Tag: Aetet 2

Sea of Light

On December 22, 2019

Word Count: 3,298

I needed some time alone, some time away from the everyday stress of the busy city. I traveled to a vacation home I owned on the beach in an attempt to get away from the rigors of life, even if it was only for a short while. The sky betrayed the fact that a storm front was pushing into the area. By the time I reached the beach, the sky far over the water was dark and gray, but there were no signs of high winds or even a sheet of rain.

My father taught me to sail before I was even a teenager. We spent more time during the summers on the water than on land. Now I enjoyed getting out on the water with nothing but me, the sea, and the thoughts in my head.

My father passed away only days before my eighteenth birthday and left me the beach house and his three sailboats in his will. I spent as much time as I could sailing the ocean. When I was out there, it felt like I was one with the sea.

On this particular occasion, my wife asked me not to go. She said she had a feeling something bad was going to happen. I did not listen to her though. Her premonitions did not worry me. I wanted to forget the stress of work and the congested life in the city, so I decided to go off on another one of my trips.

Although all my training told me not to, I sailed beyond the sight of land. I could see the weather front pushing in fast. Lightening flashed out of the sky to strike the foamy waves, but no rain or wind accompanied it. I knew I had to get back to shore, so I turned sail and tried to head on back. The light wind filled the sail and pushed me back toward home. I began to worry when I realized the water was pulling me out faster than the wind was pushing me in. I never caught sight of land before the furious storm reached me and my small boat.

Waves crashed against my small craft and tossed me about. Lightning struck the water every few seconds, but there was still nothing but a light breeze in the air. I took the sail down anyway and tried to ride the waves using the rudder. Crest after crest pushed the stern of the boat into the air which then slapped hard back down onto the water.

I knew what to do in this situation, but I never actually did it before. I tried to remember the survival tips my father taught me when I was young. Opening a deck panel, I retrieved four large jugs. I tied each to the boat with a rope, filled them with water, and dropped them over the four sides of the boat. These water anchors kept the boat more stable in the writhing waves.

Pellets of rain began falling and struck me with such force that it stung my skin. Between this combined with a sudden rush of cold air, I felt like I was on fire. Even with the help of the anchors, the boat thrashed up and down. I strained with the rudder trying to keep myself facing into the waves, but the force of the water was too much. The helm snapped and the boat turned sideways into the wake. There was nothing more I could do. Within minutes the boat capsized.

The angry sea tossed and threw me about. It was difficult to determine which way was up, and I choked on the salty water as I tried to breathe. The sea churned me about for more than an hour before its wrath finally passed me by on its way to land. When the storm ended exactly, I did not know, but when peace came to the water, I found myself lying on the hull of my overturned craft.

The rain and wind were gone, but the icy cold remained. My soaking wet clothes clung to my body and chilled me to the bone. One of my legs still hung in the frigid water. It was very numb, and I found it incredibly difficult to pull it back onto the boat. I did finally manage it. I guess I was paying too much attention to my struggle because I did not see the dense fog roll in.

In air this cold there should not be any fog. I did not give that too much thought as I strained my eyes in an attempt to peer through the heavy mist. Rather than being a single mass of fog, the mist appeared to be layered horizontally like curtains. Each layer of the fog was about a foot thick and rose higher than I could possibly see. The curtains of eerie fog had about two or three inches of clear air in between them.

It was the strangest fog I ever saw in my life. I heard of such a thing from old sea farer’s stories kept alive from generation to generation through song, poetry, and story. I could only figure that the change in air pressure caused the odd strata in the mist. That must be it. Perhaps it was due to fluctuations in temperature. Whatever caused it, there must be a rational explanation for it. Even so, it scared me to no end.

A disconcerting stillness lay across the seas surface; the calm after the storm. My heart skipped a beat when I heard a thump against the side of the boat. I struggled to turn myself over and saw that it was a foam buoy bearing the name of my vessel.

My wife was always on my back about keeping important items in foam floats in the case of occasions such as this. It was not easy, but I managed to grip the strap of the buoy and pulled it out of the water. The sea may have damned me, but something must have been looking out for me. At the end of the strap was a clear plastic bag. The protective pouch contained a box of waterproof matches, a bottle of lighter fluid, and best of all, my flare gun.

Dripping some of the fluid onto the hull of the boat, I struck one of the wax coated matches and started a small fire. Adding only a few drops at a time, I slowly managed to warm my hands to bring some color back to them. Keeping the fire small, the lighter fluid burned, but the hull did not.

I knew I would run out of the lighter fluid soon, so I had to figure out something else I could burn. My boots did me no good on my feet. Cold seawater filled them both. With my hands warm enough to function, I removed on of the boots from my feet. Dripping the flammable fluid onto the sole of the boot, I burned the rubber to produce heat. The rubber burned slowly, consuming the sole downward much more so than outward. This just might work. Maybe, just maybe I could keep myself from freezing to death before I was rescued.

I continued to warm my hands. I did not want to take the chance of dropping the flare gun into the water, so I did not remove it until I regained all feeling to my hands. As my fingers warmed and sensation returned, my knuckles throbbed with agonizing pain.

I had four flares, one in the chamber and three in the bag. Once I made sure the gun was loaded, I fired a glowing flare into the air. The burning red sphere produced a hellish rainbow effect amongst the layers of fog. I imagined the gateway to hell appeared much the same way. Red, yellow and orange light moved through the misty curtains with a hypnotic fluidity.

A chill filled my soul and I found myself with my eyes closed tightly as I prayed for the light to fade. When I could hear the sizzling of the flare no more, I fought through my terror and opened my eyes. The red light of the flare was gone, but now the fog seemed to be glowing on its own. The illumination it produced shone with a beautiful, bluish hue. I was not sure if that was some chemical reaction with the flare or if I was only now noticing it.

I was not sure how long I floated there, but I was sure that the sun should have already risen. I was positive I was out here for hours, at least that is what I thought. The fog did not dissipate at all; it actually seemed thicker. Sunlight should burn away the fog, but the sun did not rise. I floated there for a couple of more hours and decided to launch another flare into the air. Surely there would have to be someone within sight of my beacon.

I saw something that spared me with the first flare. I squeezed my eyes shut like a frightened child. I knew what I just saw was no more than a figment of my imagination. Perhaps the delusion was caused by the cold. When my flare lit up the dark sky, I saw a ghostly specter hovering in the fog. I found myself reciting the Lord’s Prayer as the ethereal image stared at me with strong intent.

