"I Belong to the Church in My Room and the Circle Is Dead"

Well, since it didn't make it into the Nicolas Cage tribute anthology that I wrote it for, and I've nowhere else to send the thing, here's my story "I Belong to the Church in My Room and the Circle Is Dead", free of charge.

I Belong to the Church in My Room and the Circle Is Dead

by Jeremy Thompson

Crimson curtains, parted, frame the projector’s target, upon which imagery spills, unrelenting. Embedded in the side walls and rear wall, direct-radiating speakers supply sonance: dialogue, orchestration, and thunder-crash sound design.

Victorian Gothic is the screening room’s décor. Damask wallpaper stretches tendrils of faux fillagree toward wrought-iron sconces and chiropteran crown molding. Antique medallion back settees, whose carved walnut and velvet constructions evoke open coffins, face the screen. Statues with frozen, billowing stone shrouds lurk peripherally.

The room seems to exist apart from the Hollywood Hills locality that hosts the mansion, as if it manifested in the mind of its owner and never quite reached terra firma. Haunted it seems, not by chain-rattling specters, but by the maddened inspirations that shape and ultimately annihilate artists.

The man in the room, in fact, is a creative art practitioner, an actor by vocation. Since his late teens, his image has slid across screens great and small, propelled by spirits he’d constructed from memories and observations and allowed to possess him, then set loose on the world. From art house films to blockbusters, he’s encompassed dozens of short-term figures who’ll outlive him by many years, perhaps even an eternity.

See him there, in the centermost settee, in the jacket, pants and boots, all form-fitting black leather, so often associated with his characters and public outings. Take particular notice of his face as it rests. Away from the eyes of the public and the cameras of paparazzi, it has settled into an expression that might belong to a super intelligent anteater/ape hybrid.

Having dry fasted for over twenty-four hours, ingesting neither food nor drink to achieve a certain, sanctified mind state, the actor has reached the condition in which he might best appraise his latest film, whose official Hollywood premiere will occur the next day. He always watches them alone first; it’s written into his contract. First viewings are sacred, after all, so often blasphemed against by cellphone screens glimpsed peripherally, by whispers and sneezes, by the amalgamated stenches of squished-together, impatient humanity.

Absentmindedly, the actor scrapes his fingernails against his under-chin stubble. Otherwise, the man is unmoving, indeed, hardly seems to breathe. His eyes remain locked on the screen as his form strides across it, carried by the adamantine conviction that only he, the teeth gritting protagonist, can set the world right.

Both the actor and his character are dressed the same. He’d brought his own clothes to the set, having sown hieroglyphic-laden papyrus into the lining of his pants to help him better embody his role. Purchased at an illegal auction for a tidy sum, its unfading characters describe Djedi of Djed-Sneferu and the wonders he wrought.

On the screen, the protagonist has embarked on a slapdash tour of Los Angeles. Pushing his Lamborghini Veneno’s V12 engine to its limit, he intends to thwart the mad machinations of Armageddon-hungry occultists by collecting their desired artefacts—grave masks, small statues and stelae—with a buxom, feisty blonde with a tragic backstory alongside him. The streets and freeways that he navigates are strangely uncongested, nothing like the actor’s own frustrating experiences as an LA motorist. Everything is so vibrant, so immediate, and so blaring, it’s indeed a wonder that, mid-viewing, the actor’s eyelids start to sag. Soon, they have closed altogether.

The actor’s head tilts back; his mouth parts. As the ultimate indignity, he begins to snore. On the screen, the protagonist, ostensibly watching the road for the next turnoff, realizes that he’s lost his audience. That just won’t do.

A dust mote drifts in front of the projector’s lens, creating a tiny hole in the film for the character to slip through. Into the real world he slides, composed solely of light. Abandoned, the film freezes behind him.

He passes between the lips of the actor and flows down his throat. The throat becomes a tunnel, seven different hues in succession, each dimmer than the last. At the end of it, a dramatic mise en scene awaits him: a shadowy courtyard surrounded by sinister-angled buildings, which loom and weave to the rhythm of dissonant orchestration. Filling the courtyard are dozens of men who look just like the protagonist. Silently, in perfect synchronization, they exercise, segueing from kettlebells to dive bomber pushups, hardly breaking a sweat.

“What is all this?” the protagonist asks.

“We’re training to fight ghosts…shadow aspects untethered,” a voice just like his answers. “Perhaps you’ll join us?”

“If only I had the time,” the protagonist says. “I guess I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.”

