It’s been a while since I’ve posted! But, I’ve been really busy writing and producing my first Independent Film.
Release date is set for February 2020! There’s still time to support our efforts.
Watch the Afterglow trailer by clicking on this link.
Password is SmallStar
Prologue
When I died I was assigned to the soul production plant. There are 20 soul stampers in the plant along with thousands of other expired souls, each with a different function. There are two soul makers, soul packagers and soul movers, order fillers and inspectors; and there are overseers who report to dE. We accept our functions without any desire for another because there is no such thing as desire here.
Souls are generated on the second floor in a glass room that can be seen from everywhere in the plant. From the first floor, I had could see two soul makers as they monitored the large machine in front of them. Imagine a giant computer processor with two spouts jutting out from the rear of the machine. The spouts dump out newly generated souls onto two conveyor belts that split into ten sections each. Souls travel on the 20 sections dumping into shoots sending them down to the first floor, where my station and 19 others are located. My station was labeled 1A, the one next to me was 1B, and the rest of the sequence was as follows: 1C, 1D, 1E, 1F, 1G, 1H, 1I, 1J, 2A, 2B, etc. Twenty of us watched the souls as they traveled across the conveyors. My function as a soul stamper was to imprint the start date and the expiration date on souls. Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t have any control over the dates I stamped. I could see the dates as I stamped them but I had no power to change them. When I first started, I imagined what the humans who got my stamped souls would look like, would they be male or female, have blond hair or black skin. Later I tried to discover a pattern in the dates. I counted how many would come into existence on the same day and expire on the same day. I noticed the souls that survived only three days and those that lasted 100 years. Imagination does exist here, but there is no attachment to any particular outcome of imagination.
As a soul reached the end of the conveyor, a soul packager removed each stamped soul from the belt and placed it on another conveyor, leading it through the packaging process. Each stamped soul travels through a machine resembling an x-ray machine at an airport and exits coated with a clear shrink-wrap. At the end of that conveyor a large bin with wheels collected the souls as they dropped, one stacking perfectly onto the next. Then, soul movers wheeled the full carts into the storage room located on the first floor, at the far end of the long factory.
Soul movers guided the wheeled containers full of stamped and packaged souls to large high shelves and loaded them onto the shelves one at a time. At that point the dates could be seen through the packaging. In fact, that is all one could see in the package since the souls themselves have no visible substance. The souls were not stacked according to a start date or an expiration date. It would appear totally random to the casual observer. You might think all starting dates would go on the same shelf. Instead, they were stored on the shelves exactly as they were received. Thus, all of the souls from my conveyor would be found in aisle 1A.
The next step was soul delivery. The order fillers entered the storage facility with a list of aisle and shelf locations. They pulled specified souls and loaded them into bins similar to the other wheeled containers. Next, they guided the bins out to a loading dock. Slowly, souls drifted out of the bins and disappeared, entering unborn humans on earth.
I functioned as a soul stamper for some segment of my non-earthly existence; then I moved on to other functions both in the soul plant and elsewhere. Currently, I perform the task of gravity maintenance. I suppose this would sound like a rather prestigious job on earth, but here, it‘s simply another function. I haven’t “moved up” in this world. What do I do as a gravity maintainer? To look at me, you’d think nothing at all. When I was a soul stamper, I wasn’t actually holding a stamp and physically stamping each soul. I’m merely using the metaphor to help you get a mental picture. It was my presence, my mind if you will, actually doing all of the work. The same is true in my current job. My very existence functions to maintain gravity, at least as long as that is my assignment.
Your mind is racing with so many questions. Let’s slow things down and sort out your questions. I’ll answer a few of them before I continue with my message; otherwise you won’t be able to concentrate. First, I’ll answer your question concerning my communication method.
Right now, you are in an altered state of consciousness, commonly called a coma. I know you are surprised by this news. Your mind is completely capable of functioning. When your soul does expire, I will be your mentor. This is why I am talking to you now. My mind is communicating with your mind through energy exchange. Although all souls are connected energy, you and I share a common pathway. Your thoughts travel to me so I can “read your mind” and my thoughts, the ones I’m permitted to share with you, travel to you. You can read some of my mind.
You want to know whether you are about to expire. The answer is, no.
As l said, when I was a soul stamper, I could see the dates on each soul as I stamped them. Suddenly I started stamping souls with beginning dates only. No expiration dates. This phenomenon was a curiosity. The answer became a part of my knowledge when it became a part of my function to know.
I hear you. You’re wondering how you ended up in a coma. It was a car accident. You were driving, talking on Bluetooth and someone was passing you while texting at the same time.
