Flashes of Eternity

We were placed inside a sizeable auditorium. I felt like a giant screen was placed in front of me, and - for all intents and purposes - that was the case. Dim lights made it difficult to ascertain how many people were around me.

Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. The phrase used by many, but experienced only by the few.

"So, did you find your way here like everyone else?" I heard a question coming from my left.

"They told me I'd a unique psychological profile," I replied. "If that's what you mean, then yes."

"Yeah," the individual nodded. "That's what I meant."

"I wouldn't be surprised if everyone here has a similar story to tell," I continued.

"They also told you not to get involved with others here because we're about to depart anyway?"

"Yeah," I replied. "And given what I heard about this experiment, I can't say I'm surprised."

"Do you think this quantum generation is not some sort of scam?" I could see the individual leaning toward me.

"Thoughts creating realities were definitely discussed many times in philosophy," I asserted. "Of course, you can never tell whether something's a scam or not, but this world is going down the drain anyway so I might as well get a taste of something more exciting than that daily grind people are told is reality."

"The majority of people are dumb as fuck," I heard a reply. "They can't think clearly."

"Whether it's by design or not," I nodded. "That's another matter."

"I wanted to publish a book but.."

"Let me guess," I interrupted by raising my hand. "Vanity publishing was the only option left."

"Yeah," he frowned. "How did you know?"

"Been there. Done that," I replied with confidence in my voice.

"Oh," the individual nodded slightly. "I won't fear feminine clothes because it's associated with denigrating my manhood."

"That's certainly an insightful perspective," I said, not sure where the whole idea fit in the greater scheme of our conversation.

"I don't mean me per se," the person went on, as if not noticing the sudden shift. "What I mean is this: I, meaning who? Feminine, meaning what? Associated, how? Denigrating, how? Manhood, meaning what?"

"Ah," I grinned, ignoring the change. "You break it down into components."

"Yeah," the individual kept starting at the screen. "All those rules are a direct derivation of make-believe. People are too dumb to see it."

"Equating democracy with freedom is bullshit," I replied. "Theoretically, you can do whatever you like, but if the majority is dumb, then they can impose their will on the more enlightened ones."

"Better yet, you can get a few enlightened ones who will steer the masses against the rest of the enlightened ones who don't wanna play the game," the individual added.

"That's where this project comes in," I continued. "To get us the hell out of here before it's too late."

"What did you do to be here, anyway?" I heard a question. "You'd to earn your place here somehow?"

"I contributed certain philosophical aspects to the project," I answered. "That's what they told me, anyway."

"Interesting," the person said. "That screen you're looking at - partly my design."

"I'm impressed," was all I could say but the sheer magnitude of the circumstance I was immersed in was directing my attention away from the seemingly significant conversation.

"To be honest, I never thought writing stuff on the Internet can attract this sort of attention," I said, not really knowing why. "You've done something tangible, but me.."

"You never know who's watching and what is it that they want," the individual smiled. "That's life."

"Yes it is," I nodded to myself. "Yes it is."

"Did you notice something funny?" I heard a question.

"What'd that be?" I replied.

"We both are English speakers," I saw the person grin. "English truly became the international language."

"Yeah," I concluded. "I wonder how many people in this place are fluent in English."

"Something tells me everyone is," the individual asserted.

"Smooth accents flowing around," I continued. "You're probably right."

"Maybe exceptional linguistic capability is part of the selection process?" a question arose.

"That's what they told me," I said. "Although you can't really judge a person solely based on their linguistic prowess - you might get stuff wrong."

"Let's not jump to conclusions just yet," my conversation partner raised their hand. "We don't know what's going on here, one hundred percent, I mean."

"Fair enough," I nodded vigorously. "This could very well be a scam, or something even worse, but our personalities are what they are."

I suddenly heard a fit of laughter.

"What's going on?"

"Connotations. Connotations," I heard a reply and saw a smug expression on the individual's face. "It's just that image, invoked in my mind."

I did not know how to respond. I expected a continuation.

"He attended one of those.. events," I finally heard the next sentence.

"What event?" I instinctively replied.

"Cinema on heels," a grin on the person's face was as beaming as ever.

"And?" I leaned toward the individual to hear more.

