Four Inch Slump

By Pauly Hart

Leap Day, 2024

Recently, I’ve been writing The Unexpected Cosmology two stories per month. It’s quite the thrill, setting out on a new adventure the first and 15th of each month for another mindbender. I think I’ve been willingly led into servitude by the powers-that-be, and yet I remain gleeful in spite of the labor in front of me, for in reality I needed it. I needed to be “set ablaze” or as it were, “to have a fire lit under my butt” by somebody. I’m grateful it was Mr. N.J. Hadley.

Many of you know, and many of you don’t know that Noel and I don’t agree on everything theological. That may surprise some of you or not. “Oh my golly goodness,” you might say, throwing your hands over your cheeks like Macaulay Culkin in a certain Christmas movie. “Whatever am I to make of this?”

Well, whatever you want. Were I to look back on my previous 10 years, the time that I’ve known Noel, I might add that I don’t agree with me on a whole lot of things now that I believed in back then. And I think the same can be said for a lot of us, maybe you included… That when we grow, we are forced to reflect and ponder. To reassess and pontificate those previous “jewels of wisdom” that seemed so mind-blowing back then, but now are mostly chuffa under the hoof.

This story is about “The Mandela Effect” – A subject that I consider solved in my own heart for the time being. My stance now, at this very moment, is that it cannot happen the way I am told it is happening. And what I have been told is that certain men in white coats colliding atoms can rewrite the ink on a bag of chips or some random detail to some American commercial product that makes us all believe that we are being lied to and that the conspiracy is real.

It’s obvious that there’s a conspiracy against the elect and the chosen, though I do not believe that it is men in white lab coats conducting this grand Satanic scheme, though they may well be pawns. I do believe that the fabric of our reality is thinner than we suppose it to be, or that it is tangible and immutable by the unseen forces in the spiritual realm.

So, for the time being, at least to me, The Mandela Effect has another explanation. And, being an undisclosed reality to us in the here and now, I offer to you a short story to one plausible explanation. It might make John Calvin turn in his grave, but regardless, here it is.

Four Inch Slump


As he lay there clutching his sword, dissolving in the acid, he realized that he had forgotten to wear clean underwear. That’s alright, he said to himself. It was time to wake up anyway. He crawled out of bed, hating the part of the morning when he was dreaming of liquids to realize it was his bladder interrupting his dream with real-life issues. The rest of his body hated the bladder at this moment but in only another moment, the body rejoiced with the bladder for the decision it led the body to make.

He looked at his phone. February 30th. It had been weird at first when the whole world had finally adopted the Hanke-Henry calendar. This was the first year they had the full 30 days of February. An odd transition but the whole world had voted on it and now it was here to stay.

He was in the newest dorm building called “The Stack.” Valtasta had slept next to him after they made love. “He” was transitioning from a “she” but it was only in pronoun. Her body was all woman, just the way Iesus made her. When he came back, he looked down at her form. The classic hourglass form, short brown Caesar cut, nice hips… With the right clothes, she might pass off as a guy. But here at “The Stack” they all knew… She was a she… Val was a gal.

And that’s why, when they went to the Dean’s office yesterday, they signed their marriage license and listed her as a “her” even though it upset her/him, she was still a she, and under Ohio law, the Dean’s office could only write different sex marriages. Seemed a little backward, but the law was the law. And he knew all about how definite the law could be. They had both looked at all the allowances that newlyweds had versus the singles and thought that their best bet lay with a marriage. It was obvious to the Dean that they were one of the couples who was doing it for financial and stability concerns and not for love, but that, however, wasn’t against any law.

He didn’t want to cuddle up to her again, as he knew he would become irrefutably turgid, and didn’t want to think about that right now. He needed a jog. It would clear his head. He had been forced to go back to school and live in the dorms after the court sentence. And, yeah, everyone at school knew who he was and what he’d done but it didn’t matter to him. He was 33 and besides the faculty, everyone on campus was a child. Scary to think that they were old enough to be his.

It was snowing a little. Just some ice dust, nothing he couldn’t jog on. The sidewalks on campus were what they called “Weathered Path.” That was their cute name for calling it what it was – four inch slump buckeye pour. It had been poured a little dryer than it should have and it had some added granularity. That made it mostly frost and ice resistant. Most sidewalks were poured at a five but because of the length of this path and the workers they had used, it should have been a six. Not his call, not his job, he was simply a jogger, enjoying the light dusting of flakes over the four inch slump path.

