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WARNING: HYPERSPACE
IS NOT A WORK OF SCIENCE-FICTION.
THIS NOVEL IS FOR ADULTS ONLY–
MINORS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED ACCESS TO THIS WORK.
what if?
[Why are we suicidal?]
ALIEN ABDUCTION
PLANET EARTH–>SELF-PROGRAMMED FOR SUICIDE
Are ETs real?
Is suicide real?
The urgency of the danger faced by you, your family, your children!
A 15 MINUTE READ WILL REVEAL TO YOU DETAILS AS TO WHY WE ARE MEMBERS OF A SPECIES POSSESSED OF A COMPULSION TO SELF-ANNIHILATE.
WARNING: HYPERSPACE IS NOT IS NOT A WORK OF SCIENCE-FICTION. THIS NOVEL IS FOR ADULTS ONLY–MINORS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED ACCESS TO THIS WORK.
What follows is the strangest story I have ever witnessed claiming to be true. I use the word “witnessed” because the person relating this narrative drew such detailed descriptions of his purported overall experience, of brain trauma thrust upon the young (newborns in particular) and its catastrophic results, and of the concrete physical danger of mass slaughter or extinction in which our species currently finds itself, that it was as if I myself were with him; as if I myself had undergone the event.
I concede it would be natural for one to think I am posting this account because in it my novel HYPERSPACE became a focal point of the interlocution between the narrator and the two “personages” it describes. Anyone who thinks in this manner is correct! In fact, I do not know the narrator. My encounter with him in which he described his experience was the only contact I have had with him. How did he know me? True, he may have seen my book online. But what motive would he have to construct such a tale as the one that follows and then contact me? I accept the possibility that what he told me is true. Had he contacted me about an alien abduction without a reference to me or my book I may still have posted it. Believability would have to have been the gauge. The ETs’ persistent reference to my novel (according to the narrator), places his story within the realm of believability, at least for me. This does not prove his story true. But for me, it does make it believable. Why would the narrator invent such a scenario? What motive could he possibly have? He will receive no remuneration for relating his story. So it must be true! But after I tell myself that, lingering doubts persist. The reader must make up his or her own mind. I still have not made up mine.
There is no sense is wasting any more time. What follows, in his own words (typed out by yours truly) is the aforementioned narrative of the person whose story it is; a person whom I do not know; a person with whom, since his only contact with me, I have had no association. I do not even know his name. Harley is the only name by which I know him, and he assured me that the name Harley is pseudonymous. Whatever name was actually used with reference to the narrator in the event described below, Harley is the name used in this transcription. The words are exactly as Harley spoke them, including any grammatical errors that might exist within them. The only items extracted from the recording were coughs, pauses, and breathing sounds. Here now is Harley’s account.
I’ll start by saying I’m a regular guy, living to do my job, get through the day, no flights of fancy. I’m a statistician, for heaven’s sakes! It’s my job to think logically, to have my feet on the ground, figuratively for sure even if not literally! I don’t do drugs, by the way. My only drug is the caffeine in my coffee. So what explains the experience I am about to describe? It is either real, or I had a drug free hallucination which, if true, means I may be losing my mind. Yet I feel and think right now this moment as I always have…wanna do my job, get through the day with no flights of fancy. To me the experience I am about to describe was real. But isn’t that what all psychos say? Also, I don’t have any agenda apart from what I was directed to do by the people who directed me. I say people secure in the knowledge that despite their physical difference from homo sapiens (one of them in particular), they were sentient and intelligent. Maybe what I am about to tell you did happen. It sure seems to me like it happened!
Well, after a cup of that java I mentioned, early in the morning on the day the events began…oh, it was pretty damn early. I need a coupla hours before I get out of the house and travel to whatever client I’m working with on a given day. I like to get to the client early as possible. Real glad my current client likes to start early also. He’s a real estate executive who needs land values compared and contrasted with regard to their locales. He’s actually in his office seven AM sharp every day! I really feel like a slacker when I get there seven-thirty. So you can imagine how I felt about the day I didn’t show up!
