The Comings

By Charles Ascello

Four worlds live simultaneously in the Continuum where Tela, an incarnation of god, has spent lifetimes reclaiming her full power. As she reaches her potential a terrible truth is uncovered. She must abandon her children at birth causing a cycle of pain that could destroy eternity. Tela is forced to battle her younger son Beckguire who vows revenge by stealing The Book of Life, written by the universe, foretelling every moment of every being ever to live.
She is ravished as he rips it from her soul knowing that changing one word could alter the Continuum. Tela slowly recovers her strength to prepare Rotholien’s fearless army against Beckguire’s eternal hate. Their forces collide and she watches as her stronghold is crushed. The last battalion of Rotholien’s bravest warriors prepare for a final stand.
But before the battle can complete itself, Tela moves on the Continuum to an earlier life, the moment when she has given birth to Beckguire. Will she allow him to live and hope he will find her love. Or kill him to save life itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Ascello
• Release date: Aug 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005622688

Charles Ascello

Charles Ascello was in his first theatrical performance at age six and has gone on to be a professional writer, actor, director and producer working with some of the biggest names in the industry. He has written several scripts including feature films, television pilots, a theatrical production with nine original songs and award-winning poetry. Charles also created and ran one of the most prominent performing arts conservatories and production companies in the Bay Area. For reels, bios and histories please see his site: www.firemoonproductions.com

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The Comings

By Charles Ascello

Copyright 2022 Charles Ascello

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Prologue

Warrior

(From Another Time)

The dark, brooding atmosphere dripped with sweat, rage, and fear. A predator’s den with thick clouds of breath rising from an erratic crowd, stinking of man’s basic instincts. Humanities jungle ready to burst with violence. Laughter, screeches, threats, seductions, swirled about the massive horde in white noise. Plush, velvet, elevated seats rose in a circle around a flat square plexiglass ring. Surrounded by the ten-foot drop of a glistening black moat to keep audience from harm-no cage required. Back-alley scrubs mixed freely among billionaire suits, and jeweled gowns-women looking for hope, men for solace. Money floating like magic carpets to that better world that never arrives-no matter how much is won or lost. The restless, jittery rabble vibrating with energy-gamblers, winners, sadists, masochists. All looking for something they’ll never find and trying to get there as fast as they can.

This is where the real fights took place-not streaming online with boxing, UFC, Or MMA-all child’s play. No, real battles happened the same place they always happened, underground and illegal. The glory of victory-or the gashed, torn, bloody, open gristle misery of death. Meant only for the hardcore spectator and combatant.

Which is what Randy was. A warrior. But a true warrior not looking to hurt the

innocent or the weak. A protector. Which is why he was no longer a Navy SEAL. A fact that left him with a searing anger. The SEALs were infused with honor and dignity. But even with their unequaled standards it was possible for a psychopath to infiltrate its sanctity. And he would have none of it. His own honor rose above all and came from disjointed memories of a time he wore a sword for a living and was one of the best. Somewhere on this world but not this world. The memories threatened to drive him crazy, compelling his search for enemies threatening existence itself. And that was crazy. But he was a fighter, so he fought.

The expensive arena was constructed for patrons-four-star restaurants, and top shelf bars-not fighter’s-unless they won and took home huge paydays. No dressing rooms with showers and whirlpools. Or padded tables to relax on and get your hands wrapped. This was come as you are, street clothes only. As long as you didn’t wear steel toed boots or the like. If you were going to kill a man, or woman, it needed to be flesh on flesh, or bone on bone. Combatants were solicited by powers that be, handlers or trainers unnecessary. Doctors, ambulances, or if need be private coroners, appeared from the shadows.

