The Flammarion Syncope Read online

  The Flammarion Syncope was self-published.

  Written by Garret Ford.

  Text Copyright (c) 2018 Garret Ford, All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by James Hutchinson.

  To report errors, errata, or questions please email:

  [email protected]

  LIARS TRUTH.

  IDENTITY HAS BEEN REMOVED.

  TO PROTECT THE GUILTY-

  &

  TO MASK THE INNOCENT.

  Contents

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3?

  Chapter 4-

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10-

  Chapter 11-

  Chapter 12-

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16-

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20-

  Chapter 21-

  Chapter 22-

  If you want, draw a picture of your favorite character on this page. Your copy of the book is dedicated to that character.

  Chapter 1.

  “…”

  Chelsea N. Oppenheimer

  “What is Déjà vu?” My teacher asked, laughing.

  She smiles with thin unpainted lips, eyelashes unburdened by cosmetics. Her face cut by time’s unkind razors. Her hair is dark, her skin light. Her smile is warm, her coffee cold. She wore a pantsuit, most days she smelled like cheap cigarettes, today being one of them.

  “Anyone know?” She wiped the board clean with the eraser.

  Tabula Rasa.

  Recall, recall? Repetition creates remembrance, the poster with the elephant writing “an elephant never forgets” on a black board over and over. Claustrophobic classroom. The row of books on the shelf are; Hamlet, King Lear, the Scottish Play, Encyclopedia of the English Language, Encyclopedia of the French Language.

  “Déjà vu- was forgotten” She asked frowning.

  My awareness widens. Black on white. Chalk dust falls. The value brand clock ticks idly above us. My view from the window, such a sight. A line of trees sinking into a swamp behind an old barb wire fence. In the distance, cars on the way to real life. I count them. The highway noise sounds almost like the sea- not at all. The patter of footsteps in the hall. The shuffling student, every day.

  “What do you think?” My teacher asked.

  I had been concentrating on the mug stained with lipstick, sitting cold and forgotten on the desk. Frozen. Forgotten. Oh, weary mind, how blessed it is to forget- to unburden the unnecessary and break free from the past. Each memory shoveled into the furnace of time. Ignite, combust, then ashes remain. I stand up for the class. Nerves, bad nerves, bad at public speaking. Oubliette. I Forget.

  Focus on the answers, forget the question, focus on the question, forget the answer. Deja Vu. The sense you have seen something before? The sense you have been somewhere before? The sense you have been someone before? The sense that all of this, the pain, the pleasure, the sights, and sound is familiar? The familiar breeds contempt and distractions most dire.

  “Oubliette m-m-means t-to-forget.” I bumbled.

  “En français?” She smiles and hands me the chalk.

  “Oui, Madame- uh…” I stopped.

  I stand at the front of the class. Chalk in hand trembling. I know this. I've forgotten though. The minute that seems like an hour. I keep standing. Silent. Dumb.

  “Be seated?” She cringes.

  Sigh of relief.

  “Please, see me after class.” She said softly as she puts her hand on my shoulder.

  Head in my hands. Eyes closed. Drift off. I forget the lesson. I day dream during the rest of the day. I day dream my life as I wish it to be, a better world. The land of do as I please, and what if. Hidden, secret, safe. The final bell rings and I am released from the cycle. Life a flurry of decisions, always ending in death. The heroes, tragically; the villains, deservedly; the rest, quietly. Regardless of sin, always death.

  “Vous êtes très oublieux.” My teacher said plainly.

  I may as well have vomited. Awkward moments of my life.

  “French has many useful words and phrases to get you through life. If you ever want to work for the government, you will need to know the language.” She sighed and continued. “The oubliette is a dungeon- where you put things and forget about them. A place where the only way to escape ascension.”

  “Ascension.” I said.

  Snow caked paws. Barking. Yipping. Constant pain. Clawing at the door. Howling. Waiting for their master. Yet, I never return. The eternally loyal hound, now dying alone in a pound, confused by memories of love. Waiting. Caged. Toothless. Blind.

  Forgotten in a dungeon. Horrible. Waiting and whimpering. Howling in loneliness. Even as the needle pierces flesh and passes beyond. The dog dreams. The dog is running to their master to be snuggled again. The dog never forgot, though they were forgotten.

  “Oubliette, where you put things to forget.” I said.

  “Bad at French, aren’t good at English either.” She said, sitting across from me. I look down at the speckled carpet. The colour of a quail's feather. I hear the road noise increase as the parents come to take their kids home. Nobody is here for me though. Oubliette.

  I am alone inside the cell, I look through the circle shaped window. I wave to the guard. Who is guarding the guard?

  “These sorts of things happen to the best of us, pumpkin.” The voice echoes.

  I am alone and unobserved. Am I forgotten?

  “Wait a minute pumpkin, are you telling this story in present tense?” A voice interrupted.

  “No, it is happening now and has happened- time is simultaneous and there is no present.” I answer.

  “Strange mindset- for a mortal.” The voice laughed.

  “All of my life and yours; this story will play out again, with different actors and different lines, thought it always will happen as it must. There is no escape, and the play never ends.” I said.

