Chosen One Ephant Mon

Wow guys, thanks. I didn't expect this story to pop up again soon. I thought the length of the last update had scared everyone off. I'm really glad you have enjoyed it so far; I was a little worried about the second part in relation to the first, but I'm glad to hear it seems to hold up and I appreciate the nice feedback. Believe it or not, I actually understand what you mean by the Dr. Seuss thing, LAP. Without making that connection, I kinda hoped for that parabolic feel, told in the formal old-style Geki mentioned, with a basically omniscient narrator yet still with the sense that the story is being relayed by a person who knows the story well. Without giving too much away, I'll say I like the questions you are asking, LAP. I know I haven't updated in a while but this story is by no means dead. I got on a few other shorter projects and have a couple other things floating around, but I hope to come back to this soon. I have about five parts planned and know all the major strokes, I just need to work out some of the finer logistical details. EDIT: wrong "omni-."

The short story "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote" by Jorge Luis Borges inspires me, not really in an emotional way but more in being blown away by the author's brilliant idea that is both absurd and hilarious. Pierre Menard is a (fictional) 20th century French writer who wants to write Don Quixote””not translate it, or recopy it, or rewrite it, but write it. Menard goes through countless drafts and incredible creative toil, reigning in all his own extravagant tendencies so that, by his own conscious artistic choice, he whittles each sentence down the exact words of the original. The whole process is so taxing on him that he can only produce a few chapters. It is totally absurd, and yet a hilarious commentary on literary criticism as well. The narrator writes after having come across Menard's work:

A script worthy of the original. Could totally envision this as another episode in the Scarn franchise. You had the style down perfectly, and two years early. Well done, man. Loved that intro.

This is a good topic and it's really interesting to see how others think about titles. I fall into the camp of usually finding them late in the process. It depends on the type and tone of the piece, but I'm a big fan of one-worders. That doesn't always work, but I usually try to keep it simple. You can pack in a lot with a pithy title. I like it to be pertinent, yet perhaps in a way or with a meaning one might not expect (e.g. Sound). I'm always afraid if I try to get too poetic it'll just come across as silly and wannabe-profound. Some people can do it well though. Names can also make good titles (I like Ami's Adhiar) though for more straightforward ones I think it's kind of bold and requires a strong character story to back it up. I think it just reminds me of Shakespeare. His character titles are powerful because he really brings it.

Probably an atypical project, but this story will be a series of (fictional) journal entries of an aspiring writer. It may not interest anybody but me, but I'll throw it up just in case. ========== I. Shopping””not going to get exactly what you need, or find a gift for a friend, or visit your man behind the counter to snag some swag off the buddy-buddy discount, but shopping shopping, recreational shopping””is something I will never understand. Hopping from store to store, burning hours browsing, perusing, and lusting after overpriced items you know you're never going to buy? That makes no sense to me. Malls, when they're not the stereotypical consumerist blight on America, moving in and plowing over some family farm that's been there for generations (there's always one of those), aren't too bad in themselves. Why drive across town when you can head right down the hall? But the activity has to have some purpose, some end. Shopping to shop...is this really how we're filling our lives? And yet I've been all too like the shopper. What am I doing with my life? Pedaling around eyeing this and that, with no direction and no destination? Waiting for something to fall off the shelf and into my cart, with no price tag? I haven't even brought along the cart. ”œAh, but the displays are so pretty!”

I was going to read just the first part and comment but I kept wanting to read more so I just went through the whole thing. This is great stuff, Geki. You're fully in command of the tone and have the noir feel down pat, from the narrator's cynical voice to the present tense narration to the noirish descriptions and metaphors. After beginning the story, the most enjoyable part came from seeing you work the Star Wars element; that is, discovering how much you would preserve and how you would rework the common tropes to fit this type of world. Turning the Jedi mind trick into a detective's sharp eye was brilliant, and I loved your take on the "droids." I'm glad you plan on getting back to this, whenever you have the chance. I look forward to reading more.

Ah, I see. Thanks for the info. I had forgotten about her spats with Archer; doesn't surprise me that it had something to do with it, unfortunately.