"Well," I knew something longer was coming. "He said he lost a bet and had to go watch a movie disguised as a woman. First, he communicated with them via e-mail, then he took a slip of paper with him, or something like that, he wrote a message on the slip about getting a ticket and showed it to that poor soul who was selling tickets at that time. Then, he went to the bathroom..

"In.. heels?" I asked.

"Yeah," he nodded slightly. "And a nice blonde wig to boot."

"It takes balls to do that," I acknowledged.

"Paradoxically," I heard. "It takes a real man to disguise himself as a woman."

I nodded in acquiescence.

"He forgot to lock the stall door, though," the individual went on. "And that cleaning lady saw him there, well, sitting on a throne and, you know, spanking the monkey."

"One hell of a monkey it must've been," I grinned. "Cinema on heels. That's what you get when you're not careful."

"Like a movie script for a fetishist site," the individual added. "Life is the best at writing scripts."

"Exactly," I replied.

"I met this dude here," the person said. "He told me he was behind

John Titor and the Hidden Hand. Does that ring a bell at all to you?"

"Oh yeah," I smiled. "It'd seem a successful troll is always successful."

"Alright people!" our conversation was interrupted by a masculine voice coming from an undisclosed location. "The portal will now open. You have been briefed. You know what to expect. I know this will sound overly dramatic, but - under the circumstances - I find it appropriate: Godspeed!"

The conversation I just held, indeed, the whole world I knew was no longer of any relevance to me. People around me shared that sentiment, it would seem, and that was one of the reasons we had been chosen.

We kept walking toward the portal in front of us. One-by-one, we kept disappearing into the literal blue.

Scientists stood by and observed what - for lack of a better term - could be called a wormhole. Muffled sounds everywhere, as if our every move was being analyzed. I knew the stoic atmosphere around me was a mere facade, a mirage to hide the collective emotional maelstrom we were all experiencing.

***

The Byzantine edifice appeared to have been induced with life of its own, surveiling my every move. A massive door with golden symbols inscribed on it and - most importantly - the symbol of an all-seeing-eye, that occult symbol so widely recognized thanks to works of Dan Brown and others.. but something inside me knew that was not it. That was going to be more.. much more.

I finally understood what was happening. Or rather - it dawned on me. I recognized these walls; all of my innermost thoughts conflagrated into a powerful cathartic experience - I was about to taste my own imaginary medicine.

A story I wrote.. with me, as the protagonist.. I would be lying if I told you adrenaline was not pumping through my veins like never before. But then, alas, I was afraid; afraid of whether I would be able to control the process of wading through infinity itself.

Footsteps. I was hearing footsteps. I knew what this menacing sound meant. I knew it all too well...

***

"You're coming with us. The Prophet wants to see you," was the first line of my story.

That was the sentence which started it all three years ago. That was the sentence which changed my entire existence, thrusting me into the abyss of girlishness. I remembered it all very clearly; it would be virtually impossible not to. Did it ever happen? I looked at my body. I could not believe what I was seeing - but belief was exactly what had gotten me here in the first place.

At first, I was hopeful...

But then, at a certain point, I knew my manhood was lost forever, meaning as long as I remained in this grotesque vision of my own mind.

The images of seeing my jewels inside a jar were still vivid. The images of little dresses being shoved on me. The images of make-up targeting my face with merciless precision. The images of language and behavior lessons. The images of teetering in heels.

There never was much time for nostalgic introspection. Especially not when I was about to hear the verdict from the Prophet Himself.

"Malakia!" my thoughts were interrupted by a male voice emanating from a loudspeaker. I knew it was time for me to enter. The codeword had been given. The Prophet was ready.

"You've been prancing around," his Cajun accent affirmed. "Pleaser. My favorite. All-American. Do you remember when you first saw the list of heels?"

"Yes," I nodded slightly, trying to hide my anxiety as much as possible.

"Tell me," he asserted.

"It was a conversion table," I continued. "In inches, centimeters and millimeters. The table also said how much experience is needed for a particular heel height.."

"Very good," the seer grinned. "Very good indeed. Walking so much in heels, I'm sure you don't really remember how to walk in flats! I must admit, there is something unique about white girls.. maybe it's all those years of conditioning by the Romans?"