There was something strikingly familiar about the phantom being I watched drifting weightlessly in the curtains of fog. There was something about it that seemed to scare me more than death itself. Trembling from horror and stabbing cold, I thought the wraith in the mist was trying to reach out to me. It wanted to pull me in.

The flare burned itself out, and the ghastly rainbow of the hell spawned colors slowly faded. Eventually, when the flare was gone, I again found myself surrounded by the glowing blue fog. I could see the apparition no more. It faded away along with the light of the flare.

I thought it had to be a product of my imagination. I was a reasonable man, and the most reasonable explanation for what I just saw was that I was delusional. The cold, the fear of death, and the anomalous fog combined in my head making me see things that simply were not there. No other explanation made sense. I knew that, to survive, I had to keep my senses about me.

Clear mucus dripped from my nostrils, and I realized I was crying. I did not feel this much terror when I thought the sea was going to swallow me to a drowning death. I tried to stifle my tears, but try as I might all I could do was tremble and sob.

In an instant, my hopes were renewed. Someone must have seen my flare because I could hear a light splashing far out of my range. The sound was one I knew very well. I was listening to oars as they trod their way through the haunting stillness. My head swam with excitement and my heart felt as if it would jump right out of my chest. With my back against the boat, I forced my stiff body up until I was resting on my elbows. Although I still could not see anything, I easily determined the direction of the welcomed noise.

I parted my stiff lips and tried to scream. My parched throat burned, and I could not produce anything but a faint grunt. Frantically I rubbed my throat with my free hand trying to warm it enough to call for help. At the same time, I brushed my tongue up and down the bottom of my mouth trying to work up enough saliva to lubricate my burning vocal cords.

The vessel drew closer, but it was not coming toward me. Whoever it was, they were going to pass right by me. A new horror took over my thoughts. I was only inches from rescue, and they were not going to find me.

I fell to my back, and the impact made a hollow thud against the hull of the boat. That gave me an idea. I removed the hand from my throat and began to pound against the overturned craft. Three short, three long and then three short thumps against the boat. I could not remember much of the Morse code I was taught as I learned to sail. There was the one signal no sailor ever forgot. Three short, three long, three short. S-O-S.

I paused to listen but did not hear anything. Again, I repeated the pattern three times. For several minutes the silence continued. I thought the captain of the other boat must be trying to figure out where in the fog I was. Someone should call out for me. I know they heard my plea for help.

To my relief, I heard the oars resume their work. The echo off of the water made it sound like a multitude of oars splashing in perfect synchronization. It brought to mind the Viking ships of centuries past. I would welcome it if they would pull me out of the water. Whatever kind of craft it was, I could hear that their trajectory now pointed them toward me.

I was sure the ship was just about within my sight. The sound of the oars grew louder and a strange, acoustic echo became apparent. It struck that the odd chorus of oars may only be a product of my convulsively shivering body. My burning hope temporarily distracted my weary mind from the unforgiving cold.

I pounded the S-O-S one more time on the hull of the boat then focused my energy on getting myself back onto my elbows. The sudden rush of blood made my ears roar with a high-pitched scream as I strained my cold stiffened body upward. It took me several minutes, but I finally mustered up enough will to lift my pruned body up from the hull. I tried to focus, tried to listen through the pain and my ringing ears so I could hear my approaching rescuers.

When the deafening ring faded enough, I could hear the oars splashing in the water once again. I was sure it would be in sight any second. The next moment, my hopes were dashed. The rowing stopped. I tried to be patient. I must have been in the water for twenty-four hours now, so a few more seconds would not kill me. The crew of the other boat was probably only trying to make sure that they did not ram me.

That would be a cruel irony, to survive this long in the piercing cold only to be plowed into the water by the very ship attempting to rescue me. When the oars once again resumed, I involuntarily began to chuckle. My throat stung in agony as my dry vocal cords tried to form that universal sign of joy called laughter. It was okay, I tried to tell myself. Soon I would be pulled from the sea and given fresh water to soothe my mouth and throat.

My hope came to a peak when it occurred to me that something sounded different about the approaching ship. The tone of the splashing…. Oh God in Heaven, the ship was now rowing away from me. Again, I tried to force a scream through my burning throat but coughed up blood instead. Even now the idea of using the flare gun gripped me with fear. That was my only hope. I could not call out, and my potential rescuers were going in the wrong direction.

Never having left my hand, I raised the flare gun up once again and reluctantly pulled the trigger. I felt no relief when the fog again shimmered and pulsed with lights as red as blood. The grim ghost of the mist was there to greet me and the smell of burning sulfur from the flare stung my nose. I considered throwing myself into the water to drown. I thought that was what the apparition wanted though. It wanted me to die. It wanted to take me through that mist to the hell from which it came.

Despite my terror, I stared directly at my tormentor until the flare burned away. When only the peaceful blue glow in the fog remained, I could still faintly see the specter of the mist. I knew there was something very familiar about the vision in the fog, but I could not put my finger on it.

Could I have dreamed it, and the terror of my situation brought it back to mind? Was I hallucinating or was the spirit in the mist real?

Lost in my thoughts of the haunting wraith, I failed to pay attention to the sound of the other boat. The rowing continued to grow fainter as the ship moved off into the distance. I knew they could not have missed that flare. It illuminated the fog as far as I could see. Why were they not coming back for me?

Tears trickled down my face dripping into my ears. The other vessel was gone. My rescuer was gone and my nose stung from the smell of burning sulfur.

A thud sounded against my boat, and I strained to turn my head. I prayed it was another one of my buoys. I pleaded to everything in heaven that it contained my bottled water. Instead of finding lifesaving gear, I turned to look at a bloated dead tuna floating in the water. Its clouded eyes sunk into the head, and soon I saw more lifeless fish. The water was full of them.

I long ago lost the feeling in my feet. I peered at them and it was just as I feared. My toes were all a dark purple and my toenails were black. I was going to lose my feet. Frostbite damage to my feet was too great. I was going to survive this. I had to. Now I could only hope that I would not lose anymore limbs.

I pulled the bag containing the matches and lighter fluid up to my side. With a fumbling hand, I first tried to pull out the lighter fluid. As I dug for the matches, I heard a scraping and then a plop. The lighter fluid slid off the hull and into the water.

