Conjurer of Words

They call what I have a condition as if it’s a sickness to be cured but the longevity or quality of my life has not diminished in the slightest because of it. I physically see two different versions of the world simultaneously at any given time. Initially, doctors thought it was an ailment of my eyes but they would later discover that a unique network of synapse connections related to my sight is what resulted in my so-called condition. The first of the realities I see is the same world that most of you see every day: a tree looks like a tree, a car looks like a car, and people walking down the street are just people walking down the street. But imagine a second layer over that, a layer in which words are literally floating in the air like specks of dust, seemingly random at first. That’s how I see the world: draped in words.

Some of them are small, simple words, and some of them are large complex words that nobody has used for hundreds of years outside of dusty old books. When a certain something catches my eyes like a squirrel in a tree or a beautiful building downtown, certain words gravitate towards that something like a reverse explosion of abstract vocabulary. Those certain words, I learned early on, described the object of my focus perfectly. I’ve learned to quickly remember the face of a pretty girl walking down the street before she is swarmed by a multitude of words, some of which would make me blush if I were to tell you what they were.

“It seems your subconscious has materialized itself in your sense of sight,” the doctors told me, “Your thoughts seem more concrete and contextualized to you in this manner. It’s fascinating. There’s never been a case like this before.”

“Will he live a normal life?” my mother asked.

“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry but it’s likely that he’ll see the world like this for the duration of his life,” the doctors responded. I thought that was silly. Why should anyone be sorry? The condition is in no way a hindrance to living my life. In fact it’s a great boon to my aspirations to become a writer. It’s sad that it has become safe to assume that seeing the world differently is a something to be pitied.

After some research, I found that my ailment has been around for centuries and the data suggests it has been around for thousands of years. Because it is a condition of the brain while the eyes get most of the blame, many past cases were dismissed as either dementia or witchcraft. The older carriers of this genetic “defect” were wise enough to recognize, as I was, that it was more of a gift than a burden and they used this to convince everyone that they were wizards who could conjure up words, words that no one had ever heard of, for any and every possible scenario. Of course that only amounted in what were essentially writing positions. But in medieval times that was a relatively powerful position. But today the roles have reversed where you know what a writer looks like by the measure of natural sunlight they don’t get.

My first visions of floating vocabulary occurred sometime in high school during the awkwardly necessary rite of passage known as puberty. While others either coasted through the typhoon of hormones and others embraced their awkwardness, I succeeded in enjoying the shroud of anonymity. A dance was approaching and the few friends I was fortunate to have urged me to ask out this girl that they, somehow, knew I had my eye on for some time. However, I noticed early on that words would swarm anything or anyone I would be focused on which made reading facial expressions difficult. The words would get in the way and I would have no way of knowing if someone was impressed or annoyed with me. That was when I realized I could use writing to my advantage. I wrote a short note and discreetly slipped it into her locker.

It would be a few days before I got a response and to everyone’s surprise she agreed to go to the dance with me. Unfortunately the joy of my first date would be short lived when the following school day she publicly humiliated me by agreeing to go to the dance with someone else over the school PA system. What I thought was a step in the right direction towards a more normal life turned out to be a ruse for a group who happened to be as cruel as they were bored.

That little stunt made college miserable for me as I had trouble trusting anyone that wasn’t in my inner-most circle of friends. Eventually I had trouble even trusting them as they went on to find their own callings. In hindsight, I know it was premature to mistrust them for finding their own life’s path but I had enclosed myself in my introverted shell, away from the rest of the world. There was really no one left to console me except, of course, for my words. And they sheltered me from all the pain the world had to offer. Unfortunately, that meant keeping me from taking the risks necessary to leading a happy life. I assured myself that I wouldn’t be making any more mistakes in life and the words would all agree with me because, well, the words were mine. But that all changed when I saw the concept of mistakes from a different perspective.

I knew words. I had been surrounded by them my entire life and no matter how crazy life got, words were there for me my entire life. I grew fearful of making mistakes until I realized that “mistake” is just another word. And I can change words when I wanted to. Realizing that a mistake is just an opportunity to learn was the greatest epiphany in my young adult life. It was then that I learned to tame the words that I had allowed to hold me captive for most of my collegiate career. I decided to take a creative writing class and hone my abilities and I soon mastered the swarm of words that had once plagued me. They were now my allies.