This is a great idea. Realistically I won't be able to fulfill it but I do plan on making a concerted effort to read and comment on more works. So I hope to keep with the spirit of the thing. Do you know what happened to her? As a newbie she exploded on the scene with a posting frenzy that was Travis-esque, and then kinda just disappeared. I always wondered if I missed the reason or if she just tailed off and left without a word.

I know this isn't much of a reply but I just wanted to say that I intend on reading this soon. I've always loved your parodies and you wield a deft pen (keyboard?), so I'm sure it's great. You've been kind enough to read and comment on my short stuff so I'd like to reciprocate (as I would with the other kind readers as well). So I hope to reply again real soon, and in the meantime, just keep doing what you do, man.

In a thread of the same title, no less. http://forums.jedi.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=43041 (Jus' playin'. ) For me, I used to think that I could stylize just fine, but that what I lacked most was a truly great idea I was excited about to get me started. I had trust in my craft but had no content, and that held me back from ever really diving in because I didn't know where to begin. Of course, once I finally had that first lightbulb, the reverse became true. Now that I've started projects and begun walking around in the creative mode, ideas pop up all the time, and now I have a backlog of story premises, plot and character outlines, etc. And the most satisfying moments are when you land that hinge idea that makes everything in the story just click. The difficult part has become the actual writing. I have the picture in my head and want to transfer it as faithfully as possible. I write very slowly because I can tell when it's not there yet and have always written in a way (even in school papers and such) that I want it to be right before I move on. This part of the process is like an archeological dig. I feel like the perfect words are buried there somewhere but it takes a lot of toil and refinement to uncover them. So I guess what holds me back most is the producing-text stage because it takes me so darn long. I wish I wrote differently and could just bang out thousands of words in one session, but that is daunting to me, because I know that the more I roll out freely the more I will have to go back and excavate with the needle and toothbrush. And that same compulsive desire to tweak and retweak makes me hesitant to declare anything finished because I may come back five minutes later with another edit and a better way to say something, and if it's already "final" then I would stress from knowing that it's not as good as it could be.

Wow, thanks, Geki. Appreciate it, man. Glad it struck a chord (though unfortunately in relation to your own situation, which I'm sorry to hear about and am sure can be rough). About the specifics, yeah, the loss is ultimately what matters. I tried to avoid a straightforward telling in the way that the griever circles the brute facts and is still unable to acknowledge them fully. (And also simply for the mystery.) Though I tried to sprinkle in a few clues one might use to piece together the general nature of what happened (namely, the end of Part II). Thanks for reading and for the comments, man. I wanted it to be a thrilling mind-bender, yet as a means to uncover an emotional personal story, so your impressions are encouraging to hear.

I remember reading this a while back but I don't remember why I never commented. It's money.

Thanks dude, I appreciate your readership and your comments. It was fun to write and I'm glad it was enjoyable.

The end! Here's the last section of Part III. Thanks for reading, guys. ========== {He rolled over in bed...} Paul was lifted. {...Not there; must be in the shower...} The tug had won, the world had crumbled, and Paul was tumbling skyward. He was heading out, but not before passing through the final stage. {...On the table, one keycard? There should be two...} The scene skipped; it was broken, discontinuous””a series of patchwork images. Not hitched together but floating, disembodied””and Paul colliding through them. {...Dressed already? ”œWhere you going?”