I can see you are starting to recall. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. Your daughter’s life is not within my knowledge.
Yes, yes, that is your husband’s voice you hear, but you will not be able to understand it. You cannot have two conversations at one time, one with me and one with him. When your consciousness changes you will be able to understand him. But for the moment, you must listen to what I am saying.
Try to remain calm. The monitors attached to you are showing a spike in your heart rate, indicating distress. You don’t want to give anyone cause for alarm.
I see you are searching to recall exactly what happened during the accident. You desperately want to know if your daughter is alive. You think you couldn’t bare it if she has expired. You will not get your answers in your current state. You will have to reenter earthly consciousness with all of its joys and sorrows to find your answer. You see when your soul expires, you will experience nothing like joy or sorrow. There are no emotions, no desires in this existence.
I must continue with my soul stamping function to help you understand why I’m here now. As I said, when I was stamping souls coming from shoot 1A they had no expiration date. The soul stamper responsible for 1B experienced the same phenomenon. We looked at each other startled and curious. Chatter began throughout the plant. All of the souls passing by all of the soul stampers were imprinted with beginning dates only. This was clearly a new phase of the experiment. But that was not the only change we witnessed. In addition to the missing expiration dates, on a rare occasion, a soul passed by with an additional imprint – a capital V.
I now understand and am here to tell you what it all means. Susan, you have a soul imprinted with a V. This means you are a Variable. You are one of a small percentage of souls currently on earth whose status as a Variable puts you in a position to change the outcome of human existence in the current universe –
Calm down Susan, otherwise, I can’t finish giving you my message –
Susan, please, calm down!
Susan wait -!
Susan, it’s too late, you are returning to your earthly consciousness!
Susan remember, you are a Variable, find the others.
They’ll explain it all to you.
You are a Variable Susan.
A Variable…
Chapter 1
Adam stood staring out the 4th floor window toward the three-story concrete parking garage in front of the hospital. The light behind him created a faint reflection, a ghostly version of himself. His blond hair appeared a light shade of grey and he couldn’t distinguish between brown irises and black pupils. His faded blue T-shirt covering broad muscular shoulders appeared almost white. Leaning in closer he scrutinized the three-day growth on his chin. At that moment he felt the vibration of his silenced cell phone against his upper thigh. Pulling it from his pocket, he read the caller identification: Home.
“Hello.” He answered unsure whether it was his daughter Hannah or his sister Marty calling.
“Hi Daddy. Aunt Marty said I could call and check on Mommy. Is she still sleeping?” The child’s tiny, concerned voice crackled through the phone. The connection wasn’t very good in the intensive care unit.
“Yes honey.” Adam whispered, although there was little chance of waking his comatose wife. “Mommy is still sleeping. Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll wake up soon.” Sleeping had been the easiest way to describe his wife’s condition to their five-year old daughter.
“I’ll be home in about an hour. Tell Aunt Marty there is a casserole in the refrigerator for dinner tonight. I love you Hannah. See you in just a bit.”
As Adam finished the conversation with his daughter, the door opened and a short, chubby nurse entered the room. “Good evening Mr. Cook, I’m Linda. I’ll be taking care of Susan this evening. Would you like to help me shift her around?” The grey haired woman walked over to the white board hanging from the wall and erased the day nurse’s name, replacing it with her own.
As the two rearranged the pillows to support his wife’s limp body, Adam already felt like a pro. He’d helped with this same routine several times over the past three days.
“A few minutes ago, I thought something was going wrong.” He explained to nurse Linda. “I was sitting here and all of the sudden, Susan’s heart rate sped up pretty significantly.” He paused as they lifted Susan, rolling her onto her right side. “Just as I was thinking I should call for help, it settled back to a normal rate.” He looked to the nurse for an explanation.
“That happens sometimes. We don’t really know why, perhaps she was dreaming. As long as it returns to normal within a reasonable timeframe we don’t attempt to explain it and we don’t worry about it.”
As Adam tucked Susan’s shoulder length light brown hair behind her ear to keep it from falling in her face, he noticed a change in her expression. She appeared to be wincing. “Did you see that?” He asked looking toward the nurse for concurrence.
“It’s probably just a reaction to us disturbing her.” She replied not wanting to get Adam’s hopes up.
Within seconds, however, Susan moaned and slowly opened her eyes.
The highly trained nurse didn’t betray her own excitement. Instead, she said calmly, “I’ll page Dr. Daniels.”
While the nurse entered Dr. Daniels’ call code into the hospital intercom system, Adam hunched over his wife placing his face just inches away from hers.
“Susan, baby, Susan can you hear me?” He pleaded.
