The Murder Club

By Devin S. Parks

A tale of murder, philosophy, and the cold will of a murderer intent on exercising his will through indifferent calculation. Taking the philosophical principles of Friedrich Nietzsche, the killer of The Murder Club is set in his purpose to express not just his own authority, but his contempt for others, a demonstration of his superiority. The other characters in the killer's game are both unknowing and uncomprehending,witnessing only the blunt violence.

A quick spiral of multiple murders leads to the unveiling of past secrets and future agendas, while those in the path of the murderer's designs are left of put the pieces together in order to survive. However, even survival will come with a cost, one that will stretch the boundaries of sanity and
acceptance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312075092

Book preview

The Murder Club

The Murder Club

By

Devin S. Parks

Copyright © 2014, Devin S. Parks

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-312-07509-2

The symbol of madness

The symbol of madness will henceforth be the mirror which, without reflecting anything real, well secretly offer the man who observes himself in the dream of his own presumption. Madness deals not so much with truth and the world, as with the man and whatever truth about himself he is able to perceive. –Michel Foucault

Prologue

Frankenstein is a fascinating introspection of human psychology. A tale of mankind’s arrogance, of a challenge issued against the governing force that has held sway over all species of the planet. A doctor driven to challenge this force, while the reader is entertained with some romantic notion of a broken man, a physician, seeking a cure for the curse of death that plagued his family, only to see that journey turn upon him with a vengeance. This is a common interpretation of the story. It is also wrong. He was very much like Victor. He sought not liberation from death and decay, nor even a vaccine to inoculate his loved ones from the slightest symptoms of morality. Rather, the monster-maker sought his freedom, emancipation from the bondages of his humanity. Concepts such as morality mortality, constructed by the lesser beings of religion and nature were illusions that needed to be stripped away from the gaze of some, those who were exceptional. However, such shrouds are not easily swept aside, and only violent excursions would produce such a result. True freedom will only result when the individual is unencumbered by any attachments, transient concerns such as family or religion shrugged off.

The notable failure of Dr. Frankenstein was the product of him being unable to fully realize his motivations, probably in fact, remained dishearteningly unaware of what he was trying to accomplish. By creating his monster, he accomplished the excision necessary to move beyond common humanity but his failure to identify his true intentions were what ultimately doomed him as a tragic figure.

He suffers from no such psychological confliction, even though he is undergoing a similar erasure as Dr. Frankenstein did; however, whereas Frankenstein was undone, he will stand triumphant. However, before he could achieve such liberation, this current experiment must be carried to conclusion, if he ever hoped for self actualization.

Sighing, he stretches his toes into the sand, completely burying them underneath the grainy veneer. The small body of water in front of him lies tranquil, shimmering with the last vestiges of sunlight. On the surface, the hue is a startling blue, a portrait of serenity, hiding the chaos that rests below the surface. The evergreen trees stand tall above, majestic and placid, refusing the judge the actions of little import. They are protective, reassuring, paternal even. He held no belief in the supernatural, but if he did, it would be imaginable that the events that were being set in motion would be blessed by whatever served as the recipient of prayers. But no such entity exists, and because of this fact, the idea of a moral code existing was illusory, a fairy tale that most told themselves. An individual action held no significance, there was no meaning behind a certain decision. Life was a spectacle of arbitrariness; the only true measure in life that can be proven is this: whatever actions the individuals do must in all ways be superior to what others do. Such a philosophy promises preeminence.

Sighing again, he stands up. Stretching with anticipation, he casts his glance downward to the body lying next to him. The body was a physical specimen, fit in a way that was property of youth but was found on this body. In fact, the corpse was beguiling, deceptive in appearance and only eyes would reveal the oldest of souls, if one was inclined to look at them.

