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    Soul Swap
    Soul Swap
    Soul Swap
    Ebook207 pages3 hours

    Soul Swap

    By Cameron Glenn

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Six suicidals swap bodies for a day with the help of a mysterious man and boy

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCameron Glenn
    Release dateDec 29, 2015
    ISBN9781311903891
    Soul Swap
    Author

    Cameron Glenn

    Cameron Glenn grew up the third of seven children in Oregon. As a child he dedicated hours to the pursuits of basketball and cartooning, as well as waking up way too early for his paper route in order to earn money to buy toys, candy and comic books. He also loved to read and write, which he continues to do voraciously. He currently lives in Salt Lake City after having earned a BA in literature from Boise State.

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      Book preview

      Soul Swap - Cameron Glenn

      CHAPTER ONE

      The Boy

      A mysterious tall man stood by a stream in thick woods with an eleven year old boy. The man resembled what an older version of the boy might look like. The man picked up a grey pink striped stone made smooth from the decades of unceasing tickling of the water current. He pet the top of the stone with the underside of his thumb.

      It looks like a little frog, the boy by him said.

      The man closed his fist around the rock and squeezed. The veins of his hands protruded like tree roots which jut up from the dirt. He turned his hand over and opened his palm and there sat a grey frog with a pink stripe down its spine. The frog leaped from his hand and turned back into a stone at the zenith of its jump and plopped into the water and sank.

      Why do people commit suicide? the boy asked.

      The man looked at the tips of his dusty brown shoes although his eyes squint as if looking into the sun. Then the man peered into the soft brown eyes of the boy. The man’s mouth did not move but the boy heard the man’s voice in his head as a wind which breezed through the leaves of the boys thoughts.

      "It’s difficult to understand why people give up. Not just give up on a certain goal or pursuit or project, but on life. In

      each case of suicide, the reasons for the death wish are singular to the individual. But nearly each case involves a self perceived deeply felt failure."

      Failure of what? the boy asked.

      Anything really, the tall man answered. A broken dream, a loosened grip, piled up losses or one particularly devastating loss; a fatal blow like an arrow to the heart, or mallet crushing the brain.

      Loss of what? the boy asked.

      Of love, money, jobs, mind, desire, goals, or will. Anything really; a loss of something the person loved and needed. Or believed they needed.

      What are some other reasons? the boy asked.

      Abuse, self inflicted or otherwise, an inability to cope…

      Cope with what?

      Pain from the past, fear of the future, needed necessities and action required of the present life.

      The man picked up a flat stone from the bank of the stream and skipped it across the water. The boy looked for a flat stone, took what he thought to be a winner, and threw it at the water using a side arm pitch but the stone plunked into the side of a rapid rather than skip over the water.

      Doesn’t everyone fail at something, sometime? the boy asked. Make mistakes, lose something, feel defeat or some sadness?

      Yes, everyone does at some point, the man answered. But…they toss it away, like stones, don’t they?

      Or they clutch it until their hands hurt, the man said. They are unable to let it go. The failure becomes as a seed, planted in wherever self- essence exists. The man looked up at a pine tree.

      The heart, mind, soul… the boy said. Is that where our conscience lies?

      Yes, the man said.

      The conversation was deep. The boy didn’t understand all the words or their meanings or the explanations to his questions. He couldn’t fully comprehend the thick philosophy of death, the reasons for suicide, and the existence of souls. The man spoke authoritatively, as if he knew of what he spoke, but the boy suspected that the man may just be guessing at everything. The boy also suspected that the man may not really be real, but rather a manifestation of his older self, had he had the privilege to live into old age. They spoke of heavy subjects. Heavy subjects aren’t always fun to deal with. But when they are dropped in front of you, like a boulder lodged in front of an entryway, they must be dealt with. The boy’s mother had recently (only minutes before?) driven her Ford Escort, with the boy strapped in the back seat, into a deep man-made lake in a park. On purpose. She had died, and so had her son, the boy. The boy realized he weren’t really speaking, only thinking, and the man understood him. The thoughts, deep, heavy, abstract, rose like smoke from a fire; suffocating, yet hard to grasp. He didn’t dwell deep on trying to understand it all. It’s hard for the healthy to really grasp or understand the thoughts, feelings, and motivations of the suicidal.

      How am I still here? the boy asked.

      Because you are still aware of yourself, the man answered.