That was it. I was ready to give up. I could not take this merciless torture any longer. I let go of the matches and let them fall into the water as well. I was just going to lay there until the cold air showed the warmth of my breath no more. I dropped my hands to my side and allowed the pistol to slip from my grip and into the water.

My right arm was resting on something. With ever increasing difficulty, I pulled the plastic bag up to my chest. Inside were three flares. I never reloaded the gun. I fired the damn thing three times, but I never reloaded it once. How did I fire one flare three times?

The ghastly image manifested in the glow of the heavenly blue light and I realized why it seemed so familiar. A surge of warmth washed over me like a wave. I lay there staring at the face of my father. That meant, that meant I must be, I was….

I reached my hand up to meet the grip of the specter. The pain was gone; my fear was gone. His strong loving arms pulled me from the agony of the icy water and into that sea of light.

Cabin in the Woods

By Mychal Wilson

On October 29, 2019

In Aetet 2, Fifth Triad

Word Count: 2,121

When I was a child, I spent most of my autumn season with my family in the forest cutting firewood deep in the Alabama forests. My father made a meager living working as a cobbler fixing the soles of cowboy boots and dress shoes. I remember hearing my mother saying once that she was ashamed of him because people walk all over his work. Sure, he worked on shoes, so people obviously walked on his work. It always upset me to hear her say that.

We did not have the financial means to use the furnace to keep the house warm throughout the winter months. Instead, we warmed our home through the use of our fireplace. The cold season this far south did not last as long as it did when we lived in Virginia, but it still grew very cold. If we did not collect enough wood to stack to the height of the privacy fence in our back yard, we would likely die from hypothermia or frostbite.

I resented not having the opportunity to spend the weekends playing with my school friends, but I still managed to have plenty of fun playing out in the woods exploring and dreaming up imaginary settings. Some days I would pretend I was on an alien planet and others I was in an ancient forest contending with demons, dragons and the like.

My teacher praised me for my ability to come up with some of the most creative stories she said she saw from other children my age. I could compose some of the most intriguing and imaginative stories even adults found to be interesting reads.

With school on fall break, I spent less time writing and more time in the woods hauling firewood to the truck. For my father, carrying a large armload of the split wood was not a problem, but at my age even two pieces was almost too much to carry.

Dad did not make me work the entire time. He knew kids needed time to play. After performing my part of the task, a local boy and I would run off into the seemingly endless forest to play.

I felt kind of bad for my friend. His family was poorer and more necessitous than I thought a family could be. His dad was a terrible alcoholic and never worked.

Their meager home did not even have running water. The only light inside the house radiated from the fireplace or from kerosene lamps; they had no electricity.

Typically, Hubert and I followed the same basic path through the woods and came to know some of the landmarks quite well. Looking back, I wish we stayed on the regular path this time, but instead we decided to follow a trail we never explored thus far.

This pathway led into a thick part of the forest. The canopy cover was so thick it almost looked like night time under the massive trees. Something about this place spooked me, but I blew it off as my active imagination. I trotted along behind Hubert as we progressed along the unusually worn path. I did not know if animals or people wore the trail, but it seemed worn more than any animal trail should be.

Ten minutes or so along the path, Hubert climbed onto the lower branches of one of the trees to see if he could see anything up ahead. As he scanned the horizon, he pointed deeper into the woods and informed me he could see a clearing way up ahead. Hubert did not think it was much farther than we already traveled, so we decided to proceed on.

My friend underestimated the distance, and it took us nearly thirty more minutes to reach our destination. I suggested turning back, but Hubert insisted we walk until we found it. He lived in this region his entire life and never once saw this place. He just had to get a closer look at the small building.

In the center of the clearing sat an old cabin, which looked like it was built sometime in the late 19th century. The horizontal logs making up the sides of the cabins displayed deep gaps between each of the hand cut sections of wall. On the top side of many logs, I noticed were notches cut into the wood to create strategic areas from which to fire rifles and other fire arms. I did not know if they were shooting at Indians or if they were fighting in the Civil War.

There was a darkness about this place, and a deep sense of dread washed over me. I really wanted to turn back and find where my parents continued to cut firewood. I tried to play it cool and told Hubert we were gone from the others for a while, and maybe we should get back.

Hubert was curious and excited. He lived in this area all his life and this is the first time he ever visited this place. He wanted to go inside the cabin and see what it was like there. I tried telling Hubert the wood might not be stable and the building might easily fall over. Again, I tried to make the statement in a way that did not display my fear.

That was not going to stop my friend and he quickly approached the building. My trepidation told me to stop. I desperately wanted to turn and run, but I was not going to run away and leave my friend in this haunting place alone.

Hubert froze as he reached the doorless entrance. I think he must have felt the same fear I did, but when he turned around a look of adventure gleamed from his eyes. He appeared to have the excitement of someone discovering a new land for the first time.

Although it was nothing more than a small, old building, it seemed to him much more of a major discovery. Waving his hand, he beckoned me to approach the building as well. For a moment I found my feet refused to budge. My natural instinct and perception told me this was a place where I should not be. It took a lot of willpower to finally start my feet moving one in front of the other.

My head spun as if I had a few beers in me, but we were unable to sneak any bottles out of either family’s ice chests before bounding deeper into the forest. A wave of nausea passed over me as I grew closer and closer to the building. My breathing increased and my shoulders and neck began to tremble as if I were shivering from the cold.

Again, I tried to tell Hubert we should not enter the centuries old dwelling. This time I used the excuse the floor of the structure would not support us and give out causing one or both of us injury. It appeared nothing was going to deter my friend from entering the hand-cut log building.

I was perhaps ten or twelve feet away when he stepped inside. He was immediately enveloped in darkness. Light should shine through the gaps in the walls, but I could not see him at all. The clearing was large enough to allow plenty of sunshine to highlight the old building, but for some reason did not seem to illuminate the inside of the log cabin.

My heart beat so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. I approached the point of absolute terror. I could not see Hubert at all, and I was sure some malevolent force drug him to hell or worse. I turned and was just about to run when I heard his voice call to me from inside.

It took everything I had in me, but I turned back to the cabin and slowly and cautiously approached the building. Once I stood at the open doorway, I was able to faintly see inside. Hubert stood near the center of the one room dwelling. He appeared as almost nothing but a faint shadow, and I was not able to make out anything else in the room.

Hubert beckoned once again, and despite all of my fear, my logic and my instincts, I stepped through the darkening entrance.

