JPRM – R.17

“Sweet bird of prey you’ve gone below… All soft and black it’s time to grow… Don’t be afraid to touch the light… Don’t run from love in the starless night…” James Douglas Morrison, Lyricist

Parsons wondered what or who, exactly, was The Chosen One. The definition was maddeningly generic. Connotation, elimination, annihilation, usurpation, delegation — these were a mere handful of ways to The Chosen One. It could be a puppy, an automobile, a lottery ticket, a saviour. Was The Chosen One now alive, yet to arrive, or dust in the wind?

Vishnu Sahasranama could be One, One-hundred, or One-thousand Chosen Ones.

Jeffrey Leonard Jarrett an American Professional Wrestler, was the Self-Chosen One.

Messiah, Mustafa, as long as it’s not JPRM!

Gracie, Time Visitor, was seated next to Parsons on the settee that mutated into a tiny mattress, inside the Toronado Motor Inn. That particular unit strategically aligned Parrot Cove, Shoal Isles, with the gathering dawn on that morning, 4/5/2002. Dead center, Floor Two.

The rooms had been numbered counter-clockwise, Zero thru Eighteen, two groups of nine, from the exterior elevation view. The way a typical right-hander would draw a letter U except on its side. 

The thirteenth unit, in spite of the triskaidekaphobic countermeasures undertaken to keep visitors safe… from… what? Gracie’s people were a contingency development. They WERE people, Parsons had aptly designated them “Homo Sapiens Tempus,” from the Latin word meaning TIME.

The Tempi were Bio-Engineered Post-Humans, by a wealthy autodidactic futurist, posthumanist, whose name began with a C. Aside from superior physical symmetry, uniformity, and the unique adaptive coloration — Parsons, a Sapiens, compared her surface finish to stealth aircraft— the Tempi saw the world differently.

Parsons had noticed on his daily walks at Skyhaven NH USA, that the light filtering through glass, through the rooms at the deserted Toronado Inn was polarized… shaded… something… different. Now, courtesy of the Time Visitors: Angela, Gracie, Karl, and Slim, it had the been his first visit inside. In Year 2102.

He had experimented with a variety of graphic and photographic computer programs both within his dwindling Engineering Projects, as well as his continuous research and study about everything. It was strange how words simultaneously preceded and followed his mental dissection and storage of  novel situations. Such as here inside the Toronado, Dead Center, Floor Two.

Cinema Seating. That was the effect. As if with the proper user interface — he was certain Gracie was controlling the scenario — for what — the sake of clarity? Parsons and she were at the back of the Theatre. This explained, paranormally, the apparent diminution of the light rays he had noticed from outside the Toronado Inn when he took his daily walks.

He visualized two motel rooms, lined up in a row. Gracie and he were peering through the non-existent front face of their section, where the window slider with the spectacular ocean scene should be. It made sense — in the same way a rainbow makes sense, magically, counter-intuitively — that the rear wall of the same room was correspondingly missing.

He and Gracie were looking at the other settee — based on his “Cinema Seating” time-thesis — two different people were seated there, both Sapiens. On the cheerful Astro Turf motel flooring, green, two little girls were unrolling sleeping bags for floor duty that evening. Parsons remembered the drill, his little boys had done the same years back…

Parsons shuddered remembering the one-star reviews of the Toronado on the Internet, even though he had never been inside until today — he was losing track — 2102, 2002? Parsons thought of the wretched year he was obligated to stay in a similar dwelling, hovel, shed, due to circumstances beyond his control…

Or so he thought back then. He didn’t want the little girls to be on that FLOOR, there in front of him…

“I´ll  always  be  a  word  man…  Better  than  a  bird  man…” James Douglas Morrison, Writer

William and Marilyn were situated ahead of them, Parsons and Gracie, and aligned; which would be the front row of Parson’s Cinema Seating time-thesis. Parson’s left-hemispherical training, over-training, his wife Louise had told him, made superficial corrections: Parsons and Gracie in the rear, equals 2102. William and Marilyn…

How did he know their names? Gracie, of course! Parsons had a moment of fright, realizing his mind was an always open book to the Time-Visitor, now his co-conspirator. Parsons realized that particularly the last few years, give or take, he was one of the lucky ones — he thought — that had cleaned up his act prior to becoming dead…

One With No Past Is One Righteously Shame-Less.

Damn! Gracie was doing it again! The mind-speak. She was beginning to sound like one of them Nuns in the Catholic School, with her Chosen One, and that Righteousness patter!

“Carnival dogs… Consume the lines…” James Douglas Morrison

Marilyn was watching the two girls, Paula and Pauline, ages 10 and 8 years, setting up camp on that wretched astro-something they called carpet at the Toronado. It was the family “Summer Vacation,” she and William announced. Even Pauline, age 8 years knew it wasn’t near close to summer. The girls knew better than to bicker. Money was short.

She was hoping the girls would hurry up. Sunrise. Tungsten fire, alive, rising, heralding the sublimely layered azure hemisphere. Persian roses, pink, scattered, spreading, softening the edgy aquamarine border.

Outside… the days remained short. Purgatory of darkness would hide the squalid features of the place soon enough. Sleep. Leave…

Hurry, girls!

William didn’t care. A couple Irish Whiskey Coffees for breakfast, cream, no extra sugar, smothered the fear and indignities which had become the novel, but temporary normality in the twenty-first century.

WWII saw to it that the foreigners were safely contained forever. Lazy people, zealous blood-thirsty revolutionists, and dirty commies were permanently exiled to that other side of the world across that very horizon observed through the streaked slider panes at the Toronado Motor Inn.

Brutality, corruption, and crime would never permeate the very culture that had kicked the ass of the entire rest of the planet. Cheap automobiles, color televisions, huge stereo sound systems, food in frozen boxes, heat and eat. Irish Whiskey Coffee. Ice cream.

The country’s manufacturing base was dwindling, but William was Certified Smart. Not to mention… Experienced. That temporary recession…

He’d be back working a real job soon. Not selling insurance to the nutty old people, mortgages to poor people of all ages, those foreign cars with brand names sounding like joke-words. This was the USA for chrissakes.



About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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