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towards the limit of imagination

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February 9th 2013  |  0  |  Category: Adventure , Fairy tales , Fiction , Philosophical , Suspense , Thriller  |  Author: shainur ullah  |  2825 views

The Devil’s Thoughts

A demon has brought pleasing news to the devil, who waits on in his throne amidst screams of terror, burning humidity and scenes of torture.
“My lord, the humans are reaching the perfect limit of their imaginations.”
“I know what that means. I’ve been waiting for years, the millionth century, the era of boredom. Soon they will all commit suicide and their souls will be mine. How many years till the millionth century?”
“One century, my lord.”
“Perfect. I want to pay a visit to the human world. They don’t even believe in God and religion is dead. It’s funny really, they don’t even believe in me. It’s perfect. How are my children?”
“They’re fine, my lord.”

The Diary of the Alien That Believes in God

I have travelled the universes and seen too many stars to count. Billions of suns burn alight, into black holes, to other parallels. We are the Rafnakunes, a genius race, able to transform into anything and manipulate anything. Well, almost. Ever since the planet Earth was young and without knowledge I have been mystified by the uncertainties of my own race. I have seen the prophets and the miracles of the Lord. This has turned me, an alien from a powerful race, into a believer of God.
I will start my story from the era of the prophet Noah, when I first landed to study humans and their capabilities. A desert and a dry land, a man shouting in the rain before drowning. Even I could not sense any moisture from a dry atmosphere.
Before the waters came, I watched them slandering him, infliction on him terrible abuse. I made myself look human, hid my spaceship, and watched these people. They interested me. I looked down on them at first with their lack of intelligence and it made me laugh inside. I talked with Noah as he built his boat. He did so by hand, a boat better than any other on Earth, ahead of its time, and so large it could carry anything.
“Why do you do it?” I asked him. “Go through all this trouble?”
“My lord orders me to do so. In a few days there will be rain.”
“I am sorry, but there are no signs of rain here. You are a deluded man.”
“If you say so.”
I was arrogant at first, laughing along with the humans. I thought he was an embarrassment to his race. Days of dry land and sand went by. I drank their alcohol and slept with their women. I studied them – who they were and what they stood for. Something surprising happened then. I am a super intelligent being and not even I could predict such karma. Perhaps it was because I did not believe in it.
Karma, luck, and it started to rain. I was surprised, bewildered and shocked. I looked on, at the boat, smaller animals spontaneously going inside it as if it was the most natural thing to do. I knew instinctively that they were doing the right thing, yet I had no what was causing the rain. Not even my advanced technology could determine why it was raining. I went to Noah, who asked me, “So, are you ready to get on?”
“How are you doing this? And how are you able to fit all these animals on this boat?’
“The space inside is infinite.”
I became angry then. I grabbed Noah and pushed him against the wall and shouted,
“How are you doing this, how can you possibly create infinity, human?”
“With the power of God. You speak as if you are different. Join us, and watch these people drown in their sins.”
I joined him. I did not dare to check every room inside his boat. Pride, I suppose. I was hoping that this man was playing me for a fool. No alien life form has ever achieved infinity. Noah’s god seemed incredibly powerful. Yet why had I never seen him? I have travelled everywhere. Up, down, side to side, and everything in-between.
What happened next was exactly what Noah had said. They were drowning in their sins, screaming, trying to get on this boat. How had he foreseen such an event? This lord seemed ruthless and hateful, powerful and frightening.
We were travelling on water, as everything else had been destroyed. The smell and noises of the creatures on the boat, along with the few humans left to reproduce was the only thing left in the world.
The boat eventually came to ground. Noah told us that God would never again destroy the world in such a way. I asked Noah what this god looked like, what he sounded like, and whether he had ever seen him. Noah simply smiled and said, “You have much to learn, alien.”
I was surprised to have been found out. Noah seemed more intelligent now, with his long beard, his wise words even eclipsing mine. I listened to him like a child, and experienced hate as a result of pride. I knew my species was far more advanced than his.
I could not stop thinking about Noah, what he had achieved, and why I had not been able to do the same. As time went by, another so-called prophet, Abraham, began talking about Noah’s god and his might. People were again ignorant, laughed at him and behaved violently. This time I was wiser, and listened. I began to be fascinated by God. I actually tried to meet him at one point after Noah died. I took my ship and I tried to go up and up and up to try to find heaven. I went up as far as I could until my ship could go no further and it fell right back to Earth. I told Abraham this and he said to me, “Alien, only those that God allow will enter through the seven skies.”
“What do you mean seven skies? I thought there is only one universe.”
Abraham told me that there were seven skies beyond our universe. I was shocked to hear this impossible remark made by a human. I do not hate humans but these unnatural occurrences are a mystery to me. I must stay and find out more, but will remain vigilant. I do not want to be influenced by human opinions and beliefs.
Something remarkable happened then. Abraham was going to kill his son. This god of his appeared very angry. As Abraham was about to commit this heinous act, I saw with my own eyes an angel descend from the sky. I had never seen angel before. At exactly the right moment, he stopped Abraham from killing his son. The entire exercise had been constructed to illustrate Abraham’s obedience to his god. A test of faith.
The angel from the seven skies lived to serve this god. I wanted to question it but it left without seeing me. I began to cry then, confused. No alien likes to be confused, this is a fact. We must always be right. If I returned to my planet and spoke of such things, they would laugh at me. The humans on this planet would most certainly laugh.
Time went by and Noah parted the water with a wooden stick. I wrestled to find logic and science in these human actions; could it be they were superior to us? I began to turn away from the life of my own race. I wanted to be human. I wanted to be able to do what these prophets did, and know their god that never talked. I watched this god’s brutality as he killed the children of Egypt, turned their water to blood, and riddled them with pests, frogs, and smote them with disease. Still, I could not link these occurrences to science. I recognise but a naked figure as a representation of the human god.
I witnessed the braveness and courage of David in his fight against Goliath, when he brought the giant down with one swing of his sling. I broke down when God sacrificed his son to save the world. Me, an alien, cried for a man called Jesus Christ, the son of God, who even healed my impossible alien illness, an illness most definitely would have killed me, or so the doctors of my own race had told me. I bowed down on my knees as Jesus was being tortured on the cross and said, ‘Jesus son of this God, what is all of this, these miracles that makes no scientific sense? Please answer me!”
Jesus responded, “Alien, you must figure this out for yourself.”
He died on the cross. For years, pride stopped me from being taught by humans. As time went by humans began to lose faith. The notion of miracles was laughed at. Only I have seen these things. In the millionth century, I decided to put my pride aside. I found a human to teach me, but there is only one Church of God left in a small town on this planet. The last Christian human man living today is Jonathon Roach, in London, Britain.
I went to him. I was scared that it was too late. Imagine, if you can, an alien wanting to know about God. He was, however, welcoming and warm. When my lessons of God started, I wondered if aliens went to heaven or hell, or even if they mattered in the world of this God.
“I want you to teach me more about God,” I asked Jonathan Roach.
“Of course. I’m also a Jehovah’s Witness. No one believes in God these days, you’re the only one. I try to relive all the religions – Christianity, Islam and Judaism. You can’t just keep to one religion in a time like this.”
“I’m also an alien.”
Jonathon Roach laughed. “Welcome to Earth.”
“I’ll help you find believers. I can sense people who are struggling. I will call them with my mind.”
On a nearby table, I noticed a man moving constantly, twitching and making noises and speaking ten languages at the same time. I had seen this many times throughout history. Demonic possession.
Jonathon Roach spoke. “There has been an increase in demons recently in this small town. I have no idea why.”
“I’m here to help,” I replied.
I was with him when he knocked on doors and preached about the word of God and standing in front of thousands, speaking of God. People laughed, just like before, all the miracles and prophets having been forgotten by time. I wondered – where was God for these lost people? We knocked on the doors of more houses. Some people were very abusive and didn’t like being told what to do.
“Fuck off.”
“There is no such thing as God.”
Jonathon the priest just stood there and smiled. He did not flinch, annoyed as he was. All of them hated him. They would not try to save him if he were ever in trouble.
Jonathon Roach said, “I guess I will try another day.”
I said to him, “All of them did nothing but abuse you for one whole day.”
A woman approached us as we were going back to the church. She seemed cautious about being seen with us.
Jonathon greeted her. “How can we help you?”
“I don’t want to give away my name to you, but come quickly I want to show you something.” She seemed embarrassed to be asking the priest for help. She wore a head robe to cover her face and took us to her house, a casual place with furniture and tables good for human living. She guided us upstairs to her daughter’s room. The young girl moved about in a strange way and made peculiar noises. It was clear she had been possessed.
Her mother told us how she had seen many doctors, and a number of specialists, but that no one was able to diagnose her daughter’s condition. The girl spoke in strange languages and her mother, who had seemed worried at first, now appeared hesitant about having consulted a priest. “I apologise; I should not have asked the help of a priest.”
Jonathan said, “Your daughter is possessed.”
The mother fell into a rage then and threw something at us. All the while, her daughter’s noises became louder and her skin began changing colour.
“Get out, she is fine. I should have never have come to you.”
We went back to the church; it had been another stressful day. The priest said to me,
“There are two people I want you to contact.”

