Convergence--Excerpt of Ch. 1

Chapter 1: The Great Slapping

William McEwen was not exactly feeling like himself. This is a common side effect that accompanies human involvement in a delayed wave-function collapse as defined by quantum physics. That is, it would be a common side effect if delays in the collapsing of wave functions involving humans were all that common. Luckily for most people they are not common. But, for William McEwen the common side effect of the uncommon event had him feeling a bit off.

Most people would feel a bit off in his situation, probably, because no more than twenty seconds earlier he had been sitting in his cubicle on the fourth floor of the Bangerter Rampton State Government Building in Salt Lake City, Utah minding his own business. If he were being honest, he had merely been trying to look like he was minding his own business in an I’m-working-hard sort of way. What he had actually been doing was daydreaming, and his daydream involved him doing something—anything—other than sitting in a cubicle.

Because of the daydreaming he was not sure exactly when or how it had happened, but for the last twenty seconds, or so, he had gone from sitting in his cubicle allegedly minding his own business to just standing there. The just standing part was interesting to him, because he didn’t remember getting up from his seat. But, the there part of just standing there is what had William feeling a bit off, because there was a whole new place altogether. There was a grassy knoll on his grandfather’s farm in Scotland.

This presented an interesting problem for William because William did not have any grandfathers that owned farms in Scotland.

Wait.

On second thought, maybe he did have. Yes, he certainly did have. He didn’t have twenty-three seconds ago, but now he did have. His mind recoiled at the utter confusion of it. After all, William doesn’t usually suddenly have Scottish grandfathers.

William noticed another interesting problem: he now—along with a new “granda”—was the confused owner of two complete sets of memories. Sixty-eight years of memories in total—two sets of thirty-four. Equally clear, equally detailed, equally full of persons, places, and things, but utterly separate memories.

He clearly remembered, for instance, his life in Salt Lake City, Utah. He remembered daydreaming in his cubicle twenty-six seconds ago, although he no longer remembered what non-cubicle-sitting activity the daydream was about. He remembered his lovely wife; Virginia was her name—Ginny for short. He remembered his four children—two boys and two girls. He remembered his home on the corner of Christos and Stern.

He also remembered his wife and two daughters—not the same wife and daughters, but a different lovely woman and two other girls—who were at that moment running toward him on the knoll. He was also from there. Perth, Scotland. Well, technically, there was a farm somewhere between Strathallan Castle and Crieff, a half-hour’s drive south and west of Perth. But, where he happened to be standing at that moment did not change where he was from, which was, for the last thirty-five seconds, Perth…and Salt Lake City.

He sat down, right there on the knoll. It smelled of grass and dirt and maybe sheep. William attempted to scan the scene, but the beauty of Granda’s knoll was almost overpowering. It was a good thing that he sat himself down before taking it in, because the splendor surrounding him literally took his breath. The involuntary exhale caused by his breath’s sudden, unplanned evacuation forced him to vocalize a sound something like, “Oontpf.” It also made him drool a bit; he wiped the spittle off of his chin with the shoulder of his sleeve.

Again he tried to survey his surroundings to get a sense of where he was suddenly located and what he was suddenly doing. In his confusion, he asked himself a couple of quick, clarifying questions like, where the Sam Hill, and how in the Dickens. He also asked a few general questions like, what the… and how the…. The most shocking revelation from this inquisition was that due to his new set of memories he already knew an uncomfortable number of the answers. He knew indeed, for example, where the Sam Hill. However, the how the…, what the…, and Dickens-related lines of questioning and their derivatives were still items for discovery.

William turned his attention back to his surroundings, Granda’s farm. Thinking that perhaps if he investigated his location he might be able to fill in a what the… or two. He attempted to get his mind around the knoll that he suddenly occupied, in order to formulate a description that might help him analyze his situation. Neither he nor he—the two sets of memories suddenly occupying the same space—was a particularly analytical person, but it seemed like what a smart person would do, and being smart seemed to be smart as well.

Without looking down, he dug his fingers into the grass and wiggled them until they penetrated the thatch and sunk into the nearly black soil. He gripped the grass. Then, with both hands, he pulled tearing chunks of thatch roots and all from the earth. He held them up to his face and inspected the random crisscrossing patterns of the root systems. The scent of the loam was vaguely familiar.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular; maybe he was just attempting to kinesthetically connect himself with this place. Again, he tried to find words to describe the setting, words that would help him comprehend his more-tenuous-than-he-realized place in the universe. A minute-and-a-half ago his life, lifes—with an f—actually, had been comfortably mundane, but now he wasn’t so sure—if he could just find some blasted words!

These words—had they been available to him—are accurate, but they would not have been sufficient: striking, stunning, exquisite, otherworldly, charming, fertile, green. Not the kind of green that William McEwen of Salt Lake City, Utah, was used to, this green was from a completely different color wheel. He really could not describe it, because this particular knoll was all but indescribable.
Unfortunately for his comprehension level, William began to realize that this place was not something one filed a description for, but this was a place to be experienced. He reluctantly stopped trying to find words. Words were not available to him anyway, the knoll being all but indescribable and all.

“Are ya ready, then?” panted the lovely, slightly winded woman, his wife, Tina. Their outing to Granda’s farm was at an end. Granda had long ago passed on, but the family still held the title to the fairly small parcel of land. Granda had scrapped and scraped and scrimped and scrumped and fought legal battles to be able to own that land, they weren’t about to up and sell it. The family leased the parcel to a local conglomerate of barley and cereal farmers, which resulted in a very small monthly stipend that the family split six ways, as there were six remaining blood relatives, eight if his daughters were counted—they weren’t as yet. The family called the stipend, “granda’s meal ticket.” Out of nostalgia they would take an occasional trek to the “homestead,” and that is what William, Tina and the girls were up to today.

“Aye,” he replied to Tina’s inquiry. Half of him was shocked by his fairly thick Scottish accent. William was to himself both familiar and foreign. He was also both an American and a Scot, a Mormon and a member of the Kirk, not a fan of soccer and a fan of football—the European kind of football, which went without saying to half of him.

