Buddhist Multiverse

I've heard it said that, at this moment, an infinite number of universes exist, and more appear with each variable; every bump of an atom, very collision of matter, every shift in energy... every choice.

I'm fresh. The waves pour over the Mark I LCM. I look over the faces of my brothers, I can't see anxiety in their faces. We weren't programmed for that. But I feel my own, just an idea. I let my imagination wrap around it, develop it, am I thinking about my girl back home? No. I think about my father, a carpenter, he wanted me to go to college it would never have happened; the war, the time.

Normandy looms ahead, as high as beaches can loom. It comes into focus, first yellow sands, shadows hint at changes in the terrain. As the mark one moves through the water barricades of wood, steel, and barb wire materialize. I hear artillery but it hasn't hit us. Time for one last thought before the landing...I want some pizza.

We land. Gun's were firing before we landed but now the threat is real. Sergeant McCullin is yelling. I turn to look as the bullet screams through my head. I'm floating over my body and I can't see my hair... it was brown, light. I think about the MP's at my mother's door. No, That's the Pizza.

I'm fresh, The waves pour over the walls of the LCM. I know how much time I have. I don't look at my brothers. I'm looking ahead, to the beaches. There's drift wood... I'll go there first... what are those mounds.

The boats land. Everyone follows their program. I have my own. I run to the drift wood. I run to the drift wood over ten times. Sometimes straight to it. Sometimes I take a long bend in. Sometimes I run and sometimes I strafe, and some times... I crawl.

Every time my blood coats the sands of Normandy.

I'm fresh, and my legs don't work. I push the button's; I duck, I lay down, I fire my rifle into Huxley's back. I don't know this until I hear the POPs, and I look up. Shit.

I'm stuck in the groundhog's loop, and the toaster is in the tub.

I should have ordered anchovies, I'm not seeing my girl tonight. Phil keeps seeing his shadow.

The mounds... I'm an idiot, they're bunkers. I move to the drift word, I strafe, aim. I pop two rounds into the slit in the mound. Someone goes down. I duck behind the drift wood. Through my scope I can see them; in the dunes. I take down two krauts. somebody feels sour.

Pop.

I'm floating over my body again. Everything is quiet when I'm up here, I think about the girl. My girl. What would my girl do? She misses me after a day.

I go through it four more times. I'm in the dunes now. Gunfire surrounds me. Pop.

I'm Not fresh anymore. My brothers are programed, so am I. I don't want to survive, I don't want to live, I just do. I know where everyone is. My men, their men. Pop

I'm still fresh, just cocky now. I'm impatient. I run, fire, duck, fire. I move from the shore line to the dunes quick. Huxley is up ahead, others are down, some have the luck of programming. I am being programmed. With each attempt I move forward, but my life ends in a bullet. Always. How much more till the next level; the next purpose; the next challenge.

Dead again.

I'm fresh into the repeat of my life. I shoot, I kill, I am removed from the life I have and become part of a new one. I take time; behind the drift wood, behind the sandbags, inside the bunkers.

I am nothing. The carpenter who raised me, the girl I left at home. None of those things matter. Not even my rank and the I that I see through. I am something larger, and that something knows what happens next. The sublime beauty of mist sprayed into the air as waves smash against the Mark I LCM, no longer exists. It is part of the hope and fear that prevents my ascendancy.

on the beaches of Normandy I hear artillery fire. It won't hit my transport. I know this because something inside of me has been witness to the program. The enemy is programed. I do not know their movements but I know their objective. They will fire at me, at my men. If they knew existance hinged on my success they would cease fire, or they would forget the others and fire at nothing but me. My success passes their time.

nothing matters. only I. the immaterial force inside lets the world blur into a kaleidoscope of motion, solidifying only as I stare down my rifle to watch the impact point of the bullet. I have lost all sense of myself, and am given over to the internal control that tells me when to move and when to fire. When I ascend I will be fresh again; and confused. Like an infant trying to make sense of the new world that will crop up around me I will look around bewildered trying to understand what exists behind a pair of hands, I will stumble and fall and bleed and die as my enemy fires from behind trees and walls. But that is in the future. In the now I am old. Inside of me the soul is old and tells me where to go. until I reach the end of this existence.

