Stories from the Cosmic Grill: It's Fiction for the Unconscious Mind

By Gail McConnon

Are you ready to read some true stories, told differently? No shame. No embarrassment . . . Well, maybe a little embarrassment, but just enough to make you smile.

You’ve spent your entire lifetime telling yourself stories. Romance. Tragedies. Snarky little things. Epic dramas. Each one was the absolute truth, because everything you tell yourself is the absolute truth. Of course, your absolute truths evolve as you do. That’s what keeps your stories fresh.

Yet, many of the stories you tell yourself probably feed your inner dragons far better than they feed your soul. And that is why this book exists.

Stories from the Cosmic Grill is a collection of 50 short stories that re-imagine how we define ourselves and our place in the grander scheme of things. They are honest. They are prescriptive. And each one speaks to just one person - YOU.

This book is filled with doorways to new beginnings, new endings, and the limitless choice that lies between the two.

It is a book that sees the stories you tell yourself for what they are - STORIES - and helps the imagination reframe those stories so you can stop tripping over them.

Stories from the Cosmic Grill is not fiction the way you tend to think of fiction. There is very little dialogue. And aside from the fact that everyone who works at the Grill is called Sal, there are almost no named characters.

Instead, this book talks to the unconscious mind - that place where the storyteller weaves inner tales that draw and redraw your picture of the world. It asks little but that you consider what might be possible - however difficult the subject. Then it takes you to the edge of all you believe to be true, and invites you to play.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9780983441625

Book preview

Grill

Part 1

INSIDE THE COSMIC GRILL

Welcome inside the Cosmic Grill, the place imagination and reality meet for lunch.

Sitting just this side of your most precipitous edges, the Cosmic Grill is a way station between here and there, and now and then. It may appear a bit run-down from the outside looking in. Life, after all, can be hard. Rest assured, however, that you are its only concern, and that it will adapt to fit whatever picture of the world you bring with you to feed your leaner tendencies..

There is no telling who you may see inside the Grill. Some diners stop by for a bit of light refreshment while contemplating their inner travels. For others, each visit invites new stories and realizations to appear somewhere under the mashed potatoes. These folks hang around long enough to test the feel of new and emerging plots before moving on with lives that are perhaps a bit richer and less encumbered than they might otherwise have been. And there are those few who show up at the Grill, taste a new story, and never leave. The Cosmic Grill welcomes all equally. No matter the look or state of your inner world, neither it nor you will ever be turned away.

Most people. just like you, spend a large portion of their lives inside the Cosmic Grill. They haven’t a clue what brings them, or how they get there. Yet they arrive over and over again, often staying till their inner lights go dark. After all, you can never tell where a story might lead with the right combination of nourishment and attention.

And while the vast majority of Grill diners arrive alone, they don’t stay that way for long. Tables quickly fill with thoughts, imaginings, and memories from the pasts and futures of our visitors’ inner worlds. You’ll see. It really is quite impressive.

The Cosmic Grill may appear a bit small from the outside looking in, but we all know looks can be deceiving. It’s just a matter of perspective. Luckily, this place can expand to accommodate any plot or story lines you bring with you.

You will also be pleased to know that whatever dietary restrictions rule your outer world, the food we serve is the kind of down-home good stuff you can sink your teeth into - cooked to your inner order, of course. Your mother would approve. Nothing fancy, but definitely filling. Even better: All orders are served with a dollop of our cook’s best gleanings, freshly picked.

Don’t worry if you don’t see your favorite dish on the menu. If it’s unfolding in your world, it has been added to ours. Check the daily specials. You will find it there.

And promise yourself you’ll visit our Starlight Lounge while you are here. That’s where our long-timers spin some of their best yarns to music that is out of this world!

Now don’t stay out on the porch wondering about the place. Come on in. It’s clean. There’s plenty of space. And bring your baggage with you. There’s no telling what you might want to unpack while you are here.

We’ve a great little table over here in the corner if you feel the need to explore your privacy. Then again, perhaps you would prefer a booth.

Oh, good. You’ve found a spot that fits you perfectly. Just settle on in, then. It will feel like home in no time. Let’s find you a menu. Sal will be right with you. You’ll like her. She’s been here forever. There’s not a story she hasn’t heard before, except for yours, of course.

And please feel free to stay as long as you like. The coffee is always on, and new stories are constantly burbling up from beneath the mashed potatoes.

We hope you become a regular. Oh, you already are? Good. You fit right in.