“Da, you look flummoxed,” said one of the girls. Her name was Kate. The other was Emma. Oddly, these were the same names as his other two, American, daughters, but in reverse birth order. Sure, Kate and Emma were very popular names both in the UK and in the US, but this coincidence felt to him a bit like déjà vu. Actually, trying to reconcile two sets of memories was a lot like déjà vu, an exceptionally lot like brain-wrinkling, vertigo-inducing déjà vu. He shook his head like a boxer trying to clear the cobwebs after a particularly well-connected blow.

“Sumthin’s gone awry,” William mumbled, “I’m not exactly myself.” He stood. He was thinner than half of him remembered, stronger, and maybe shorter. No, not shorter. Whatever the case, he knew that half of him was not in his usual living space. Tina noticed his puzzlement and interpreted it as weariness.

“Are ye ready for the knacker’s yard, Numpty?” Numpty was her pet name for him. It means idiot. In fact, one translation of her question is, are you so tired that you should be made into glue, idiot? From Tina it wasn’t hurtful, at least not to the part of him that knew her. The other part of him didn’t know her, and may have been offended if he had known what knacker or numpty meant.

“Nae. I’m well enough.” He shook his head again, and walked toward the car.



While driving the little family back to their home in Perth, and while fighting the compulsion to move to the right side of the road, William asked Tina, “You ever know anyone in America?”

Tina looked at him, “are you a daftie? Who would I know in America?”

William shrugged, “jus’ curious.”

Tina asked, “How lon’ hae we been married?”

Six years, thought William—two years fewer than he and his American wife’s eight years.
“An’ now ye’re ‘jus’ curious ‘bout who I have stashed away in America, are ye?”

He shrugged again. Tina laughed. To the half of William that was familiar with it, her laugh felt like home. The half not familiar with Tina’s laugh felt the contentment that came to his new set of memories. It sounded a lot like the tinkle of a crystalline bell an octave or so lower, which is a wonderful thing for laughter to sound like. His American self relaxed ever so slightly.

Slightly relaxing allowed William to pay attention to what he was otherwise feeling, and paying attention to what he was otherwise feeling caused William to realize that he had been experiencing quite a lot of stress over the last few minutes. He also noticed that the back of his head hurt at the base just above the neck. He scanned the rest of the body he occupied to see if other areas were feeling the effects. His inventory revealed that his shoulders, neck, back, and calves were flexed tight and that his stomach was knotted. He rolled his head around in a couple of semi-circles in an attempt to loosen the tensing muscles. It seemed to help.

Tina’s laugh had also calmed him a bit, and he was attracted to it in almost the same way that he was attracted to Ginny’s distinctive laughter. All of William smiled. He glanced at Tina. At least that was his intention, to glance, but he found that once he turned his eyes to look at her he couldn’t pull them back, his glance turned into a gaze, just shy of a gawk.

The angle of the setting sun illuminated her auburn hair and bathed her left temple and cheek in dusk’s luminous honey. William was struck by her soft glow, she was cherubic or angelic or heavenly or some other term reserved for describing the divine. Her facial expression was serious, but soft. Her lips’ natural position was a slight pout. Not an angry pout, but the kind that is often employed to cover amusement, which caused William to wonder if she was on the verge of more crystalline laughter. It seemed likely that she would at any moment break that pout into a smirk that could, given time, become a full-fledged smile. And, it also seemed likely that if her smile became full-fledged it would, if applied correctly, melt glaciers. She was beautiful.
He wanted to examine her figure, but remembered that he was looking through the eyes of her husband, or maybe they were his eyes and her husband was the guest. Whatever the case, he thought better of ogling the wife of his new host, or was it ogling his wife while a stranger looked on. It was confusing.

Tina’s eyes were on the road, “stay to the left would ye? I’d like to get home still breathin’, I would.”

William yanked the metallic-blue box he drove back onto the right side of the road, which was, in this case, the left side of the road. Shocked back to reality, such as it was, William realized that he needed a less-consuming distraction to occupy his mind.
“Anyone care take a go at singin’ a Burns tune,” William’s Scottish self suggested to the little family. Although his American self hadn’t the first clue what exactly would constitute a Burns tune, he sensed that the singing of one would sufficiently distract him from his growing uncertainty and keep him able to concentrate on driving. Kate, the oldest of his Scottish daughters led out from the back seat with a strong and charming five-year-old voice. The others, including little Emma, joined in with her by the third or fourth word.

O my love’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my love’s like the melody
That’s sweetly sung in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sand o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only love!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Tho’ ‘twere ten thousand mile!

Staying on the correct side of the road, William McEwen sang every word and every note of a song that half of him had never heard. As he did so, he tried not to panic as he drove one of his cars containing one of his families to one of his homes.