Susan tried to speak, but her mouth didn’t cooperate. Licking her dry lips, she attempted to communicate a second time, but no words came out.
“Ok Suz, ok honey, don’t try too hard just yet, it’s ok. You’re going to be ok.” Adam said while quickly using the backs of his hands to brush tears away from his moist cheeks.
Susan, desperate to confirm what she thought she heard a few minutes earlier, struggled to regain consciousness. Was Adam talking to their daughter on the phone? Is Hannah alive and unharmed by the accident? The monitors displaying her heart rate once again indicated a spike. Adam, not understanding the cause of her alarm, continued to reassure her she would be ok. Finally, Susan shook her head and managed to utter, “Hannah?”
“Oh yes, yes Hannah is fine.” Adam replied, realizing the source of his wife’s distress. “She’s perfectly fine. The car seat protected her completely. She didn’t have a scratch on her.” He smoothed Susan’s hair away from her face. “She’s just worried about you. I’ll have Marty bring her in as soon as the doctor says it’s ok.”
Susan’s heart rate slowed and she closed her eyes. Just then Dr. Daniels entered the room. Adam anxiously summarized the details of the previous minutes of Susan’s consciousness. “Oh God, she’s not unconscious again is she?” He asked fretfully.
Dr. Daniels leaned over Susan’s bed preparing to examine her pupils when Susan opened her eyes again. “It appears Susan is conscious, but probably extremely tired and sore.” He reassured Adam.
“Hello Susan, I’m Dr. Daniels. You don’t have to talk just yet.” He said as he reached down to grasp her hand, he said, “How about a little hand squeeze to let us all know you are with us.”
Susan responded weakly, “I’m here.”
Dr. Daniels nodded reassuringly at Adam. Then returned his attention to Susan. “I’m pleased to meet you Susan. We’ll take our time getting to know each other. For now, just try to relax. I’m sure you’re not feeling too hot. You’ve got quite a few bumps and bruises and a broken collarbone.”
Chapter 2
1977
First, a quick summary of the domestic landscape. The brace of female ducklings, all grown, flew off to begin independent lives, leaving their youngest sibling (me) to deal with their overly protective parents. The tragic death of sister number five caused an unnatural gap between sisters one through four and sister number six. Thus, number six was now number five, growing up as both the ‘baby of the family’ and practically an only child.
So there I was, turning out not to be an ugly duckling, though it might have been better for Mom and Dad if I had. Their constant fretting that something bad would happen to me or that I would behave badly caused me to become a skilled liar. The less they knew the better. Most of the time, I wasn’t doing anything different than what my friends were doing with their parents’ approval. Some of the time, however, I was up to no good.
By 1977, I was fourteen. I’d already experienced my first cigarette – more than one. I’d already vomited from too much cherry vodka and I’d been to second base with one or two boys. Naturally, I liked boys a lot, as did most of my friends. And liking boys is really what caused this whole mess, so let me get on with it.
I remember the date well because it was in all of the newspapers: August 12, 1977. A few boys I knew decided to camp out in the woods and had invited the clique of popular girls to come hang out with them. As was often the case when other parents didn’t want to fulfill their parental responsibilities, the verdict was left to my parents. If Tess was allowed to go, the others could go too. Since my parents almost always said no, the other parents were off the hook. As a result, none of the girls were permitted to go that night.
Whispering on the telephone with my friend Cathy, we schemed and plotted. The plan: I would sleep over at her house and we would sneak out and walk to the party. My parents granted permission for the sleepover, not for a minute suspicious of our conniving. It never occurred to them we might walk six miles round trip just to see some boys and let them cop a feel for a few sips of beer, but that’s exactly what we had in mind.
Shortly after 11:00 p.m., Cathy’s parents passed out from one too many martinis. Wanting to ensure the backdoor would remain unlocked for our return, I placed a piece of masking tape over the door lock then we slipped out, setting our plan in motion. Dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts on a night that was too hot for both, we tiptoed across the pebbled driveway and entered the narrow berm along the river road. Infrequent street lamps lined the eerie highway causing occasional passing drivers to use their blinding high beams. The river on the other side, low from a dry summer, flowed at a lazy pace, in sharp contrast with our rapid gait.
About a mile into the journey, we approached the bowling alley, still buzzing with activity both inside and out in the parking lot. As we approached the well-lit intersection, a patrol car cruised by. The officer focused his attention on the folks leaving the bowling alley giving us a moment to duck behind an 18-wheeler cab parked across the street in the trucking company parking lot.
