Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Read online

1. pselling rewls (early 2010)

  One of the first things that Ernie the electronic earwig (our rancid ringleader) considered doing after creating psecret psociety – the meta-real storybook playground featured on Facebook – in 2010 (after Café 23 metaphorically burned to the unsound ground) was creating our own written language. Crazy idea, I know.

  Well, we were still going to type in English; we were just going to alter the spelling of certain words. We knew that some would say it was just a goony gimmick. We anticipated this and sharpened our salient hooks.

  First up, the only suggestion that got unanimous approval: lead off all words that begin with an s with a silent p. For example, science would be spelled pscience and the word spelling would become hyper-correct as pspelling. Psychology would not become ppsychology, though. We figured a double silent p would be a bit much, even for our motley mental lot.

  I will now enumerate some spelling proposals – in chronological order, just like they had calendar eyes – that failed to get etched in stone. Some got a majority of support, only to be quashed by a lone veto (which any agent could secretly and anonymously submit). In such case, agents were still welcome to use these unapproved and non-promulgated spelling patterns in the name of merry linguistic mayhem. (Agent 14 has proved to be a first-order master at this.)

  Well, the proposal that I, Agent 33, promptly submitted to the ear room, as we fondly call Ernie’s micro-office, was to spell words ending with or containing ool and ule as ewl. For example, let’s use this capricious sentence: Charlene, one cool magical lady with a new smartphone from the changing city, saw the foolish schoolboy eat a crimson toadstool.

  When we combine the official silent p rule with the non-official ewl rule we arrive at: Charlene, one cewl magical lady with a new psmartphone from the changing city, psaw the fewlish pschewlboy eat a crimson toadstewl.

  Next, there was a radical suggestion to do away with the letter c altogether. Startling, I know. A hard c would be spelled with a k; a soft c, with an s. The hard ch digraph (as in march) would be spelled with a strikethrough of a leading brace: {. Über-zany, for sure.

  Additionally, the soft ch digraph (as in chandelier) would become sh. The ck digraph (as in kick) would be spelled kk. The cl and cr digraphs would become kl and kr, respectively. And, finally, the trigraphs sch and chl would become sk and kl, respectively and respectfully.

  When Charlie got wind of this extreme notion, he blew up our cell phones.

  Hey agents, please kill this worthless nonsense. I don’t want to become {arlie or {ukk. It’s a krap proposal. Dit{ it.

  I read it twice. All I could think was: Strange how he went on to use the { in his rant. And, wow, his phone can do strikethroughs of text. Charlie must be one of Ernie’s pet agents, always getting the best gadgets first.

  When we carefully conjoin the official silent p rule with our two non-official spelling rules, our test-case sentence becomes: Psharlene, one kewl magikal lady with a new psmartphone from the {anging psity, psaw the fewlish pskewlboy eat a krimson toadstewl.

  Another idea floated by one of our outstanding overseas agents was the reversal of f and ph. Thus, the new fase is phantastic. Phiscal and fysical health are of phoremost importance. Pheeble Foebe pheels phaint phrom flebitis.

  And, when we add this f/ph swap to our increasingly strange sentence, we get: Psharlene, one kewl magikal lady with a new psmartfone phrom the {anging psity, psaw the phewlish pskewlboy eat a krimson toadstewl.

  Are we done yet? No whey! (Sorry, this is the cliché of a pun that keeps giving.) Plenty more milk of human kindness as well as from a cow’s sorrow. Ok, setting aside the old rites for the newly installed rongs, [sic] yet another idea was offered by a female agent in Yorkshire – one who said that she always hated seeing words end in y, ever since elementary school.

  She offered to all of us fine and refined agents an earnest invitation to change all words ending in the sometimes-vowel y to an ie ending; that is, well, the same sound. Hence, we see: Yesterdaie, lovelie ladie Marie laie quietlie.

  And now, if you combine this latest proposed spelling rule with the previous ones, our quickly-fading-away-from-legible-English sentence becomes: Psharlene, one kewl magikal ladie with a new psmartfone phrom the {anging psitie, psaw the phewlish pskewlboy eat a krimson toadstewl.

