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Year: 2020. . audience score: 24 Vote. Genre: Documentary. 150minute. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle sea miracle. I have a picture of me standing next to that column I was there. For someone with short-term memory loss, finding the answer to any question is a task in itself. When the question is "what is reality? ", things get far worse. This is a short story I wrote for r/WritingPrompts Birthday Contest where the first part of the story required a Investigator type character and the second part, a scavenger character. I hope you enjoy it! Yes, it is the Turing test that says if you are human or robot. This didn’t worry me so much. I knew I wasn’t a robot. But was I real? I wanted to know if this was real—if I was. Is it? Are you? I intended to find out. My fascination didn’t begin with a simple question. It began with an accident. It was December 17th, 2015 when a competent driver lost control on a patch of black ice, sending their Toyota Camry off the road and onto the neighbouring sidewalk. I happened to be walking on that sidewalk and I discovered later that I was not built to halt the advance of a 2500-pound vehicle. I found that out 8 months later. In that 8 months, I saw many things. I saw my diploma jump out of my mother’s living room window only to devour the mailman; then regain its paper qualities and float to the ground. I felt the wind of a fatal fall fly past me, opening to a wide patch of grass below. When I reached the bottom, I simply stood and walked away. And I knew things weren’t so. You can only see so many otters enjoying an afternoon espresso before you start realizing this world isn’t right. I am dreaming or I am dead. If I’m dead, when will I stop teleporting between sunny beaches and snowy mountains? If I’m dreaming, why can’t I wake up? These questions passed through my mind along with the wavy abstraction that accompanies such a deep dream state. Perhaps that is why I remember them. Still, you can imagine the relief when I awoke to a fluorescent light bulb overhead and a call on the PA system for a “code white”. It turned out the “code white” should not have been as relieving as I felt at that time for it hijacked my doctor and nurses for 20 minutes, leaving me entirely alone. In that time, I managed to twist my ankle getting out of bed. So bad in fact, that “[I] may not walk straight for the next 8 months. ” My doctor was exaggerating, of course, it would only be 2. The real blessing was, I wouldn’t remember this. I wouldn’t remember any of it if not for my mother’s obsessive recording. You see, my mother was not so well-versed in English. When she realized she could record conversations instead of re-enacting them later, she began her grand campaign to archive more content than the CIA. As I said, this was the blessing. My memory only extended a day or two at best. Her videos are the only link I have left to the past. They move against my new ambition, telling me, “that’s you. You are real, even if you can’t remember. ” When my mother died, it was a difficult day—the next one wasn’t so bad. Often, I choose not to watch the video from that day. I’ve labeled the recording as, “eternal sadness of a lost mind. ” Not the most appealing name for someone that needs to read a letter in the morning just to remember who they are. So most days, I do not know where she is. Out with friends, maybe? I like to think that I think that. As you can imagine, keeping friends was not something I did very well after my accident. “Hey, you remember that problem I told you about a month ago? You know, that one with so-and-so? The one that did that thing? ” “No, ” I would say, “I don’t remember so-and-so or the thing they did. ” The only thing I remembered was who this ‘friend’ was. Memories like a poorly run sitcom with a main character who had my eyes, nose, and hair. He played with these people, joked with them, and when they realized I would never change again, they began to leave. So what finally sparked this dancing monkey to question the very nature of existence? Was it the gigabytes of recording on my computer, which could have been easily planted without my knowledge? Was it the accident that conveniently took away the only tool I had to wake up and realize that time had passed? Did I watch Inception and believe I was stuck somewhere in Limbo? It wasn’t any of this. It was an experiment that alarmed me. A repeat, not in my head but on paper. For reasons I never bothered to record, I began writing down the times of the bus arrivals outside my apartment window. There is a westbound and eastbound bus scheduled to arrive at 6:10 am for eastbound and 6:14 for westbound. Then, every half hour this would repeat. I usually missed the morning with all the “figuring out what's going on. ” But usually, before lunch, I would begin. The result was this: January 16th, 2018 Eastbound: 10:11:43 am, 10:40:35 am, 11:10:44 am, 11:56:12 am, 12:24:16 pm… Westbound: 10:14:40 am, 10:47:23 am, 11:22:01 am, 11:51:22 am, 12:50:11 pm (car accident up road)... Do you see it? Did you notice it while you read? If you did, you should see a doctor because there’s nothing in there that’s special. What was special happened on April 26th when the numbers repeated. Yes, even the car accident. The realization did not come quick. I had no memory of January 16th, 2018, other than a video file stating “nothing unusual”. Which, after my realization became very unusual. It was the car accident that tipped my curiousity. “How often did cars hit things? ” I said on the video on April 26th. “Wasn’t