  “Everything ends, pumpkin.” The voice replies.

  “A comedy for the gods, torment for mortals” I crowed.

  I stood, transfixed. But my mind had gone blank as I shook. The house lights came up though. I saw the audience watching me. I am self-conscious suddenly. The class looks unnerved, my professor looks pissed. My drama professor was an intimidating woman, skeletal, fiery red mane, hungry jade eyes, and perpetual scowl from years of watching young actors butcher Shakespeare, Marlowe, Brecht, Pinter, and Beckett. As always, she wore plain gray smock and sweatpants, it made it easier to move she had told us.

  “Keep the mask on tighter.” My drama professor said.

  “What?” I turned around looking puzzled and stopped my performance. “I wear no mask.”

  “No mask?” She said, stomping; grabbing my face and pinching and pulling my flesh.

  “No mask.” I said.

  “Keep the mask on tight!” She repeated, the class frozen.

  “You keep the mask on, stop method acting.” She said.

  “But- I’m not done.” I said.

  “Done. Too close to you. Chose a different monologue, you can perform it next week.” She said. “Next!” She shouted, and another student stood up and replaced me on the stage.

  “I am fine…” I lied.

  “If you are fine, what are those?” She pointing to my face.

  I found, tears, to my surprise.

  The church basement smells like burnt coffee, disinfectant soap, and stale cigarettes smoke. There is poster on the wall. About being powerless- and acceptance. Circled chairs
filled with flesh.

  “Defining Fine; Fucked, insane, neurotic and empty.” The anonymous man said.

  “Everything went wrong. But I can control it now.” I said.

  “You are powerless over-“ An anonymous woman began-

  “I am not powerless.” I said.

  “What can you control?” Another asked.

  “Whatever I put my mind to.” I said.

  “Yourself, and five feet around you, are all you can control, everything else is chaos.” The man with the clipboard said.

  “I am not helpless.” I said, defiant.

  “You can do this all on your own?” She asked.

  “Yes.” I said, prideful.

  “Then why are you here today?” She asked.

  “…” I said, defeated.

  “That’s enough for today.” the man with the clipboard said.

  Everyone stood, held hands, bowed their heads, and spoke as one. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference”

  “OOH-RAH!” One shouted as the prayer ended.

  To someone else, you are the “other people” which this sort of thing happens to. I was miles away, always distracted, when I found out. I was led into the principal’s office; I didn’t believe it. I wipe the snot from my nose with my grungy uniform’s cuff, cup my face in my hands to hide my tears. Awakening from a long nap. The feeling of itchy wool dress socks in my stiff leather shoes is back. My teacher hands me a tissue and helps me dry my tears.

  “Do you want me to drive you there?” She asked.

  “Yes, please.” I said.

  “These are extenuating circumstances...” She said.

  These things aren’t normal. Dial in 7-23-42. My black book-bag, King Lear, and the Catbird Seat. The gravel cracks under my uncomfortable leather dress shoes. It is hot for May and there is not a cloud in sight. The grass is green. School would be out soon too. The buzzing of insects and the frogs croak in unison from the swamp fills the air. I am on the outside now. Her car smells like vanilla and cinnamon.

  I feel a pain in my chest. This pain, unknown to me at this point in the narrative, will be a familiar pain felt at all different occasions. The pain of being alive and mortal- the pain of attachment and loss. Bitter loss of friends, family, jobs, dreams, secrets, lovers, and finally life. The familiar pain that unites all, for not only in sorrow will I feel this pain, but in joy, for even a happy change, is a loss.

  Time flies. Time crawls. It hasn't even been an instant.

  “People can use tragedy as a crutch or a hurdle.” She said.

  “I know.” I said I did but looking back- I didn't know.

  “Remember, only make tea for people who matter.” She said.

  Rolling wheat fields, the radio was playing my favorite song.

  “Thank you.” I smiled a little, not understanding the aphorism.

  Green trees.

  “You will carry this weight for a while, but it won’t be so heavy if you ask for help.” She said. “I only teach you gym, but if you need help and want to talk. I can listen.”

  “I will.” In some timelines, this was a lie, in softer worlds, truth.

  Sheep in the sun grazing on grassy knolls.

  “…” She said.

  The cloud in the distance almost looks like a whale.

  “Thanks. I will.” I lied.

  The doctor stands beside the patient's bed. The patient's face is pale, worn, greenish, puffy and sickly. I stare. The doctor’s coat is long and white like a funeral shroud. The patient breathes in and then lets out a slow wearying breath.

  “Everyone has come, are you prepared?” The doctor said.

  “This is the end.” The patient said.

  “Hush, you can let go now.” The doctor whispered softly.

  “Finally…” The patient said.

  “Don’t go.” I cried out.

  “God be with you.” The patient said.

  “And also, with you.” I said, weeping.

  Reality fainted into black spirals of ether and my mind breaks out of the bodily chains. The wraiths claw at me, but their talons do not catch. The funeral shrouds fly away. I am not lost anymore. I am free, floating in the void. I am inside the pyramid's eye. Minutes are stretched into infinity. For a moment I dream I am a butterfly. I think; therefore, I am; I dream; therefore, I create.

