Short Fiction

Grasp Your Fate to Grasp Your Future

By Christian Mueth

Today, I’m in tomorrow. Or do I have it wrong? Is today actually yesterday? Thus, am I in today?

Trying to figure it out always gives me a headache. All I know for certain is that my head is somewhere, and that somewhere is not here. On a positive note, at least my headache hurts better than it usually does. Granted, it would hurt best if it didn’t hurt at all.

I clench my teeth. I can’t let myself lose my train of thought. I need to focus.

I’m sitting in my living room. A boxy television set is ahead of me, the corners of its screen bubbling with static. I’m lounging on a wisp of air, my eyes transfixed at the screen’s center. At any moment, the news station should be reporting my upcoming streaming service. Yet — nothing comes. Instead, the reporter’s tinny voice merely drones on about another tax increase. Damn the tax increase. I want to see my face on the screen.

I take a deep breath. Meditating on inner peace is the only way to succeed in life. Losing oneself should never be permitted. The mind is a sanctuary that must be defended.

Screw it. I slam my head into my hands. The vision fades, and I’m back backstage. This is wonderful. I’m in my element, surrounded by a crowd of people — by people who love me.

Who am I kidding? My vision just failed on me. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve always been able to control my visions, and they’ve always shown me what I need out of the past or future. Why couldn’t they cooperate now?

“What was that about?”

I pull my head from my hands, and look up to see my manager, Tanner. He’s holding a clipboard in his hand, because of course he is. Doesn’t he have anything better to do, than constantly hawk me?

I’m being harsh. Tanner is a nice guy, who’s loyal to his job. He’s driven. He’s motivated. There’s no point in talking about him negatively. So, why do I feel so negative?

“Oh my god, you’re sweating buckets!” Tanner says.

“I’m having so much stage-fright,” I say. “Is there any way to call this entire thing off? Because, if we can, that would be just great.”

Chuck’s eyes narrow into a look of bemusement.

“What? Now? Why? You — you can do this. You’ve been at tens of dozens of other conferences, and you’ve never had stage-fright before. There’s no reason to start having it now.”

“Well, tonight is different, okay?”

I bite my lip, and look to the door. Any minute, I’ll have to go out there. I know exactly what I’m supposed to say. I’ve recited it in my head a million times. Yet, now, I’m not so sure I’m supposed to say them. My future looks so shaky. Nothing makes sense.

“Are the other speakers here?” I ask. “Loretta Cormac? Roger Briggs?”

“Yes. Of course they’re here. But, you shouldn’t be focusing on that yet. Later. For right now: you’re Brent-freaking-Irving. There’s nobody —.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. I think we’re done here.”

I stand to my feet. My hands tread through the wrinkles in my suit, brushing them out. I pat a finger on my hairline, to see if the gel is holding steady. I nudge a delinquent strand back into place.

The door yawns open, and I walk down the hall. Screams and cheers lap at my ears. As I draw nearer to the stage, shouts of my name trip over one another.

“How are you doing today, Mr. Irving?” asks a stage-hand.

I put on a false smile.

“Wonderful! Just wonderful.”

My steps quicken, and I brush past. Yet, another stage-hand comes up to me.

“Your ear-pieces and teleprompter are all in sync, and ready to go,” she says. “You should be good!”

Shooting a thumb up, I grin.

“Just amazing. It’s like I always say: preparation marks the path to elation!”

She smiles at me, clearly taken up by my words of praise. However, I’m not here. My head dives back into the stream of time. After taking a few strokes, I’m on the stage and listen as I give my speech. Yet, nobody in the audience responds. My delivery is wooden. Each joke I give flounders. The profound lines I’ve prepared come off subtle as a bludgeon. I need to do something to bring life into the auditorium. However, it’s already too late. My speech is dead.

I’m warped back to the backstage. My body is crammed in a tight elevator, about to be hoisted onto the stage. However, I can’t get my mind off the visions. They must be right. However, I’ve never had my visions act out in such a way before. What’s happened to my control? Why is everything spiraling?

“Break a leg, Mr. Irving!” the elevator technician says, his teeth glinting as he grins at me.

“Save a leg, you mean,” I say back, with a wink. “Remember: positivity is power.”

Eyes widening, the technician nods. “Very true. You’re just amazing! How do you get all of your ideas?”