I have to echo LAP's sentiment. I haven't been at the creative stuff for very long but within this past year I've learned a valuable lesson that originated with argumentative/analytical writing and that I've tried to carry over to (or at least be more conscious of in) fiction writing as well. I took a class last year with a professor who worshipped Strunk & White. I'm only barely joking. It was a computer science class (of all things) and I expected to take it as an easy credit, but it became apparent very quickly that the professor had a deep concern for writing quality and a serious love for classic literature. And that was our style guide for the course. The regular assignments were simple (a handful of 300 word summaries of the arguments of the authors we read), but when we got them back he would tear them apart. He would ink them up until they were practically rewritten: substituting our word choices for his, even though they were virtual synonyms, because one carried a more fitting connotation; rearranging syntax to eliminate any and all extraneous words; and flagging even the slightest ambiguity or underdeveloped idea. And on the day we received them back, he would distribute a multi-page list of "don'ts," all of them examples drawn right from our papers (anonymously, at least), and go through line by line criticizing what was wrong with each one. He railed against against specific cliches, bloated words or phrases that should (to his mind) never be used, and needlessly wordy constructions that meander to the point. Often he'd suggest a shorter word just because it saved a syllable. Naturally, I thought he was a pretentious douchebag. I think everyone did. It was a head-banging experience to endure his fascistic constrictions on language and simplifications that seemed bent on eliminating voice all together. For someone who prided himself on his writing, getting back one-page assignments with revisional overhauls was both frustrating and a bit of an ego bruise. It wasn't until after the class that I saw that, generally, he was right. My writing wasn't bad but I had many tendencies I performed almost unthinkingly. I had come to embrace "wordy sophistication" as my style and had never been much of an editor. What I needed was to go back to the basics and discover the value of brevity. And when I began to realize it, I noticed that in great writing, long-windedness is the exception rather than the norm. I didn't agree with all his opinions, and I still don't. And he was still kind of a douchebag. But his philosophy is something I've adopted for when I write. I needed to be knocked down a peg or two to fortify the foundation if I was ever going to climb up to the next level. I'm still nowhere near where I would like to be. I still indulge in lofty language, almost surely to a fault. But now I am mindful to consider the function of just about every word to decide whether its presence is necessary or whether the idea can be stated more sharply. I think it's helped me avoid trite metaphors by trying out new ones, as well as make everything crisper in general. The lesson is one I wish I would have learned (or would have allowed myself to hear) a long time ago, but I am thankful to have learned it, even in "tough love" manner in which I did.

Thanks, Tiana. I appreciate the words as well as the corrections. I admittedly rushed this to "print" because I was excited to get the story out (and have since made over a dozen tiny edits and fixes) but I knew I hadn't caught them all and your pointing out those parts is very helpful. Much obliged. I'm glad it's been an absorbing read, and that that dizzying effect has been interesting rather than nauseating. And thanks for the comment on the language and pacing well; it has been fun to sort of let loose and be playful with it as the nature of the story allows for it.

Thanks for reading, mate. I'm glad it's been enjoyable and at the same time bewildering. Headspin is what I like to hear. I think (or at least hope) that the finale piece will explain or at least give the tools needed for figuring out what is happening mechanically and how it all fits together. I'll have it up as soon as I can.

Thanks for reading dude, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I really appreciate your comments on the language (from this reply and the previous); it's always great to hear specifics of what is working, or what isn't. And I understand about the catching up; I know it was already getting long to read in a casual sitting before I just gave birth to this new massive text wall but I hope the newest part entertains as well whenever you get to it, and hopefully begins drawing some of the various threads a little closer together. I still have to throw up the last little bit and you won't have the "cipher" (so to speak) until then, but it covers a lot of ground and builds steam toward the final resolution.