In no way do I claim to have figured out the meaning of life or figured out some great wisdom that wouldn’t have otherwise been found in some older or more eloquently written story. If anything, the lesson I hope you take away from my story is that life will always be difficult but living doesn’t have to be. Sometimes the universe decides to give you some sort of disorder that makes you different, or maybe the cruelty of others decide, for whatever reasons,  to bear down and crush your spirit. But you can always choose to move forward and learn from your circumstances rather than become a victim of them. I hope to continue to hone my skills as a writer and maybe one day I’ll take a place among the conjurer of words upon whose shoulders humanity’s libraries were filled. And while the rest of the world pities those of us who seem to be different, we smile knowing what they’re missing out by trying so hard to be the same.

Paid In Full

Matt Debris was an unassuming man and some would say too smart for his own good. His father was a big shot in an underworld organization that has since been shattered by shadowy figures and idealistic police officers. Matt’s hide had been saved by his father’s authority on more than one occasion and he knew that that would not last now that his father had passed away recently. Gambling was Matt’s preferred vice though this night it seemed he aimed to usurp that title to drinking. In a stupor he leaned against the jamb of the steel door and looked up and down the alley before giving the secret knock. The small panel just over Matt’s head opened and from it two intimidating eyes just stared at Matt. The door thumped rhythmically to the techno music that hissed its way through the peephole.

“What are you looking at?” the eyes asked.

“I’m looking for Janus,” Matt replied.

The eyes seemed to look at Matt piteously before closing the panel. Matt leaned against the doorjamb impatiently until he heard the click of the door unlock. The heavy door swung open to reveal the owner of the eyes: A man nearly twice Matt’s size wearing a shirt that seemed to be two sizes too small even for Matt. The music was loud and the lights were blinding. He looked at the young people dancing away in time to what Matt guessed is what they called music.

He cut through the crowds to the wooden door behind the DJ’s stage where he gave a second secret knock. A small panel near Matt’s hip slid open and Matt slipped in a custom made poker chip. The person on the other end took it and moments later the chains and locks were undone and the door slowly squeaked open. Two large men in suits approached Matt and patted him down finding nothing but his cell phone and Bluetooth attachment which was already in his ear for some reason. They figured he was some sort of big shot banker looking to have a little fun on the side so they let it go. They guards kept the cell phone but let Matt keep the Bluetooth device in his ear.

“A steel door in an alleyway with a bouncer, kids dancing to crazy ‘music,’ another locked door hidden behind the stage being guarded by you two knuckleheads… If I had to remember another secret knock or password or handshake or whatever I would have forgotten what I came here for,” Matt said to the guards one of whom was making a call on the phone. “Can I go yet?”

“Not ‘til we get the okay,” one of the bodyguards said. Matt looked over his shoulder and saw the security camera and waved at it. The guard on the phone hung up the receiver and nodded to the other guard who got out of Matt’s way.

“If you really wanted to scare off patrons you can just put more of those weird kids dancing to that freaky noise they’re listening to. It would save you a lot of money you spend on doors and guards remembering secret passwords.” There was no response from the guards. “Ah, not that kind of crowd.”

Matt spent some time on the roulette table and had some success before moving on to the craps table where he just about broke even. When he made his way to the poker table the alcohol had completely taken over his sensibilities. In a game where the people are played more so than the actual cards dealt, Matt was getting on their bad side.

“Another drink!” he yelled. “My God, man! How can you smoke a cigar in here! I certainly hope that it’s worth it. There are no windows here and I know I’m already getting sick of the smoke. Hey! Guards! Can we open that door! That’s the only way we’re getting any ventilation here!”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you leave the table,” the dealer sternly muttered.

“Fine!” Matt yelled defiantly, “You guys are boring and I was losing anyway. That’s probably a fire hazard anyway. Smoking in here with no windows and the only emergency exit is the way I came in. Sounds like a death trap to me especially with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum guarding the door and their stupid camera and stupid phone.”

Fortunately for Matt the alcohol in his system had made those last few sentences understandable only to himself and not the guards on duty. Otherwise, a disturbance like that would have him literally dragged out into the alley (and that would have been the best case scenario). He clumsily sat down at the black jack table where it was only him and the most amiable of dealers.  An hour would pass and then another and another when Matt had multiplied his money to nearly five times what he had come in with. Two more guards came from some shadowy hallway in the back to greet Matt before he cashed in his chips for the night.

“If you’ll come with us, sir,” one of them said.

“How do they fit such large people in a room so small? It’s got to be 200 square feet in here, tops!”