"Look at your hair," he gently touched my forehead. "Beautiful. Brunette, parted in the middle. All the way to your breasts, your hair is touching them.. and the curls." Eying my every move, he asked, "Have I not created you anew?"

"Yes," I blushed. "You have."

"And do you remember why you are like this?" he continued.

"I have called you a fraud," I replied softly. "Someone with an insatiable lust for power."

"Yes," he grinned. "You kept spreading rumors I am a dangerous cult leader who profits from the 2012 hysteria. Normally, I wouldn't care. But you.. you were a clever 23-year-old man, Paul. Managed a big company. So young and so successful! I knew you had to be punished for damaging my reputation!"

Silence.

"Paul," the man paused. "Tell me. What did I do?"

I lower my head and say, "You turned me.. into.. a woman."

"Yes," the Cajun's face was beaming with satisfaction. "Paul, you didn't believe me. You told me someone was going to find you. That you were too important to just disappear. That I wouldn't spend all the money on you. That it was just impossible to do this in a civilized society! Well, what do you think about it now, Paul? Is this society really so civilized? You saw Satanic rituals, you saw what is going on when kiddies go to school. You saw the dungeons. You saw the subliminal most people will never even fathom. Did your perspective change?"

Silence.

"Yes, Paul?" the man kept touching my hair, as if trying to encourage me to utter the words. I knew it took him great pleasure to witness the ultimate form of humiliation: it was the sign of total control over an individual.

"Your power is even greater than I imagined," I replied softly. "I underestimated you.. I was.. wrong.."

'Yes," the man's eyes were filled with satisfaction. "Yes you were. I used your own fetish against you, Paul. You kept coming to this place, visiting the BDSM scene, thinking you can just pay and leave.. that, being the CEO, your privacy was secure. But you didn't know. You didn't know I'd been watching you, Paul.. using your own vices to capture you!"

"Yes," I lowered my head. "You have given me much more than I bargained for.."

"Just look at your tassels and those white feathers, gently touching the middle of your thighs, Paul," he grinned. "Your smooth skin, your six-inch heels, and then you are six-feet.. what a charming combination!"

The prophet looked around the room, as if searching for something he could not quite place. Suddenly, he eyed me and asked, "Do you remember how you resisted the change with all your manly might?"

"Yes," I replied. "I remember it very well."

"At first, you thought it was just another chapter of the BDSM game, Paul," the Cajun affirmed. "So I had to show you how wrong you were. I had to show you I was capable of much, much more than simple fetishes, dysphorias and other travesties. I had to show you what the prophet was, and - indeed - is, capable of."

I instinctively touched the feathered tassels. All those days of training.. habits impossible to forget.

"The beautiful part is," he went on. "I have seized your assets and used your own money to transform you, Paul! Not only have I taken your manhood, but also your wealth! Isn't this something only a true seer can do?"

"Yes," I reluctantly acknowledged. "It is."

"Paul!" the seer clapped his hands like a small child. "Your womanly voice is perfect. Your Southern drawl is perfect. Your horseback riding skills are perfect. Who would have thought, we have defied puberty and the seemingly impossible! Indeed, you are what I have turned you into!"

I bent my knees slightly and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he gleefully replied. "I trust you are more than eager to hear the verdict?"

"Yes, please?" I nodded vigorously.

"The verdict is right here," The Prophet handed me an envelope. "All you need to know is there, Paul.. you skirted man with two assholes."

The Prophet winked at me and walked away.

I started the "girlie prancing," as The Prophet would call it.

Contradictory emotions within me were screaming to open the envelope. I finally succumbed to my inner storm and read the following note,

"Dear Paul,

You have handled the pickup artists well. I have provided you with a new identity and the financial means to make sure you have a comfortable life as a woman. Do not try to reverse this process. You do know you cannot mess with hormones back and forth. You are twenty six now, and all the meticulous documentation is only going to help me in these difficult economic times to show others how powerful I am. Worry not, your identity remains a secret.

You can play chess now, show others what you are capable of by standing up for women's rights!

You can also describe your experiences, Paul. It will have a therapeutic effect, of that I am certain. I would never want you develop Stockholm syndrome! This is just not me.