I shrug as I’m raised from the ground. “I guess they just come to me. I’ve always been lucky, in that way.”

Disappearing into the abyss between the stage and its underside, I shed my skin. My face falls, and my heart dunks into a pit. “Luck” is certainly one place to attribute my success. However, I prefer the term “cheating”. If it hadn’t been for me going into that alley, all those nights ago —.

My head throbs, as it tries to trail back. I slap myself. I can’t let it trail back. I need to focus on the future. I need to focus on the now.

Grunting, I let my visions guide me through the numerous opening lines I could give, upon entering the stage. I ask to be brought to the best opening line — yet, I’m dragged through a myriad of mediocrity. As I fumble for something that might work, my platform creaks. The visions fade. I’m nearly to the stage. A crack opens in the ceiling, dumping light into my shaft. Screams and shouts rip at my eardrums. I readjust my earpiece, and clear my throat.

I’ll be fine on the stage. I’m the best. I just need to keep telling myself that, and I’ll be fine. Yet, my chest still tightens. Everything is uncertain.

I grin — at least my uncertainty is certain. It’s not a strong silver-lining, but it works. Finding the silver-lining in things always works.

“And now, I’d like to introduce our next speaker,” an announcer begins.

“Brent Irving,” I say, finishing for him.

The platform clicks to a stop as I finally reach the stage, and a thin fog clears. There’s a resounding applause, but I give a restrained wave. There’s a flash in the corner of my eye, as the teleprompter activates. I turn from it and look out into the sea of faces filling the auditorium.

“Simmer down, simmer down,” I say. “It’s just me.”

There’s a peppering of chuckles. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. At least it’s not as if nobody laughed. Besides: even if everybody had laughed, the laughs would’ve only come from a crowd of nobodies.

This is supposed to comfort me. Yet, somehow, I feel smaller. Countless eyes are on me. Can feeling small ever be spun into a good thing?

“So, how are you guys all doing at this year’s Motive-Con?” I grin. “As an aside, I personally always thought this event should be called, ‘Motive-Pro’... But, for some reason my name never stuck.”

I laugh. My laughs fade into echoes. Sweat blooms on my brow. Clearing my throat, I continue.

“I’ve seen a ton of great speakers here today. Coming up here, I thought to myself, ‘I don’t envy the poor soul who has to go up last’. And that was when I remembered...”

My eyes drop, sending a jolt of life back through the crowd. I’m doing better. Though, upon glancing at the time on the teleprompter, I realize that I’m not even a quarter of the way through.

“Alright,” I say, slapping my hands together. “I’ve procrastinated for long enough. And procrastination is a cardinal sin, in my book. Literally.”

I rummage through my mind, peeking at potential futures. I cross my fingers, praying for an escape — though to no avail. In most of the futures, I’m frozen with fright. In others, I cave and read from the teleprompter. The only future where I manage to break away from stage-fright and say something, has me doing so to no reaction. That said, the thing I say is at least something. I’ll take it.

“So, I’m sure you all know why I’m here and why you’re here,” I say. I pause, and wait for more words to come. “Or, at least, I hope you do. I’m a former business advisor. I'm also author of the book — small title, not sure if you’ve heard of it — ‘Grasp Your Mind to Grasp Your Future’. It topped the bestseller lists within a week of release, and remains a strong seller. Though, I... After amassing my fortune, I’ve tried making a name for myself beyond that. The book isn’t what I try to promote, these days. Rather, my mission is to promote the key ideas I pushed in that book. Particularly, the ‘Irving Axioms’.”

I stride along the stage, locking my eyes with random members of the audience.

“Success is a product of the small choices we make in our lives. It could be from something as simple as remembering to do your laundry in the morning. I know — it sounds ridiculous. But, I’m speaking from experience.”

I’m speaking from future experience. My head is still swimming in and out of the present, presenting me with previews.

“I grew up in a bad neighborhood as an only child, with parents who both had to work to keep things afloat. I wasn’t at the best school, and I wasn’t the best at school either. By all accounts, I should’ve fallen on my face. And... Well, I did. It was only after I took a long look in the mirror that I decided to pull myself together, and make myself into the person I am today. I built a moral system for myself, which still carries me to this day.”