The prostrated form held its knees tucked towards its chest, hands folded, finger interlocked in a position reminiscent of prayer. Its expression was peaceful and relaxed, so much so, that if a stranger were to happen upon the figure they may assume that someone had simply fallen into sleep in such a beautiful locale. However, if the stranger peered too closely, he would notice the subtle bruising around the neck. And, if the stranger happened to such knowledge, he would know that such patterns were evidence of a broken neck. And, upon seeing the designed position of the body, the only logical conclusion was that the body had been placed there. The only conclusion was murder.

If the body was discovered, the area would quickly become a crime scene. Not that he feared the blundering fumbling of the police; his plan was predicated on this body not being found. With this murder, the die was cast and what was set in motion could not be stopped.

Kneeling down, he gingerly picked up the corpse, surprised by how light the form was. Despite his slight frame, he has a surprising musculature. Deception would be important going forward. Knowing this, he knew that it was essential to make sure that this body was never found. The authorities did not need to know of this body. Soon enough, they would have too many to handle.

Chapter 1

Lakeview, CO is a small mountain time approximately 30 miles northwest of Estes Park. If a traveler were to visit Estes Park, here is what they would find: a former mining town nestled in the base of the National Park. Because mountain towns whose livelihood are dependent upon the fickle nature of mining ultimately have to come to grips with the fact that such an economy is not sustainable, such communities have to create financial stability in other markets. Estes made the decision to become a tourist attraction. The Stanley Hotel resides to the north, a majestic and antique edifice whose claim to fame are concerns of haunting. Novels and films have become fascinated with such claims, focusing their plots upon this setting. There is also a picturesque lake in the middle of town, providing residents and tourists alike with recreation and entertainment. Down Main Street there are dozens of shops, with the commerce ranging from ice cream and fudge to glass blowing and the sale of precious stones. People frequent these shops nearly year round, providing an influx of money into the economy that seems to be struggling in such financially strenuous times. The town is quaint, a confluence of antiquity and modernity, one part of the township clashing with the other, but the tension has subsided in an uneasy truce.

Holden Academy was an elite, albeit modestly sized, university that was nestled in the massive forest.  Built at the end of the 19th century, it was a private academy with a concentration in the liberal arts, accompanied by an emphasis on the Classics, philosophy and linguistics. Such an emphasis in disciplines did not suffer those students that were not up to the task. A trend in modern education is to allow mediocrity to infect true talent, to allow mediocrity a place next to genius, all in the name of equity and charity.  Holden, however, resisted such egalitarian traps and like many anachronistic traditions, they clung to the antiquitated pillars of their mores. The university’s selection service was highly intricate, demanding a variety of performances and proofs that were set to determine who was allowed in and, more importantly, who was not. Each student was required to learn Latin (and expected to master it), in addition to researching the tenets of logic and rhetoric. A stringent curriculum commanded nothing short of excellence, and as such, many students that navigated the intricacies of Holden were sought after, not only for their apparent mastery of their disciplines, but also for their principles of perfection.  Such an attitude would be condemned by the proponents of fairness, but the powers that be cared nothing for the opinions of outsiders, and with the sterling reputation that Holden carried, they did not feel the need to pander to the demands of lesser individuals.

Megan Halstone possessed the type of intellect that attracted the attention Holden Academy. She was in possession of a premier intellect, a skilled talent in writing. Still in the early seasons of her life, she was already an accomplished, albeit amateur, writer. She had published, under the guise of various pseudonyms, several short stories that had garnered critical notice. While she had not credited herself such creative talent on her admissions application, she was a fine academic student and was accepted readily into Holden Academy.

However, while she had never before struggled with school, Holden demanded so much in the way of perfection that it was requiring the sort of mental gymnastics that had at first been foreign to her. She was enjoying the experience, as it was exposing her to so such a diversity in both thought and accomplishment, that at times it was overwhelming to her. But, she was slowly gaining traction in this new environment, achieving small measures of confidence, and as such, settling into the routine of high academics.