  But wait, there’s more! (Read it in the tone of a late-night TV commercial barker.) Another clever female agent in Kansas wanted each and every lone indefinite article a to be spelled eigh. She stated that if this four-letter combination was good enough for a long a sound in eight, then it was definitely good enough for all indefinite a’s in our typography.

  And thus, our fabulously forlorn (Have I used that phrase somewhere? Must check valve later.) sentence is now: Psharlene, one kewl magikal ladie with eigh new psmartfone phrom the {anging psitie, psaw the phewlish pskewlboy eat eigh krimson toadstewl.

  Fred then wanted a w placed in front of one and once for phonetic reasons. Done. Psharlene, wone kewl magikal ladie with eigh new psmartfone phrom the {anging psitie, psaw the phewlish pskewlboy eat eigh krimson toadstewl.

  Penultimately [sic] (mercifully, we’re almost done), a senior male agent demanded that j replace the letter g when the true sound was that of the letter j. He was tired of j being ripped off by g. It was trajic (or better, trajik) how long this error had gone on.

  With this addition, our demonstrably demented sentence is now: Psharlene, wone kewl majikal ladie with eigh new psmartfone phrom the {anging psitie, psaw the phewlish pskewlboy eat eigh krimson toadstewl.

  Last, but by no means in the least, a younger female agent in Vietnam suggested that the word new be replaced with the animalistic homophone gnu. I asked her what led her to this particular word-switch idea and she texted back:

  It has a silent g and all the cool kids text nu for new on their cell phones.

  I’m a bit of an old, stuck-in-my-ruts, plodding goat now, and I can only guess what’s hip these days in youth culture. Thus, I didn’t veto her motion; I forwarded it to Ernie and the other agents. However, one of them torpedoed it. Not sure who it was. Maybe it was the extra-odd one who was roller-skating on thin ice.

  Well, anyway, combining the one official cardinal spelling rule (The silent p in front of words beginning with the letter s. Remember that one? If you forget that one, I don’t even know if a special variance could get you past the wrought iron E gates.) with the eight unofficial ones, our highly hypothetical sentence has finally become: Psharlene, wone kewl majikal ladie with eigh gnu psmartfone phrom the {anging psitie, psaw the phewlish pskewlboy eat eigh krimson toadstewl.

  If you now have a headache, my sincerest apologies. If you just got dizzy and upchucked your lunch, send Ernie the bill. He’s good for it. Maybe. Check’s in the mail.

  And, what did our electronic earwig ringleader think? Well, sans sugarcoating, Ernie was furious with this combination of proposed rules, as he claimed to have spent thousands of dollars on merchandise with the psecret psociety logo on it. He mass-texted all of us, stating:

  If we {ange to psekret psocietie, we lose all kredibilitie!

  The things that struck me about his text was that he spelled credibility with a k and ie, and that he had a strikethrough function on his text, too. Maybe Ernie had some Teutonic blood circulating through his barely functioning antennae.

  Personally, I liked all of the submitted spelling suggestions. Hey, the more the merrier. The further out of bounds, the better. Just don’t have conflicting rules. Strikethrough that. Conflicting rules can fly, too. High.

  Now, pass me that flask of whiskey. Or, is it whisky today?

  Some bitter detractor said that we just want to look like some esoteric group (even though we’re not – just in a knot) like the Illuminati, Free Masons, Ordo Templis Orientis, or something equally arcane.

  Illuminati? We’ve already got cases of LED lamps for our dank dungeon. We’re all good to go. Knowhere [sic] of/on course.
r />   Ok, who stole my granules? That darn earwig gets into everything. If it isn’t sealed tight, he’s ravaging the contents. I’m truly amazed that his microchip hasn’t shorted out yet. Modern wonders.

  Now it’s assignment time. Should you be really bored, or very curious, using the spelling rules discussed, convert the last paragraph (which is from a short story by yours truly) to psecret psociety spelling and post on the Facebook page.

  And, before leaving, feel free to join in the meta-madness. We need people like you. To do … something. What? We’ll figure that out later. Well, you could propose another spelling rule. Oops, here comes the boss. Luck be good!

