Crystal Balls

by Bill Rogers, Steve Mueller

Overview

Thirty-year-old Roger marks time by the gradual shifting of sunlight and shadows outside his Toronto high-rise apartment. As a freelance columnist, he makes about as much money as a twelve-year-old with a lawn-mowing business. With all his hopes riding on the novel he started eight years ago, Roger is clearly not in a hurry to do anything except dodge life’s ups and downs as much as he can.

While nurturing a crush on the cute girl at the local coffee shop, Roger notices a leaflet on the table advertising a psychic demonstration. Intrigued, he bribes three caffeine-loving buddies to accompany him to the show featuring Anya Dreamchaser, psychic extraordinaire. Anya turns out to be a fake, but the real surprise comes when Roger’s friend Karl begins displaying his own shockingly accurate psychic abilities. As the friends come to terms with what they have witnessed, they each embark on bizarre personal journeys of enlightenment that take one of them straight into a weird New Age cult and another into a confrontation with a maniacal Scottish churchman.

Crystal Balls is a comic tale about the adventures—and misadventures—of four friends who unwittingly change their lives forever after making the fateful decision to step out of their ordinary lives into an extraordinary psychic world.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781475972382
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	03/05/2013
Pages:	120
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.25(d)

Read an Excerpt

Crystal Balls

"There is a fabric to the universe, and sometimes you get caught on a loose thread."

---

By Bill Rogers, Steve Mueller

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 Bill Rogers
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-7238-2

---

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Getting Out There

The coffee mug on Roger's desk cast a shadow sideways, and it gave him an uneasy feeling in his gut. When he sat down this morning to write his column for the newspaper, the sun was coming through the front window, so the shadow pointed straight at him. Now, after a day of solitary work, punctuated only by expeditions to the kitchen or bathroom, the sun was shining in from the side balcony. That was how he marked time—the gradual shifting of sunlight and shadows. The rest of the world was out there leading normal lives, going to normal jobs, with people and clocks and subway whistles. And here he was, working alone and living alone. The feeling of isolation washed over him like a tidal wave of garbage water. He didn't want to end up like one of those psychos who went naked up the bell tower with an assault rifle and was described later on the six o'clock news as "quiet, kept to himself."

He took the mug into the kitchen. The dried mudflat of coffee at the bottom required an extra swash with the soapy sponge. The hot water felt good on his hands. He put the mug on the dish rack and went out to the balcony for some air. It was an ordinary April afternoon, or so it seemed.

From the tenth floor, he could see the horizon to the west. To the south, he saw the skyscrapers of downtown Toronto and the oceanic lake beyond. Below, on the sidewalk, he noticed something typical of this upscale yet hip neighborhood known as The Annex: a middle-aged mother in a psychedelic dress and Birkenstocks pushing an eight-hundred-dollar baby stroller. Her breasts probably produced foamed milk for baby lattes.

He couldn't afford any of that on the money he was making as a freelance writer. This concerned him. He was thirty, but compared to his friends, he wasn't doing much better than a twelve-year-old with a lawn-mowing business. His hopes were riding on the novel he was working on. It had been eight years since he started it. He didn't believe in rushing things.

He sighed and gazed toward the sun. It glinted off his blond hair. He was dressed in his usual outfit: a button-down shirt, jeans, and a tweed blazer. Checking his watch, he thanked God the time had finally come to go meet three of his buddies at The Labyrinth, a nearby coffee shop whose pointy Victorian roof was visible in the distance.

He took the elevator down and emerged onto the sidewalk, where he walked west into what would soon become a spectacular orange-and-red sunset. His anxiety about the isolation of the writer's life suddenly shifted to a niggling worry about crowds. Would he and his three buddies find a table at The Labyrinth? It was a popular place, especially on a Friday afternoon. It was one of a kind, not part of a big chain. You could get fancy and exotic coffees there.

He told himself to stop worrying. He focused on a pleasant thought—Sarah, the lovely red-haired waitress who was The Labyrinth's biggest attraction for him. He'd had a crush on her for months, but he remained reluctant to ask her out. The advice of his high school teacher still haunted him: "Wait until you're somebody before you think about getting married." His current career situation didn't make him feel very eligible.

If only life were as malleable as words, he thought. When he was writing, he could control events and people. He was captain of a ship in fair weather. But when he left the safety of his computer, he was in a storm at sea—a cabin boy on a garbage scow stuck in the Bermuda Triangle. Still, no matter how frustrating life could be, he was determined to fight for control against the currents and swells.