The Diary of Simon Butterway

I live in a dirty estate house in Luton. I’m a serial killer. The police has been looking for me for days. They say the time of human perfection is coming. I laugh at the notion of such a day. I killed my own parents. They pissed me off. I’ve killed nearly a hundred people, 99 to be in exact. I’m trying to change. The ones I killed weren’t anyone important, just sluts and hoes and wannabe gangsters and drug dealers. Lowlifes. Who cares about them? In a perfect world, they won’t live to see that happen to us.
I’m driving down to London to meet a good man. I need some advice about my temper. Rage and hate builds up inside me. This man has been to the temple of all the Buddha’s. He has danced and sang with the most prominent philosophers. If he can change my life, if he could understand me, why I do these things. I change when I’m angry. Then I’m not Simon anymore.
As I drive to his house, I see many animals, some I recognise and others that I don’t. There is a strange feeling in the air, and the smell of good fortune and respectable living. This man has a beautiful front garden and there are many books of his wisdom in the window for everyone to see. He is eighty years old and grey-haired and is known as the Wiseman of the Universe. It’s nothing more than a title, really. He is world famous, but truth be told, celebrities do act weird.
I knock on his door and hope he accepts me and shows me the way. I need his help, desperately. I don’t want to be sentenced to life inside. I’m 25. Too young.
He opens the door with a smile. “Hello there, young man. How can I help you?”
The Wiseman had no neighbours. Just a house a man and a few fury cats in a forest.
“I need help. I don’t think I can get it from anywhere else. You are wise. Help me.”
He invites me in and gives me a cold drink and some biscuits. There is a smell I have never smelled before in my life. Strange paintings and ornaments serve as decorations, and pictures of great men long dead cover the walls. Music plays quietly in the background. I worried about my reaction to all of this. But what bothered me more was how I had gotten past killing 99 people without ever being caught.
“So, what is wrong?”
It takes me a while to spit out what I need to say. “I’ve killed 99 people. Please help me, help me to change, help me be a better person. I’ve told no one else this, but I’m sure I can trust you.”
The expression on that old man’s face, his mouth slack with terror. I hesitated in the awkward silence of the realisation that I might have made a mistake coming to the old man. Then he kicks back to reality and opens his mouth.
“I’m so sorry. There is nothing I can do. You are lost.”
As the old man rambles on and on and about contacting the police, the rage inside me starts to grow again. I came to him for hope and he turned me down. In the middle of a forest with no neighbours I executed my hundredth kill. Then I break down crying, holding the dead man and apologising to him. A voice in my head tells me to get to my car. I lock the car door and it feels as if the car is moving of its own accord. When I get to the church, I lie down next to the rapist and the growing number of possessed souls.

The Diary of Finch Horn

I am a rapist. I’ve got this urge. Men, women, they’re all the same. I need to experience dominance; I need to feel stronger and better. Nothing feels better than this. Where does it come from, this dark seed and these evil thoughts?
I’m following a woman now. She is walking alone, skirt and a tight top perfect for ripping off. The road is getting quieter and darkness covers the walls. I eventually take her. The passion of my crime is immense. I love it.
I have a good family. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. I had a loving father and mother and grandmother and what is this insanity?
I’m a businessman, a very successful one. Millions in the bank. I also have a sexual addiction and a sadistic mind.
It started during puberty. I used to take out my urges on dogs and other animals. But humans make me feel so much better. I feel after each transgression. We were promised a perfect society but it was all lies. I own restaurants e-franchises all over the world. I’m only thirty; handsome, the usual kind of predator, the one no one suspects. I have another woman in mind. She works at one of my restaurants as a waiter. She has the perfect body to abuse and her screams would turn me on like no other.
Everything is happening too fast. I’ve always been good with business and money. It’s always made sense to me, a talent of sorts, I suppose.
Lately, I’ve been hearing voices in my head telling me to go somewhere, to a place, a church. I have no idea what a church even is. I break into a sweat every morning when the voices get louder and louder; maybe it’s simply my insanity talking to me and maybe I should follow my instincts. I love to keep clean and physically fit. It keeps me attractive and makes the act of rape easier – at least they are raped by a handsome, six-packed, good smelling successful businessman. Better than the usual rapist – sorry about being vain, but I can’t help it.
The voices, the voices, they are there when I’m awake as well. That waiter, she’s got it coming to her. I get excited watching my next victim. But I resist because she is one of my employees. It’s too risky. Instead, I decided to target someone else, a middle-aged woman. I walked up to her and was about to attack her when a voice in my head said, “Don’t do it, come to church.”
I was hurting; I wanted to do it. Instead, I rushed back to the hotel, got in my car and shouted to no one in particular, “Where is the church!”
“I’ll take you.”
The car drove by itself for miles. I live in Manchester. I fell asleep; I woke up when the car stopped, and in front of me was a church and two men. They greeted me and invited me inside. In the church were many people on the floor with crosses speaking in foreign languages.

The Liar

As the number of possessed souls grew, the town began to worry about an epidemic. Still, they refused to acknowledge God. The alien was confused as to why the priest told him to find a rapist and a killer. and surrounding him the demons in the area it shocking but starts to see things he missed.
“You should be helping the possessed,” the alien said.
“All in good time,” Jonathan Roach replied. “You will soon know everything about God.”
“You haven’t taught me anything about God yet.”
The priest became annoyed and ignored the alien. He began to feel strange; these two men should have been in prison. The alien saw a lot of stars and figures that seem disfiguring and weirdly strange, none of the prophets used and starts noticing sign of magic.
The alien said, “I wonder about these signs. Perhaps they are not religious at all.”
“Hold on now, I am a man of the Lord. Who are you, an alien, to tell me about God?”
A feeling of unease was starting to develop between the priest and the alien. The alien knew he had to be careful about what he said. The priest was hugging the two men, the killer and the rapist, who started to cry.
“Why are they crying? And why are these people getting possessed!”
The priest turned slowly and smiled at the alien. He laughed then, an insane sound, and the possessed in every household and in that church laughed insanely with him.
“They are crying because I’m their father. The demons are here because of me. I am the devil.”
“The devil. God’s greatest enemy.”
“I want to take my two sons who just found out I’m their father; they’re going to be kings of hell. I have won. The humans are reaching perfection, the limits of their imaginations. Everything has been solved and built, boredom will take over, it will be too much for them and—”
“They will kill themselves and their souls will be yours… It cannot end like that!”
“You see, I’ve been feeding them from the tree of knowledge, expanding their minds to the limit. They are mine now. Goodbye. I really don’t know what will happen to aliens and other universal folk. I suppose you will simply be forgotten.”
The devil left then, along with the demons that left their host bodies. The alien had to do something. He planned to go back to his own planet and to call upon the help of his own race. He would also ask for help from the secret societies of the world, the Illuminati, the Freemasons, and the Priory of Sion. He left them all messages, explaining who he was and where he was from so that they had to listen to him.
“The world is moving into its millionth century. This is the age of perfection. Every day, things are being discovered and the humans will soon have nothing left to do; nothing left to discover, no adventures left. All of you must do what you can to keep the human race busy. You must constantly give them a reason to live. If you don’t… Well, just imagine the whole world jumping from a tall building en masse. Perfection will lead to boredom, and boredom will destroy them. I am going back to my home planet. My race is called Rafnakune. I have lived on Earth for centuries, but now it is time for me to go back. This is your battle not mine. I am just an alien.”
The alien couldn’t really understand the concept of God and the many miracles performed. He left Earth, and did not talk about what he had witnessed or the revelations of what will happen to his race on the Day of Judgment. The devil took his sons, and the devil’s children will always be criminals and cause trouble on Earth. The devil made his sons kings of Hell and continued waiting for humans to kill themselves out of boredom.