So, Randy waited and watched, sometimes with other solitary fighter’s, in one of two staging areas opposite one another in the battle zone. All the fights that night seemed to be particularly brutal. Fortunately, clean-up crews were fast and efficient leaving the transparent fighting surface clean and dry for the next bout. The black stand-alone combatant’s tower shot up in the middle of the swirling crowd like the hub of a wheel. Images began to flicker in Randy’s head and trying with all his might he couldn’t stop that alternate reality from slipping down on him. The black tower exploded upwards in a sheen of white marble, so high it was in the clouds. But he could see clearly two giant men standing on its top. Identical but for the fact one was white with golden flowing hair, the other black with a rolling ebony mane. They wore ancient yet magnificent battle garb with swords he knew so well-and longed for. They shot through his mind like daggers, and he staggered backwards under the spell of the damnable dream. Finally, a voice brought him back telling him over and over it was time to fight. His heart raced and he saw and heard nothing taking the familiar route through the slick black trench and up retractable stairs to stand atop the tower in his ‘corner’. The crowd was deafening, he had pleased them on many occasion, his opponent monstrous, no one else would fight him. But the vanishing alternate reality left him in a droning veil of solitude. Until iron fists pounded into him-right, left, right. Surprisingly fast, accurate and athletic for such a huge man. But then they stopped. And Randy came back to the here and now. He looked up at the beast, handsome actually, like a movie star in one of those comic book action movies that grows when he gets mad. The man had a perplexed look on his face, expecting Randy to cover-up, protect himself. The three unchallenged blows would have killed someone else, or at least sent him sprawling like a rag doll. But Randy, barely five-ten, one hundred sixty-five pounds, hardly moved. I mean the guy was built, but still. Randy quickly regained his bearings, feigned a little wobble, and took a knee. His acting skills were usually spot on. Comparatively small in the sports world he had been born with an innate strength that couldn’t be explained. Nothing extraordinary like the Hulk, but it was hard to hurt him, and he could punch like a grizzly bear. So, he had to put on a little show to keep raking in the money and securing opponents. Another punch came his way, he feinted left, locked the oak like arm to his side under an elbow, and rose as the guy stood to full height. Randy allowed himself to be flung to the edge of the ring teetering as if holding on for dear life, arms flailing. The crowd went wild. Footsteps danced toward him, and Randy somersaulted over the big guys head. More cheers. Then he flung himself in the air like a corkscrew and drilled the guys chest. This time his opponent flailed at the top of the moat, but just before crashing downward Randy pulled him back to the ring. He turned with his arms upraised bringing the crowd to their feet.

Then she caught his eye. Amy. The love of his life. Her name so familiar, like something out of his dreams, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. But she was real, and tonight was the night they were telling her parents they were three months pregnant. Her ‘Old Money’ parents that were black and didn’t want their daughter involved with a white guy. Fun city. She pressed her lips together, rolled her eyes and shook her head side-to-side at his antics. Then raised her hands in a ‘we gotta go gesture’. Randy nodded and turned back to business.

A side kick landed to the action hero’s solar plexus, followed by a series of punches just hard enough to cause trouble, and draw blood. Then he threw a punch floating in the air slow enough to be blocked. This time he didn’t move, and a sledgehammer fist caught Randy’s left temple. He went down, seemingly dazed, leaning against his opponents leg. The big man’s fist came hurtling down to smash the crown of his head, but in a flash Randy’s knuckles slammed into a muscular thigh tearing flesh and cracking bone. A horrific cry of agony silenced the crowd as the massive fighter teetered and fell to the floor screeching in pain. His fists pounded the ring watching blood gush from a jagged wound of pink quivering muscle and white protruding bone. Once again, the crowd roared its approval. Randy dragged the thrashing behemoth to the edge of the stage, headfirst. A ten-foot drop could break a man’s neck. Sound in the arena was deafening. Amy looked disappointed. Randy left the disabled man at the top of the ring and nimbly jogged down steps that appeared from the side of the tower. He collected a briefcase of money and climbed into Amy’s luxury car.

You didn’t have to hurt him, she scolded.

That’s my last fight, he said in a daze. We don’t need anymore.

We didn’t need any more two fights ago.

It happened again.

What did you see? Amy’s eyes flashed, almost like she knew.

Two warriors staring at me from atop a tower in the clouds. The tower was-everything!

Goose flesh prickled Amy. She didn’t have these dreams, but Randy’s stories were so real. And somehow, she felt a part of them. Her smile told him she shared his belief in this other world and loved him unconditionally. She slowly pulled away from the arena hopefully for the last time.

It was a twenty-minute drive from San Francisco to Hillsborough and the mansion she lived in with her parents. Ready, she said pulling onto the wide circular driveway and parking by the front entrance.

Oh, yeah, he said facetiously.

Don’t worry, they won’t kill you. Not tonight at least, she giggled.

That would be funny if it weren’t true, he said following her to an opening door.

Good evening, Miss, Sir, said the butler in tails.