The route to The Labyrinth cut through a park. The leaves were starting to turn the trees green, and purple crocuses glowed in the afternoon light. The sweet scent of blossoms was in the air. As Roger followed the path, he noticed a noise coming from behind. It sounded like a squeaky wheel. He also heard a man talking, apparently to himself, in a gruff and peculiar voice.

Roger peered back over his shoulder and saw him—a weird hobo pushing a rusted shopping cart, which appeared to be his sole companion on this earth. It was filled with unidentifiable stuff. What looked like rotten lettuce leaves dangling from a hole in the bottom might have actually been the corner of a blanket that had seen better days. He wore a battered overcoat. It was filthy and torn, and at one particular area on its front, it looked as if someone had set a fire there and then put that fire out with Dijon mustard. His pants weren't pants at all, but old pajama bottoms. They were not clean, nor were they fully intact. His shoes were battered leather clodhoppers the size of rowboats. His face was carved into a semitoothless grin. His head was crowned with a makeshift aluminum-foil hat.

The words coming out of his mouth seemed like gibberish: "Brewed, brewed in a cat's butt," he sputtered. "The guy has a big meaning-of-life secret. Oh, the girl with the walnut eyes."

Roger tried not to listen, but the soliloquy cut through the air with strange clarity. "The fake clairvoyant is made real, and the suits take journeys. One will un-Jesus his church and have a Scottish demon foisted upon him. Another will eat magic. The spirit guide is the worm ... or the madman? The fabric brings all threads together."

The hobo drew nearer. He seemed to be looking right at Roger. It was frightening. Roger quickened his pace. The hobo sped up too. Roger began to sweat. He turned toward the park gate, walking faster and faster until he emerged onto the sidewalk. He glanced back and breathed a sigh of relief—the hobo had stayed on the park path and soon vanished out of sight.

Roger wiped the sweat off his brow. His beloved coffee shop came into view—an old brick building that had once been a stately private home. A green oval wooden sign hung out over the sidewalk with "The Labyrinth" painted on it in white letters. It was one of the busiest corners of The Annex where, as was typical, a treed residential street ran headlong into a commercial thoroughfare. It was full of students, writers, and the lords and ladies of expensive real estate. Roger smiled.

CHAPTER 2

Enter the Labyrinth

At the entrance to The Labyrinth, several boys, about ten years old or so, were playing, laughing, and spraying cans of Silly String at each other. Silly String! Roger hadn't seen it in years. Mounds of the multicolored stuff had accumulated at the threshold. He stepped through it and into the coffee shop.

Surveying the room, he saw that it was just as he'd feared—the place was packed, all abustle with customers and servers. The din of many separate and animated conversations converged into a caffeine-charged fugue of human voices. It hit Roger like a tidal wave, and although it jarred him momentarily, it ultimately had a soothing effect. It was just the antidote for the cabin fever he had been enduring.

The air was pleasantly thick with the aroma of fresh-ground coffee and cinnamon buns. Vintage tungsten lightbulbs glowed a pale yellow in antique chandeliers, and old black-and-white photographs of historic Toronto adorned the walls. Above a stone fireplace hung a painting of a classical Greek labyrinth: a circular maze with a mythical Minotaur—half man, half bull—trapped at the center. The floors were hardwood, and the bar was solid walnut buffed to a glossy polish. Roger spotted the back of his best friend's head at the far side of the room.

It was Karl. There was no mistaking him. Karl's hair was jet-black and hung in tight bushy curls down past his shoulders. He wore a faded denim jacket with "Live to Ride" emblazoned across the back in red letters. His jeans fit snugly over well-worn leather boots. Wrapped tight around his head was a black bandanna dotted with white skulls and crossbones. It looked like a sky full of evil stars.

Roger navigated through the servers, who were weaving around like tightrope walkers balancing trays of coffee, pastries, and sandwiches. He approached Karl from behind. Karl, without turning around, spoke. "Hey, Little Buddy!"

"Hey, Skipper," replied Roger as he rounded the table and came into view. "How's it going?"

"All is well. And you?"

"Not bad," said Roger. "I just saw a really weird homeless guy in the park. Freaked me out. He was wearing an aluminum-foil hat."

"The dude with the shopping cart?"

"You've seen him?"