He spies an open manhole and beelines right for it, as theatrical fog begins to billow in from all corners. “Assume your positions,” shouts one of the exercise enthusiasts, none of whom remain visible.

As the protagonist drops into the manhole, as his feet meet the rungs of a ladder and he begins to descend, he sees neon skeletons manifesting in the mist, hurling punches and kicks against unseen opponents. “Looks like a heck of a lot of fun,” he remarks.

Descending below the lip of the manhole, he realizes that the rungs of the ladder are composed of clear quartz and emanate near blinding radiance. Initially cool to the touch, they grow warmer by the second. Soon, they’ll be scalding, the protagonist thinks, but by that point, he has already reached the ground.

Revolving on his heels, he sees more men that resemble him, though were they to wash off their kumadori makeup—swirling red patterns over white foundations—and doff their crab-legged wigs, they’d appear perhaps two decades younger. Their many-layered kimonos dazzle with eye-scalding hues.

As they take note of him, the men strike emotional poses and freeze, statuesque. The combined weight of their gazes is nigh crippling, so much so that it takes a moment for the protagonist to perceive his surroundings and realize that he and the others are standing upon a gable roof stage. Behind them, a painted backdrop exhibits cherry trees and distant mountains. Rows of empty chairs stretch before them, bisected by a raised platform, a walkway for entrances and exits.

“Uh, excuse me,” says the protagonist, striding for the nearest posed fellow. The colorful figure flies away, borne into the shadows by costume-attached wires.

Addressing another frozen performer, the protagonist asks, “Can you help me?” That man, too, glides away, as do the rest of them, when approached.

The stage lighting dims. A trapdoor in the walkway pops open. Again, the protagonist makes a descent.

Finding himself in a lightless, low-ceilinged realm, he drops to his knees and begins to crawl. The passage is narrow. Its walls are covered in sponges. Reaching a dead end, he has to backtrack. “Some kind of maze,” he mutters.

Countless minutes he spends in subjective reality, advancing and retreating, attempting new pathways. At last, when it seems that he’ll be spending an eternity frustration-mired, an avuncular voice cries out from the darkness, “Make a left!”

“Who’s there?” the protagonist shouts, doing as instructed. “What the hell’s going on? Is that which I’m seeking here? If not, how do I reach the next level?”

The only answer that he receives is, “Make a right, then continue straight until I tell you otherwise!”

The protagonist does so.

“Okay, now make another right, and then your first left.” Moments later: “Just one more left. That’s a good fellow. Almost here…almost here. Now stop, if you know what’s good for ya.”

The protagonist stills and is immediately nuzzled by cartilage. “A snout,” he says, running his hands over a large, dry head, then further, across a bristly back. He chuckles, then adds, “I’ve discovered a pig.”

“I’m your power animal, dummy,” says the swine, matter-of-factly, “your tutelary spirit. You should be kissing my hooves, or maybe feeding me pumpkins. This maze is larger than you could ever imagine. If not for me, you’d never escape it.”

“That a fact?”

“Damn right it is. You’re a slow crawler, too…a real patience tester. Here, grab my tail and I’ll drag ya.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Don’t worry, you can’t hurt me. Just make sure to hold on tight. All sorts of beasties wander this maze. Some would gobble you up before you even realized it. Others would ride you for the rest of your existence.”

“You don’t say. Well, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. So, where’s that tail of yours? I can’t see anything in this pitch black. Okay, I’m feeling some kind of corkscrew-shaped protuberance. I think I’ve got a good grip on it.”

“Sir, that’s my penis.”

“Sweet fuckin’ yuck. Are you sure?”

“Indeed, I am. Now, if you want to avoid feeling and hearing me orgasm, I suggest you let go.”

“Alright, alright. Sorry. Let’s try again, fella. Okay, what am I touching now? Your tail…correct?”

“Second try’s the charm. Have you got a good grip on it?”

“Why, yes, I believe that I do.”

“Then away we go!” The pig lets loose with a squeal and then the protagonist is sliding, fishtailing around corners, grunting through his clenched teeth. Fortunately, the floor is perfectly polished and he sustains not a scratch.

After many subjective minutes, without slowing down an iota, the pig says, “I’m gonna count to three now. That’s your cue to let go.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say. I sure do appreciate the ride, pal.”

“One…two…three!”

As the pig rounds a corner, the protagonist releases his grip. His sliding trajectory carries him down a steep ramp, which leads to a coffinesque trough filled with a wet amalgamation of old bread, melon rinds and apple cores.