They took him by the arms and forcefully led him to the shadowy hallway.

“I didn’t even notice this hallway in the back here,” Matt said, nervously. “I suppose that’s the point. All the way in the back away from the tables… That’d be a nice quiet place to—”

“Shut up,” the other one said as he opened the door to the back office.

“This back office is completely hidden. Must be the lighting, can’t find my place around here with the lighting.”

“As drunk as you are, Mr. Debris,” a voice behind the desk began, “I’m surprised you found your way around with all the lights on.” The chair turned and an old man with a thin mustache got up from it and laid down a ball-peen hammer on the desk. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Debris?”

“Yes, Mr. G.”

“Please,” the old man said with a sinister smile, “call me Eddie. After all I knew your father. Do you know why my employees here brought you to this room?” Matt held on to his cash, some of which fell to the ground.

“To congratulate me on such a lucky streak?”

“You can say that.”

“This is some office you’ve got here, Mr. G—erm, I mean Eddie.”

“It’s nothing fancy but I get a lot of work done here. I can see you’ve been rather busy and—how did you put it? Ah, yes, ‘on a lucky streak.’ But like I said: I get a LOT of work done here” Mr. G nodded to the two guards who wrestled Matt rather easily to the desk. They pinned him down face first with his arms outstretched. Mr. G plucked the Bluetooth device from Matt’s ear.

“Did you not think we would notice you counting cards?” Mr. G said. “I’ll admit that it was a tough catch at first and to do it as drunk as you are is quite impressive. I’d shake your hand but to count cards in my house. In MY HOUSE!”

Matt squirmed but the bodyguards held him firmly in place. Mr. G continued.

“You see you got as sloppy as you got greedy towards the end. If you had left an hour earlier, I would have let you go and thought, ‘That was one helluva streak.’ But it’s never enough with you. You got that from your father. You see, he never knew when to quit either and it got him in trouble with people much scarier than me.”

Mr. G took the Bluetooth device and put it in his own ear, tapping at it to make sure it was still on.

“Why are you putting that thing in your ear? It’s not even mine! It belongs to a friend, I swear!”

“I know it does. You see, low-life cons like you usually work on your own but for you to get that much money from me and almost get away with it means you were working with someone else. Now let’s see who this someone else is.” Mr. G tapped at the device in his ear before telephoning the guard. “You have that guy’s phone? Yeah, dial the last number for me.” A few moments passed and the line was ringing. “Hello? Is this Matt’s friend?”

Just then a high-pitched screech emitted from the device and it brought Mr. G to his knees. Matt attempted to wrestle away but the guards still pinned him down. The guards in the front door who dialed on Matt’s phone saw the phone buzzing uncontrollably. It started beeping quickly before suddenly turning off all the power in the building. The guards dropped the phone which exploded and knocked them out. The patrons cleared the club and the gambling hall in a panic.

Matt was still pinned down by the two guards on the table. Mr. G got back to his feet and turned on a battery powered lamp he had in case of emergencies. Blood was dripping from his ears as he pulled the device out, threw it on the ground and crushed it under his feet.

“Do you think that’s funny? Do you know who you’re messing with?!”

“Do you?” Matt asked as the guard closest to the door was pulled into the shadows, knocked unconscious. The other guard was nervous and let go of Matt. A shadowy figure bolted straight for the guard and knocked him out cold with a single punch. Mr. G grabbed Matt and put a gun to his head, putting Matt between him and the shadowy figure. Mr. G didn’t see it coming but a flying projectile knocked the gun out of his hand and before the gun hit the floor a single punch across his chin from the shadowy figure was the last thing he felt before he fell to the ground.

The mystery hero brought Matt to the adjacent buildings rooftop where he patched up Matt’s wounds. Matt looked as the police swarmed the area and took the guards and Mr. G into custody.

“I thought my father was making you up until you asked me to help you out with this.”

“This was just one of many to take down.”

“You’re going to ask me to do this again? Because I don’t think I can. Things got intense in there.”

“No. Your debt to me, to this city, is paid in full as far as I’m concerned. You did good describing everything (the layout, the guards’ positions) discreetly. But if I catch you in a place like this again without my knowledge I will not hesitate to treat you the same way I did Mr. G.”

“I totally understand,” Matt said to himself as he rubbed the hand that Mr. G nearly pulverized with a ball-peen hammer. “And by the way… Thanks for saving me. Thanks for everything.” There was no response. Matt turned to find the shadowy figure had disappeared.