  > Exercise 091515 [excerpted from Airported To Knowhere] I retreated back towards the airport’s main concourse in a state of shock. I rounded the corner and I was back in the 21st century once again. It was the same September day in 2010, just two and a half minutes later. What the hell was that back there? Is a portion of that corner a wormhole? Or, have I lost my mind? Did someone put something in my coffee at Starbucks this morning? Or, did I? No, I’m out of those ‘granules de grandeur’ now. Maybe a flashback? If so, I hope there are no more. Well, not for a while. I don’t want to flip out on that long trans-Pacific flight.

  2. Legend Has It That (March 2010)

  Does the Edwards Branch have a secret stash?

  The Edwards Branch, a tributary of Briar Creek in east Charlotte, flows through a tunnel that is comprised of twin rectangular concrete culverts, which run underneath the Independence Expressway (US 74). This watery passageway is about a quarter of a mile in length. That’s 1,320 feet, if my division holds true. This tunnel loses sunlight once sixty feet inside. So, let’s see, that would be 1,200 feet of sloshing around in the dark.

  Typically, the creek water is less than five inches deep. The main channel sinews through a series of alternating sand bars. In some mucky parts, it is almost like quicksand. Your boot goes in, you try to pull it out, and the deeper it goes in.

  Oh, you cannot see through the tunnel from one portal to the other. It’s not a straight line. In fact, when one peers into this fluvial passageway, there is no light at the other end, only an eerie darkness. Needless to say, no one should enter without a pair of waterproof flashlights and waterproof boots. Well, actually, no one should enter, period, as it would technically be trespassing. So, please don’t attempt this! (The preceding was a mandatory statement from our perpetually worried legal department.)

  Now for the legendary part of this tale (after all, it is in the title). Well, legend has it that back in 1976, a white guy with brown hair and a cinnamon-tinged handle-bar mustache stole some jewelry from the K-Mart on what was then East Independence Blvd. (As of March 13, 2010, the building that K-Mart occupied was still in existence, but boarded up, awaiting possible demolition.)

  The quick-footed, slender robber ran out of the store, heading west towards the old Capri Theatre. He had about a 70-yard lead on the rotund, white, middle-age, just-ate-a-tray-of-yesterday-lasagna security officer. He was increasing his lead by a foot with every yard strided. And, at that rate, we could have a math problem here. But, relax; we don’t.

  But, but, but, before he got to the movie house, he disappeared from view of the store cop. Now, where in this odd lot did he go?

  Well, at the western edge of the parking lot is a creek. Apparently, the thief ran down into the creek. Since the creek bed was about eight feet lower than the parking lot, the thief appeared to disappear from the security officer’s perspective.

  The thief then ran downstream in the creek until he saw the outflow portal of the Edwards Branch creek tunnel. This is where he entered the tunnel. He must have thought that he had it made at this point.

  Mr. Robber then flipped on the flashlight that he had in his pocket and splashed his way through the tunnel. He had the flashlight in one hand and the bag of heisted jewelry in the other. He was sure that he had pulled off a grand and very clever escape.

  However, at about the halfway mark into the tunnel, he heard sirens on both ends. Suddenly, his sense of elation sank to the dire realization that he may very well be caught at the tunnel’s end. His spirit went from imminent victory to certain defeat.

  Nevertheless, the thief stopped for a few seconds to consider his options. But, then he heard dogs. German shepherds were already on his trail. He knew that he would be nabbed at one end or the other. What to do, he quickly wondered.

  He decided to hide most – but not all – of the jewelry inside the tunnel. His flashlight spied a nook in a connecting pipe. He stashed the gold rings and necklaces on a concrete ledge inside this pipe. Then he trudged slowly in a deflated manner towards the inflow portal, where he knew arrest was unavoidable.

  However, at about 200 feet from the eastern portal, he noticed some daylight above. It was a vertical shaft to a storm drain. He abandoned his resignation to capture and scurried up the shaft, which conveniently had footholds mounted into the concrete.

  Once near the top, he managed to dislodge the heavy iron storm drain grate, and slide it aside. Then he hopped out, looked around, and walked down the sidewalk towards the Eastway Drive overpass.

