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Legend of the Mighty Sparrow Part 2
End Of Days, Eschatology, The Final Events Of History, The Ultimate Human Destiny, End Of Time, And Ultimate Fate Of The Universe
By Bryan Fletcher AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Bryan Fletcher
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-2448-4
CHAPTER 1
In an ultradense forest, which proves difficult to see five feet ahead, Bonnie struggles through.
Moments later, she bumps into a 1,000-pound brown bear with ever so disgusting thick white foam, which drips from the mouth onto the jaw, fur, ground, and her hands.
Then the creature roars with deafening power, so much so Bonnie instantly loses ten years of life — just like that, gone, as the shock denigrates those personal reserves or those ten years instantaneously leap away, and go wherever elusive things travel then eventually find a new home, maybe absorbed back into nature.
Just as importantly, her eyes widen and mouth forms an "Oh" position, as in, "Oh, my God!" then the body repeatedly starts and stops in fits, on where to jump or run, and especially with an impulse to jump or leap, maybe jump up a tree, if that were humanly possible, yet no tree seems close enough, only very tall and ultradense shrubs.
Instead, Bonnie turns then flees, in search of a forest exit, and frantically plows through foliage with a circular arm motion, and often looks back while running — a dangerous practice indeed, especially with the risk of tripping over something, such as a fallen branch or sharp rock.
And as the pace increases, eventually the heart pounds and lungs strain, as well as the chest feels a rush of blood, which now seems palpable, as the taste lingers on the palette, a distinct taste of plasma, as well as a mineral ion feel, and something else — something, maybe a taste of the common, of metal, iron, a transitional metal, and a path, or a path-dependent option.
Regardless, she increases speed, and over ground, which contains mostly fallen crisp brown leaves, twigs and branches that crackle under each stride.
And eventually, beads of sweat form on the forehead, nose, and cheeks.
Just as importantly, events feel quite familiar, yet different, as if in a temporal loop, where events repeat in a distinct circuit, and yet a few aspects change, such as the normal sequence of events are not correctly linked, or as if someone, thing, or it has tampered with the timeline, a history of ideas, or tampered with her mind, with her thalamus.
So, during this escape, she looks about for certain visual reference cues and taps the back of the left hand three times, and again, taps left of right, the left brake, the left-handed material index — well, to see if it creates an instantly awaking moment, in a hospital, sickbay or some other place, such as a limbo, either a secular or sacred version, a purgatory.
Or, she might struggle in an intermediate state, a bardo or liminal state, such as middle ritual, mid threshold or in a special rite of passage, quite possibly atonement, or some other place in the monomyth cycle.
However, cues here and there indicate no such manipulation, and no superimposition, temporal stub, and no sunken kingdom, to reemerge, or different face, different space, or species dysphoria.
Eventually, she sees opportunity then quickly climbs an American sycamore tree, also called an occidental plane.
Yet, twenty feet up, she reaches for the next branch and knocks two bird nests with eggs to the ground, and that accident causes a considerable cringe of "Oh, that's not good! Sorry about that."
Then she carefully scans for that brown bear, which had ever so disgusting thick white foam, which that dripped from the mouth, onto the jaw, fur and ground, and her hands.
As a result, she tries to quickly wipe off every molecule.
"What the heck was that?" and "What's with the foam?" and "Do I need the Milwaukee protocol?"
Not much later, she looks for bird parents, yet finds no activity whatsoever.
In fact, the forest seems exceptionally quiet.
And for certainty, the eyes carefully scan one section at a time, for obvious, as well as subtle, forest aspects.
Yet three minutes later, a profound sense of guilt arrives.
So much so the face cringes with eek then empathy, as an awkward climb down one fragile branch at a time eventually allows her to look for danger at another level then inspect two of the five eggs, which look okay, as they have no cracks or dents, and that generates a sense of relief.
However, three eggs lie at awkward and hard-to-reach places, such as a place where she has to reach, and reach then really stretch, fully extend fingertips, strain and strain, then shimmy the body here and there, wiggle, really wiggle, strain even more, reach and reach, barely touch an egg then rock it with a fingertip, until it moves more, and more, then gains enough rocking momentum and opportunity to grab, "Yes, one small victory, a cosmic egg, transforming from primordial substance into energy, life, spirit and glory, yes, a mystery of resurrection, hermetically sealed, and a new beginning, a temporal adjustment, as well as a certain truth, and rise from this egg, oh noble spirit, rise, rise!"
Each remaining egg proves difficult to reach, yet eventually she secures them then ponders, which egg goes where?
"Oh trouble, big trouble, and will the mamas know the difference? And does it matter to the eastern phoebe, brown-headed cowbird, cuckoo, reed warbler, black-headed duck, dunnock, goldeneye or the sparrow?
