by Nathaniel Anacta
We were dead. Or I think we were. Have you ever dreamt you were a tick and saw it so real that you couldn’t tell if you were the gnat dreaming himself a man or the man itself? A man is less than a gnat.
I’m a writer by consequence; on consequence that no one would hire me on account of my oddity. Not everyone can wear a white suit in a pigeon’s room for twenty years and be forced to call someone else doctor.
I feel my head getting lighter, and my fingers nailed to the table. I must tell you before I go: The Red Line is Breaking.
Take what you will from it. Your souls are burning and if they’re not kicking mud homewards, they’re running away. From you.
I know what you’re thinking, if I doubt my sanity, then why do I not get someone to decide for me? How do I know if sanity isn’t relative?
I should be clear: you people know that there are three dimensions, and the fourth exists but can only be shown through what’s known as a penumbra: a shadow of the
Fourth that can be represented in the three dimensions. If a fourth is certain to exist, there is by your logic a fifth that can be shown through a penumbra of the fourth and by extension a sixth that can be shown through the fifth and so on. Pay attention now, this part is important: have you ever felt like you were out of place?
What many of you don’t know is that all the dimensions occur in exactly the same plane of existence, only that a two dimensional person (someone flat like a paper) can’t witness something that happens in the third. That’s how order is set in the world and how you maintain your relative sanities without shattering your minds.
Some people, like the old Hindus knew this truth. Think about their Akashic library: a library where all knowledge exists and where everyone eventually discovers new things.
You don’t know where it is- and I can only go so far as to explain it to you. You have no concept of the many things that I have, so it’s doubtful that you would understand even if I use a penumbra to explain it.
Picture this: when you die, your eternal soul is released (but actually there are at least twenty five depending on whether you’re a man or a woman or the third sex). These souls mix and match in a primordial soup way back in the beginning (it travels back through before time but your concept of time is worthless and though your Einstein’s theory of relativity comes closer to the truth, it’s just another penumbra). When this happens, they form a new person and this one is brought again through your children. The problem is sometimes these neo-humans get lost and end up in the wrong time.
Yes I’m saying some of you are actually troglodytes. That’s caveman by the way. And some of you are Homo Superioris. I mean Swedish. Want to have proof? How can someone like your saints or prophets exist? I’m not talking about your twenty-dollar magicians. You people have enough sense to know your history is convoluted with false messiahs and I can name twenty seven in the Catholic Church alone.
But that’s beyond the point. These people end up in the wrong time and end up branded special or… for those fortunate (or unfortunate) end up actually special: like Batman.
Feeling good? Good. Brace yourself.
We have a name for this, but you wouldn’t understand. Now picture that, and understand this: some of us end up in the wrong dimensional wavelength by accident. Some of you, like your Lovecraft end up seeing things outside his dimension and the result is: I GET CALLED IN.
We do at least. We, meaning me and the twenty five else of me. We cross the Red Line to this third rate shadow of our world and we do what has to be done.
It’s stupid simple. Look up how all his story characters died. I actually enjoy some of his works- the way you people like Seuss for your kids. Now look how he died. Its not morbid humor, we’re just bored and that’s how we decide to do extractions.
Note: decide, not decided. That’s partly the problem. Time doesn’t flow like a river as you people decided. It happens all at once, and the dimensions all coexist in the same plane. You normally just can’t see us.
My job was simple: your Lovecraft is too good for you people. No, we didn’t really kill him in your sense, we took him back with us; he was born in the wrong time and saw things beyond your dimensional wavelength.
The problem happens here: remember how I said that when you people die, your twenty five or less souls get sent back to the beginning? The land before time?
Your Lovecraft is stupid.
Stupid. Idiot. Troglodyte. Homo Superioris. Closet Swedish.
Instead of taking the gift we promised him: to take him home to Živa, he decided to try to tell everyone else about us.
Now all twenty five of us are scattered and he’s stuck somewhere in the fourth pounding down the Red Line trying to talk to me. Yes, he killed us en route home.
The sneaky schizophrenic.
Let me tell you something: words have no power here, but up there, they do things. You see, up there people aren’t made of carbon but rather of pure thought and ideas. So when you have someone dreaming of alien geometries, you get:
A Shipwreck.
I’m the only one he can talk to, the rest of us are too scattered. I feel: with a Viking named Chernbog, with a Medusozoan colony in Phobos and the rest, God knows where or when. I myself don’t know because its only through these brief moments of lucidity that I can talk to them.
And there’s the problem. Your problem. Lovecraft is pounding the Red Line with everything he can blaspheme about to reach me.
Like in your hell we’d take him home when all twenty five of us finally reach each other and manage to fix the way home.
Its taken ninety of your years to contact two out of twenty five and how many more to reach the rest.
Remember: I get called in to control the bad ones here. What about the bad ones up there crossing the Red Line?
Now Obama’s president.
Like I said. That sneaky schizophrenic.