However a great school does not necessarily mean her situation was great; she had been at the school for nearly a month but she still felt that she was out of place. Professors were strict but engaging and her classmates were friendly and extroverted but she still felt the outsider. Outside of a few casual Hellos when she spotted someone she was acquainted with, she was not exactly creating the lifelong friendships that so many attributed to college. At times she wondered if she cast some form of an aura in front of her, a bleakness that warned others to avoid her. Here it was Friday and she did not have much in the way of plans; no party invites or events to attend. She had transferred from out of state, and with standing as a junior, she was moving into a social group that had established friendships back in their freshmen year. Loneliness, a sensation that she was unaccustomed to, had started to set in, a series of weeks of isolation too quickly becoming the norm, was causing her to feel as if she was alone in the world, a sense that she was destined to wander the planet forever an outcast of society.

Whoa, she cautioned herself. No need to start a pity parade. She wasn’t one to go out of her way to invite people into her life, and often felt more comfortable reading and writing than she did being in a group of people. Such an inner focus didn’t encourage social mongering, and she wasn’t going to devolve into that typical transformation of college students, for the simple, hedonistic pleasure of not having to tolerate her own company. But even an introverted person longs, at times, for the camaraderie of other humans.

And while she felt the need to begin reaching out to others on campus, to invite others into her life, that did not mean she was willing to put that into practice. While she may desire the presence of others in her life, she did not feel comfortable seeking those out, preferring the familiarity of isolation to the foreignness of others. With that feeling in mind, she was currently trying to find her way into the student commons, an area of Holden that maintained 24 hour access. While she technically lived on campus, her condo was several miles off campus, and as such had rented a locker in the common area, negating the need to carry all of her classroom texts with her. However, it was Friday night, many students were not inclined to bring their responsibilities home, and she felt the momentary panic of not being able to gather her things. Eventually though she found her way into the main building. The place was not surprisingly deserted and the silence was disconcerting.

At times, people are presented with a decision, however innocuous it may appear on the surface. Too often those moments go unrecognized for the life altering measure that it is, and the consequences therein cannot be altered. It is almost ironic that those choices that will forever adjust the course of a life, if traced back, often come to a decision as simple as reopening a locker.

If Megan’s eye had not been drawn to the top of the locker, what follows may never have occurred. But, alas, it did, and the irrevocability of that pure chance glance was etched in stone at that moment.

Not a shadow, as it turns out, but a black envelope, textured as such to look like velvet. Caught by surprise, Megan did not do anything for a moment. She felt somehow, cold, and the air conditioning system was not to be blamed. Rather a sense of premonition and anticipation rolled softly over her skin. Shaking her head, ridiculing her overactive imagination, she reached for the envelope, letting the material fill her hand. It was soft, delightfully so. The carrier was closed with a red string of lace and only one word appeared on the outside: TMC. Pulling the lace off, she pulls out the envelope’s contents, a single card colored off white with black print, probably a Silian Rail font. The note was short but cryptic:

Megan-

You have been selected. Please follow the directions listed below. If you do not wish to know what is TMC, ignore this note and life goes on. The only question is this: Is never knowing worse than knowing?

There were directions at the bottom of the note, directing her towards the basement of the archaic Linguistics building on the other side of campus. An outside observer may have noted that the peculiarity of the message, both in location and wording, should have caused her some wariness, she was in fact eager at the enigma of the situation. There was something inviting in the cloak and dagger approach that was appealing to her creative expression. And as the note implied, not knowing would invariably lead to regret and wondering what may have been.

While most of the Academy was state of the art, in large part due to the sizable endowments given by alumnus, the basement of the Linguistics building was reminiscent of a low-budget horror movie with all of its steaming pipes, abandoned barrels, and questionable air quality. She noticed that while everything appeared haphazard and without form, there was definitely a clear path, fashioned by items being cleared and rearranged. This meant that someone obviously was expecting her, which suggested that she was on the right track. This thought elicited a smile on her face. Not once did she feel as if she were in danger or that something with dark intent waited down here for her. The logical assumption would be that someone was playing a trick on her or some cleverly constructed ruse was aimed to make her nervous. The thing was that her life was such that she did not care if this entire thing turned out to be a simple prank. She was just looking for something in her life, something different, even if it was only temporary. Her motive should have given her pause but it did not and she continued on the path before her.

