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A white room. The walls seeming to be the source of light. Arrays of people, all dressed in the same glowing shade of white. Somehow, their hair looks the same, no matter what colour it is. All seated in the grid of glowing white plastic chairs. In their white hands (even the darkest of skin looks glowing white, here), white papers and white pens. Glowing. The room is silent, apart from very quiet soothing harp music emanating from all around, and the scratching of pens. Every ten minutes or so, someone gets up, sets their pen and clipboard down, and leaves through a door at the far side. The queue to enter the room becomes one person shorter, as the leaver's seat is taken. Finally, it becomes my turn. It seems I have waited for an eternity. I take my sheaf of papers, clip them to the clipboard, and sit. I stare in awe at the form. Two hundred sheets, in the tiniest of print.
Name:
How am I supposed to know that? I don't have my previous-lives notes here with me, and I can't remember all that stuff! None of the people around me seem to be having any trouble.
Occupation: (Title, address, date start, date end, contact)
I'm supposed to fit whole addresses into these tiny boxes? I can't even fit an American-style two-line-address in there, and two of those jobs were in villages in England. I don't remember another two.
Occupation at time of death in last five previous lives:
I come close to screaming, restrained only by the combination of the silence of those around me, and the harp music... It's soothing for now, but if I'm here much longer I'm sure it will start to grate.
Father's name:
The form goes on, through to previous names in each of the last five lives of each of my four grandparents, in each of my last five lives. I can barely even remember my own grandparent's names. I leave the entries blank, sigh, and continue down the page.
Date of birth:
I see where this line is going, and I skip down to the end of the thread. I'm nearly two-thirds of the way down the first page out of 200 pages of the form, now, having neglected to write anything in for over nine-tenths of it, and my eye is drawn to the even smaller print at the bottom of the page. Submission fee for this page: 500 Hail Marys. My eyes narrow, and I flicker through the 200 pages of the form. At the bottom of each page is a similar fee, sometimes extending into the thousands - on one page it's 20000. At the bottom of the final page, these words burnt into my retina: THANK YOU FOR COMPLETING THE IMMIGRATION REQUEST FORMS FOR HEAVEN. ESTIMATED COMPLETION TIME: 1.6 LIFETIMES. PLEASE ADDRESS ANY COMMENTS OR SUGGESTIONS ON HOW THE PAPERWORK COULD BE REDUCED TO... An illegibly blurred address followed. Almost hypnotically, I start to recall my previous lives. Something had triggered the memory. I remember I once went through the immigration process for America. This is nearly as bad. |
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Upsideclone is now shuttered and no longer taking submissions. Upsideclown is an evil cartel of seven who only write in a certain style on certain days of the week, and refuse to expand. Fah, say we! Upsideclone (this site, incase you hadn't noticed) serves to subvert the name of clown and to bring others into the fold. If you've read Upsideclown and old articles here, you get the idea. Submissions are always welcome: We operate a strictly hands-off editorial approach (we won't even correct your spelling). Once submitted, your article goes to the vote by the seven clowns. A majority, and you're in the queue for Friday publications. Go on -- submissions@upsideclone.com. And if you want to know more, hints or clarifications: come ask us in talk. |
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Clare Maguire > 6dec2002 > The Face of The Future |
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