Paul, remember that your girlie derriere still belongs to me. Literally and figuratively. Do not forget about that beautiful rose I have shoved up your lovely rear while girlie music kept playing in the background! Your cockiness has not gotten you very far.. so I would advise you to stop being cocky - because you just do not have what it takes anymore!

I also know you are never going to reveal this to anyone publically - the humiliation would be just too great!

Au revoir, mademoiselle Alice! Have a nice life in Louisiana! Let your demure guide you!"

Notes.. I received many notes throughout my time inside The Prophet's compound. That was the method of communication meant to instill fear and uncertainty by eliminating the human element.. the most vicious method of all.

I knew I had to leave as fast as possible. I knew that The Prophet was a mercurial soul and I could not risk coming back to this place. Amazing, how your perspective can change.. when it all started, losing my manhood seemed unfathomable.. and there I was, hoping I would not have to prance around on horseback during Mardi Gras..

I just stood there, in the middle of the street.

A young Caucasian boy approached me.

"There you go, little girl" he handed me an envelope. "This is all you need to know about your new life."

For some reason, I did not want to open it. Alas, I had no choice.

"I'm still here," I suddenly heard a familiar voice coming from behind me. "Yes. It's me."

"Oh," I replied, akin to a knee-jerk reaction, not knowing what else to say.

"I just wanted to see how eagerly you'd abandon me," the man grinned. "Me, the Prophet."

All of the humiliation and anger within me transformed into an emotional supercell.

"I have a surprise for you," the Prophet touched my right shoulder.

I started twirling my hair out of nervousness.

"You're going to enroll at a women's college!" he clapped his hands, as if trying to hide an extreme level of inner exhilaration. "Just don't bite your nails!"

"Haha!" the boy who handed me the envelope did not hesitate for a second to express what he had thought of the whole unfortunate circumstance by uttering a classic fit of Simpsonian schadenfreude. "You thought you're free, haha! Next thing, and you're gonna start believing in unicorns, haha!"

I just stood there, crossing my legs. I felt like such a fool. An ephemeral thought crossed my mind to shove one of my heels up this little brat's rear, but I decided to spare the heel.

"Come with me, Alice," the Prophet said, winking at the boy. "We're going to the college now. You've an interview all lined up for ya!"

"Yes, Sir," I sighed as we were moving toward the Seer's automobile.

About twenty minutes later, we finally arrived. The chauffeur opened my door and the Prophet approached me. He scanned me, smiled and finally uttered those immortal words,

"There's a village in France from which me and my followers will be taken to another level of existence, so that each and every one of us can experience their own personal reality. This consensus is about to end and people do not even know it. We are the chosen ones because we attempt to analyze what is going on inside us and use this knowledge in our lives. 2012 is not a mere date, my dear Alice, it is a window of opportunity for those who know how to find it! This truly is going to be an afterlife mosaic!"

I did not know what else to say. I just stood there, twirling my hair.

"I'll be with you shortly," the Prophet waved at the chauffeur. "Come with me, Alice."

"Welcome!" a young(ish) red-head approached us. She then eyed me and said, "Welcome to your new home, sweetie!"

"Hello, miss," I bent my knees slightly, waiting for events to unfold.

"This is the girl I told you about," the Prophet's piercing eyes scanned the newcomer. I could tell she was a follower. "All of her belongings are in place, I take it?"

"Oh, absolutely!" the woman replied with a note of enthusiasm. "Everything's been arranged!"

"I'm glad to hear that," the Prophet nodded vigorously. "Well, Alice. Here's where we part our ways. Have a good life in your new academic milieu!"

Before I could even respond, he turned around and strolled toward the limousine.

"Oh, don't worry sweetie!" the woman scanned me from head-to-toe. "May I ask what have you done?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Well," she coughed. "I know this must be embarrassing, but our girls here are, well, you know..."

"I was into property business," I replied softly, as if hoping she was not going to hear that.

"A CEO, perhaps?

"Yes," I lowered my head.

"How wonderful!" she folded her hands together. "Oh, sweetie, sweetie...you really shouldn't have insulted the Prophet! But don't worry - you're not the first and you certainly shan't be the last!"