weird[The following is a work of FICTION. It is based on an actual dream that I had. I've decided to make this into a serial story, so keep looking for more installments]
My name is Jane. And the story that I am about to tell is unbelievable. I've told many true stories in my day. But this is the first time I've ever told this story. I've thought about these things many times, but have not dared to speak until now. Why now? Time has finally built what seems to be a great chasm between me and those strange events. I don't have nearly half the fear and anxiety I once had when I think of Smalltown.
Many of the people I speak of are still alive. Therefore, I will not use their real names and I will remain vague about actual locations. There is just Smalltown and Bigtown. If you come from Smalltown and you happen upon this story, you will know exactly of the events I am speaking.
I was at the tail end of my graduate studies at Bigtown University. I was young and passionate, but I was also a realist. I still am, although I’ve been accused of being more of a pessimistic cynic. But back then I was a little more starry-eyed.
I TAed for the Chair of the English Literature Department, and I basically taught his three courses while he sipped mocha lattes in the faculty lounge.
The Spring Semester was just wrapping up, and I was sitting in my windowless office in the basement of the Brawn Building where many of the grad students were sentenced to serve. I was swiveling around in my chair kicking around a few dust bunnies, trying for the life of me to figure out what I was going to choose for my 9 credit independent study course in Journalism for the summer. I could report on almost anything, but I had no clue what to write about. The preliminary summary of the project was overdue by two weeks. I wanted to write an in depth human interest story--something deep, touching and riveting. But my network of friends and connections were a boring pocket-protecting motley crew. So I had hit a dead end.
The fluorescent overhead light was humming and flickering enough to cause an epileptic to fall on the floor and foam at the mouth. CLICK. I shut the light off and continued to spin around in my chair.
I had just finished my office hours. That's when students would stop by and get extra help. I was teaching two lower level courses: Freshman English and Introduction to Written Composition; and one upper level course: Medieval Literature. All of the courses were core requirements of Bigtown, making my classes very large. It was that time of year when exams and final papers were coming up, so students flocked out of the woodwork for extra help, hoping to boost their grade.
I was somewhat taken back when suddenly one of my students, Clorissa, barged into my dark office.
"HELLO?!" Clorissa always spoke a little louder than necessary.
"What the heck?!?!" So she scared the crap out of me.
"Ms. Pecora? Are you in there?"
"Of course, I'm not in here. What kind of weirdo would be sitting in the dark?"
CLICK.
"Oh, Hi." said Clorissa
"What do you want?" I couldn't believe the gall.
"Oh, um, I'm here for extra help. I'm sorry. The door was open a crack and well--"
“You’re doing very well in Medieval Lit., I believe you’re getting an A at this point. Why would you need any help?”
"How could you possibly know I'm getting an A?" Clorissa looked confused but keep plowing forward, "According to my calculations with your grading system," which really is the professor’s grading system, "I am getting a B+."
So I opened up my grade book and took a look. “Huh. It seems your right; your average is an 87%.”
“No. No. I've saved all my papers and exams and calculated the grades according to your system. My average is an 89%.”
“So it is…I was looking at the wrong line. That's some other poor soul’s grade...Well a B+ is not so bad in my book.”
“It is if you’re an A student!”
“Well, I’m an A student, but I have a few B’s scattered here and there.” I could tell Clorissa was getting her knickers in a twist. “Relax, Clorissa. It’s not the end of the world. You'll probably get a B sooner or later. Believe me the sooner you get it, the sooner you’ll see that life doesn't stop for a B. I should know, I remember being in your shoes.”
There was a long pause while Clorissa was shifting gears. She looked confused, as though she was trying to put the pieces of a very difficult puzzle together in her mind.
“How do you know my name?”
“What?”
"You said, ‘Clorissa’ and you looked up my grades in your book there.”
“That is your name, right?”
“Yes, but there are 150 other students in the class.”
“Actually, I teach three classes, so that’s about 500 students. Listen, I have to get going. My office hours ended 15 minutes ago, but if you want extra help, I’ll be glad to give it to you on Tuesday or Thursday, between 2:00 and 4:00 pm, just like the schedule says on the door.”
“With everyone else? But they’re asking such stupid questions.”
“Really, Clorissa. It must be so hard to put up with the common folk.”
“I do apologize. I don’t mean to be a snob. It’s just that I really need the… the one-on-one help. I have so many questions. And you really are a good teacher. You seem so…..um...smart.”
