CHAPTER THREE

Philip desperately clawed at reality as it slipped away from him. He didn’t know how to react. Who would? Even with every fiber of his being gathered together to hold on, the borders began to blur. He no longer could tell what was real and what wasn’t.

He refused to believe this is what he thought it was, the end. There had to be more, more life, or whatever else the universe has in store. Philip had to come out of this okay, one way or another. This would not be the end of his story. A sudden shift forced his perspective off alignment, and he was hurled into another state altogether.

* * *

'Clear blue skies, wide grass surroundings, as far as the eye can see.

I can see. I CAN SEE! I can see all of this.

Green and blue of both earth and cosmos combined, going off like fireworks in my blind.

Oh, boy, with this new found sight, a well-rested joyfulness is re-birthed into my life.

This cannot be. But perhaps? The slow illusion of the past starts to evade my thoughts.

I no longer give way to the before. Or worry about the after.

I no longer ask the reasonable questions that show off human distinction.

Where am I? What am I doing here? Where am I from?

The cognitive. Like Adam chasing Eve in the Garden.

I merely just go with it. I run. For I can see. So, I just run. And seeing is good.

Oh, I am mistaken, and I have misspoken. No, behold!

How it is so much more than good! More than perfect, more than it all.

It is the most wonderful ability to be able to see, sans thinking and thought, of course.

And that is the final word on any debate of the human nature. Seeing is truly believing.

This new found appreciation is startling. Perhaps, I am forgetting something? Nonsense.

It is so satisfying to see the clouds and the flora. That is reason enough just to perceive light.

Aside from good tasting things and the once-in-a-while good smell, sight will always reign supreme.

As one who has seen both sides of the coin, let me say one thing I believe most out of all:

Vision, bar none, makes living— No, it makes being happen.

Some might argue that living is undisputed in such a winner's circle, but the fact of the matter is: when you can live and cannot see, life becomes the most terrible of travesties. But if you cannot live and you can see, then your world is something else entirely; your world is of a higher calling.

At some other end of the map, it starts to rain. The storm slowly approaches. The conjuring of the storm sucks the air through an earthy filter. And with it, goes that what's left of my memories and rememberings. Any magic of the moments that consisted of my former life corrupts inside the eye of the storm and is spat back out, sprinkling into effervescent transparencies that land all around me. Like Taraxacum Parachutes softly riding the wind down, and out. The storm stirs in the distance. One lamp, in an empty room. It looks either scared to confront me or unaware of my existence. Do I make it aware? What business else is there?

I make a run for the storm. I run for it's shadow. It's quaking darkness to trample over. Two beings are roaming around in this one landscape. The immovable object and the unstoppable force. More specifically, the force of the storm, and me, the mortal man. A force of empiricism and evolution; and most of all, soul. What doth lightening and thunder have upon it but chaos and chemicals? Why am I speaking like this? I continue on my drawn out charge.

Miles of country run below my feet as I churn the machine. That storm is mine. I can see the line. The line that depicts good from evil. Peace versus disaster. Comedy and tragedy. The white from the black. My side, the side of light and life, sunshine and reflecting entities. The other side, darkness, wet, cold, shadows of the storm.

I keep pace. I will jump the line and never feel the difference. Then invade the eye. Rescue my moments. And bid today a good day. I come around, getting up to full speed; And I jump. The course bends after it's climax. I start my free fall into darkness. But I do not land on the other side's floor. I fall.

Helplessly plummeting deeper into the abyss.

There is nothing I can do. Helpless to say the least. The insignificance of me within this lost place becomes important. Now I am not a force that can rival the storm. I am merely collateral damage. And I am suffering the consequences of such a position. All the while falling into further nothingness.

No pain, just fear. Sudden suspension: everything around me is black. I can not even tell if I am moving anymore. I don't feel like it. Oh, the paradox. But the truth somehow, slips through. I was caught. I was grabbed from my free fall, and now I was being pulled ruthlessly back up the hole, in which I fell, at double-time pace.

