Author: wordsandstuff

Scout and Jem are relived from school as the summer arrives, and are reaquianted with their friend Dill who returns to Alabama. The three grow ever more curious about the Radley’s, and when Scout accidentally finds her way into the front yard of the dwelling she hears omnious laughing from within the house. Jem, in an attempt to seem brave invites his accomplices to role play the rumours their have heard about the Radley’s, however Atticus catches wind of this and warns them against this. Dill and Jem remain outwardly unphased, while Scout is very peturbed by the recent events;

” I was fairly sure Boo Radley was inside that house, but I couldn’t 

prove it, and felt it best to keep my mouth shut or I would be accused 

of believing in Hot Steams, phenomena I was immune to in the daytime.”

In chapter 2 Scout finds herself in unfamiliar territory on her first day at school. Her teacher, Miss Caroline Fisher is immediately disaprovent of Scout, as her literacy is said to conflict with Miss Fisher’s new teaching style of the Dewey Decimal system. At  lunch time, Miss Caroline tries to lend money to a student named Walter Cunningham, but the boy declines as he is unable to pay him back. This is explained by Scout to the teacher, causing her a deal of embarrassment. We also learn that Miss Caroline is not well respected by her fellow colleagues as other teachers interact with her in a irreverent manner.

In chapter 1 of To Kill a Mockingbird the story begins from the perspective of a young girl named Jean Louise Finch, known as Scout, who lives in a rural town in Alabama, 1930’s. She lives with her older brother, Jem, her father, Atticus and their cook, Calpernia. We later are introduced to their neighbor, a small boy the same age as Jem named Charles, but is known by the name Dill. Their bounds in which they are allowed to play are subtended by a house in which the Radley’s dwell, a family who are regarded are pariahs of the town and little is known about their professions or lifestyles. We are told Mr Radley has one son, little is know about the boy apart from that he was associated with a local gang of teenagers like him who were caught vandalizing public property and has not been seen since. Dill is intensely curious about the Radley’s and dares Jem to try to get Mr Radley to come outside of his house, Jem is reluctant and they settle for him touching the Radley’s front door. No response is seen apart from a shutter in the window open and close.

 

 

The sun flees behind the horizon, and I have an hour at best. Each time I come here, I am able to remember all of it, the entire tribulation splays itself out onto my mind from every life I’ve ever lived in every instance, and its overwhelming. But I am starting to notice patterns, rules, things that make sense, and its reassuring. I feel like I am closer to an answer than I was before and I am taking refuge in this. I suppose this log, or journal or whatever you may call it is another way for me to keep myself sane. Piecing together these events will let me look for subtle differences, minute clues that will allow me to shake free this wretched curse.

 

I know few things, but what I do know is there is always a throne, and through usurpation or inheritance I am placed on it. And there is always an insurgent, who overthrows the crown and takes control.

And through abstruse means both die at the hands of the other. In their dying moments they are both granted a second chance, the king offered a simple peasant life, and the rebel offered birth into a noble bloodline. In desperation they accept, after all, no one wants to die.

 

And thats how I have ended up traversing this fathomless desert land, the medium between my past life and the next. Only to swap positions and become the insurgent who murders the king, and then to switch once again, ad infinitum.

 

Only, I plan to make things go differently this time.

 

Ouroboro, thats the name unless my memory fails me. The name of the man who first presented me with the ultimatum. I am perhaps hasty in referring to him as a man. Or as anything as tangible as a man at all. What is known is he appeared, just before I was destined to leave this world, and “granted me a second chance”  as it was put to me. I suppose in a way it was as such, but I was a fool in believing my fate was not set in stone inexorably. This endless desert stands as an in-between, an intersect between my last life and my next. Although both will cause me to end up traversing these sands once again. But as I say, I intend to change my fate.

 

I cannot say how exactly I am planning on escaping from this cyclic reincarnation, or at least I cannot put it into words. I am certain that these sands are where Ouroboro presides, and even more certain that he is watching me write this entire thing.

 

Perhaps.

 

Wait, did I just write that?

 

Technically, yes. But I am the one who made you write it.

 

What is going on? I have no recollection of writing that. This is bizarre…

 

It seems you are a little slow on the uptake. I was under the impression you were somewhat astute, especially as you have figured so much about me.

 

This is absurd. I am not going to dignify having a conversation with myself on a notepad.

 

Suit yourself.

 

Wait. So you are Ouroboro?

 

Nothing gets past you, mortal.

 

What are you?

 

I don’t think that is important now.

 

Why is that?

 

You will forget everything you have learnt when I reincarnate you.

 

All the more reason for you to unreservedly answer all my questions.

 

I think you are grossly overestimating how much power you have over the situation.

 

If you haven’t come to answer my questions, why engage in this séance in the first place?

 

Why not?

 

So you’re just here to mess with my head.

 

Again; perhaps.

 

So an omniscient immortal being has nothing better to do than to screw with the mind of a man alone in a desert?

 

Who said I was omniscient?

 

Educated guess.

Are you?

 

No. But I am a darn lot smarter than you.

 

Oh, I get it now.

 

What?

 

You want to know what my plan is.

 

I don’t care what your plan is, it’s not going to matter in about 20 minutes anyway.

 

I bet it’s killing you.

 

That would imply I can be killed.

 

I should probably note how surreal this is.

 

What? That I am possessing your subconscious in order to communicate with you? Or that you’ve used over half the ink of that quill pen.

 

Both.

 

Eh. This situation is rather mundane for me.

 

Do something then.

 

What?

 

You’re some kind of deity, correct? Then do something godly. Put on a show.

How unimpressive.

 

I don’t need your validation to prove I am godly.

Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not going to work.

 

So lame.

 

I do not have to prove anything to you. Enjoy your next life you antagonistic wretch.

 

Hmph. Spoilsport.

 

I think he is gone. Well as gone as an omnipresent being can be. At least now I can try to concentrate. If I felt thirst in this demi-deceased state , I might have been able to blame my lack of focus on dehydration, but I am only barely keeping my cool about getting on the wrong side of a malicious deity. A feat I consider quite admirable, especially as keeping one’s cool is a desert is difficult enough as it is. Either way, in-between lives I’ve spent a great deal of time negotiating these flaxen dunes, I have yet to meet the one other man who shares the same fate as me.

 

But now it seems I am closer; after traversing this desert for hours, I’ve finally found footprints that aren’t mine.