I wrote this short around five years ago and forgot about it...

Have a read if you are so inclined:

"The Conductor"

“I feel weak; I need to sit down,” said Phil, moving to an easy chair, noting that it was near 9:00 AM.

“Come on man, it’s time to leave, get up,” a voice came from a stranger who seemingly appeared in his living room.

“Who are you?” said Phil.

“Never mind all that – it’s time to go.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Phil, rising from the chair, unable to resist the compulsion to leave, following the stranger to the front door.

Crossing the threshold, a blinding light filled his vision for a moment, he and the stranger having entered into what appeared to be nothingness, devoid of substance, yet illuminated, even the place on which he stood having no discernible form.

“Where are we?” asked Phil.

“We are nowhere,” answered the stranger, “This domain does not exist anywhere, in space or time.”

“What are you saying?”

“You don’t realize it do you, that’s typical.”

“Realize what?”

“You are dead.”

“What?”

“You heard me the first time, no point in repeating myself.”

“But I can talk, I have a body.”

“All for continuity and appearance, nothing more,” said the stranger.

“But – ”

“No buts, you are dead – all that you knew is gone.”

“I have a business to run, employees, a ten million dollar inventory, it’s tax time for Chrissakes!” exclaimed Phil.

“Not any more, none of that exists for you.”

“This can’t be real – I’m dreaming,” said Phil.

“No, this is your reality now, that isn’t,” said the stranger, “Look, perhaps we should sit down and talk, in transition this sometimes happens.”

“Transition - sit down – where?”

“Here,” said the stranger, a pair of comfortable chairs appearing from nowhere. “Sit.”

Sighing and overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness, Phil took a seat.

“This is not a dream, you are dead, and that’s the way it is,” said the stranger, looking him in the eyes.

“But my work, the store, I must get back there.”

“Let it go, you cannot get back, ever, it is gone.”

“What of Larry, Bob and Vickie, what of my store?”

“What of them?”

“Well, do they still exist?” asked Phil, concerned for his friends.

“In their contrived realities, yes they do exist, but you are no longer part of their reality.”

“They are real?”

“Of course they are; they always have been.”

“So I could get back, as they still exist,” said Phil, trying to employ logic in a place where logic only applied to the transition. “There was a physicist named Everett that wrote – ”

“No, no, not at all, Hugh Everett, he was wrong on that - let it go, there is nothing to be done.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand, you are dead, and for most, if not all, it is time for transition.”

“To what?”

“To your next reality, should you decide to choose that; I wager you would have no desire to remain here or to transit to my level.”

“Your level?”

“I have elected to be a conductor, I grew bored with standard transition, too much trouble, at least for now.”

“What do you mean, I am Phillip Morgan, and that’s the only reality I have ever known.”

“No, no, no,” said the conductor, shaking his head, annoyed, “That’s part of it yes, but at transition you become whatever individual that the doors lead you to, with no memory of your past existences,” a long hallway of seemingly infinite length, lined with doors, appearing behind them.

“Then why do I remember it now?”

“When in nowhere you retain your memory until you transit through the threshold of whatever door you choose. That is how you are able to transit.”

“So all the stuff I was told about religion and god do not apply?”

“What god?” asked the conductor, “None of that sophistry applies here, or anywhere else for that matter.”

There is no god – how, I still don’t get it – then tell me why we exist,” said Phil.

“Oh boy,” said the conductor, “It depends on how you define existence – I guess; we’ll sit here for a bit and I’ll explain it to you, not that it will matter after you transit.”

“Why?”

“You won’t remember this, but I’ll explain it to you anyway, I’ve done it before for others.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“Very well, it’s been so long in real time that there is no one who really has the answer to existence, but for lack of a better explanation, we are non-corporeal beings who “live” vicariously through what are termed avatars that we become when the transition is made.”

“Avatars?”

“That’s what they’re called, your Phil Morgan existence was nothing more than an avatar, through which you enjoyed a life as him – that is now over and it is time for you to transit to another avatar.”

“But why?”

“It’s the way the universe works. You are free to remain here forever if you like, though even the term forever does not truly apply to nowhere.”

“No, why can’t I remain as Phil Morgan?”

“You are not Phil Morgan even now – and in the “time” if you want to call it that, in which we have talked, all you knew has passed into oblivion.”

“It has?”

“In relation to us, it never really existed anyway,” said the conductor, “It was only a construct, a realm that we exist in for those who make the transition.”

“You mean this boring place is the true reality?” asked Phil, it finally dawning on him.