Her reckless bravado continued until the four rough hands grabbed her and placed a dark hood over her head. The sudden appearance of others shocked her as she was too stunned to elicit much of a protest. The velvety voice was undoubtedly female but there was slight edge in the tone, suggesting a predatory nature. Don’t scream. You’re in no danger at the moment but if you make a sound I can’t promise you’ll make it through this. The words were menacing, but the expressionless voice was cold, and that sobered her to the point of considering the choice to descend to the basement as foolish.

The two persons led Megan deeper into the basement, surprising her when there seemed to be another stairwell that led to another subterranean layer of the basement. Whatever the purpose of this whole meeting was, she could only assume if there was a design against her, she would have no help from anyone above. No one would hear. Any escape seemed to be planned for as one captor led the way but making sure he or she stayed out of contact distance from Megan while the other followed from behind , also staying far enough away to avoid any physical danger from the captive.

The journey could not have been far because the building was simply not that big but with the bag over her head and two people making sure she couldn’t get away, she was given the illusion that she was journeying the same journey that the Florentine said he took. A thought not too comforting.

Once Megan even tried to engage her captors in conversation, but they remained statue silent. Then she made a joke, hoping to elicit some response from them, but the disregard for her attempts for resounding and finally she quit trying to get them to talk and gave up on hopes of trying escape; she simply walked the path and would wait to see where it led her. 

The lead guard stopped abruptly, causing the temporarily blinded Megan to stumble. A quick knock on a door and she was being shoved through an entry way. The back guard grabbed her by her shoulders and led her furthest corner in the back of the room, all but throwing her onto a couch. Megan sat up quickly, pissed off enough to defy her captors by ripping of the hood. For a moment her vision was blurred by the darkness but quickly enough she was able to get some bearing on her surroundings. She was in a windowless room that was filled with several overstuffed couches, leather chairs, and approximately 100 candles, the only sources of light in the room. Across from her stood two shadows, covered by black cloaks, hoods drawn across their countenances, but because light was so limited here, she could not make out much in the way of faces, or even genders. The silence filled the room, and combined with her present trepidation, Megan finally allowed that something bad may actually be forthcoming.

Megan, not one to give any of them a sense of satisfaction, she did the one thing she always did when she was nervous or scared: she made a joke. Don’t you think this is a little theatrical, a little overdramatic? If you were just going to kill me, you didn’t have to make it cruel with some awful reenactment of a ritual sacrifice. The silence in the room seemed to take on a physical component following her comment, dancing angrily on her skin. However, after several moments, laughter broke the tension. The laughter startled her a full two feet out of her seat because it emanated directly behind her. Swiveling quickly to find the perpetrator, her eyes fell to an imposing figure standing in a white shirt and blue jeans. The person standing in front of her was quite tall, several inches over six feet. He had a handsome face, although his features were set and eyes blank, not giving any indication of amusement. She wasn’t sure of his identity until he took a slow step forward, and with enough light cast on his face, she realized she did know him.

William James Silas was something of a legend on campus, although his name was known in certain circles of America. His reputation as a prodigy had been well documented and in many senses he was the prize of Holden Academy. In quiet whispers, though, some had asked what he was doing at Holden. While the school was elite in its own right, any university in the world would have graciously given over the key to the city had he wanted to attend there. 

At the age of seven he was taking the best standardized tests available, and not those just in America. Silas Senior contacted an educational firm from China when his son was only nine and asked them to test his son. According to the legend, they first at first refused but relented when Senior made the following proposal: If my son does not get the highest score you have ever witnessed in your own country, I will pay triple your fees. But if he does, you don’t charge a dime. Apparently Mr. Silas had known how to push certain buttons, because the firm readily accepted the challenge. The legend contends the firm calculated the results three separate times to make sure the results were accurate. In a fit of childish petulance, they left the country without discussing the findings with Senior, and simply mailed him the results. It seemed that young William possessed an IQ that far exceeded traditional assessment, so much so that it left little in the way of comparison with others in the world. 