That day! As I walked toward the front door I glanced at the wall clock: six-fifty AM. I opened the front door and stepped outside. I was instantly amazed at the darkness that confronted me! I looked straight forward outside into the dark and could literally see nothing. “Shit!” The word just shot out. “What the fuck is going on here?” Stan, I almost never use expletives! But those expletive filled remarks were not thought out in the slightest fashion. They were reflex reactions which I feel even now when thinking about what I was experiencing then. “I gotta get outa here,” I thought, and did an about face with the intention of reentering my house. But there was no house, just darkness. “Jesus Christ!” I blurted. “Where the hell am I.” At the same time I was amazed at the silence. Deep and still. That old cliche about “deafening silence”? I was in it, baby! I was in it! I know it was early in the morning, but any borough in New York City there ain’t no such thing as deafening silence any time of any day or night.
I have no idea how much time passed. I just knew that suddenly I was in a circle of blue light. It surrounded me. I looked up. The blue light extended upward past my vision. I looked down. The blue light extended downward past my vision. During the time period I was encased in cylindrical blue, occasionally a dull yellow area would appear on one side or the other of my encasement. I had no concept of the amount of time spent in the blueness, nor memory of any intermediary occurrence that may have been transfixed, as it were, between the cylindrical blue experience and the next consciously remembered experience, which happened to be a face! And quite a face! I mean, unique! The hair, the color, the clothing…Wait! I’m talking too fast. Let me slow down and go one step at a time. Let’s just take the face and hair…I mean, you really can’t talk about the one without talking about the other. The way the long hair hung, and its color–sort of a blend between light blond and albino white–seen next to his slightly elongated head and face, seemed to make that hair blend with the face in such a manner so as to appear a single feature! Because that skin…can’t really say it was white, or what we more accurately might refer to Caucasian texture as a light pink rosy color, or possibly ruddy. No! It was a light gold! So his hair did initially seem to be part of his skin. But as I sat there for a short time and took in the scene in more detail, I could clearly see that hair hanging down to his shoulders. Those shoulders, his entire body, was clothed in what I would have to say was a uniform of exquisite blue. I actually remember all this in detail, and that surprises me, because there is so much of my experience that I don’t remember. Well, whatever I remember, you’re gonna hear it. On his left shoulder was sort of a bright gold epaulette. No tassels or fringes. Just a golden area covering his shoulder. He was wearing two ornaments that I remember quite distinctly. I just assume they consisted of some kind of precious stone. The color of one was blue, but a lighter hue than that of his clothes, so there was a distinguishing contrast. But the stone constantly scintillated bright white flashes…I mean real white, blinding bright and flashing. It was small and circular… seemed to be attached to his clothes just below his neck. Another, larger stone, in the shape of a winged figure, was part of, or was attached to his uniform over his left breast. It was unmistakably a bird with outspread wings looking a little more than an inch wide from tip to tip. Its body–vertically placed, the small sharp beak pointed upward–looked to be approaching two inches long, including the tail. Outspread wings looked beige, had consecutive indentations running up and down across the wing…darn, there’s a word for that, can’t remember…
“Fluting,” I interrupted.
Yeah, that’s it. Each of the flutings spanned a wing’s length. The body was a light gold, and its spread tail was beige tinged with gold, also containing consecutive flutings spreading across, running up and down the tail’s length.
Well, this personage was standing before me. I was seated, but that’s one of the things I don’t remember. What was I seated on? What place was it? He was staring at me in an intense fashion which was when I noted that his eyes were a blue-gray. He had a high forehead, but not abnormally so; a straight nose neither excessively large or small; straight lips, I’d guess you’d say, neither smiling nor frowning…serious looking; and his light golden skin was as smooth as…I honestly can’t think of an analogy. I saw not the slightest wrinkle anywhere, including not the slightest hint of small pockets under those eyes of his. Just flat smoothness. Alabaster! That’s it! Smooth as alabaster! I’m not talking cliché here. If you ever saw an alabaster carving, smooth, almost shiny…that’s his skin!
“Do you feel well?” he asked. His voice’s sound was smooth as his skin, and comforting–the tone moderate, not alto and not bass. And I sort of felt the words inside me. I can’t say if I saw his lips moving…if he was using telepathy.
“I don’t know. Where am I?” was my answer.
He said, “in a ship.”
“What the heck am I doing here?” I asked him.
“You should not be alarmed. No harm will come to you,” was his response.
“Kidnapping is harmful,” I answered.
“Sometimes a modicum of force is required for a greater good. No physical harm to you will occur,” he said.
“Why am I here?” I thought I had a right to know what their intentions were.