Even now I was also in the shade of the home, I could see my friend no better than before. I thought the drop in direct sunlight would make the illumination from between the old cedar logs more intense. Instead, it seemed to grow even darker, if that were possible.

I called out his name in a loud whisper. Hubert replied to my call, but it sounded as if he were far in the distance. We could not be more than twenty feet from one another, yet it felt like we were a mile apart.

A sensation of insignificance washed over me as I suddenly felt as if I were comparing myself to the entirety of the universe. In the darkness of the dwelling, it was as if no walls existed, only endless space.

Although I could see nothing but a vague image of my friend, I thought I saw the darkness in the room move and take on a tangible form. I could not see anything, but I somehow knew it was there.

Intense reluctance prevented me from running, but I knew I would have to flee this place if I wanted to continue to live. I was not sure if it was something holding me there or if it was my own intense fear keeping me from running.

In the virtually absolute darkness, I was not really sure what I saw inside the age-old structure. I knew it had to be nothing but my imagination, but I thought I could see more than just my friend inside. The unnatural darkness inside the old home prevented me from gaining a clear view or even a vague view of anything inside.

A shrieking scream pierced the darkness with a reverbing echo, giving me the sensation of being deep in a dark cavern. When the scream came again, I realized it emanated from the lips of my friend. Hubert called out to me for help. He shouted that the thing, whatever it may be, was trying to consume his very soul.

The cold ash-filled chimney suddenly burst into a blaze. The initial ignition caused a concussive force that almost knocked me to my feet. The flash blinded me for a moment as my eyes were struggling to see in the darkness when the fire erupted. An amorphous red blob filled my vision, but I still thought I could see more than my friend in the one room dwelling.

I do not know if there was anything I could have done. There was nothing I could offer into the situation that could fend off the thing consuming my friend. All I could do at this point was run. I turned to the open doorway, and it appeared to be far off in the distance. I ran until I passed out of the darkness and into the light. I did not stop running until I made it back to our familiar pathway.

My legs collapsed as my lungs nearly gave out. It was still a time when children played outside, but I was not an athlete by any means. I fell to my knees and dug my palms into the dirt and rock. Rolling to one shoulder, I saw my hands bleeding and caked in dirt. Finally, I fell to my back and looked into the direction from which I came.

I saw nothing but a mass of weeds and a dense cluster of ancient trees. No pathway, no trail to the open circle remained in the forest giving any evidence of where I just was. There was nothing there.

Hubert told me once of a legend of a family living in this forest during the time of the Civil War. It was said that this family, in order to save their land, called upon things of darkness to destroy their enemies. Their plot succeeded, but at a terrible price.

The forest itself consumed the family and their home once the enemy was vanquished from the area. It isolated the family from the rest of the world and the story said they were never heard from again.

I cannot say exactly what I heard coming from inside the structure, but I realized the family was heard from again. I heard the terror of my friend along with that unholy howling. I heard the demonic wailing of beings born of vengeance and evil. I found that rumored cabin in the woods.

Simple Shapes

By Mychal Wilson

On October 15, 2019

In Aetet 2, Fifth Triad

Word Count: 4,072

It was quite amazing how often things remained invisible to one’s eyes until given a reason to notice them.

After concluding some business in downtown Murfreesboro Tennessee, I browsed some of the shops lining Main Street. One particular establishment was a purveyor of fancy and precious stone objects in addition to incense and spiritual text. Never the superstitious sort, I paid no attention to the tarot cards and the tomes on spiritual healing. Instead, my attention focused on the polished stone artifacts concealed in illuminated glass cases. The items were simple but magnificent.

Spheres, pyramids and obelisks appeared to be the dominant shapes, but there were other things as well. One particular object, a 3-foot-tall obelisk formed from a single piece of clear quartz, seemed to pull my attention to it. Nearly five inches on each side of the base, the artifact displayed absolutely no flaws. I had the perfect display case in the corner my office, and I just knew I had to have it.

I inquired of the young lady running the shop as to the price of the item. The price she quoted nearly made me faint. I suppose I should expect such a perfect crystal object would be incredibly expensive, but the number still shocked me. Budgeting for the next few months would be tight, but I did have them means to purchase the spectacular quartz creation.

As the shopkeeper protectively packed my new decoration, two more items caught my attention. Both of them cut in the shape of pyramids. While I waited for the box containing the obelisk, I browsed over the rest of the encased objects. Of them all, these two-to-three-inch sided pyramids struck me as remarkable. The prices were displayed along with these items, and these were well within my financial reach.

One possessed an amazing visual effect. The object appeared clear, slightly milky, but clear. As I looked at it from different angles, it produced a laser hologram type of effect. The second was multicolored and emitted a beautiful glow when exposed to a florescent light.

Within only minutes of leaving the shop, I began to notice the shapes everywhere. Large concrete obelisks towered over the entrance to the University. At the head of the grass median set a granite pyramid surrounded by perennials.

As I approached home, I passed by a large cemetery. More tombstones than not either incorporated the pyramid or the obelisk into its form. Over the next few weeks, it seemed like there was nowhere I could look without seeing one of the two shapes. The big question that consumed my thoughts was why.

Why were these two shapes so dominant in the construction of the area?

I saw them in TV sitcom neighborhoods. I saw them decorating the living room sets of drama programs. I even saw them in cartoons my children enjoy.

Why? What made these particular forms so popular?

As a documentary film director, I had to find an answer to this question. My research began with Egypt, but I quickly discovered a staggering quantity of ancient cultures which utilize the pyramid and the obelisk in nearly every aspect of their architecture.

My curiosity deepened as I learned more, and the more I learn the more I had to know. The need to construct such objects either big or small seemed to be as built into the human mind as the need to find a “true” religion. These seemed to be woven into the fabric of the human mind. Something in our nature compelled us to replicate the structures over and over, from one civilization to the next.

I found it next to impossible to think the monumental pyramids were constructed to house the mummified remains of a pharaoh or even the royal bloodline. One of the undeniable flaws in this logic was simple. No one ever found bodies, burial chambers or catacombs inside the structures. Such mausoleums were found in smaller rectangular buildings buried in the surrounding sands, but never any inside the pyramids themselves.

Different prehistoric nations throughout the world utilized figures from their mythology to create constellation maps of the stars. The three stars on Orion’s belt were viewed as symbols of various mythological deities and pyramidal representation of these stars could be found all over the world. This could not be a mere coincidence.