The Children’s Table

Some people simply unfold faster and more stiffly creased than everyone else. They don’t feel it happening. Yet, before long, they forget the inner child they swore on conception to protect and defend against all things unimaginative. And as the perpetual child closes the door to them, they lose the fascination and unending questions they once relied on to keep from taking everything - including themselves - too seriously.

Then, struggle as they do to get back to that most innocent of places, it doesn’t happen. It can’t. They have outgrown their seat at the children’s table. And they, like countless before them, are stuck in the world of unconstrained absolutes and adult thinking till a new door opens and the child in them once again emerges.

This day was no different from so many others. In the Cosmic Grill’s large banquet room, the tables were set: One large. The other, much smaller. One was clearly labeled Adults Only in neat, black print. The other held a well-smudged and slightly bent sign, with the word KIDS scribbled in barely legible, broad, crayoned strokes. By all rights, no one had to guess who was meant to sit where. Except, they always did.

The adult table was a grandiose mahogany, spotlessly decorated, with heavy chairs, heavy plates, and even heavier name tags labeling each place setting. The table was dull at its core - not dim-witted, mind you - just blandly judgmental about what mattered most to it and to those sitting down to eat in its presence.

It demanded a high gloss shine for appearance sake, but kept that shine covered under heavy cloths for fear something might spill and forever mar its most perfect finish. Just like those who pulled their seats up to its great bib, the big table appeared to be more worried about how things looked on the outside than how they actually were.

For much the same reasons, the table was obviously overdressed, with an imposing and somewhat haughty view of nearly everything. It seemed full of itself in ways no table had any business being. Yet there it was, stretching out across the center of the room for miles on end, and filled to overflowing with everyone who thought he was anyone who knew too much to ever again be considered childlike.

The other - the children’s table - was quite a bit smaller. And like most of its occupants, its spindly legs were definitely shorter. Dressed in a worn but comfortable red plaid tablecloth, it sported an odd assortment of quirky, unmatched table settings and seats any child or child-at-heart could thoroughly enjoy.

That was just the point: Sitting at the children’s table was meant to be enjoyed. Wide-eyed and unkempt as it was, each assigned spot at the little table was a place of honor. Only those who were still unfolding and still negotiating the universe with a sense of wonder, curiosity, and unmatched edges got to sit in its presence.

No name tags were needed. Seating was haphazard, though perfectly orchestrated by the table itself. The children’s table knew who belonged, and made room for each welcome guest. It also knew who didn’t belong, and closed ranks when those who no longer remembered how to laugh at themselves tried to stuf their overgrown egos into its too small seats.

At first glance, some might think the smaller table would feel out of place in such a fancy setting as the Cosmic Grill. It didn’t look very special, after all, particularly compared to its far larger and more ornate roommate. Its legs were covered in nicks and bruises. And its top was thoroughly stained - the result of multitudes of spills and food fights. Yet, in the soft light of the Grill, the children’s table beamed. In fact it couldn’t stop smiling at itself and those seated around it. It was up to its knees in conversations. The inner worlds that joined it each day to share their stories unfolded pure joy. Giggling was its common currency.

At the children’s table, all manner of rhymes and stories found a welcome home. There was room for all of them, however mild or bitter their first taste on the tongue. And like the food itself, if a story wasn’t good enough to swallow, it was probably perfect for throwing. Somewhere, it would stick.

Only happy endings were allowed in its presence. That’s why dessert was always the first course served. And no one sitting at the little table ever had to think twice about ordering second helpings, as those appeared automatically.

Whether willing to admit it or not, almost everyone in the room wanted to sit at the children’s table - particularly those who no longer belonged there. Yet, eventually, even the most intrepid of young imaginations clouded over and had to move up to sit with the adults. That was how it most often happened. People outgrew the children’s table from the inside out.

The adult table welcomed all of them. It had no choice. Everything that went on around the proud mahogany was big. Big ideas. Big arguments. Big resentments. Big consequences. No one at the adult table threw food. Yet, the blame and over-heated opinions they did throw across its fine grains were far worse and far more dangerous.

The big table certainly didn’t talk about what went on around it. It was sworn to silence. Serious matters were discussed there. Most were terribly boring. Yet and still, they demanded secrecy. And the table knew how to keep secrets. That’s how it had lasted so long in such a respected establishment.