He answered as follows: “Occasionally we select an individual for communication. We may like to gauge his individual situation, gauge the situation of his immediate environment, and also attempt as accurate a perception as possible, from this individual’s standpoint, of homo sapiens sapiens’ current status. In your case there is something more specific involved.”
“You think kidnapping and imprisonment of me is going to get answers out of me?” I felt amazed that they would kidnap someone with an expectation that he would cooperate with them on any level.
“You can relax, Harley,” he said. He knew my real name. “You will suffer no physical harm. It would be extremely inappropriate and unethical to treat you in the fashion to which you are now being subjected if we had no overriding reason to do so. I know how strange this is for you, but we do know of ethics. We are ethical. I’ll give you a choice: stay on this ship for the amount of time necessary for us to properly communicate, and if that is your choice, we will immediately move to a more comfortable area and you can have sustaining food and drink for this short interim. Or, if you prefer, you can come to our planet where you will be supplied with quite comfortable living space for the time of your visit. You will then know us better. Your fears will dissipate. Whatever is your choice, at the proper time you will be returned to your normal environment on Earth.”
“Where are you from?” I looked directly at him.
His response was a bit vague. “That’s difficult. The easiest truthful answer for the present time is to say the Pleiades, if you are familiar with astronomy from Earth’s perspective. But we go back farther. At a future time we may inform you with details concerning this.”
“Won’t a trip to your planet take a bunch of lifetimes?” I sort of wondered out loud to him.
“It will take minutes.” was his immediate response. Then he went on. “Our technology has the capacity for time/space forced curvature. We have no need to concern ourselves with the speed of light problem.”
“Hyperspace?” I asked. “I’m an old Isaac Asimov fan and I’m remembering something he wrote about called hyperjumps–how using hyperspace you get from one place in the galaxy to another.”
“That terminology can be applicable,” was his answer to my hyperspace question.
Next I told him I was still having trouble convincing myself I’m not dreaming or hallucinating, mentioning to him as I have to you that I don’t use drugs. “Look,” I said to him, “a trip to your planet sounds wonderful. But maybe we can make it another time. But I wouldn’t mind another cup of coffee. I didn’t finish the one I had before leaving my house.”
In a second I was in a totally different environment…lavish, actually! The entire room–quite a large room, I might add–was a light gray. Usually when a person thinks gray he thinks dull, boring. But let me tell you Stan, this room was gorgeous! Maybe it had to do with the ambient lighting filtering into the space from the tiny circular ceiling lights that seemed to be emitting a pleasant light blue. Whatever it was, this gray was the opposite of dull and boring. I was seated in a large light gray, almost white cushioned lounge chair with a high comfortable back–on which my own back relaxed–and more than adequate arms upon which my own arms rested. Jorg was seated on an identical lounge chair across from me…yeah, he had told me his name, which was kind of long and funny and hard to pronounce, but the sound Jorg seemed to be part of it, so that’s how I called him then and refer to him now. To the left of us was a luxurious looking sofa consisting of adjacent huge cushions–on a square gray white-speckled carpet centered on what looked to be a smooth stone gray floor–three of which extended into three others to form a right angle. Each of the cushions, with the exception of the one extending towards the center of the room, just a few feet away from Jorg, included a short raised cushioned back consisting of the same material as the seats. Upon the seats were several fancy looking square pillow-cushions, several the same gray as the seating, two or three others the kind of white, silky, long-haired pillows you see in luxury hotels. In front of this improvised sofa stood a three-piece glass table, each piece its own small table, each a square, each with four legs extending down to a bottom square of what looked to be hard plastic. The three pieces also formed a right angle and I remember precisely that the table was placed so that its projecting right angle pointed right into the sofa’s depressed right angle. On the middle table–the right angle one whose far corner pointed into the sofa’s–was a thin white vase and a flowery looking circular dish with something in it that looked like cookies, or some other treat. Between Jorg and me stood a circular glass table with a silvery cylindrical rim encircling the table’s edge. The light emissions from the ceiling casting a shine in various sections of the light bluish-gray wall I was facing was pleasantly noticeable. I am describing this to you in such detail for two reasons: one, I am amazed that I remember all of that detail so clearly. And two, I want you to understand the contrast between what I was experiencing in that room, and what I had experienced a short time before when lifted out of this world and the immediate interview that followed; and the contrast between the room’s luxurious look and most people’s preconceived notion of abductee experience…or, for that matter, what I have read of other abductee’s real experiences since my own abduction.