Another jogger came towards him, ponytail bouncing behind her. “Rapist.” She said as she jogged by.

“Funny.” He called, “You forgot the ‘The’.”

Finishing the mile course he came back to The Stack and opened the door. It was an adequate sized building for the mixed 28 inhabitants who lived there. The foyer led into the kitchenette area where there was an adjoining living room-rec room. To the right and the left in the corners of the large square building were restrooms, as well as in the back two corners. The homeroom teaching area was in the middle of the building, complete with skylight. Around the left, right, and back walls were the 15 bedrooms, or “cabins.”

They were still in their first week of school and it had been a little lax. People were already cliquing off with their new “besties” and finding their own little groups. Drek had made his bed (literally) with Val, and they had Todd and Lisa from next door as their other two friends. No one could tell for sure if Todd and Lisa were doing it at night, but Drek and Val heard the sounds and giggled to themselves. Oh yeah, they were doing it.

He headed to the showers and thought about his patent lawyer who hadn’t called him with the news either way. “Chick-o-Slam” or “Chick-o-Bang” or whatever it was, Drek had filed 13 patents because he was quite sure it would sell. All you did was take a Chick-O-Slick, make the interior a vanilla Tootie Roll, and cover it was white almond bark. It was delicious, it was affordable to create, and Drek had cracked the recipes for all three main ingredients years ago. “Chick-o-Slap” maybe. Hmmm. Maybe. He couldn’t do clinical work any more and had to find a way to make some income.

In the shower, he used Mane and Tail shampoo. Putting a little dollop on his hands for downstairs, then another for the pits, then finally his head. On his last dollop, he glanced at the bottle and then did a double take. The bottle read: “Mane ‘n Tail.” Sorry, what? He remembered only yesterday that it said “Mane and Tail.” When did they drop the part of the “and?” That was weird. He thought about it long and hard and decided that it was a new bottle design or something. No, it still looked a little off. The blue horse on a golden background. Wait. Two horses? No way. This was a different design and he knew it. No big deal, he just liked the old bottle better. Wonder why they changed it? He thought.

Sneaking into the room for a change of clothes, Van rolled over mumbling something in her sleep. She could sleep. It was still early. He got jeans and a shirt, socks, and shoes and slipped back out, changing in the hallway. Nobody was up, it was still super early. He looked at his phone. 6:53. Class didn’t start until 9. Coming back down the hall, he heard sounds in the kitchenette and didn’t want to be bothered by people right now, asking about this or that cereal. He would skip breakfast or maybe just eat a granola bar. Dang, but he could use some cofefev, as he called it. Thanks, Drumph for the new word. Nobody else could make such a blunder and it became common vernacular.

He sat in the main hall, the big room… The area in the middle that they used as their home room. You could see tiny flakes dancing over the massive skylight and the sky was a dim purplish blue. He loved this part of the day where he could just sit back and enjoy the day and catch up on the news. He checked his social media, but no fedbook. He absolutely hated that thing that had turned into fedbook. He’d had another strike on his account for posting news… Just random news and he got a strike. It was just a link to the Dennis Prager rap, but he got a strike. You suck, Fedbook.

On the Deso blockchain there were some interesting tidbits about Bitconnect. He followed a couple of links to some crypto bros and saw there was a small slump. He moved $1,000 from Dogcoin, which was down, making around $20 in the exchange. Here a little and there a little and I’ll be back to being rich. Needing his caffeine fix, he closed his phone and wandered into the kitchenette where two of the group were having cereal.

“Morning.” He said to them.

They didn’t respond. Oh no, here comes the old guy. He knew what they were thinking. We’d better hide the grape nuts. He laughed at that. They don’t even know what grape nuts are.

“What’s so funny?” The girls asked. Two girls with two boxes of cereal in between them looked over at him.

“Oh, nothing you’d understand.” He said and got the Keurig pods out, ready to make a selection. “You know Billie Post died?”

“Who?” They asked, a little annoyed.

“The inventor of Pop-jacks. She’s dead. That’s kinda what I was on about with the laughter.” He looked at the K-cups and couldn’t find the one he wanted. “Hey, where’s the rest of the K-Cups? All I see is Galactica and these. He held up a K-cup that said: “Mueller” on it.

“That’s all there is. That’s all The Stack got, Oldie.” The lighter skinned black girl said. He didn’t mind if they called him that. It was something one of the professors had said on the first day. It stuck and now they were all saying it.