Hi Jeremy, replied Amy, you know Randy.

Yes, of course.

The door closed behind them.

Uh oh, Daddy’s putting on the ritz tonight.

Great!

They moved passed the large foyer and finally into the smaller private dining room. Where they were greeted by the Bhurig’s

Mother, Father, Amy kissed them lightly on the cheek.

Both were tall, thin, athletic, and graceful. Impeccably dressed with just enough jewelry as not to be ostentatious. Neither looked old enough to be Amy’s parents.

Mrs. Bhurig studied her daughter as if pleasantly surprised. You look absolutely glowing, she finally said.

Amy shot Randy a half smile. Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Bhurig. We’ve been looking forward to this, he said trying to sound confident.

I’m sure you have, Mr. Bhurig pulled out a seat for his wife and moved to the head of the table. As he glided by, Randy detected a faint odor, pleasant but not human. One of clean fresh potting soil on a summer’s day. He felt dizzy and a name screamed in his head from that other world, Man-Salan. The monster made of earth with supernatural powers created by the Master himself. Master, Man-Salan! Beings he was sworn to fight. The worlds collided; Randy swayed. Amy guided him into his seat.

Thanks, I’ll be alright, he said staring up at a grinning Mr. Bhurig. Amy sat opposite him. Does she know? he thought. Impossible! The mother’s human. What does that make Amy? Stop, he told himself. That’s crazy! Were all human.

Chilled prawns, and Beluga caviar-illegal except for people like the Bhurig’s, appeared. Your Cioppino and Beef Wellington will be out shortly, called a voice from the doorway.

How’s the fighting coming along? asked Mr. Bhurig.

We’re pregnant, answered Randy. The Russian style crepe, cream cheese and caviar stopped half-way to Mrs. Bhurig’s lips. Amy’s mouth dropped open.

Of course, you are. Mr. Bhurig’s smile was a frozen accusation. But you won’t be keeping it." His words drifted over them like a pleasant trance. Suddenly Mr. Bhurig was Randy’s best friend. While Amy, strong willed and independent, became pliant and amenable.

The meal was consumed-and it was delicious. Conversation flowed with wine and drink. They all got along splendidly. And promises were made-it was best for all concerned to give the child up for adoption. Amy and Randy left feeling better than ever.

---

Six months later Randy found himself sitting alone atop one of San Francisco’s best-known landmarks contemplating the worst decision he’d ever made, and a life haunted by ghosts of another reality.

The Meeting

Yma’s face, ebony beautiful, staring up in the silence of extinguished life racked him with pain.

He her murderer, she his lover. The lover of his dreams.

The dark cave sterile now of love, shadowy firelight flickering within silhouetting two muscle lean natives against a dark entrance, weapons threatening.

Feeling spear point tear flesh, searing nerves in perdition’s onslaught. Then, death?

Memory of this existence, his own, replayed in haunting animated dreams plagued Randy, confused him since birth perhaps beyond. Dreams of a death that suffocated his life, displacing him in time without a clock.

Tolerating these ghosts of another reality set Randy in a world, a society of which he was not fashioned. Leading to an assumption that his origin was from among the stars, a province fantasized, heavens’ vast freedom void of nightmares, void of death.

Of course this wasn’t true. Randy indeed was a dreamer of classic proportion soon to find once again life was contained, in all the universe, on the mound of earth revolving beneath his feet. Though not in the way anyone fathomed. Except for the eight.

Randy was one of the eight, just a bit forgetful.

San Francisco spread below him. A checkered board whose kings, queens, rooks, and pawns had forgotten how to play the original game. Fumbling with their own fabrication of life.

To Randy, the city always seemed a better place under the guise of night: her twinkling fairyland lights, the foghorn blast rolling its sleepy thunder over a windswept bay white-capped and frigid, the tumult of daily struggle and existence silent and hidden in darkness as if it were a dragon slain only to breathe fire once again at dawn’s light. Romantic! Free! Enchanting!

The vision of day brought other perspectives. Perspectives not many saw as evil, the way Randy perceived.

Coit Tower loomed directly behind, a fire hose erection, its hilltop perch shared with camera flashing tourists, Lovey-faced romanticists uncorking bubbly, and party loaded vans looking for something to find. Which was exactly Randy’s purpose.

