The Forever Endeavor

By Gus Ty Wynds

Imp, a man, a creature, the forgotten son of Loki.

The world in despair, a world that surrounds only Imp.

Lost love for life itself. The depths of his soul shouted for a change!

Intense pain. Only pain.

A drama.

A change sponsored by the power of God.

A gift from my father.

Eternal life. Destruction. So much destruction!

Then...

A suspenseful comedy about Imp after having been given a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885055772

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Introduction

Part 1

Chapter 1: My Name Is Imp

Chapter 2: The Doubt of It All

Chapter 3: I Am Everyone's B——tch

Chapter 4: They Can Only Dream

Chapter 5: The Glass Slipper

Chapter 6: I Was Raised Like This

Chapter 7: The Hypervictim of a Con

Chapter 8: With the Windows Rolled Down

Chapter 9: So What Exactly Is a Good Day?

Chapter 10: Who Am I to Them?

Chapter 11: Thinking About God Again

Chapter 12: No Misprint

Chapter 13

Part 2

Chapter 14: Will I Make It to a Remission Okay

Chapter 15: The Long Pause

Chapter 16: A New Momentum

Chapter 17: Broken Record

Chapter 18: Lowest Common Neighbor

Chapter 19: Untitled Chapter

Chapter 20: Missing Connection

Chapter 21: You Can't Say Shit Like That/Living the Dream

Chapter 22: A New Awakening when I Wake Up in Heaven

Chapter 23: A Hidden Bliss

Chapter 24: All Hope Lost

Chapter 25: Loki Visits

Chapter 31: Made My Bed

About the Author

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The Forever Endeavor

Gus Ty Wynds

Copyright © 2023 Gus Ty Wynds

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88505-576-5 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88505-577-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is property of Gus Ty Wynds and is not to be used by anyone before this notice or after in any way to gain profit. You may not distribute the online soft copy edition of this book or any editions of any words written by myself, Gus Ty Wynds, without further notice. If you do want to contact someone about my book, please find the Fulton Books company online. By soft copy, we refer to any electronic version of this book or its contents. This book is complete fiction, and it is meant to be carried on that way.

Introduction

In this book, the main character, Imp, explains what his life has been like living in his small apartment home for the past three years as his neighbors have been telepathically communicating with him. As the story progresses, the reader begins to realize that Imp has been a victim of cyberterrorism for the past three years, and hackers are using facial recognition tools hacking his phone and have planted bugs in his home to sabotage his relationship with his family, friends, caseworkers, and doctors.

Imp struggles with schizophrenia and must prove to everyone he cares about that this struggle is real and that this struggle is not an episode of schizophrenia. Will Imp ever break free? Will he ever be able to regain the reputation he worked so hard to build in the community he held so close to his heart? Why was this community so important to him? Is Imp an evil genius like the voices claim, or is he simply a mild-mannered calm and collected man who wants peace of mind like the rest of us?

Thank you for your time. I hope you enjoy reading.

Part 1

Chapter 1

My Name Is Imp

I laid awake in my bed. He's talking to himself, a male voice said. Listening, I typed away. He's smart, a female voice said. He's smart, the male voice stated. Crap, he said after that. Shit, she said. Please stop! I cried. They were insane, I thought. The male voice said, He's in his apartment. Then he said some things I cared not to repeat to trip me up as a writer.

Fireworks went off.

Shit, the male voice said. Holy crap, the same voice said. It does matter, the woman said as her voice trailed off with doubt in the back of her mind. With doubt in the back of her mind. You can't use that because I said it first, her voice said.

The two of them grew nervous. They knew their time of reigning is ending. Was coming to an end, they said. Was coming to an end, she said like she had not even known I knew they hacked my phone.

I returned to a singularity, and I am me, Imp, again.

This was a written tool advocate meant to allure and conclude the true context of the likelihood of my apartment's outer area of the environment, I thought. Shit, she said. The male voice mumbled some words as I was writing or typing, whatever you prefer to call it.

His voice was stifled and then so too became the female voice's words. He's trying to prove we exist. This is not good. Crap. He hears us. He can hear us. Quick! Do something! Do what exactly? I do not know. Make something up! Okay. Okay. I never said anything about…

Then they spoke words I dare not speak for they were of a topic too fowl for this book. This had become an everyday occurrence. This was the nature of their behavior. I knew in time I would either off myself or be considered a hero for everything they put me through. Christ, my biggest fear has always been to be noticed publicly. Damn it.

They speak now in a demeanor that registers as spiteful with a twist of fear and a plot that churns in the night with an enhancement of a stain they cannot erase.

I am growing more physically ill each day. They spoke of poison in a sense of courage just two weeks ago, and now they speak of poison as a mistake and with lingering demobilization.

Has this journey to the afterlife been on autopilot the whole time? Here I thought when they hijacked my flight that they had changed course.

I should not joke like that. What does that mean exactly? That what? No one on my flight to heaven can get in until the lead voices are evicted. That sounds awful.

They have been silent for the first time in what feels like months. They are up to no good. They are pirates.

Probably up to no good, the male voice says. Oh my god! the woman's voice says. They are drug addicts. They go on a roller coaster of emotions together daily.

This thought scares and excites them. They are feeling mischievous now. They are plotting their next attack now. I sit in fear as I await my next scar and bruise in a mental sense.

I am a cyberhostage. My name is Imp. What is your name? I say to the voice.