“What happened?” I asked Jorg in reaction to the sudden change of environment. My tone was definitely a reflection of my amazement.
He answered. “We transferred to another area of the ship. This area was constructed for the purpose of homo sapiens sapiens’ comfort…a familiar environment supplies such.”
“Yeah, but how’d the transfer happen!” It was an exclamation of incredulity as much as a question.
He answered in as matter of factly way as a traffic cop might answer ‘when the light is green’ if you asked him when you can cross the street: “Without going into technical details, it was simply a space transfer. If we can curve space and time to reach your planet, is it not reasonable to suppose we can curve space minutely to transfer from one spot to another in a given small area?”
“But you didn’t press any buttons…controls!” In retrospect I view that response as an unconscious challenge. I mean, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to challenge their technological advancement and superiority intentionally. It was another one of those reflex reactions, like the occasional expletives. But he answered me in a very normal tone of voice, not like he was touting his superior knowledge.
“The ship senses my will. To be slightly more technical, mental vibrations can effect physical phenomena.”
“Unfuck…unbelievable!” I had to catch myself, Stan. Another unsought after expletive almost slipped out. Honest, using that kind of language is not my normal practice.
Jorg’s next remark was his invitation for me to try some of his coffee plus a repeated food offer. “Have some of your coffee and if you would like food, please make it known.”
“Coffee would be just fine, but where…” Before I could finish asking Jorg where the coffee was, I saw on the glass table positioned between us a large coffee mug. I could see thin wisps of coffee steam rising upward from the mug and I could smell a wonderful coffee aroma. “I won’t even ask how you did it,” I said as I bent forward and reached for the mug. As I was lifting it, leaning back, bringing it too me, I caught sight of another figure sitting on the improvised sofa to my left, which seconds before had been unoccupied. A claw clenched my gut! The sight of him shocked the hell out of me. I gotta tell ya’, I have never been into this ET/UFO stuff, but if ever there was a Gray, this was it! He was staring right at me! He was short…about half the size of Jorg, who was easily around six-three. His entire head and face were smooth and a steel color. I mean, he was totally bald. Yul Brynner and Telly Savalas would envy him. His eyes were large ovals slanted downward and inward and I could barely make out the eye itself deep inside the large dark opening. I can think of no other physical attributes. He seemed to be in some kind of uniform, or clothing…enclothed in a shiny steel looking substance with a zipper-like line or lip running vertically from his neck to his groin. He was plain and his presence was unnerving. I guess because he was/is so different from humans. I mean, Jorg was unnerving when his figure first entered my vision. But the shock of my new situation was probably more responsible for that than Jorg himself. Jorg is human, even if from somewhere else.
“Has he told you anything?” the Gray asked Jorg while continuing to stare at me.
While continuing to look in my direction, Jorg’s answer to his Gray friend or ally was…”We’ve just begun. The new situation is always unnerving to our visitors. It is best to allow them to relax until they can acclimate themselves to a different reality.”
Now everything was telepathic! Their lips did not move, there was no sound in my ears. But I did perceive their words. In English by the way, which tells me they wanted me to understand all of the communications that were interchanged between themselves.
“Harley,” Jorg spoke. “Did you notice yellow areas in the blue when you were within the beam?’
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I answered him.
Jorg turned his head towards the Gray. “Why,” Jorg asked the Gray in telepathic mode, “was there interference with our transmission of Harley from his residence to this ship?”
“Others of us,” the Gray responded telepathically, “tried to infiltrate your transmission beam. Their agenda is not ours.”
“Correct,” Jorg responded while turning his head back in my direction. “Harley,” Jorg continued speaking, once again vocally. “Do you ever contemplate why your species, homo sapiens sapiens, is self-destructive? Why your species is suicidal?”
“I don’t know,” I answered him. “Some of us are, others aren’t. Don’t you know more than me about this?”
“Yes,” Jorg said to me. “We do. I ask to find out how much you know.”
“I don’t think about it a lot. I’m too busy working, earning a living.
“Many books have been written about this subject,” Jorg went on, “by various members of your species. Mostly psychologists, psychiatrists, and other people of science on Earth. A particular book actually shows the psychophysiological process in homo sapiens sapiens. It was written by a non-scientist, but one with much personal experience and who has studied the work of a particular psychologist who has pinpointed quite accurately homo sapiens sapiens’ brain problem.”