I in one of those? ” It turns out, it takes one hundred days. One hundred days for someone to drive their vehicle into another up James Street. Just bad enough to cause a 36 minute and 11 second delay. Coincidence or a flaw in the final product? If there was going to be any more evidence of this particular anomaly, I was sure it wouldn’t be in plain sight. It would be hidden, behind layers of other uneventful events, playing repeat in the background of our lives. This is when my obsession began. On Tuesdays, I lost an average of four hairs for every one minute of showering. This number increased when I shampooed. If I shampooed, this number grew to 12 but only on Wednesdays, on Tuesdays, it averaged to 11. The rest of the week was a mess. I decided to forgo counting any other days. It would drive me insane. In the end, the numbers were too erratic, like trying to find a secret pattern in a mosaic. A few other particularities included: a single strand of spaghetti that would inevitably fly out onto the floor when I cut a bunch above a boiling pot of water; there was always daylight on Fridays between the hours of 11 am and 12 pm; when the neighbour walked her dog, it would pee on the light post outside our apartment building. I ruled out the last one, though, when I remembered the territorial habits of the canine species. It really wasn’t peculiar at all. If I continued at that pace, I would have recorded of every raindrop, clipped toenail, growth enhancement commercial, muscle spasm, times my alphagetti soup spelled “ooo”, and if the news had any sort of story that wasn’t a bleak reflection of life. Luckily, I had the sense to stop. When the papers began to resemble a pile of 1’s and 0’s and I wasn’t granted unlimited power like Neo, I ditched it all. Time was precious. If I didn’t work on the right problem, I could wake up after twenty years with nothing but a hard drive worth of memories I never remembered. Now, what else could help? What started me on physics was the basic nature of science. Here, there were people constantly prodding at the edges of reality. Here, they talked in spacetime and hammered at the slabs of all creation. If I saw the colour purple and someone saw grey, was there another fatal flaw in the system? Since bees see differently, could they see past the veil I was trying to breach? Did they fly about their business watching my overlord tug the strings that helped me scuff at the man with the loud music? With so much out there, what was really happening? These questions found themselves on my nightstand, fridge and bathroom mirror. I searched for answers. I was doomed from the start. If, in a day, I could not summarize my findings, if I couldn’t put my thoughts into words, there was no chance. They would leave and I would never know I thought them. I could stick, “time is relative, here’s Einstein saying why, ” in my notebook or “in the beginning, there was nothing, which exploded. ” These just didn’t work. They didn’t tell me what I needed to know. They were thoughts and thoughts ran away from me like the girls in elementary school—when I was young, sicko. So, the only advice I gave myself that was actually useful was simple: “talk to people about reality. ” I posted an ad seeking, “an individual looking for the ultimate answer. Is life real? ” Among the slew of stoners and philosophers, the one that caught my attention responded simply with, “that’s me. ” This brought me to Brodney Luo, a homeopath of all people. She lived on the border of Chinatown and Koreatown in an apartment, home to herself and a nest of cockroaches. “The rent is cheap and the food is great, ” she would say, “if we’re really here. ” She was a small thing, Asian descent with a mix of European somewhere down the line. Her hair was always shoulder-length, black and shimmering. In every recording, her scleras were red and she seemed to always be biting her nails. I asked her once if I made her nervous and she assured me it wasn’t me. Unlike me, her fascination began in 1999 with the release of The Matrix. The second blow came that same year with Fight Club. It didn’t help that 1999 was the precursor to Y2K, the apocalypse of the 20th century. What better time to instill a teenager that life was but a passing wind smooching with a brick wall. We frequented coffee on Mondays and Fridays and I learned about a wonderful art called meditation. I tried and tried to push myself beyond the third dimension. I felt my body lift from itself. I felt the weight of the world pushing at my feet. It was romantic, intimate even, to feel my mind expand over the world, like a blanket or a glazed donut. But, of course, it didn’t go beyond that. Perhaps, that’s when I should have stopped. “If you can sink deep enough, maybe you’ll find a light. You can see our creators, ” she said on July 1st. I know that because, for the first time, I recorded her that day instead of myself. She seemed to have a way of speaking like an oracle on the edge of the sea. Yet, I never saw the storm. After that recording, she began popping up in others. She even began labeling the files: “Rainy Monday”, “Terrific Thursday”, “Sunday Love”. These were far more ambiguous than my usual labels. They didn’t tell me anything I’d want to know. What does a “Sunday Love” say about our conversations? How does that break the line of reality? Does love conquer all? Please. A week later, things were back to normal with a recording labeled, “question, still no answer. ” It must have been a Thursday when she didn’t show. I labeled that day, “Brodney, no show. ” This continued for the next few days until another