Entry 4 Part One

From the Audio Journal of Niles Dantes

 

November 19^th, 1981

*Begin Recording*

Success!

This morning, I was able, after some trial and error, to trigger an experience similar to that which occurred five days ago. Given that they are indeed not some hallucination or once in a lifetime anomaly, I have decided to call these moments Reaches, after the crossing that seems to occur of the gap between my own reality and that fashioned by my mind. 

I began today’s Reach by working with a variant of the previous trigger phase. Inscribing The clothes and food of children are plain and simple resulted in a world that was most unpleasant, despite my intentions for creating an uplifting piece of writing. The first course of action was to determine the cause of this disparity. Was it a lack of specification in the actual wording? Or were my thoughts not focused enough when writing? Though I am well aware that it is terribly unscientific to alter more than a single variable at a time, I had no desire to create an exact replica of the initial Reach. As such, I decided to change both my writing and thought processes.

Lying stretched out on my couch so as to avoid another physical collapse, I began by calming myself and steadying my breathing, adopting an almost meditative state as I began to fashion my thoughts around a singular purpose. Children, bright and innocent, unburdened by the cynicism and weight of a fallen world, free to express unguarded emotion, each with a mind unique in its swirling ebbs and flows. An elementary school cafeteria, a safe, warm haven bustling with these young individuals, all contently enjoying meals according to their varying tastes.

As this vision spread to fill every iota of my consciousness, I lifted my hand in a detached manner, inscribing The innocent children cheerfully ate together on the same sheet of paper I had used previously.

To my bewilderment, nothing happened.

Doubt began to cloud my mind, as I began to feel that, whatever I had previously experienced, it could not be so duplicated. Yet I continued on, driven by some urge I find difficult to describe. Perhaps it was due to the potential importance of this occurrence, as I mentioned in my previous entry. More likely it was simply plain stubbornness. Regardless, I calmed myself, refocusing my mind and writing the phrase again and again. On the fifth attempt, the Reach occurred.

The apartment around me vanished, replaced by a scene that, to my great excitement, was just as I had envisioned it: a cafeteria, of roughly the same dimensions as before, but now warmly lit, with walls and tables painted in vibrant reds and blues. Young children filled the room, their visages thankfully energetic and full of life rather than that terrible blankness, laughing and speaking with one another.

I presumed that, if the first Reach was anything to go by, my experiences in this new world were finite, cut off by some arbitrary passage of time. As such, I needed to make the most of the time I had, yet attempts to move or speak produced no result, as before.

Please vote for one of the following in the comments section below:

1. Attempt to move around.

2. Attempt to communicate with the children.

Entry 3

From the Audio Journal of Niles Dantes

November 18^th, 1981

*Begin Recording*

It would appear that I owe more to my time at the bank that I had appreciated. All those years of number crunching helped cultivate a methodical, meticulous approach to problem-solving, one that has proven beneficial in understanding my current dilemma. For the past several days, I have been considering my…experience...trying to make sense of it, to determine its cause. 

Strange though it seems…what am I saying? This entire ordeal is so far beyond the bounds of normalcy that ‘strange’ cannot possibly hope to do it justice...I believe the experience to be tied to my writing. The last thing that transpired before it began was my writing of the phrase The clothes and food of children are plain and simple. That in and of itself proves nothing, but the location I seem to have been transported to bore a distressing similarity to that phrase. The children there were all nigh identical and consumed identical food…they were plain and simple. Those aspects were accentuated to the point of being terrifying, but plain and simple they were nonetheless.

It stands to reason, then, that my experience would have been different if I wrote something else. I shaped it. Yet it was not as though I found myself transported to what I envisioned. I was attempting to write of innocence, not horrifying homogeny. Warmth and tenderness, not cold lifelessness. Why is this? 

The only clue I possess was my mental scream moments before returning, the one thing I did that seemed to have an effect on that strange world around me. It was not just a scream, but a thought, active and deliberate, unfocused though it was. Could I, through carefully controlled thoughts, have produced other, more desirable results? Moved around? Communicated? If so, could my thoughts not also shape the very nature of the world itself if somehow used in conjunction with writing?

I speak of such things because it strikes me as inevitable that, if my theories indeed be true, I shall eventually be drawn into such a realm again. After all, I cannot very well live out the rest of my days without writing anything at all, now can I? Assuming that to be the case, I must be prepared for such encounters, knowing both when they are most likely to occur and how to best cope with them. The prospect of contending with this for the rest of my life continues to fill me with fear, yet it is now joined by another emotion. I must confess that the possibilities of such experiences under proper control excite me. I could be on the threshold of uncovering some aspect of the human soul, hitherto unknown, with unfathomable power, one that would change the course of history and propel mankind into a new era! There would of course be an enormous amount of fame and fortune bestowed upon the man who discovered this magnificent secret, but that’s hardly important in comparison.

Ah…there I go, getting ahead of myself again. There’s no guarantee of such things, or even triggering further experiences, for that matter. Back to the present.

I have decided that, come morning, I will try to generate another such experience, one under more controlled conditions, in which I will attempt to both shape and navigate the world I find myself in.

*End of Recording*

Please vote for one of the following in the comments section below:

1. Write a revised version of the previous trigger phrase.

2.Experiment with entirely new phrases.

Entry 2

From the Audio Journal of Niles Dantes

November 15^th, 1981

*Begin recording*

I’ve gone mad.

Two days ago, I considered myself the perfect model of sanity. A little cynical and jaded around the edges, maybe, but still very much in the safe, comfortable haven that comes with having a sound mind. But now? There’s no other possible explanation for what happened yesterday. I’ve gone mad.