I shot a couple of questions at him: “If you’re interested in this subject why am I here? Why didn’t you abduct the writer or the psychologist?”
He answered immediately: “There are several reasons why you have been selected. The referred to writer writes quite well but is speech deficient. Also, he would not be self-composed in this situation. You are. The psychologist on whose science the writer’s book is based is physically old and would not bear the beam transmission well.”
“A third reason is our perennial interest in your gene line.” It was the Gray. His words were in my head. “What?” I shot the word directly at him while turning toward him with a sharp movement noting that his appearance and seated positioning were unchanged. “What the hell do you have to do with my gene line?” My feelings toward him had become slightly more relaxed until those last thoughts of his entered my head.
“I will inform you of that soon,” the Gray telepathically continued. “But right now our immediate interest is the book just mentioned and homo sapiens sapiens’ penchant for self-destruction.”
“At this point,” I told him, “I don’t give a fuck what your interest is. What the hell do you have to do with my gene line?”
“I’m sorry you have become so upset,” Jorg vocally intervened, the calmness of his sounds soothing my riled feelings. “I will be as open with you as I can, but briefly, because we must return to the topic of our immediate interest for each moment that passes brings your species closer to its greatest suffering and possible disappearance. For millennia we have traced various gene lines in the interest of our research to gain knowledge of homo sapiens sapiens for the purpose of guiding your species in as covert a way as possible. Please bear in mind, our civilization precedes yours by hundreds of thousands of years. Because of this, our advanced knowledge and experience has the potential to benefit your species, a species related to our Pleiadian. Though my friend here” Jorg went on speaking while continuing to focus his sight in my direction, “is of an entirely different species, he and his planetary system also take interest in Earth’s outcome. This is true of most of us. That is the reason for our interest in various gene lines. Your line was selected along with many others. We have been tracing them all for millennia. This has included what you refer to as abductions. Malice is absent from our intentions. Others from outside Earth have negative intentions. We do not. I will add this: though we have not had occasion to engage with you until now, in the past others of your gene line have been our temporary guests.”
I can’t explain why, but for some reason while he spoke, even though I listened intently, the thought of my cup of coffee began intruding on my mind, my thinking. I had actually forgotten about my coffee for the entire time of this conversation. For some reason, at this point, I had an urge to sip it. I raised the cup to my lips and partook. “Hey!” I exclaimed. “This is the best coffee I ever tasted!” I was immediately perturbed at what I thought was my irrational outcry. But even as I thought it irrational, I was wondering if it really was. How do these beings, not even of planet Earth, know how to make such delectable coffee? Something so minor!
“Is he from the Pleiades too?” I asked, slightly turning my head and nodding towards the Gray.
“No,” the Gray answered telepathically.
I didn’t pursue the subject after the terse response.
Jorg then resumed the topic of his primary concern. “The homo sapiens sapiens species has a propensity to suicide, yet most of its individual members do not intensely think about this fact, nor do most of them even have an intimation of it. As you have said, ‘they don’t think about it a lot. They’re too busy working, earning a living.'”
“Even those of your species that use time to read, to self educate, usually read material unrelated to our discussion,” the Gray telepathically added.
“Hyperspace,” continued Jorg, “the book I am referring to, is extremely useful to us in our desire to educate a wide spectrum of individuals among you as to the nature of your species’ penchant toward suicide, because it allows the non-science reading person to witness the event. It is of great interest to us because it pinpoints the problem quite exactly and more accurately than any non-scientific work, and even more so than various psychology volumes.”
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“What problem does it pinpoint?” I asked.