From that point on, the word concerning the Son was Prodigy a nickname that stuck, although he was rumored to hate it. The kicker, however, was that he was only seventeen years old,  still of an age that he should be in high school. Apparently, though, he was working on two Ph.D. programs at Holden, as well as acting as an occasional guest lecturer on campus. She had never before met him, but had been at several of his instructions, listening to his ideas on a host of different topics. His breadth of knowledge was expansive, but he did not give off an air of priggish pretension that was so indicative of modern academia. He seemed quite accessible, friendly even. He had publish at least a dozen treatises on an array of subjects, ranging from philosophical concepts of morality to quantum physics to ways to improve education in the school systems. He routinely gave lectures at the state’s top universities on his ideas. To say he was a celebrity in academia would be an understatement. He was royalty.

As Megan processed all of this information through her mind, the incredible mind that was William’s, was able to read her interior monologue as easily if it were written on notebook paper. Really focusing on his eyes, Megan felt as if he was seeing the back of her skull and the feeling was disconcerting. She felt naked beneath his gaze but the moment those first words glided out of his mouth, her disconcertment vanished. You will have to forgive our more…pompous traditions. They are somewhat intolerable but some of us just cannot resist. His voice was mellifluous, smooth and came out in such a silky cadence that it belied his age and almost made the listener forget the razor that resided behind his eyes.

You’re calling me pompous, Prodigy? a male voice demanded from the corner opposite to William, the tone both mocking and offended.

Maybe pompous is not the right word. Hmm, how about insufferable? Deplorable? Boring?

A female laugh contrasted with the tension emanating from the offended and unidentified male. Boys will be boys, as the cliché goes. I say we drop this charade of secrecy and be honest with our dear guest. Although she has robed herself in indifference to our little game, I do believe that I have noted some tremors of trepidation within her voice. Would you agree Junior?

I have asked you before, please do not call me that, William’s polite voice replied. And yes. I believe our guest is as brave as she is acting, but at the same time I see in her eyes some uncertainty, perhaps even some fear. With the candles and each of your ridiculous costumes, she must be thinking that this is some ritualized practice and she is the sacrifice.

That thought had in fact been repeatedly circling her mind ever since she walked into the room. Shaken by his insight but not wanting to show the effect his words had, Megan attempted to toss out a casual question. What makes you think that?

A quiet mirth spread about the room, as the male and female voices of her captors chuckled amongst themselves. Near the door, another presence made his or herself known with their wheezy laughter. Only William remained silent.

If you decide to join our little group here, you will have to get past the discomfort that Prodigy here inspires, the male voice advised. He has this annoying habit of being able to read your mind, always knowing what you’re thinking. Honestly, we don’t even notice it anymore. This voice was condescending, his words dipping with disdain for the subject.

She cast an inquiring look at William, asking, How do you do it?

The subject at hand was obviously of no interest to him, and he gave a bored look towards his two counterparts before shifting his glance back at Megan. It is not as absolute as they make it sound. In any given situation there is a limited amount of responses that a conversation may carry. That coupled with understanding body language allows me to guess at your thoughts. He gestured his hand towards the room in a sweeping motion and continued. This room for example, in all of it Gothic fashion is a clichéd tableaux from many horror movies. A guess at an obvious observation does not make me a clairvoyant, just observant. The way that he said it effectively ended the conversation, seemingly tired and bored by the matter. He understood that this talent was invasive, and made people uncomfortable, so his choosing not to dwell on it seemed a sign of politeness.  There was something chivalrous about his disposition, a throwback approach to a time where people went out of their way to make sure people were comfortable. She found it refreshing.

Don’t let that ‘aww shucks’ attitude of his fool you, the male voice said. He’s a vampire. It’s those eyes of his. That maroon and grey shade that swims around in there has the ability to see into the depth of your soul. After a pause, the two unknown voices again let out streams of laughter.