Crouched behind the truck, wondering if we’d been spotted, we considered abandoning our mission. We’d only been out of the house a little more than 15 minutes so Cathy’s parents were surely still asleep. We wouldn’t get caught if we’d just turn around now. Too bad we didn’t.
Peaking around the side of the truck we spied the taillights of the patrol car as it continued down the street. We’d gone undetected. With renewed bravado, we pressed on.
Finally off the river road, we zigzagged through dark alleys and poorly lit side streets making our way through town. We walked and we walked hardly saying a word to each other, both knowing what would happen if we got caught. Cathy would get a good talking to and I’d be grounded until I was 32.
We reached a section of town unfamiliar to both of us. If our town had a ghetto, this was it. The neighborhood whose streets were lined with rundown duplexes appeared to be sleeping, but just in case anyone was lurking in the shadows we pulled the hoods over our heads and walked arm in arm pretending to be a couple rather than two young vulnerable females. Sweat gathered under my armpits and my shoulder length hair stuck to the back of my neck. Halfway there, we were committed to the plan.
A direct route to the woods would include passing by my house, but I was certain if I came within a few blocks of the place, my parents would sense my presence, so I charted a course to circumvent the area. You might be wondering at this point why we chose to stay at Cathy’s house instead of my own, which was much closer to the party. This is because you don’t fully understand my parents.
The last quarter mile of the journey was the most physically challenging. The hill just before the woods felt like Kilimanjaro. My jeans rubbed at my skinny, damp inner thighs and my feet hurt. We panted as we reached the peak and started back downhill anticipating the merriment ahead.
Finally, we made it to the appointed spot – the street at the edge of the woods where the boys said they would be.
“Pssst Pssst. It’s us. Tess and Cathy.” I called out in a loud whisper.
One of the boys whose name I probably shouldn’t mention emerged from the woods. Surprised we’d actually followed through with the crazy plan, he led us back to their camp. Literally – and I’m not exaggerating about this – the minute we were at the camp greeting the other boys, police sirens began blaring in the distance.
We all froze. Cathy and I looked at each other, eyes bulging, hearts racing. We’d been caught. We knew it. Her parents must have awakened, discovered our empty beds and called my parents who called the police. We were dead meat. Shit! Shit! Shit! The boys were thinking the same thing. They wanted us gone just as much as we wanted to be gone.
We retraced our path exactly the way we had come. Up and down the hill. Even faster this time. Once again we circumvented my house, though tempted for a moment to sneak by to see if any lights were on. Then, we started through the ghetto. Almost running now. And that’s when it happened. That’s when we knew we hadn’t been caught.
The previously sleepy neighborhood was ablaze with flashing lights from four police cars converged in the parking lot of the small neighborhood grocery store. I halted abruptly, lifting my arm, blocking Cathy from advancing into the chaos. We looked at each other and I placed my finger over my lips, “Shhh.” Slowly and quietly, on tiptoes we backed up and turned around. Retracing our steps, we turned into an alley paralleling the commotion-filled area. To our right, the houses and trees were flickering silhouettes created by the unsynchronized cruiser lights two blocks over. Residents now awake, emerged onto their back porches, curious about the hubbub. Arm in arm once again, hoods back over our heads, we acted as though we too, were nosy onlookers. All the while making our way out of the ghetto.
We were breathing easier, first because we were sure the sirens were not for us and second because we’d skirted through the chaos without drawing attention to ourselves. We were close to home now with only about a mile to go.
The bowling alley was no longer a flurry of activity, having closed at midnight. Cutting through the empty parking lot, we crossed into the trucking company lot closing in on the same truck that had provided us cover earlier that night. As we approached the 18- wheeler cab, I heard a shuffling sound, stones on sneakers, coming from the other side of the truck. Again, I threw my arm in front of Cathy’s body stopping her from forward motion. We looked at each other, listening intently with knitted eyebrows and expanded chests, holding our breath. Slowly hunching over, I peered under the cab. The space between the tires was empty. Whoever was behind that truck, and I was positive someone was there, must have been crouched behind the tires. I straightened up and looked at Cathy, who appeared ready to vomit.
I had to think fast. It was a stand off. I knew that he knew we were on the other side. But he didn’t know that we were two young girls. And he wasn’t moving. Did he intend to jump us as we passed or was he actually trying to avoid us? I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem to matter since we only had one option. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and raised my other hand into a fist. Slowly and deliberately I lifted one finger, than another. One. Two. On three we bolted past the truck and onto the river road.
