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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1238881-The-FarOut-Little-Boy
by Amriel
Rated: E · Non-fiction · Biographical · #1238881
circling about his consciousness...(he knows it is no dream)
The Far~Out Little Boy
by Amriel Simpson


The boy awoke to a clamour of ringing~voices circling about his conscious like whirling birds of prey. Needless to say, his reaction was simply to run as far away as he possibly could. Though in the end one could see that he never really got that far (for the vacuum of space in the lonely person’s mind does not give one a large allotment of mental space in which to maneuver within), he did find some area of “comfortability”, a “safe spot” where the voices inflicted the least amount of psychic damage. As he sat in a crouched position, (his tiny butt hovering over a dusty patch of land), an apparition appeared to him in the form of a “hummingbird”. The mesmerizing beat of the “hummingbird”’s wings, the reflection of the sun and its subsequent interplay of rainbow~like, blistering colours had the little boy in a state of mind not dissimilar to a “trance”. He was “open of mind” and rapt in attention! After the “hummingbird” was sure the little boy was prepared to receive its message, it used a “collective unconsciousness” to beam a message to the little boy, and it went something to the effect of: “I am your relative~life ~ as I was the first to open your awareness to a larger realm of sight and beauty, so shall I be the last vision you shall ever have. At that time, ha ha, I will return."

(1973) ~ When I was 2 ½ years old, I remember “flying” upward, toward the ceiling of my house, using my hands in a cupped fashion to control my direction, as one would if one were swimming...This always happened when my parents were asleep in their bedroom or when they were outside somewhere...I never thought there was anything abnormal about this...


Having let the apparition go, the little boy, still shaken, began to feel a great restlessness, as if a “force” were building up inside of him, and the only way to release it was to fly upwards, which he did in no non~subtle terms. As he floated off the “Earth” his hands, he had found, must be cupped tightly to control the flow of air within them and thus: his direction of flight. Floating through a dream at the bottom of an imaginary river, he was gently “set down” by a shimmering vision of thousands of tiny laughing girls onto a bed of roses; where their thousands of tiny invisible hands began to tickle every “nerve spot” on his little body. The laughter had no power to un~nerve him, and neither did the pain of the tickling for its duration, but the boy did feel something strange when some subsequent invisible fingers began to jab and poke him on the back, inner legs, and rear end. When he awoke; the vision was dispersed and he was met by an eerie and uncomfortable cold silence.

(1974) ~ In the end our little boy had decided (rather than to get chopped into pieces by the “CRUEL OLDE WORLDE”) to in fact return to living. He began to experience paranormal activities one day in which seemingly hundreds of invisible hands jabbed at him in an abusive way while he lay helplessly prone. While on the other side of the room voices of small girls (or angels?) laughed and giggled singing to him. One rainy day while walking home from the bus that took him to school: SLUGS and SNAILS!

(1976) ~ By the time I was five years old I had learned to discern the difference between dreams and reality and had concluded that the “flying” was only a recurring dream I had always had. One day, however, I was most certainly awake...My parents were next door with my baby brother. I was alone in the house in the upstairs bedroom, lying on my stomach...I heard the giggling voices of many girls in the room, but when I turned to look there was noone (sic) there. Returning to my position on the bed I began to feel fingers jabbing me on the butt along with the giggling female voices. These ‘invisible hands’ had an acupuncture~like precision in their jabbing, causing me to laugh until it was painful and tears streamed from my eyes...This was my first experience with the supernatural...


The boy ran and ran in order to escape the dreary, cold silence and was met by sundry falling drops of moisture, falling upon his head and dripping off of his hair and onto his face. Rubbing the rain from his eyes (or trying to; the torrent was quite incessant!) the little boy gazed down only to be greeted by thousands and thousands of slugs and snails, stretching out in every direction! He was terrified to take a step, for fear of killing one of THEM; yet, if he remained still, they would begin to crawl all over him, wrapping themselves about his little toes, covering him in their slimy horror! The little boy panicked and began to bolt just as fast as he could; playing hopscotch with the mollusks. When he did accidentally bring his foot down upon an average girth slug, however, the creature let forth a chilling scream that vibrated every bone and deep crevice in his imagination or even estimation. He wasn’t quite sure the slug was dead until he actually saw it calling and motioning to the others to join him in battle (against the little boy)! The boy once again ran and ran as fast and as far away as he could, escaping the slug army! Just as he tried to catch a relieving breath though, he was once again confronted.


When the rain has seemed a long distant but not too far distant memory, trying to conceal itself in its survival mechanism of the natural chameleon created by memories of the far ago and long~distant past, the little boy awoke to discover that he was awakening into a field of flowers in all directions. There were not, fortuitously any voices or screams, but merely a mild soft and small slightly cool breeze, silhouetted very lightly against a blisteringly hot and furiously bright sun. It was after he had gotten up and walked about within the consciousness of his vision that he found the remnants of what was probably once a brick building. Slightly hovering over the tall flowers and grasses were a small multitude of floating buzzing great big fat old bees, two and three feet long and as big around as his neck! On account of, and out of the little boy’s fear and great respect, the bees and the little boy formed a subconscious trust or pact that both parties would heretoforward leave each other bee!


After the little boy spent considerable time watching the ocean and didn’t feel quite so little anymore (as his consciousness was expanded with the knowledge of hope given to him by the vast bodies of mellow waters) he continued to travel; his tired feet somehow finding the energy to persevere against the boredom and fatigue surrounding his fragile memory. He came upon a park in the midst of a large pond surrounded by a coniferous forest of a somewhat diminutive proportion. To his surprise he was met in front of his eyes by a bench. When he sat upon it, he found it gave way underneath of him, for the bench was constructed of a shiny durable rubber that had the texture of wood~grain. The air smelt of strawberry incense and even though it was still well into the afternoon he could see the stars and comets of the night~time sky super~imposed across the daytime cloudy sunny blue~fuschia sky! The tiny white lights confused him as they blinked on and off in random sequence and swirled into a fractal~pattern in the air above him. He did not stay long!


The little boy walked very slowly past the fallen pine~cone dirty, and slowly turning sandy trail, past the great rocks up the hill to the top of a small mountain. When he reached the pinnacle he found himself looking wide~eyed~like at a vast ocean scenery as the sunlight attempted to fill his eyes with a beautiful vision of hope; the sea~gulls echoing past in clusters of five, then three and then two, circling as they screeched their calling communicatory cries across the seemingly painted blue skies dotted with pure~white cotton clouds. Well, he just climbed his little butt down the mountain and sat at the bottom of a large naturally~formed bowl in the warm sand and watched the ocean waves speak to him in mild crashes and carbonated in circular flows and swirling currents...

© Copyright 2007 Amriel (amriel at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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