"Is it vital to a mother, or essential, in their full arc of existence, and to the universe?
"Is there such a thing as the bird mafia, a revenge thing, when you mess with the mama and her true destiny, and her possibility of true greatness?
"Will you stir a very powerful universal force, the mother?"
Bonnie considers, and eventually thoughts arrive of that bear with disgusting white foam, which causes her to wipe both hands beyond rhythm or reason.
Moments later, she looks around for danger then gathers twigs, fortifies the nests, improves drainage, adds coverage, and makes it "near impossible to dislodge these eggs," as well as adds exceptional style and flair, as compensation, adds an "ultra-retro hip style, and yet fashion-forward, to give both of them a timeless look, because style matters — it really matters?"
Just as significantly, she says, "These modifications make them windproof, stormproof, maybe hurricaneproof — well, maybe not hurricaneproof.
Regardless, these nests and eggs have no significant chance of falling."
Once done, Bonnie says in a fully animated and highly stylized way, yet finishes with a gradual slowdown, as well as an ever so profound realization of déjà vu, "Done, as in finito. Goodbye, as I will never return, ever, and of equal importance, find a calendar and record this day, as well as time — no, wait, record it in something permanent, yes, for example: chisel it into an enormous block of granite, yes, chip at the stone, at various angles; yes, chisel."
Moments later, and in the distance, something approaches.
In addition, it has a sublime, bizarre, and ruthless aspect, as well as makes a distinct series of creepy sound combinations, which has some resemblance to a Soundsnap website, "Noise Warble Warp B," followed by twelve seconds of sounds, not quite a cross between "Urban Creepy" and chaos, which repeat.
As a result, Bonnie startles, spins, looks about, then flees in the opposite direction and plows through ultradense foliage.
Furthermore with utmost precision to maintain an elusive escape, all of which requires ultraquick timing, she often tacts here and there, as well as must occasionally with world-class Olympic style, with found greatness, hurdle a fallen branch or two and often deflect foliage from the face and eyes, in this bewildering green maze.
Then the sublime, bizarre and ruthless aspect, a weird thing accelerates, as a dangerous mind game, point of no return, max Q, and it plows forward as a true genius beyond description, beyond all words and thoughts, beyond all forms of language.
And without losing speed, she duly notes with a series of rubberneck looks of what-what-what, as breath quickens.
Then she abandons one precise tact after another and plows through wait-a-minute-shrubs, through thorn foliage which grabs, inflicts pain, and causes her to flinch even more so, to protect the face and especially the eyes.
Yet she plows with an efficient technique, a hard-earned lesson, very, to avoid limbs swelling, which would have eventually become grotesque, so much so, and she would have said to herself with a serious plea, "Don't look! Whatever you do, don't look at the limbs!"
However, well, you know human nature, the history of civilization, and the compelling power of impulse to stare at drama, especially an accident, and damage, in search of some great universal truth, a truth that might reveal the mysteries of existence, of the universe.
So, she would have looked and received a shock to her system, the biome, her tree of life, as well as liminal core, which prefers a precise ritual, in certain well-timed stages, and instead would receive a crisis of the self, the coalition, which have quite complex internal agreements, which might null and void at the frontier, such as "You are on your own," well, as a third culture person in a Weird Tale.
She avoids all that while running, and moments later the soul shudders and shakes, an Alabama shakes.
Moreover, this chase reveals memories, personal baggage, as well as known flaws and imperfections, which flood her mind with vivid and wholly irrational images as she tries to maintain one long stride after another.
Then with a new forest plow technique, she avoids grotesque swelling, such as the last time, and avoids the mind immediately assigning her a role in life — an outcast, an outsider, and a true freak, which belongs in a classic sideshow, in a new-age combination of P. T. Barnum, claustrophobic microcosm cabinet of curiosities, a decorative Wunderkammer facade, Black Scorpion, Jim Rose Circus, as well as a Lollapalooza old time revival — in effect, a show of shows with a colorful and fully animated barker.
Where people can buy a ticket then point and gawk at the human oddities, point at the freaks, the reluctant working acts, and where parents, corporations, and especially governments take mischievous children, to instill fear, maybe the Old Testament version of God, known for fury, vengeance, hellfire, brimstone and suffering — not ordinary suffering, but an eternal suffering, the classic and dramatic version of love, of "Love me completely, with total devotion, or else," and really punish those not in full compliance with an eternal smolder, and crisp: that type of love. Or some other cultural equivalent which uses shame, to wither willful aspects of individuality, and especially wither that part of the mind, body and soul, which generates an impulse to look behind the curtain, the facade, frame of reference, or popular phrase or method, to look for production technique advantages and disadvantages. As well, that system might shame critical objective thinking, to wither that crucial limbic juncture, wither that path into individuality, and instead compel and condition the mind to unconditionally obey, or else.