At the children’s table, on the other hand, there was no such thing as a secret. All thoughts and opinions were welcome. After all, opinions fed stories. And stories fed the soul. The little table tried over and over again to explain this simple logic to the adult table, but met with little success. Some things, it seemed, were simply outside the understanding of large pieces of furniture and the heavy tales they hold. But that was okay. Each in its own time.

Just as the children’s table knew that those who started at its side eventually had to leave, it also knew that most seated at the big table would return to it when they had unfolded sufficiently and were ready to reignite the spark of their inner child. It always had a chair waiting at its place of honor for the next in line. And that one never failed to show up with laughing eyes and a giggle. For some, it happened overnight. For others, it took nearly forever. Yet, each could be counted on to eventually find his or her way back.

On this day, like all other days, those who sat at the two tables in the Cosmic Grill’s vast banquet room eventually ate their fill of all that had been served up to their plates and minds. When they were done, children and adults alike pushed themselves away from the tables and headed back outside to their home worlds.

Finally, only the two tables remained sitting alone together in the dimming light. The great mahogany quietly slipped from beneath the weight of its ornate covers and heavy glosses to expose its softly dented exterior. No longer the showy master of ceremonies, this faithful old servant’s majestic legs were bruised and aching. With a slight shiver, it reached up and pulled on the comfortable worn and tattered red plaid tablecloth it kept hanging from a hook behind the banquet room mirror.

Starlight poured softly into the room. And as it did, the children’s table - still clothed in its own red plaid cover, curled up next to the big table to share all it had heard. The adult table laughed softly at the children’s stories. There was a time, so very long ago, when it had dreamed of being a children’s table. That, however, was never meant to be. Yet, this was almost as good. It reached down and patted the little one gently, before sending it off to sleep.

Thinking back through the long day, the adult table felt bone weary from listening to too many adult tales of failure, finance, pain, and destruction. Then again, a job was a job. It leaned back into itself and closed its eyes. Dreams would soon come, dreams born not of the hard and hurtful stories of its day, but of the stories shared from the children’s table - fanciful stories of princes and bears and witches and puppies.

It smiled ever so slightly as sleep tucked its blanket snugly around them both. Strange, but once all the fancy coverings and ornamentation were gone from the outside, the two tables were far more alike than different. Both were children at heart.

Musical Chairs

Musical chairs account for much of the confusion and concern in the world today. That’s right, musical chairs - a children’s game. Still, it is a children’s game your universe and many like it seem to thoroughly enjoy. It’s too bad, really. There was a time when you and your inner world appeared so much more focused on weighty, ethereal matters. Of course, that was before your outer world became so much more scattered and unpredictable. At least playing the game gives you both a chance to sit down, if only momentarily. And so you find your way to the Cosmic Grill as often as you can slip away from reality, to test your skills in this noisy competition.

There are a multitude of back rooms in the Cosmic Grill - each one known for its games of musical chairs. World leaders, parents with screaming children, petulant politicians, students of every flavor, the religious left, right, and center, warriors, Edgelings, corruptors, corrupted, tinkerers, lovers, teachers, business moguls, old ones, fixers, tear-ers apart, put-ers back together, wannabes, bullies, creatives, and thinkers of every thought ever considered show up regularly to challenge each other in that space.

Sometimes, if they can get a bit of time of, some of the Planners and Do-ers (i.e., the working class muckety-mucks) from the Universal Functionary Pool even stop by to let their hair down. Or they would, if they had hair to let down. Since the Functionaries haven’t a competitive bone in their bodies - more to the point, since the Functionaries really haven’t bodies or bones at all - they are the first to be put out of the game. That’s fine with them, however, since in their world the game is simply about showing up.

Sal - chief overseer of all games played at the Grill - guards both the music and the chairs like a hawk. As sad as it is, thirty-one million years of watching folks play the game have clearly shown that to be necessary. It seems a lot of the players, and particularly the newer ones, are dedicated to only one thing - WINNING. And it’s gotten worse with the passing of time. Far too many gamers are becoming increasingly devious and dangerous with each go ‘round. Sometimes they sneak extra chairs into the circle rather than permitting seats to be taken out. Sometimes they insert faster and faster music into early rounds of the play schedule to quickly wear down their less fit competitors. A few have even been known to elbow the more passive sorts out of the way when a seat is in question.

The methods these players rely on don’t even try to pass for the real rules of the game. Sal has therefore been appointed to make sure no rule-breakers get an unfair advantage. It doesn’t always work, of course. No one can fully observe a multitude of erratic players circling through space. Yet, Sal does what can be done, given the obvious.