“But where are the regular K-Cups? I could’ve sworn we had more selections than just this.” He scratched his head while he rooted around a little bit more. Mueller Regular, Dark Roast, Galactica garbage this, Galactica garbage that. “Not even a Crispy Creamy.” He murmured.

The girls went back to ignoring them and talking to themselves. It was so weird that there had been some yesterday and now those two idiots didn’t even remember. Fine. He selected a Mueller Regular and popped it in and pressed the button. It was hooked up to the water line so that was nice. After a little cream and sugar he blew on it and decided that if you wanted to know your enemy, you had to confront them. These kids weren’t his enemies, they were just ignorant.

Setting his coffee down, he sat down with enough room to not be creepy. “So, what’s the game plan today?” He asked them.

It was as if he had walked up and farted in their face.

“Ugh,” one said, picking up her cereal bowl and leaving.

“Oh em gee,” the other said, dropping her spoon in the bowl and leaving with the first one.

After they were gone, he said: “Cowards,” blew on his coffee a little, and took a sip.

They had left two boxes of cereal, the carton of milk, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal out. Not wanting anything to go to waste, he slid the bowl over and happily munched away on the high-sugar “American Cold Cereal.” He looked at the box as he munched. As a child of the nineties, he immediately started with the side panel of ingredients.

Ingredients: Sugar, whole grain yellow corn flour, wheat flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid, whole oat flour, corn bran, modified food starch, oat fiber.

“Not too bad,” he muttered and continued.

Contains 2% or less of hydrogenated rapeseed, coconut, soybean, and/or cottonseed oils, maltodextrin, salt, natural flavors, red 67, yellow 5, orange 14, blue 1, BHT, ascorbic acid, reduced iron, niacinamide, pyridoxine hydrochloride, riboflavin, thiamin hydrochloride, monosodium glutamate, folic acid, vitamin D3, vitamin B12.

Oh good, there’s vitamins.

He turned the box over and stared at the anthropomorphic bird that was supposed to be a Toucan. “FRUIT LOOPS” the box read. Wait. What? He read it again, and yes, it said: “Fruit Loops” and not “Froot Loops”’ like he remembered. What the heck is going on? He studied it, turning it over and looking at all the other text. Yes. It literally said the name of the type of plant life and not the misspelling that he grew up with. Or… Wait… Dang. When was the last time he had actually looked at a box of Froot Loops? He couldn’t recall. He vaguely remembered them as a child, but that was it.

He finished the bowl of cereal and took it to the sink, washed it out, washed the spoon, dried them, and put them away. He left the cereal out and thought about leaving the milk as well, but then thought better of the milk and put it away. Nobody would argue about the milk but the cereal he thought might be a point of contention. After his arrest, he’d spent three months in a minimum security facility but some lessons you don’t forget. Don’t touch another man’s food.

And it went deeper than that. There was “taking” and then there was “stealing.” Stealing is when someone creeps around and gets the goods and no one knows who did it. But God help them when they’re found out because then everyone is pissed… Because “the man” is gonna be on you, as well as, in general, no one likes a creeper. But “taking” was often sort of a way to find out a person’s boundaries. When a newbie came in, if you took their stuff and they didn’t stand up for themselves, it was on and they were your bitch. If they didn’t defend their own stuff then obviously they didn’t want it right? But if they wailed on you, just went ape-shit… Then, yeah, don’t mess with him because he actually is willing to fight for what’s his.

Drek didn’t want anyone to think he was taking or stealing, so he left the cereal where it was. Damn. Did I just associate this place with my time in prison? He shrugged, laughed to himself, then went back to his room.

Getting ready for class he thought about the Mane ‘n Tail and the Fruit Loops. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it, so he left it alone. Their first ‘class’ was extended orientation. They were still settling a number of issues with enrollment, which closed at the end of the week. Several of the girls and a couple of guys were going to rush fraternities and sororities starting today, so the class was cut a little short. He was going to be testing out of a lot of the normal freshman stuff, as he already had his bachelor’s. The courts had been strict, however, so he had to take a lot of the electives to fulfill a normal freshman year.

Being caught with a minor while pretending to be a Psychoanalyst had been rough. But the fallout had been a million times worse than the act of being caught. It was her parents who had done him in. If they’d just filled the prescription then Julia would have been fine. Instead, they questioned it and asked for referrals from another doctor. When Dr. Richard Thompson called him and had given him the third degree, Drek ran. He made it to Idaho where the State Police found him and remanded him to Oberlin, Ohio. The judge had no sympathy and a cruel sense of justice and Drek was out on time served but had to go back to school.