“I’ve been slopped,” the protagonist remarks, just before the trough crumbles beneath him and he plummets downward.

After the immaculate darkness of the previous level, the protagonist is hardly prepared for the midday sun he now encounters, whose rays bore into his eyes from a cloudless firmament. Grimacing, wiping slop from his flesh and clothing the best that he can, he blinks until his vision clears, and finds himself firmly embedded in a scene from an earlier time.

A nondescript cul-de-sac—a ring of identical single-story houses with carefully maintained lawns—hosts two dozen children engaging in games of red rover and leapfrog. Their vivid, eye-catching attire, with plaids and paisley patterns reigning predominant, places the decade as the seventies. Faintly, from an open garage, drifts the sound of James Taylor crooning “Fire and Rain.”

A slender child rides past the protagonist on a Raleigh Chopper, grinning as if his mouth might escape the boundaries of his skull. That smile is wiped from his face by a rather girthy young fellow, who tackles the bicyclist into the grass and declares, “Your ride’s mine now, dick breath.”

“Is not,” the smaller child whines, jutting his lower lip out. “My daddy bought it for me last Tuesday. I still have the receipt.”

The bully delivers a punch to the boy’s gut and says, “You’re a liar. Say one more word about this bike being yours and I’ll kill you.”

The other children, losing interest in their activities, begin crowding around. They’ve witnessed violence before; most of them have grown to enjoy it. Just as the protagonist is about to step in, about to invoke his adult authority to prevent needless child suffering, from their ranks emerges a dark-haired, intense-eyed newcomer. The boy’s slacks, vest, and ivy cap exhibit a herringbone pattern. Pinned to the back of his shirt is a Superman cape. “Knock it off, Hank,” he says, just loud enough to be heard.

Reluctantly dragging his focus away from his victim, the bully turns the full force of his rage upon the newcomer. Scratching a whitehead at the base of his ear, Hank says, “Get outta here, Nicky, or I’ll make you swallow your teeth.”

“I’m not Nicky,” is the response he receives, delivered with maximal bravado. “I’m Kal-El, the last son of Krypton, here to stop your injustice.”

As his victim climbs back onto his bike and pedals away, unnoticed, Hank slams a fist into his palm, flares his nostrils, and takes a few slow steps forward. Perspiration beads sprout on his forehead; he squints and he sneers.

But the boy masquerading as Superman doesn’t flinch, retreats not a millimeter. Keeping his cool, steady gaze on the bully, keeping his stance loose enough to respond to any attack, he conveys a level of power his slight frame can’t possibly possess.

“Whatever, asshole,” Hank says. “It’s lunch time now, anyway. I’ll come around and whup your ass later.”

Hank ambles away. The other children, disappointed, return to their games. Only the boy in the cape remains behind.

“That was mighty brave of you, kid,” says the protagonist, once everybody else is out of earshot. “You’ll be a fine actor one day, when you’re older.”

“If you say so, sir. Who are you, anyway? Someone’s dad?”

“Just a stranger passing through. A man with a mission, you might call me. Before I leave here, however, perhaps you’ll lend me that cape of yours.”

* * *

Back in a more ordinary reality sometime later, the actor shakes himself from his slumber and wipes drool from his chin. “The strangest of dreams overtook me,” he mutters, dragging his gaze about his screening room to remind himself where he is.

His attention returns to his film. The character he recently played, or perhaps who played him, now leaps from the basket of one paisley-patterned hot air balloon to another, escaping six brawny occultists. Moments later, the bomb that he left behind detonates. Fire fills the sky and unravels. Armageddon is averted. All is well.

Observing the spectacle, the actor is enrapt. What had seemed cardboard characterization in yet another shoddy special effects showcase prior to his nap has somehow attained substance. He now empathizes with his cinematic doppelganger, indeed thrills at the sight of him. His heart is jackhammering; he’s on the edge of his seat. Never before has he felt this way about his own film.

On the screen, the blonde bombshell love interest hurls herself into the protagonist’s arms and kisses him, deeply, as they drift amidst cauliflower-shaped clouds. “You did it,” she declares, eventually. “Against all odds, you saved the world.”

“We did it,” is the response that makes her megawatt smile all the brighter, that drags her lips forward for another long kiss.

“So, now that we’ve shared this grand adventure, are you finally gonna tell me your name?” she then asks.

“Call me Kal-El,” says the protagonist, winking at every viewer.

What else remains but to fade to black?