She looked at William, and again was struck by the lack of expression in his face. She could not tell if he was upset, nonplussed, or even cared about the others’ words. She suspected the latter but he was too much of a mystery to know for sure. He said, Okay. Let us get to the reason that we are here.

Yes, yes the other three murmured in unison.

We should probably begin with formal introductions I suppose, said the female. Removing the hood that covered her face, curls of Californian blonde came tumbling out of their confinement. Shaking her hair in an oddly practiced way, the identity of this captor became known, and in hindsight should have been obvious from the beginning.

Leslie Collins was an academically talented individual that just so happened to be a star volleyball player, student council president, and an aspiring actress that had made several appearances in regional advertisement campaigns. The fact that she was both involved and successful in areas that stereotypically seem at odds with one another confounded many of her fellow students because they could not pigeon hole her nor could they really gather a bead on where she was coming from. However, whatever resentment that may have been aimed at her was done so behind her back because no one wished to cross the one person that had an in with every clique in the school. She didn’t have a reputation for petty vindictiveness, but people trends towards insecure responses, and prefer to snipe from anonymity. 

While I am arrogant as possible for someone so young, if you do not know who I am, I will chalk that up to your being newer to the campus. My name is Les… Megan was already waving her off, an obvious acknowledgement that yes, Megan was aware of who Leslie was; this was evidenced by the satisfaction that spread like lightening on her face as she realized Megan’s understanding. Who is her? Megan asked pointedly, still somewhat angry with how he manhandled her on that descent.

Majestically sweeping the hood away from his face and then pulling the long brown hair that adorned his head, this individual’s self-inflated sense of self was obvious before the words came hurriedly from his mouth. "I am Jason Peters, the best writer this academy has ever produced. My stories are brilliant, as evidenced by the statewide recognition my writings have. Surely you have read my short stories, such as The Golden Chalice or Shadow Knight? They were both nominated for the Silver Pen Awards."

Megan spread her hands before her as way of apology. I’m sorry. I can’t say I have read or even heard of those. But it’s probably because I am so new to the area.

She could literally see the wind being sucked out of Jason with her comment. His features which had only moments before been exuberant with self pride were now crestfallen. Even deeper than his adolescent ego that could be bruised at the slightest offense, she saw that his need, no, his craving for the acknowledgement of others was almost pathological. This compulsion was the catalyst for his entire existence, and when it could not be fed, his identity fled him, leaving him adrift in a sea of nothingness that was of his own making. If his condition concluded at this point, any observer would leave him to his own devices but Megan became aware that Peter could not tolerate a universe in which he did not maintain an eternal position within everyone else’s consciousness. As with this situation that Megan was presenting to him, if she was dismissive or disinterested in his being, he would construct a new reality in which there was an explanation for her unawareness. Of course being new to the state would account for why you haven’t heard of my writings. You’re forgiven, Jason said grandiosely, albeit with a smug smile.

Megan herself was not without her own ego, so his expression was such that it pissed her off. She had a sharp tongue, and was more than capable of putting him in his place if she would but part her lips. Arrogance was tolerable to her, but smugness, especially that which may be undeserved. Perhaps seeing this, or perhaps just sensing that her pulse was about to be relieved, William broke her focus of Jason. I assume that we actually arrive at explaining the reason for your presence here. Throwing one more pointed glance at Jason, she returned her gaze to William’s, saying Yes, I guess it’s crossed my mind. The anticipation is killing me. She smiled as she said this, letting the sarcasm flow smoothly. There’s a reason I am suppose to be here. What is it?

In an act of deferring to Jason, William tipped his head towards her, suggesting that he should be the one to explain.

Well, even in a place as prestigious as the Academy, those of us present sometimes find the work…monotonous, as it were. One of the problems that arise from our high intelligences is that we are easily bored with routine. From boredom arises discontent and proceeds ultimately to a depression of a sort. It is an intellectual depression, something that is far worse than the clinical sort. It blunts are thinking processes, obstructing our creativity. He physically shuddered at saying this. I believe it would be easy for you to imagine, the thought of losing our creativity is frightening."