He never slept with any of his patients but they all came forward and said that they had been “touched inappropriately.” This stemming from Julia’s parents and Julia’s testimony… Which were all lies. He had done the smart thing (he thought) and not recorded anything. No notes, no audio, no video… Nothing. No way to prove that he was holding sessions with “patients.” But in doing so, he’s also condemned himself. When there was enough hearsay stacked up against him, the court found in favor of the victims.

Ha. “Victims” was a laughable word in this case. He had been completely professional. That is, what a normal Psychoanalyst would be considered professional. His secretary always kept the door open and, unfortunately, had settled out of court and was unable to testify on his behalf. Stupid rule, but it was the rule that got him caught in the end. Without Patricia there to verify anything, it was just him against all those women. Forty-seven women. Forty-seven to one. He didn’t stand a chance.

Enough already. Drop it and forget about it. Focus on the day at hand and the task ahead and I’ll make it through the day and the week and the month and the semester and the year. He thought to include fortnights but that would be pitiful. No one thought in terms of fortnights. He didn’t at least. Maybe some knuckleheads that watched the cycles of the moon or whatever, but that was that.

Oh. Class is over and Val’s sitting next to him. “Last night was fun,” she smiled.

“And the night before that,” he reminded her. “Never forget the first time.”

“Is that wisdom from all that gray hair, husband?” She asked, petting his cheek.

“No. And I’ve only got a few.” He said, sounding a little hurt.

“Only a little wisdom then. I can’t wait for you to get more.” She said.

“Listen,” he began, “any girl that I…” And she punched him in the arm.

“Girl?!” She said very loudly to the amusement of the others in the room.

He flinched, visibly embarrassed, and because she packed a solid punch. “Whoops. I’m sorry.” He pecked her on the cheek. “I forget since you’re so beautiful that you’re going into a new phase. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Better not.” She said, “What are you gonna do before we get the school assembly this afternoon? Wanna go back to the room for a bit?” She winked and prodded him with her elbow.

“Nah. Gonna hit the library for a while.” He really meant that he was going to be avoiding his new wife for a while but didn’t want to offend her. He thinks she was on fire all the time because maybe she had started a new round of Testosterone or something. He should probably look into that.

“Wait,” she paused, “You’re serious? You’re not rushing are you?” She looked a little shocked. Rushing was typically a thing that Freshmen did to get into a Sorority or Fraternity.

“Chet no. I’m as old as their dads are. Plus, I’m ‘The Rapist,’ remember?” He said.

“Ther-a-pist,” she said slowly. It’s not even a joke Oldie.” She leaned on him, her head on his arm. “You’re my husband and I expect you to stay with me.” She blinked her eyes like a bat, overly fluttering them.

“Oh, Lovie. Please don’t you call me that too. I just couldn’t staaaahnd it,” he used his best Thurston Howell the Third voice.

“Who’s that supposed to be?” She asked, then added. “No, I don’t even want to know. Monty Python or something, I don’t even care.”

Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her pocket. “Oh, I gotta go. See you ‘round Oldie.”

“Drek!” He called after her.

“Got it! Doctor Ech!” She said, on her way out, waving at him.

They were the last people in the room, as everyone else had gone their ways. He wondered if his patent lawyer had worked on his project today. He checked crypto for a bit, then went to his room and sat around doing nothing. He was lost in thought about this whole Fruit Loops thing. There was something to it, so he opened up his laptop. Opening up Zelda browser and hopping on Duck Duck Goose, Orkut had lost his business years ago, after the case. They favored their algorithm against him, much to his dismay.

‘Fruit Loops Froot Loops’ he typed and up it came. The Mendelssohn Effect. Virtually every person in the Western world has heard of the composer who wrote ‘The Wedding March.’ However, in 1999 a popular article remembered him as being dead at age 38… Just three years before he wrote String Quartet No. 8 in D Minor. Astonishing. There was page after page of results. Hundreds, even thousands of h-slashes, 24chan subs, fedbook groups, and Utoob videos… Maybe the hundreds of thousands. Lord Iesus, protect me, he thought.