Just Go Now

The sound woke Horace up, though he didn’t quite know it. It felt more like something very large had been dropped on him from very high up. He laid in bed feeling like his whole chest had just been crushed. He lay with his eyes wide open, the small cabin room coming to him blue in the darkness. It was a cold night, even though it was mid spring, which wouldn’t be good for the newly planted wheat crops. A scarce crop meant scarce work for a miller, which he was. But he wasn’t thinking about the wheat crops. He was thinking about the sound that woke him up. Was it a sound? He put his feet on the cold wood floor, and quietly sat up. Next to him his wife slept soundly. He stood, and lifted his rifle from where it hung on the wall, just high enough that the boys couldn’t get it until they were old enough to use it-- which, when they were, he’d be sure they did. Good boys both of them. And though they were still young, 11 and 9, he taught them to work. They worked beside him in the mill, fetching things for him, and watching him crush the wheat with his millstone. He taught them too. Showed them the smoothness of the millstone. Taught them precision and tried to imbue them with a sense of pride in the work of their hands. They worked plenty around the yard and house too. They helped plant and tend the large gardens and fed animals. They ran themselves ragged fetching water from the spring to the house and cleaning barns and stables. Augie, almost 12 now, was getting close to that age where he should start learning how to chop wood and use a gun. But he was such a thin boy and so shaky-handed that when he’d put the axe or the gun in his hand, it sent Augie’s knees to shaking, and his arms quivered and bowed all over. So he’d taken them back quickly and let the boy go on to do his chores and play in the barn and along the endless open land that spread around their farm. Nathaniel on the other hand, was only 9, but strong as a bull. He had a thick body on him since he was a baby. He had a bull’s head too, unswayable if he put his will to a task. He’d get in his head that he wanted to carry two buckets of water from the spring to the house like dad and he’d drag and drag them up the grassy hill, sweat beading all over his soft face. His wispy blond hair would get thick and wet and stick to his forehead.
They were good boys and he found a joy in them that he hadn’t found in any others he’d ever worked with, or known, not even their mother. He’d found a different joy in her. A joy that seemed to change year to year, season to season, day to day as they changed. A change so gradual and so natural that he didn’t see it, only felt it. The way that they’d come into each other and had stood next to each other and held each other up through work and storms and long days and short nights and cold and hot and the peak of sorrow twice, as two babies were born still. That woman who he’d held as she wept over their tiny bodies that he’d put in the ground up the hill, which had become a holy place. The woman who had held him, worked next to him and laughed with him in that wide-open empty land. His help-meet, her help-meet. The wonder and weirdness of creating three out of two, and then a fourth--children, and the weirdness and wonder of growing all of them up together in this place.
With his legs under him he felt the fatigue of the previous day. He rocked a moment with the cold stock of the gun in his hand. Then he looked at his wife sleeping without a care one more time, still feeling that slice of panic in his guts. He opened their bedroom door, and walked quietly on bare feet over cold wood out into the great room where they ate and sat at night. The fire was cold in its place. It was late. Over to one side was the kitchen, with its cold black stove. Off to the other side was the door to the boys’ room. He walked quiet as he could over the creaking boards. The house of his labor that he’d built himself seemed uneasy around him in the dark blue of the night. His arms felt heavy but as he stepped and stepped again he began to relax. Nothing here, nothing out here so far away from anyone else. I just had a bad dream he told himself. I’ll just step outside to make sure, so I’ll be able to sleep easy again. So he went to the door at the front of the house, and pushed it open with the nose of his gun. It swung easy. The latch wasn’t latched. The panic in his stomach came back, like a brick of ice in his belly, melting and steaming. Did he forget to latch it? Maybe the wind took it and that’s what woke him. He poked his head out the door looking into the moonlit night. His springhouse stood dark just down the hill, and his mill sat just beyond. The cool wind pushed against the door and he let go of his gun with one hand to hold it open.
A hand came from behind, crashing down on the hand still holding the gun, sending it to the floor with a thud. Another arm, wrapped around his neck from behind, and the dull moon-glint from the blade of a knife caught his eye. He swung a hand up in time to deflect the knife in time, and dropped to the ground, spinning and rearing his legs up ready to kick. The man with the knife jumped back.
For a long moment, one that seemed to last forever, Horace didn’t know what to do. The man was tall, thin and wiry. He had long arms and tousled dark hair. His face was dark in the night, but Horace could see it was dirty and the man had a patchy beard. The man’s eyes were large dark coals that glowed white-almost in the sickly moonlight. Horace slowly stood, rolling onto his feet in a squat and then raising up. The man with the knife stood still, perched like a cat ready to spring, expressionless. Before Horace could say anything, the man moved forward again--slowly, toward the gun. The man’s eyes flitted toward the boys’ door. The ice and steam and all of his twisted up insides lurched when Horace saw those dark eyes move, even briefly, toward that door. He saw in those eyes danger and knowledge. He saw in those eyes two more mounds at the top of that hill. Fear and rage burned in his head, and tears blurred his eyes.
Horace pounced toward the gun, but he didn’t bend down for it. Instead he went for the man, using his bare foot to stomp at his arm as it extended down to pick up the gun. The man dropped the knife, yelping and clutching his stomped on arm. Before the man could finish the cry Horace had him around the head, holding his strong hand over the stranger’s mouth. His other arm hooked around the stranger’s back, and up toward his neck. Horace could see his fingers digging into the stranger’s face, and pushed harder, and harder trying to hold this man’s mouth so he couldn’t bite down. The man’s eyes bulged from his face, and he flailed in Horace’s grip, beating against his back, and shoulders; kicking Horace in the shins with his boots. Fear and rage burned in Horace like a bellows. He pushed the man to the floor pounding his head on ground. The man’s eyes lolled and he went limp for a moment in a daze. Horace loosened his grip—his stomach hurt so bad. When he let up, the man wriggled and slipped out from under him like a snake sliding sideways. And now the panic in the man’s eyes was replaced by murderous rage. And he came in every direction at Horace with booted feet kicking at him and his white clenched hands shivering and stabbing. The man’s mouth was open wide and his tongue curled inside. Horace saw his teeth like fence posts in shallow soft ground, leaning into each other. He got his arms up, and rolled to his back as the man got to him. He curled up his naked legs and tried to find purchase on the stranger’s stomach or chest to push him away, but the stranger was too quick and slender. His fists beat Horace in the face and arms, and the man’s boots found his hips and ribs. Horace rolled away. The man was crazy, and continued to pummel at him. The stranger lolled at him while he rolled and bit into Horace’s back, just under his left shoulder blade. It didn’t sink deep, but it sent a shot of panic into him.
He rolled over onto his back and caught them man by the arm. You just git, he said to the man quietly. You just git on out of here and we’ll have nothing else to do with each other. The man twitched a bit--thinking maybe. But then Horace saw him pull the knife up. They must have tussled over toward it, and the man smiled. Horace grabbed his wrist and pushed up with his naked feet. The man flew up in the air, but being held by the wrists, he came right back down on Horace, leading with his knee into Horace’s belly. The wind rushed from his lungs and his vision went for a moment. He didn’t know anything except that he had to hold tight, and he tightened his grip till he felt something give.
Horace came back to himself a moment later lying on the floor. The stranger’s knife was lying next to him, but the stranger was up on his feet backing slowly toward the boys’ door. Horace’s throat caught. I’ll tell you one more time he said, you go now and we’ll have no more business. You just go now. But the man said nothing, and backed up slowly toward the door, one arm stretched toward Horace, hand open, the other hand moving back behind him. Horace knew he couldn’t wait any more. He couldn’t let the man move another inch toward that door. The ice melted away and the last burning steam seemed to fill him up. He felt the knot inside him shift and the power of that shift lifted him off the floor. His eyes burned with rage and tears. And in no time he was to the man, pulling him with a hard tug by the shirtfront away from the door. He didn’t say it out loud, but he said to himself, you just go now. You just git and we’ll have no more business. The man squirmed, and loosed his joints and tightened his muscles and flailed like a tent in a gale. But Horace gripped him so tight he felt his fingers become detached from his hands, popped right from their sockets. And He felt them close around the stranger’s throat and he felt them pulse with his racing heart as he squeezed and squeezed, all the while saying behind his teeth you just go now, you just go now. He felt a pop. Not his knuckles, but outside himself. He was on the floor, kneeling on the stranger. He felt the man pop in his throat and then lay limp. His twizzling limbs thumped to the wood of the floor, and he lay still. Horace tried to let go, but his muscles couldn’t loosen up. His tears dropped onto the man’s filthy shirt, and still he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of the man. He couldn’t breath he was so tight all over, until finally he got a breath into his body. A spasm deep down in the instinct part of him that yelled BREATHE you fool. And he filled his lungs and finally let go of the man.
He slumped to the side, onto his backside, and huddled over his knees. Exhaustion, and stupidness made him feel like he’d fallen outside of the world somehow. He sat huddled there forever, the rest of eternity, for a moment. Then the cold air finally brought him back to himself. His hands ached, and his legs were jelly, but he pulled himself up, gripped the stranger by the collar and pulled his body outside the house, out onto the porch. Pulled him down the hill and put his body in the millhouse. Then he went back up the hill, almost crawling from his tiredness. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it.
There in the boys’ door, stood Augie. Fright pulsed through Horace for a second. No, it’s just Augie. It’s just Augie he said to himself. What’s the matter Pa, the boy asked. Horace said nothing, but walked toward the boy as straight and tall as he could until he was next to him. Even as a boy who was about to become a man, Augie seemed so small to him at that moment. So thin, and Horace cupped his head in his aching hand, and ushered the boy back into his room. You hush up or you wake your brother, he whispered gently. The boy climbed back up into his bed. What’s the matter pa he asked again. Horace knelt down by his bed. Nothing he said. Everything’s just fine ok? I just had to check on some work I forgot. All is well, you just go on back to sleep. There will be no slacking tomorrow just because you was up late you hear? I thought I heard you tussling out there. No, said Horace. I just stubbed my toe and was jumping about trying to get the smart out of it. The boy was quiet a minute, and Horace was quiet too, just looking into his son’s eyes. He fought the tremble that threatened to rend him and expose his lies. But then Augie smiled a small shallow smile, and put his hand on his dad’s shoulder. Ok, he said, and rolled over, pulling his blankets up over his shoulders. Horace lingered a minute trying to find the strength to stand. I killed a man tonight he thought. I killed a man and hid his body. I hid him behind my millstone because I was ashamed. Just go now, he thought. Just go now.