Jorg explained. “Youngsters of your species, most especially newborns, suffer traumatic experiences. The sources of these suffering experiences are either their elders or the general environment, whether the environment in question be the physical locale or others of their species, such as siblings and peers. This has a catastrophic effect on the extremely sensitive homo sapiens sapiens’ brain. The brain’s neurons lock in these traumas. The growing individual then acts out these traumas with irrational, often violent, often homicidal, often suicidal behavior. The brain mechanism’s malfunction is greatly compounded when individuals of homo sapiens sapiens become sexually active, because orgasm is essentially an electrical discharge which opens the brain’s trauma-locked neurons. When these wires called neurons open, the locked in traumas–adverse electrical charges–are released. The traumas erupt, shooting up and out. The individual homo sapiens sapiens experiencing this phenomenon is almost always unaware of the process qua process he or she is experiencing. The individual only feels the past catastrophe that is the trauma, the individual thus being lost in the trauma’s Pain. The reason for the unawareness of the original trauma which is the phenomenon at the root of the catastrophic feelings, is that this trauma’s origin, this original catastrophic occurrence suffered by the brain, is often preconscious due to the reality that it often occurs when the part of the brain controlling consciousness is unformed. Because concepts and language are functions of consciousness, the person suffering this trauma later in his or her life not only has no concept as to the Pain’s cause, as to its origin; neither has he or she language with which to identify the suffering. The individual in question is thus lost in an indefinable maze of excruciating Pain. Pain that is usually not at all physical, but quite powerful. In fact, this feeling is often so excruciatingly emotionally painful that the individual self-destructs. The reason for this self-destruction is uncomplicated: death presents itself as a less painful alternative to the current excruciation. In many cases, the excruciation is so extreme, that death even presents itself as a paradisal alternative. Those among you with a religious ideology of martyrdom as a pathway to Paradise who are also infested with these locked-in traumas, will consciously seek death to achieve Paradise. Some among this group believe that, in the midst of their own suicide, murdering non-believers of their particular religion will make them martyrs. Their unhinged thinking process leads them to believe such actions will allow them to achieve paradise, which in turn causes them to seek mass death of others by exploding themselves in the midst of large crowds of their fellow homo sapiens sapiens. Another facet of the overall problem is this: the unhinged homo sapiens sapiens brain produces feelings that feel like reality, and so individuals more times than not perform incorrect or irrational actions based on those feelings; actions sometimes innocuous in the midst of an individual’s chaotic life, as well as actions other times catastrophic on a small scale or on a large scale involving many individuals outside the perpetrator’s normal daily parameters. In fact, such feelings are in reality fantasy-reflections of the homo sapiens sapiens unhinged brain. This phenomenon is as true for emotional feelings as for sexual feelings and sexual physical sensations. Emotional and sexual feelings and sexual physical sensations very often do not correspond to the individual’s immediate reality. There is one particular religion on Earth in your current time frame that is permeated with the just now described homicidal/suicidal frenzy. The sexual component of this process is so powerful, that many of these self-defined martyrs fantasize eternal sex in Paradise. This is often their consciously thought motivation driven by their subconscious mechanism. They idealize their fevered flesh sensations and give them, along with acts of homicide and torture, a religious sanction based on passages in their scripture, thereby allowing themselves permission to perpetrate the most hideous acts of barbaric savagery with a feeling of clear conscience along with a false knowledge that they are doing God’s work.”
Jorg continued without pausing. “The general brain malfunction I am describing exists in various degrees. Almost every one of your species has brain malfunction. The degree is the question. The vast majority of you suffer a relatively minor form of brain malfunction. A substantial minority of you suffer a suicidal/homicidal form of brain malfunction. The danger to your species is this: the minority of individuals with the suicidal/homicidal form of brain malfunction (as those members of the specific aforementioned religion) are working unabatedly to achieve nuclear weapons. Destroying the majority of individuals on your planet because they do not comport with this group’s fantastic religious ideology means nothing to them because they believe they are doing God’s work and in so doing they will achieve Paradise. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
“Yes,” I responded. Jorg went on:
“Another threat to your species is the inability of your nation-states to act in a general species’ interest, but instead for each to mindlessly pursue its narrow self-interest, debilitating their economies and risking mindless, catastrophic war. Included in this, most particularly, is a conglomerate of super wealthy, power-mongering autocrats–some endemic to particular governments; others independent of governments–whose deranged self-interest predisposes them to initiate destructive agendas that threaten the well being of the homo sapiens sapiens population at large. All this is the result of the trauma-driven, unbalanced brains of these states’ governmental and business leaders and the just mentioned autocrats. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
“Yes,” I responded.
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Jorg spoke. “Your task is to educate your species in the best possible manner.”
“How?” I answered with a question.
Jorg answered. “The name of the person who authored the book that shows the process just described will be implanted in your mind. You will contact him, tell him of your current experience. He will then place a description of our interaction along with the information given you during this interaction in the place where he calls attention to his book.”
“You mean you want him to sell his book,” I half stated and half asked.