Picking Sides

"So what does it look like," Charles tried not to touch anything, he stood near the door, "you know, when you see it?"

"It's hard to explain detective, but your lieutenant said he wanted you to see it too, so I gather you'll have an idea," Dr. Williams didn't look like a Professor to Charles, or maybe he did.

"You know I had professors in college who looked like you, young guys in jeans, for some reason I keep forgetting that you guys aren't all old, with elbow patches on your coats."

Williams laughed under his breath, "You've been watching too many college movies, next thing you'll be expecting me talk about the potential of some shit head slacker."

"Chevy Chase was big in my day," Williams didn't respond, he just looked around the wreckage of the house, "I saw Animal house probably in eighty two, senior year of high school..."

"Do you mind if I start detective?" Williams was looking around the burnt out living room.

"oh!? sure," Charles shifted to his left foot, "do you need anything from me?"

"Yeah," Williams pulled candles and a notebook from his gym bag, "Can you search by that window and find a piece of glass, something sizable."

Charles hesitated a moment, "Um, ok," all the windows on the ground floor had been shattered. most of the glass had been blown out, but some was still clinging to the sills, "This place gives me creeps," he pulled his coat sleeve over his hand and broke off a chunk of glass.

"Well, most people get anxious when they know the're around a metaphysical disturbances," Williams was lighting the candles, "Thank you," He took the glass from Charles, "I'll be doing this on my own but the glass will let you see the situation for yourself, when the manipulations done, you'll need to take the glass with you as we move through the house."

"Okay," Charles didn't like the thought of messing with these things, "Hey, what if it was giving me the creeps when we did the initial walkthrough, before we called your people?"

Williams was sitting cross legged in front of the pane of glass in a ring of candles, "It might mean you're really observant, and you just saw something was up, or it could mean that you very observant," he stressed the very.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you might have some talent for this," Williams had his hands on his knees, "Lord knows we'll need the help."

"What do you mean?"

****

Department meetings were usually much more cheery, at least they had been two years ago. The steady increase of metaphysical energies and entities in the physical world was causing increasing concern for the Professors, no one outside of the professors new about it, but the effects could be seen, and people were reacting.

"This is the biggest protest yet, I'm worried for the safety of all of you, and the safety of our students," Gavin was an administrator, he concerned himself with spending, and in this case, safety.

"That's not a reason to suspend classes for the semester," Brook was so invested in the department, she sometimes forgot that Gavin was on her side, "We all know how to take care of ourselves."

The was an awkward murmur from the other faculty, nobody wanted this conversation.

"Brook," Kevin was young, new to the department, and not the most popular. While other professors studied manipulation of metaphysical energies, Kevin studied fingerprints; he studied how the physical and metaphysical world reacted to manipulation, Kevin studied investigation, "I don't want to speak for all of us, but few of us have much experience in using the meta to protect ourselves, even if it's from protesters. I don't recommend disbanding the department, but we have to be pragmatic. If any of us used the meta in ANY way against others, even if one of us was attacked, the shit storm would be huge."

"You're hired already, Williams," there was spite in her voice, "I don't think you need to kiss Gavin's ass anymore," Kevin didn't want to get pulled into an argument, he'd never seen Brook like this, "I've worked to hard to have Gavin and you compromise this department."

If Gavin was hurt by Brook's disregard for his part in getting the department instated, and keeping it running, he didn't show it, "We're not talking about disbanding, we're simply kicking around options, one being to suspend classes until the protesters cool down and until the supreme court gives us a ruling, we also have to take into account the well being of the students"

Most of the professors were in Brook's camp. Kevin didn't blame them, most of them had been her students, and still looked up to her, she was an incredible metaphysicist, and because of it, no matter how much they worried about protesters, and safety, and students, they would call in dead before they let her down or left her side.

