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In her dream, the man at the podium began to speak.


"It is a matter of personal perception," he said. "As to how one views one's personal reality. MacKeown illustrates this principle repeatedly in his collected works, and it can be explored in any one of the Pickfield manuscripts. The concept, scientifically, bears no meaning- hence a null program, when entered into any computer. It requires human intellect- and, concordantly, human fallibility- to come 'round to this method of thinking. We have been shown, however, that it holds a great deal of weight for the inward circles, and we, of course, take example from such behavior. Thus, it must be concluded: Time and point-event are nonlinear and variable; perhaps even manipulable, when proper channels are employed..."



She woke in her own bed, in the light of dawn. She stretched lazily, and padded into the shower, where she washed the night-sweats from her pale frame. The hot spray felt good against her face and head. She stood there for a long time, letting the water run down her eyes and cheeks and nose and lips in warm droplets.


She fixed herself a light lunch, ate, and watched old television shows in the living room. In the afternoon, she returned her videos to the video store. She took a book- a bit of light reading- to the park, and sat on a swing to read. She watched the sun go down in a fiery orange swan song. When the light began to drain from the world, she walked past the tall oak- like a tree in a fantasy story- back to her car. She drove home, parked, and put the key in the door.


The phone began to ring.





"-we can deduce that Kerlini is not prophesizing when he states that all things become circular when one pulls back one's vision. This is, in fact, how he views the nature of his world. Cycles determine all things to he who wishes them to do so. Such a case of apparent tunnel vision is not to be mistaken as a flaw in Kerlini's own psyche. Rather, it indicates a flaw in the overall plan, either planned or unplanned; the answer is not yet apparent. Regardless, the statement stands: Time moves in cycles. Time and point-event are nonlinear and variable; perhaps even..."



She woke in her own bed, in the light of dawn. She stretched lazily, and padded into the shower, where she washed the night-sweats from her pale frame. The hot spray felt good against her face and head. She stood there for a long time, letting the water run down her eyes and cheeks and nose and lips in warm droplets.


She ate no lunch- something was unsettling her stomach, and feeding her a mild sort of vertigo- and instead, sat on her living room couch and flipped through old television shows until the hour of noon was long past. In the afternoon, she returned her videos to the video store. She took a book- a bit of light reading- to the park and sat on a swing to read. She couldn't seem to concentrate for very long, however, and she walked past the tall oak- like a tree in a fantasy story- to her car as the sun was going down in a fiery orange swan song. She drove home, parked, and put the key in the door.


The phone began to ring.


She jumped, twisted the key in the lock, and threw open the door. She barked her shin on the side of the doorway, ricocheted, and half-limped half-ran into the living room.


She picked up the phone. Put it to her ear. Said:


"Hello."



"-might suggest that sanity is the opening for a million different human viruses. This idea holds only when coupled with the theory that the greater thinkers of the last era bore superior mental immune systems for their time and place. If this is true, does the same mental immunity open the way for the clues about the true nature of the multiverse? Most of the notable free-thinkers of this era had at least an idea about one or another aspect of the world behind the world. Thus, their mental instability, when coupled with revelations concerning space, dimension, and time. How does the limited mind of the bygone age deal with the concept of a time that he or she can in no way relate to or feel particular harmony with? Time and point-event are nonlinear and variable; perhaps..."



She woke in her own bed. She stretched, stood up, and looked blearily around her room. She had no idea why, and as she shook the last vestiges of sleep from her mind, the compulsion- or whatever it was- faded. She padded into the shower, where she washed the night-sweats from her pale frame. The hot spray felt...felt strange against her face. She stood there for a long time, letting the water run down her eyes and cheeks and nose and lips. She thought about nothing.


She wasn't hungry. She sat uncomfortably on the couch and flipped through channels showing reruns of mindless television shows, but she could not concentrate on them. She scooped up the videos on her floor, and drove into town to return them. On her return, she stopped by the park, but the stillness in the air did nothing to soothe her jangled nerves. She looked down at the book- a bit of light reading- she had brought, and almost laughed. The idea of reading anything at this point was ludicrous. She left the book on a nearby swing, and went home.


The sun went down in a fiery orange swan song.


She drove home, parked, and put the key in the door.


The phone began to ring.


She jumped, twisted the key in the lock, and threw open the door. She almost barked her shin on the doorway, but drew back in time, and bolted into the living room.


She picked up the phone. Put it to her ear. Said:


"Hello?"


"Deborah?"


Alex.


"I'm here," she said. "Alex, what's the matter? You sound out of breath."


"Can't explain right now," Alex said. "Listen, Deborah, I've done some research into your problem, and I've looked into the word you gave me. Wendigo, I mean. Listen: You have to get out of there. Now. Today. I know this is hard to believe, but you are in such an incredibly dangerous position...I...it's..." He seemed to be stopped up with words, all wanting to flow from him at once, and blocking each other out.


"I-" said Deborah, and-



"-provides for a much wider interpretation of countless works, reaching as far back as Huxley's pamphlets on time and dimension. If old Huxley were here with us today, he would likely fall dead at the concepts being espoused about his favorite and most harped-on subjects. Namely, time, and the nature thereof. We have come to accept certain things as fact. For instance: Time and point-event are..."



She woke in her own bed.


She rolled over and looked at the rays of the morning sun coming through the window. Something was-


The phone rang.


She scrambled out of bed, almost barked her shin on the bedroom door, and pounded into the living room.


She picked up the phone. Put it to her ear. Said:


"Hello?"


"Deborah?"


Alex.


Her eyes went dead. She heard the breath pass out of her lungs. Her heart became a triphammer in her ears.


"The Wendigo," she said. All the tone was gone from her words. "You called to warn me. Have to get out. Now. Today. I-"



"Time," said the man. "Here we must begin."

------
"Quit this world, quit the next world, quit quitting!" -Sufi proverb.


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The following comments are for "Wendigo - 24"
by Beckett Grey





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