An alien conspiracy documentary colleague I once dismissed as fanciful and superstitious became someone with whom I worked ever more often. My wife worried for the credibility of my career if I were to continue with my associate, with Dr. Nebbins, but I paid her no mind. I imagine she cared more of what her superficial friends thought than my prestige.

Some mainstream archaeologists thought perhaps the pyramids were the ancient’s way of keeping track of annual weather cycles, but Nebbins held not even a fleeting doubt these were only secondary functions. What he believed to be their primary purpose seem to defy all rational logic. Nebbins believe the pyramid and obelisks structures of the past were to connect us with the gods.

These gods, he theorized, were no less than one or more extraterrestrial species. He was certain the secret to reaching the stellar beings was somehow encoded on the pyramids throughout the world. Nebbins believed these were clues left behind for us to discover.

This last part of his theory made no sense to me. Why would aliens come to earth, engineer the construction of tens of thousands of pyramids known worldwide, and then leave them falling into ruins. If anything, the buildings lived out their usefulness, and whatever created them left Earth for a new destination.

Then I learned something shocking. An engineer and defense contractor built seven steel and fiberglass pyramids much steeper than most of those from ancient times. The inside of the structure contained very little, really nothing more than the underside of the outside walls. He believed shape alone created an energy field of unknown origin.

Plants left to grow in these modern pyramids showed a 30% increase in their normal production. Antibiotic microbes allowed to remain in the center of these pyramids for a single lunar cycle showed hundreds or even thousands of times the potency of those kept in traditional conditions. People frequenting the fiberglass structured showed a marked decrease in heart disease and some types of cancer.

In 2010 two Russian jet fighters on training routines reported encountering a strange electromagnetic anomaly as they passed over one of the structures. Initial reports were that the jets were attacked by some form of new energy weapon. This I chalked up to being nothing but publicity propaganda intended to draw more tourists to the locations. I read the first-hand studies that showed unequivocally how some organisms did show measurable results, but electromagnetic field 10 miles high above the structures seemed a bit too much to believe.

I learned of a man in Bolivia, an outcast and the scientific community, who theorized a series of four-sided hills in his native country were pyramids. He believed, due to their sheer size, they had too have been covered intentionally. Loose rock and sediment could never work its way to that height. If this archaeological pariah was indeed correct, the largest of the Bolivian pyramids exceeded the largest pyramid in Egypt by more than twice the height and six times the mass. Not only that, samples from road like structures sent to six independent labs yielded the same astonishing results. The concrete was without a doubt artificial, it was at least 10,000 years old, and the quality at this age was still three times that of anything produced in this century.

My wife, a churchgoing woman, began to see my obsession with the pyramids as an obsession with the occult. She thought Dr. Nebbins to be nothing more than a dreamer and a laughingstock in the world of documentary film. As I spent more time in this archaeological research, she became increasingly cold and distant.

Devastation overwhelmed my one-track mind when I returned home late to find my wife and the children gone. At first, I assumed she took the children to a neighbor or friend, then I noticed many other things missing. I ran into the hall and a frantic rush of fear. In my mind, my family was kidnapped.

I thought perhaps my research was coming too close to someone, or something which wanted to stay secret, but the beige envelope propped up on the gaudy table froze me in my tracks. It was the dreaded dear John letter.

My wife of 15 years took my three children and moved to her mother’s in California. She thought I lost my grip on reality, her reality, and worried for her eternal soul and the souls of our children.

I called her multiple times over the next three days. She never answered her mobile phone and no one ever picked up at her mother’s. I again began to fear something tragic befell them until the sheriff deputy arrived at my door. Once verifying my identity, he served me with a restraining order preventing me from calling or visiting my wife and mother-in-law.

I sank into a deep depression. Alcohol, something for which I never cared, became my best friend. Not leaving my house for over three months, I survived on fattening delivery foods as I had no desire to cook. I had no desire to cook, and I did not have any food to cook even if I did.

I ignored my phones. Eventually my home phone and my mobile phone could hold no more messages, yet I continue to ignore them. A producer of mine wanted me to direct a film on the fact are fiction of man-made global climate change. This assignment would reinstate my credibility and fix my mounting financial difficulties, but I never answered or returned any of his calls.

By three months my insurance lapped, my utilities were all disconnected, and the same deputy sheriff arrived on my doorstep with a foreclosure notice. I lost my wife, I lost my children, and now I lost my home. My crazy obsession with two simple geometric shapes ruined my life, but I still could not stop fascinating over them.

I packed my ever-growing collection of stone objects and moved it into a small, one bedroom apartment. I took very little furniture as the confines of my new home allowed for close to nothing. Foremost I made sure to allow room for my stained mahogany display case, then I never worried about space for anything else. What I could not take I commissioned a lecherous company built on preying on the unfortunate to sell my remaining possessions.

I saw very little money from the liquidation. Eight months after my wife took my children and left my life for good, I got my first stroke of good luck. Someone knocked hard on my door and jarred me for my drunken sleep. Rolling off of the fabric couch, I knocked several mostly empty bottles of beer to the floor. As the amber bottles slurped the remainder of their stale contents onto my stained carpet, I staggered sluggishly to the door.

At the door stood a well-dressed man. The tailored suit and Italian shoes were like those that once adorned my body. Now I stood in a flannel shirt and my off-white briefs. I recognize the man. He worked for the bank. Without any thought I began to berate the man with every curse and swear that my hung-over mind could articulate.

When I finally let up on the poor man, he informed me my home sold for more than the remainder of my mortgage. All I had to do was go to the bank and sign for the excess of $100,000 that awaited me.

At the time I was much too inebriated to drive to the bank, and I passed out shortly after the man left. When I finally came to, a sunbeam glaring into the east window struck me blind. The hangover left from the previous night already gave my cranium the sensation of exploding. The yellow orange rays of the morning sun made me think my skull would implode at the same time.

On the end table of my couch sat a bottle of beautiful brown whiskey. There must’ve been two or more shots left in the uncapped container. Like a helpless sea turtle on the wet sands of the beach, I awkwardly pushed and shoved my way out of the accursed sunlight. This only mildly relieved the headache echoing inside the bones of my skull. Fighting back the intent nausea that begged me to empty my stomach contents on the floor, I pulled myself up to my knees.

I stretched my arm until I heard the rush of blood in my ears. Catching it with only my middle and index finger, I nearly pulled the bottle of glorious brew onto the floor. My reflexes triumphed over the shakes and I managed to catch the bottle right before I lost my magical elixir.