Okay guys, after much delay, here is most of Part III. It ended up stretching so long that I had to break it up here--it's not an "official" break but I think it works fairly well. The end of this post should leave a nice cliffhanger and the final post that contains the end of the story will be significantly shorter (I'll put that up in the next the next few days). If anyone reads to the end of this post I'll be slightly amazed but hopefully there's still an audience for it. ========= The sea of nothing enveloped Paul once again, but he would not stay an instant. The haunting image chilled his blood, yet it steeled him with abandon. He had to return, now more than ever. He was hell-bent, he could not wait””the window was already closing. Ignoring everything about the subtle dance, he lurched with all his might and hurled himself back in. Paul landed. But he was...somewhere else. He sensed he had made it by pure force of will, but it was...off. The feel was different. Everything was now solid, but less solid; hazy, yet vivid. His body felt used, already worn; his limbs sluggish and rigid, but that didn't seem to impede their motion. His legs already carried him down a dim and narrow corridor, but their movements felt predetermined, happening regardless of his say. He was too absorbed in his walk to give his head to his surroundings, but something told him he wouldn't have been able to if he tried. The tugging sensation of the previous world now pulled lightly, but continuously””like an inverse hourglass drawing him up grain by grain. Paul knew he had to hurry. He followed his footsteps to the corridor's end and found another to his left. When Paul began down the second hall, two thoughts appeared to him at once. He soon realized they had been there since his landing, but lightly buried, and only now uncovered by a wave of experience. The first was that he had been here before. The second hall, much longer and wider than the first, seemed the center of some kind of labyrinth. He now remembered being here, remembered the walls lined with closed doors and segmented by numerous crossing halls, some dimmer and some brighter. The second, which jumped his heart, was that she was here. He had known it the first time, standing in that very spot, without knowing how; but this time he remembered because he had seen it, had seen her here. Last time something told him to follow the light... Paul stretched his eyes and made out a pocket far ahead that shone just brighter than the rest. He hurried down and on approaching saw that it came from the right. When he turned a new section of the maze opened up with new doors and new halls, all cast in the slightly raised but still soft glow. An inviting door stood to his immediate left. Paul went for the knob but it would not budge, and that was all he needed to know that every door was locked, except one. The source. She was there. The tug pulled harder; he had to go now. Paul found and scrambled to the next brightest spot. Another hall, more doors, more light. Right, left, left, right...the light climbed like the crawling dawn. As he ran, scanned, and ran again he noticed that all this was happening exactly as it had before. The realization, the light, the door, the turns...right, left, left, right...the scene was replaying beat by beat. In a far and tiny recess of his mind Paul knew how it ended. He ran faster. In these halls the maze became trickier. The daylight made it difficult to spot the just-brighter path. Paul made several wrong turns and had to retrace his steps””the same turns and same steps, yet it could not happen any other way. But he knew he was getting close now. His eyes throbbed; he felt he was coming up on the sun. Paul rounded a corner and...there it is! Not a side door (in this hall there were none), but a main one, directly ahead against the far wall: the end of the maze. Rays of unearthly radiance burst from the razor-thin cracks on all four sides, the hidden glory too abundant to contain. His spirit leaped with excitement. Yes, yes, this is it!! he thought. He couldn't believe it...he had actually made it back. She was right there, behind the door! Paul ran on air as he sprinted down the hall. When he neared the door a shadow knocked at his consciousness, but he brushed it away. He was so close! He reached the end and flung it open. The room was enormous, if it was even a room. There was no way of telling: he could see no wall, ceiling or floor: just a vast, awesome chamber of blinding brilliance. It overwhelmed his senses, yet, amazingly, he looked without harm: this was light of a different species. It seemed to have no end, to have no dimensions or all of them””it was total, whole, one. He only perceived anything like depth at all because in the distance one figure stood out from the light, beaming with celestial splendor. She was far””he couldn't even tell if she saw him””but right then he knew that he was standing with her, and all his joy rose to life. He had returned and found her again. Here, if nowhere else, was perfect peace, and he was happy. He inhaled, ready to call out and run to meet her. But before he could take a step, before he could even speak, his secret fear arrived: all at once, without even a sound, the entire luminous chamber went out. NO! he cried out desperately. His voice sounded distant, muffled, as if coming from afar and not from him at all. Darkness reigned. Was she still here? He heaved, groped, scrambled””but he felt it, and knew it from before. Everything had scattered. She was gone again. He had known””without admitting it to himself, he had known. He had realized what was coming but wanted to keep it going, write another ending, make it different this time. He believed it was possible. But it ripped her away exactly when it had before. Paul broke down. Had he really come this far again, only to find her and lose her in the same instant? Had she even known he was there? It lasted less than a glimpse and he had barely seen her face. He sank in sorrow. One thing saved him from despair: he was still here. He was left in the dark, and she had vanished along with the rest, but he hadn't been flushed out””he knew because he still felt the tug. It was there, and growing. At last, something different. Before he had left with the rest, and had to float his way back in. Now time ran short, but at least he remained. And as long as he stayed he still had a chance. But now he had no idea where to go or what to do. The night was lonelier than ever. I just want to see her again, he pleaded. Just to see her. Suddenly the ground shifted under his feet. Paul felt a lateral movement and heard a sound like a shutter. What””? Soft rain fell outside the window. Paul stood with his hands in his pockets and a briefcase slung over his shoulder, staring mindlessly at the taxis and passersby, and every so often a blooming umbrella. Ah yes, the big storm. There will be more umbrellas soon. Or fewer people. Through the glass he listened to the bustle of the street, punctuated by the occasional honks and shouts. He let his thoughts drift off... ”œPaul?”