A Horrific Thought

Prime Minister, James Marshall, a democrat, was nearing the millionth century. A perfect age with no sinners; people were running out of original ideas and nearly everything had been figured out, all the problems and riddles that boggled the human mind. The universe and the secrets of nearly every civilisation had been laid bare. How perfect would be the end of humanity be as they sped toward the limits of imagination.
A 40-year-old British prime minister, nearly bald and 6’2 inches, who drank whiskey in 10 Downing Street. London and politics were becoming boring and something of a remedy to help you fall asleep when insomnia threatened to take hold.
A knock sounded on the door, James Marshall still lost in thought about the world and the future of his country. Four old men sat with him, all with black hair and brown eyes and different suits all the same size. Each represented a different secret society. They were worried and they were running out of secrets. The men were members of the four biggest secret societies of Earth, the Freemasons, Illuminati, the Priory of Sion and the Head and Body Society, which only rich men joined.
“What’s the occasion?” James Marshall asked.
The Freemason representative spoke. “We are nearing the perfect age.”
The Priory of Sion representative spoke, ‘No wars or other conflicts will prevail now. Boredom will take over.”
The Head and Body Society representative added, “Perfection will destroy the human race.”
The prime minister seemed confused. He struggled to speak to the four men as he recognised them from their societies and what they represented.
“Imagine a world with no secrets, nothing else to explore and no problems left to figure out.”
“Societies themselves will suffer; nearly all our secrets are known to the public. One day, we will be secret societies without secrets.”
The prime minister eventually understood what they were trying to tell him. He asked them, “What can I do? We’re going to be a perfect race.”
“People will soon get bored of perfection. They will start killing themselves out of boredom. Humans can only be where there are problems. We were not made to be perfect.”
Sweat began to bead on the prime minister’s forehead. His hard was beating hard. He looked in the mirror and at the past prime ministers before him, hoping to see for himself what the four old men were seeing in the future of the human race.
The Illuminati representative spoke. “I can give you some advice, but you will not like it. We need problems, but were running out of them; we are going to have to create our own problems.”
James Marshall remained cautious. “I’m not sure I understand. What are you suggesting?”
The Freemason representative said, “I will create new secrets for societies like us, as well as more problems for a race made to be imperfect. This will give the media and writers something new to report. I’m tired of the news consisting of drug dealers and the latest drug they are selling.”
“Start a war with the Middle East; this will create many problems for us and the people, something to prove that we are far from perfection. Racism and stereotyping will make a comeback and soldiers will pick up their guns. This will be good for politics too, something to argue about.”
The prime minister balked at the thought of war. Yet he realised that it could bring about the change that was needed – to make humanity less boring. “Wait a minute, this is crazy.”
The Priory of Sion representative spoke. “Blame it on weapons of mass destruction and dictatorship. Don’t worry; we will involve other European countries, too.”
“Do it for the people. One day, life will be dull and dead with nothing to do and they will all commit suicide. They will sacrifice their own lives just to feel something new. Perfection will destroy us.”
It was a horrific idea, yet it somehow made sense. In the end, he agreed with the old men.
“As crazy it sounds, I think you are all right. I’m going to have to start a war. Perfection will destroy us. I’m going to contact America.”
The four old men smiled. In a time and place where nearly everything has been done and experienced, a new threat had now been created to stave off perfection. War was a simple yet effective tool. All of them remembered when the same thing happened in the the 21st
Century.

A Slut Walks on the Road

A slut is walking in a road. Soft rain is pouring on this shameful woman with her past sins and thoughts. Michelle Parker had blond hair and brown eyes. She was 5’6 inches and had just finished having sex with five people at the same time. Had just been submitted into every position imaginable as they laughed and enjoyed themselves, disrespecting her body. She cried at the end of each sex act and she doesn’t even get paid. But she does it anyway.
Nearly everyone is a superstar celebrity. People like her were a dying breed, people who still went to drug dealers who were desperately trying to sell new types of drugs. People were getting immune to them. She had seen the world, and had tried every type of drug possible. She was always in need of a new attention outlet. She was fatherless; she wanted to feel something new but was easily bored and sex was becoming annoying. She felt shameful when she did found it fun and exciting, and now realised that she had made a mistake. At age thirty, she was sitting on the ground under a lamppost, starts sobbing out of regret. What man would want her now? Crying as soft as the rain falling on her. Every man in London knew her as a whore to have fun with, a criminal to take a break with.
A door opened next to her and out stepped a man in stylish suit. She looks up at a gentle face. The man is Michael Wilson, a true believer in God. He is Christian, Jewish and a Muslim. Most religious people are just a bunch of hypocrites, scared of their elders, but he would love God even if he were sentenced to Hell.
“What’s wrong?” he asks the woman.
“I’m a slut. No one loves me. Look at me, I’m a disgrace’
“Why don’t you come in, it’s raining out here.”
The building looked broken down from the outside, but as she followed him. Inside, it was lavish and decorated with the finest furniture. The air was warm and a calming scent permeated the air. There was a Jacuzzi and a swimming pool, as well as a games room fitted with the latest technology. Michael handed Michelle some casual clothing.
As she looked for a room to change her clothes in she explored the place. It had many rooms, and there were fancy ornaments and statues of great men and famous philosophical philosophers, more paintings and more rooms. She returned to the living area, where Michael was sitting near a burning fire. On the television mounted against the wall, Prime Minister James Marshall was making an important announcement.
“The countries in the Middle East, namely Pakistan, Iran, Iraq and Palestine, have all created weapon of mass destruction, which means only one thing: not peace, but hostile takeover. The leaders of these countries are dictators who oppress their own people. We will go to war with them because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Oh my god, that’s terrible.”
Michael nodded. “I know.” He looked at her. “That dress is much more respectful.”
Michelle liked him. Men were always horrible toward her. She wondered about the place he lived in. She wanted to know more about him.
“Do you have a job?” he asked.
“No, I’m unemployed. I can never stick to one job. I live with my mother in a flat. What is this place?”
“It is the holy brothel.”
Michelle was taken aback. She had never heard of such a thing. She knew Michael seemed to be too good to be true. It’s the cute to be on the defence for; She thought that today might be her last day on Earth. The life she had led was coming to an exciting end.
“So what happens at the holy brothel?”
“We give people back their virginity. Their sins are forgiven, too, but it’s mainly the virginity thing.”
This was getting weird. Michelle had no idea what was going on. Was it a prank for sluts or something? She thought religion was dead. They studied it in history, but was this real? She would definitely want her virginity back.
“I’m glad I dropped in,” she said awkwardly.
“Michelle, would you like your virginity back?”
She hesitated. It sounded like a good idea. She would do anything to erase her past. Shameful and dirty is no way for a young woman to feel, but for an older woman it is even worse. She did not want to carry on feeling like this for the rest of her life.
Michael took her by the hand and showed her to a room with a large cup filled with water, and a normal sized cup next to it. The room was bathed in a bluish light and reminded her of stories about the Holy Grail. This was a holy moment for Michelle. She looked at Michael. “Weird how we met.”
Had it been pure chance or the work of God, bringing her to the holy brothel. As she drank the water, she began to feel strange. Her vagina felt tighter and her skin felt better, cleaner and newer, and her shoulders felt like the weight of the world had been removed. She felt physically, mentally, and spiritually better. She realised she had forgotten all the men she had ever slept with or what sex felt like. However, she knew that it had been a mistake to literally feel like a virgin again.
“All the men you have slept with have forgotten that they had ever slept with you. They had never met you, never slept with you. You have forgotten them, too. Your mind is fresh thinking but knowing it is wrong morally degrading’
“Thank you so much! I feel brilliant!”
She smiled and laughed and hugged him for this unexpected miracle. Michelle couldn’t believe what had just happened. It had definitely been a lucky escape. As she made her way outside, war had started to make people angrier and more vicious toward minorities. Racism and uneasiness permeated the air. War was good at making this happen.

A War is On

There was shame and regret. The prime minister remembered the same effects of war back in the 21st century, the amount of conflict and tension. He walked to his car. He was on his way to a science laboratory in London, one of the best in the world. They had just made the final cures for that last bit of illness left in the world. But James Marshal had different plan for them. He had been told to hide these cures, to keep them locked away. Keep those last illnesses active; keep the mystery and wonder alive.
He found it hard to sleep at night, always talking to himself in the mirror. Everything that had happened was affecting him badly. Long hours in the bathroom, the one place to be ok, to be alone, just your own thoughts. His wife, Melinda, was worried about him. She sensed that something was troubling him.
“You ok, honey? Come into bed.”
“Of course.”
In his mind he is constantly reminding himself of what would happen if it were ever found out the war was started by the government. He would be considered a criminal. Conspiracy theories were spiralling out of control. Even though they were true, no one really believed them. At least he had that to hold onto.
The prime minister was always alone at work now. Who else could he talk to? Was the possibility of perfection at the limits of the imagination really the cause of insanity? What if the world is a better place with perfection? He could not answer these questions. The millionth century was only a century away, and it promised great change for humanity.
He had prepared a speech for the soldiers and their families as their children headed off to war, to provide some faith and encouragement. “Be brave, we will win for sure, justice will be brought down upon them, we must do this, it is wrong to see evil growing; it will spread, so I say to you, for the future generations, I say to you, be brave.”
It was a short and quick but snappy. He couldn’t stand there for long. He went inside quickly, received a kiss from his wife and clapping from his peers. He was sweating and tired; he felt dizzy, thinking of karma, how it always comes around. He wondered when it would come for him. The deaths that would result from this fight. Riot after riot and violent, racist fights; videos of stupid, arrogant racists, ethnic shops broken into and their windows smashed. For centuries, wars have been fought. This was expected and wanted; they were doing something, and that’s what mattered. The perfection crisis was definitely far away.
While in the office, late at night again like most nights, the four old men came to the prime minister again with more news. He didn’t like them, their word stung too true. They sat down and looked at him, new suits and never a smile.
The Illuminati representative spoke first. “We need to organise a terrorist attack.”
The prime minister was taken aback. “Did I hear that right?”
“Even war is limited; we need to make its impact felt closer to home.”
James Marshall shook his head. “We can’t do that.”
The Head and Body Society representative spoke. “If you want the human race to survive you will have to do this. We don’t like this any more than you do, but it is necessary. Imagine a world where every human is on a tall building, ready to jump off because they have no purpose left.”
As crazy as it sounded, Marshall knew it was horrifyingly true. The society members were the type of people that always won an argument. The prime minister was having a hard time figuring out who the villains were. They were doing bad to do good. All of them.
They contacted a terrorist group and paid them. They were given the task of choosing a target site, in either Britain or America. This definitely did not improve the situation. The prime minister felt like he was betraying his own country. He would never be forgiven by the people if he were ever found out. His mind was constantly shouting, What have I done? I have terrorised my own country! What’s going on?
The secret society men had left. It was the longest night of James Marshall’s life. He went to the bathroom and lay down on the floor, thinking to himself about what he had done. It was a moment he would never forget. Doing bad to do good, that was what the four men had said. They were constantly talking about not going to the limit, avoiding perfection, and suicides. His wife was scared for him.
“James, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”

