In desperate times desperate people head here – an online journal of Apocalyptic-themed fiction and commentary.

Case Report into Clairaudience

Copyright © 2011 by Shane Jesse Christmass. All rights reserved.

Case Report into Clairaudience

     It is of those sheep that we see them. Wives and sealed cities. The authors of today are in this cycle. They’ve showed their age. Being the age of 22, I answered ‘yes’ to their questions.

     As in their environment, I didn’t much care for them; they expressed a will to live in the future, a future that had not been seen since the hand came down and made two hours of damage.

The secretary at the front, outside the door, she was a competent person.

There were five sinister people outside the door. They were trying to get inside. To get at those who wept and then found themselves standing before descending columns.

The Clairaudient finally came in.

“Tell me about this machine,” he hastily barked.

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Well. When did you see it last?”

“On the corner of Nadia Street.”

“And what does it do?”

“If you place your palm onto it, it commands you to become the beloved of the Earth.”

“Tell me you can find it.”

“I can find it, I can destroy it. I can make it function and I can gladly trap your mind within it.”

“Find it,” he wheezed.

Fascinated by doing harm to others, Jodi Shepherd, heavily stoned on hash, killed a Mr. Hessle in her home of Blacktown in 1988. She slammed his head into a cement box.

Initially the QC suspected the ambulance staff, a fellow called Patrick Button. The counselor — actually they were judges — sometimes ascended with certain things on his mind. When they did this they were forced to stand down and be locked into people, mainly deaths performed ‘off the record’.

These days the results come back fairly hard against people like me. I wasn’t sure I would be able to find the machine, but it was worth a shot. Supporters of the machine had been crushed, but now they were rising from the ground, coming back, implying deliberate action, and people like The Clairaudient wanted it stopped.

It was essential that The Clairaudient only heard parts of the future that he didn’t think were mad. The Clairaudient was 47 years old; 47 years ago he was born persistent and vegetative.

Ms. Hopfield died on August the 26th. Her husband sliced her jugular vein; he then went travelling on a holiday. By August the 27th the house had burnt to the ground, subject to the flames of Satanism.

The Hopfield’s two daughters were asleep upstairs, in their beds. Upon autopsy it was discovered that their bodies had been mutilated before the fire. A public profile of the accused was issued to the television stations. A bloodstained piece of tissue paper was held as evidence.

Of course when the children came, I only had a list of their names. One hundred names typed and given to me by The Clairaudient. I was pretty certain none of them would know where the machine was.

I asked the questions and the most common answer was ‘yes’.

These children had a puzzling capacity to remember facts. They weren’t born in a vegetative state, and they mumbled the questions back to me, albeit with a massive flash of conjecture. It was important that these kids had awareness. I couldn’t see The Clairaudient giving it to them.

Mr. Collier was inside the household. He heard whispering,

“Evil is away with all the murdering. It was in the neck killing, connection at the stem, in the base of the brain. This is all supernatural”.

On and on it went.

Luke Wells, now 42, who had recently awoken, was a suspect in a cold case review. He had no special defence; his DNA was brought to ice.

Luke Wells released a statement to the newspapers: “I am being considered by you as an occult-obsessed killer. Here’s my phone number!”

Once, when I was younger, I found myself for a few months in one of these vegetative states. It was all about being in the afterward, watching the perforated sinners inside you, and how they regarded you. It was frightening.

That was how I discovered the machine. In the back of a guide was a mail order coupon. I hesitantly purchased a money order from the Post Office and posted for one. It never arrived. But ever since, whenever I’ve had all-encompassing anxiety, despair or self-awareness, I’ve lined away the hours, daydreaming contently about re-ordering one.

Blessed this machine shall bless me. And all the children of the world will never have to pray for my predicament again.

In January 2007, a new evil was spawned in the Northern suburbs of Sydney. A Sydney woman murdered a Mr. Keith Slater. In sentencing, the Judge declared that “she had become a piece of her own murder.”

She had thrown her 410 page manuscript on Cartesian anxiety out the window, third floor up.

“You could’ve exorcised yourself, but you decided to demonstrate murder. You can appeal if you wish,” the Judge cackled.