He discovered it missing during early childhood, searched for it ever since, not knowing where or for what to look, owing to the fact he’d never really had it. For the most part it was only a dreamlike quality of something he couldn’t grasp.

His immediate problem was Amy in labor at Sequoia Hospital about to have their son.No, he was positive it was going to be a boy, not just a guess, he knew before conception. That was one of Randy’s problems, knowing things, portents. A regular magician at pulling time from space, past or future. Only trouble was he had difficulty dealing with the present.

Randy also knew his soon to be son’s name, which bothered him a great deal. Not a name chosen by either parent, but an intrinsic name.

Amy’s beautifully black face invaded Randy’s mind, paralleling his own skin’s whiteness against charcoal features of a woman loved.

It’s beyond me, he said. Unaware, uncaring of the people around. How they talked us into giving our son up for adoption. Randy’s shoulders shrugged in deference.

Amy shone in Randy’s life, a star whose brilliance warmed his existence. They had something that went beyond what people called love in two thousand twenty-two. A bond, an extraneous physical, chemical, psychic interaction that brought two people together without cool calculation of needs. A true lust for each other’s happiness, a will to struggle unto death to remain together. Though even in the so-called liberated twenty first century parents argued against associations where black met white, prejudice being buried deep in the best of liberals.

It didn’t help that he dropped out of college having only three units left to graduate. Or that he was honorably discharged from the Navy SEALs at the top of his unit. No matter that the officer he nearly beat to death raped a fellow plebe. Nor did they care much for his chosen career path as an underground bare-knuckle fighter. Entertaining the rich and famous for purses far greater than TV MMA stuff. He had a million bucks in the bank and only wanted a quiet life with his son and Amy. Randy simply didn’t meet the standards of old money from Hillsborough, one of the most affluent hamlets in all of Silicon Valley. Amy’s parents were socialites and probably wouldn’t hire him as security, let alone let him marry their daughter.

Our son! I agreed to give away our son. What the hell is wrong with me?! Randy shouted down the hill as though the city was to blame. And it very well may have been. Frustration vibrated through him. A tear threatened, then was eaten by anger.

Softly a hand rested on Randy’s shoulder, or so he perceived. Calm fell all around, as a gentle hug from a friend.

Ramos, called a voice from behind.

The name spoken was distantly familiar as so many other things Randy reached for but could not grasp. The strangers’ presence was strongly felt standing directly behind. His face, a dream often dreamed, replaced Amy’s in Randy’s mind’s eye. Beautifully handsome, enough to give straight men alternate thoughts, yet male sexuality beamed from this perfect giant of a man.

Ramos, the stranger called once again, quietly excited. Randy turned, faced a dream in flesh, flinched slightly backwards.

The city’s perpetual breeze swept Randy’s silky panther man of hair into a wildness around a ruggedly noble, square jawed visage. Piercing fire green eyes scanned the evasively familiar phantom looming over him for answers to long asked questions. His own hard, athletic body dwindled in comparison. Randy finally found the power of speech.

Randy, my name is Randy, he corrected.

Ramos, the august stranger repeated. When will you ever learn?

---

Androm tried to explain the near impossible to Ramos as they sped down Highway one-

o-one in his muscle car to Redwood City.

Think of them, he said, "as past, present, and future. Say, for instance, that you were transported into the future and were able to lead a normal life. But like the quantum world remained in the present to live out your life here.

"That would not mean my life or the life of eight billion other people in the here and now would be diminished. We would continue on, as you would continue on in the future, as do those in the past. Three times coexisting on earth, but on different levels. If one world fails, the two coexisting worlds would run their course and simply end at the tangent where the failed era was no more, and with them existence. Then there’s the, Fourth, that no one likes to talk about. A place and time none of us understand before humans found consciousness. The mystery Beckguire, or, Master, as some call him, erased. Who is able not only to live in all three worlds but to regenerate himself at will with any female he wants. Where we still have to fall in love and bring ourselves back the normal way like you, Amy, and Dagger. We still can’t regenerate ourselves but rely on members of the eight for that.

There is only one man capable, willful, of displacing time on the continuum of space. That is why we are here, and there, and there. To protect against Beckguire’s power of hate. A destructive power unmatched. Able to obliterate time, space, humanity, earth.

Ramos consumed Androm’s anthology pensively, nervously gripped the steering wheel and asked, "What Coming is this?"