"Yeah. He stands on the street corner sometimes and makes weird hand gestures, like he's tugging at invisible strings."

"Crazy?"

"Seems like. Then again, what if there really are strings that we can't see, and he really is pulling on them and reeling stuff in?"

Roger laughed.

"I talked to him once," Karl continued. "He calls himself Spud."

"Spud. What's with his hat?"

"Aluminum foil, man. Protects his brain from thought-controlling radio waves from the government."

Roger sat down and noticed something strange on his shoe.

"I've got Silly String on me. The kids playing by the door are spraying the stuff around." He shook it off. "Good thing it doesn't really stick, much."

"I had the same issue," said Karl. "Some of it got onto my boot. Funny how it doesn't stick. So I am entanglement-free."

"Shall we partake of the fine selection of coffees?" asked Roger with mock pomposity. "Perhaps a Guatemalan organic roast? An excellent beverage for the coffee connoisseur."

"Wait," said Karl with a mischievous smirk. He picked up a promotional coffee menu that had been sitting on the table, perched upright in a clear plastic display holder. "Check this out." He began reading: "Luwak coffee—a rare and elegant brew. The digestive juices of the animal mellow the coffee."

"Digestive juices?" said Roger, scowling. "Is that the stuff where the coffee beans have been eaten and crapped out by an African weasel?"

"No. It says here it gets crapped out by wild Indonesian cats. It's eight bucks a cup."

"For cat droppings? We could go to your grandma's house and dig through the litter box for free. Forget Luwak coffee. No way I'm gonna drink it."

"Definitely not."

A waitress approached. It was Sarah. She was poised and slightly aloof. Her red hair flowed gracefully down to her shoulders. Her hazel eyes seemed to sparkle like Egyptian jewels. When she smiled, which was often, she had the beauty of a model or an actress.

"Hi, guys," she said. "What can I get you? I know you like the Guatemalan organic, but we've got a special on Luwak today. I'm supposed to push it. Manager's orders."

"I'll have the Luwak," Roger said, without hesitation. He gestured to Karl. "And him too."

Sarah smiled. "I thought you might. I'll go see what I can squeeze out of Fluffy." As she turned and walked away, the guys watched her appreciatively.

"Man, she is so cool," said Roger.

"Yeah, she's so cool that we're going to get botulism from drinking the product of a cat's behind." Karl shook his head disdainfully, but he couldn't conceal his smirk. "She's a college student or something, isn't she?"

"Law. Law school. Totally out of my league. She's so pretty. The worst part is she's even smarter than she is pretty. And she's even sweeter than she is smart."

"And that's bad because?"

"In five years, she'll be earning more money in a month than I make all year. And she'll still be pretty, and she'll still be smart. Totally out of my league."

"In five years, that might be true," Karl replied. "But you never know where you'll be in a week, do you? Maybe she'll take you with her."

Roger shook his head and smiled at the thought. He would like nothing better than to be taken on a journey with Sarah. But it didn't fit into his grand plan: become somebody and then find somebody. He examined the Luwak card again. Cat-crap coffee! Why had he ordered it? Of course, he knew the answer. She was perfect. Worth drinking beverages from a cat's butt.

He noticed something else lying on the table. It wasn't a coffee menu; it was an advertising leaflet. It said, "Psychic Demonstration Today—Come Experience the Astounding Anya Dreamchaser, God-gifted Medium and Clairvoyant!" He laughed and showed it to Karl.

"Check this out, dude. Psychic demonstration. Maybe we should go and find out why we're drinking cat-crap coffee."

"I think we both know why we ordered Fluffy's bum-nectar," said Karl. "Or, should I say, why you ordered it."

Roger shrugged and smiled. "A psychic demonstration. I wonder what goes on at those things. I've always wanted to check that stuff out."

Karl examined the leaflet. "You really want to go to a psychic demonstration?" he asked coyly. "A real one?"

"Maybe it'll be a window on another world."

"Well, that's the thing about windows. You can look out of them, but you can fall out of them too. And you just never know where you'll land. Are you up for that kind of adventure, Little Buddy? You wanna take a peek into the crystal balls?"

"What do you mean crystal balls? Isn't it usually just one?"

"Just one ball? Now, that just doesn't work, on so many levels. Besides, more than one ball, more than one view."

Roger scratched his head. "What do you know about this stuff?"