recording was labeled, “Brodney suicide, says coffee clerk. ” I couldn’t believe it. In the recording, I walked up to the barista at the cafe and asked her to repeat what she said. I needed her to say it. I needed to hear it word for word. “A customer told us yesterday. I’m sorry for your loss, ” she said. For some reason, I asked, “which one? ” It was a miracle that file ever made it onto my computer. The rest of the day was filled with bottomless bottles of vodka. I nearly set my apartment on fire, knocking a scented candle Brodney bought me onto the floor. Ceramic doesn’t burn, thankfully. I passed out sometime after 2 pm, my camera facing the door until it too, died. Brodney loved me, so a sheet of paper on my lamp said. But my condition must have been torture. Imagine already questioning what was real and waking up to someone screaming, “who are you?! ". Then, every day, as if on repeat, you kickstarted this person back into your frame of mind, only to see the same glassed eyes in the morning. It must have broke her. It would suffice to say that this death hit me harder than my mother’s. In my head, my mother was still alive. She was off on vacation and the memories of her still lingered like living pictures on the wall. Brodney I couldn’t place. She was in my records, yes, her handwriting was different, yes, so she couldn’t be imagined. I even had a note she left me when I visited her old apartment—is it old now that her new home is in the afterlife? But I couldn’t figure out what it meant. “Reality is pending, ” the note said. And every morning I pondered what this could mean. Was there a switch I forgot to flick on? Would a news story flash on the television claiming, “reality seems to have faulted today. We’re waiting for a middle-aged man with short-term memory loss to turn it back on. ” Obviously, the news story never came and with each day, August 4th approached. Another chance for the bus schedule to repeat. August 4th, the day came and went. Again, the times aligned, again the 12:14 pm bus was delayed by 36 minutes and 11 seconds. Reality is pending, huh? Was “reject” an option? I could handle it, I really could. There was nothing left to look for. I had found a flaw in the fabric of reality but what did it matter? I tried calling out to the sky but nothing changed. Brodney’s gone, my mother’s gone and every hundred days, I’ll awake to find the same peculiarity. One that no one will believe or have the patience to wait for. The answer was there but what difference did it make if I couldn’t use it? In the video yesterday, I explained all this to myself, everything. After watching it today, I reached the same conclusion he did. If a story can’t continue, it must end. For kicks, I took the Turing test just to see if I was indeed, human. This would all be easier if I was a robot. A virus-filled box, short-circuited from some God-knowing accident. But I passed. It was worth the shot. As I readied myself, moments from kicking the chair, a letter slipped through my mail slot. “Probably a bill, ” I thought but there was enough doubt to check. I loosened the rope from my neck and stepped down from the chair. It was a plain white envelope, no return address, not even a stamp. Inside was a sheet of paper, blank except for one word in the center: “Stop. ” I wake. The sun peeks through the blinds, annoyingly in my eyes. It must still be early. The clock reads 6:30 am. This is disheartening for two reasons: the first being my eyes are still heavy, which means I didn’t get enough sleep and two, I don’t hear the sound of my mother getting ready for work. Next to my clock is a letter. “Hey Alf, Wakie wakie, haha! Man, you shouldn’t drink so much. Meet me downstairs when you’re ready. Your pal, Habair. ” Is that why I’m so tired? I thought I quit drinking. It always made me depressed. Once at a party, it made me so sad, I spent the night petting my friend’s cat until I passed out on the basement floor. Concrete doesn’t make a good mattress; I could barely walk the next day. I thought I stopped drinking after that. And who was Habair? He must be one hell of a con to get me drinking. God, and my head. What the fuck happened last night? In the bathroom mirror, I find the culprit. A red and black bruise sits swollen on the right side of my widow’s peak—like someone tried to smash this ugly hairline out of existence. On the mirror was a note. “Nasty fall, man. Make sure to put some cream on it. ” Cream? Really? I needed ice and coffee. Ice to actually help it and coffee to get me going. I can’t remember a thing. And where is Mom? “Mom! ” I yell. She’s not in her room. The white sheets are matted tight, pillows fluffed. She must have left. Did she tell me she was going? I can’t remember anything. I watch the coffee drip into the pot, filling the kitchen with that bittersweet aroma. If coffee tasted that good, I wouldn’t have to drown it in cream and sugar. Cream, maybe I should put some on my head. The coffee feels nice on my hands. I notice a paper pinned to the fridge. There’s a news cutout with a car, twisted, resembling a pile of scrap metal. “Man survives grizzly car crash, driver lost, ” the title says. I search the article for the part where the grizzly bear drives into the man but can’t find it. In fact, there’s no mention of a grizzly bear at all. It turns out a woman was driving the car and hit a patch of black ice. She hit a pedestrian on the sidewalk and then spun into a light post. The car wrapped around like a piece of putty, squeezing her into the metal glob. She died instantly while the man somehow survived. The coffee rises to my lips. I