Moving through instinct rather than thought, I lifted the smooth glass opening to my lips and let the bitter fluid pour straight down my throat. The vaporous fumes permeated my sinuses bringing me a few steps closer to consciousness. Once the hair of the dog did its thing, I staggered to the cluttered bathroom to take a shower.

None of the towels were clean, so I found the least musty smelling one and dried my body with it. I knew I still stank of alcohol, the very smell seeped from the pores of my skin. I overcompensated with use of an excessive amount of antiperspirant. I hoped the two would fight an even enough of a battle to render me presentable.

Coincidently, the only clothes in my house not in desperate need of washing were my dress clothes. I mostly only wore suits to church, and there was not much need for them of late. My expensive loafers still remained in the box from the last time I sent them to be professionally polished. That was two weeks before my wife took the kids and left.

I arrived at the bank at precisely 10:32 AM. A year ago, I would’ve called that late morning. In the drunken haze I was in the last few months of my life I consider this to be extremely early. In my regularly inebriated state, I slept as late as my intoxicated brain allowed me.

The formalities frustrated me to the brink of releasing the reins on my anger. The man at the bank insisted on several forms of identification, and ask me multiple questions about my recent home address. There for a short time I thought he would ask me for a drop of my blood.

This bank took my house and sold it at auction for a fraction of its value. After deducting any charges and fees they wanted, I got what little remained. $100,000 was a lot of money, but it paled in comparison to the value of my home. I wanted this jerk to give me my money so I could get up and leave.

A pocket full of cash made me feel alive again. When I returned to my apartment and saw the deplorable conditions in which I was living, I realized I hit rock bottom. Easily fifty beer cans, seven or eight liquor bottles, and a dozen pizza boxes made up the landfill that my life became.

I cleaned my apartment, cut my shaggy hair, and cut off the Grizzly Adams beard whose primary function was to store potato chip crumbs. Once I had the look and confidence of a respectable man, I sought out my old friend Dr. Nebbins. To my dismay, I found he passed away during my drunken isolation.

He must have known I would eventually resume my research because he left several file boxes for me to examine. Much of the information stored in the plastic boxes he told me about, we worked on it together, or it was rather common archaeological, knowledge. The old scientist did leave me a few breadcrumbs to follow.

Tucked in a stiff folder bound with rubber bands, I found a loose collection of materials. Among them I found maps, a collection of his final notes kept together with a paper clasp and a large envelope. I set the envelope off to the side until I had time to go through Nebbins notes.

Shortly after my breakdown and I fell off the professional map, Nebbins came by a physicist with some radical theories about the pyramids even I thought to be ridiculous. I came to believe the pyramids all over the world to be markers for extraterrestrial visitors. Perhaps they were used to assist with the navigation of aerial vehicles. Perhaps their configuration around the world mark Earth for identification, a sort of nametag if you will. What Nebbins came to believe in his final days made my idea seem practical.

This physicist, a man from Hamburg Germany, theorized the pyramids were in reality energy generators. Made from cut stone with no movable parts to create power, this idea was absolutely absurd. The only documented report of unusual energy associated with the pyramids was the report made by the Russian air force pilots concerning the fiberglass structure built only decades ago, but no confirmation was ever made.

Nebbins made it very clear in his journal this was the truth behind the mystery of the pyramids. Nebbins could be rather eccentric in his line of thinking, but he always seemed to be a rational man. He believed many ideas to possess some validity, but in his final entries Nebbins stated he found the true purpose of the ancient structures.

Abandoning all other ideas, Nebbins focused his remaining wealth on unlocking this ancient secret. This physicist convinced Nebbins some simple trick would cause the buildings to once again produce energy from the very ground upon which they stood. Perhaps his age made him easy prey for the unnamed German, for the scientist goaded Nebbins on with the promise of eternity. To his dying breath, Nebbins felt this to be the absolute truth to the mystery of the pyramids.

Guilt washed over me, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Had I not been so wrapped up in my own well of depression, I may have prevented Nebbins from selling everything he had to fund expeditions all over the world. My old friend thought he was paying to send teams to key places in the world. He thought the trick to turning the power plants on was to do so in a specific sequence coordinated through hundreds of individual structures. He thought this physicist was using the money to achieve this goal, but I suspected the German saw an old man desperate to learn the knowledge he made his life’s work to find. I think he preyed on Nebbins in those final days to suck the man dry of his worldly possessions before my colleague left this life.

When I reached the last scribed page in the journal, I found it addressed to me directly. It seemed Nebbins was sure I would get the few things he still had left and used his last entry to give me a message. I wondered if my friend had gone insane, for the word scribed on the page made no sense.

“Mark my friend, before I leave, there is something I must tell you. We did not know what the ground looked like until we took to the air. We did not see the earth until we were able to escape its atmosphere. The only way to truly understand the universe is to step outside of it and look back in.

“Humankind is absolutely deluded into thinking our narrowly focused senses could even begin to perceive the truths of all that is. Arrogant with our technology and knowledge, we knew no more of reality than the hermit crab in the tide-pool understands the orbit of the planets.

“The Big Bang that created this universe was no more than a brief spark of light. Black holes in this universe continually create more, but this universe resides in the black hole of in another universe. In turn, that universe is no more than a disembodied particle in this universe.

“We call the circular existences impossibilities, paradoxes because our infinitely narrow way of thinking. In truth, they are really embarrassingly simple. One simply has to be ready to accept everything they know to be wrong. All of our science is flawed because we limit it with our intelligence.

“We think we are smarter now because we develop ever increasingly complex technologies. The truth is, people 10,000 years ago understood this universe much more than we as they understood our universe was only a very small part of the infinite whole.

“Alien visitors were not from different parts of this galaxy or any other galaxy. They were from Earth, just not this one. The laws of their universe followed different laws of physics, if anything can really be called a law. As I said, you must accept everything you know to be wrong.

“The simple geometry of the pyramid generates a nearly endless supply of energy. This energy feeds another version of reality inside the web of all that is and is not. Except the simplicity and it will begin to make sense.”

That was the end of the journal. Obviously Nebbins was suffering from dementia before his death. He spoke in circular sentences and logical nonsense. A universe was made by the universe it created? That was a bit too much.