Thanks, Brendo. Glad it was intriguing. Just a general update on the status of this story: I was hoping to have it finished by the end of this past week but some real life stuff was more pressing so it'll be a little longer till I get it up. Also the third (and final) part is turning out to have quite a lot packed into it and will be a bit longer than the others so it's taken more time, but I am excited about it and want to take the time to make sure it comes out right, or at least the best I can make it. Anyway, thanks for reading, guys, I do appreciate it.

Thanks, Geki. Hopefully the whats and whys of the surreality will make a little more sense by the end. "Flowery" always worries me a bit of going too far, but I hope the poetics are enjoyable and well-suited to the concepts. I tried to have some fun with language without emptying the thesaurus (as LAP said).

Wow, thanks guys. You're awesome. And thanks LAP for the comments about fluff: after rereading that section I agree there are a few needless sentences I would edit for the next draft; but I'm glad even the fluff was somewhat enjoyable. Here's Part II! I have one more planned. Thanks for your readership; I really appreciate it and I'm glad you guys have enjoyed it so far. ========= Paul sped down the street in pursuit of the jogger. Certainty told him the man was going where he needed to follow, and would lead him straight to her. As he came upon the crossing he shot a glance both left and right, but there were no cars on the road. All the houses and yards looked charming, but the neighborhood was eerily empty. He turned right as the jogger had and instantly spotted him up ahead. But he was far...very far...farther than seemed possible in the half-minute since Paul had watched him turn the same corner. The man kept his healthy jog, but the road already split them by a vast expanse. Afraid of losing him, Paul burst into a sprint. The new velocity brought on a strange sensation. It crept up in a whisper, but Paul felt that his speed tugged at the frays of some conspiracy. He sensed that the world was following him, and now he ran so fast that it constantly shifted to keep up””that what was behind him, what he left when he turned his head this way or that, was no longer there. He was crossing a bridge being built right under him, the tireless builder always snatching up the treaded planks and laying them down mere steps ahead. Paul thought if he spun around quick enough he might even take him by surprise and catch him in the act. But he didn't have time to test his theory; he quickly buried these encroaching thoughts to give full focus to the chase. Yet to Paul's baffled dismay, his advantage in speed proved useless: his target drew closer, but only by inches. The jogger bobbed in casual rhythm while Paul tore with full frantic strides; but the gap closed at a crawl. He saw his struggled progress and knew that if the man's pace rose by the slightest degree, he could disappear with ease and Paul might never find him again. He tried to yell out but didn't have the breath to reach him; sweating fear and fatigue, he pushed his legs to go faster, but fed with such meager gains they soon tired. Far ahead the man reached the street's end at another intersection, and stopped. Paul's racing heart jumped, but he saw his window and without hesitation reached deep for a final spurt. To his surprise he not only gained, but gained rapidly. His legs excelled under familiar physics, reinvigorated as from shedding a great weight. The houses flew past and he now felt sure that he could catch him. As he cut through the air he even caught a welcome breeze, and on it floating a sweet, sensual aroma... Hers. Paul stopped dead in the street. In the same moment a tremor shook the earth””not just the earth, but the fabric of the world. The man, the street, the houses...everything warped and dissolved like a broken signal, as if someone had bumped the world's antenna. With a flash all things fled from Paul's vision, and something tugged at his insides so that he felt himself rising while his feet still clung to the ground. Paul blinked... And everything fell back into place: reforming, slowing, settling. Stunned, he regathered his senses. Her scent still hung in the air, and looking up he saw the jogger with back still turned, standing unmoved at the nexus of roads. From fifty yards back Paul heaved bewildered breaths and watched him closely. The man stood coldly still as if knowing, and waiting. Paul detected something sinister in his stance. An alarming thought seized him: Had he taken her? Was this not a guide, but a villain? Paul's mind churned, and he had just decided to end their silent standoff in a furious dash when the