don’t know this is happening; my body has taken control. It needs the coffee to process this. My lips burn but it gives my mind the jolt it needs to read the next two words properly. “Alfonso Sanchez, ” I read. Alfonso Sanchez. That’s me. The cup floats to the counter, having accomplished its mission. I tear the article off the fridge. I survived this? Now my head really hurt. I read it again. Then again. “Alfonso Sanchez was taken to All Hope Hospital where he currently resides in an induced coma. ” “Date: December 17th, 2015” The date on my phone reads August 6th, 2018. This accident was almost three years ago… What? Outside my living room window, the street is lazy with early morning traffic. There’s the occasional racer but most drive by slowly, still waking from their slumbers. Across the street, the “Donar Express” is now a “Domino’s Pizza” and over the buildings, the city has grown, now dotted with cranes and condos. “2 and a half years, huh? ” I whisper. My head throbs. What else could have changed? For one, there’s only one contact left on my phone. Habair. I now have only one friend named Habair. Apparently, he was waiting for me downstairs. Maybe he has some answers. I put on my shoes and head to the lobby. The elevator opens to white granite walls and flooring. Another change, not even a renovation in progress, a renovation finished. There is a man in blue checking the automatic door-opener. “You should’ve just changed these when you gutted the place, ” he says to a man in a pink dress shirt. “Only had a year left in them. ” The other man shakes his head and looks down at his phone. Before I can take in any more of this conversation, someone in a black shirt and jeans rises from a set of leather chairs and walks towards me. He smiles how an old friend smiles when they haven’t seen you in ages—arms stretched out as if I’m supposed to fall into them. I stare blankly and ask, “Habair? ” “Of course! ” he says and grabs me by the shoulder. “Oh dear, it looks even worse today. I told you to be careful! ” He is looking at the blotch of decaying skin cells on my forehead. The skin cells I had forgotten about until now. Now that I remembered it, the pain came back. “Yeah, ” I say, “it must have been quite the fall. ” “Ah, yes, you wouldn’t remember. ” He hums and shakes his head. “About that. ” “You might want to sit down, ” he says and gestures to the chairs. “$1500! ” yells the businessman. “Plus new doors, ” says the repairman, “the hole pattern is different. It’ll widen that hole too much and could pop right out. ” “Ridiculous. ” I sit on one of the leather seats and Habair snaps his fingers. He has my attention again. “You had an accident, ” he begins saying. I fill in the details for him. “I read it on the newspaper clipping, ” I say. “Was it really that long ago? ” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid so. ” “But why… how don’t I know this? ” I ask. “I feel like I jumped forward in time. All I remember are these weird dreams and then… my life. But it’s distant, like… I don’t know, like I just made a painting or something and the moment I finished, it blurred. The details are all gone. ” “Don’t you have the note? ” he asks. “What note? ” “The note, by your bed. ” “The one you left? ” “No, ” Habair shakes his head and smiles. It would probably kill him to frown. “The note you left yourself. The one that talks about your condition. ” He began explaining it. The condition I have; the short-term memory loss. “And you, ” I say pointing my finger. He raises his hands as if I told him to stick ‘em up. “How did I meet you? ” He smiles and lowers his arms. “A happy accident, ” he says. “I moved in here last year. A few times I found you here mumbling on about ‘what day is it? ’ and ‘what’s changed in the world? ’ I learned pretty quick how little you’d remember. ” “So… have we talked about this? ” I ask. “Oh yes, ” he says, “many times. And many more times I’m sure. ” “Do I ever remember? ” He shakes his head and for the first time, a frown falls on his face. I feel like I just kicked a puppy. “No, ” he says, “but someone has to watch after you. ” “What about my Mom? ” His eyes widen then relax. “I don’t know, was she not home? ” “No. ” “She must be on vacation still. ” My eyes fall to the floor. They trace the cracks along the granite tiles, observing the blotches in the seams. Nothing’s ever perfect. A sense of hopelessness falls over me. What is this life? He lets me sit in silence. If this isn’t the first time this happened, he must know how I feel right now. He must watch this face churn as my neurons fire signals into a void. When nothing fires back, I scratch my head and try again. Eventually, they move on, piecing together a puzzle and presenting it back to me. “This is your life now, ” it says in comic sans. Choice is no longer my reality. “So what do I do? ” I ask finally. “What do I do after this? ” “Well, sometimes we hang out, sometimes you wander off. It’s never the same really. If it's raining you tend to go out for whatever reason. When it’s sunny and nice, you stay inside. I don’t get it. ” “And last night? ” “It was raining, ” he says with a laugh. “We went to an Irish pub and hammered back some Guinness until you started getting sick. ” “But I don’t drink. You must have pushed me to. ” He cocks his head back and looks back into my eyes. “Well, I don’t want to drink alone. Want to grab another? I heard it helps with a hangover. ” I look outside and see the dark shadows on the buildings. The darkness deepened by the sunlight above. Maybe I’ll just stay inside today. It’s a lot to take in, if I’m not careful, maybe