He has been listening and trying to control me for three years. I got you now, he says.

He is trying to make me sweat. My name is Imp. What is your name? I say again. He does not answer. Why are you in hiding? I ask him. Guilty people hide, I tell him in my head. I go on to say in my head with my phone in front of my face, Why are you in hiding? Don't you think you need to stand by this reputation you stole from me? Why are you afraid to let people or me know your name?

I don't need to tell you shit, he spewed.

I don't have to say a goddamn thing. Shut your mouth, he says.

He was getting frustrated at this point. She was getting frustrated as well. When she gets frustrated, she sounds happy as a front. That is how you know two things. One, she is disassociated from her feelings, and two, she is scared.

This reminds me of the way a psychopath cannot help from telling one lie after another to the point where they do not even know what the difference is between the way two words would act.

I was starting to feel hungry again, and I thought I should eat something for the second time today. I thought of red and green, but this had little to do with Christmas associations and much to do with hunger and green beans that I picked around from my last meal out of those stir-fry meals where the green beans kind of just slush, and they get all stringy and unappealing.

I also had a strawberry shake mixed with coffee for a drink. It was not particularly good, but it was okay. I ate some little hot dogs just now.

The voices are at it again. One plays nice, and the other spells shit out for me to repeat so that as I repeat the words of one, the other may react to my copying as some form of what they claim is my answer to a question when really it was me repeating the other to figure out what they were saying as they were being nice and civil to me just moments ago.

I keep falling for this, thinking there is some good even in the purest of evils.

Shit! he just said as I was typing. He figured us out, he said. That's not what I said, he replied as if me talking to myself as I type is the same as me talking to someone. He grew silent.

She spoke up in a tone I could not depict. My ear grew closer to my fan, and my focus shifted from my phone to my room. Oh crap, he said.

A third voice spoke up. Who was this other voice? I wonder. Who are any of these people? I thought to myself. Okay, she said. Smart, he said.

I took a half-heavy sigh of frustration as I could no longer hear what they were planning. The night air was finally crisp for the first time in about a month. The apartment walls creaked with the change in temperature and air pressure. I could hear the crinkling of my white-down alternative blanket against my ear as it also brushed my hand that uses my index finger to peck away at the digital keys of my phone's notepad application. I wonder what mother is up to currently.

She just got done with work not too long ago. She is busy, but I always get so anxious waiting all day to hear how her day was. We talk. Then I go to bed.

Chapter 2

The Doubt of It All

I awake in a sweat. It is cold. What difference does it make? They are in a middle of a discussion.

You already got what you wanted. If I killed myself, what difference does it make, you savage? I think. He makes a good point, she says. What difference does it make? They speak. Then they grow silent for only but a moment.

The silence is broken with the conference in hush tones. What difference? What difference? Good point. Exactly. You should kill yourself, they say. Great, I think. They are back to this again. But you just said you want to kill yourself. I thought you said this was too grave for your book, he says. She nods her head. The ringing of the big bangs prominently shifts around her skinny head. Yeah, she says. Exactly my words. I feel discarded again.

I am reminded of the times they talked me through the six nights I took countless amounts of pills in an attempt to take my life by their guidance. If someone can hear me, please, I'm paralyzed from the pills I took. My heart feels odd. My body is numb. I do not feel right. Someone please call an ambulance. Then there was their laughter and mockery.

What a jackass! they said with their friends. He actually took the whole bottle of pills. He's going to die, dude. Man, I know it. Sucks to be him! Fuck 'em. I continued with my pleas those nights. If you really are good decent people like you claim to be, one of you will save my life. How do we know this isn't a prank? they said. I passed out.

Most of the rest of the nights were a blank. Just a distant fog in my mind as unclear as my motive was those nights. It was something about how life is over too fast, so if I died, then I would not have to suffer anymore.

He tortured my mind like a wrecking ball tackling a glass window. He said he knew the location of someone I used to love and her family, and they were in danger. He mentioned her by name. He said there was something I could do to stop him, but I would never figure it out, and, as if by magic, wouldn't you guess it? I figured it out right there on the spot. That is right. I played right into his hands.

It all happened so fast. He told me if I moved one piece, another would fall and so on. The only piece that did not fit was him, which was the piece I moved indeed. So I tried to rat him out to the police, but they did not believe that a voice from a different building was talking to me. And I still do not understand what is going on, so I am drafting this book.

You actually are writing a book, she said. I can hear everything you've written. You son of a bitch, I think to myself. You've twisted it around on me, haven't you? Call me a bitch one more time, she says. This is her favorite saying. Her attitude has always been if she can push me, she can frame me. Hell no, she says.

She is high again. Fuck, she exclaims. Then she calls me a snitch. I might be a snitch if her voice were real. When I publish this book, we will see about that. It is just a risk I am willing to take. Well, then I'm going to write a book about you, she said. You'll never be able to show your face in this town again. You'll wish you had killed yourself when I'm through with you, she went on to say.

I'm sorry to hear that you feel that way, I tell her with my mind. The male voice joins in to say it's bullshit. No one will ever believe you. You are mentally retarded. Oh, I am sorry. Mentally challenged or disabled or whatever the fuck you call it. She is much smarter than you. She can pull this off. You got him exactly where you want him. I'll help you bring him down. She replies, Oh, of course. Then they lower their voices in a hush once again.

It was getting late. I took a sip of water from a used soda bottle that has a mismatched cap twisted