“Now,” Matt said to himself. “How the hell do I get down from here?”

Perchance to Dream

The thing about death is that it’s sort of like living in that nobody tells you what to do once you’ve started the process. It doesn’t hurt as much as you might think. After all, it’s life that hurts and it’s life that kills you. I know it killed me. Well, if you want to get technical I killed myself; the details of which I’ll get to later. I specifically remember being out breath and cold knowing I was dead but not completely sure until I got my bearings and realized I was nowhere. It was as if I was walking on solid ground but there was nothing underneath my feet like I was floating in a sea of white nothingness. Fear would usually be the first thing that would come into someone’s mind but really I was more confused than anything. I wasn’t exactly religious or atheist so I was unsure what to expect after ending my own life but knew that where I ended up was the opposite of what conventional knowledge of the afterlife should have been.

“You’re in purgatory if you’re wondering,” a woman’s voice answered from behind me. I turned around and saw a beautiful woman with red hair that came just past her shoulders. She seemed familiar and as I strained to remember who she was I fell to my knees. A man helped me up and I looked around to find the red haired woman only to see that I was alone with this mysterious stranger.

“I guess you’re not quite ready yet,” the stranger said. He was tall, skinny, and relatively young. He wore a long coat, a nice suit with a handsome tie, and carried around a walking cane though it looked like he didn’t need one.

“Ready for what?” I asked. “Where is--? Who was that redhead?”

“I’m in no position to tell you who she is. Though technically it was me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Usually it makes my job easier to take on the form of someone you’re familiar with. Ah, I’ve said too much already.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“Before I answer that, do you know who you are?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“And you know where you are?”

“I think so. I thought the afterlife would have a little more going to be honest. Are you an angel?”

“Not quite. So how did you end up here?”

“I grew impatient so I got here on my own.”

“Ah, a suicide. Okay. Well this is purgatory and I’m Death.”

“Death?”

“Death. The Grim Reaper. Thanatos. Some people confuse me for Charon but that’s not me. He’s a greedy one, that guy. I mean what would he do with all that ferry money?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer so I just flashed him a look of confusion.

“Right. Shall we get going?”

“Where?”

“Wherever it is you need to carry out your afterlife. Purgatory is more of a waiting room and the fact that you committed suicide sent you straight there. So here I am to pick you up and take you where you need to go.”

“And where is it that I need to go?”

“Either heaven or hell. Eventually. The thing is it seems there are details of your life and death that are missing which means you’ve got some unresolved issues. There’s only one place I can take you.”

“And you’re not going to tell me.”

“I could tell you but that tends to distract people. And until we reach your destination, I’m going to need your full attention. Is that understood?” he asked as he reached his hand out towards me. I was unsure if this Death was someone I could trust. For all I knew he was some demon luring me to hell for some sordid plan to break out of perdition. But I would rather be anywhere than the solitude of purgatory so I grabbed his hand. He held it tightly and we walked in the same direction until the white nothingness of purgatory whorled into the dark shadows of our first stop.

Purgatory was lonely and quiet but there was a different sort of loneliness and quiet in this shadowy place. Despair clung to the air. I could literally feel it in the air like humidity weighing me down but Death grabbed my arm firmly and made sure I didn’t relent to the hopelessness. The ground on my feet was smooth like rock worn by a glacier and almost invited me to take a seat and rest. Death assured me that that was the last thing I wanted to do in this place.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Hell?”

“Do you see all those people?” he asked as he pointed to what looked like a melting mountain. It was, in fact, countless souls melded into the mountain itself. They wailed and screamed for help, each one alone for what I could only imagine is all of eternity. “The atmosphere here drags you down with them tempting you to take a rest from this road which is the only way through. Once you let yourself fall to your knees (and that’s the key, ‘letting yourself’), once you make that decision to give up even for a second then this place consumes you and you become a part of it. So come on! Get up! You’re not meant to stay here without finding those missing memories.” He grabbed my arm and yanked it up. It was only then that I realized my knees nearly hit the ground. I pulled myself up and held onto Death’s arm as he marched on up the road.

As we neared the exit of hell I noticed two figures in the distance beckoning to me. While all other souls resembled their living selves, these two were merely silhouettes: one a man and the other a woman. The man seemed vaguely similar and the other was clearly that of the woman whose form Death took just moment before. She stood there looking up at me from the lowest level that my eyes could see, the man trying to pull her back by her hand just as Death was pulling me away.

“Who is that?” I asked him.

“Who is who?”