Taking Advantage

Michelle, now a new virgin, had boys and men trying to have their way with her. Everyone loved a new girl on the block. Michelle herself wanted it again, the attention. She loved it too much. She was thinking of going out again and creating drama for herself. It was exciting, the idea of going back and starting all over again.
She remembered what Michael had said about being pure, but she felt like partying and causing trouble. It was hard to resist. She was a top girl once again; everyone wanted to look like her and be her. Her relationship with her mother was back on track. Vanity is a nasty trait to have.
Michelle is in her flat, eating cereal and watching a television show about why flying cars are being taken down, because it’s affecting bird life, along with there being too many flying drunk drivers falling on people’s heads. In more news, robots with emotions have been banned. Suddenly there is a shocking news story about a terrorists attack on American soil in New York, on the tallest building in the world. Something was definitely very wrong.
Michelle snapped back to reality. She had been getting ready to party with the money her mother had given her. Her plans for the weekend was:
Friday
Go clubbing
Get drunk
Wear something slutty
This was the same for Saturday. She didn’t necessarily want to have sex, just show off. She had plans with four friends, also very awkward women who liked violent boys and shocking drama. They were her slutty friends Mary, Joanne, Mindy, and Nora. The all had the same style: curly hair, makeup, tight clothes and perfume so strong you could smell it a mile away.
Clubs were loud, with lots of people partying and dancing and talking nonsense. Pictures telling a thousand lies. Outside, homeless people shouted out government conspiracies.
The other girls were jealous, because Michelle was getting most of the attention. She looked ten years younger, and loved all the attention. She flirted and the alcohol flowed freely. Sex was becoming a probability and the temptation eventually got the better of her. She left with a muscular looking fellow. He took her to his place, and she had sex for the first time after regaining her virginity. In the morning she left and it started all over again. By the month of March, she had slept with ten people.
She wished she had not ignored Michael. In her room, feeling rough all over again, Michelle cried. She wanted her virginity back, to feel feel brand new again, but was embarrassed and scared to go back to the holy brothel.
On Monday morning, she goes back to the holy brothel. She knocked on the door and listened as footsteps grew louder. Michael opened the door with a smile. It was like a different world in there. Her world as growing tedious and angrier, and as she realised this Michelle broke into tears. “Michael, I lost my virginity again. Please forgive me.”
The embarrassment was harrowing. A weird sensation flamed in her stomach; she felt childish. Michelle hoped she would get a second chance again. Michael smiled and invited her in. “The Lord is most forgiving.”
He offered her food and drink, and Michelle regained her virginity. But Michael warned against making the same mistake a third time. She was grateful and wanted to stay over in the holy brothel for a while, away from her world. It was midnight; Michael and Michelle were sitting next to the fire with the television on, speaking about the terrorist attacks, their theories of how it happened, and the conspiracies surrounding the events.
Michelle asked, “Were you ever an atheist?”
“Yes, before I became a Muslim, a Christian and a Jew.”
“How does that work? Three religions?”
“They all make good points about God.”
Michelle was constantly wondering about Michael and his life story, and how he began the holy brothel. She had never been treated so well by any other man. Her father left when she was very young, but she always forced herself to believe that she didn’t want to know where he was, or what he was doing.
“How did you get involved with the holy brothel?”
“Would you believe me if I said I am a student of God?”
“Really?”
“Yes, all the knowledge I have comes from God.”
“I can still remember who I had sex. Why?”
“The first time you forget everything. The second time your partners will still not have had sex with you, but you will remember it as if it had actually happened. It’s to stop you from making the same mistake again. No sex, unless of course, you get married.”
That night, Michelle chose a random room in the holy brothel to sleep in. It seemed as if there were an infinite number of rooms. Not even Michael knew what was in each of them. She wondered how many more people knew about the holy brothel, and whether there were more in other countries. However, if everyone knew about them, there wouldn’t be a need for holy brothels; without sinners there was no need for redemption or people like Michael.

A Depression Too Far

The prime minister felt lost. He felt ill, knowing that he knew someone who had murdered another. He felt like a coward. The wise men were always right, however. Their allegations were accurate. Humans were strange creatures. We wanted fun, something pleasurable to help keep us sane. The prime minister was good at giving speeches. Short but sweet, somehow able to melt the stone hearts that dwelled in the darkness.
“These dictators will be brought down. As we are entering the millionth century, I promise you a perfect age, every illness cured and democracy for all. We will be
Perfect. We are the greatest of all creatures, the dominant ones, and perfection has always been within our reach. One day, we will be perfect.”
The crowd cheered as he left. Entering his office, James Marshall remembers another meeting with the secret societies. Their next plan was to release a rapist, a serial killer and a con artist, and the head of police would be told to ignore these people’s crimes. Detectives already had their work cut out for them. It wasn’t just in England, but in the whole of Europe – cases of rape and murder and rich men’s bank accounts being robbed; the things you did to keep out perfection. Newspapers and media have never been so pleased to show the world something new, and the four old men of the secret societies loved the conspiracies. and putting sign hard to find on every murder and rape, they want them to think and search to them it’s what being human is all about. There was mystery and hysteria, but at least perfection and the limit of imagination was far away. At least human beings would continue to survive.
James Marshall was starting to have second thoughts, and dwelling on what the European governments had been part of. Politics are so bloody and violent. Not to mention the decisions they make. All they really did was sit down and argue while people died. What a disgusting place, he thought to himself. There was more division and violence on the streets. In times like these, people only want to be with their own kind. It makes them feel safe. Cute boys don’t really get girlfriends but the hard looking ones in a time like this for protection. Regardless, the higher authorities would rather have this happen than mass suicide. It would be an embarrassment to the human race, for it to end in such a way.
The prime minister decided to go out for a drink. He needed it. By chance, he ran into an old friend from school. They used to attend the same private schools, even the same university. His name is John Bay and he is a successful businessman. A couple of weeks earlier all his money had been stolen. What a disaster to befall such a good man.
The prime minister greeted his old friend. “Long times no see.”
“I know, it’s been a long time.”
“What’s been happening, how’s business?”
“Sounds stupid, but some master thieves robbed me. It was like something out of a movie.”
“I’m so sorry, John.”
“All this war, terrorists and these murderers, it’s just… We were doing so well as a race, then suddenly, bam! All this happens in our faces. All these conspiracies, just when the millionth century is so close. A century away from perfection. I think governments are part of this because nothing about it makes sense. What have you all done, James?”
The prime minister remained silent. As his clever friend kept talking, James realised something: it had all been too quick, too sudden.
“My friend,” said John Bay, “you have a lot of repenting to do.”

Never Try To Outsmart God

Michelle stayed at the holy brothel for nearly a month. Another customer came in, a man, who looked important, maybe a lawyer. Michael greeted him, whispered something to him, and they sat down in the living area. Soon after, they went somewhere more private. Michelle was curious about what they were discussing. Nearly an hour later, Michael reappeared alone.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“A man committed murder.”
“What?”
“He has come here seeking repentance: ten years in a very hot room while all his sins sweat out, like in a sauna. It’s not the same as losing your virginity though, as it affects everyone else. Transgressions like murder or rape will be forgiven but the victims will always remain murdered or raped.”
“I was wondering, if a man only had sex with one woman, and that woman regained her virginity, would the man be a virgin then, too?”
“Yes.”
Michelle had packed her bag. She wondered what would happen is she lost her virginity a third time. Surely still could get it back again.
She went back to her flat and deleted the phone numbers of her friends from her phone. They were nothing but bad news. She wanted to change her life. She was an intelligent woman, she could do anything. But that feeling was still there. She was the type to press the red button even if it said not to.
Michelle wanted to ignore Michael’s warning but she knew something bad would happen if she did. In the end, she had to know, but how could she find a suitable man? She really did want to change but curiosity got the better of her. She couldn’t resist the temptation.
It was a Friday. There were men available in clubs and bars and on the street. She put something on and left her flat. In her mind, a voice warned her not to; another voice told her to her to find out. She was a lover of drama and mystery.
It was a quick one. Michelle found a middle-aged man and took him into an alley. It lasted no longer than ten minutes. She felt weird. Something wasn’t right. Still, she wanted to know what would happen. Surely, she was trying to outsmart God. That night, as she slept, Michael watched her from the shadows. This was not the smiling Michael she had grown used to. A very different emotion surrounded him now.