“No, this is nowhere, a place where some like myself choose to remain, at least for a time, to serve as conductors for others to make the transition. Further, the concept of actual reality is only a theory, all there seems to be is what is termed existence, that is, our consciousness.”

“There is no reality?”

“Who knows; reality is what you make it.”

“Do you have a name?” asked Phil, his mind reeling.

“Of course I do,” the conductor said, “I go by Lotinmas Apenn V’lento Knejeb, my given name, the name that I held in my last iteration.”

“Iteration?”

“My last corporeal existence as an avatar.”

“I’ve never heard such a name.”

“Not where you came from, considering that in my past iteration I was a physician residing on the fourth planet of an orange star in what is known to you as the Whirlpool Galaxy, on a planet called Earth.”

“That’s the same name as my planet,” said Phil.

“Yeah – most of them are called Earth it seems, for whatever reason.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh, a few are called Terra, but the vast majority are called Earth.”

“I wonder why?” mused Phil, the fact that he was dead rushing back into his mind while they conversed.

“No one really knows, but there is a theory that long in the past, we were corporeal, originally developing on and coming from a world called Earth, or Terra, and those places into which we transit are based on that.”

“Like the eternal return?”

“Exactly.”

Both were silent for a while, Phil occupied with reflecting on Vickie, who had been his girlfriend. “Uh, Lotinmas, so, you think that in the distant past, we actually were like the avatars?” He was surprised that he could remember such a name, but it came to him easily.

“Probably, though it has been so long one cannot be certain.”

“What of this place – what is it?”

“It is nowhere; further, there are many nowheres, probably an infinite number of them, each nonexistent in space or time, but existing, nevertheless.”

“Are they all like this?” asked Phil.

“This is whatever you want it to be,” said the conductor, the area in which they were sitting now becoming a sunlit bank by a pond, with the hall of doors still in the background.

“An illusion?”

“All is illusion, as real or unreal as anyone wants it to be, the only true reality seems to be our consciousness.”

“Cogito ergo sum,” said Phil.

“Yeah, Descartes got that one right, if nothing else.”

“You know of him?”

“Of course, but not as the Descartes of your Earth, but the one of mine.”

“The same name?”

“Of course not, on my Earth his name was Urentun, but the philosophy is the same; the underlying principle seems to appear in all iterations of existence.”

“How would you know the name Descartes, from my Earth?” asked Phil, narrowing his eyes.

“Here, in nowhere, the total knowledge of the universe is available to all conductors. That is how I know our history and what transition is; how do you think I can talk to you in English? I have never heard of nor have I spoken one word of the language until I came to conduct you.”

“I guess that makes sense, sort of,” said Phil, looking to the pond.

“Great, so what do you want to do?” asked the conductor.

“Regarding what?’ asked Phil.

“Well, are you going to sit here, or get on with the transition?’

“I need to think about it for a while – to ascertain my position.”

“What position – you’re dead and are nowhere – you can hang around here or proceed to the doors, those are your choices.”

“You said that nowhere is whatever one wants it to be, correct?”

“Yeah – what of it?”

“I could recreate my life here, and continue with it.”

“Yeah, you could, but you would find it boring.”

“Why?”

“I’ve done it,” said the conductor.

“You have?”

“Yes, but you will find that there is no challenge in doing so, as you control whatever happens, consciously or not. That is one of the reasons that I decided to become a conductor, for even existence as an avatar is a contrived existence, like what you are envisioning, and for me, this is reality.”

“How long have you been a conductor?”

“As our existence goes – for a very long time.”

“Why?”

“Is that all you can say – why?” asked the conductor, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Phillip Morgan, having enjoyed his past life, and not yet accepting of the fact that he was dead, thought the idea of recreating his past life was an intriguing prospect. He could simply continue with what he was familiar with, the concept of change anathema to him, as he had no point of reference, other than his past life.

“Uh, how would one go about it?”

“Go about what?” asked the conductor, looking to what passed for a sky.

“Recreating my life?”

“You really want to try that?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, just think about it, I’ll be waiting.” With those words, the conductor vanished, leaving Phillip Morgan alone, sitting next to the pond.

“Think about what?” Phil said to himself, still sitting in the chair. Suddenly, the pond scene vanished and he was sitting in his living room again.

“I did it!”

Rising from the chair, he looked about, his house appearing exactly as he had left it. He smiled. “Well, I guess I’ll head the store and open up, looking to a wall clock that read eight-thirty.

Traveling to his business within minutes, he put a worn brass key in the lock and turned it, opening the door. Quickly turning off the alarm, he turned on the overhead fluorescents and headed to his office. Opening a door marked “Phillip Morgan, Proprietor”, he headed to his desk and took a seat.