statue finally stirred. Paul froze and watched breathless as the man twisted his neck over his left shoulder, and like a sideways sunrise turned his head in glacial taunt. Paul strained his eyes with rigid gaze, prepared for the instant they would meet his face. But at its climax the tension snapped: the man darted and fled, and before Paul could react he had vanished down a side street. HEY! he yelled after him. Paul chased the newly christened runner but when he cornered the same street he was nowhere to be found. The new road ran straight without end, and bore no branching outlets. It lay bare for as far as he could see. Paul guessed his fugitive had veered off the road and now hid among the houses. Paul slowed and stopped. He stood motionless for several seconds, trying to pick up any sound. But silence blanketed all directions. Beginning with slow, cautious steps, and with all senses alert, he proceeded down the road. His steps landed with a feeble crunch, but in the quiet their echoes resounded. Measured breaths accompanied his strides, but within his chest his heart rebelled. His ears crouched while his eyes scanned: he kept to the street, but on both sides he searched behind fences, play sets, garages; leaned one way or another to stealthily peer into backyards and side yards; and stopped again every few minutes to listen intently. But all was still. In his anxiousness, without even realizing, Paul silently repeated the same mantra. Had to find him. Had to find her. Had to find him. Had to find her. But how? The road and its houses stretched to the horizon. He could be anywhere. He could play hide-and-seek forever. But that would mean...would he really never see...? Paul began to despair... A flutter breached the corner of his eye. He spun around and locked on the second floor of the adjacent house, and in the moment of his turning the two panes flew open with a terrible crash and a violent gust lifted a violet billow. Paul knew those curtains. A shock wave, stronger than before. His vision grayed, the world rippled and collapsed again, and something pulled him up and away without lifting him an inch. But he would not go. After several long seconds of desperate concentration, the tide slowed, halted, and reversed; and he came rushing back. The scene restored. The wind had passed; Paul stood just as before, neck craned toward the open window where inside the violet curtains hung. The house belonged to strangers, but their curtains were their curtains””his and hers. They had picked them out together. Paul paused as he received a new thought, and then realized: It's a trail. Racing footsteps bellowed from behind. Paul turned just in time to see his man far back at the crossing, dashing down the last street and out of sight. Their patter called in mocking sport, daring him to follow. Paul took off. A burst of adrenaline propelled him faster than ever before, and doubling back the way they came he vowed never to lose him again. He cut the corner lawn and sprinted round. The jester ran ahead but this time Paul closed fast. He would overtake him, Paul was sure. He was so close now... Suddenly the man ahead planted and sprang down a leftward pass. Paul skidded to redirect, but when he turned to face the new direction his face dropped all its color. He recoiled as struck by an unseen blow, and forgot all about the runner as his eyes set on the gruesome display at the newest street's center: a menacing heap of black paint and twisted metal, grotesquely mangled””formerly a car, but now the devil's artwork. From his soul's depths horror rose and flooded to every crevice of his being. His body shook and staggered backwards, while his mind raved and could not accept it. No... Paul insisted, reeling. No, no...this is wrong! This is not supposed to be here!! Like the previous signs to this apocalypse, but on a cosmic scale, an earthquake rocked ground and sky, and the invisible hand finally had him with adamant grip. Paul tossed and thrashed but it was too late. He was swept up””not off the ground, because there was no ground, but to whatever up there was. He had nothing to grab on to, nothing to grab on with, and still screaming as he was carried away””Not supposed to be here! No! Not here!!””Paul arrived back where he started, trapped by silence and cast into familiar night.

Wow, thanks, Tiana. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I will post the next bit as soon as I have it done; fortunately, this is a story I plan to finish within the week, as I have all the major strokes figured out and some other chunks already written. I just need to put it all together. I should have the next part ready by tomorrow though. Thanks for reading and for your comments.