Several yards beyond the truck, I couldn’t help myself. I turned to see if we were being pursued. That’s when I saw him clear as day. Standing in the place where I’d pictured him moments earlier. Leaning against the large cab tires, illuminated by the streetlight above, he looked relieved. That is, he looked relieved until our eyes locked. For a split second, a flash in time, a frozen moment, I saw him plain as day. And I saw something else too. His shirt was ripped and there were dark stains down the front. Abruptly, I skidded to a halt causing Cathy, who was still gripping my hand, to stumble. She quickly regained her balance, grabbed the corner of my sweatshirt and pulled me back into a sprint. The man didn’t move.
We made it back to Cathy’s driveway at record speed. At least it felt that way. The house remained completely dark. Avoiding the stones covering the driveway, we tiptoed through the grass, and up to the unlocked backdoor. A single floorboard creaked as we crept up the stairs to her bedroom.
Safely in her bed, stripped down to t-shirts, too wound up to sleep I asked, “Did you see him?”
“No.” She replied, “Did you?”
“No.” I lied.
Chapter 1
1987
My parents believe everything that happens is God’s will. When my father was born with bad lungs, it was God’s will. When my mother had four miscarriages, birthed six girls, and no boys, it was God’s will. When my sister was struck and killed by a car while walking home from school, it was God’s will. So you can imagine how irritating it would be for my devout parents that their youngest daughter wasn’t particularly interested in getting on God’s good side.
While all of the other little ducklings fell in line, obediently trailing Momma down the center aisle and humbly kneeling in the middle pew, the last of us bristled under the covers refusing to get out of bed. At the wise age of six I was already questioning “If God wants me to go to church, why don’t I want to go?” or “Why does God plan mass so early in the morning?”
Since I was only four when God killed my sister Frances, sending the rest of my family into a tailspin, it didn’t occur to me to be particularly angry with Him. I have no memories of that sister. However, as the years passed and my parents become fearful tyrants, barely letting any of us out of their sight, I became increasingly pissed off at Him. I believed in God back then, and if everything else was God’s will, than it followed that it was God’s will for my parents to become fearful tyrants. See the logic?
Sophomore year of college during an Introduction to Philosophy class Dr. Edgar Martin introduced me to a God alternative: a theory called Hard Determinism. According to this theory, God has nothing to do with it. I listened and watched as Dr. Martin explained the theory to the class. It was mid-semester and I hadn’t seen him get this excited about any other theories he’d presented. He obviously believed this one was the theory of all theories. Dr. Martin was an atheist! The first one I’d ever met.
The theory of Hard Determinism states:
All events in the material world are governed by cause and effect.
All human actions are events.
Therefore, all human actions are caused. (NOT BY GOD!)
This explained an awful lot. For example, instead of God killing my sister, I could trace a series of events that caused her death. Let me do that for you now. The clock struck 3:10 p.m. causing the nuns to dismiss the children. Two third grade girls, my sister and her friend, walked out of school down the street toward the crossing guard. The rule: if you live on the other side of the street, cross with the guard or don’t cross at all. The main street through town is a busy thoroughfare with the Catholic school on one side and my house, several blocks down on the other. On that particular day, the two girls were involved in an animated conversation about one Mathew Stahl whose antics earlier that day caused Sister Anne Mary to grab him by the shirt collar and toss him into the coat closet. The girls’ dialogue caused my sister Francis to continue walking with her friend on the wrong side of the street. Realizing she’d be in trouble for disregarding the crossing rule, Frances decided to cross the street two blocks before arriving at our house. Waving goodbye to her friend, head turned away from the street, Frances stepped into the path of a 1967 Chevy. My sister didn’t see the car because she was looking the other way. God didn’t kill her at all. She simply walked in front of a Chevy causing the Chevy to kill her. Since the lady driving the Chevy was controlling the car, it follows the lady killed my sister, not God.
It was bound to happen. Not because it was God’s will. According to the theory of hard determinism, it was determined to happen simply through a series of material causes.
I wrote a paper using my sister’s death as the perfect example demonstrating the theory of Hard Determinism. I got an A. I became Dr. Martin’s favorite student. Cause and effect: writing a paper espousing the merits of Hard Determinism causes professor to like me.
Hard determinism became my God alternative. And, it’s how I’m going to explain the story that I really want to tell. Here is the thing I still haven’t been able to resolve. Get this. If everything that happens is God’s will, it doesn’t seem fair to blame anyone for anything. If, for example it had been God’s will for my sister to die, you couldn’t blame her for disobeying the rules and you couldn’t blame the woman driving the Chevy. If it was Hard determinism, you couldn’t blame anyone either. Hard determinism, it seems, takes away culpability just as much as the God theory. If a series of causes produces some effect and decisions are effects, you can’t really blame anyone for their decisions, can you?
Anyway, you can decide for yourself after I tell you the whole story.