A vicious sound and terrible fury sucking me in. Lifted out of the darkness and up into the storm. It lets me go and I fall inside of it, a twister. In it's center I stand up. The winds billow around me. I feel like the fans inside a jet engine.

At the top, flashes of light and day come in arbitrarily. The storm swallows and purges from every orifice. It is wicked. I feel both scared and powerful. It is a feeling I have known before. But where? Where are my memories? Were they not supposed to be here? Ah, for what, it does not matter. I am here now, And I beg to know...

"What exactly am I in!"I yell out loud.

The Storm rolls over and comes to a screeching halt.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I have upset the raging monster.

Now it will be focused on me. The winds pick up as the walls rise and fall. Stretched and released. Like some carnival ride that turns you into jelly. I get sucked away and thrown back in, a puppet of elemental nature. I try to get back on my feet every time I get tossed off of them.

The degradation sinks in, and I now know what this disaster is after. Not just humility, but it's essential core— my humanity. I stand up once again. This time preparing for another blow. It comes sweeping in from above. But before it can make contact with my face I yell, "Stop!"

I hold my hand out and the raining wave of wind gets parted through my fingers and dies. The storm stops circling around and pulls away from behind me. It gathers together as one mighty being in front of me and musters a solid form.

It looks as though an ancient stone statue that has come to life. No pupils, wide intangible eyes. Young face, powerful stance. The edges continuously, in scattered areas, briefly sizzle back into wind. Like an organ letting off steam during a grand symphony. Translucent matter wrapped in gray stone robes and tunics. He is roughly the size of a fully grown tornado. As I look up at him, his head's silhouette practically eclipses the sun in the background. I try to make out his face in the shadow.

"Come...Look upon me," says the storm, "I reap the Catalyst, govern the wills of nature, consume the bounty of man, and rule these lands with unpronounced superiority and unbiased execution, for I am the Storm Harvester. A god. Holy and fierce, I show no mercy, but take stern care in my domain."

"You are a storm?"

"Not nearly as simple as you phrase it. I am not just a storm. I am the consumer. I give the producer meaning in this world."

"Does the producer not give you meaning as well?"

"No! You have no idea human. How dare you speak as if you know better? There is no producer. Who I speak of's name is: The Divine Catalyst, and he is my older brother. We are the last two of a dying race."

"A dying race?"

"You task me mortal.”

“Please holy lord, indulge me!” I begged.

“As you wish, puny one. I am one of the Asunder Gods. Made from the Mighty Force, we, it's children, broke apart from it and traveled through the universe. We came upon this planet and together made it worthy of life. Now there are only two of us left. Me and the Catalyst."

"What happened to the others?"

"A plague. It devoured us. Much like what happened to our predecessor, we created life from our essence and in that miraculous act we also created a means for our extinction. Slowly, but steadily the life we created evolved and came after us. Now they have conquered all but me and the Catalyst. For some time, the Catalyst has masked his marvel in a superficial representation of physical matter."

"I don't understand."

"He has turned himself into organic life, and now he hides on Earth. And so, I rage over Earth looking for him."

"Why do you need to find him?"

"If I do not find him, they will. And after they consume him, they will become more powerful than me. But together, we can bring glory back to our kingdom before our creation wins. If we combine our forces I am certain I can revive my brothers and sisters."

"So, what do you want from me then? A puny mortal."

"You are Earth. You can act as my godly hand on your fleshy plane. If you serve me, I will make you as powerful as I am. I will turn you into a god amongst men. You will never feel pain and suffering the same way again. Take this offer and you will become immortal."

"What must I do?"

"Wait for my signal." The voice fades away into the sky as the storm gets sucked out of the atmosphere into space.