The auditorium is brimming with amazement, and my sight blurs from eager cameras and spotlights. Though, my stomach petrifies. My tongue turns to wood. I can taste the lies on my lips. Why can’t anybody else?

“The Irving Axioms are a trinity of what I believe are foundational principles: perfection, perception, and persistence. To be more specific: they’re the desire to attain perfection in your goals, the perception to conceptualize them, and the persistence to try achieving them. To get what we want out of tomorrow, we must start by blueprinting tomorrow today.”

I watch the audience’s eyes widen to drink up every word that I say. Despite my guilt, a smile forms on my face. The audience might not know any better than to believe me — but then, isn’t the lie I tell them worth it? If they’re better off for believing, was it ever a lie in the first place?

My face flinches as I glimpse another future. I’m speaking with my peers in a closed room, and they’re unimpressed with my presentation. They don’t want to work with me. I haven’t done enough — I need to change something. Asking my visions to show me the way out, like they always have, I only discover them to be mute.

“These Axioms were especially critical when I started pursuing business,” I say, floundering for another point to jump to. “I remember the first time I went to give business advice to one of my superiors. I’d been crunching our numbers for our last quarter, and realized that it would’ve been more lucrative to...”

As I start to ramble, the curtain behind me parts. Tanner is giving me a glare, his eyes having turned to marbles. Keeping my back to him, I raise my voice and stand taller. Meanwhile, a fuzzy hand creeps to the back of my neck. It grips my spine, pulling it like a chord. I’m sucked down a drain, and spill into a cold alley.

Rain spatters on pavement, before mixing with trash and turning to slop. I drag my feet through it. My hair droops from my head, drenched. I pull an empty bag from my pocket, and toss it aside. Remnants of a white powder blow back, but I ignore it and trudge on.

“Nothing ever works.”

A chilling wind runs over me. Despite the thick gloves on my hands, I still rub them together in hope of extra warmth. I tighten the collar of my coat. Nearing the street, I count the number of headlights that pass by. Would one of them be willing to give me a ride, out of the city? Doubtful. Besides, they’d still find me. And, there was no way I’d have enough money to cover my latest gambling debt.

“I’m alive, so that’s something,” I say. “But I have no future, and that’s nothing.”

I turn and run back into the alley. I stop. My fist pounds against brick, and a scream rises in my throat.

“All I want is a good tomorrow,” I say. “If I could just see the way to make this all work... I could make it happen. Everything would be easier. Everything would be better. I just need a chance! I just need a way out! Why isn’t there a way out!?”

The rain bursts into a downpour. There’s a flash of lightning, and the roar of thunder. I look down, and stare at a puddle’s thin reflection of my eyes.

“If anybody is out there, please,” I say, “give me control over time. Let me see, so that I can finally do what needs to be done.”

My eyes squint deeper into my reflection.

“Bloody Mary!” I shout. “Bloody Mary! Bloody Mary!”

The reflection shifts, my eyes smearing into a deep red. There’s an ear-piercing rend. I’m flung backward, and a dark shadow fills out the corners of my vision. There’s a leer in its eyes. I try to glance at it, but it constantly flees to the corner.

“You talk a good deal,” it says. “I’ll grant you your desire, on one condition: that you follow through on setting things right.”

I nod, and clamber to my knees.

“Thank you,” I say, cupping my hands. “But, what if I can’t? What If I don’t?”

The storm starts to subside, and the shadow disappears. I scan the alley for it, but it might as well have never been there.

The vision flutters away, and my head hurtles back to the stage. I can still feel my tongue hanging onto the last word I'd been uttering, before the vision. I glance at my timer — not a moment has passed.

Not a moment.

There's no way I'll be able to last the twenty minutes. I won't even be able to last the ten. I need to end things, now.

"— and, that's how you find direction!" I say, making a heel-turn from my last line. I grope for a killer closer, but know that I won't get one. "And, once you find direction? You will find... Success. Some might claim that success is an overrated enterprise. Though, I'll tell you this: once you've reached it, there's no feeling like it. Make the changes you need to. Put in the effort."

I've given up. The audience shifts in their seats, unengaged and disgruntled. I don't blame them.

"Thank you," I say. My body feels as though it's locked under a microscope. Isn't it though?

I give a meager bow, and exit the stage. My teleprompter is still rolling, and I only garner a few scraps of applause. Yet, there's not much I can do. Heart thudding against my ribcage, I slip behind the curtain.