“You’ll definitely never be a politician, so you better quit now. Meet me at my office after class on Wednesday. I’ll be there for 1 hour. Now let me get going, I have classes to study for too, you know.”
“Thank you so much, Ms. Pecora!”
“Jane! My name’s Jane.”
“Right.”
I was beautiful once--long dark curls, smooth white skin, large deep eyes.
As a youth I had great passion and expectation. I was like a feral child running naked and aimless through the jungle. Wild greenery caressing my skin; chasing intense sensations; innocent to right or wrong.
As time drooned on a stark emptiness blossomed inside me. It was like a small laseration that grew insidiously within; attacking unexpectedly with sharp pains of paralyzing fear. It became apparent that in its fruition this void would slither up from the abyss and steal my breath.
Out of eyes that had been raped of fairytales, I search intensely for the outer limits; from a break in the heavy air and the groping branches that slapped my body. Running away from all prior fantasies, I finally happened upon a break in the thick foliage. There Truth shown down like a smoldering star. Powerful blinding light and blistering heat seemed to engulf and incinerate my being. It was a Holy Fire--pure, intense, awesome.
I had been truly lost before, but now I was loosing myself--my will, my desires, my imaginings. He was trying to burn all my beautiful skin and hair away. He was desperately trying to reach down into the darkness of my soul to possess my whole being.
I would not have Him burning through the surface I had created; stealing all my dreams away. I broke free, and against the strong current, I dove back into the deep cold abyss from which I had come.
And very slowly my heart began to harden to stone.
But He would not give up so easily. I was haunted for years. He would cry out desperately night after night to me. It did not matter how far I would run, His call was always loud and clear.
So I willed myself to go deaf. And I was drawn deeper into the darkness until I had completely lost sight. But I was still beautiful. And I was not alone. There were many beautiful people who had never even heard of Him. And they really could care less.
Finally, so much time passed that I figured He must have been nothing more than a childhood dream. I lived out the rest of my days lost in the dark, bumping into others from time to time who were trying to feel their way around.
Now I sit in this eternal hell. The evil from within stealing my breath. I die 1000 times a day forever. My skin is gray and shriveled. My eyes have been riped from their sockets; and I have pulled out all of my hair.
And over and over in my head the projector spins a vision of a time so long ago.
Sometimes I try to remember His name or the way He called out to me. If I were to call Him, even now, I know he would come. But I can't remember His name.
I just can't remember.....
(Having a 6 month old baby makes it hard to find time to write new stuff. This is a short story I wrote a few years ago that I decided to add to my blog.)
With great contempt, she sat in the back row poised, proper and tight-lipped with a strained mousy face watching the young man sing.
He was a wild soul and his arms were flailing fanatically. His movements were unnatural and jerky. He was overly flamboyant to a comical point (and she had to chuckle cruelly at his expense). His hair was too styled and obviously bleached; body piercings were all over his face and God knows where else. He was dressed all in black, adorned with a heavy gold chain which held a huge gaudy crucifix (she could even see Jesus' tortured expression from her seat) which bounced off his chest as he jumped erratically in front of the congregation.
But the pinnacle of the whole spectacle was his eyes. They were hypnotic. Big. Blue. Full of unbridled passion. Not soft, but piercing as they darted to and fro seizure-like and quite alien. His eyes were desperately bursting with something and it was driving him deeper and deeper into a frenzy.
His voice was quite melodic, but his driving mission caused him to become unaware of the accompaniment or the fact that he was going off key and loosing his sense of rhythm now and then.
She stared into his passionate eyes imaging the deep sin that must be hidden in there. After a time she came to the conclusion that before he became re-born he must have been either a big time drug addict or a pimp or perhaps even a flamer; whatever it was he did, he did it big. Everything this guy does he obviously does wholeheartedly; and she wondered what kind of demons he had to battle with at night..... and if he ever gave in.
In his peculiar way, he was quite a striking young man. She found her attraction toward him no surprise since she always went for the bad boys or the weirdoes. Of course, that was before she was saved--but people who feed their flesh instead of the spirit eventually end up feasting upon their own vomit.
The man was finally out of control; somewhere way out past cloud nine. No longer amused at all, she was actually embarrassed for this man. What must people be thinking? Looking around there was no visible signs of contempt toward him in this audience, but of course they are in church, and it's people's duty to at least act polite and supportive. She could feel the tension choking her. She supposed it was an assault shared by every person in the room. So why couldn't he feel it and stop this freak show or at least tone it down?
