Orcos (or’-kos): Swearing that a statement is true.
“It is true! If you don’t believe me, you’re crazy and your soul is at risk. Not believing a sincere man is a giant step into hell. Think about that when you doubt my veracity. Let me tell you my story again, sister.
“I was minding my own business eating my Toastie Oats for breakfast. I started smoking and shaking and shrinking—very slowly. I was alone in the kitchen, so nobody saw it happen. I stopped shrinking and I became a flatworm. I kept my cognitive functions, and I could see.
Dad came into the kitchen and made himself fried eggs. I fell on the floor. I climbed up the leg of Dad’s chair and up onto his shoulder. I was going to try to communicate with him so he could help me, but I fell off his shoulder and fell onto his fried eggs—onto the piece headed for his mouth. I rode the piece of egg into his mouth, and he swallowed me. When I got inside his body, I felt at home. His stomach was like my living room, his intestine was like a tunnel of love where I met other flatworms and partied. Then, one night, things started moving faster than ever before. I jumped on a piece of potato, riding it to wherever we were going. Suddenly there was a loud trombone-like sound and I shot out into a toilet bowl filled with undigested fragment of food. If I didn’t get out of there I knew I’d be flushed into oblivion. I squirmed up the side of the toiled bowl, and reached the seat just as Dad flushed. He left the bathroom. I was sitting there wondering what to do, when I turned back into me. I took a shower and changed into some clean clothes. I saw Dad in the hall. He said, “Son, where the hell have you been? Your mother’s a wreck. Your sister wanted to have a funeral, and bury your bathrobe in the back yard.” I felt like telling him I was up his ass, but he probably would’ve hit me. So, instead, I told him I was sowing my wild oats. He accepted this. It was something he had been trying to get me do for months.”
After I finished my story, my sister looked at me as though I was a danger to myself and others. She said, “How about I lock you in your bedroom for a couple of days?” I said “No. Leave me alone. I can deal with is on my own. It was probably some kind of psychotic episode, with a cause, etc.”
But, I longed for the warmth of my alimentary living room, with the flow of edibles and the damp throbbing darkness. Partying in the large intestine with other flatworms was the greatest feeling of camaraderie I ever had. It was a world of love. I know I can never go back. I will admit: I enjoyed being a flatworm more than I’ve ever felt right about being human.
I will continue telling my story of transformation, finding other people who’ve incarnated into other beings—into flies, cows, beavers—the panoply of living creatures—flying, crawling, swimming things. But, for whatever reason they’re forced to return to their normal human lives, disappointed and full of anguish and pain.
So far, I haven’t met any former “carnates.” I know you’re out there. Send me a letter to: Mel Pickleton, Rosy Future State Home, Tarrytown, NY. We can be friends.
POSTSCRIPT
Mel got a reply to his letter:
“Dear Mel,
I was a muskrat off and on for two years. I have adopted the muskrat lifestyle. I have 12 children with seven different muskrat “wives.” I spend most of my time repairing the flimsy pile of reeds I live in, in a marsh in Kentucky. However, now I am residing in a building run by the state. I look human again, but I have the heart of a muskrat and I miss my wives and kids.
Regards,
Squeaky Marlon
PS Let’s be friends”
Mel didn’t get the letter. He had turned back into flatworm and taken up residence in Nurse Gigi’s gut. It wasn’t meant to last. She was taking pills that would kill him within three weeks.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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