Jorg then explained. “It is unfortunate that this writer’s work is almost totally unknown, and all of his notifications on the Earth venue called internet go unnoticed and ignored, despite the fact that this particular book is as well written as Earth books are, while also containing an accurate description of the aforementioned suffering from preconscious trauma. Hesitation to break out of habitual activity, including habitual reading activity, is a distinctive homo sapiens sapiens’ trait. Another prohibitive of individuals reading the book, even after procuring it, is the presence within its pages of explicit descriptions of homo sapiens sapiens sexual activity. Unlike most members of your species, the author of this book understands the direct connection of sex to Trauma-upsurge to suicide. The author about whom I speak displays to the reader this connection, including vivid, detailed sexual descriptions; the same type of detail he displays throughout this book with regard to all facets of the protagonist’s existence. He makes no differentiation between the sexual and other facets of the protagonist’s existence. The current level of your species’ development continues to disallow sexual activity as a normal psychophysiological function. Many of your species think of sexual explicit references as evil, wicked, immoral. If they see it in a book, they stop reading, regardless of the work’s overall context. The existing conundrum is this: the book under discussion is a book individuals of your species must read, but individuals cannot know this unless they read it. Often something special, something extra ordinary in the general homo sapiens sapiens course of events is required to encourage an individual’s departure from his or her normal activity pattern, whether that pattern be closed habitual reading habits, or aversion to explicit sexual description.”
I then presented him with the following: “So let’s say everyone reads this book. Is that going to stop the suicidal/homicidal maniacs?”
Jorg’s response: “Self-awareness by a vast majority of individuals of your species will be a large step in the right direction. You must emphasize to the author of this book that when he promotes it, he must stress that it is not a psychology text book; that it does not go into detailed psychological explanations, as the one I gave to you; but that it depicts, shows the process as it occurs in one individual. From this depiction the reader can extrapolate to the entire species.”
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I turned my head leftwards to see if the Gray might telepathically communicate something, but the sofa was bare. I turned back to Jorg but he was gone. The entire scene was gone!” I was still in my kitchen looking at my cup of coffee. I sipped it. It was ice cold. I looked through the kitchen window. It was bright daylight. Before I had stepped out of the door it was still dawn. When I left in the morning it was around six-fifty. I looked at the clock. I gasped when I saw eleven-thirty AM.
Eleven-thirty AM were the last words Harley spoke in the above transcribed recording. I asked him if his ET experience changed any of his plans. He responded negatively. “I’m just going to get back to work and hope that time will erase the strain of it from my mind.”
“They had no parting words for you?”
“It ended just like I said. I was sitting in my kitchen over an ice-cold cup of coffee and the clock read eleven-thirty AM.”
After that statement we sat around for several minutes discussing world events. We agreed that the world situation was getting more dangerous with each breath. “Look,” I said. “The subhuman in charge of North Korea already has nukes, and the subhumans running Iran either have them or are getting pretty damn close. And then there are the wild-card subhumans like ISIS scum working twenty-four/seven to procure them. And North Korea and Iran are working on delivery systems. Do these ETs really think that large numbers of people reading my novel Hyperspace is going to make any kind of a difference?”
“I can only repeat what they told me when I asked a similar question: ‘Self-awareness by a vast majority of individuals of your species will be a large step in the right direction.’ They seem to have infused my memory with the entire experience, including that quote.”
He rose, we shook hands, he turned and left my apartment in Brooklyn, NY. That was September 21, 2016. I haven’t seen him or heard from him since.
I can’t say for certain whether his story was real, fiction, or the product of hallucination. As for its being fiction, what motive would he have? He’s not getting paid for his story. As for hallucination, he did mention in his narration that his only drug intake is caffeine. He seemed pretty down to earth when he was narrating and when we spoke before and after. Yet his story is so incredible…
Whether anyone believes Harley’s story or not, either the ETs or Harley had intricate knowledge of homo sapiens proclivity to brain malfunction, knew that my novel Hyperspace seriously dealt with this issue in the most intense and realistic manner possible, which means that either these ETs or Harley read my book and know where this brain malfunction problem will lead. Anyone who reads Hyperspace will live through a verbally painted experience: a most vivid depiction of where we are headed if we as a species do not correct our brain defect in the near future.
Buy Hyperspace at Amazon.com Buy Hyperspace at BarnesandNoble.com Buy Hyperspace at AuthorHouse.com
or call 888-728-8467 and ask for HYPERSPACE by Stanley I. Brookoff
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