"I think that we may have larger problems than just the protesters," Kevin was glad to hear Wladek interrupt the conversation. No one, besides Brook was as highly respected in the field, "Old friends of mine tell me that the Vatican has been performing research similar to my own and Kevin's," Brook looked like she could have killed someone, "their findings support ours," It was easy to forget sometimes that Wladek was once a priest, "Phenomena like last weeks disaster are becoming more common, and we're not just getting better at perceiving the Metaphysical energy, it's becoming more abundant."

"So why is that a problem? We're all trained to handle the energy, it's not like any of us are careless," Professor Gruber's question was surrounded a spattering of agreement.

Wladek tilted his head toward Kevin.

Kevin swallowed the lump in his throat, "Last week's occurrence on the south side, was peculiar. From my investigation," Kevin could practically hear Brook roll her eyes, "The incident, that caused the death of twenty high school students, was an accident. A young man had a meta entity attached to him. When he became angry, It looks like he got into a fight during the party, the entity used him too attack party members," Kevin unwrapped and passed around the broken glass he had used to let Detective Bateman conduct his investigation, "More importantly, I personally feel that a second individual, who I believe to be Rebecca Kronig, age 16, may have managed executing a defensive blast which resulting in both her death and that of the possessed boy, it did protect several others, though."

Gavin, being the only one in the department not trained in metaphysics looked confused, "What does that mean, is that bad?"

"Kevin and I believe it means that, as our own abilities have been on an exponential rise, and phenomena are become increasingly frequent, enough so that individuals without training are capable of tapping into the meta."

"Well that's good," Brook interrupted, "University of Chicago's Schools of Metaphysics will be on the cutting edge, we need to be here to help these gifted individuals become accomplished metaphysicists."

Are we sure this isn't just a fluke?" asked Gruber looking at the glass pane.

"Not a fluke," Kevin answered, "I've been collecting news paper articles of possible instances, just subtle abnormalities in eyewitness reports, it's been happening more often in the past couple years."

"That's why our program is needed," Brook interupted, Kevin wished he had her passion.

"Perhaps," Wladek admitted, "but the public as become more aware of these abnormalities, and the Vatican has supported our findings with reports from their people, if this continues the public may turn on us. Violently."

"You're talking about modern day witch hunts?" Gavin actually seemed shaken by the idea.

Wladek's head swayed slowly. Unsure, "My friends in the Church tell me that the most of the Bishops and Pope Bernard are hesitant of taking a hard right stance on the situation, but I cannot speak for the Fundamentalist groups, especially those with gifted leaders."

Nobody spoke. They all had seen the protest signs of the Christian Coalition, Suffer not the witch to live. Violence was only a stones throw away.

Gavin broke the silence, "Listen, we don't have to make a decision today, but I think we should consider what's was discussed here today, we'll meet again next week okay?"

The room emptied out with low mumbling. Brook said nothing. She left the room, stone faced.

As the others cleared out slowly behind her, only Kevin, Wladek, and Gavin were left.

"Look, I didn't want to say anything," Gavin looked over his shoulder, "I've been approached by government agents, They want to instate a defense program," he sighed, "I don't know how much their meaning of defense can be trusted... I was told not to say anything just yet."

Wladek nodded, "We have our own idea," he looked at Kevin.

"I thought about the government wanting to get involved, I think, if we disband, that we should, I'm not sure but," The thought seemed almost fictional, "I think we should look into a developing a private organization, to police, to train. The Vatican has already started training gifted, for the same thing, they're willing to assist in the funding, and they've told us that there are other small organizations, Wladek and I are ready to resign to keep the faculty and students here from harm, but we need an someone to admin," word felt strange to Kevin. It felt... military.

There was silence.

Finally, before leaving the room, Gavin spoke.

"I'll figure out what we need."

Ritual Interrupted

Hey, wake up. You okay? Relax, just sit back. I want to start from the beginning.