Right Ankle

When she was 17 she was in a car accident where her ankle was pinched between two sharp slabs of metal. It cut through flesh and muscle and sinew and shattered the bone, leaving it pinned to the floor of the car. It hung from her leg as they put her on the stretcher and wheeled her into the ambulance. They sewed it and repaired it as best they could and packed it in ice, and gave her morphine. She lay in bed a long time, groggy, unable to find any train of thought. Doctors poked it and she endured several more surgeries. She could feel her leg calling to her foot. Adhere to me. For we are bound as one and alone we are neither. Come back, be mine again. And her foot seemed to respond, distantly through darkness and fog, I am here, but I can’t find you. Her leg called, come to me, and be whole. She felt surges in her ankle, like flailing strings groping and questing out. She felt it ebb and flow toward and back from her. Finally she felt it touch. Two blind fingers touching though a tiny slit in a thick woolen sheet. There you are, and here I am her leg said. I am found her foot said. I am found. And the bone and ligaments and muscles and sinews all seemed to twist around each and melt into single strands.
The ankle became infected shortly after. She imagined it as thick black frothy foam that billowed and surged inside her ankle, swelling it with its rage, pulling at the newly formed bonds with tight fingers. She’s just going to have to fight it off. And if she can’t? Then she may loose the foot. Or possibly the leg at the knee. Her mother was crying. She became hot. Too hot she thought, I’m going to burn to death. But she just kept getting hotter and hotter. Finally, loosing the sweat from her pores till she was slimy and delirious, she slipped into a deep agitated sleep.
She dreamed she was playing softball, running the bases. She rounded second and fell to the dirt hard, skidding her white uniform with loose brown dirt that clouded around her like cocoa powder. Her coach stood above her. You can’t run with only one leg you silly girl. Get back to the dug out; you’re useless to us. Then she was swimming in the ocean. Light sparkled at the crest of the millions of tiny peaks that poked up from the surface of the sea. She felt the sky above her expand away from her into and endless ocean of air. Birds sang and yelled like children playing. The warmth of the air and cool of the water soaked into her skin. The gentle waves rocked her there in the ocean like a baby. The sun began to set and she started swimming for the shore. She swam for a while then looked up to see how far she’d gone. But the beach had vanished. She looked out into the endless ocean. She turned and there was the beach behind her. She swam for it again, but again she looked and there was nothing but the ocean melting into the darkening night. The wind began to blow, and the water became choppy. She tried again and again until a wind tossed gull called out, you’ve only got one arm and one leg, you’re just swimming in circles! In horror she realized the bird was right. Then she was standing at the doors of a church. A white wedding gown flowed down her to the ground. Her family lined the pews, all heads turned to her, eyes moist. Her mother sat near the front crying and smiling. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her father’s arm was gently locked with hers. His strong hand held her near the armpit, and she could smell his familiar scent. Standing at the pulpit was a man, his back toward her. He stood tall and his tuxedo well fitted to his broad shoulders and triangle torso. The music began and her father whispered, it’s time. She tried to step forward, but couldn’t. She tried again, one leg in front of the other, but couldn’t. You’ve only got one leg, her father whispered. You’re going to have to hop. She hopped, and then hopped again. With each hop her leg felt enfeebled. Soon her leg felt like a partially cooked noodle. It bowed and buckled in odd places, mid calf and thigh, and she feared it would snap if she tried to jump again. Her father lifted her and easily carried her to her spot next to the groom. She looked at the man’s face. He smiled so brightly that she couldn’t distinguish his features. She could see sparkling tears in the rims of his eyes. He mouthed I love you, then turned as the minister began the ceremony. We are gathered together today… behind her, though she didn’t look, she could see her mother crying. Her friends brows wrinkled, their hands clasped in front of their hearts. Her father’s smile uncontrollable. She saw her grandmother, who’d been dead for ten years, clapping and laughing. Will you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold in good times and bad? Yes she said. Yes he said. I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride. The music flared, people cheered and the man next to her bent down and kissed her. Her lips went limp before him. He kissed her and his joy became a beacon in the room. She felt nothing. She turned her eyes toward the preacher, who said to her, you’ve got no heart. Numb, she turned her eyes back and stared into the sun of the man’s face and reemerged from her dream cold, her teeth chattering.

