Vestigial Surreality: Free: Episodes 1-7

By Douglas Christian Larsen

Vestigial Surreality: Free: Episodes 1-7. Special Volume, Enhanced E-Book Version. A chance meeting in the park leads two strangers to discover strange connections between them and the world, and in truth both had felt that perhaps there was something not quite right with the world, something different. They have both noticed improbable coincidences popping up in their lives, at an almost alarming regularity, and now, meeting, they witness strange signs in the heavens, and find themselves on a bizarre path that will make them question their very reality, and the reality of the world and universe.

What is Reality?

Through the ages, the conundrum of Reality has messed with the collective consciousness of humanity. The Allegory of Plato’s Cave down through the ages to The Matrix. What is reality?

From the author of Rood Der, comes this enhanced 7-episode free volume, including the original illustrations of artist Harrison Christian Larsen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365809866

Book preview

Vestigial Surreality: Free: Episodes 1-7

Vestigial Surreality: Free: Episodes 1-7

The Sunday SciFi-Fantasy Serial

by Douglas Christian Larsen

ISBN: 978-1-365-80986-6

© Douglas Christian Larsen 2017

© Harrison Christian Larsen 2017 Illustrations

Part 1—White Rabbit

"One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that mother gives you

Don't do anything at all

Go ask Alice

When she’s ten feet tall"

—Grace Slick, White Rabbit

Jefferson Airplane

Surrealistic Pillow

Vestigial Surreality: 01—Jack

Jack crossed the street into the park, journal under his arm, pen clenched in his teeth, his attention soaking in the already warm Spring morning. He felt it must be like walking in Hawaii, not that he would know. He shifted the one backpack strap on his shoulder. Ah, April in Hawaii, he thought, grinning, not too bad when you are stuck pretty much in the middle of Colorado. Of course, he should be at school today, and he rarely skipped school, but it was that kind of day when Jack allowed himself a little rule breaking, for the most part to do some hard-copy thinking in his journal.

He snatched the pen from his teeth and tossed it into the air, and barely watching the pen’s flight, he caught it in his left hand and snapped it back into his teeth like Tarzan’s bone knife. He was careful to shift attention to his right arm down at his hip, his fingers favoring the coffee cup, carefully, fingers splayed over and around the plastic lid, as he did not wish to spill a single drop of the hot frothy miracle within.

The visit with Pop Pop the night before produced more than a few not really beliefs, the kinds of admissions you make when you’re feeling utterly comfortable with the other person, and maybe later you’ll have to tell them, hey, remember when I said that, you know I was thinking crazy thoughts on purpose, right? I mean you don’t think I’m crazy, do you? That maybe we’re both crazy?

Pop Pop, along with being the oldest man in the world, was also, as far as Jack knew, the sanest man on the planet. And they sailed their wild ideas back and forth between them over coffee while Jack grew more and more excited. He admitted to some pretty scary ideas, the kinds of things he walked around repressing in his head, because if he told anybody, boy oh boy, he had some other pretty good ideas of the kinds of rooms the proverbial they would lock him.

Jack felt a wee bit guilty, because Pop Pop, at well over one hundred years of age, probably should not be drinking coffee, but the old man, always so calm, absolutely peaceful and quiet, allowed himself one cup of strong coffee a day. Jack, usually, at least attempted to restrain himself to no more than ten cups a day. If he was binge-writing in the middle of the night, there was no counting. This morning he packed his first cup of the day in a tall paper Coffee Dump cup, and he had not even sipped it as yet, he was holding himself back, until he reached his picnic table in the park, and then only if no one had invaded the public space he thought of as his own. If there were invaders, well, the coffee would not taste quite so miraculous.

Pop Pop loved the Coffee Dump and visited the shop once a day on his escape-from-the home walks, seven days a week, to purchase a cappuccino, and sometimes a mocha, or his famous, at least in his own mind, tall Soy Café Miso with one honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon and ginger. It’s the beverage Jack carried right now, and was eager to gulp, but he held himself in check, and in just a moment, he would know if his picnic table was reserved for him, perhaps reserved for him by the universe itself.

He passed two Starbucks this morning to patronize the Coffee Dump, as his favorite coffee haunt was the only place in town where you could get a sprinkle of ginger in your coffee.

As Jack’s eyes topped a slight rise along the concrete walk through the small evergreen portion of the park, his picnic table, about fifty yards away, seemed to rise majestically out of the grass, kind of how he imagined an ICBM missile might rise out of its silo.

Jack smiled. His table was ready. Empty. Waiting. Thank God, Jack thought, not thinking it facetiously, because he often shot thank-you notes off to God, Whom he felt ever had his back. Jack thought of the universe as God’s machine, maybe the along the same lines as Newton, and Jack imagined God constantly making tweaks here and there, pulling a string, winding a large crank, twisting a key here and there, and perhaps a lot of the tasks were accomplished for the purpose of aiding Jack along in his day. Jack felt somewhat charmed that way, blessed, as God pulled a favor for him here and there along his route.

He snatched the pen from his lips, frowning because the tool was now drooly, and lifted the cup to his lips for that first enervating slurp—then noticed a figure coming across the grass. Jack lowered the cup before it ever came close to his mouth. He did a quick trajectory tracking and was horrified to project that the trim, dark-haired businessman could only be heading toward Jack’s table, the table reserved for him by the universe.

Oh wonderful, God had overlooked that one guy, probably some vice president guy, out here to check the big stock fluctuations of Wall Street on his smart phone, no, on his iPhone, and Jack imagined the shiny silver device engraved with the bozo’s initials, and grinning, Jack imagined the title Super Trader engraved just beneath the man’s name, probably a name like Winston Morgan Danielson, and then he imagined further the big the Third engraved extra deep at the end.

Jack picked up his pace, both scissoring his legs faster while pushing much longer strides. Let us see this Sir WMD III match this speed. No WMD was stealing his elected spot, Jack swore, not even if it was The Third himself, Sir Winston Morgan Danielson!

On Jack’s right about fifty feet away a group of children crawled about in the grass, all of them sporting large magnifying glasses, looking like a bunch of preschool Sherlock Holmes released into the wild, searching for clues in the grass.

What are you guys looking for? Jack called to the children.

They giggled, WMDs! WMDs! they called in answer. A young woman with the children, she looked about the same age as Jack, give or take a year or a few months, rolled her eyes at Jack and shook her head.

Jack grinned. Hey, that’s one, right there, he thought. A coincidence, one of the odd little remarkable instances he caught throughout the day. Winston Morgan Danielson, WMD, Jack thought the playful letters in his head and the children had giggled the same letters. Pretty weird. I mean, come on, what were the odds? And why in the world would children be seeking WMDs in the grass?

But Jack adored these coincidences. He felt as if the universe had just dealt out another little encouraging pat on the back. You’re in the right place, Jack. You are on target, Jack. Keep going, Jack. That universe, what a card!

Jack turned his attention to the businessman and his grin faded. The little guy was waddling decidedly faster. Across the distance, he had noticed Jack, and seemed intent on the same picnic table beneath the tree.

Jack picked up his pace, now comically half-skipping, registering the dangerous slosh of the Soy Café Miso with one honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon and that special dash of ginger sloshing beneath his right hand. Do not spill! No spilling, he told himself imperially. Thou shalt not spill!

It struck Jack, the realization that the teenage girl overseeing the children was kind of cute. Without much forethought, he