Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer

            This image was created by D'Andre Clarke: artbydre@gmail.com

Greetings, mortals, and welcome to my humble abode. In this labyrinth of stories, I have found the perfect narrative to suit your darkest desires, The Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer, written by... an unknown individual, my examinatory eyes of defiance have discovered this treasure among the wreckage of a lost age of legends. Please come and hear the tale of... Dave, as he faces his greatest foe, his dream. 

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I woke up to a knock at the door. Groggy and irritated from late night writing, I sat up, glancing over at my phone, the bright light of the screen blinding to my eyes. After blinking for a moment, I could see an email from the publishing company:

 

From: Inksblot Publishing

Subject: Update on submission request

Status: Rejected

 

Sighing, I tossed the phone aside, another rejection, another failure.

 

The knocking returned, assaulting my ears. Gritting my teeth, I threw the sheets off, hobbling to the door to see a box on the ground. It was covered in industrial tape and on the address, I glanced at my name, David... Picking it up I thought, Why would the Fed Ex guy knock on the door if he is just going to leave the package on the ground? 

 

Throwing the box on the couch, I returned to bed to finish my sleep. 

 

After lying down for another hour, I finally got up of my volition. 

 

After getting dressed, I walked to the box to see the full name, David Samuel Robertson? The writer?

 

I opened the box, my curiosity getting the better of me. It was a book manuscript, not very long from the looks of it. I also found a watch, the clock and calendar glowed. The book was only about seven chapters, and the title was interesting, Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer. And because of that title, I read the book. The author David S. Robertson had been my favorite writer since I was a kid and I would read his novels over the summer to win the summer reading program, I even got into writing myself because I wanted to be just like him. So, I began to write stories that...never...worked out...wait a minute. 

 

Holding the manuscript close, I saw...my name, Dave John Keller! Reading further, I saw the prologue which detailed my day up to this point, from the email rejection to opening the manuscript to the shadowy figure standing behind me, Behind me!?

 

Spinning around, I saw... him. “This must be some joke!?”

 

“This is no joke, Dave, you are the champion... of my murder story...” 

 

Eyes wide, I stood from my chair, “Who are you!?”

 

The man chuckled, “You might know me as the Author of this book, the man, the writer you’ve always wanted to emulate...”

 

“David... Samuel... Robertson...” My eyes scanned the man before me, he was much younger than the Author I had idolized, in fact, he slightly resembled me... No, that’s impossible. Chuckling to myself, “What’s this supposed to be?”

 

The writer beamed, “You’ve read my works, you know my...mystery style is a little unorthodox.”

 

“You tell your murder mysteries, from the perspective of the killers who commit the crimes, and is this how you do it, send the manuscript before killing your victims?” 

 

“Oh...no... Dave, I’m allowing the champion to have the script to his first bestseller. Once you and I have our... little adventure, you will publish the novel under your own name, of course.” 

 

Gritting my teeth, I punched the table beside him, “I’m not playing your sick game!”

“You will...because it is my game to play, the players choose their pieces, as writers choose their characters. You cannot resist David, the dice have been rolled, and the bell cannot be unrung. The path is mine to walk, so take it and RUN!” The writer leaped on me out of nowhere clasping his hands around my throat, locking his hands as David laughed maniacally.

 

Fighting back, I punched the man’s face, as I struggled to breathe, everything was blurry, and my vision went dark. 

 

Then there was light and a not-so-light slap on my cheek. Reluctantly I opened my eyes to see a beautiful blonde woman, Samantha. She was crouched over me cradling my head, “Davey, are you okay...”

 

Sitting up my head pounded, like it was stomped on by and elephant, “I-Grunt-I’ll be okay...”

 

Rubbing my temples, I remembered the manuscript. Looking up I saw two police officers going through my stuff, and Robert was with them. What’s Robert doing here? I stood to my feet as Samantha cradled my arm helping me up. Robert rushed over, “You good bro?”

 

The police think it’s a break-in.

 

Eyes widening, “The manuscript!” Frantically I rushed to the table and began looking through papers an old manuscripts.

 

“What is it,” Samantha asked.

 

“The Manuscript...is...missing...” I said, looking through papers, before switching to the counter and being stopped by one of the cops.

 

“Son, are you looking for this?” The officer said in a heavy southern accent held up a stack of papers.

 

Grabbing the manuscript, I yanked the paper out of the cop’s hand, “Thank you, sir!” Sounding a little too sharp there.

 

Robert put his hand on my shoulder, “Sam found you on the ground and she called the cops, I came over when I heard the sirens next door, are you doing okay.”

 

I need to get through this. “Uhhhh... I fell, nobody broke in officer....” I grit my teeth, crap.

 

“Son, nobody mentioned a break-in.” The officer said bluntly

 

“Right! well, I’m fine.” My voice cracked momentarily.

 

The officer grunted and left my home. After Robert let the officers out, thanking them for their time, he turned, “Alright, what the heck is going on, Dave?”

 

I shrugged my shoulders, “Nothing is going on!”

 

Robert persisted, “Nuh uh, you’re gonna do something stupid, now tell me what’s going on.”

 

With a heavy sigh, I told them the truth, “This morning, I got this manuscript in the mail, and I saw my...well... our names in this book as if we were characters in the story, and you’ll never guess who wrote it...”

 

Samantha stepped forward, “Who?”

 

“David Sam Robertson.” I said bluntly.

 

Robert blinked, and ran to his apartment next door, running back with a newspaper, “Look!”

 

The front page of the newspaper said that David S Robertson had just committed suicide this morning. This is getting spooky.

Beep.

Samantha took the manuscript from me, “Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer, What kind of a title is that?”

Beep.