I’ll get an aneurysm. Maybe I already have. How would I know? I spend the rest of the day watching the news, trying to catch up, not believing tomorrow, it’ll all disappear. August 15th, 2018 I wake, the sky is... August 28th, 2018 I wake and the sky is clear… September 10th, 2018 My lips burn... September 17th, 2018 I wake… Habair wants me to meet him downstairs…. December 2nd, 2018 I meet Habiar downstairs... March 12th, 2019 I wake… there’s cranes and condos. May 31st, 2019 I wake… I meet Habair downstairs. September 1st, 2019 There’s an article on the fridge… I meet Habair… December 16th, 2019 I wake… there’s a letter, worn and wrinkling... my lips burn… I go downstairs to meet Habair…. He’s not here. I sit on the leather chair facing the windows. It looks dark outside with the buildings blocking the morning sun. An old couple use the automatic door and bring in a bag of groceries. The groceries bounce on the frame of the old man's walker. They shake their head at me as they walk by. Nice to meet you too. The next people passing by act the same. They look and stare but none seem to muster a smile. Had I done something to them? Perhaps they had all wanted me dead and the car accident didn’t take care of that. Now they were trying different means; maybe scowls will do the trick. I wouldn’t bet on it. When the clock strikes 12, my stomach rumbles. I’ll have come back after lunch. Figuring out what’s going on is going to be worse on an empty stomach. And who knows what time he meant to be here, he didn’t even say on the note. He can do the waiting. I pop some chicken fingers in the oven; I never was much of a cook. As the oven warms, I check the dates of the other foods. To my surprise, there isn’t an expired piece of anything in the fridge. At least it meant Mom still cared for me. She never did waste time keeping old stuff. While the fingers cook, I turn on my computer and load YouTube. It doesn't look right... I don’t remember it looking like this. Who are these people? Where did all the good people go? In my hunger slumber, I close the browser. My patience is thin like… like four slices of black forest ham on toasted rye, topped with melted provolone and arugula. I never was much of a cook but sandwiches were an exception. Instead of searching through this new YouTube, I dive into my computer. Back when the torrent websites were being taken down left and right, I decided to store all my downloads deep in my computer. I’m sure they would’ve been found in seconds if my computer was seized, but I felt safe knowing it might take them a few seconds longer. Among the classics, The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, and 21 Jump Street, there’s a folder named, “Memories”. Among the files are, “eternal sadness of a lost mind”, “Sunday Love”, and “Brodney Suicide, says coffee clerk. ” The videos are made by me mostly, sometimes by this woman named Brodney. We’re searching for something, talking about metaphysical stuff—existence, reality. The smell of burning chicken snaps me away. I start chopping the blackened bit of breading off the chicken. Why did I stop these videos? It would have been very helpful. I return to the computer and notice the last video was made August 6, 2018. I keep watching and hours roll by. There’s a knock at the door. My knee meets the underside of my desk. I didn’t notice how focused I had become. The world felt like it drifted away. Maybe that’s something old me never felt. I think he would’ve liked it. There’s a man outside in a black shirt and jeans. His features are sharp and hair slicked back. He knocks again. “I’m sorry I was late! ” he says. I open the door. “Are you Habair? ” I ask. “Yes, your friend Habair. Can I come in? ” “You never said what time. ” “What? ” “What time to meet you. ” “Oh, yes, ” he looks down at his hands, “it’s supposed to be in the morning. I was stuck in a meeting. ” He smiles for some reason. Is that supposed to make me believe him? It’s a Sunday. “Alright, well, come in. ” I gesture him in. He might know something. “What is it we were meeting for? ” He steps inside, keeping his shoes on. I watch his eyes scan the apartment and fall to my desk. He takes a step towards it and nods his head. “So, you’ve watched them? ” he asks. “For hours, ” I tell him. “Do you know what they are? ” “Yes. ” He begins explaining my condition then goes onto my obsession with reality. Apparently, it became so bad I tried committing suicide. “They had a bring in paramedics to tear the door down. ” I look at the door. Paramedics don’t do that. Who’s ever seen a paramedic tear down a door? What did they do, chisel it away with a syringe? “How did I do it? ” “You tried to hang yourself, ” he says and points up the wooden support beam that runs across the living room. “They found the rope there. ” The beam was certainly sturdy enough. Sometimes I’d do pull-ups to gauge how weak I had become since the last time I tried. I rarely surprised myself. Anyway, it was plausible and he seemed to know a lot about this day. Strange that I never mentioned him in the videos. “Do you want something to drink? ” I ask him. “I need some water. All this talking is making me thirsty. ” “No, no, I’m fine, ” he says, taking a seat on my grandmother’s rocking chair. “Do what you need to, I’ll be here. ” I open the cupboard and see an old mug from my mother. “I love you, Son, ” it says. She gave to me on my thirtieth birthday. Tears begin to well as I remember the video telling me she was dead. It gives me an idea, though. “I’m actually going to have some tea. Did you want some? ” I yell to the living room. “I’m