"What the hell was all of that?" Tanner's goatee wags as he shakes with fury. The edge of his glasses glint sharply.

"It was something, right?" I say, giving a sheepish grin.

"Your teleprompter was just off in the corner, right in plain view! All you had to do was read the thing. Didn't you see it?"

I nodded, and pushed past him. Snatching a water bottle from a table, I pop open the cap and take deep gulps.

"And you can still read, can't you?"

"Shut up, Tanner. I just didn't feel it, okay? Everything up there... It was too calculated, and forced. Anyway, I'm feeling really sick, and I'm thinking about throwing in the towel on this whole thing."

Several minor speakers walk by and cast me sidelong glances. Suddenly, Tanner's demeanor turns desperate.

"Brent, baby... What's gotten into you? We can always make these things work, remember? Take some of your own advice. Besides, tonight is very important, with that big meeting and all."

I smirk. He's not wrong. Though, he can't see what I can. The next twenty minutes are a desolate wasteland. I'm on my own.

"You have no idea how many hoops I've had to jump through," Tanner continues, pacing. "So many people who said no. And, of the people who said yes? Well, most of them —."

"Fine," I say. "I'll go through with the meeting, or whatever."

"Thank god. I'll lead you to the room. It's just down—."

"I know where it is."

"But, the center's faculty just told me where we could have it, an hour ago."

"I have my ways of finding out."

My feet plod ahead, down a narrow corridor and then out of the backstage. I'm in a cold, marble hallway. Streams of people surround me, passing by without giving a second look. Do they not recognize me? Do they just not care?

I don't care.

Skimming over the numbers of several doors, I finally find the one I'm looking for. I turn the latch, and enter.

It's packed full of people. However, that isn't saying much — the room just barely surpasses the size of a closet. Bumping into a whiteboard hung along the wall, I stand over the round table at the center.

"Take a seat," a woman says. Marsha Walters — easily one of the most provocative speakers I know of.

Seeing that all the seats are occupied, I drag a stool from the corner and hunch onto it.

"So, what are we doing here exactly?" Roger Briggs says, with a yawn. He unbuttons his jacket, and stretches his arms. "I've been up for the past twenty hours for this event. Anything that'll shorten the time between me leaving here and me getting into my hotel's bed would be nice."

The eyes of the other speakers shoot at me, seemingly agreeing with him. I wish that I can leave my skin, and let one of my potential selves take over. Yet, at this point, I know there's no point in even trying. Winging it is the best option I have.

Clearing my throat, I make an aggrandizing sweep toward all them.

"I'm here to make a proposal," I say.

"I'd damn well hope," scoffs a speaker I don't recognize — Tanner must've been desperate to get this room full. "I only came here because I knew you'd be here. Well, that, and the cookies."

I glance at an empty tray, at the center of the table. Tanner had been very desperate.

"We've all made sizeable names for ourselves in the motivational speaking and self-help circuits," I continue. "However, I've hit a sort of brick wall. For some reason, it’s like I’m not all there. It's been getting harder to come out to these things. And, ‘creating content’ for my blogs and such? It just doesn't mean the same thing anymore."

"Yeah, I think we could gather that from your recent performance," says Loretta Cormac. She gives a roll of her eyes. "Seriously... All that speaking talent, and it suddenly goes to waste. Did your ghost writer quit on you, or something?"

My face turning hot, I shake my head.

"Ghost writer? No — I'd never... Everything that I create is a hundred percent my own work."

I bite my tongue. It's only half the truth. Though, why should they know?

"It's alright to admit that you have a ghost writer," says Briggs, clearing his throat. "Most of us use them, at least once in a while... It's ridiculous to expect ourselves to constantly be working behind the camera, while also constantly mugging for the camera. Am I right?"

He looks around the room, and collects a series of nods.

I stop myself from gaping, and clap my hands. "That’s exactly what I was getting to. We all have so much on our plates, and so little time. Wouldn't it be nice if we had just one platform, where we could center all of our motivational efforts?"

“Just one?” Briggs asks, raising an eyebrow.

I nod, with a grin.

"Everything about your plan sounds great... Except for the part where we're pigeonholed into one platform," one of the speakers say.

"Well, it wouldn't exactly be that..."