Something woke Michelle and she saw him. “How did you get in here?”
Michael spoke angrily. “Are you trying to outsmart God?”
Michelle knew she was in trouble. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to know what would happen.”
“One thing I hate is when people try to outsmart God. You’re just a whore. You do not care about your own well-being. I am never going to give you back your virginity. Do you know what happens to women like you when you are old? Nobody cares about you or respects you. No-one will pay you even the smallest morsel of attention.”
Michelle was hurt by this and started to cry. She didn’t really know what to say. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t know why I do these things; I don’t really know who I am.”
Michael turned his attention to a picture in her room, of her when she was young, posing with her father and mother.
“Who is this?”
“My father, but I don’t care about him.”
“Then why do you keep this picture? Clearly, you do care. Take my hand.”
She took Michael’s hand and suddenly they were in a different place altogether, an area populated by gypsies. In front of her was the window of a broken down house, and her father, drunk and alone. Michelle gasped. She had in fact always wanted to see him, but had tried to deny this to herself.
Michael said, “I am not a student of the Lord. I am an angel. Would you like to speak to him?”
“No. He missed out. Look at the state of him.”
Michael took her back to the holy brothel and agreed to give her back her virginity for the third time. This time there would be a price.
“You have to work for the Lord now. You owe him for your virginity. Bring in whores to become women and murderers to repent. You also have to know that the war was sanctioned by the government. Terrorists too, and I think the prime minister is about to snap. Your main job is to go out there and tell people about the holy brothel. It’s about to become a perfect society, literally.”
“I have to ask, if everyone becomes holy and perfect, then they won’t need God anymore or a holy brothel.” She realised something. “You knew I would make the same mistake three times. You knew and let me do it, so you could put me in this position. This is the end of the holy brothel. Well, nearly the end.”
“Yes, you’re right. Angels can read people, but it must happen. There is no other way. Every holy brothel in the world will be identified thanks to you. Everyone will be physically, mentally, and spiritually perfect. Thank you for everything, Michelle.”
They hugged and looked at the television. Michael had read the prime minister correctly, who broke down during his speech. This was going to make him look very bad. “We were wrong about weapons of mass destruction, even though we were sure they had some. I am bringing back our troops and I will pay compensation to the Middle East and to all the families who have lost someone in the war. I have made a terrible mistake, along with other governments. I promise you, this will never happen again. I promise you a perfect human race for the millionth century. We have caught the rapist and the serial killer but the thief is still free. We have found everlasting cures for all the illnesses left. I promise you a great human race.”
“I told you angels were good at reading people”, Michael said.

The End of Being Bossed Around

The four old men were not happy with the prime minister. His friend had managed to make him turn away from them and accept the fate of humanity in a perfect world. In his office, the four old men made their last speeches to the prime minister.
The Illuminati representative said, “Because of what you have done, you have destroyed humanity.”
The Priory of Sion representative said, “You know very well that perfection is the limit to our imaginations. People will be committing suicide every day and hating life. They will be too bored to keep living.”
The head and body representative said, “I guess you were not strong enough.”
The prime minister spoke. “I guess we’re all going to commit suicide. It’s better than going to war and paying terrorists to bomb our own people. And when they’re on the tallest building, ready to jump, I will jump with them.”
The Freemason representative said, “Fair enough.”
They left the room and began waiting for it to come; perfection, the limit of imagination, while the media waited desperate for something new, and politics remained as quiet as the dead, and the villains died out.

Limit of Imagination

Every play had been shown and every song had been played. Every cure had been found for every illness, every invention had been made. Sport means nothing when everyone is talented. No chaos, no war, no adventure. The world was suffering from boredom and people were committing suicide each day. There were no heroes and no villains. Nothing to make us feel clean and nothing to disgust us. Every puzzle, mystery and equation had been figured out. No imagination meant no dreaming. This was what it was like in the millionth century, the era of boredom.
One day, on a cold, December morning in Manchester Eccles in England, Francis Knight awoke. He had actually dreamt of new possibilities and new sounds. He’d had nightmares bad enough to kill the weak hearted. Somehow, he had dreamt beyond the limit of human imagination, of new colours and new universes.

Francis Knight

Sweating from dreaming for the first time in his boring life in a dead end world, he had no idea what had happened or what he had seen. It was 8am. He went to the bathroom and showered, cleaned his 5ft 11 inch body and put shampoo on his brown hair while trying to protect his eyes from the soap. It was a sunny day in early December but still cold. Blue skies and white clouds. Francis thought hard about his dreaming, trying to explain to himself what had happened.
Looking in the mirror while brushing his teeth in his boxers, he saw a geeky looking fellow. He dressed in jeans, a shirt, and a fluffy coat; the needed a walk to think about what his dreams might have meant.
It was weekend, so no office work today. Walking along through Eccles to Pendleton Francis wondered if anyone else had dreamt anything like he had. He lived alone in his flat. He was twenty-five, too young to have a house of his own. His parents committed suicide out of boredom. They believed that, in a perfect world, Francis would be ok and would be well cared for.
Walking, pondering his thoughts, Francis saw a small man walk past him. He must have been about 4ft. He went into the height specialist hospital, where people were able to increase their height through injections. From cures to baldness to tooth decay and everything else, any problem was a problem no more, and that was the problem.
Francis looked up at the sky and imagined having anything he wanted, smiling and laughing to himself and at the fact that he could think of everything never thought of before. He walked past empty hospitals and empty dental practices to empty prisons. Suddenly a flash of light struck his eyes, and a projection appeared in the sky showing the British prime minister, from London to the whole of Britain. James Marshal, a democrat, gave the oddest speech ever given. Everyone looked up and stopped what they were doing to listen.
“Dear citizens of the United Kingdom. For centuries now, everything has been well. With our past so exciting and full of energy, we had never thought that something as simple as boredom would claim humanity. The reality is that people are working by day and killing themselves by night. What do you do to an animal that feels nothing but pain? You kill it. Humanity is that animal in pain. In talks with other leaders, we have all made a world suicide pact. Every woman and man will follow his or her leader off a roof. There is nothing else for humanity. The future is dull. The world suicide pact is in two months.”
The projector closed. The plan for a world suicide pact seemed crazy to Francis, yet everyone else appeared to have accepted the proposal. Perhaps it was because Francis was the only one that had felt something new in centuries. He had imagined new possibilities and he was lucky; otherwise, he would have been just like them.
Questions were running through his mind. How had his imagination performed this new trick? Who had given him the skill to do it? All he wanted to do at that moment was to talk to someone. Anyone trustworthy, that would take a moment to think, and be patient. Then it came to him: Asham. A friend he had at the office where he worked, Asham lived in Pendleton, in a four-bedroomed house.
As Francis walked to Asham’s house, he saw in every tall building someone always ready to kill themselves. Even before the date made by the prime minister. It was a zombie-like world.
At Asham’s house, he knocked on the door. All Indians were atheists. The parents hardly ever talked what do they have to talk about always silent and the telly vision always switched off. There is no media; the boredom crisis killed it, then brought it back to life only to kill it again. There was no imagination, no originality.
“Hello, mate,” said Francis when Asham opened the door. They went upstairs. Asham’s room was just for sleeping. There is no internet. Computers and mobiles are still used for emergencies, but their hasn’t been one for centuries.
Asham said, “Did you hear about the world suicide pact? Definitely joining in, mate. The human race is in pain.”
To Francis, Asham sounded crazy. Francis now had a reason to live. Death seemed horrible to him, while for others it was a way toward peace and harmony.
“Mate, I’ve got to tell you something.”
Asham spoke quickly. “Want a beer? Did you know back in the day, alcohol use to get you drunk?”
“Asham, I’ve got to tell you something.” Francis was whispering now and he felt just a little uncertain.
“What’s wrong?”
It was weird to tell someone that you could imagine things, an ability that humankind had lost centuries ago.
“I can imagine, see new things, new colours, new sounds and equations, and billions of universes. I don’t know how these abilities came to me, but last night, Asham, I had a dream.”
It was an awkward moment. Francis didn’t know how Asham would react. Maybe he would think Francis was insane; the first person to be insane in centuries, but there was a cure for that.
Asham said, “Show me.”
Francis seemed to know spontaneously how to show Asham his imagination. His hands started to shake and he slowly placed them on Asham’s forehead. His friend gasped.
“My God, what is this I’m seeing Francis?”
“It’s what I see, Asham.”
Suddenly blood began flowing out of Asham’s eyes and nose, even his mouth. Francis realised that normal minds did not have the capacity to endure what he saw, and he let go of his friend. Asham began complaining. He want more; he had a lived such a boring life and had now for the first time felt something new. It was better than anything he had ever experienced, any orgasm, any miracle.
“What are you doing? Show me more, please.”
“Asham, I shouldn’t.”
“Show me more!”
Francis showed him again and the same thing happened. Blood flowed everywhere from Asham’s body like a disgusting piece of art. He finally fell to the ground, dead. Francis was horrified at killing his best friend. And just because he had showed Asham his imagination. An unexpected outcome. Everything felt like it was moving too fast. In twenty-five years, he would never have expected this.
Asham’s parents rushed upstairs; it was not the best moment for them or for Francis to see their only son and best friend dead, but Mr Choudhary, experiencing something new for the first time in his boring life, gave a faint smile. “This is different, unexpected. I don’t know what to do or what to think.”
They called the police and for the first time in centuries, a person had been killed. Moreover, he had been the first to be killed with imagination. Francis became a superstar and an icon. Everyone knew of his mind’s abilities, his imagination. Scientists all over the world came to examine him but failed to give any clarifying answers. One genius of the world, Nathan Sykes, who had yet to examine him, claimed that people like Asham who would give their lives to feel something new would be the new human test subjects. Scientists would use them in shows in arenas catered to the rich and well educated. Francis Knight’s life had changed forever. The media was once again back in the spotlight. It was all about Francis Knight on the newspapers and radios. Yet every night Francis questioned himself. The world suicide pact had been cancelled, but there was always the chance of future boredom comebacks.