Deep down and further into the rabbit hole he fell, looking at this and at that. Did the Berenstein Bears really used to be spelled ‘Berenstain?’ And if so, how unreal is that? Stein is a common enough name, but everyone remembers it with an ‘a.’ And what about the movie Alakazaam with Dennis Rodman? People literally think it was with Scottie Pippen! Of all the absurd things! And ‘Yellow Monkey’ was named ‘Solomon!’ People think it was ‘George.’ And of course, he‘s always had a tail! He closed his laptop lid with disgust. People were nuts. He opened up his laptop again and made a list from all the sites that had lists. He got all of them that were copies of others.

Bilbo Swaggins. Mona Lisa’s necklace. Statue of Libertas? Seriously? Jiff? What the hell was Jiff? He stood up, walked down the hall and into the kitchen, threw open the door, and there in front of his face was a can of Jiffy. Right there. “J-i-f-f-y.” People were idiots. He popped his phone out of his pocket, took an Usey with it, and posted it on Flickrgram.

That’s all the proof I need.

“The Mendelssohn Effect is trash.” The caption read. “It’s always been Jiffy.”

It was only 10:30 in the morning, and he had proved everyone wrong.

Suhar-Bargodi stood facing the portal that viewed Drek and the room he stood in. He looked at the chronograph on the wall and it chimed a faint blue. Stepping through the portal, he appeared in the room he had been viewing only moments before.

The Word-Command had written on the wall the man’s dictum that he should not remain in this instantiation until such a time as he was past the point that he would press the point of non-determinism. The fundamental quantum force of determinism did not bear upon the user, albeit The recalibration of archetypes insistent upon the paradox bore solely on their fatalism. It was a little over Suhar’s head, so he obeyed The Word-Command without hesitation.

The human called Andrenik Alexis Fisher stood before him. Dropping a brightly packaged vase of pureed plant seed, The human’s face went white as a feather.

“Fear not! For God is with you!” Suhar said as the pureed plant seed hit the floor with a thump. “You are highly favored by God! I now bring you His message!” Suhar said.

From Drek’s perspective, the appearance of a large green and purple sphere and the emergence of an overly tall man with a top hat, black sideburns, and monocle almost made him want to chet his pants. The very strange and tall man had a large bound volume in his hand and a magician’s wand in the other. Then he spoke and the words made no sense. He shrank back and fell to the ground, and put his hand to his eyes.

“Do not fear!” Suhar again admonished. “Worship me not, son of Adam! For I am only the servant of The Word-Command!”

Drek didn’t – couldn’t speak. All he was trying to do was prove the Mendelssohn Effect to be a farce and then suddenly this glowing dude is in the kitchen yelling at him.

“What the chet do you want? Why are you yelling at me?” Drek finally asked.

“Please rise, son of Adam, I have a proclamation for you!” The tall man said.

“Why! Are! You! Yelling?!” Drek pleaded, as he finally got up off the floor.

“Oh!” Suhar exclaimed. He lowered his voice. “Is this better?”

“Yes! But who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you glowing?” Drek asked.

Suhar looked down at himself. He was shining brightly with the glory of God and The Word-Command. He internalized it, dimming himself down to his surroundings. “Is this better?” He asked.

Drek put his hand down and finally said: “Yes.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then the overly tall angel looked around. “It looks very different from the other side. It’s the same, but a little different.”

“The other… Huh?” Drek was confused. “Who are you?”

“I am Suhar-Bargodi, guardian, third class. Sent to rescue you from this reality.”

“Whaaaat? What reality? This is the world. What do you mean by ‘this reality’?”

Suhar was very understanding. “You and all others like you who witness the truth are taken away into the real world.”

Drek’s eyes narrowed. “Dude, are you full of chet? I mean… If I hadn’t just seen you appear out of a green and purple ball then… Wait… Maybe I’m high.” Then he thought to himself. “She dosed the milk?”

Suhar didn’t understand. “What is ‘dose’?”

Drek laughed. “I must be high! That’s the only explanation!” He threw his hands in the air. “She dosed the milk!”

Suhar probed the world around him in an attempt to understand. Not understanding, he opened the book to a random page where his fingers guided him and the answer was there. Then he understood.

“Oh! No, you are not under the spell of any enchantment! Your eyes are reacting to your mind of what is reality. These are the things around you and they are real. There is no cloud over you. I am real, as are you, as is your movement to the plane of the true reality away from this false one.”

Drek tried to understand what he was experiencing. He pulled out a chair and sat down, offering his visitor the other chair.

Suhar looked at it and understood. He placed the book on the desk and tucked his wand into his pocket. Then he pulled out a chair to around five feet away, sat in it, then the chair moved up to the table on its own.