  He now felt again like he was going to get away. His mind was soaring. Euphoria was cradling his cranium. The sidewalk cracks were like hash marks on an American football field, and with each one that he passed over, he felt closer to the goal line. Touchdown – or paydown [sic] – was in sight. In his head, he could hear his girlfriend yelling, cheering him on. He was going to get away after all.

  What our jewelry thief didn’t know was that a Charlotte cop had seen him as he emerged from the storm drain. The police officer slowly followed him in his blue-and-white Crown Victoria cruiser for ten seconds. Then he flipped on the siren and the lights.

  The brazen bandit, suddenly startled, dashed to the left without looking. He was killed instantly by a speeding dump truck with bad brakes.

  3. Galax_ Galaxy (October 2012)

  As we exited the Family Dollar store on West Jefferson Street, Agent 32 spotted him. He was there – shirtless – in front of a half-open, old-white-paint-flaking-off, second-floor window. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) watched him, gyrating and waving his hands, while on his cell phone. He was a bronzed white lad, probably in his mid-20s.

  “He looks like the local hipster,” Monique said.

  “Yeah, he sure does,” I replied. “Maybe he will be the next Jack Kerouac, and we can say that we saw him here when he was just a …”

  “When he was just a young clown in a window,” Monique said as she began to laugh.

  “Well, who knows, 32? Let’s not prematurely discharge him.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, 33. Who knows? Let’s not sell him short.”

  “I love how you call me 33 when my digital audio recorder is on.” I knew it.

  “Your digital audio recorder is always on,” Agent 32 retorted.

  We continued walking down the street, heading north towards Washington Street. It was a perfect fall Saturday evening, when one thinks back to previous October evenings. I wonder if there will be any magic tonight in this charming little mountain town. What psychic goodies await? Anything? Any compounding waves?

  Off in the distance, around a corner, the faint screams and cheers from a Little League baseball game on Calhoun Street could be heard through the autumn air as the sun began to set. My mind sailed away with the rising zephyr. I wonder if he saw the excerpted copy of ‘Gold, a summer story’ [a novel by yours truly] that I slid under his apartment door earlier in the day, when Agent 32 was asleep. Was that what got him so agitated on the phone? Or, was he just mad at his girlfriend for running late and missing the big weed connection? I bet he’s dating the minister’s daughter. The bad boy of the town. Yeah, meet Billy Bad-azz.

  “What are you thinking about, Agent 33?”

  “Oh, nothing much, Monique.”

  “Some things never change.” Monique guffawed.

 
I joined in on the laughter. “It sure is a perfect fall night. I sure could go for some Asian food.”

  “Yey! Me, too!” Monique exclaimed. As a Filipina, she loved her rice-based dishes.

  “Hey, I know where a Chinese restaurant is. Yeah, I saw it on the way in to town.”

  “Ok, lead the way, Parkaar.” [my ailing alias]

  “Nicely pronounced, 32. Just call me that in the restaurant. You know, just in case.”

  “Why, of course, 33. I’ve memorized Ernie’s game plan.”

  “Oh?” I asked with a raised right eyebrow.

  Monique smiled. “Epicably,” [sic] she then said.

  “Epicably? Is that a real word, 32?”

  “A sure-real word.”

  We turned right onto West Center Street, went one block, and turned right on North Main Street. Soon we were under a sign that read: ||Canton||

  We entered the antechamber, and waited to be seated. I cleared my throat, and a middle-aged Asian lady appeared in black-and-white attire. She said that we could sit anywhere.

  We went to a booth near the salad bar and sat down opposite each other. A few minutes later, she returned to take our order. I told her that we would both like the dinner buffet. She motioned to the stack of plates and went back to the kitchen.

  Agent 32 then jumped up and began to load her plate with steamed white rice and brown noodles. She was hungry, craving carbs; we hadn’t eaten since Charlotte. She was going to get her money’s worth.

  After five minutes of nearly nonstop chowing down, I began the conversation as a fly alighted on the high ceiling.

  “How long do you think this place has been here?”

  “No idea, Parkaar, but the food is good. Yum-yum.”

  An older Chinese man, perhaps the owner, overheard us, and told me that the restaurant was twenty years old. I thanked him for the info. Then the fly flew away with the knowledge gained.