fine, thank you! ” Habair yells back. I fill the kettle. The coils surge with electricity and it rumbles like an oncoming train. Maybe I could trust Habair. Maybe he was an honest friend who spoke to enough neighbours to know what happened. Something behind his smile told me otherwise, though. That, and the fact my door was the exact same wooden slab from when we moved in. I checked above the handle while we talked. There were 4 digits etched into the wood; the combination to open the lock. My mother carved it when she realized her memory was failing her. She would read it before leaving and if you followed her you’d hear her hum those four digits, “3, 5, 6 3. ” I sometimes worried the wrong person might hear her and think it was her bank card pin, only to be declined after an insensitive robbery. Luckily, that never happened. The kettle clicks and I pour the boiling water on a bag of Orange Pekoe. I then douse it with cream and sugar. Just like the coffee, it’s the only thing that makes it bearable. In the living room, Habair waits, flipping through a book on the coffee table. “ Duma Key by Stephen King. Any good? ” he asks. “Don’t know. My Mom made the collection. I could never keep up. ” “I see. ” “Do you know where she is? ” “You don’t know? ” he asks, his face scrunching. “I guess you don’t. She’s on vacation. ” He smiles. There’s a pause. I feel the cold steel of my knife in my sweater’s sleeve. He seems to notice something’s changed. Before I say another word, he’s out of his chair and heading for the door. He manages to open it but I grab him by the collar, pulling him back. He falls to the floor. I lock the door and draw my knife. I don’t know what’s happening to me but I want more answers. Habair pushes himself back against the couch and he closes his eyes. I grab him by the shirt and push him up on the seat. Again, he closes them and I slap him across the face. His eyes stay open this time as he watches the knife, inches away. “What’s gotten into you, man!? ” he yells. “My Mom is dead! ” “A long vacation, that’s what I meant. You—” I tighten my grip on his neck. He wiggles out, “you’ll see her one day. ” “The day I tried to kill myself. Where were you? ” His eyes are piercing, demanding my attention. Meanwhile, time ticks and no answers come. I push the knife closer. “You seemed to know a lot about it, ” I say. “Were you here? ” “Y-yes, ” he says. “Broken door and all? ” “Yes. ” I push the tip of the blade into his cheek. Not by much, just enough to know he’s real. A red bead forms on the tip. “What are you hiding?! ” His muscles relax. Not only does he smile but his eyes smile too. Laughter follows. I take my hand off his throat but leave the knife close. “Do you know what makes this real? ” he asks. “What? Answer my questions. ” He laughs some more. “Fine. I was here the day you tried to kill yourself. I called you to the door and knocked you out when you opened it. Then I took all those triggers you gave yourself to remember what you were doing and trashed them. ” “You forgot the videos. ” “No, ” he says, “it makes for more interesting content. But by the time you realize what’s going on, it’s usually late and you go to sleep. And the next morning, it’s like nothing happened. ” “But… how did you, ” I can’t get the right words out. How did he… “Maybe it’s time you answer my question: do you know what makes this real? ” “What real? ” “This, everything, life. ” “I don’t know, God? ” I answer. Habair laughs. “No, you do. This isn’t reality but it is to you. ” Is this what those videos were questioning? So many had titles with “reality” in them. Did he have the answers I was looking for? “If this isn’t, then what is? ” He cranes his neck, making more space between his neck and my knife. I follow him. “You wouldn’t like reality, believe me, ” he says. “Not if this is the world you built yourself. ” “Try me. ” “Reality is a bleak landscape of red, stretching on for eternity. No one has reached the end, even after 100 million eras. Above hangs an ever-present light, shading whatever it touches in yellow. The sky is grey and we don’t have the resources to build anything with colour. We eat the soil and give back to the soil. There are homes and ruins scattered throughout but it always ends the same—they are abandoned because they are not needed. ” “So what? You built these worlds for yourself to wander in like some video game? Am I one of you trapped inside? ” “No, you don’t get it. You built this, you’re still building it. ” “So I am one of you? ” He shakes his head. “You want to know what you really are? ” “Yes. ” “Do you even know what Alf stands for? ” he says. “Alfonso. ” “Artificial Lifeform. All of you find someway to forget that. ” “I… I don’t understand…” “You’re an amorphous mass of neurons, abandoned like thousands of others. A failure left to rot away while the next one is created. You sit in a bath, fed nutrients from the soil and each nerve fires away, building each piece of this world. You brought this all into existence. “Bullshit. ” “You continue to define it all—explain it. Always it’s growing. Every action has a reaction. What you are is nothing; what you imagine to be is everything. And when you die, it’ll all disappear. ” “Bullshit! ” “It’s true. You’re a mass of neurons far greater than that one sitting in your head. You all start the same. A few connections here, a few there. You can’t remember much of your childhood, can you? ” “No one can. ” “Because your world was just building. ” The words pile, like stacked books over the memories of my life. Everything was nothing? All a story I created? “So what? You just like to