Drek’s eyes widened and said, “Please don’t do that again.”

Suhar smiled and put up his hand. “I understand.”

Drek put his palms down on the table. He then extended his arms out, making pointing fingers. Then he touched one index finger to his nose while the other hand was fully extended. Then he slowly switched, back and forth.

Suhar watched this, then asked, “What are you doing?”

“Making sure I’m not drunk,” Drek said.

“I have told you…” Suhar began.

“I know what you told me,” Drek said, impatiently.

Drek put his hands down on the table, looked at the large book, the box of fruit loops, and then at the angel. His top hat, waxed mustache, and eye-piece were right out of a bad movie.

“You’re an angel?” Drek asked.

“Yes, and I’m ready to go whenever you are,” Suhar said.

Drek closed his eyes. Slowly opening them he ignored Suhar’s last remark. “And you’re here to take me somewhere?”

“Yes!” Suhar smiled and almost stood.

“Except!” Drek put up a hand.

Suhar stayed still. “Except what?”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Drek asked.

“Whatever do you mean? Not going? Why not?” Suhar was astonished.

“What if I don’t like it there? What if I like it here?” Drek asked.

“What if you like it here?” Suhar asked. “Living with children? Enduring a punishment for helping those who lied about you?” He looked serious. “Why would you like such a place?”

Drek thought about it. Since the arrest, his parents had basically disowned him. He had no wife or children, and his two sisters didn’t talk to him anymore. He had no one except his new wife… A little girl with gender dysphoria and daddy issues.

I guess this is it, he thought and sighed deeply.

“I suppose I’m ready to go. Not really any point anymore anyway. I surrender. Ya got me.” He smiled, though it was mostly a grimace, and stood up.

“Splendid!” Suhar shot up happily, the chair sliding back and slamming into the wall. He put his hand up and the overly large tome flew into his overly large hand. The wand flew out of its case and into his other hand. With a flourish, he waved it and a bright green and purple blob appeared in mid-air. It grew until it touched the ceiling and floor and swallowed them whole.

When the air cleared, Drew stood very still with his eyes closed. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t know what would happen. He had no idea where they had been teleported to… Or if he was still alive.

“Is this Hell?” Drew asked. He had tried to say: ‘Hades’ but it had come out as another word.

Suhariel laughed. It was a different voice than the one he had just heard. “No man. We are at our destination. This is not Hell.”

Drew opened his eyes. It was the same kitchen. He wasn’t in ‘hell’ (whatever that was) – but things were strange… It was the same, but different. He opened his eyes. In front of him was a very tall dark-haired man with a white gown and angel wings. Who was this?

“Who are you?” He asked.

“I am the same being who you’ve been with this whole time,” Suhariel said. “Though you are now in the real world. The other world will fade from you as you become re-accustomed to the reality that this is. Not the splintered reality you remember.”

Drew looked down at his clothes. He wasn’t wearing jeans and a T-shirt anymore. He had on a long-sleeved button-up and wore a pale green tie.

“What is my name?” Drew asked.

“Andrew Alexander Fisher,” Suhariel said.

“And what is your name?” Drew asked.

“Suhariel.” Suhariel said.

Just then, several students walked in, laughing to themselves. One of them was Val. She looked… Well, she looked like a ‘she’. She had braided long hair and she wore light makeup.

“Hi, Professor!” They all said as they walked by. Val didn’t acknowledge him particularly. They walked on, oblivious to the angel.

“They can’t see you can they?” Drew asked.

Suhariel smiled.

Drew looked at his hand where he had worn a dollar store ring Val bought him.

“I’m not married?” He asked.

Suhar smiled.

“And this is the real reality?”

Suhariel smiled again.

“And what exactly is the real reality?” Drew asked.

Suhariel smiled even wider and walked over to the table.

Walking back, he handed Drew the box of Froot Loops.

About Pauly

Pauly Hart is a public speaker, actor, painter, singer, poet, and story-teller. His main focus today is writing. His latest works have involved novellas in the vein of “Classical Horror” from the Christ-centered world-view. The Horror story is the story where the character has to survive until the end. What better chance for survival than in Christ? Pauly writes not for the churchy types, but for those who would pick up a Stephen King book, giving them an alternative to the spirits. Pauly writes so that the Holy Spirit will have room made for him in modern day literature. He runs several websites all bent on leaving the mind of the atheist awash with the glory of heaven. You can find him at

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