The thing is: Your universe really doesn’t care for the kind of slow, steady music you need to straighten things out in your inner and outer worlds any more than the super-competitors in this game do in theirs. Slow music used to be your universe’s favorite kind, back when your inner world and your outer world had little going on that teamwork couldn’t make more palatable. But somewhere along the road of life, your outer world discovered a louder, faster beat, and lef the rest of you in its dust. Though thoroughly rude, this action was not an intentional one. Your worlds had simply begun unfolding at different speeds in different directions till, eventually, your more contemplative (inner) self was no longer able to keep up. And that didn’t bode well for either of you.

Each time the music begins, therefore, your universe disconnects from itself, and your outer world starts racing around that circle of chairs for fear it will be the one lef standing. It never considers that it might be left standing alone. It never considers that the inner you never got up from the chair in the first place, and it’s tired of racing in circles with nothing to show for it. It fails to realize that all your inner world really wants is a chance to sit down with your outer world and talk.

The outer you just likes playing the game.

The inner you just wants to stay connected enough to fix what’s broken.

And so it is on a much larger scale. The greater universe as you know it is filled to the brim with folks just like you. Communities just like you. Countries just like you. Whole outer worlds just like your own…All of them racing to catch the last seat in gigantic games of musical chairs. And each time a chair is pulled from play, those in the game run ever faster and sit ever harder for fear someone else will beat them to the punch, and they will be the odd one out.

It is nothing but a game. Yet it is a game over which wars are fought, economies are devastated, and rational thought is sacrificed for a prize - a balloon maybe, or a yo-yo. It really doesn’t matter what that prize might be. The game, after all, is about only one thing -WINNING. Just ask the dictators, bankers, moguls and mogul-wannabes who show up to play with you each day.

For most of the players, however, the game will be about losing. And since no one likes to lose, the game will be about taking back control, rounding up the troops, and plotting the next move -all of which sit in the realm of your competitive outer world.

And that is exactly why you are the one who so often ends up without a chair when the music stops. Part of you is racing ever faster around in circles. The other part of you isn’t moving. Actually, if you were to look carefully, you would see that the more inner-focused part of you is looking desperately for some way to get Sal to slow the music back down so you might find the chair on which your inner world has been waiting for it all this time. Sal is ignoring you of course, since to do otherwise would be against the rules. Besides, it would create total chaos among the other players. And neither you, nor YOU, wants to be the focus of that chaos.

So your outer edges run faster and faster in ever smaller circles, while your inner self waits for you to recognize that it has dropped out of the game. It hasn’t gone anywhere. You just stopped talking to it. Of course, it’s hard to talk when you outer world is so focused on winning that yo-yo - or even better, that top prize of the all expense paid one-way trip past the Edge on the Raptureville Express.

Someone has to win it. Why not you!

So you and all the others play the game - over and over again. You never win, of course. No one does. No one will ever win. At least, no one will ever win the current game. That ticket on the Express you and everyone else seems to want so very badly has been waiting for a winner since the game began more than 31,000,000 years ago. Still, none of you seems to catch on.

It doesn’t matter how slow or fast Sal sets the music, or how many chairs are in or out of play. All that really matters is the game. Winning is just a distraction - a ploy to make the play more interesting. And every single one of you is playing it all wrong, because you are playing it on the outside while ignoring the simple fact that the real game and the real strategies can only happen in your inner worlds.

And those inner worlds, by the way, are all sitting it out over there along the wall of the Starlight Lounge. Lucky for you, they seem to be getting along. In fact, one of them just asked Sal to build them a bonfire so they could roast marshmallows.

Fishbowlology

(i.e., Food For Thought)

It’s not your vision that is failing you. It’s your picture of the world. Try as you might to convince yourself you are a major actor on life’s great stage, you actually exist from within the limited perspective of a fishbowl. Fully contained. World weary. Somewhat stagnant. Foggy enough on the outside to keep enlightened thought from reaching you. Smudged and stained enough on the inside to keep your sensibilities numbed to any other options.

That’s right. Home sweet home is a fishbowl.

And there you sit. Tanked. Treading water at the far end of the Cosmic Grill’s great mahogany bar. And while you sit, you wait for someone to stir things up enough to challenge the watered down perspectives you’ve grown so accustomed to wrapping yourself in when the temperature or the smell of the discourse swirling around you isn’t to your liking.