The whole time it swirls before my eyes. Like a whirlpool of clouds disappearing in the sky. Not like, actual. It is actually happening as I am the sole viewer. If this is earth, then I am most certainly lost. Not to mention alone. So, I long for what I just bid farewell to; a storm that I was holding a concrete conversation with.

Funny, the storm flees, but the shadowed earth still remains. I can still see the line. The divider of light and darkness. Finally, the bed of storm left under my feet is the last to be pulled out into cold space. I fall back to the floor. But wait! There is no floor! I fall back into the abyss.

Plummeting ceaselessly. What is this? I stretch out my hands trying to find a grip. Trying to find what saved me last time but its gone. I grab hold of a thin drape. And it coils in the thick dark air. I swing over into the walls. I look at what I'm clinging to. It is nothing but a wisp of smoke. The moment I realize that it slips through my fingers.

Again, I fall, trying to grab a hold of another imaginary drape. I begin to feel many linens run through my fingers. I grab them, shut my eyes tight, and swing through the dark marsh of shadow. The more I envision the cloths holding me, the thicker they become. I clench my eyelids, trying to close my eyes harder. Turning the illusion more vivid.

I can begin to climb up the curtain. I struggle to make up the ground I covered falling. It is no easy feat. I am getting exhausted, but I go on. I must get to the side of light. I cannot give up. Its hard not giving up when these ropes and ladders made of mysterious material could give out at any time.

At last! I get to the top. And swim over to the light side. As I swim I hold my head under, and it feels good. I open my eyes and look at the lake of shadow. I swim for the ivory beach. There is black bottom. Like some corroded bay, corrupted and spoiled by ages and eons of plundering and piracy.

Ah, but I will be done with this soon. I can feel the velvet grains of sand catching my fingers. I am crash landing on the light side. but why can I still see the black bottom? "WHY CAN I STILL FEEL THE DARKNESS UPON ME!" I scream. But nothing can here me.

I lose the sand and become one with the falling wind, once again, into the never-ending darkness. The black side is now everything, it is all sides. And I am giving up. There will be light again, and I will try again. But I will fail. I understand now.

The Locker assiduously opens, but I can never escape.'

* * *

Doctor Randolph (Philip’s attending physician), Doctor Fitzsimons (the military scientist), and Philip’s nurse sat in a post operation room on the intensive care floor. The nurse had just finished up changing his bandages and switched his IV bag.

"With that drip he'll be back with us in a couple of minutes."

"His heart rate is still a little high," said the nurse.

"Once he gets this in his system he won't have to fight as hard to come back to us. Just wait, Natalie. He'll be fine," said Doctor Randolph, reassuringly.

Dr. Fitzsimons got up out of his chair, "I am tired of waiting. This kid is going to die unless we find that plant!"

"You don't know that. The cocktail we gave him combined with the operation should be sufficient. Let's just hope his brain can cope with the amount of trauma he's endured." Rebutted Dr. Randolph.

Just then, Philip's ex-wife entered the room with two people behind her.

"Oh, Sarah, you're back. He's still unconscious, but he is doing a lot better."

"That's good."

"We were just leaving." Said Dr. Fitzsimons, as he and the nurse walked out of the room. They exchange glances with the two unknown companions of Sarah.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Randolph, I don't believe we've met."

Before the two could respond to the kind Doctor's greeting, the heart rate panel sounded off frantically. Philip snapped his eyes open and jolted back into reality. Reality hit him and with it the darnkess. He crazily waved around his hands, testing his re-entrance into the human realm. He catched the IV post. The first thing he could target. The metal stand pivoted and then cracked under the pressure Philip was applying with his palm. Dr. Randolph lunged his body at the IV bag to make sure it didn't tear. He caught it before it hit the floor as he himself landed on his chest hard against the floor.

"Philip!" screamed out the other two visitors. Philip stopped squirming and calmed down, still dramatically breathing. In between a couple of irregular inhales and exhales he muttered his first two words of conscious recovery.

"Mom? Dad?"