"The First, answered Androm, hopeful of Ramos’ awakening, his saintly hands braced against the dashboard. Where did you learn to drive?!"

"And the Coming from which we recently departed…"

He calls them by their rightful names thought Androm, the Coming, his reference points are beginning to surface. Perhaps there is promise for Ramos after all.

"The Third," Androm finally answered.

And my part in all this? Asked Ramos almost frightfully.

For a moment Androm weighed the importance of conveying Ramos’ tragic failure in the Third, the death of Amy, or, Yma, as she was then known. Thought better of it.

You are part of the circle of eight who have acquired the wisdom of tri-dimensional awareness, of your own importance of existence, and of the immutable laws of nature. Though you are one whose convictions, Androm paused, chose his next words carefully, are…not…quite…stable.

Stable, hah! Contended Ramos. No doubt!

Some, like Amy, said Androm ignoring the outburst, "are living their first consecutive life where they will learn of and combine their existence here in the First with the life they live in the Third. The life for which you are notorious. You know, like those memories you’re having you think are dreams. They’re all about your life in the Third. And the woman you love so much is also having a baby you will call, Dagger, who was your father in the Third, and one of the eight. Get it?"

No, I don’t get it! Ramos grew frantic still refusing to accept what he had done in the Third. You’re whacked pal! And they call bare-knucklers crazy!

Now, the eight. Androm’s face glowed as he reminisced about people he loved and admired. Waver, man of the sea, larger than life with a heart of gold and anger that kills. Patrick, doyen of men, that can destroy with a look. Dagger, greatest blade man ever to walk humanity’s tens of thousands of years. Halex, the shadow from which I evolved, black as midnight, loyal to a fault, protector elite. Myself, afraid of no man or entity. Tela, mother, and lover whose malice goes unmatched. Thol, beloved father and mage supreme. And you Ramos, forgiven the sin committed because of your unbound love and sacrifice to save all. The eight that have lived simultaneously in the continuum’s worlds. The eight to rival Beckguire’s power. Beckguire, brother to Halex, Thol and I. Son to Tela.

With every word Ramos’ foot pressed down on the accelerator.

Slow this death bed, ordered Androm in a low concise voice, "If we. If I, he punctuated, am destroyed with loss of context, the tangent shall be broken. There will be no Comings to speak of. Your son will be safe and waiting at the hospital when we arrive," he assured.

Ramos was allowed no response. To his left blared a siren screeching past in a medical emergency. Just enough shock value to tense Ramos’ muscles to the right, their car veered. Ramos overcompensated to avoid traffic, cut diagonally across two lanes, clipped the rear end of another car, skidded, then flipped and rolled once, twice, then a third time, and thudded to a halt. The Chevelle SS lay totaled on the side of the freeway.

Several vehicles screeched and continued on, finally one, then two cars stopped to assist. Before their drivers had time to approach, Androm cleared his head, evaluated and took action.

Ramos, if you weren’t already dead, I’d! Androm discontinued his own mumbling, smoothed his hand over the bloodied, concaved section of Ramos’ skull, then the other damaged

areas of his partner’s lifeless body. And in one smooth motion crossed straightened arms and circled rejuvenating hands outward till they met once again.

The car groaned and popped metallically, then rolled easily onto its four rubber feet in better condition than it was before the accident.

Ramos shook his head, dazed as though he’d just woken from deep sleep, his hands still locked to the steering wheel. The motor jumped to a start.

Drive, said Androm.

Good Samaritan hands of the stopped motorists, startled as they were by a true to life instant replay, knocked on renewed windows. You all right in there? They asked.

What the hell hap- started Ramos.

Drive! raved Androm.

Ramos’ foot fell heavy on the accelerator, leaving behind some very confused rescuers. In the pocket of one writhed an angry viper within its ruby egg-shaped receptacle. The woman’s hand stroked the snake’s red chamber.

Calm yourself, my lord. There will be another time, she soothed.

While in the car, Androm stroked his neck uncomfortably, thinking back eons ago of grave unpleasantries.

After some deliberate thought, as though nothing unordinary had occurred, Ramos spoke. Androm, from what did Beckguire derive such inward hostility? To want to destroy time and thought itself?

"From an aberration, from nature turning on herself, from an innocent mother. It will be made clear when we reach the hospital. Beckguire has reckless dispassion for his paternal origin, for