You’ve been self-diluting for so long, however, that no amount of stirring your under-currents by those outside yourself is likely to give you more definition, much less to expand your view of what lies beyond the dirty little bowl you call home. It’s little wonder you have difficulty seeing where you end and the rest of the world begins!

Of course, all you see when you do look out from the potted ferns behind which you try to hide your inner shame are the blurry faces of others just like you - only different - looking back from inside their own water-filled-containers. Some are hunkered down on barstools, others scattered willy-nilly at tables throughout the darkened room. All of their bowls are just as junk-filled and grimy as your own. And all of them are just as incapable as you of seeing beyond their own limited opinions.

From the outside looking in, most can’t even tell you are there. Actually, most don’t care if you are there or not, as long as none of the water in your bowl splashes out to further besmirch their own muddied worlds. Still, curiosity eventually overtakes the feigned disinterest of all who frequent the bar, and one after another cautiously steps to the outer edge of your inner space, scrunches up their attempted respectabilities, and peers into your cloudy waters to see if they can find someone who even slightly resembles themselves looking back. Failing to recognize anyone worthy of mention, however, they assume your tank to be the unfiltered recycling bin it truly is, and proceed to fill it with their personal brands of smut talk and half-chewed cigarette butts before heading out to face themselves in the vast emptiness they’ve constructed beyond the Grill’s front door.

For the most part, you don’t seem to mind. After all, not all the morsels that get tossed into your tank are inedible. Some actually arrive sugar-coated. And a pittance may still have a nutrient or two attached if you scavenge quickly enough to snatch them before they dissolve in the brine. Besides, you have convinced yourself this unrequited dumping is the result of a special kind of attraction these strangers feel for you. You worked hard to earn it. Why shouldn’t you benefit?!

From the inside looking out, your picture of the world is distorted by the bends and imperfections of the bowl in which you swim through life. The thoughts and beliefs that filter through those bends and imperfections are equally warped. And all the dirt and smudges on both sides of the glass work to twist whatever meanings those thoughts and beliefs once had into strange new patterns you may not recognize as your own - which more often than not lead you to terribly mangled perspectives, and the war, mayhem, sugar highs, and self-destructive tendencies that always seem to follow.

Beyond the inner grime, you have convinced yourself that all you truly need to survive will be dropped into your world by some omnipotent presence whose bidding lies beyond your control…Which it does…But the results are never good. Stale pretzels, salted peanut shells, the diluted remains of opinionated beverages, sweet words, bitter condemnations: All of it fatty, over-starched food for thought that floats along on top of the water till it sinks to your level, clogs your air filter, and slowly but surely cuts off the oxygen until all attempts at focused thought degrade into a stringy mass of disconnected rants about nothing in particular.

What you too often fail to recognize is that the stuff you’re gulping down fin over fist was never meant to nourish you. It isn’t even yours. Every bit of it started life in someone else’s inner kitchen. They simply unloaded it on your lily pad because there was already so much cluttering your world that you weren’t likely to notice the addition of a little more. Besides, no one in the bar told them not to - least of all, you.

And however toxic to your mental health and self esteem all the drivel dumped into your little world turns out to be, its short-term effects have great entertainment value for those doing the dumping. That is probably why so many Grill visitors crowd the bar to see how much they can cram into your bowl before you go belly-up. Turns out, lots of their stuff gets past your filters. Boatloads of it. Unhealthy junk from the media, politics, the internet, email. Lowhanging comments from friends, family, strangers, and employers.

Still you swim round and round in circles, enjoying their attention while they dribble their sweet concoctions into your consciousness in a never-ending attempt to override the wildly flashing lights someone with more good sense than you once added to your stream of thought to warn you of oncoming dangers. Sometimes it works. Usually however, you take a big gulp and swallow the mess whole, its sweet taste hiding the bitter truths it bears. In rare instances, even you can’t stomach the stuff, and it becomes that much more waste in a world already overflowing with unnecessary input.

So there you have it. Too much food in the fishbowl that is your life, and it overwhelms you. You feed on it until even the tastiest mental morsels smother your ability to challenge the ridiculous and absurd tidbits that parade around you dressed as facts worthy of belief.

The end result? You die from the outside in - filled to the brim, but starving for a reality of flavor and meaning in a world that serves up little more than excuses and empty calories.

Too little nourishment in the world you call home, and you starve from lack of interaction and challenges to the threadbare ideas you hold as true. Rather than risk admitting you don’t know or understand what’s going on, and searching for answers you can truly wrap your mind around, you shut down and limit what you permit yourself to hear.