To Live Is To Believe

A small mountain town in Virginia, a new experiment within the National Radio Quiet Zone boundaries, finds itself plagued with the voices of gods.

[redacrespeaks]

“I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.”

IT DOESN’T MATTER NOW.

“I just want my thoughts to be my own.”

IT WAS YOUR OWN CHOICE TO LET ME IN.

“How was I supposed to know?  I’m just a kid.”

NOT ANYMORE.

[redacrespeaks]

“I AM... LIKE A CONSTELLATION,”  he said.

A being, made of up of so many smaller pieces.  Pieces that were supposed to connect into the shape of an image inside her head, but this voice was broken.

“ONLY A FEW STARS YET BURN.  I REMEMBER THE NEAREST ONES.  THOSE GONE DARK, BUT CLOSE BY.  FURTHER OUT... NOTHING.”

She wondered what sort of god these lost stars had once formed.  She wondered if it was possible to add new stars to a constellation and have it remain the same as it once was.  Would they even want to?  Or could they build him into a new image?

Deep down, she knew, it was impossible to rebuild the same constellation with different stars.  There would always be an obvious change.  All they could do, was add the new stars in, and hope the image created was better than the last.

[redacrespeaks]

It had only been one.  A voice he had grown to know, to trust.  A voice of reason, that he could go to when he needed a guiding light.

But then there were two.  With the second there was doubt, uncertainty, and a challenge to all the things he thought true.

There was no quiet.  Never a pause.  When one voice stopped, the other started.  They tested his will, they pushed his limits, and he was so exhausted trying disentangle himself from their influence.

How could he lead his flock, when he, himself, was constantly mediating a battle of truths in his own mind?  A battle he could not choose a side in.  A battle that lead to sleepless nights and an unshakable paranoia.

Tonight, however, everything had changed.   They both spoke in his mind simultaneously and both were demanding a choice.  He couldn’t answer, he couldn’t think, there was just always the voices.  They were angry, they wanted from him things he could not give.   All he wanted was quiet.  Freedom from them.

He found himself at the cliff, staring out at the mountain ranges before him.  The voices argued with each other, each pleading with him to see their side, neither having noticed just how close he was to the edge.  Nor had they realized the thought that had come to his mind on the way he could be certain he’d hear them no more.  

He’d learned long ago that they couldn’t read his mind, and perhaps that was better, because in this moment they’d have turned their attention to talking him out of it.  It might have worked, had they noticed.

He could have taken that single step.  He could have fallen gracefully down the cliff side in an instant.  But no.  He wanted to make a statement.  He wanted them to know this was no accident, that he hadn’t somehow misstepped or fumbled.  They needed to know that they had driven him to make a choice, and this was it.

He turned, as if to wander home, their voices loud in his skull.  It was not until he turned and sprinted toward the open sky that they realized, and by then it was too late.   He leapt into the open sky, hands out wide as if to hug the air in greeting.  What he noticed in his final moments, was not the air passing him, not the flip of his stomach, but the absolute silence.   

The voices had finally left him to his fate.

[redacrespeaks]

There is a misconception out there, that death leads only to a cold, dark, and scary place.

This is wrong.

She can help you understand the truth.  Death is a warm embrace that should be welcomed rather than run from. 

Death is not a tragic end, but a satisfying conclusion.

[redacrespeaks]

I do not fear the dark, for the absence of light cannot hurt me.

I fear the creature that follows in the dead of night.  Who’s whispers beckon with promises of peace.

They call him Angel.

I feel nothing but a deep void when he nears, as if he is sucking the very soul from my body.  He never tires, this angel.  He treks forward along my trail, as if nothing could stop him.  Perhaps nothing can.

I do not want the peace he offers.  I want to stay myself.  But still, when I close my eyes, he is there.  Watching me, waiting for his opportunity, and I do not know how much longer I can run.

[redacrespeaks]

For James Tristan, they weren’t just drones.  They had lives, they had names, they did their work, and they had personality.  

Drone A3458, or Mogarth, patrolled Dream Therapy, he seemed to have a liking of the cavernous school area, and ran more smoothly when there.  

Drone A7524, Duffy, needed the stars, not just because her signal was a bit faulty and the open air helped her maintain connection, but because she was a dreamer and preferred the twinkling lights in the dark blue over the claustrophobic caves of The Maze.

He would talk to them, share his thoughts, observe their lives and compliment them when they’d done a good job for the evening.   He knew the lucids assigned to assist him thought he was nuts, but it didn’t matter to him in the end.  These drones were his friends, and he was content to have it that way.

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[redacrespeaks]

“Tell me another,” she said, as a chuckle came to her thoughts.

There were no need for books when she could simply listen to the tales from the storyteller in her mind.  Some of them were fairy tales, others were true.  Some brought laughter, while others brought fear.  

They help prepare you for later, the voice would whisper, but she didn’t know what that meant.  All she knew, was that they brought her comfort, joy, and she felt more complete having heard them.

[redacrespeaks]

                               Do not go into the forest, child, lest you wish to encounter witches.

They move to a beat that only they seem to hear.  Their bodies move effortlessly as if they have no care in the world.  They invite you to join them, to hear their music, and to sing with the voice in their heads.

                            Do not go into the forest, child, lest you wish to fall prey to their spell.

[redacrespeaks]

It was not scare away those that may chastise them.  It was about coming together, recognizing their fellows, and not having to fear repercussions for their chosen daimon.

If a wayward child were to find their way to the gathering, late at night between the trees, their first test would begin.  Caution was key.  Curiosity was expected.  Ultimately, it was how tentative their nature, that would decide if they were worthy.

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[redacrespeaks]

They were just kids, trying their best to fight a giant. 

No.

They were soldiers, in a war with their own minds.   The children of Redacre were a revolution.  Vastly outnumbered and fighting an unseen enemy, they dug in their heels and dared to question.

“Gods,” the children whispered,” They speak to us, and they seem to want to help.”

Some believed, others raised their brow in question, but ultimately they knew something was wrong, and they were the only chance of making it right.

The voices in their heads were never good.  These voices, these gods, had their own aspirations and agendas.  The quiet little mountain town was ripe for the picking, and their minds were so trusting.

“Together, we can save your parents,” the gods said,”  Together, we can hurt the ones that hurt you.”

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