Detective Sam Pilkins (one year later)

Sam Pilkins was brought up in a wealthy family and lived in the city that never slept. Being a detective was for rich men, something they did in their spare time. But with no crime in a perfect world, detective Sam Pilkins was the only detective left in the world. They still had the doughnut-eating cops, paid by governments, always desperately waiting for someone to fall.
In his thirty years on the job, the detective’s patience had paid off. He had a mystery to solve: the Francis Knight phenomenon. An event was to be held in Manchester, where Francis Knight would show his mind to another human test subject. The arena would be filled with politicians, important sergeants and important media men, as well as the people that had been chosen to be saved if ever a meteor were to crash into Earth. They were called nobleman.
The detective, being the only one in the world, had been invited, too. As he packed his bags, excitement rushed him like a first kiss.
Only his mother had committed suicide due to the boredom. His father had stayed and in a way, she had missed out. The plane was a first class jet with a beautiful hostess and champagne that couldn’t get you drunk. It ran on renewable resources. The detective had read all the books on criminology and psychology, as well as all the Sherlock Holmes books. But to enact something from paper in reality is something of a challenge. The detective had a love for mathematics; as a hobby, he did puzzles and riddles. It was good for the mind.
The plane took off smoothly and the detective fell asleep. When he woke up, he realised that he had dreamt of Francis Knight. He realised that the whole world must be dreaming of Francis and nothing else. He was the only thing in their lives that was unique and different. He thought that this phenomenon must be praised upon, like a god. The human test subjects were being killed and people were allowing it. It was still murder to the detective. It certainly was a strange era to live in.
The plane landed and a posh car waited to take him to his destination. Upon his arrival at the car park, the detective noticed that, out of all the other posh cars, there was one random black van. Out of curiosity, he put a tracking device on it. Then he went into the arena and sits down at the front. People whispered conversations, all waiting to see Francis, to do his exciting trick. How many more human test subjects would die to prepare Francis Knight for performing his show and nobody cared. This was the difference between significant insignificant death.
The event started. Death by imagination halfway through as the human test subject began bleeding. The lights flicker and a couple of seconds later goes black. The crowd is surprised and starts to talk loudly. The detective dared to stand up in the pitch black and hears someone taking photos. More people are now trying to stand, and as the lights are switched back on, the detective sees at his feet the dead and bleeding human test subject. Francis Knight is nowhere to be seen and the tracking device begins to operate; the black van is moving away from Manchester.

Michelle Parker

A Canadian journalist was invited to the Manchester arena to watch Francis Knight in England. This was her first article ever; all her other articles had been too boring and on the same topic, the boredom crisis. Nevertheless, she had persevered. She was a strong woman with self-respect and womanly intelligence, who now had something to write about. Before this, everything had been written about. The universe itself had no more secrets. Many men had tried to impress her, but all failed for being too ordinary.
She had researched Francis Knight, his whole life story, every little detail of gossip and the facts about his ability. She had studied him for hours until he had turned into an obsession.
Her tickets in her hand and bags packed she was ready to leave. There was a private jet plane with a beautiful hostess. Her father had committed suicide. The journalist her own secrets; she, too, once tried to kill herself due to boredom. She was embarrassed about it, but she lived by the philosophy of never staying in the past.
The plane took off. She couldn’t fall asleep while thinking about Francis Knight. She had watched the videos. The deaths are gruesome and horrible. She started talking to herself, about what she was thinking, and the hostess looking at her weirdly.
“I’m thinking out loud,” Michelle Parker said.
She didn’t sleep during the entire flight. It was nearly the end of January, a year since Francis had been discovered. It was damp and wet and the wind blew. That was England for you. A posh car waited to take her to the arena. As they neared the place where she would see Francis Knight the driver stops and decides to walk.
“I’ll be ok here, thank you,” she called after him.
Michelle began walking and taking pictures. She took in the atmosphere of the place. Dogs barked and she saw cats. She couldn’t stop thinking about Francis. She thought it might have been a crush. She had always played the hard to get type, but Francis was different, and not particularly normal. She felt like one of those women in a superhero film, the woman that everyone wants, and finally someone gets her.
As she was walking in the car park, tickets in her hand, someone came out of a black van, walked right into her, and walked off without saying sorry.
“Excuse me!” She took a picture of him and the van. Then she decided to enter the arena.
She sat three rows from the front; she hated the type of people in the hierarchies, always ignorant and thinking they were right.
The show started with Francis and a human test subject coming out at the same time. The test subject was a fifty-six-year-old lonely man who had never once done anything interesting with his life. Michelle’s heart started beating a little faster as Francis came out. She realised she might have had a thing for men with edges, but also the type to ignore knowing it.
The show starting and there was the blood, the whole Francis Knight act, and then the flickering of the lights. Suddenly everything went black. Michelle turned her camera to night vision mode so she could take pictures. Through the camera screen she saw a man putting Francis to sleep by spraying something on a towel, then picking him up and putting him over his shoulders. It’s the same person that bumped into her outside. She struggles to walk in the dark, taking picture at the same time. Then the lights come back on and Francis is missing. By the feet of the detective in front of her is a dead man, the test subject, and on her right is world genius Nathan Sykes. To her left are two men she also recognises, a politician named Mike Finley, and a military man named Haye Silverman.
“Detective, I’ve seen this man. He drives a black van.”
“I put a tracking device on his van,” said the detective. “He is leaving Manchester and moving toward London.”
“Take my car,” said Nathan Sykes. “It’s fast.”
“I should drive,” said Haye Silverman. “I’m the best driver here.”
Mike Finley said, “I just want to come with you, I don’t want to miss this.”
They all got into Sykes’ car and headed toward London, following Francis’ abductor.

Nathan Sykes

A genius of a man, the highest IQ the world has ever seen. If ever there were a new equation that needed to be solved, another enigma code to crack, a scientific law or evolutionary theory to be proposed it would come from Sykes. His forefathers had invented the flying car and robots with too much logic, irritating and robots with emotions; the world would never go down that road again. The future had been invented, but in the billionth century, the future was nothing but dull and boring. However, with Francis he might have just changed it, meaning that another look into the future was needed.
Sykes sat in the backseat of the car, as they chased after the abductor. He couldn’t help but think that Francis was, in a way, the new genius of the world. He was able to imagine and think beyond limits. Sykes was only slightly jealous. He had laboratories all over the world, laboratories that were also mansions in case he had to stay over. They had servants and chefs and butlers. After all, discovery took time. According to the detective’s tracker, Francis’ abductor had left Manchester.
“How come you haven’t experimented on Frances yet?” the detective asked Sykes.
“I want my experiments to be private, out of the public eye. Which is why, when we find him, I want to do some experiments. Painless, of course. It will just be us and the people working in my laboratory.”
“I’m sure Francis has been waiting for you to start experimenting on him,” the detective replied.
They are two hours away from London. Sykes’ parents are both still alive. The type of things he wonders about is more on the alien side of things. Not of this planet. No other scientist before him had ever found anything in this field of research. But Sykes is the cleverest man on the planet. He thought what had happened to Francis might have been a freak accident. Sykes had his suspicions about what had given Francis his abilities. It could have been alien, or even an evolutionary quirk. After all, the mind changed as much as the physical body.
Everyone was quiet. The tracking device suddenly made a sound and they all looked at each other,
“What is it?” Michelle asked.
“We lost him,” said Finley.
“No, we’re behind them,” said Sykes. “That’s the black van.”
Pilkens lowered his voice. ‘Let’s be discreet about this, everyone.”
“What do we do with the abductor?” asked Finley.
“He might have to come with us to the laboratory,” Sykes replied. “In case he decides to speak to the media.”
They drive on, trying to be inconspicuous and not to give anything away to the man in the black van. Whoever he was.