Before Karl could answer, Gregory arrived at the table. "Good afternoon, Gentlemen," he said. He was prim, proper, and stuffy—a proverbial "suit," dressed in a good-quality blue pinstripe and red silk tie. He was a lawyer in a big downtown firm, handling big-money deals for cigar-smoking bigwigs. His posture was excellent. He could have walked a mile with a Bible balanced on his head. His face was friendly but serious, and his long neck and pointy nose made him vaguely resemble an ostrich.

"I can't believe those darned kids," he complained, trying unsuccessfully to shake Silly String off his heel. "That stuff is everywhere. My whole day has been like this. On days like today, I think I should have listened to my mother and gone into the priesthood."

"Priesthood?" said Roger, surprised.

"It's hard to imagine you in the pulpit!" Karl laughed.

"I was raised Catholic," Gregory retorted, seeming suddenly pious and defensive.

"I didn't know you were a spiritual man," said Roger.

"Spiritual is a big word," Gregory replied, with a whiff of smug condescension. "Let's just say that even though I don't go to church anymore, I have been following a higher path. I always knew I would do important work."

Karl's mouth dropped open. "Important work? You're a corporate lawyer, not Mother Teresa."

"Listen, what I do is important. There aren't many people who know how to take a company public."

"Okay, Pope Gregory," said Karl.

They all laughed.

Ralph arrived at the table to complete the foursome. He too had Silly String on his shoe. He was trying in vain to kick it loose. "Hey, boys," he said. "I'm tangled in those kids' stringy stuff. On a brighter note, I've just devised another brilliant tax shelter scheme, if I do say so myself."

He took off his Armani jacket and designer cuff links made of hematite, which caught Karl's attention. Ralph's curly brown hair hung down below his collar, and his round wire-rimmed eyeglasses softened his appearance. He wasn't a stuffed shirt like Gregory, although he had been a lawyer of the same ilk—before he jumped ship from his downtown firm to be a financial wizard.

"Sounds like fun," said Karl, "getting paid for dreaming up tax schemes. Roger and I should get jobs in finance."

"You two could never handle the corporate life," Ralph retorted. "Since when do either of you care about money and, more importantly, having lots of it, like any sane man? You guys don't live in the real world. You're too out there."

"We are not," Roger protested.

"He's right," said Karl. "We are 'out there.'"

"Why?"

"The view is better."

Sarah appeared with two Luwaks. "Here you go. The most expensive coffee ever made." Roger and Karl made a show of rubbing their hands in anticipation. She turned to Gregory and Ralph. "What can I get you?"

Ralph looked at the Luwaks. "What's this stuff?"

"The finest coffee available to humanity," Roger interjected. "On special for eight bucks a cup. Made from coffee beans that have been crapped out by wild Indonesian cats." He pointed to the menu card. "Check it out."

"That's disgusting," said Ralph.

"Don't be narrow-minded," said Roger. "This is a new taste sensation." He raised the mug to his nose and took a whiff and then a sip. "Mmm. Tastes like the forest." Everyone laughed, including Sarah. "Actually," said Roger, "it's good. Mellow. The smoothest coffee I've ever tasted."

Karl tried his. "Yeah," he said. "It goes down nicely. I do like a smooth coffee."

"You want to try it?" asked Sarah, looking at Gregory and Ralph. "I'm on a mission to sell the stuff. Manager's orders."

"I dare ya," said Roger.
(Continues...)

---

Excerpted from Crystal Balls by Bill Rogers. Copyright © 2013 by Bill Rogers. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1 Getting Out There....................     1     

Chapter 2 Enter the Labyrinth....................     5     

Chapter 3 The Showstopper....................     14     

Chapter 4 Deep Thoughts....................     21     

Chapter 5 Trajectories....................     27     

Chapter 6 Crystal Ball....................     37     

Chapter 7 This Is My Church....................     41     

Chapter 8 Loose Threads....................     47     

Chapter 9 Hell's Tartan....................     54     

Chapter 10 Best Friends Forever....................     60     

Chapter 11 Looking Back....................     66     

Chapter 12 Chariots of the Gods....................     72     

Chapter 13 Chance Meetings....................     78     

Chapter 14 The Visionary....................     86     

Chapter 15 Convergences....................     90     

Chapter 16 Ridin' the Thread....................     96     

Chapter 17 The Fabric of the Universe....................     102     

Chapter 18 Mugs and Bottles....................     107