come and visit, see what’s new? ” “This world is special, ” he says. “So many end up like the real world; their landscapes stretch on endlessly. There’s no flavour—no life. Some don’t even give rise to a body. When I'm inside I just float aimlessly. And I wait until I fall asleep. But not you. No, the one that threw you out never would’ve imagined you made this. When I found you, that’s when I knew I had something special. ” “Well, it must have got a whole lot boring watching me do the same thing over again. ” “That was on purpose. ” I tilt my head, letting my body ask the question I can’t muster. “It was remarkable how your mind created the car accident. How it created your condition. You see, my clients want to experience your world. They want your memories. When I took the first one, I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if you’d live or die. But you went into a coma in this world and came right out. So I tried again. This time, there was no coma, you just didn’t remember the day before. So every night, I scavenge your memories as I do with all the abandoned Alf’s. But you, you are the best. ” “And if I kill you? ” I ask, pressing the blade against his neck. “Then I die and you create all the struggles you’ll go through to get rid of a dead body in this world. I can return as someone else. ” “And if I kill myself? ” “That’s it. No more world and I keep searching for another Alf like you. ” I don’t notice his eyes shut. When I do, he is asleep. I slap him, stab his arm, pour cold water over him but nothing wakes him. He is gone. I try to stay awake. The coffee, the sugar, the lights. I try and wonder what waits at the end of this blade. What if I do go and end this all? The hours count down. Then the minutes and each second begins to feel like a day, every hour a month and the day… Eventually... December 17th, 2019 I wake and the room is dark… my lips burn… I go downstairs to meet Habair. The sun comes out… I turn on my computer… there’s a folder of movies. Hmm, The Matrix. That’ll do.

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THE LORD GOD PARTED THE RED SEA.🌊🌊🌊. Download patterns of evidence 3a the red sea miracle dj. Download patterns of evidence 3a the red sea miracle lyrics. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle water. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle sea miracle movie. Anyone know the name of the doc. that shows the remnants of the broken chariot wheels. Download patterns of evidence the red sea miracles.

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Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle movie. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miraclethe red sea miracle. Download Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea miracle. So lets see if I understand. Jericho was destroyed in about 1610 BC. Exodus = 1650 - 40 yrs in wilderness = 1610 BC. So if I did C14 dating of charcoal in the Jericho ruin, I would get a range of likely dates that included 1610 BC. If Not, Why Not. I understand how C14 testing works and I know one way the dates can be wrong ! Any sample contaminated with Oil ( petroleum type of oil) Will date much older that it really is because oil takes many years to form underground so the percent of carbon from oil has very low levels of C 14 ( C14 only forms when an organism is alive ) conversely the atmosphere might contain higher levels (higher percentage )of C14 ever since above ground nuclear testing began last century. Somethings might test younger than they truly are.

Michael Foust Contributor 2020 13 Feb COMMENTS In the 1956 classic movie The Ten Commandments, filmmaker Cecil B. DeMille depicted millions of Israelites crossing the desert, only to get stuck between an Egyptian army and the Red Sea, which God miraculously parted so they could survive. Many modern-day liberal scholars, though, doubt that’s the way it happened – and their disbelief has led some Christians astray. Modern-day filmmaker Tim Mahoney is one of these Christians who formerly had a crisis of faith about the biblical narrative. But instead of living a life of doubt, Mahoney set out to find archaeological evidence for the Old Testament story. His latest movie, Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea Miracle, Part 1, will land in theaters for one night only, Feb. 18, and examine the archaeological evidence for the Israelites’ crossing of the desert. ( The Red Sea Miracle, Part 2 will appear in theaters May 5. ) Here are three reasons to watch The Red Sea Miracle: Photo courtesy: ©Tim Mahoney 1. It Will Strengthen Your Faith The Israelites’ Exodus from Egypt and the crossing of the Red Sea are well-known stories among Christians. But among many scholars, such stories are viewed with skepticism. Did the Israelites cross a massive sea that would have required a miracle from God (as depicted in movies by Cecil B. DeMille), or was the body of water far more shallow (and easily crossable by foot)? This debate also involves the route the Israelites took out of Egypt. Scholars who doubt the biblical narrative claim the Israelites couldn’t have survived a lengthy walk through the desert. They also say there likely were thousands, and not millions, of people on the journey. The Bible tells us (in Exodus 13) that God led the people out of Egypt along a “desert road toward the Red Sea. ” It is on this journey that God guided them with a “pillar of cloud” and a “pillar of fire. ” “The big miracle, some people would say, is the parting of the sea, ” Mahoney told Crosswalk. “But the other miracle is the journey – and that God provided for