The Perfected Man-- rough draft part 1

It was all grass, long but thin wisps of light yellow-green blades blowing in the wind from the jets of their lander. The field was a large square that had begun to encroach out into the ruined buildings at its perimeter. The tendrils of flowing long grass slipped down streets and wrapped around corners, growing up through deep wide cracks in sidewalks and roadways. The buildings slumped, many had crumbled and large stones had tumbled from them, sitting askew with sharp corners jutting up toward the cloudless sky. Thin metal poles stood, bent, out of the crumbling stone and cement of the disused buildings. For endless miles from his perch inside the lander Tom Robleck could see the crumbling bones of an endless city. And then, just below, a single stationary man amid the chaotic sea of writhing golden green grass. He was clothed in only a single flowing robe with a muted cream apron bound about his waist. He stood, arms outstretched, his long hair blowing like the grass, his face up turned.

Behind Tom the pilot and his crew were yelling, as they adjusted for the unexpected gravity. By their calculations from orbit the planet should have had gravity comparable to Earth. However, now they found a much greater force pulled them down toward the empty field. Sudden, unexpected drafts of corkscrew wind made them drop, and then they’d jump, adjusting their thrusters. Every time they had evened out their decent a rogue burst would push them down. The humming of the black metal floor under Tom’s feet rattled his bones and made his skin feel fuzzy. The motion and a pungent odor of fuel vapor had begun to make him feel nauseated and light-headed. He’d put his head between his knees, and clutched the square cushioned seat he sat on. It was in this position that sudden gust had pushed the lander hard right, tipping it to the side so hard that if it hadn’t been for his already fanatic grip on the seat he would have flown out the wide open side of the lander. His head shot up and as the lander leveled off he’d glimpsed something. He thought it was a bright white spot amid the amber and green. His curiosity over took his acidic stomach. He clung to the handrail next to the gaping pod door and peered over the edge. Vertigo gripped him and another sudden drop threatened to throw him out. But he’d seen enough to know it was a man; an expressionless man waiting with unwavering everlasting quietness. Even over the din of the chugging lander engines and howling wind he could sense the silence of the man.
Finally the lander thudded to the ground with finality and a stillness that made his frenzied body’s overloaded senses feel like flames snapping in the wind. His fuzzy feeling fingers and vibrating bones began to calm as he sat in the pod of the lander, everyone else already having jumped to the solid planet surface below. He took a moment to breathe, and then with shaky arms he pulled his sluggish reluctant body up from his seat, and hopped down to the field below. Instantly he found himself immersed in tall, much taller than could have thought possible, grass stalks. The long thin blades batted his face with feathery lightness. It was wet around his ankles, and his whole body was damp from the collected dew. He flailed his arms and tried to twist back toward the pod of the lander. He could see the lip of the lander just above the touch of his fingers, and could touch it if he jumped. But jumping was difficult in the slick wetness of the grass floor. He could hear others in this party shouting, and rustling through the grass.
He lifted his leg as far up as he could and looked down. It was covered with a thin layer of gritty light green liquid. He twisted again to the lander, which now looked like it was even higher up on the grass. He must have fallen into a hole. The grass seemed to be tightening around him, stiffening. His lifted his arms over his head so they wouldn’t be trapped to his side.
Suddenly he realized he couldn’t lift his feet anymore. They began to tingle numb and cold as the wet soaked through his light boots and socks. Pins and needles crept up his legs, eating his ankles and then knees. The light began to be choked by the yellow whipping grass blades, which squeezed tighter around him, drawing him down. He tried to call for help, but his mind couldn’t find his mouth to form the words, or his lungs to push it out. He was numb up to the hips now. The tips of the grass obscured the bright sun above him, swaying above him. The edges of his sight began to blacken and the hole above him suddenly felt like it should have been down, and that he was being pulled up into a thick thatch of soft moist hair, which twisted tighter and tighter around his paralyzed legs. His head reeled, and his sight blurred. What was going on? Where was he? The hole below him became overwhelmingly bright; he had to close his eyes. A spot of brilliant blue lingered in the black of his shut-eyes, burning through his eyelids. He relaxed though and drifted off into bodiless thought.





Then a dark arm reached over the jagged lip of his encasing and a hand took hold of his hand. The grass loosened and he was pulled up into solid ground. He was covered in the green up to his shoulders. He sat coughing for a time, filling his renewed lungs. The grass matted under him.
The man he’d seen standing in the field stood over him atop the grass, the blades barely covering his feet. The man looked down at him, silent. Staring. Expressionless

Winnipeg continued IV

Wait!, if you haven't read the beginning, you should

Winnipeg, the City
part1:
part2:
part3:


We stopped in front of his house. The walks had been cleared of snow, leaving a thick milky sunken path up to his door. We knocked, and waited, watching our breath leave us and vanish into the blackening blue of the evening. A woman opened the door. She stood holding the knob and smiled at us. She opened the outer door and motioned us to come in. From inside we heard loud conversation, laughing and dishes clanking. I thought we’d come to the wrong house, but the look on the woman’s face was welcoming though tired. She was short, I could see over her head as she led us down the narrow hall with the pictures and wood-burned poetry. I could see into the living room, the sagging couch along the opposite wall. The room was full of people milling and talking and eating. The small woman invited us to sit, and asked what she could get for us from the kitchen. Ham? Potatoes, were we allergic to anything?
“No, it all sounds great.”
It was warm, and I tugged my gloves off and began unzipping my coat. Jones unloosed his bag. He pulled the hat off his head, leaving his hair staticy. He looked at me and shrugged. People looked at us out of the corner of their eyes, but nobody spoke to us. Where was Randy? For the first time I saw the room with the lights on. It had an orange warmth inside. Much of the tobacco smell had been masked by scented candles which bounced their light along the yellow papered walls. The magazines had been removed from the coffee table. It had been dusted, and the floors cleaned. The couch shrugged off its shabbiness for a homely feel. The tobacco and cigarette papers were gone.
The woman returned with plates of food for us. She set them down and then sat next to me on the couch.
“There, it’s sort of last minute, but it’s cold out tonight and you both look like you won’t mind if it’s a Safeway ham and instant potatoes.”
“It looks great.” I said. Where was Randy? “Randy didn’t tell us you were having a Super Bowl party,” I said as I scooted forward onto the edge of the couch, and stabbed a tiny bit of potato onto my fork’s tips.
“Well, he didn’t know. Actually, this is all sort of a last minute deal. He told me you were coming over. That he invited you for dinner, and I don’t know where he has hidden your phone number, honestly I can’t find anything out from him anymore. Then thinking of you two walking down here, all the way down here from you apartment and finding an empty house and a long walk home…”
She shook her head and closed her eyes, breathing out of her nose.
“Anyway, let me get you some drinks.”
She stood and walked quickly away, back into the kitchen. I looked at Jones. He looked at me and stuffed a thick pink triangle of ham into his mouth.
“I guess we eat.” He said. And watch the game, I thought. Television is on the list of don’t for missionaries; along with reading secular books, popular music and movies. Jones bounced on his seat like a child, stuffing his mouth with potatoes and nodding. I shook my head, and ate. Where was Randy? I could smell alcohol, but saw none. Some people left, some others came. Most hung around the small dinning area between the kitchen and the living room giving us sidelong glances. The woman was gone a long time.
“Jones, we should probably go as soon as we’re done.”
“It’s cold outside, and it’s the Super Bowl. The Super Bowl.” He dragged out the end of bowl. “No more tracting tonight, no one’s letting us in. And what if Randy shows up? Where is he anyway?”
“Jones…”
The woman came back with two clear plastic cups full of dark bubbly drink. She set them down on the coffee table.
“Sorry to leave you so long.” She said.
“No worries. Is Randy here? He seemed a little out of sorts last night and…”
She held up her hand, cutting me off. She sat with one leg pulled up so she could face me. I sat, twisting at the waist to see her. She pondered. Her hair was thin and cut short to her jaw, a squash yellow. She had a round face, with blue eyes set in thin webbed slits. Wrinkles spread from the corners, and ran along her forehead. Her nose poked out like a tiny soft hook. She must have been in her mid to late fifties. She smiled with thin pink lips.
“Randy’s not going to be around too much for a while. He—I don’t know what to do with him anymore.” He eyes became moist. She jutted her bottom jaw forward. Then closed her eyes and breathed in. When she exhaled she opened her yes and smiled at us. “Thank you.” She reached out for my hand, and I let her take it. Her dry hands rubbed along the skin of my palms. Knobby, early arthritic, fingers wrapped around my hand. “He liked to talk to you. Thank you for listening to him. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know what to do with that boy anymore. When he hurts others or when he hurts himself.” Her eyes closed again, allowing just one streaking tear to escape. Her thin nostrils became red-rimmed as they flared with her breathing.
For a while we sat and I let Jones watch the football game. Gradually the people crowded in closer to us until they were in our midst. We were surrounded, ensconced among this thatch of family and friends who all stared at the television in the corner. Some bounced up and down and yelled and laughed and whistled. Some sat and chatted. Jones melted in.
We walked to Kimberly Avenue where we hopped a bus and slipped into our apartment just before nine.
Elder Jones was transferred the following Wednesday. I saw Randy once more after that, with my new companion Elder Crane. We went to his house, which had turned gray inside, and sat at his ashy table where he talked quietly of Mohammed’s sword and how his mother was torturing him.

(3)Winnipeg continued...

Before you read, here is a link to parts 1 and 2 of the story
part 1:
part 2:



Part 3:

I woke up with the phone in my hands, Jones leaning over my face saying dude.
“What are you doing dude?”
“Randy called, and I fell asleep talking to him.”
Jones loped over to the couch under the window, wrapping his blanket around him, and falling like a dead tree onto the cushions. His black-socked feet poked out the bottom, and his dark fuzzy hair out the top.
“What did he want?”
“He was scared. More than usual.”
Jones laid his discussion book on the floor, opened somewhere in the middle and rested his face on the precipice of the couch, one eye looking down. The discussions were the lessons we taught. Each one contained several principles that built upon the previous discussion. The first discussion is what he had taught to Randy. God, then Christ, then prophets, Joseph Smith and finally the Book of Mormon. At the end of each discussion is a commitment. After the first visit we ask them to read a chapter out of the Book of Mormon. Third Nephi, chapter 11. The discussions were to be memorized, and recited verbatim if possible, allowing the Holy Spirit to prompt us in our teaching. Each missionary found a sort of space and structure that allowed the correct doctrine to be taught and gave place for their own unique speech and personality. I had mine down so that I could teach each discussion in several ways, given certain restrictions, like time or age or degrees of common belief. Jones was still working to memorize his first discussion. I watched his eye become thick, and droopy.
“I think I told him we’d come over today,” I said.
“Anything is better than tracting,” Jones said. “What time?”
“I think he mentioned dinner.”