      The boy tried to remember when he had last laughed. Not long ago, in the car. Thinking of a joke his friend had told him, about the blond girl who tried to commit suicide by jumping from a basement window. The boy knew that his mother was struggling. Humor, sometimes sick humor, helped him to cope. They were studding sexual education in his health class.

      The failure becomes as a seed planted in the soul? the boy asked.

      Yes, and it is fed by the constant rains of gloom; the seed feeds and sucks on despair, which nourishes it, and from this seed grows a foreign vine weed which chokes and strangles what once was cherished and loved; it spouts large leaves which blocks the warmth reaching the soul, lost in dark shadows, as the vine grows longer and tangles its choking grip tighter, sucking away hope, draining away happiness and energy, threatening with despair, helplessness, until the only way to kill this weed…

      Is to kill yourself, the boy whispered. Are you sure about that?

      I’m not sure how well the metaphor works, the man admitted with a shrug. You helped me come up with it.

      I know, the boy said. "I’m just trying to understand it.

      My mother did it. And drowned me in the car with her."

      A rainbow trout jumped from the stream catching a fly in its mouth then reentered the water with a splash.

      She wasn’t thinking clearly, the man said. She thought she was doing the right thing. For herself and for you. Better to die then to live with a diseased mother, she thought. Better to die then exist in a failed deranged state, she believed. The world is not fit for any decent person anymore, she concluded.

      Do any who kill themselves think clearly?

      Rarely. They are delusional and often deranged.

      Like suicide bombers? the boy asked.

      Yes. They want their meaningless lives to have meaning and have been falsely led to believe that killing others along with themselves, for some greater godly purpose, is the way.

      What of the depressed? Like my mother? the boy asked.

      The future looks too bleak to them; they only see an increase of the torture they currently feel, the pain they don’t want to face any longer.

      Physical pain?

      Sometimes. Not usually. Pain of constant worry, anxiety, dullness, boredom, fear, humiliation, depression.

      Humiliation?

      From their own perception of how others view them, as pathetic desperate losers, crazy, unable to cope, weak…

      Self defeating thoughts causing self defeating actions, the boy said.

      "Yes. They wonder, how long can one live under this weight? Where is the breaking point? And then their questions become statements, from ‘Have I given up?’ to ‘I have given up.’ And from this ‘I give up’ statement spirals downward more self defeating statements: ‘I’m not equipped to handle life, I’m too ugly, too dumb, too weak, I’ve failed too much, I’m too much a failure, too much time has passed to fix anything, to change the path, to change myself, to change my rotten and rotting life; what’s the point, (thought of as a statement, not a question), I have no energy to fight anymore. And then comes the final gory act, which brings the end."

      But it doesn’t end. The final solution only causes more problems. To themselves and to others, the boy said, with wonder.

      The mind is never clear in the final act, the man stated. "A haze clouds the mind, which amplifies the numbness,

      increases the surreal feeling, feeling out of body before the soul actually leaves the body, causing the necessary duality needed, when the killer and the victim are merged into one; a duality needed when the soul, or self-essence, works against the biology of the body, whose singular purpose and function is to heal itself and keep itself alive," the man said.

      As is natural, the boys said, as he saw another rainbow trout leap in the air and flop on its belly back into the gentle rapids. No other animal knowingly commits suicide. I guess lemmings do but I don’t think they’re self-aware enough to know what they’re doing. They’re just following everyone else.

      Sometimes the build up to the final act is not gradual but rash and impulsive, usually among the younger, the man said, his hands buried deep in his own pockets.

      Over dramatic girls lost in the moment, the boy said and tried to smirk. Can’t handle a little teasing, or that some ‘all-important’ fling didn’t pan out.

      Be sensitive, the man admonished.

      Yes, I know, the boy said and looked at the ground.

      Sometimes it is not even done born from grief but from a warped belief of honor or self or world betterment, the man said. Like those silly suicidal bombers we spoke of before.

      Were there a lot of suicides today? the boy asked.

      There always are, the man said.

      I want to save them. I want to help them, the boy declared.

      It began to rain, first a drizzle, then steady, then pounding, each raindrop pricking the stream disrupting the flowing water surface, making the stream look as if vibrations shook it from underneath as the energy of gravity pulled the water down towards the distant ocean.

      How many raindrops are there? the boy asked. "Too many to count or comprehend each one

      individually, the man said. It is the same with people."