Mike Finley

Politics was by far the neediest in terms of ideas and improvements. Finlay was a democrat, and each of their meetings was dead quiet. Everything was perfect.
He was born in London and became the left hand man of the prime minister. an invitation was definite. Thirty-five years of similar living to that of the detective; long coat with shirt and tie and trousers. Perhaps Francis was a born politician. Mike was always thinking to himself about how he could make the world of politics better, to make the nation feel proud about their country, and to make the democrats a party which would be remembered for its great leaders. He himself wanted to give more to the country, he even had dreams of being prime minister; but what else needed fixing or changing? Maybe no country needed leaders anymore.
Politics was now just a nice game without imagination, but who wanted to play a nice game? Where was the fun in that?
Finley was not much of a family man. His relationship with his wife was terrible. A divorce was definitely on the cards.
Finlay thought about Haye, who was a soldier. War could shape a politician like Winston Churchill, but it could also make or break a politician. It could do the same to the economy – another subject that could make or break a politician.
They finally arrived in London. The place and its people smelled like ghouls. “Welcome to London,” said Finlay to no one in particular.
They took a random turn so the person driving the black van would not suspect anything. The tracker would easily guide them back to him. They drove on through an area where destroyed advertisements and useless birds trying to fly provided the scenery. They even drove past some people committing suicide from a tall building. They nearly landed on their car. Finally, they find the van again; it was driving into a garage.
“We’re so close,” said Michelle.
“We should wait until he goes in,” said Finley.
They all piled out of the car when the abductor couldn’t see them, and advanced to the house where the van had parked. Haye rushed the front door and broke it down; everyone else rushed in after him. Haye found the cellar. He pulled his gun and led everyone else down behind him. In the basement, they found the abductor. He had tied Francis to a chair and was pointing a gun at him. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Jock. Looking for something?”
One thing was for sure. Francis had angels looking out for him.

Haye Silverman

There had not been a war in centuries. He came from a family of generations of soldiers and felt as if he had to follow their example. He was a crazy type of person, the silent but deadly type. He had studied various forms of martial arts –Jeet Kune Do, Kali, Silat and Krav Maga, but even they have limited effects. It felt weird, his hope that Francis would create a war. It wasn’t such a violent world anymore, and people like him just waited quietly for something to happen. People like him, from respected families, who had war in their blood.
He had studied the history of wars fought, and had passed for every type of soldier, whether on ground or in the water or in the air. For Haye, the only way to gain true respect was by fighting. Death and the relationship with your team was a brotherhood like no other. It was something he wanted desperately. In his deepest despair, he had thought about committing suicide. That, however, would only bring shame upon his family.
An American citizen from California, Haye lived by the rule that you can get killed by your enemy or by cowardice, but never by suicide. A long and boring natural was now his demise. In a way, he thought of himself as a sadistic person. He only wanted a purpose, a goal. To save someone or some country and tell to his grandchildren about it; to use for the very first time his soldier instincts. Getting the chance to break down the door of the abductor, and the eagerness he had felt at pulling his gun, only to find that the abductor had done the same, Haye knew that now was the time to use his instincts, and use them well. But it was complicated; there was a moment of silence in which no one did anything. At least they were all there now.

Jock

A thief and con man turned abductor, living in a house full of what his ancestors had stolen. It was a shame for Jock that there was nothing new left to steal. Besides, in the thief world, once an item is stolen its value decreases. At one point, he had nearly tried to kill himself, but Francis saved him when he became a world icon and superstar. Francis was the only thing new left to steal. He had to do it. His bloodline demanded it. It was not really about money, but more about causing trouble and mischief. To play the world at its own game and win.
Jock was almost like a child in a 6ft body. All he wanted to do was play. It took him only weeks to plan Francis’ kidnapping. He made a fake ID that identified him as a worker in the arena and learned how to work the setup with the light. He memorised where all the exits were and watched Francis’ every move as he prepared for the event. It was that easy. The world had lost its knack for stopping criminals like Jock because there had not been one for so long. At the same time, criminals didn’t have the proper skills to be criminals. Jock had been followed all the way to London. An experienced criminal would not have made such a mistake. Now here he was, in the cellar, with five people trying to stop him. This was the rush that brought him his moment of fame, to see the world’s reaction as they anticipated his next move.
“Let him go, Jock,” said Haye Silverman.
“Jock,” Detective Pilkins tried, “he is a very important person.”
“I know, that’s why I abducted him. He also stopped me from committing suicide. This is all a…weird thank you sort of thing.”
“Why are you really doing this?” Michelle asked.
Jock hesitated. “I don’t really know. I just wanted to cause trouble, really, and wait for a reaction.”
“So you did all this for the attention?” Finlay asked. “You’re crazy.”
The detective looked at Francis. He was just starting to wake up from being drugged. Jock was scared that Francis would touch him and cause his mind to explode.
Pilkins spoke. “Francis, you are the most imaginative person in the world. You can think of billions of ideas. Imagine or think a way out of this!”
Francis’ eyes grew big and a little smile appeared on his lips.
“You see, Jock? He has already thought of a way out of this.”
“He’s bluffing!”
Haye Silverman said, “Why would the most imaginative person in the world be bluffing?”
Jocks began to sweat. There may have been some truth to what they were saying. That meant that his efforts of being the first criminal in centuries had been a failure from the start. Realising this, he broke down and put his gun on the ground. They untied Francis. He said that he hadn’t actually had a plan; he just used his reputation as the most imaginative person in the world to pretend. Jock was tied up.
“Damn it, I was fooled.”
Sykes began to introduce himself to Francis but did not need to.
“I know who you are. Genius of the world. Every scientist had done experiments on me. I’m surprised you didn’t.”
“Well, I want mine to be more private. I have a laboratory here in London. I was wondering…”
“Of course. I really want to know what the hell this is in me. It will be good to get away for a bit from the world. They’re really annoying me now.”
“The only people that will be there are Detective Sam Pilkins, Michelle Parker, who is a journalist, Haye Silverman, military man, and politician Mike Finley. We are going to have to take Jock too, just so he doesn’t spill the beans to anyone. The people who work in the mansion where the laboratory is want to be the human test subjects. We are ready to proceed.”
“What sort of name is Francis for a British man?” asked Jock.
“What sort of name is Jock?”
“Just one I walk around with.”
Surrounding Francis in the cellar was a journalist, soldier, politician, detective, a criminal and a genius. All of them needed imagination, which highlights the importance of ideas and how useful they are. The laboratory was an hour away, in the West End. Everyone got in the car again, this time for one last experiment. They decided not to tell anyone that they had found Francis’ abductor, but to keep it private. Once Sykes had finished his experiments, they would let the world know.

The Experiments

They drove up to a large mansion, straight out of a horror movie. There were so many rooms to choose from; they spread throughout the entire mansion. Michelle took pictures and the detective looked inspected the history of the house.
The laboratory is just outside the mansion. The detective noticed a door locked and wondered what was inside.
“Hey Sykes, what’s in this room?”
“Nothing. Personal things I don’t like anyone seeing. I hate all that lovey, dopey stuff.”
It had been a long day for all of them. The experiments would start first thing in the morning. For now, they ate, talked and rested. The detective began asking Francis questions where they sat next to the fireplace.
“Could you even imagine anything like this? How had it all started?”
“It happened to me a year ago. All I remember is that, before I went to sleep, I went for a walk in Worley Forest in Manchester. I remember a beautiful tree glistening like no other I had ever seen. Strange fruits grew on it, and it was winter, no less. One of the fruits fell to the ground. I ate it. Then I went home, to sleep. The next morning, my life changed forever.”
Haye had gone to sleep, and so had Michelle, Mike and Jock. The detective, Sykes and Francis talked all night and laughed and drank alcohol and ate some more. When morning came, they had not slept all night, and the servants and butlers and the chefs made breakfast for the last time, preparing to be Francis’ test subjects.
When the others awoke they had their breakfast, and afterward, they all gathered in the laboratory rooms for the first experiment.

Experiment 1

Each time Francis showed his imagination to someone else it was always one person at a time. Sykes wanted to know if it could be shared, and thereby share the capacity of Francis’ thoughts and his mind. He gathered four test subjects and arranged them like a circuit, with Francis being the battery. Altogether, there were 20 test subjects; they were limited in what they could do. What happened was a disaster. All four test subjects died. It didn’t matter whether Francis showed his imagination to one person at a time or four. The result stayed the same. They died.

Experiment 2

Francis always had to touch his subjects to pass on his mind. But what about using words and description? Would that work? Sykes gathered the remaining sixteen test subjects to listen to Francis describing what he saw in his mind. Everyone else went into a soundproof room where they could still see Francis and the test subjects.
As they watched, the test subjects began bleeding and falling to the ground. Sykes opened the door to listen, and as he did so, he heard a screeching sound across in his mind and a felt pain like he had never felt before. Everyone else in the room shouted at him to close the door, and he did. All the test subjects died. Francis stopped talking when he realised the experiment had failed.
The next and final experiment of the day was to test Francis on animals. This was another failure. They all died. When Francis was tested for being an alien, he was found to be fully human. When Sykes tested to see if an alien body might be attached to him, the machine gave the same result. They all went back to the mansion. The fifth and final test would take place early in the morning the next day.
Sykes discussed the experiments on Francis after the experiments. “I don’t think your mind or who you are is entirely scientific. I think the universe has been waiting for you, and maybe it will die with you. What I am trying to say is that you are like those fairy tales, like angels and werewolves. They have no explanation. You, Francis, are something that will turn into legend or myth, a tale to tell children, of a man who could imagine beyond any limits. You are part of a mythology, of philosophy and miracles. We have been looking at the wrong type of science. The last experiment will be tomorrow.
Francis did not question anything about the last experiment because he trusted that nothing about it would be dangerous. When everyone had gone to sleep, Sykes went into the locked room. Here he kept a time machine with which he could see the future. Before, it had been dull and boring, but Francis had changed things. Another look was needed.
Sykes sat on the chair and pulled the mask over his face. A huge lens came up in front of him. He could actually travel through time, but it would take too much fuel. Instead, he used the telescope to peer into Francis’ future.
He was shocked to see nothing but complete and utter chaos. Worried and sweating from the heat this chaos emitted, Sykes didn’t know what to think. Surprised, he left the room, locked it, and went to sleep.