I…I suppose I should recount this from the beginning. Describe what hap…what I thought happened, while it’s fresh in my mind. I’ve not told anyone about this, nor do I intend on doing so. It’d only result in being shipped first-class to an asylum or callously dismissed as a babbling fool, neither of which sounds particularly helpful right about now. Still, having a record of this might well come in handy.

Anyway, I had just sat down and started to write. Nothing concrete, just some brainstorming here and there. I got the idea for something about innocence, children. Pleasantly uncynical train of thought amidst all that’s been going on in society the past few decades. I wanted to write about simplicity, how so much that’s screwed up in this world stems from complexities we’re oblivious to until after our formative years. I picked up the pen and jotted down The clothes and food of children are plain and simple. But as soon as I finished the sentence, I…I wasn’t there. My desk, my apartment, everything around me, all…gone.

I was somewhere else…a large room, practically devoid of color. It looked like a school cafeteria of sorts. Row after row of unpainted metal tables and benches filled the place. In the distance was a pair of doors, beyond which came a smell that vaguely reminded me of food. And around me…all around me were what I can only describe with great reluctance as children.

If kids they were, they were the most unsettling bunch I’ve ever seen. Utterly quiet, every last one of them, as they sat eating or moved in and out of the room. They were all about the same age, perhaps nine or ten, an even mix of boys and girls. Gender was just about the only distinguishing feature they had. Their faces weren’t identical, but they all shared the same sickly pale complexion, as though they’d been drained of lifeblood and color. Their eyes all had the same distant, unfocused look, as though, despite the actions they performed, no one was really home. All the boys wore their hair in the exact same short, cropped style, while each of the girls sported the same ponytail. Everyone wore the same clothes regardless of gender, muted brown button-up shirts and grey pants. All of those that were eating sported a tray with an identical bowl of some colorless sludge that looked like gruel.

I tried to take a step forward, only to find that I couldn’t move, that I couldn’t even feel my body. Trying to turn my head produced the same result. It was like I was frozen in place. A few seconds later I realized that I wasn’t even breathing…yet there was no burning ache signaling a need for oxygen. It was as though I had left my body, my mind plucked from its home and tossed in front of a window, leaving me with nothing more than my senses.

To say that I was terrified is unquestionably the greatest understatement that has ever been conceived in human history.

I tried to scream, to cry for help, yet no words emerged. As I began to panic, I thought as loudly as I could, a psychic, wordless cry that filled all of my mind. 

It…it appeared to have an effect. All in unison, every last one of those terrible, nearly identical children stared in my direction with those haunting, vacant gazes. I didn’t think it possible, but I became even more fearful. As I prepared to scream again…

I returned.

I found myself back in my apartment, sprawled out on the floor as though passed out from a night of heavy drinking. Taking a deep, urgent breath, I slowly sat up and managed to get on my feet.

A hot shower and night of fitful sleep helped stave off my inevitable reflections on what had transpired until today, but inevitable they were. So here I am, babbling to my journal like the madman that I must certainly be. Of course, my ravings haven’t come close to answering the most important question.

What am I to do now?

*End of recording*

Please vote for one of the following in the comments section below:

1. Ignore the experience and behave as though it never happened.

2. Try to determine the cause of the experience and recreate it under more controlled circumstances.

Entry 1

From the Audio Journal of Niles Dantes

November 14^th, 1981

*As the recording begins, there is the sound of footsteps slowly pacing back and forth. The patter of rain against glass can be heard, with the occasional crack of thunder in the distance*

Five weeks. It’s been five blasted weeks since the bank notified me that I was “freed from contractual obligation as part of a new and exciting restructuring program.” That sure is a nice and fancy way of saying, “You’re fired. Get your worthless self out on the street by midday, or we’ll call security”, but it certainly doesn’t make it more bearable. 

Since then, I’ve traveled all over town and spent hours on the phone, only to receive thirty-eight variations of the same reply: No, we’re not hiring. I normally take the sensationalist news reports with a grain of salt, but they’re sure right about the nation’s economy being a wreck right now. Chicago’s no exception.

For all its lousy policies and despicably cheery severance packages, the bank paid well, at least. Got enough money saved up to last the better part of a year if I’m careful. That’s something to be grateful for, at least, but it’s not enough. Not when there’s no telling when the job market will open up again. I have to do something...if I can’t find work, I’ll just have to make it. Come up with something myself and sell it.

Trying to start up my own business or service would never work out, of course, even if the economy were booming. I don’t have the background, the training. Those four years at the university didn’t leave me with much beyond a knack for crunching numbers and a mountain of debt. Never was the Renaissance Man type anyway. There’s a delusional ideal for you.

Delusions...now there’s an idea. Much as it’s something I’d rather leave buried, writing might be my only ticket out of this mess. The entertainment industry’s just about the only thing that is holding up right now. Rather irrational, but it makes sense. People want escape, a way to forget their troubles. After alcohol, fiction’s the surest way to do that. So if I were to take up the pen again, there’d be a market, at least. If…

Hard to believe I’m seriously considering this. The whole reason I gave up writing in the first place was because of the creative prison that comes with doing it for profit. Deadlines, publisher restrictions, the need to cater to a wide audience…it’s disgusting. Defeats the purpose. Creativity’s not some product manufactured off an assembly line; it needs to be nurtured, given absolute freedom to grow. And pricing? It’s absurd. How in the world can one monetize the contents of my mind? Who’s to say what they’re worth?

Still…it could very well be my only shot. Artistic indignation’s not going to get me very far if I starve, now is it? Might as well give it a try. Guess I’ll just start putting ideas on paper and see what sticks.

*The scraping of a chair across wood can be heard, followed by the rustling of paper. The recording ends.*

Please vote for one of the following opening phrases in the comments section below:

1. It was a dark and stormy night.

2.The clothes and food of children are plain and simple.

The option that receives the most votes will influence the progression of the story in a most unusual way.