“Those shadowy figures. They seem to know me, and I think I might know them.”

“I hope you never find yourself in this plane of existence again but if you do, you should be wary of beings made of shadows.”

“Why? What are they?”

“It could be any number of things. Shadows tend to look different to anyone who has seen them here. The devil has been known to take the form of shadow beings. It could be this place attempting to lure you here permanently. Sometimes it’s the image of your hate, your despair. If there’s someone or something you hate enough, you might see them here. But it won’t really be them. Come. We’ve got to get out of here.”

There was a stone threshold in the middle of the path that just seemed to be there but as soon as we crossed it the world around us melted. The darkness and the loneliness billowed into a soft mist and the atmosphere seemed to glow with pure white light. In the distance was a wall made of some material that resembled gold but was practically transparent the farther away you were from it.

“It’s a bit more difficult to get in here so this will be a short trip. There isn’t exactly a scenic route through heaven.”

“This is heaven?”

“The one and only.”

“I don’t understand. We were in purgatory and to get to heaven we literally had to go through hell?”

“Try not to think of traveling though these planes of existence like traveling from one town to another. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“How can I put this so you can understand this? First of all, the only way you can travel from one place to another is with me. That’s the main reason for my existence. And there’s an order to these things according to each individual.”

“You have to go from purgatory to hell to heaven before we can get to where I need to go?”

“It’s certain parts of hell from a specific part of purgatory to a certain distance from the gates of heaven and that’s specific for this situation for this individual.”

“That seems confusing.”

“I imagine it is to anyone other than me.”

“It makes me appreciate things a little better though. That path put things into perspective in a way.”

“That’s good.”

“Sometimes I have to go through hell to admire heaven from the outside.”

“We’re nearly there.” Death took my arm with one hand and tapped his cane at what seemed to me a random pattern on the ground. In a blink I found that we had been transported into a small apartment which I quickly recalled was my own when I was living. It seemed time moved differently when you’re dead as it appeared that not enough time had passed for anyone to discover my body quite yet.

“What did you mean ‘missing memories,’ Death?” I asked, not sure what to be looking for in my cluttered apartment. “In hell, you told me that I wasn’t meant to stay there without my missing memories.”

“I meant you’re not to stay in any afterlife plane of existence without your missing memories,” he answered.

“But what missing memories?”

“When you killed yourself you were likely in quite a bit of pain: mentally, spiritually, and possibly physically as well. That can cause you to lose bits of your memory. And you can’t stay in the afterlife without all your memories intact, especially the big ones.”

“How am I supposed to know what I’m supposed to remember?”

“Typically, it’s whatever caused you the most pain just before you died. For some suicides the one memory they forget is their motivation for ending their life.”

“I guess I should start looking, then.” I rummaged through my closet and my desk and found an envelope from my office. It was empty and I searched the waste bin and found a letter torn in half informing me that my services were no longer needed. “I was fired. Could this be it? I mean, I didn’t really like my job but really I think it was the only thing I was living for.”

“If you’re questioning it, than it isn’t exactly the memory you’re looking for. Though you did forget it so it could very well mean you’re on the right track. Keep looking. You should feel a physical connection to clues that can lead you to the memory.” I don’t think he was allowed to help me because he did seem like he wanted to. Instead he just sat at the bed waiting for me.

“I still can’t believe I went through with it this time around.”

“Something must have really put you over the edge.”

“I guess so. I mean I’ve attempted this several times before. I would always chicken out at the last minute and end up crying myself to sleep. Then I’d refuse to get out of bed for a week. It’s really awful.”

“Didn’t you have anyone you could talk to?”

“Not really. I was always told that suicide was a coward’s way out; that it’s a selfish thing to do.”

“Ha,” Death scoffed. “I have dealt with many suicides in my time and I can assure that there’s nothing cowardly or selfish about it. Putting that kind of label on it is as silly as calling it a sin or declaring that it’s against the law. That’s a horrible deterrent.”

“So you don’t see suicide as a selfish act?”

“Not too long ago I took a middle aged man to find his missing memories and you know what he found out? He was running his own company and had a beautiful family. But his wife was dying of cancer, his daughter had just graduated college and gotten pregnant, and his company went under all within the span of six months.”

“That’s terrible.”

“He couldn’t find enough financial help from anywhere and realized that his life insurance would be enough to take care of his family. It’s a temporary somewhat short-sighted solution to be sure but there is no way you can convince me that that was a selfish thing to do. What about soldiers who actively put themselves in the way of a bullet to save a colleague or a civilian in a crossfire? Honestly, you humans amaze me and I admire all of your accomplishments but some of your stigmas are so stupid.