This the first part of a short story. It wasn't conceived in parts but there seemed a natural break so I thought I'd throw the beginning up. ========== For a moment's fraction Paul saw the sole object of his life's happiness; the blissful image seared into his memory and stayed as if impressed from an eternity””but before the instant even passed, all he saw flickered and was suddenly snuffed by darkness, and it was gone. NO! he cried out desperately. Pitched in lonely isolation, cut off from the world of sight and sound, he saw nothing but the black, heard nothing but the race of his own heart. He heaved, groped, scrambled; his mind reeled in paralyzing panic; panic rolled into despair, abject fear of a hope lost forever, and with each passing second, though the memory still burned, its reality escaped. He could not move, at least not in the way he wanted, and though half-aware of what was happening, he refused to accept it. It left him destitute. What cruelty had whisked it all from him so quickly? These thoughts and their half-conscious meanings darted and turned in his head all at once, and in no time, with whatever awareness he possessed, he resolved: I have to get back. How he could or if he could he did not know, nor even consider. He knew without knowing that it wasn't about thinking at all””that posed his greatest danger. It was the feel, the fluidity; he had to slip back into the stream. A gentle dip or a violent plunge””either way he must find the river and take the dive. He had to make it happen without making it happen. If he made it happen he was sure to fail. He sensed rather than reflected that reflection was his enemy: the anti-gravity that pulled him up to heights he feared. Armed with nothing but his will, he fought without fighting to find his way again. He had to. And he must make it””with the force of all his feeling, he must. If he didn't...he would not give form to that thought. Suspended in the formless void, with the urgent calm he sensed was required, Paul gave himself to purposed instinct. He walked the wobbly tightrope of control and release, and by this indelicate balance the walls of night thinned and tore, and in rushed figures that flew by him like specters. Some were large, some small; some thin, some wide; some beautiful, some terrible. But they were all chatty. They spoke, screeched, and whispered; the ghosts circled round him, rising in discordant chorus. Each he recognized, but only in the moment it met his vision””when it passed he held no memory of the last and saw only the next. But for that moment””as they soared past, fluttered by, and twinkled in and out””the individuals vied for his attention while ever eluding it; but Paul heard in full the swell of the swirling symphony. Suddenly the figures gathered speed and the swirl evolved into cyclone. He could no longer perceive any single form””their orbits flew too fast and were all swept up in a rushing blur. With acceleration the choral garble melted into one roaring pitch. From the eye of the storm, Paul felt dazed, both light and heavy. One corner of his mind witnessed everything with curiosity; a larger pocket held unfocused focus of his dire mission; but the vastest part fell sedated under the siren's spell. As the whirlwind grew, singing with a roar so great it approached silence, Paul's awareness dimmed; he began slipping, teetering on the brink of consciousness, and then”” His feet were on solid ground. It was a quiet suburban neighborhood. Paul knew where he was now. He stood on his porch that wasn't his porch of his house that wasn't his house and looked across the street. A rusty pickup sat in the driveway opposite while sprinklers ran in the owner's lawn. With steps muffled by distance, a jogger turned down the end of the street and passed out of sight behind the next row of houses. Further past, the sky dressed in warm summer orange as afternoon merged with twilight. Taking in the scene, Paul noticed that everything was very nearly finished, but not quite. If he stared in one place long enough he could barely make out the broken contours and tiny spots of missing color. And if he stared even longer he could actually see them connect and solidify. Their shapes slowly filled as by an invisible hand, still applying the final lines and brush strokes. Paul briefly felt he had glimpsed behind something he was not supposed to see, but he did not dwell on it. The scenery had this strange fluxing residue, but inwardly everything was firm again. His hypnotic swoon, the subtle dance of force and feel...these were gone. When he hit the ground his sense had come flooding back. He could think and reason without worry, direct his faculties fully to his purpose; with vivid command he had retaken the reins of his mind. He no longer rode an unstable wave, no longer feared collapsing, but was now in control of his destiny. He was there. He had made it. And without knowing how, he knew where to go. Paul stepped off the porch, turned into the street, and began to run. Now he just had to find it. Had to find...her.

The words where c's become t's. "Influential" trips me up from time to time because I first thing of "influence" and just want to turn it into an adjective, so I end up writing "influencial" and stare at it for about five seconds trying to figure out what's wrong until I finally remember.