She could sympathize with him because in imagining such a scenario with herself, the idea was abhorrent. She had always known that her intellect set her apart from those around her. Even at the Academy she knew that she was set apart. In classes, she always knew the answer before everyone else did. She didn’t enjoy flaunting this part of her mind, preferring anonymity to recognition.

The confusing aspect to this was that she was not certain why she was like this. Her mom was a school teacher at a simply country school in Georgia. Located in what outsiders would term the ‘backwoods’ her mom instructed the local children in all areas: language arts, math, sciences, etc. Her mom was a joy to watch in the classroom, always being calm and patient with even the most aggravating students. Ultimately her students were profoundly grateful to her mom, and they were always showing up years after they were out of the school. Megan was always proud of her mother in this regard but the woman was not necessarily an academic, even by her own admission. Once, on cold day (by Georgian standards) her mom and her had been sitting at the kitchen table. In her own hands a steaming cup of hot cocoa, poured into a tacky, albeit adorable, ceramic mug crafted in the shape of a little pig. Her mom’s hands tightly gripped a simple black alabaster mug filled with the lifeline of teachers: black coffee. They were discussing Megan’s future after high school, although she was only a freshman. When Megan told her mom that she wanted to be a teacher just like her, the cordial air of the room quickly evaporated. Megan, her mom began solemnly, you have too much potential to be a teacher, especially an unadorned one as myself. Starting to protest, her mother held up a single finger, silencing her. I know that you have watched me in the classroom over the years, admiring my relationship with the students. I can even imagine that there is something respectable for you if you were to enter this profession, but I am telling you, not advising, not to become a teacher. I didn’t become a teacher because of some great love of knowledge or desire to spread knowledge. No I got into teaching because I have always enjoyed being with young people. I think they are a treasure to work with, but I have never professed a love of learning. The look on her mom’s face was devastating. It was not an expression of sadness nor one of resignation, but rather an appearance of determination. Her mom was confessing some truths to her that were shattering this illusory concept she had of the woman.

Most of the time I always had to memorize the stuff I was going to teach the following day. I never intuitively understood any of what I was teaching. Rather, I had to study hard, very much like one of my students. And very few bits of knowledge stuck with me, so year in and year out I had to memorize this information. As these facts rolled off her tongue, they hit Megan with the ferocity of a boulder, the grand picture she had of her mom slowly crumbling beneath the force of truth. Megan had a tear her eyes, and in hindsight she was not certain why. At the time she felt she was crying for her mom, a woman who held the position of leader in so many young people’s lives. But now, with several years to reflect upon what had transpired that day, doubt plagued Megan’s recollection. Was she crying for her mom? Or was she crying for a monument of sand? A monument of fog? Was she crying for herself? Uncertainty was the fabric of her memory, but one infallible fact did become obvious that day: her exponential intellect was not the product of her mom. And her father, who had abandoned her, well, he was even less likely of a suspect.

Snapping back to reality, she focused her attention back on Jason. He was still explaining the dangers of not staying mentally flexible, but that thought concluded quickly. This brings us the reason for this select group here. In order to combat any intellectual lethargy, this group was formed to act as both a measure of challenging our minds, but also communing with those of fairly comparable minds.

With this last statement, Jason shot a quick glance at William, who seemed not to notice, but Megan caught it, as well as the intention behind it. William had an IQ score that probably outstripped the collective intelligence of the others in the room, and Jason knew this. As Megan suspected earlier, the Jason’s insecurities were palpable in the air around him. He knew that William was by far his intellectual superior and that must have gnawed at him. Feeling that you have to constantly prove your mental prowess, something that you have never had to do before, would be a daily execution for someone like Jason. What made matters worse is that William seemed oblivious to the animus that Jason directed towards him. Oblivious, or was a big enough person that he chose to let it go without acknowledging it. If William were to engage with Jason on this