I have a feeling that you haven't forgotten me. But just in case, I want to refresh your memory.

So it all started years back, I was about seven. My Parents died before I could remember them, and I ended up living with my aunt and uncle. They were good people, but they weren't my parents, and there was always a rain cloud over my head. Figuratively speaking.

Back then we used to have this neighbor, old guy; bald, thick glasses. His name was Gorski. All the kids were afraid of him and told stories, 'old Gorski killed his wife forty years ago,' 'made his kids into a meat pie and ate them.' I never believed the stories though. I mean, kids used to say the same things about me, 'what are you gonna do, kill me, like you killed your parents?'

So I never bought into what people said.

The weird part started, like I said, when I was about seven; maybe eight. I was walking home from school one day, and you were waiting for me down the street from my house. There were four of you, but Jeremy Bellows was the alpha, the rest of you... you were just his lackeys.

It started the same way as usual, I'd walk, you'd start calling me names and pushing me, or try to take my bag. My uncle always told me to ignore you, and I tried. But sometimes I couldn't runaway before you knocked me down and threw my stuff into a tree. That day was different though. That was the day Jeremy told you to hit me, and you did. Remember? Jeremy never did anything himself, he just stood there, with a hungry smile shouting orders at the rest of you.

You okay? Wake up.

Smack.

There you go. Sorry about the crack to the head... and the duct tape. I think it's safer this way. Anyway.

I don't think it lasted very long, just a few seconds curled up on the ground getting kicked before you all ran away.

I lay there, curled up, my head protected in my arms. Then something poked me.

"Hey, up, get up," old Gorski was poking me with his cane. I peeked out from my arms.

The old man reached down and picked me up with one hand. He stood me straight, "What wrong with you," he had a heavy Polish accent, "why you let those boys beat you, eh? You girl, or something?"

I wasn't scared, I just looked into his eyes and let go. All the tears I wanted to cry in front of my aunt and uncle, all the pain I wouldn't show in front of you. Sorry if I'm being overly dramatic, but things bottle up, you know. Like I said I let go, and threw my arms around my savior, crying; my nose bleeding on his shoulder.

Gorski picked me up, "Come, we get you cleaned up."

As he carried me to his house I could see Jeremy looking around a corner, he wasn't happy.

Gorski cleaned me up, put ice on my broken nose, "There, no more crying," he said, "Next time those punks put boots to you, you punch them in face, eh?"

I put my head down.

Groski laughed.

He became like a father to me, after that. I would stop by his place after school. My aunt and uncle thought I had made friends. You know he taught me to read Latin? Taught me how to fight, too. His wife and son were dead and I think he blamed himself, though I don't believe he killed them.

Around the time I was ten some kids came forward saying that old Gorski had touched them. I think you might remember this part, you were one of them. The accusations were bullshit, we both know that, don't we? But after you came out, Gorski told me that is wasn't wise for us to spend time together. I was crushed, I felt like I was losing another parent. But that's not what this is about.

The last time I saw him, he gave me a stuffed bear that was supposed to go to his son. He'd been holding on to it for years. I know, I was a too old for a stuffed bear, but it was the only thing I had to remember him by, and I kept it in my room under my bed.

I kept that bear for years.

I was alone in my room, holding it, during his sentencing. I remember my aunt and uncle talking about it; saying that the sentence wasn't enough.

I hadn't thought about any of this for years because after we moved, I lost the bear. I remember that, when I couldn't find it, I was anxious. I felt like not having the bear was making it harder for me to remember Gorski. Honestly, until last year, I had completely forgotten the old man, like a dream that's harder to remember the longer you're awake and gone by the time you're brushing your teeth.

I became quiet again, for a long time. Until last year, when everything became clear.

I was working for a shipping company, the processing plant. Dead end job; I was miserable. There was one night, where I had to stop at the store after work. I hating having to do stuff like that, cuz I was always covered in dirt and sweat, and I would have rather just gone home to shower. But as I'm in the parking lot, I hear laughing.