them. ” Mahoney travels the globe and interviews experts in both camps, but lands on the side of Scripture. Photo courtesy: ©Tim Mahoney 2. It Simplifies the Complex The Red Sea Miracle, Part 1 is the latest in a series of documentary films by Mahoney about the Old Testament narrative. In each one, he takes a complicated subject involving archaeology and ancient history and simplifies it for the average person, using plain language and graphics. “It's something that I'm called to do, ” said Mahoney, who recently screened the film at the Ark Encounter in Kentucky. In Patterns of Evidence: Exodus (2014), he examined the archaeological evidence and the timeline for the Egyptians owning and then releasing millions of Hebrew slaves. In Patterns of Evidence: The Moses Controversy (2019), he looked at the authorship of the Pentateuch (Genesis-Deuteronomy) and the question of whether Moses wrote it. The Red Sea Miracle, Part 1, examines the various routes the Israelites could have taken and which body of water could have been crossed. Red Sea Miracle, Part 2 (May 5) will spotlight the actual Red Sea miracle itself. In each film, Mahoney is searching for “patterns of evidence” that match the biblical events. “The Scriptures tell us that they're divine and that we can trust them. And I agree with that, ” Mahoney told Crosswalk, explaining his purpose behind the films. “But even with the disciples, it helped that Jesus showed up after the resurrection – even though he told them certain things were going to happen. Jesus understood that the human nature needed to sometimes see with your eyes and touch with your fingers. ” Photo courtesy: ©Tim Mahoney 3. It’s Fascinating … and Well-Done The Red Sea Miracle is like sitting in a college classroom and learning about an intriguing subject. Yet this class involves the greatest story ever told: God’s story. “Millions believe this was a supernatural act revealing God’s glory to the nations, ” the narration tells us at the beginning of the film. “Did this event take place as recorded in the Bible, and if so, where did it happen? ” Like a good college professor, Mahoney puts a little doubt in your mind before solving the puzzle. “There's a tension between a naturalistic view of the Scripture and what the scripture is actually saying, ” Mahoney told Crosswalk. Mahoney began tackling the subject when he was facing a crisis of faith. “I feel as if I have been guided providentially to information to help others, ” he said. “I'm taking people on a personal journey of discovery, but I found out that a lot of people are asking the same questions. ” Visit Related: 4 Reasons to Watch Patterns of Evidence: The Moses Controversy Photo courtesy: ©Tim Mahoney Michael Foust has covered the intersection of faith and news for 20 years. His stories have appeared in Baptist Press, Christianity Today, The Christian Post, The Leaf-Chronicle, the Toronto Star and the Knoxville News-Sentinel.

It's one of the greatest miracles in the Bible; Moses and the Israelites trapped at the sea by Pharaoh's army when God miraculously parts the waters, rescuing the Israelites and destroying Pharaoh and his chariots. But is there any evidence that it r... more It's one of the greatest miracles in the Bible; Moses and the Israelites trapped at the sea by Pharaoh's army when God miraculously parts the waters, rescuing the Israelites and destroying Pharaoh and his chariots. But is there any evidence that it really happened and if so, where? - Feb 18 & May 5 only. That's what investigative filmmaker Timothy Mahoney set out to discover 18 years ago and now he is ready to share what's been uncovered; a controversy between two dramatically different approaches in reading the biblical text. One approach is Egyptian, the other is Hebrew. Both will lead to two very different conclusions on the location of the Exodus crossing site and the cause of the miraculous parting of the sea. GENRE: Program MPAA RATING: RUN TIME: 150 minutes RELEASE DATE: February 18, 2020 STARRING: DIRECTOR(S): PRODUCER(S): WRITER(S): STUDIO: Fathom Events OFFICIAL MOVIE WEBSITE:.

YouTube. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle video. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle game. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle sea miracle trailer. Download Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea miracle contre. Download patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle youtube. Dear Mrs Wyatt. As a Muslim I believe that Ron Wyatt was selected by God to make all these discoveries and Ron has not only united the world he has uncovered the historical artifacts which God has preserved all over the world. In my own neighborhood the name of Ron Wyatt is remembered as the greatest explorer in the world. Its the You tube videos from you that have developed a world wide following. SHAHULHAMEED. God harden pharaohs heart, unbelieving humans will always deny no matter how much evidence is presented. Only God can change your heart, but satan wants to take as many souls that he can before Jesus returns.

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It was 2003, I was like 2 years old when I watched this at my grandparents home. Jesus Christ will raise up Ron on the last day the Man who discovered His Precious Holy Blood and many more Amazing of Gods wonders on this world.

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Biography: The new animated film 'The Pilgrim's Progress' releases Oct 25 in UK cinemas (safe for children 8+). Click below to see if it's playing near you:

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