“That’s not to say that there aren’t any selfish suicides out there. But to call someone who clearly has felt their usefulness on the planet had been used up and feels like they’re living on borrowed time selfish can only come from the most ignorant of people. People like you aren’t driven to kill themselves because they’re weak. They kill themselves because they have struggled to stay strong for far too long without help.”

Just as he finished that last sentence I was set to search my coat hanging by my bedroom door when a searing pain burned through my hand. The pain was blinding and knocked me to my knees. Death slowly stood up as if he was readying himself to leave.

“Get up,” Death said. His voice was stern yet calm. “It seems you’re nearly there.”

“What’s happening?”

“Something in that coat is a key to the end of this journey.”

“But it hurts.”

“It hurts because you don’t want to let go of this life. But this life is over. You’ve seen heaven and literally went through hell to get to this point. Whatever is causing you pain is only still doing so because a part of you is allowing it.”

I reached into the left outside pocket and found a wallet to thin and empty for any mugger or thief to really care much about. I opened it and a photograph fell out. It was a picture of me with the redheaded woman and a man who I recognized as the other shadowy figure in perdition.

“Who’s on the picture?”

“This is me. And I don’t know why I couldn’t recognize him before but that’s my best friend. He was also in hell—well, his shadow was anyway. And this woman—Oh, my God… That’s my girlfriend. Why didn’t I recognize her when you took her form?”

“You’re going to have to figure out the rest on your own. I can’t help you until you have it all put together. I’m sorry.”

My ring finger on my left hand started to burn. A black mark began to sear itself onto my skin when I accidentally touched the coat one more time. I looked at Death and he still had no expression on his face; no sympathy or sadness. He just waited patiently for me and didn’t rush me along. I reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a small red box. I didn’t have to open it to know what it was but I did anyway. The sparkle in the diamond almost sang to me and my memories flooded back to me. I looked back at the bathroom and stared at my corpse in pity when I realized what had happened.

Her name was Laura and we met in college. We had been friends for about two years before we started dating. My friend’s name was Jake and I had known him since high school. We lost touch when we went to different colleges but ran into each other a few weeks ago when we were interviewing for the same position. I had lost the job to Jake but I didn’t mind at the time. I took a job someplace else, not exactly what I went to school for but it paid the bills. That is, it did pay the bills until I got fired. That was a bad week and I went to talk to Laura and it was at that night that I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. My only impulse buy was that ring. I ran back to her place to surprise her but saw her and Jake through her bedroom window. I made my way back to the apartment and finally ended it.

“Your story is complete,” Death mentioned as he stood by the door.

“I suppose you’re right. That’s rather morbid. If I could do it all over—”

“You’d just be torturing yourself. It doesn’t do anyone any good to dwell in the past. Especially dead folk like you. That’s how things get haunted but that’s someone else’s story.”

With that Death took my hand and as I opened the doorway I saw that it wasn’t the hallway on the other side but my final destination. I’m afraid I can’t say where I ended up; Death’s policy and all that. But they do let me visit that living plane of existence from time to time. Maybe it’s because I used to be among the living and I visit to satiate my sudden bouts of nostalgia but I really do miss being alive. However, all that suffering makes me think that the living plane is a lovely place to visit but a rotten place for a permanent destination.

A Prayer for Spencer Drummond

The beginning of this story takes place at the victory party of Spencer Drummond who had just won a seat on the city council. The press heralded him as a champion of education and a strong advocate for local businesses. As was expected there were many reporters and cameras to capture his acceptance speech teeming with optimism and well-wishes for his opponents for a hard fought campaign. Even though he was a seasoned politician for his age (at just under the age of forty), he remained remarkably enthusiastic to take office. Because the media attention was so prominently following Councilman Drummond that evening, Cassandra Brady was naturally following Councilman Drummond.

Cassandra Brady was a young woman in her mid-twenties, attractive (though not conventionally so), and had recently taken a new direction in her life, the kind of direction one takes when finding oneself at rock bottom. At first, Cassandra joined the church seeking spiritual fulfillment after having graduated college with little more than a piece of paper saying she had graduated college. She formed a small prayer group that later became an offshoot of her local church called The Crusaders of Light to bring awareness to issues of religion and state. Cassandra realized that all her faith needed to be bolstered is constant dedication in following the light, which she found was closely related to the public limelight.