I walked into my apartment and realised I’d probably need a bigger study if I was ever lucky enough to get one of the machines. I was aware there was a lack of total space in my life nevertheless.

I opened the fridge and hungered for peace, or to live a life whereupon there wasn’t a great judgement thrown upon it. I sat down on the couch and thought about my present charms; there wasn’t much. There wasn’t much on offer; one thing I did lack though was denial. There were certain things, like the little shit inside, where I realised I had treaded lightly over someone or something that was impossible to establish, or that was simple to impregnate. I thought not. I really had to find the machine, and find it fast.

To serve before the mystery, Jodi carved her initials into her forearm, along with the initials of her brother Patrick. This was eventually a piece of evidence that was found in 1988 and delivered in court in 2003.

Owen Dudgeon was found in the apartment, allegedly naked. He was a man police suspected. Toxicology found that he had nicotine in his veins when he died.

In 2006, Owen Dudgeon wrote a school essay about the mystery of tarot cards. He etched all the odd numbers, up to the number 30, onto the surface of his school desk.

Around his home, years ago, he first started getting obsessed with the occult. He didn’t have many evenings to be preoccupied by normal entertainment.

I thought about the fire that occurred west of the city three nights ago. Fifty-five patients perished into their own vegetative state. They were cattle, together held together, those who didn’t want that vegetative state at all, and although they had perished and had come back to life, they grew from their cortical activation; they were crushed by the light that occupied them.

The Clairaudient didn’t want to give them light. What happened to those patients three nights ago? Did the doctors supplicate their faces before the fire?

I looked at the calendar on the wall. The date said it was the 15th of April 1989. Surely that wasn’t correct. Where were the holy astronomical men? Had they escaped?

I got up and walked to the fridge. I had my instructions; I had to get behind righteousness, get up, survive up on top. It wasn’t going to be easy. I might have to consult the profound subject of neuropsychology; that wasn’t going to be easy.

Maxwell Shepherd liked to bond three groups of people together. It was another piece of the crime. He was known to have an almost unconscious connection to the husbands of these three groups.

Back in 1988, a Mr. Brown played football for Hull. Years later he boasted to his friends about where and how he played.

My name is Adrian Owen. I work within a structure called ‘Jaen’. It’s a private enterprise. It’s not a company, more like a platform that represents the telepathic interests of certain individuals. The last piece of evil work I worked on was why, if there is a drought or thirsty land, did our brain have to imagine water?

We activated certain brains to communicate to the global consciousness that there wasn’t anything that ever existed such as water. Water isn’t even taught in universities anymore.

The platform was originally invented by an Anglo-Belgian group who discovered that there were portable alternatives to opening up one’s face from a vegetative state. These Anglo-Belgian scientists succeeded in travelling into a zone whereby the sentient being exists within a distinct global coma.

They first tried this out in 1983. In one such coma they met two Gods. One who called himself ‘Enoch’ and another who went by the name of ‘Danthonia’.

The Jaen scientists spent their remaining days upon the right path within this global coma. They saw and were shown that the brain can pour forth quite easily through vegetative darkness, like a cruise ship through the Bahía de Cochins.

Mr. Williams collected sinister items; he had eighteen in total.

Mr. Collier collected vintage matchboxes; inside his favourite one was a severed carotid.

In a Sydney gaol, there was a guy who was known as the ‘sex offender’s mentor’. No one liked him, for the usual reasons.

In the second year of existence several thousand people had experienced the new Jaen platform. It was a success. It was able to correctly correct the vegetative state within many humans. It had a high success rate. People were able to finger and then flick away that terrible cough that inflicted their minds. People were having great days. They were no longer incumbent upon the holy, nor what was poised, or over-defined in their minds.

The cortical activation allowed them to return among the bulls of the city, of society, now they had no further way of communicating.

And life was great. They were independent to the commencement of light.

They were no longer incumbent to their own darkness.

They were no longer bound to the words of the Earth.

They were able to detect the vegetative state amongst themselves and amongst others quicker.

Riding a bicycle thinking about oblong taxation policies, suddenly Darra May took a painful tumble over the handlebars. At the time Darra May was living a lonely life. It was a badly-life, full of precarious and undermined pain, tough like criminal law, less success in the sexual business.