      But it is beautiful. The rain. The sound of it hitting the tops of leaves and disrupting the water; the smell of life and electricity in the rain soaked sky; the excitement of the activity of nature; alive, moving, water falling from the sky; aren’t colors more vibrant when coated and soaked and shine with the heaviness of water?

      Come with me, the man said.

      Thunder cracked through the air and rumbled. The man took a step into the stream, water flowing around his ankle. He took the boys hand and took another step in. More thunder rumbled, sounding like a iron cannonball rolling over a wood floor, then an explosion, like the cannonball were ignited and launched by gunpowder, crackling through the wood floor, causing a sonic boom. The boy flinched at the sound as the man tightened his grip around the boy’s fingers.

      There’s nothing to fear, come on, the man said, now with his knees submerged in the rushing icy water (although they could not feel the temperature), the boy a step behind with water lapping around his waist.

      The world is better without me, they believe, the boy said.

      So some believe, the man said. A sudden misfortune: a job loss, a foreclosure, the death of a loved one, a theft or crime committed, or shame, caught in a lie, or other crime, or addiction, can all be triggers to suicidal thoughts; dangerous when mixed with biological inclinations towards depression.

      But thinking and doing are vastly different things, the boy said.

      But thinking precedes action, the man said.

      I liked comic books, the boy said. I was looking forward to next month’s X-Men ‘Age of Apocalypse’.

      It was a good one, the man said. The art work was amazing. You would have loved it.

      Would I have gotten married? the boy asked.

      Yes. To a girl named Julie, the man answered.

      Was she pretty?

      Very, the man said. She would have made you happy.

      Don’t tell my mother, the boy said sadly, standing in the water. I don’t want her to get upset. Or for her to feel worse.

      I won’t, the man reassured.

      My friend Jimmy showed me a funny video the other day, the boy said. A sex-ed video from the 1960’s. It claimed that after girls get their first periods they’ve changed into really good bowlers.

      That’s funny, the man said flatly.

      I thought I would try to inject some levity into our conversation. It’s been so dark, so sad, so confusing.

      It has, the man admitted.

      Lightening hit the top of a tree growing near the bank of the stream, now a small river and a hawk perched on a top branch flew off into a thicket of other trees to take cover from the rain. The boy let out a low quick scream, looking at the tree, its branches bending and bowing and swaying with the wind and the weight of the water; a thin trail of smoke smoldered up and outward from the top where the lightening had struck.

      How deep does it go? the boy asked.

      Deep enough, the man said smiling. He let go of the boys hand, took a breath and plunged forward, head and shoulders first, in a dive, and the river ran over his head which did not bob back up.

      The boy followed him, taking a breath and diving forward into the water, submerged and completely under. He sunk as if his feet were made of stone and he looked up. Despite the darkness caused by the clouds blocking the sun, he could still see the effects of the sun filtering through the clouds and rain and reach the top of the stream; he saw the undersides of the ripples caused from the rain plunking the top of the river water. He looked ahead of him and saw a school of trout swim at his face and rather than darting and dodging around his head they swam through his head, which the boy thought strange and wonderful. Then the boy realized he didn’t need to breath and then he remembered why, although the memory, as recent as only minutes or hours ago, as measured by earthly time, felt vague, elusive and distant.

      His feet hit the bottom silt of the river and he saw the man standing underwater, his back turned towards him, and he walked towards him and took his hand. Then a sudden strong current whisked the man and the boy off their feet, propelling them ahead towards a pinpoint of light which gradually grew in brightness the closer they came to it.

      Is that the portal into heaven? the boy asked. Or whatever awaits us in the next realm?

      Not yet, the man said. You said you wished to help.

      Yes, the boy said. If not my mother then anyone who’s suffered as she has, who paid the ultimate price for the last bad decision of their lives. Do you think she now knows it was a mistake yet?

      I don’t know, the mad admitted. Our same thoughts are carried over; our same selves, same memories, same pains, like writing a sentence with a pen which bleeds its last remnants of ink then is finished using a new pen; the sentence still reads the same.

      But is her pain set free now? No more obligation or responsibilities; no child to take care of or disappoint.

      I don’t know, the man admitted again. Me neither, the boy said.

      "The world is pretty, isn’t it, right after it rains on warm summer afternoons and the wetness quickly evaporates and the air

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