  Houses aren't always homes. Open the gate, iron, cold. Walk alone up to my house. Empty. Another latch key kid. Divert my path, instead of going home, I sit by the creek. I put my hand into the water and take a drink. Living out here isn’t so bad.

  The waters of Lethe wipe away the memory. The painful memory. Sweet waters of Lethe. Wash over my body. Baptize me with ignorance. Doomed to repeat these mistakes. Deja Vu. Fleeting recollection. I cling to the shore. I try to remember how to swim. How to resist the current. I am empty.

  I wake up alongside the creek. My fat orange cat has curled up beside me. Sleeping. Waking into a walking dream. There is a recognition. There is a semblance of something unique. The mundane divinity of everyday living.

  That moment is only farther back for me. It is being experienced by the other-self. I am still crying in my teachers’ shoulder. Staining with my teenage tears. That moment never ended. Nor has this moment. Each moment. Stamped. Frozen frames. Super position of matter. We are at all instants and at none. I am the watcher of the mind, not the mind itself. I observe from above, alone.

  He stares out at me with a pair of tired eyes, wrinkled forehead, graying hair, and smiling. The room is filled with odd paintings, books, half scribbled notes piled haphazardly. Hygiene matters in civilized society, cleanliness is next to godliness, but obviously not for my fortune teller. How vain am I. To keep fit. To eat properly. To try and keep up appearances. Collector’s edition action figure never played with- but looked at.

  “This is yourself in this situation.” The fortune teller draws a card and places it in front of me.

  The card depicts an angel radiant and serene, pouring water from one chalice to another. The setting is a pool of water surrounded by verdant greenery. A sun rises in the background.

  “The card is temperance, this card represents, balance- among other things. Living in moderation if you will. The angel can pass the water back and forth, never spilling a drop. They exist from one state to another. They ride the waves- rather than being pulled under by the undertow.” He said softly to me.

  I think about the fortune tellers’ words. Perhaps a few years ago, or in another life, I would have laughed. But I have changed. I do not laugh as easily. The abyss inside. The alternative was playing too much, in dangerous and deadly ways. I played too much. Or not at all. Depending on the timeline. Drugs and sex. A lovely combination.

  “Dreamtime- reflecting alternate worlds.” A voice calls.

  “Hush, five more minutes.” I said.

  Change is subjective as reality.

  The more things change,

  The more they change.

  I wonder,

  Is the boat we build,

  More real,

  Than the boat we sail?

  Which self is the truest self that I can be?

  Or perhaps,

  The self I am,

  As I type this,

  My Sentence.

  The real self.

  An illusion?

  Contrived-

  Keep consciousness from realizing the gathering soul’s abyss

  Born from the eventual extinction of mankind;

  The mass unconsciousness extends into the future.

  Is extinction inexorable?

  Are all actions, thoughts, and behaviors-

  Vain, grasping, attempts to avoid this realization?

  Am I any different from you, gentle reader,

  If we removed all layers of identity from ourselves?

  Balance. This is… Truth. Balance?

  Utter bullshit.
>
  Sometimes I notice the gaps. The deficits. The measurement tools are apparently flawed. My older brother got to the TV first, I am left with the broken joystick. I used to be able to keep up, to shoot the invaders but instead, the controls don't respond as well as well. The life counter ticks down, the clock reaches zero and my turn is ends.

  Game over. You died.

  “You can’t pause, only bring up the menu.” He said.

  “But how do I figure out what to do?” I asked.

  “You have to think on your feet or get to safe place.” He said.

  “I thought I was safe, then I died.” I said, annoyed.

  “Safe is relative to danger- nothing is truly safe.” He said.

  “I was right by the bonfire, why did a monster kill me?” I asked.

  “That wasn’t a monster, that was another player.” He said.

  “Why would they do that?” I ask, putting down the controller.

  “Gankers get points for PKing.” He said.

  “Fuck, now what.” I asked.

  “Collect yourself and move on.” He said.

  “No, I know, but where do I go. There is no map.” I said.

  “You have to explore and then use your memory.” He said.

  I stop and take a long drag on a joint.

  “That probably won’t help.” He said.

  “It helps me relax.” I lied.

  “You just like getting high.” He said.

  “No, I have spiritual experiences when I smoke.” I said.

  “Yeah, right.” He laughed.

  “No, seriously, this one time I was doing Roman cocktails- then I was floating over my body, my lighter told me I was dead, and I saw my life flash before my eyes- but then I got to travel back in time and save myself- it was far out man. One hell of a trip.” I said.

  “Good shit, you are holding out on me?” He said.

  “I kept thinking, Christ, what an imagination I’ve got.” I said.

  “Maybe you did die, and this is a dream?” He said.

  “Don’t do that man. This one time I was doing hippy flips and my roommate convinced me I was dead- and I was going to hell. Fuck that guy, seriously.” I said, taking another long drag on the joint.