Spencer made his way to the stage where flashes of light and falling balloons and confetti welcomed him to the podium. He took to the microphone and made his victory speech with his family close by his side. The festivities continue as he stepped off the stage, shaking hands with congratulatory colleagues and sycophants alike. The Drummond campaign manager guided Spencer to a seating area just behind the stage where he would meet with press and mingle with citizens shortly after. Cassandra was not one for patience and decided to storm the first interview.

“Councilman Drummond!” She waved from behind the first reporter. Spencer just smiled and waved. His attention was still with the interviewer but that did not deter Cassandra who summoned the rest of the Crusaders of Light behind her. While it took more effort than it should have, the first interview was over and the Crusaders decided to charge at Spencer.

“You are a tenacious group!” Spencer said as he hid his annoyance with a politician’s smile.

“That we are,” Cassandra responded, “Congratulations, Councilman Drummond!”

“Thank you, Miss--”

“Brady. I’m Cassandra Brady but you can call me Cassandra.”

“Thank you, Cassandra; I appreciate you and your friends’ vote.”

“That’s just it, Councilman. We didn’t vote for you.”

“You didn’t? I don’t understand.” Spencer looked up and saw that his campaign manager was on his way to getting security.

“I, along with my good friends here, represent the Crusaders of Light. We’re here to ask you one simple question.”

“And what would that be?” Spencer’s eye would dart back and forth between meeting Cassandra’s eyes and looking at the approaching security guards.

“What do you have against God?”

“If you are referring to my stance on education, I assure you that that is not going to affect my time in office.”

“But it already has.” Cassandra now spoke with more confidence as she could sense the camera’s turning towards her and the rest of the Crusaders. “In your time as school superintendent you made a concerted effort to take God away from the children.”

“My intent was not to take God away from anyone, just to ensure that there was no misinformation being taught in classrooms. It just so happened that the purveyors of said misinformation did so under the guise of religion.”

“The Crusaders discovered that you would consider yourself an atheist, is that right?”

“Not that it should matter, but yes I am. I have nothing against people who do worship, such as you fine people. Now if you will excuse me.”

Spencer was dragged through the crowd of Crusaders by his campaign manager who signaled for security to escort the group out of the building. All of them, including Cassandra, held their hands and not-so-quietly prayed for Spencer Drummond as security guards herded them towards the exit.  Before completely exiting, Cassandra poked her head through the doors and yelled out to the newly elected Councilman.

“We’ll pray for you, Councilman Drummond! The Crusaders of Light will pray that you find God!”

Cassandra and her Crusaders would show up for every council meeting that was attended by Spencer Drummond in the first year of his term. They would not be disruptive but they were every bit as distracting particular to the few viewers watching on public access television. It was assumed that Cassandra found more important things to do after that first year since she would only be seen when the more popular news stations would be present to cover more controversial measures that were brought to council. To a passing observer, it would seem that a high quality camera improved the level of prayer for the Crusaders of Light as they prayed in larger numbers when higher quality cameras were present near Councilman Drummond and his family.

“Why don’t you just ask them politely to leave you alone?” Spencer’s wife, Jennifer, asked at the dinner table one night.

“Because they’re free to believe what they believe, worship who they worship, and are protected under free speech to do so as they are, that is to say in a peaceful and orderly manner.” Spencer answered. The words were those of a politician but the tone was that of an exasperated man staving off the urge to forgo diplomacy with Cassandra using a nine iron.

“It’s ridiculous that’s all. Don’t they know that you married a Christian? And to top it off, I used to go to the same church as Cassandra before she started this Crusaders nonsense. She’s the goddaughter of the woman that used to run the bake sale.”

“Did you say ‘used to?’”

“Poor thing was interviewed shortly after that debacle at your victory speech. She couldn’t stand being painted in a negative light, being connected to Cassandra in such a way.”

“Cassandra or any of her followers haven’t been harassing you in anyway, have they?”

“No. They’re more of an annoyance than anything. The few times I had run into them, they’ve been altogether nice if it wasn’t for the implication that you’re somehow morally bankrupt on account of your atheism.”

Spencer scoffed.

“Now, don’t scoff Spencer. I’m insulted that they would think such things about you.”

“I’m sure this thing will work itself out. We’ve already seen them ease up on their approach since the media calmed down from that first time I met Cassandra.”

The phone rang and Spencer went to answer it. Jennifer saw a subtle smile crawl across her husband’s face before he hung up.