  Right after that, a Chinese-appearing high-school girl walked in with her Caucasian friends. Apparently, she was the owners’ daughter. They made some small talk. Then the girl whispered something to her dad while shielding her mouth with her hand so that we couldn’t lip-read what she said. The winning lottery number? Soon she and her teenage entourage departed.

  After a round of desserts, we paid up and left. We walked north on Main Street. I glanced down East Grayson Street. Rex Theatre. Hmmmm … Rex means king in Latin. I wonder how it got that name. Rex de Grayson? Rex de Galax? Rexlax? [sic]

  Then Agent 32 suddenly spoke. “What are you thinking?”

  “See that movie theater down there, the Rex Theatre?”

  “Yes …”

  “Well, rex is Latin for king.”

  “Well, yeah, so what? You know, Rex is a common American male name. Remember Rex Chapman for the old Hornets?”

  “Yes, I do, and, well, that’s really all I was thinking.”

  “I had to ask.” She chuckled to herself.

  “And, now you know.” I laughed for a few seconds.

  Agent 32 gave me a wry grin and giggled a final time as I heard a motorized mechanism approaching. An old, nearly dead car limped down the street, lagging behind us. We turned around, and it was him – the hipster who was in the second-floor window earlier.

  He kept looking straight ahead with his blonde hair all a mess. Then he sped off from the immediate twilight towards the quickly descending drape of darkness. His old green sedan disappeared around a corner. What a young loon. Every small town has at least one.

  We continued walking, but not talking. We climbed West Washington Street up to Knights Inn. Our motel room was on the upper level. It had an awesome view of the Galax bowl. (Galax sits in a valley, surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains.)

 

  When we arrived, we took it all in for a few minutes. What a nice, quaint, peaceful little town in Appalachia.

  “An incredible Blue Ridge scene, isn’t it, Monique?”

  “It most certainly is,” she replied as she peered out towards the dark red, bumpy horizon line. “What’s that noise?!”

  There was some commotion at a hotel room down from ours.

  “Probably just some revelers, already loaded on booze, 32.”

  We decided to duck inside our motel room for the night. The number on the door: 129. His license plate ended with 129. Strange coincidence?

 

  I flipped the TV on and found a Major League Baseball playoff game in progress.

  “Ah, the Giants aren’t dead yet, Monique.”

  “Ok, 33, you watch it. I’m going to sleep.” Monique then rolled over, facing away from the TV’s beam of EM radiation.

  I turned the volume way down and Monique quickly fell asleep with a pillow between her legs. The wound was still sore. She had been bit by a vicious dog on her right calf during the last mission: an east Charlotte zero-run. A complete non-leaguer.

  Then someone passed by the front window of our room. And, I sensed they were lingering. I brushed the curtain aside and it was him – Billy Bad-azz – just sitting in his decrepit sedan, windows open, just smiling. What the fawk! [sic]

  I went outside to confront him. I decided to ask him an open-ended question, just to gauge his mindset.

  “How much do you know about the plot?” I asked him, trying to maintain a straight face.

  He quickly dispensed a reply. “What plot? I don’t know about any plot. However, I do have an incredible device that will change your life … forever. Literally and literarily.” And littorally? He coughed. “Want to see it?”

  “Why, sure.”

  Before retrieving it, he went on to tell me that this particular device could extract thought fragments. I was skeptical, very skeptical. He said that the range was up to two miles, and that it was directional. He was eager to give me a quick demonstration.

  He then got out of his ancient late ‘70s Toyota Corolla and walked towards the white picket fence with a small brown case in hand. At the precipice of the upper parking lot, he took the device out of the case. He aimed his contraption, which looked like a phaser [sic] out of a ‘60s Star Trek episode, at the town of Galax below. He then handed me a set of headphones and gave me a nefarious shark-like grin.

  “Man, when you put these headphones on, your mind is gonna be a-blown, dude. Über-blown. Totally blown away.”

  He was a giddy Gilbert Giddy-up. He’s baked like a cake. Or, maybe he’s on pills. Oh, let’s just play along. Maybe something short-story-worthy will present itself. I seem to be out of ideas as of late.

  “Is that so?” I asked, as I wondered what in the world I was getting ready to experience.

  “I guarantee it. Brace yourself for localized thoughticle [sic] overload.” Thoughticle?