My face is burning, and my muscles tense. The air in the room shifts, stifling my lungs.

"What is this thing called? And how exactly would it affect me?"

I readjust my tie, and try putting on a genial face. My skin stretches, and I know I look something like a mannequin. Though, I have to power through. This meeting has been in my head for months.

"It's called the, 'Irving Network'. It'll be a streaming-based application, accessible on almost every device for a monthly fee. My plan is to produce and direct web-series with you guys, concerning motivation and self-help. Obviously, we'd need a few trial brainstorming sessions to see if our ideas gel, before we officially partner up. But, if I choose you to headline a show, you'll be offered a several year contract and a tidy salary."

"Several year contract?" says Marsha. "Would that mean I can't take my work anywhere else during that time?"

I shrug. "Yes. But, it's for good reason. If you—."

"Let me guess," says Briggs. "While all of our work is constricted your app, you'll still be allowed to branch out on other platforms."

"Well, yes... Since I'll technically own the company, I—."

Loretta Cormac stands from her chair, her eyes sawing through my forehead. "You'll get to slap your name and face all over the thing, and take credit for all of our work. And you think we're supposed to be on board for this? I presume you get to take in most of the profits, as well?"

"Once again yes. But, that's only if this thing is even profitable."

"You're Brent Irving. It shouldn't be, but we all know it will be."

There's an itch in the back of my mind. I want to close my eyes and fuse my head with the table. This idea had seemed so brilliant, just a few hours ago. Besides, everything is already in place — I have production crews at the ready, a team of writers, and even the application is in its finishing stages. How could it suddenly seem so stupid? Moreover, how am I going to make up for all of this?

The room goes up in murmurs as people make their exit. I try maintaining eye contact with the few speakers that remain, but even they look livid.

"So..." I say.

"God, you're a hypocrite," says Briggs. "You claim to want to help others. But, the only person your work has ever helped is yourself. Some self-help..."

He stands from his chair, and leaves.

Marsha Walters bites her lip. "You've worked in this circuit for years, with a ‘holier than thou’ attitude. It looks like it's finally caught up to you. Instead of constantly looking out for your own relevancy, maybe you should've been making connections before pulling this stunt."

The room goes barren. Somebody shuts the light off as they head out, leaving me in darkness.

I want to believe that fate has betrayed me. Maybe it has. Though, peering through my memories, all I see is myself at the center. I wince, remembering times that I’d outright stolen stage time from other speakers.

Everything I've done has been with the goal to reach success. Yet, my success hasn't been earned. Every step of the way, I’ve been told the exact way to go. The mystery of one's future is elusive to me. Each breath is preordained to go a certain way. Millions of people follow me, latching onto my every word. Yet, at what cost? What weight do my words even hold?

A slight screech erupts, followed by the voice of an announcer. "This year's Motivation Conference will be closing in thirty minutes. Please exit the building, and have a great night."

I remain in my seat, and stare into the blackness. My head plunges, traveling hours ahead — several days ahead. I watch my life unfold, and my prominence peel away. Today will leave a blemish on my career. As I go ever deeper, I see myself slip into a docile state. I lose everything.

My vision of the future slips away, leaving me to look at clouds of ash and soot.

Everything I am soon won't be. Everything I've thought counted will cease to count on me. What's the point? What was ever the point?

I stare ahead until my eyes burn. I blink and then stare again. There's no telling how long I sit, but I eventually hear a knock on the door. The handle jiggles. Light spills through a crack, and it creaks open.

"Sir? The center has closed. What are you still doing in here?"

It's a janitor. His face is stolid and alert. Though, after he flips on the light, his face softens.

"Is something wrong, sir?" he asks. He pauses, to study my face. "Wait... Aren't you one of those speaker people?"

I nod.

"Then, what are you sitting in here for?"

Sighing, I put my head in my hands. I wait for him to leave. Though, he stands there, watching me. He takes a step closer.

"It's funny," I say. "I've spent half my life telling people how to live their lives. And, they've listened. Yet, I I've never said what I really need to say. Somehow, I feel like nobody has ever been willing to listen to me at all."

Silence returns. Then, the janitor drops his mop and takes a seat.

"I'll listen."

The future remains empty. However, maybe that's fine. Maybe the future is never meant to be filled in.

Presently, I fill in the present. That's all I need.

End