Darra’s forehead was grazed, bleeding. He yelled, “You stabbed me eighteen times!”

It was a Thursday and I was trying to found the transgression. Trying to find evidence of my own consciousness.

Did I really have to find the machine?

I hadn’t made any bets with The Clairaudient.

Maybe I could back out of the pursuit?

The sun crested into my apartment. It bought frankincense and the sound of someone hitting a tennis ball. It was a content-like hour. No one was in their grave yet. The air smelt like pepper. The rooms smelt like musk.

In my dreams overnight I did an imaginative study about wrath. I drew back on my cerebrals and cut a correctly rough portion of myself. I dreamt about those perished children. They’re names and they’re lives. Who they were sterile with semantics for? How they were probably hopped up in some distressing stem cell therapy or something?

I did have to find the machine.

I did have to appease the Magadan, despite the Spirits telling me otherwise.

I walked into the street.

I tapped the butt of a cigarette on the outside of the cigarette packet.

The wind whipped up. Taxi cabs shifted down the alley. I made my way over to the library. I flicked through the news archive that was labelled only ‘medicine’. Some patients were very happy with the sun outside.

The dead should know.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing rifling through the news archives. What was I looking for? Emeritus Professors discussing the global coma?

We communicate judgement on the first men who ride by the fountain close by. We who are conscious of the swathe of the coma activities. Indicating that they were activated when they were adults.

I found two results in the news archives. I imagined two scenarios. The ice cold water gore on the children’s heads, or the fire that destroyed the answers to the questions.

I had to find those answers.

I walked over to Nadia Street. Who I was about to meet was going to answer all my questions. He wanted to meet up in a bar. Typical. Probably wanted to drink stiff drinks and then speed up on his conjecture. His medication. Spirits to sun that weren’t impressive but that…

Wasn’t important.

People like the people I was meeting usually called days like this a goodly place.

I walked into the bar. I was here to discuss the loss of the machine. The machine! The results I was to find might take over my body. I might now be unable draw the petal from the peace.

The bar was called Calash’s, some Irish dive up on the North side of town.

The flock was set.

I saw Tommy Medora at the end of the bar. He was taking shots of Scotch. This didn’t look like someone who was familiar with the wherefores of inner medical research, or the moral issues that it entailed.

I heard someone outside yell out.

“It’s Herbert!” they said, but I had no idea who or what it was directed to.

The date on the newspaper said 15th April 1989. Surely that wasn’t right.

Tommy Medora ushered me over.

“Shih, shah, don’t pretend you know what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Herbert, out there, he’s casing the joint.”

“Do you want to go somewhere else, away from here?”

“No, no, this place is fine, it’s delicious”.

The way Tommy said “delicious” was terrible.

Del. icier. Us.

Del. icier. Us.

Something like that.

Tommy Medora slurred slowly over the bar.

“The machine’s not used anymore!” he yelped. “They used it a few times, then lost it. Seven people who used it are now in a hospital in midtown. The machine’s changed man; it has keys that made certain sensations when played. Those people in the hospital, those people have gone crazy.”

I walked out.

I left Tommy and his drink. It was the medicine that was from him. The medicine that made him aware of himself. Trapped him in casements.

He bored me.

It was then, there that I started to think less about the machine. Yes, one gathers, the wind which limps and smiles, but somehow the machine felt within me, like it knew me.

The city in front only had vices, fewer virtues from Bohemia. Fairies in the drainpipes, sundry items like the heavy garbage or the rose. I detested the suspense. I didn’t want to find the machine anymore. Screw it! I fed on bells of colour, on little pain that trembled from the fearful heights, petty thefts, the dark room where soot rode like a plume between the two of them, male and female; the immortal pubis was torn. I collapsed: screw the machine!

Whose lovely day is this? I wilted with gilded dust, dried flowers, and a fucking tortoise.

“Science of the sky” is how I heard the machine described once.

Each ray of splendid time! Our imagination, a tiny kingdom. The ocean breathed, the apostle of a sweetest adventure.

Screw the machine!

I feared gold.

The clear contours.

The Stygian sympathy.

Nothing but lovelier death let the suns evaporate. Make them imprisoned in flutes.

I wandered into the street.

The machine was lost to me, like a pile of sand.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s