Exhausted, I started to my bedroom. In the hall stood the case holding that obelisk I bought several years back. Before I turned off the light, I thought I saw a crack in the beautiful quartz construct. Possibly no more than a trick of light, I decided to check on the obelisk that cost me a small fortune.

The artifact looked shattered, but remained in one piece. Angry, I opened the case to look at my worthless decoration. Gazing into it’s form, I witnessed the impossible. Light refracted in layers similar to cracks, but the layers of faint rainbows were in a state of flux.

What is, is not and what is not is. The words and my friend came back to my mind. I have to except everything I know is wrong. Worlds, stranger than anything I ever imagine appeared in the quarts structure of the obelisk. Although it stood there in the case in front of me, I look from the inside out. The simplicity of the object was extraordinary, extraordinary but more complex in its mathematics than ever considered in this day and age.

I knew all matter consisted of pure energy, but only now could I see it. See is a misused term. What I perceived extended beyond my five senses. Energies invisible to my eyes played in beautiful colors and indescribable entities surrounded and even passed right through me.

The slow degradation of my energy became perceivable. I knew, when I died, the energy would take on a new form without the burden of my consciousness. The cohesion that made me me would one day end then I would cease to be.

My soul extended to encompass the galaxy, but it existed inside the galaxy. The universe did not exist but there it was right in front of me. Reality became a sponge of holes, strands, and intersections. As confusing as it should be, the simple shapes explained the complexity of the multi-verse.

If my mind and my energy went separate ways, my life truly meant nothing at all. I know why kings, pharaohs and emperors thought they would become gods. They utilized the pyramid to compress their limited energy to create a singularity of infinite heat and density. The final amount of their lives gave birth to a new universe. In a way, they did become gods.

As my last will, I released myself in the maelstrom of the shifting chaos that formed the logic of the absolute truth. In billions of years, marked in the laws of its new universe, the first life forms would arise. My life ended and a new reality began due to the influence of simple shapes.

Boarded Up House

By Mychal Wilson

On October 10, 2019

In Aetet 2, Fourth Triad, Vastness of Reality

Word Count: 2,671

I awoke lying on the damp ground and surrounded by hardwood trees. Smooth gray clouds covered the dim sky, and a slightly chilling drizzle made its way to me from between the leafy treetops. It was difficult to think. My mind was nothing but a haze.

I am not sure what happened. The last thing I can recall was driving my lovely wife and two children through a high-end residential area. We were headed to the home of a long-time work friend. He was having a huge barbeque party and invited my family and me to join in on the food and festivities.

I drove us into the large gated community, greeting the familiar guard as we entered. We were almost to my friend’s house, and then I recall seeing a blinding light. Sometime later I woke up lying in the woods with a pounding headache.

Immediately my palms began to tremble with anxiety and my knees shook with terror. I could feel my legs buckling beneath me. My heart pounded rapidly in my chest, and I began to hyperventilate as I went into a full panic. My first thought was we were in a car accident. The accident must have thrown me free, and I landed here.

When I saw a street light glowing in the night several hundred feet through the obscuring trees, I knew that could not be the case. It is not possible that a car accident could throw me this far through the woods. I would have hit a tree and stopped long before I could make here.

The second thought to cross my mind was I must have hit my head and wondered away in a daze. Strenuously I raised myself to my feet and began to sprint toward the light. Either I was not injured, or I was too worried about my family to notice the pain.

My head on the other hand beat like and African drum. My eyes blurred from the excruciating pain and I could hear the roaring rush of blood in my ears. Despite the hindrance, I struggled to run out of these woods as quickly as I could.

I guess I reached my threshold because only twenty or thirty feet from the street light, my knees buckled under me. I plunged face first onto the ground again falling into unconsciousness. When I next awoke, the sun was out. By the looks of it, it was still early morning.

Not far away at all I saw cars passing by. Forcing myself back to my feet, I staggered through the remainder of the forest. When I made it to the clearing and onto a sidewalk, I had no idea where I was. Frantically I looked around for something familiar.

As I attempted to discern my location; I also looked for any signs of an accident. I saw no wreckage, no tire marks or any broken glass. If I was indeed in an accident, I must have wandered far away. Perhaps the road on which the accident occurred was on the other side of the forest.

I staggered along the light-gray concrete sidewalk for ten minutes or so and finally I spotted my friend’s car. It was parked in the driveway of the ranch-style house next to his blue-gray Tudor, but I knew without a doubt the car was his. I thought perhaps his neighbors allowed him to park in their driveway so those attending the party last night could park on his property.

I did not know why he parked there, and I did not care. As fast as I could force my weary body to move, I headed directly for his house. Two times I tripped and fell on his lawn before I made it to his front porch.

In my frantic state, I beat hard on the door while simultaneously ringing the doorbell over and over. I allowed a few seconds to pass and resumed pounding on the door as I screamed for help. I heard someone call out from the house next door.

“They’re out of town for a few days,” the man from the neighboring house yelled. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Propping my exhausted body against the door frame, I turned to look at the man addressing me. It was my friend. He was wearing a bath robe and it appeared he was out getting his morning paper when he heard the commotion and observed me beating on the hardwood door.

I was sure this was his house. I thought perhaps in my panicked state, I got the houses wrong. I never visited his home before, but I knew this area. It seemed like the directions he gave me on Friday sent me to this house, but obviously I was wrong. I did not care. I was relieved to at least know where I was.

As I did my best to run toward my colleague, I yelled out, “Something happened. I think I was in and accident and I don’t know where Susan and the girls are.”

He beaconed me with a repeated wave of his hand. When I reached him, he took me by the shoulders to help steady my trembling body. Looking at me with an unfamiliar gaze, he tried to calm me.

“Slow down sir,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

I quickly explained to him the last thing I remembered was going to his house for the cookout, then the next thing I knew I woke up in a large patch of woods. He looked at me with a face filled with confusion. Right then his young wife came to the door and asked if everything was okay.

“You’d better call the police,” he told her in a tone somehow sounding both calm and distressed.

My friend helped me to the porch swing and instructed me to sit down. As I caught my breath, I explained to him Susan, the girls and I got ready and were headed for his house for the barbeque. I explained to him that we were driving, and were almost here, when I think we had an accident. I told him I did not know where my wife and daughters were, and I was terrified something happened to them.

He looked at me like he was even more confused. I started to wonder if we did make it to the party and something happened on the way home. Perhaps that is what he found so confusing. I did not know what happened. All I cared about at the moment was where my family was and if they were alright.