The last experiment

Everyone was in the laboratory except Jock, who couldn’t be bothered and was still asleep. The last experiment didn’t need a human test subject. Only Francis was needed, but he didn’t know this. He had to step into a huge, square machine, not knowing that it was a fire machine, like the one when he had to imagine a way out of the situation where Jock had tried to shoot him. Sykes wanted to push his imagination into a locked, square fire machine; he wanted to see what would happen to it then. As Francis stepped inside, Sykes quickly locked the doors.
“Hey Sykes, what are you doing?”
“Francis, it’s a fire volt. You are going to burn. I want to see you imagine your way out. Like I said yesterday, we were using the wrong science.”
“Sykes, get me out of here. I don’t want to do this!”
“I’m so sorry, but it has to happen.”
Detective Pilkins stepped in. “Sykes, stop being crazy and let him out. He doesn’t want to do this!”
The detective walked to the machine to help Francis open the door. Then Haye pulled a gun on the detective.
“Don’t open it. I want to see this.”
“So do I,” said Mike Finley.
Michelle Parker wanted to see it, too.
The detective ignored them. He tried to free Francis. Haye stepped forward and shot him in the head.
“Now do it, Sykes,” Silverman demanded.
Sykes pressed the start button. Francis is engulfed in flames and heat. They all look on with excitement and no trace of guilt. Ten minutes passed. The rate of survival was impossible. The fire calmed and eventually died out. Standing in the machine is Francis with a look of betrayal and anger. He steps out of the machine. “I imagined something cold.”
Sykes was awestruck. “Absolutely brilliant.”
Francis’ voice had changed. “You humans. Always killing, always trying to be better than one another. The fact is that you are all useless to me. When I was in there, in the fire, I realised something. I am a god.”
He raised his hand to the sky and Michelle, Mike, Nathan, and Haye all began screaming in pain. Francis was showing them his imagination through the air. They kept screaming and there was blood everywhere.
“Stop, please, I’m so sorry,” Sykes begged.
“No. Now you know what it’s like to be a human test subject.”
When Jock came down from his bedroom, he found them all dead. He was surprised and lucky that he had been there to experience it. “Damn,” he said to Francis. “You have been busy.”
“You people are useless. You cannot do anything without me, Jock. You might as well die now, too.”
“What’s up with you?”
“I’m a god.”
Walking up to him, Jock took Hayes’ gun and trying to step away from Francis advancing to him,
“Why are you running away? You know you want to see.”
“Actually, that time Sykes opened the door and that screeching sound came, that was enough for me.”
Ignoring him completely, Jock shot Francis multiple times, and kept shooting like it was the last day on Earth and Francis was dead.
“What sort of god gets killed by a bullet?”

End of the World

Everyone who knew about the death of Francis mourned for him. Jock was the most hated person in the world but he didn’t mind having such a reputation. They mourned for Francis for a year. His burial was in Manchester. The world suicide pact was back on, and everyone took to the roofs. Jock wanted to kill himself, but only after everyone else had done so. For someone like Jock it was a beautiful sight to see people fall so far and break their bones. Raining men and women. It was a weird place to be at that moment, but all good sights come to an end. It did not take long for the world to commit suicide, and for the the air to smell of the dead. Jock put a phone in Francis’ coffin with his number on it just in case he imagined his way back to life somehow.
It was a weird moment for Jock. Looking down on the dead it was now his turn. He was about to jump when his phone rang. With everyone else being dead, who else could it have been but Francis? But Jock was in London, four hours away from Manchester.
He got into his black van and drove as he had never driven before in his life, swearing at the distance he had to travel, but thinking to himself, if he can come back to life he can hold on for another four hours in a coffin. When Jock got to Manchester, he dug Francis up, broke the coffin and started kissing Francis everywhere.
“Thank god you’re alive. I was going to kill myself but you did turn into a bit of a dick so I had to shoot you.”
“Jock, I know where I my abilities came from. We need to go to Worsley Forest.”
Francis didn’t bother taking a shower. He went straight to Worsley Forest in Manchester, and looked for the mesmerising tree. It was the tree of knowledge, constantly moving through the ages to different destinations. It was the cause of all our past discoveries, like those of Isaac Newton, Einstein, and even Shakespeare. They had not eaten the fruit like Francis, it had only touched them. As they stood in front of it, Jock went to pick one of the fruits.
“Don’t, Jock. The fruit has to have fallen from the tree first, otherwise there will be complete chaos and it won’t be a human world anymore.”
“A human world is a boring world. Chaos would be better.”
Francis tried to stop him, but Jock pulled a gun. “So now you’re a good guy. Before you were a god and didn’t give a crap about us.”
“That was until I died and the tree of knowledge called me. I’m not a god. I was blessed. Jock, you have to wait for one to fall.”
“How long will that take?”
“Maybe years.”
“I don’t have years.”
And just like that he pulled a fruit off the tree of knowledge and the tree came crashing down. Both of them managed to move out the way. Seeds were dispersed everywhere and Jock could now see what Francis could see; his mind reached beyond the limit of imagination. But the world was chaos now, and the dead rose as werewolves or vampire’s or ghouls or winged creatures, and evil mermaids and angels fell from the sky, and demons ran, Indian and Greek gods and goddesses screamed in anger, and Buddha’s meditation was disturbed.
Francis was horrified at the sight of the world. He grabbed some seeds form the tree of knowledge and watched Jock dancing like a lunatic, dropping his gun. “I can see new colours and hear new sounds and see new possibilities!”
Francis picked up the gun and shot Jock in the head. He watched the night creatures devour him. As Sykes had said, a future with Francis would be complete chaos, and now it was a chaotic world. Francis fell to his knees and cried for a miracle; for any god or any thing to help. He looked at the seed from the tree of knowledge and he at them. He felt strange inside, and all of a sudden energy flowed out of him and he screamed in pain. He began to turn into the tree. The energy flowed out of him and into the whole world, and as he turned into the new tree of knowledge, the night creatures began to turn back into humans again, and the fallen angels began to return to their worlds. When Francis had been completely transformed into a tree, there was a new type of humans; ones that
could now imagine like Francis and Jock, and who were unaware, and had forgotten the other world in which they had lived.
This was a new era and with a new question: was there a new limit to their new minds and their imagination?
The devil walked among the new race of humans and was amazed. He wondered what had happened. Humans with new minds. Francis, overtaken by the tree, the consequence of eating its seed. But he had saved humanity.
“Well,” said the devil. “I guess I have to start all over again.”
The end was unpredictable. The energy that flowed from Francis was the knowledge of life and existence god had placed. Some say God had been hiding in there for centuries, and that this act had made all the creatures of different universes, and all the gods of different religions see each other, creating awkwardness between them. No one knew how they were going to react, or if they were even going to get along with one another. Regardless, they had a new race of humans to look after.
But in this new world of humans, the angels and other godly species taught the humans many things they were unable to understand before. They showed the humans Paradise, and told them of their history. But the god of Christianity and Islam and Judaism was never found; no angel knew the existence of God, and the holy brothel couldn’t explain to this new world such a mystery.
In the skies, legendary creatures met to talk, to define their differences and ways. The angel, and the sun god Ra, and the alien Rafnakune came back after the destruction and the Indian god Shiva and the Buddha, too, came. In these moments of strange correlation, they all looked at each other, and at the humans touching each other and experimenting, and thinking and talking to themselves.
The Rafnakune said, “The humans have changed. What happened to them, and how did this start?”
The angel said, “I think the real question concerns us; how are we are going to share them, share our knowledge, wisdom and religion?”
“Look at them,” replied Shiva. “They are so much better. Are they perfect?”
Ra said, “Certainly a new start, but in the end they’ll turn away. They always do.”
Suddenly the sky turned hot with electricity, clouds began to form and thunder sounded. Zeus jumped down from his throne and landed on Earth, and everyone looked bewildered by his arrival.
“What has happened to these humans,” Zeus asked. “They seem so different.”
“Still human,” Ra answered.
“You are very unfaithful, aren’t you Ra” the Rafnakune replied.
“And you are an alien who believes in God.”
“It’s not that funny. I have seen all the impossibilities. My people kicked exiled me when I told them of my experiences on Earth.”
As they all looked on, they decided to stay with the humans and help them to develop. To show them that they were still the legends of old, if the humans would even accept them. Could they still remember what had happened with the boredom crisis? none of them were there to help and to pick them up but a new adventure to start. They argued a little about who was better, and what values were better. They would try to control this human race with their new minds. Time went on again and some humans turned into murderers and others into geniuses, the likes of which had never been seen before, and proposed a creative idea that even baffled the mythological creatures themselves.

Towards the Limit of Imagination by Shainur Ullah

 

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