Regardless, as well as here and now with this new running plow technique, she avoids that type of major damage, yet those thoughts and some damage cause her run too slow then occasionally with odd hobble.
Yet she battles through dense foliage, through a bewildering green maze, as well as thickets, and often hurdles over one fallen branch after another, which often create tremendous stumble, near a sharp rock or two.
Regardless and each time, she quick-twitch recovers and continues to battle forward, which eventually causes her breath to quicken beyond rhythm or reason.
So much so the taste of blood seems palpable — very.
In fact on the palette the taste of blood lingers, a taste of plasma, as well as a mineral ion feel, of iron, a transition metal.
And during this escape, events seem quite familiar, déjà vu, as if in a temporal loop, a distinct circuit, superimposition, temporal stub, yet somehow things feel different.
So at the last possible second, she runs hard left, which avoids a complex trap, an ankle snatch to deliberately drag her about, as if she represents a rag doll, and through one wait-a-minute-shrub after another, and over tortuous ground, not the typical "dirt," the type universally found in religious text, and regardless of which religion, regardless of a high, moderate or low church movement, or another cultural equivalent, such as enterprise or some other social construct?
Then at the last possible second, she runs hard right and avoids another ankle snatch, which would have deliberately dragged her over ground that contains danger, prejudice, error, and truly great corruption, then yanked her underground, where the creature or thing would violently bang her about with a whip action, again and again, until her eyes slowly dimmed.
Eventually the mind would fade as emotions drain, until the process creates a blank — a blank verse, a choliambic.
Regardless, if that happened, she would again refuse to surrender, refuse to say that name.
Here and now, still running, and at the last possible second, she avoids one trap after another, which requires a series of quick twitch maneuvers, quite awkward at first, especially balance.
Then eventually her efforts transition into ever so smooth, quite, as a virtuoso with a certain flow, rhythm, style, and panache that deploys a last-second sidestep, plow, hard right, plow, hard left, plow, and spin maneuver if need be, to untangle a brier extension, a branch, that pattern, which proves quite effective as she battles towards the forest exit, to freedom.
However, that weird thing, a dangerous mind game, point of no return, max Q, continues to chase her, and it plows forward as a true genius beyond description, beyond all words and thoughts, beyond all forms of language.
As a result, she often looks back to measure distance, which represents a dangerous practice indeed, especially with the risk of tripping over something, such as a fallen branch or sharp rock.
Instead, she impacts against an old-growth tree, with hybrid aspects, which includes traits associated with oak, peach, beech, hazel, ash, eucalyptus, willow, sycamore, almond, baobab and sandalwood, as well as acacia with thorny pods, shevaga, assattha, fig, kalpavriksha, thuja and yew, together with something a person might expect, near a well of souls, a hidden seep, as well as a seep-spring arnica here and there.
Regardless and seconds later, that weird thing risks everything, and rushes into that tree influence, through those stages of, and something an articulate scientist, musician or poet might better describe, and with far more precision regarding all those obvious and subtle aspects, especially as much of that tree system seems to transcend all conventional language and thought.
So, to grab an ankle and quickly drag her out that considerable tree system, it rushes through the region without the proper protocol, without proper phase transitions — those seams, stages, miscibility gaps and degrees associated with liminal, with the structure of identity, time, and common space.
It does so as improper art, which has real implications because the universal entanglement, mostly unseen, as well as the real science and "mythology of lost," because there appears no decent direct route through this complex estate.
Moments later, and with a certain distinct power, control and exceptional flair, a whip action flings the limp body up and into a clear expanse of sky, into the majestic, the exceptionally serene blue expanse.
And as the body soars well above forest, it does so with a certain clear path of freedom, as a damaged being on the rise, which soon travels along a tremendous arc out of the forest.
Not much later, she eventually impacts, a direct hit on the large forest entrance sign, then falls on a pile, on stunned commandos, a half dozen well-armed commandos with the latest body armor and silenced automatic weapon systems.
Just as importantly, these commandos appear to represent BfV, DGSE, DDIS, SAPO, KEMPEI TAI, and SLUZBA BEZPIECZENSTWA services; however, something seems quite odd about their uniform insignias, as well as other subtle things, which that seem, well, for lack of a better phrase, resemble "aesthetic perfections," yet seem artificial and unnatural, something a person such as Franz Kafka, Ludwig Wittgenstein, or Charles John Huffam Dickens might better describe, someone more conscientious, and with exceptionally precise observational skills.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Legend of the Mighty Sparrow Part 2 by Bryan Fletcher. Copyright © 2016 Bryan Fletcher. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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