anymore. It’s being hijacked from underneath us and above us. Those beady-eyed creatures have been living below the island for hundreds of years.

  Do you want to know the truth? It’s not the ETs that scare me so much. It’s all of you—my ancestors. Why can’t you go away? If you haven’t listened to ME before, listen to me now. I think you’ll like my most recent opus. I’ve entitled it, simply, “Death.”

  Death

  It’s a dispirited feeling

  Lingering like a churlish ghost,

  Awaiting a sickening solution,

  A revolting but willing host.

  Living is routinely cumbersome,

  Painful and precise to be sure.

  Riding the bucking waterfall—

  Destiny’s victim, being the cure,

  Each jagged rock willing to abide.

  My pulse lingers; then, reluctantly, it subsides.

  I brace myself for the final hapless quietus ride.

  I nearly write the final word—“ride.” Then I fold my sheet of paper in four different ways before sticking the poem inside an empty bottle by the side of the waterfall, hoping that some lucky forlorn person will pick it up and read it.

  I stare at the pathway of sharp rocks, hovering above the cascading waterfall by a few feet. It’s a strange path carved out by nature but created by the mind of God. Why do I think that? Well, who else could have created a rock with a pathway that circles to the south, takes a sharp turn, elevates as it winds to the north, and then meanders around slowly, constantly changing elevations, going up and then down, then forward, and then up, up, up until it forms a safe landing on the other side.

  I analytically scrutinize the ominous terrain awaiting me below. I imagine my body crashing downward, against the sharp, scythelike rocks protruding like stiletto scalpels projecting out of the water.

  Time to go.

  I place my hiking shoe on the first stone, refusing to look downward again. I should be trembling, but I’m not. I should be afraid, but I’m not. I should be thinking about my life, my mom, and my homicidal dad, but I’m not.

  My concentration is resolute.

  I think about taking a step—just a definitive stride. It’s a one-and-a-half-foot elevation, which seems insanely high, but I take the step, and I’m sturdy and balanced. Why? I could be falling to my demise right now. But I’m not. Each of the rungs is only a foot wide at first, but they will increase incrementally as I go.

  Do you want me to continue? It doesn’t matter, does it?

  I glimpse downward. I hear the water rushing against the rocks, resilient and strong. I look up at the next craggy, estranged rock. It seems to stare back at me, glimmering in the sun. It wants me. I can feel it. I have an urge to look down again, but I resist. After all, one slip and I’ll be crashing down the waterfall, on my way toward the next life. My mind is inundated with rushing bipolar thoughts of my demise. Doesn’t matter!

  I see faces in the water—eerie faces glaring back at me. Are these the faces of all those people that have fallen into the water? Are they here with me now?

  I take the next intrepid, elevated step. My heart is beating, drilling staccato baritone notes into my weary soul, penetrating my brain like frightened razors. The water wants me! I can feel its crescendo—its fateful force.

  I’m beginning to feel weary. I dare not look at the escalating rocky path in front of me. The rushing, relentless water careens downward beneath my feet like a million bullets spraying from a machine gun.

  I take a deep breath. I begin thinking thoughts about my mother, about the mad scientist, and about the menacing Eisenstein legacy. I feel the spraying water impaling itself against the lower rocks and then, ricocheting into the air … I take another sturdy step. Surprised, I look upward. I’m getting closer to the other side. My heart won’t stop churning, skewering itself against my chest.

  I’m not going to be able to reach the top! The thought slides into my brain and then crashes into my psyche, like the water below. It’s too high up! I can’t just take a small step across. I’m going to need to really ju
mp! If I miss, will I fall to my death? I want to go back! But if I do, I’ll be a coward, won’t I? I close my eyes, hoping that fate will just take me somewhere—anywhere!

  I take a deep breath and I hurtle myself onto the rock above. I feel myself sliding. I bend my knees and hold on to the rock, shaking in fear. Now I can’t look downward, into the abyss. I won’t look down. I see three rocks between me and the other side. They stare back at me, laughing. The faces in the water are beckoning to me.

  I close my eyes and then open them quickly, hurtling onto the higher rock. I can’t stop! I bend my legs, gritting my teeth; then I hurtle myself onto the second rock. One to go! The sound of the water smashing itself against the rocks is relentless. I no longer see the faces of the dead. Yet there’s one more rock above. It’s too high! It’s distance from me is too far! I can’t do it! I leap as high and far as I’ve ever gone in my life! Only my arms straddle the craggy rock. I snag a sharp edge, feeling my hands bleeding. I’m breathing hard! I feel excruciating pain in my hands. As I peer at my hands, I see a deep gash running diagonally, like an arrow-shaped wound on my palm. The blood curls into the water like a swarthy snake. I must have somehow knocked my head against the rock as well, for I’m now tasting the bitter, nauseating flavor of warm blood, which is like sickening molten metal lingering in my mouth. It swirls around like a python ready to strike me.

  Then I see the face of a girl in the water. She looks familiar. What’s she doing in the water? Is it an illusion? I feel as if I know her. I force a smile.

  Somehow, life returns. Fear seems to leave my body like an unwanted hostile visitor. The pain goes away. I pull myself up on top of the rock and promptly look down again. I see my blood joining forces with the swirling maelstrom. It leaks into my mouth. I spit it out. The blood shoots into the water. I dab my swollen lip and smile. I see more blood leaking onto my trembling hands. Miraculously, the thought that I’m alive echoes in the warm confines of my weary soul.