“I am sure the police will be able to help you sir,” my friend and longtime co-worker said.

That was several times he used the word sir to address me. I did not know why. It was not like I was his boss or anything. I did not have the time to speculate on why he spoke to me in such a way, so I flatly asked him why he kept calling me sir.

With a quizzical look on his face, he shook his head gently and said, “Well, I don’t know your name, and you did not introduce yourself.”

I stood to face my good friend and angrily poked him several times hard in the chest. He backed away but did not look like he planned to strike back. He seemed to be trying hard to remain calm, but I could see fear growing in his eyes.

“That is not funny,” I snapped at him as I jabbed his ribs with my finger. “Please, for the love of God, if you know where Susan and my girls are, tell me. This is no time to joke.”

Now seemingly incredibly perplexed, the man in front of me tried to explain he had no party last night. He did not know me and he insisted he did not know my wife or our girls.

“Come on,” I pleaded, growing close to shedding tears. “We’ve worked together at the same firm for ten years.”

Again, softly shaking his head, the man with whom I was so familiar said to me, “Sir, I don’t work at any firm. I am an engineer at the railroad.”

By this time I had enough. I was terrified. I did not need my friend pranking me. Shaking him by the shoulders, I demanded he stop this foolishness and tell me what happened. He tried to pull away from my grip, but his back was already against the wall.

I began to shout and almost immediately heard someone call out from the street.

“Sir, I need you to let go of that other gentleman and take a few steps back,” a uniformed police officer said.

Some sense of relief washed over me when I saw the two officers and their patrol car. If anyone could help me figure out what happened and where my family was, it would be them. In my brief moment of zeal, I ran, or rather scrambled toward the officers.

“Sir, you need to stop where you are right now,” the officer nearest me ordered in a stern tone. Both officers placed their hands on their sidearm. In my current frame of mind, I did not think of how the police would consider me charging toward them a threat.

I froze in my tracks. Tears welled up in my eyes.

“Please help me, you have to help me,” I begged. “I can’t remember last night, and now I have no idea what happened to my family.”

“Please!” I cried.

The officers approached me and asked me to explain the situation.

As I tried to piece things together so I could explain it to the police, the second officer asked me if I had any identification. Not even thinking, I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and removed my driver’s license. Without interrupting my explanation to the first officer, I handed the second my ID.

Once I told him everything, he instructed me to stay where I was and approached the scared and confused couple standing on the front porch of the smaller house. I could see by my friend’s demeanor as he told the policeman he did not know me. I almost ran over there to ask him why he was doing this to me, but I knew that would not be a smart thing to do.

My friend and his wife went back into their house, and the officer headed over to me again. Before he reached me, the other law-enforcement officer beckoned him over with a nod of his head. The two stood closely. Their backs turned away from me just enough that I could not attempt to read their lips. It was probably only one or two minutes, but it felt like they talked for hours before finally coming back over to me.

“Can you verify your name for me sir?” the first officer inquired.

I answered the question, and then he had me verify my address and finally my driver’s license number. As I answered each question I grew more and more frustrated. We were wasting time that we could spend trying to find my family. I had enough and in an angered tone I asked them why they were not helping me.

“It appears sir that this driver’s license is fake,” the second officer said. “Our system does not have your name, the DL number is not valid, and no one registered with the department of motor vehicles lives at that address.”

My head spun as I listened to his words. I nearly passed out. I could not remember last night. Could I have sustained a head injury bad enough to make me this delusional?

I began to sob as my knees buckled underneath me. One of the officers grabbed a hold of me before I crumpled to the ground. Helping me remain erect, the two officers assisted me to the patrol car.

“Let’s get you over here so you can sit down. Then we can try to figure out what is going on,” one of them said as they led me to be back seat of the patrol car.

“Now, tell me again what happened,” the first officer instructed.

“I already explained it,” I said quite loudly with an obvious tone of anger to my voice.

“Sir please,” the second officer said. “You need to calm down.”

“Look, I told you my wife, daughters and I were going to a barbeque,” I reiterated. I went through the details of what I could remember once again.

“And you were going to this man’s house for the barbeque,” the second officer continued. “The problem sir is they said they had no barbeque yesterday and neither of them knows who you are.”

“Okay,” I said. “I thought that was his house,” I explained as I pointed at the larger domicile. “Once I realized he lived in that smaller house, I wondered why he did not have this gathering at the pa-park over….”

I did not finish my sentence. When I pointed to the park, I instead found myself looking at the forest I recently staggered out of. There was no park. I knew without a doubt a park once existed there. On more than one occasion Susan, the girls and I went there for a picnic, to fly kites and so forth.

Was I going insane or was I insane already? How could so many of the details I remembered so well be so wrong. For a moment I thought I was dreaming, but I ruled that out quickly. This was too vivid.

“Ok sir,” the first officer said. “We are going to bring you to the address on your license.”

“If it is a fake, it is a very-very good one,” I heard the second officer whisper to the first.

They did not handcuff me, but they did close me in the back seat of the car. I suppose they had to, but this enclosure almost sent me into a whole new level of panic. I tried not to think about being confined and focused my attention out the window.

As we reached my neighborhood, it shocked me when I noticed the conditions of some of the lawns. They had brown spots, a major sign of grubs. The trees along the road on which I lived were mostly gone. The remaining trees appeared to be quite sickly.

I recognized the houses, but they looked like no one performed any upkeep on them for years. Car parts and furniture littered some of the yards. Lawns were allowed to grow deep in some areas. I did not understand. The homeowners’ association would never allow these conditions to exist.

Finally we reached my address. My head swirled and I became very disoriented. I did not panic this time. I believe I was in too much of a state of shock and felt little else.

This could not be possible. My friend did not know me. My driver’s license number did not exist. The park my family and I frequented was gone as if it were never built. The finely manicured neighborhood in which I lived for twenty years was quite dilapidated and run down.

Perhaps I could believe some of that, but what I saw at the moment made me question my existence. Looking at the beautiful home in which Susan and I raised our children I saw it was in serious disrepair. A small portion of the roof looked like it collapsed some time ago. I was looking at my home, my once beautiful home. Instead of seeing the house I remembered, I looked at an old, dilapidated building.

In the front seat, one officer said, “Why are we wasting our time sitting here.”

“I don’t know,” the other replied as he glanced at the empty back seat.

“Well drive somewhere. I don’t know why we are sitting here in front of this boarded up house.”