  I slid the headphones on. I started to hear little bursts of audio bleeps. At first they were entirely incomprehensible. Then he made an adjustment, a fine-tuning, I suppose. Discernible words were then heard in various male and female voices in whispery tones.

  Well, without further ado, here’s the exact transcript of the thoughts that I ‘heard’ that fateful night in Galax:

  [crackling noises] … only five years to go; yep, just sixty worthless months to cross off the calendar; I won’t be that old; I’ll still have a reason to live … her ass is so soft; can’t wait to have some rough sex with her; it’s going to be great; I can tell she’s the type; I saw her ass-crack tattoo … I bet Daryl has a big one; gosh, I hope so; a nice, big, rock-hard sausage dog … tomorrow will be fun, maybe too much fun … Mark always gets what he wants, every goddam time … I hate how she does that … I know Eunice is jealous of me; she is always focused on me; she always has been, ever since 8th grade … I’ve got to get him to pay me somehow; need to put the screws to him … her husband is so clueless; he’ll never know … well, everyone steals a little from their employer … I can’t believe what Steve did last night, but then, maybe I can; he’s so shady, so sneaky … Ed will be hungover and comple
tely worthless tomorrow morning; he drinks all the time now; he’s a complete alcoholic, just like his dad … I’ve got to escape from this nowhere town; nothing is going to happen for me here; maybe I should go in the service … the wheel is bent again; just my luck … the house is finally paid off; now we have some breathing room, but I’ll bet she finds a way to spend it … I just know that Earl has a meth lab in that vacant house by the railroad tracks; why else is he over there half the day? … she got the job at the bank; she’ll probably try to steal money or fuck the manager, or maybe both; I know that girl, totally devious … Johnny is back to messing with that little whore; I knew he would go back to her; what a total scumbag … another goddam leak; the plumbing in this house sucks! … who could be calling at this hour? … no, no, no; not another goddam political robo-call! … I’ve got to do something with my life, and soon … we could go to Roanoke tomorrow; I would like that, but she probably doesn’t want to go … I’m so sick of her meddling sister … my Facebook account has been hacked; Steve probably did it; I really hate that douchebag! … I swear, it feels like my thoughts are being monitored.

  Then silence.

  I took the headphones off. Unbelievable! What a piece of hardware. We’ll be rich! Or, World War 3 will start by dawn.

  “This is one priceless piece of hardware you have here, man,” I announced as I turned around. But, he was gone! I had become so engrossed in these captured random thoughts from the valley below that I had failed to hear him drive off. Why did he leave something so valuable with me? Does he have more of them? Is this some kind of test?

  I walked back inside our motel room with the thought-extracting device under my shirt. Agent 32 was sound asleep. I thought about waking her, but then decided to show her this novel toy tomorrow morning. Ah, just let the princess sleep.

  I looked at the device under the bathroom light. It seemed to be completely housed in plastic. It must have been glued together, as I didn’t see any screws. I turned it over. On the bottom it read:

  Galax_ Galaxy thought interceptor. 2011 model. Only works in Galax, VA, USA. Never use while a microwave oven is in operation in the same room. Never point at self. Not responsible for content received by this device. End of warnings and legal disclaimers. This lower area intentionally left blank. Do not fill in the blank.

  I cautiously placed the thought-intercepting gun under the top of the mattress, under the pillow on my side, and crawled into bed beside Monique. Hope it’s safe to sleep with this thing under my head. Will it interfere with my shunt? Maybe sleep on the left side to be safe.

  Sleep came fast, but was unsettled. I awoke several times during the night, and then one more time at 6:06 AM to find Agent 32 making some instant coffee. She had her mug of water in the microwave. She sure got up early. Maybe she wants to get an early start on today’s hike.

  Then I quickly thought back to what it said on the bottom of the thought extractor – the microwave oven in the same room warning. Then I remembered where the device was, and felt the switch with my left hand. Is this on or off?

  I saw the numerical countdown on the microwave oven display at 1:29. Then there was a big green flash that lit up the whole room. Monique’s face was pure shock.

  And, just as I tried to say: “Stop the microwave, Monique!” … everything quickly faded to black … and all was silent … and without thought.