Suddenly she got a great urge to save him--to pull the curtain and end the show. She wished she could make him disappear. She could not stand by and let this poor misguided soul make a fool of himself, leaving the congregation uncomfortable about the incident for weeks to come. And the humiliation he would feel once he realized what people really think--it could send him spiraling into a serious crisis of faith.
She felt dizzy and looked around for the nearest exit. She had every intention of slipping out of the sanctuary unnoticed. But unexpectedly a great heaviness seemed to ascend upon her as if her body was falling asleep, but her mind was wide awake.
She became aware of a great longing; an uncontrollable need that was emanating from the deepest part of her chest. An urge that felt so alien... to find his eyes. She was confused by the ridiculousness of the whole situation and the strangeness she felt bubbling up from the depths of her soul. She wondered if she was under some kind of demonic attack, but was more convinced that she was dreaming and would have pinched herself had she been able to move. Yet she was surprisingly calm and relaxed.
Through her strange dream state she became aware of him now sitting on a stool, center stage, guitar in hand strumming a passionate love ballad to Jesus. She said a prayer of thanks that he had finally composed himself.
His eyes were closed as he sang, and his fingers picked at the guitar strings as his body swayed lost in worship. Even so, the song was building and he looked like he could explode at any moment. Out of the corner of his closed eyes tears were making trails. His voice was beginning to crack, and his body was beginning to shake.
'Open your eyes!' her soul called out. She needed to look into his eyes. She asked herself why this was so important and felt an anxiousness that she was missing something. Open your eyes!
The song was building and she was starting to get nervous again. She waited in suspense for that spark to ignite his frenzy. Oh no, here it comes! Open your eyes! But some strangeness inside her wanted it.
She became distantly aware that she had tears streaming down her face stinging her cheeks, and her nose was running into her mouth. How ridiculous I must look, she thought, but still she searched his face. Open your eyes!
And when he did finally open his eyes, they were big, piercing and crystal clear. And they were staring directly at her. He seemed to see into her very soul and he was weeping. She was mesmerized by his gaze.
Her eyes were opened and she was able to see his soul. She saw a passionate man with an endless hunger. He was totally consumed with his Lord--so in love with Him that he was burning inside. She could see the flames. She understood now why he looked so alien. It was the holy fire burning blue in his eyes--something totally peculiar to this world. She was hit with a vision of him praying and crying out, 'Hold me Lord, please, Abba Daddy, I'm weak with longing for your touch!' She also saw the man's weaknesses. He was headstrong and stubborn, at times wild and unbridled, but his thirst for Jesus was unquenchable. He was God's mischievous, passionate child, with whom there was a holy love affair. And freedom twinkled in his eyes.
In the midst of this revelation she realized he was looking deep into her soul as well. And between his sobs of sorrow, he was crying out, "Daddy, Daddy forgive me for letting my heart grow cold to your children, make me to love others as you have loved me. Set the captives free, Lord Jesus! Set them free!"
Just then what felt like a burning inferno struck her body. Down she went sprawled half on the floor and half on the guy sitting next to her, arms and legs flailing. All eyes in the church turned to her in shock and wonder as she twisted and convulsed wildly on the floor under the power of the Holy Spirit.
Today captured the Spirit of Spring. My baby girl was born at the tail end of this past November. Living way up north, in an isolated city, on the largest inland lake in the world means winters are long, snowy, and bitter cold at times (although this past Winter was kind enough to be mild). So baby girl--Boo, as we affectionately nicknamed her, had not yet tasted the new wine of Springtime.
Boo has reached the Honeymoon pinnicle of Babyhood at exactly 5 1/2 months old. She is finally sleeping through the night (at least as of 3 days ago); she is all smiles and zerberts and gees and goos; and, of course, and best of all--she is still immobile.
In the lateness of the afternoon, I laid a soft blanket in the shade of our backyard and snuggled up with my Boo. I had a great sense of fulfillment as I witnessed Boo's sweet sensory overload--the endless wispy blue sky; the warmth of the gentle late-afternoon sun; the cool breeze kissing her soft pink baby cheeks. She pulled out little clumps of the freshly cut grass with her pudgy mini-hands. Her eyes were riveted by the bright yellow and red tulips at the height of their bloom. She was innocently drunk with all the lovely stimulus that this Spring day offered. She was a happy baby...and I was a happy mama. I whispered, "Life is good..." and really meant it.