“Who was that?” Jennifer asked.

“I’ve got good news and bad news from my campaign manager,” Spencer replied.

“What’s the bad news?”

“It doesn’t look like we’ve seen the last of Cassandra.”

“And the good news?”

“It seems I might be able to run for mayor when my term on the city council is up. The numbers look to be going in my favor.”

Jennifer was unsure how to respond to the news. She was happy for her husband but was wary of the business of politics and the attention that came with it; particularly from the overzealous. It would be some years before Spencer was sworn in as Mayor of the city but it seems the election reinvigorated Cassandra’s movement. It had gotten to the point where the media themselves grew tiresome of the farce that was the Crusaders of Light. They prayed by candlelight vigil, which was in of itself strange as the ceremony was held in the morning. And just in case their message was not clear enough, some members of the prayer group held up signs declaring they were saving Spencer Drummond’s soul.

Whenever Cassandra would lead a prayer, it was sure to be louder than the last prayer to make sure the press got every blessed word that came from their mouths. Some of the Crusaders would camp out by city hall, follow Mayor Drummond to town meetings, and on one occasion held night long vigils outside of his house. It was at that point that Jennifer decided to draw a line that would end when Spencer would leave the office.

“Our house and our personal lives may have been thrust in the public eye but that in no way condones anyone to encroach upon our privacy,” Jennifer said tearfully to a news reporter. Having heard Jennifer’s relation with her godmother, Cassandra forbade any Crusader to go near the Drummond household.

However Cassandra made her presence known to the community whenever Mayor Drummond signed a publicized ordinance, gave away a key to the city, praised a local hero from coming home from the war, and even on the last day of his term when Spencer declared he was done with politics. Other than the exhaustive efforts of Cassandra and her Crusaders of light, Spencer was quoted to saying that he was ending his political career to “do some good.” A reporter asked if that meant that Spencer didn’t feel as if his time was well spent. Spencer simply responded, “There comes a point when you realize that it’s easier for an ordinary citizen to do more for a community than any person in power ever could. I have chosen to become an ordinary citizen.”

Some reporters speculated that the reason Spencer Drummond had retired from political life was due to the fact that Jennifer was pregnant. Whether that was true neither would confirm as they scarcely talked to reporters once the new mayor was sworn in. As was expected, the Crusaders of Light became no more than a novelty that few remembered once the limelight was nowhere near the Drummond family. Spencer and Jennifer ended up running a modest used bookstore on the edge of the suburb where they first met, not far from the city. The lovely Drummond couple ended up having two children, one boy and one girl. The girl would grow up and become a doctor while the boy became an author of high repute making his name in historical non-fiction novels and the occasional children’s book.

The city decided to present Spencer with an award on his eighty-fifth birthday commemorating his service to the public both as a member of the council and mayor. There was little media attention to be found but enough to draw Cassandra Brady out of hiding who camped outside the ceremony with the few Crusaders of Light who still remained. They prayed just as loudly showing how adept Cassandra was at finding the center of attention even when locked on the outside of the room where all the attention was focused. There would only be one more time the Drummonds would see or hear from Cassandra some years later.

Were Jennifer younger than she was, she would be infuriated at seeing Cassandra show up outside of the hospital where an ailing Spencer was being cared for. Instead, Jennifer could not feel anything but pity for Cassandra who spent the majority of her life praying away for a cause that only a handful of people felt worth fighting for. Time had not been kind to the aging Cassandra as she had not spent hers very wisely. Her voice was hoarse, it seems, from praying one last time for Spencer to find a god who he did not believe in.

“I pray that you find God and that God forgives you for your life of sin, Spencer Drummond!” Cassandra can be heard yelling from outside the hospital.

“She’s still going on, Spencer,” Jennifer said to her dying husband. “I feel bad that she wasted her life with such harmful tunnel vision.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t believe in God,” Spencer replied, “If I did, I would have to tell Him that if He was in ever need of a good public relations manager, it would do Him good to put Cassandra Brady on the bottom of that list.”

Spencer passed away later that night. He was surrounded by his closest friends and both his children came to visit with their own families. Those that were there say he went peacefully. While he was indeed an atheist until he breathed his last breath, he let his church-going wife say a short prayer when he finally died.  Because it had been years since the Drummond family was in the spotlight, only one or two local news teams covered his passing. And when all the lights and cameras and reporters had gone so had Cassandra Brady who no one heard from again after that night.