When I turned around I saw a group of high school aged kids and heard a bottle break. The kids were laughing at something on the ground, one of the boys kept pulling cash out of a wad in his hand and dropping it on the curled up mess on the ground.

"Here you go old man, no hard feelings," every time one of the boys would kick the dirty lump on the ground the ring leader would through more money. He had a wolfish smile. I snapped.

They had no clue what happened. They were all so focused on their game that they didn't see me walk up.

The feeling of my fist impacting the lead boys face was the most satisfying experience of my life. I could feel something crack, and my knuckles stung, I had never hit anyone before, not even when I was still getting picked on. I didn't stop there. I hit the boy again. This time I felt teeth shatter and the boy's face sprayed blood as he hit the floor. Something inside of me felt as if every law in the universe just broke, like what was happening wasn't supposed to have happened. I turned and hit another. The boys ran, leaving their leader alone with the madman who would probably have killed him.

But I didn't kill him.

I picked up the lump, now a dirty old drifter, "Are you okay, old timer?" I asked.

He mumbled and nodded his head.

I helped him stand, his head was bleeding, but it wasn't bad, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up," I said. I left the punk on the ground, and drove the drifter to the emergency room.

He was groggy in the car. I thought he might have a concussion. He kept talking about Germy Tuck. He wasn't making sense.

The guy smelled like smoke, not cigarettes, but like a trash fire; burning cardboard and plastic. The smell stings the nose and eyes. His clothes were dirty and ashy, and his skin was dark tanned, and leathery. He looked like he had been through hell.

The stone-faced, professional continuances of hospital staff could barely contain their disapproval at the late arrival of the uninsured drifter, but they had to admit him.

I didn't have to wait around, I could have left but I felt bad for the guy. At the very least I could have left him a couple bucks when he woke up.

After about half an hour, one of the nurses came up to me, "Are you Michael?"

"Um... yeah, I brought the homeless guy, is he okay?"

"Yes he's fine, it was just a bump on the head," She hesitated, "He asked me to bring this out to you," The nurse handed me a bear; an old, tattered, stuffed bear. A bear that used to wait for me under my bed when I was nine.

"Where is he," I asked. I got up, not waiting for an answer, and walked into the hallway, the nurse followed me. The moment that bear touched my hands I remembered everything. I remembered Gorski's face, the way he looked when I mispronounced my Latin, and him teaching me how to fight. How could I have forgotten him for so long I asked myself.

"Sir, is everything okay?" The nurse was working her thick ankles to catch up with me.

"Where's Gorski?"

She looked at me as if I were a crazy person, "Who?"

"The homeless guy I brought in."

"I'm sorry sir, but I don't know what you're talking about."

Hard to believe, I know. The second I remembered the old man from my childhood, he was gone. Disappeared from the hospital; no trace. And no memory of him, except for the bear, of course, and my own memory.

The next day I checked with the department of corrections. Janek Gorski died five years before, and then I remembered something else, do you know what that was?

Gorski died about the same time Jeremy did. Your friend Jeremy. And like a fog lifting, his ramblings made sense. Gorski wasn't talking out of his ass, about germs, he was telling me that Jeremy took the bear. And now I can't shake the thought that, for one night, Gorski did something, maybe put himself through absolute hell to bring back a memory.

Since that night I've been following every trail I can, to find out what was really happening that night. How does an old man, dead five years, come back to life and run into me by pure chance? Why? Why does he finger my old, school bully to be at the center of this? Why can't...

You know what? Fuck it. I find you in a candle lit room, drawings on the floor, all surrounding a half dead ten year old. I don't doubt you have, at least some answers for me. If you told me it was magic, I'd probably believe you, seriously if a dead guy can can bring me a bear, I'll believe anything. But I think I'll get more answers from those books and journals you have over there.

So we're done here, this might hurt, hopefully I'll snap your neck on the first hit, though I don't know how a lead pipe will work out. So it may take a few tries.

Crack.