That evening we picked a short street in the north section of our area. A short J shaped cul de sac called Chernichan drive. We started on the east side of the street, knocking on doors. Each door we went to led to rooms packed with people. Nobody let us in. Halfway around the circle a man asked us why weren’t we home watching the Super Bowl. We didn’t know it was on I said. We left that door thinking it might be worth abandoning our tracting and going straight to Randy’s house, but I said we had to at least finish the street. Besides, we weren’t expected at Randy’s house for at least an hour. It had been a slightly warm day and some of the snow had melted into thick puddles that now formed shiny sheets of thick ice in the gutters. Jones slipped several times and became agitated, cold and quiet.
“Nobody is going to let us in on Super Bowl Sunday. Lets go home,” he said.
I wanted to go home. The cold had gotten into my coat. My ears had become frozen and I felt a heavy tiredness fall upon me. It had taken longer than I thought for us to walk from our apartment to this little street lined with large crammed-in houses. No buses ran where we were, and I couldn’t shake the impending trudge back home, and then down to Randy’s house. We would finish this street.
Three houses from the end all the lights were off. We knocked, and waited. Then as we turned to leave, a car pulled in the driveway and into the garage. A woman jumped out, and yelled from around the corner to hold on, she’d let us in. A moment later several lights popped on in the living room and she opened the front door.
“Come in, come in! It’s cold out,” she said waving her arms in circles toward her. She was tall, in her early forties with long shiny blond hair that she’d twisted up in the back of her head and stabbed with a pen. Her teeth were immaculate, white and large and straight. She wore a thick tan coat and a red scarf, which she peeled off, inviting us to do the same. Underneath she had on dark blue scrubs and a light blue long sleeved under shirt. We loosed our winter coats and Jones pulled the hat off his fuzzy head. I feebly tugged at the fingers of my gloves.
“ok,” she finally said, standing up straight with a bounce and clasping her hands in front of her. “Now, what is this all about.”
I told her.
“That sounds lovely.” She turned, motioning us to follow her into the dining area where we sat at her table.
“How does this work?” she asked.
I pulled my discussions from my bag. I had bound all my discussion booklets into one volume with a fat plastic ring binding. I put a picture of Jesus on the cover and a picture of Joseph Smith’s first vision on the back. I looked at Jones, and he started teaching.
Jones talked about God. She believed in God. I talked about Jesus. She believed in Jesus. Jones talked about the Bible and it’s prophets. She read the Bible and she believed in prophets. Jones paused after this.
“What would you think if there was a prophet in our time? Someone who spoke with God and received revelation.” I asked.
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” she said.
“There is.” I told her about Joseph Smith. I told her of his first vision, quoting from Joseph’s own account, holding the picture on the back of my discussions up so she could see.
“Through this and other experiences Joseph Smith was called to be a prophet, like Moses and Noah and all the other prophets we talked about in the Bible. He saw God.”
I paused, waiting for a response. She sat quietly, with a tired look in her eyes.
“What about wolves in sheep’s clothing,” she asked.
My throat leaped, hoping Jones would take the segue.
“I think that scripture says, ‘by their fruits ye shall know them.’” He said. “One of the fruits brought forth by Joseph Smith was what we call the Book of Mormon. Have you ever seen this book?”
She hadn’t. He handed her the copy we’d been carrying with us all night. It was still cold, and the pages were loud and crisp when she leafed through it.
“This book is a second witness of Jesus Christ. It is the record of the prophets of the people who lived on the American continent during much of the same time as when the Bible was written. Joseph Smith was commanded of God to translated it.”
Jones’ booklet fell off his lap onto the floor. His eyes widened, he looked at me. I smiled at him. He looked back at her.
“There’s a part at the end, Moroni chapter ten…” He rifled through to the end of her book to the correct page.
“It contains a promise,” he continued. “that anyone who reads it, can find out if it is true. He paraphrased from the book, ‘“if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.’ Will you read the Book of Mormon?”
She was quiet a minute. “The whole thing?”
“That’d be great, but for starters we’ve highlighted a chapter in third Nephi that is a good starting point. It is a fulfillment of the prophecy in the Bible when Christ told his apostles, ‘Other sheep I have which are not of this fold. Them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice. And there shall be one fold and one shepherd.”’
I opened the book up to the right page, which had been marked with a card.
She was quiet a minute. “yeah,” she said. Then, “I don’t know why but.” Stopping then starting on a different tack, “I had a really crappy day at work. I just wanted to come home and scream and go to bed, and then I saw you as I pulled up and I thought you were salesmen. But I opened the door and there you were with your red little faces and your nice suits all covered up with those big coats and you looked like you’d had really crappy days at work too. So, I thought I’d let you in. And then all of the sudden I didn’t want to scream any more, and I became completely enveloped in what you were saying. I don’t know if I completely understand what you’re getting at. But I’m interested in giving you guys a shot.”
When we stepped outside we froze again, but walked upright, our bags bouncing with our springy steps. Checking my watch I suddenly realized we were almost late for Randy. We tried to run, but the air felt grating in our lungs. No buses passed us. Inside warm yellow windows people laughed and ate and watched football. We walked as fast as we could, and finally got back to our apartment. We walked past the front of our building and crossed Henderson highway, and barely caught a bus going south. We rode in silence, all alone in the bus, smiling at each other stupidly. I heard Jones’ stomach gurgle twice before mine twanged. We jumped off the bus and headed down the long slick sidewalk to Randy’s house.

the story continues

Convergence Excerpt 1

This is a quick chapter from a story I'm writing. The point of this chapter is to explain a scientific phenomenon that plays heavily in the rest of the story. These characters will likely not be found anywhere else in the story.

Patrick Quinn was chewing up the classroom. He was absolutely feeling it. He always felt this way while teaching Special Subjects in Science at the Metropolitan Community College of Omaha, Nebraska. This course was a survey of what Patrick liked to call physics’ greatest hits. He loved it, even if he barely grasped certain aspects of physics himself. Tonight was relatively special, am I right folks? he thought. Then, as if someone had actually heard the joke, he explained, special relativity, relatively special. Bada bing!

The topic was the many worlds, many minds interpretations of quantum mechanics. Too bad there were only fourteen students in attendance. Too bad they had all tuned out already. Who was he kidding, they had never tuned in. In fact, all but two of them had failed the last exam, causing him to have to apply a very generous bell curve.

He looked into their glazed-over expressions, am I the only one who gets to hear this? he thought. He walked around the first row of narrow tables, slid one of the chairs over and gently rested his hindquarters on the edge of the table that, in a full class, would have been occupied as the front and center seat. That table—all of the classroom tables at MCC, really—was bowed in the middle. The two inverted T-shaped legs had been attached too far apart, and Patrick knew that if he ever sat in the middle of the table the bowing of the table under his girth, might be dangerous to his reputation. So he sat on the left edge of the table, the left edge of the table would hold him.

“The many worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics postulates that there are large numbers of universes, perhaps an infinite number of universes.”

Patrick continued, “Because any type of process that in its basic state is an either/or scenario, somewhere in the universe both outcomes exist.” What he had just said was very difficult, and he had not stated it as clearly as he had wanted to. He waited for questions. There were no questions. So, he continued.

