Monday, November 24, 2014
Bob by Tegon Maus (c/o Lucy Felthouse)
It is my pleasure to share a few words from author Tegon Maus:
Are you a SLIder ? Do you have H.V.S. ?
In my Sci-Fi Series… The Eve Project… Ben Harris is and does. He destroys any unshielded electronics, sets fire to ATMs, coffee machines and unwittingly sends devastating arcs of electricity to anything metal. He suffers from B.C.E.D. He has spent his entire life trying to hide his ailment from prying eyes.
What many readers are unaware of is the fact that his condition is a real one. In my book I called it B.C.E.D. or Bio-Chemical Electric Discharge to make it sound more… interesting and official.
As it turns out, depending on the severity of the condition it has two names. The first and less life transforming is S.L.I. or Streetlight Interference. These poor souls are often called SLIders.
As you might expect, they affect streetlights, turning them off simply by walking under them only to have them reignite after they pass. In addition they frequently do not wear watches or jewelry because their bodies generate enough electricity to destroy them within a matter of days, making cameras and cell phones out of the question. Research into the phenomena has been slow but the little that has been done shows women hold a much higher static level than men. Their bodies absorb more external electric charges. This is usually caused by an Alkali-Acid imbalance. How is this possible you ask ?? It is the by-product of eating fresh fruit and vegetables! Who Knew ?
For those that have passed the line of humdrum static electricity there is H.V.S. or High Voltage Syndrome. This condition has ruined many a life, ranging from starting fires shocking those that come to close and destroying any metal object. Computers, microwaves, televisions, radios, light bulbs, and the rest don’t stand a chance. They are completely destroyed without desire or intention. And worse, many of the people who are afflicted with this condition become magnetized. Metal objects cling to their body unwanted as if they themselves have become a magnet. Others are able to push objects like heavy furniture away from themselves with but a touch. Others are blamed for haunting like experiences, making lights and appliances turn on and off by themselves, things floating through mid-air with no desire intended. It has been tied to a heightened psychic or telekinetic ability.
So if you thought you had problems in your life that made you feel like you didn’t fit in or like an outsider; consider these people and the lives they lead… do you have H.V.S. ?? Are you a SLIder ? Thank God everyday if you can say no !
Here are some sites with more info…
H.V.S. – High Voltage Syndrome / SLI – Streetlight Interference
The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it at all... nothing. I've been in the newspaper game for more than twenty-seven years and that kind of experience gave a guy an edge but even that didn't prepare me.
I'd been beaten, shot at, even stabbed a couple of times over the years but I always got the story... always. But this one... this one was big... too big perhaps... Maybe we were ready, maybe not.
Either way, it wasn't my call.
None of which filled me with the fear, the trepidation... the anguish of five little words that still haunted me today...
"Is okay. I have cousin."
I blinked in disbelief, too stunned to speak.
Standing in front of me, dressed in black jeans, a dark blue tee shirt with a picture of Bob Marley and a backward baseball cap was a small, no more than 5' 2", twenty something, black man.
"Hi. I'm Pete," I said, offering my hand.
"Ahh, is sad story. Bob's cousin not speak English," Bob said pushing my hand away.
"Awhhh," the little man breathed hoarsely, turning away, his arms swung loosely in response.
"Bob, he just said dude to me when he came in," I said, pointing an insistent finger at the little man.
"He tries, broken English not so good. Is Fred," he answered, spinning his hand playfully in the air, pointing, draping a large, affectionate arm over the man's shoulder.
"Fred... your Russian cousin?"
"Da," he answered simply without blinking.
"Bob... he just spoke to me and it wasn't Russian," I protested.
"Ahh, Bob's friend generous, not make Bob's cousin self-conscious. You good man, but Fred speaks no English," he argued, folding his arms.
"Ahhh, damn it, Bob. You promised me... you said I could talk this time. Shit man," Fred cursed in a raspy whisper, stomping his foot, turning away.
"Nyet, nyet," Bob scolded, grabbing Fred. He began to speak Russian, shaking his finger in the other man's face.
Fred's shoulders slumped. His head swung loosely from side to side, avoiding Bob's gaze.
"Da," he said dully, turning in my direction once more.
"His English not so good," Bob added, wiggling his hands dismissively.
"Sounded damn good to me," I said honestly.
"Bob understands. Bob's friend speak Spanish?" he asked with a little annoyance in his voice, threading his fingers through his hair in frustration.
"Nope. Can't say as I do," I answered, folding my arms.
"How you say... no speak Spanish?" he asked, folding his arms as well.
"No habla Hispano."
"AAAHHH, to Bob, Bob's friend sound like native. Bob thought he smelled burritos, heard waves on beach. Very impressed. Bob's friend has gift for language. Sure not speak Spanish?"
"Fred," I said flatly, stepping directly in front of the little man. "Do you speak English?"
"Da. Fred speak no English," he responded dully, tilting his head from side to side, his arms hung slack, swinging loosely as he spoke.
"Very sad, like Bob say. Fred's parents live too close to nuclear plant. Sure, sure, rent very cheap but Fred... no brain for English," Bob said, closing his eyes, shaking his head in a pretentious, melancholy way.
"Bob," I started.
"Very late. No time for Fred's story. Bob's friend want to see house tonight or no?" he asked, pushing himself to stand between me and Fred.
"Alright, have it your way. Let's go," I demanded now irritated, angrily grabbing my coat off the back of the chair.
"Nyet, nyet. Bob's friend almost forget," he said, turning his back quickly, wriggling his fingers.
"Dear God. Money? Now?" I said, throwing my coat across the back of the chair again.
"Business before pleasure... makes good fences."
"The saying is, 'good fences make good neighbors' not..."
"Bob's friend knows what Bob say. Not want money to be sticky bug between us."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. How much this time?" I asked aggravated, removing my wallet.
"Bob not know about such things. Must speak with cousin," he said, wrapping a huge arm around the tiny man, pulling him to the other side of the room.
"Bob, you gave me your word," Fred whispered forcefully, sending a pointed finger into Bob's chest.
"Fred say, must think about it. Fred likes Bob's friend Peter, wants give good price," he said, smiling in my direction and then began to speak rapidly in Russian.
"Damn it, Bob. You promised me," Fred whispered disappointedly.
"Fred say, four hundred dollars," Bob said, holding up four fingers of his right hand, all the while maintaining his grip on Fred's shoulder.
"Three hundred," I countered, folding my arms, returning my wallet to my hip pocket.
"Oooh, Bob's friend breaks Bob's feelings. Bob's friend would steal bread from Fred very mouth?"
"It's not in Fred's mouth just yet... three hundred," I insisted.
I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else... devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn't friendly, I just wasn't "people orientated". Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can't remember what it was about... something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years after inventing games and prototypes for a variety of ideas before I got back to writing. It wasn't a deliberate conscious thought, it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. "Be as detailed as you can," we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it's making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn't be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of "it could happen" very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.
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