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THE OTHERA NOVEL BY ANDREAS INGOVersion 2 modified 2020-11-11.1A CROSSROAD OF LONELY SOULSThe year was 2018 and the place was Chicago but the working conditions was about the same anywhere. Some of them (this was a middle-age woman) walked over the digging site with a deep frown upon her forehead. She encountered others. Heard the sound of the digging machines. Saw her boss standing smoking a cigarette in between working sessions. She was not content but put up an empty smile. A smile coming up due to past experience on similar digging sites. This day was not different from many other days of the same kind. A man was driving his new Mercedes upon the street close to the digging site. He passed by, put in a lower gear to watch the digging site pass by as he swore due to misplaced traffic signs. In a hollow movement the whole construction site scrolled by in a slow movement. An angle from a remote camera from the driver’s point of view. Like a boring video game. A 3D effect of parallax scrolling as the neighbourhood around the construction site passed by in layers. The remote buildings moving slower than the close-up ones. The man in the Mercedes slowly passed by. He checked his new mobile phone for certain messages. But the scrolling buildings, in different layers, made him yawn and he came to see that his mobile phone was empty of messages. The man looked into the front panels to adjust heat and turned up the fan due to rising temperature. A man suddenly ran out from a tractor on the digging site, screamed and walked up to a car, started the engine and drove away. He passed the traffic jams and stopped occasionally. Drove his cheap Volvo towards a red light crossing but punched the foot pedal too hard to escape the time loss of waiting for green light. He ran his cheap Volvo into the new Mercedes and was pulled into his airbag and lost consciousness. 2A MAN ON THE AFRICAN PLANESThe man, called Winston O’Connor, had a huge map resting some distance away. Put down with heavy pressure by some rocks the man had found nearby. The man was digging. And he was digging for peculiar stones hinted at in discussions on nearby cafes. Cafes in an ordinary small town setting in the north of Africa. The man was exhausted. Tears came rolling down from his mad eyes. Tears rolling down due to the sudden change of temperature. The sun was coming down and the man was almost freezing. A radio made noises lying on the ground close to the map nearby. The map was making sudden movements caused by the wind. Dust from the desert was whirling around. Almost making dusty forms resembling dead people. Starved people from the depths of Africa. The man was digging for black stones. A kind of rare stones common in this place in north Africa. Expensive to buy for British collectors. Collected from all parts of the world. Winston O’Connor made a last dig and found a couple more stones of this rare quality. His portable light (mounted upon his head) made this discovery send shills of fulfillment upon his heart. He had found his treasure and soon he would return to his hotel room bed. The car went down dusty roads on the African plains. Roads connecting to a small town where his hotel room awaited to the man’s amusement. But the road was bumpy. The car (a jeep to be exact) was capable of taking the bumpy ups and downs with some safe power. But still it was a kind of hell to drive the Jeep in this wild terrain. The man longed for his hotel room bed and a cold shower. As the man passed the dusty road (Gravel, not Tarmac) he started to meet youngsters on similar cars shouting to him in domestic language. Threatening, dangerous, going on drugs too. Some of them had knifes and guns. The man drove on, reluctant to watch the youngsters. The dead people. The armada of badly painted cars, having rusty spots on them. Rusty for the most of it. It was a pain. Inside the hotel Winston was met by a receptionist that exchanged some lines with the man and gave him a cold beer for free. An odd detail in this hotel environment. Not something Winston had guessed at. Winston went up a couple of staircases to approach the hotel room suite to find that all of his bags were gone. Suddenly gone, taken by someone. The hotel room staff or some other. The man was almost frozen as the realization dawned upon him: That his bags had to be left out in the African desert! He had forgotten about them. He went down the two staircases and left the hotel room without much more sound. The key to the hotel room was found inside his pocket. But he checked and rechecked his pocket to be sure. Sweat was coming down Winston’s bearded cheeks. He had forgotten about his precious bags with all his clothes. His portable computer and the rest. He went out into the car and to his amusement the bags were found inside the car, not out on the African plains! The night was spent watching television in his hotel room suite. He switched the canals like a maniac. Exhausted from his departure into the African wilderness. And he thought about the violent youngsters upon the bumpy road. Envisioning what would happen if he had returned to where he came from. He was out on a journalist mission. To cover events in the north of Egypt where this was. It was the apparent breakout of a civil war. The people had armed themselves. Some unknown power (who knew what that power was?) had changed the civil climate of the territorial people. And Winston was put there to cover these events. He saw himself like some kind of amateur detective. Nourished on dreams by reading authors like Edgar Allan Poe. A product of his time. A time where the matrix of the internet had made it possible to digest classical works of literature by no effort involved. It was a blessing. Winston sank down in his rolling chair and listened to the threatening voices from the youngsters outside. Thirsting for war? Thirsting for a new change of events? Nobody could be entirely sure. As Winston sat there some peculiar thoughts intruded upon his consciousness. Thoughts that had led many to a new kind of internet revolution. These thoughts were thoughts about a large conspiracy. A conspiracy of large capital leaders working for their own purposes. And he nicely mixed this idea with the concept of the possible civil war. It was a vibrant energy of hate and violence in the air. But something also forgotten. About the chills and shudders of his young virgin brain, a decade ago when he read good works by Edgar Allan Poe. Was it possible to live without these notions of a coming apocalypse? What was reality? Could it be changed? Winston thought about it. 3THE DEEP SECRETS OF THE MULTI-VERSEThe time accelerates by steady amounts. Stars are born, others die. Some explode with the power of super-nova’s. The creation of new matter. Release of energy. A majestic dance of remote explosions and heavenly light. In between the furious enrapture of the heavens we see a small dust cloud. A dust cloud not possible to see for those lacking astronomy skills or knowledge concerning cosmological evolution on a grand scale. This particular dust cloud will eventually be the basis for the creation of our main star, the sun. But it is dwelling in pre-memorial darkness. A hint of good or bad things to come. Some philosophers in the time of the pre-Socratics watched upon the eerie skies and they observed the same solar system from another angle. The angle was inverted and someone called Democritus asserted that the solar system and everything within it were made of atoms. A theory of order contradicting findings by modern quantum physics. But I digress... The fact was that the milky way was once vibrant and shining. Dark events made people scared on the earth billions of years later. How did the world come to this? Why did it all happen? This is the topic of Winston’s coming investigations. Download the full novel as a PDF-File here. |
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