“For example, let’s say you’ve rigged some radio-active material to trigger a pistol to fire when the material decays. The radio-active material decays at the rate of about once every minute or so—causing your pistol to fire about once every minute or so. You stand in front of the pistol for one minute. What are the probable outcomes?” He wanted an answer from someone. “Jenna?” She had earned a 62 percent on the exam, one of the passers.

“Huh?” Jenna’s reply was disappointing.

“Anyone?” Patrick really wanted someone to make the connection without spoon-feeding it to them.

“You either live or you die,” Mark, 34 percent, called out from the back row.

“That’s right. Good.” Patrick paused to give Mark some positive reinforcement, One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, moving on. “According to the many worlds interpretation, both of those outcomes are recorded some how or—perhaps more accurately—somewhere in another universe.”

Jim, 12 percent, likely the dumbest of the lot tentatively raised his hand. Patrick tried to hide his surprise as he called on the lanky, unshaven young man, “Jim?”

“Yeah, um, so if I have, like, a yes or no question, then I can make both decisions?”

“You’re on the right track. What you have just described is, more or less, the many minds interpretation of quantum mechanics. Of course, in our part of the universe, the one that we can observe, you would make only one decision, but somewhere,” Patrick made a big hand gesture to indicate the vastness of multiple universes, “there is a version of you that would choose the opposite.”

Jenna, feeling her dominance of the curve slipping, jumped in, “So, let’s say I had a beautiful birthday cake, and I wanted to both eat it and keep it for display. The many worlds interpretation would allow me to have my cake and eat it too?”

“Funny.” Patrick was enjoying having others talk in the usually silent class, so he avoided punishing Jenna for her flippancy. “Generally, we think of these things more on the molecular level. But, I suppose that is a possibility.”

Jim’s hand again, a new record, Patrick thought.

“So, why can’t the universe record both decisions so we can see them?”

“Good question.” It actually was. “The reason for that is because we can’t observe from outside of our universe, to our observation, a wave function . . .”

Jesse, 39 percent, broke in, “can you define wave function?”

“Sure,” Patrick lied, “the wave function is a term used to describe the limitless possibilities of outcomes before an actual outcome becomes tangible.” Not bad, he thought to himself, for a definition pulled out of thin air. It might be close.

Patrick continued, “Because we can’t observe from outside of our universe, to our observation, the wave function collapses immediately when one of the possibilities actually happens. In other words, once one of the possible outcomes is realized all other outcomes disappear, or collapse, at least in our observable universe.”

“But what happens if the wave particle doesn’t collapse immediately?” Mark was feeling it too.

“The wave function, you mean.”

“Yeah, what happens if the wave function takes a minute or two to collapse? Is that possible?”

“Hmm, interesting idea.” This phrase has been used by many instructors throughout the history of academia to mean one of the following things: no, you are wrong, or you are an idiot.

“Let’s say,” Jim spoke again, “that a person has a way hard decision to make, like, so hard that he can’t eat or sleep or, you know, poop or whatever.” Patrick bit his lip, he wanted to laugh at the idea of a many poops interpretation of quantum mechanics, but Jim seemed quite serious, so he thought better of it. “Maybe, because humans are so, you know, complicated, could the wave particle, I mean, function maybe take some time to collapse? You know, in that case?”

Patrick stood, giving much relief to the bowed table’s left leg. He wanted to be careful in how he approached his answer, because he did not want to squelch the sprouting inquiry of these, what was the word? Oh yes, dumb students. “Um. That is an interesting idea, but I think it takes the interpretation a little too far. I am not saying it is beyond possibility, but I don’t know that it happens. The reason I can say that is because we have never observed it happening. We always, to my knowledge, can have only one outcome in that scenario, at least, in our observable universe.”

“That sucks,” Jim was truly earning his participation points tonight, another record, “’cause, I have a really hard decision to make, and I wouldn’t mind going both ways.”

“Well, ok.” Patrick was going to go there. He felt like he shouldn’t, but he was going to, “let’s imagine, just for the sake of argument, that your description of the many worlds, many minds interpretations actually works that way. How would it manifest itself?”

“He’d be, like, two people,” chimed Stacy, 45 percent.

“Both persons would be him,” Patrick pointed at Jim, “but they would also be completely separate, right?”

“Yep,” three students answered in chorus, 47, 44, and 42 percent, respectively.

“Ok. So, theoretically, these two new people could go about their lives separately and, in effect, would no longer be the same person. They would share DNA, family, name, social security numbers, memories up to the point of separation, and just about everything else, but they would be separate individuals.”

“Sounds like cloning to me. I bet my church is against you not choosing one or the other.” Patrick let himself laugh at Sam’s joke a little too hard probably, considering that Sam had scored a 34 percent on the exam.

“But it’s not not choosing, you know, it’s choosing both,” Jim continued, “and it would be cool to kind of monitor it and see which one worked out best and then after you’ve figured it out the wave function could collapse.”

“What would that wave function collapse look like?”

“I don’t know, just slap back together or something.”

Patrick was slightly veering off topic, but this line of thought was interesting to him, “But what if you can’t tell which decision ends up being the better one, or what if your two halves lose contact with each other?”

“I guess you just let them live their lives then.”

“Interesting, interesting theory, you might just be a physicist yet. Unfortunately, the wave function does collapse immediately.”

“Couldn’t it just give me one year? One year is more or less immediately compared to the age of the universe, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is. A hundred and fifty years is more or less immediate. Of course a hundred and fifty years would mean that the ‘slapping back together,’” Patrick used finger quotes to highlight Jim’s terms, “would happen four generations later. How exactly would that work?” No one had an answer for that question. “Good luck with it, Jim. Let me know if it works for you.”
Patrick then segued back into his lecture notes about the interpretation not meeting important requirements of Occam’s razor, and sullenly watched as his students segued back into their glazed-over expressions.

What Patrick, Jim, Jenna, Mark, and the rest would never know is that this class discussion had accurately described an actual and observable phenomenon that had taken place in Scotland, earlier that week. Unfortunately, none of the MCC students or staff knew, or had even ever heard of either of the Richard Murdocks—or is it Richards Murdock—that were now dealing with the unusual, but natural “slapping back together” of a collapsing wave function.

If they had known one of the two Richards, they might have been able to help explain that four generations ago one monumental decision had caused two outcomes that had sent one man on two paths simultaneously.