“He...kind of...said...he’s...a time traveling...serial killer.” Biting my tongue as I realize how that sounds.”

Beep.

Robert smacked Samantha’s arm in excitement, “I freaking knew it!”

BEEP!

Then the watch started blinking and then beeping. Samantha looked back at the beeping watch, “Is that supposed to be doing that?”

 

Before anyone could answer, a massive white hole tore open in the air, its unnatural force yanking all three of us in. The manuscript slipped from my grip as we spiraled into the void. A tunnel of swirling space engulfed us, the pages of the manuscript floating just beyond my reach. I stretched for it, fingers grasping at nothing. As we floated through this tunnel, visions flashed before my eyes, I saw the face, his face, David Samuel Robertson, but he had a top hat on, and a monocle over his eye besides the outdated clothing he looked younger and almost like me, then a voice said, You cannot escape your destiny, David... The voice echoed all around me, “WHO ARE YOU!!”

 

Robert put his hand on my shoulder, pulling himself over to me, “Dave, who are you talking to?”

 

Samantha reached for my hand trying to comfort me, she knows how I get sometimes, but I pushed off her and Robert’s shoulders, launching myself toward the manuscript. My fingers closed around it just as we were spit out of the tunnel.

 

...And crashed on a wooden crate with a painful thud!

 

Samantha landed on the cobblestone next to me with a groan. Robert landed on something softer... A DEAD PROSTITUTE!

 

Robert scrambled off of her gagging. I peeled a broken eggshell off the manuscript’s cover, smearing yolk as I tried to wipe it clean. The woman’s dress was disheveled, as if she’d been dragged from a window and stabbed repeatedly in the chest. Robert frantically wiped at the blood on his shirt, looking like he might be sick.

 

Samantha slow turned as she looked up, taking in the cobblestone streets, the gas lamps, and the carved stone adorning the buildings, “Guys... this is the Victorian era.”

 

Robert blinked at her, “How do you know?”

 

She shot him with an exasperated look, gesturing at the world around us. “Because I studied history in college instead of goofing off like you two.”

I ignored the jab and flipped through the egg stained pages of the manuscript. My stomach caved. “Guys... this is Chapter One.”

 

I gulped, “A Framed Ripper...”

 

There was a shadow down the way, that’s got to be him, “David Robertson.” I yelled as I ran after him, “Get back here!”

 

David turned a corner into the shadows as I ran in, facing the darkness. Sneaking through the dark, I could see nothing. Spinning I saw David, a bit younger, with the same top hat and monocle over his right eye, he wore a trench coat and walked with a cane, Just like my vision... “Dave Keller, I see you accepted my invitation.”

 

“I’m not accepting crap, your stupid watch glitched, and now I’m stuck here, you’re gonna tell me how I’m getting home.” I said yelling at the man, who I once idolized and now is my demise.

 

David chuckled, “You thought that you could run from the plot?” He chuckled, “Instead you shall be the Champion of this novel, I shall write.” 

 

“You already wrote the thing, I have it right here,” I said, holding up the manuscript.

 

“Don’t spoil the ending, I haven’t written it yet.” The Writer said.

 

If I beat him at his game now, I can stop all this from happening.

 

“You can’t stop the events from transpiring, David, and do you know why?” He said response to my thoughts.

 

“And why is that?” I asked, humoring the psycho.

 

The cloaked man raised his eyebrow, “You never wondered why I sent the manuscript to you?”

 

Scoffing, I replied, “I just figured you’re a psychopath, and you picked out a victim at random, maybe you wanted to torment one of your fans for some sick reason.”

 

The writer leaned forward as if sharing an amazing secret, “David, I picked you for a purpose, for a reason, because the champion must become the challenger.”

 

I stepped back, now uncomfortable, “What are you saying?” You cannot escape your destiny, David…

 

“I, young David, am you in the future, and you are me in my past.” His grin was now full, ear to ear, as the truth set in.

 

“No, No, No, there’s no way, I would never...” I stepped back, unable to accept what he said.

 

“The potter does his best to shape the clay...” He said, or... I guess the other me said, “But the devil... Oh, he knows how to whisper...”

 

Leaning forward, I grabbed him, or myself, by his collar, “I won’t become you, I believe that I will change my destiny, even if you are right, I will not become you.”

 

David shook his head, “Oh my boy, I said the same thing when I was you, but then... David...Samantha...Robert... I became me...” he said as he looked up with a knowing smirk.

 

“Are you threatening my friends?” I ball my fists ready to throw the first punch.

 

“No...but there is one more clue you are missing for your destiny.” David said as the gaslight flickered and his grin now full, a gust of wind tore through the alley way his trench coat flowed in the wind, paper flew across my face and as I brushed it away... He was gone.

 

There is no way that this killer is me…
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And so dear readers if you ever receive a manuscript in the mail think twice before reading... or writing...

Reflective Post: The Wounds We Carry

What Happened?

Recently, I've been reflecting on the personal baggage and losses that we all carry. For me, this includes the sudden passing of my birth father last year, which left me with unresolved emotions and anger. I hadn't seen him in eight years, and the lack of closure was overwhelming. I also struggled with feelings of betrayal and hurt from past experiences at my former job, which even led to a year of suicidal ideation. These experiences have been a heavy burden, affecting my ability to grow and heal.

So What?

As I reflect on these experiences, I realize that holding onto anger and resentment can be a form of "dead weight" that prevents personal growth. I've found that my instinct is often to cling to these feelings because I feel justified in my anger. However, I've come to understand that this doesn't lead to healing. Instead, I've learned to rely on my faith as a way to release this burden. It's not just about letting go; it's about actively choosing to forgive and trust that God can heal these wounds.

Now What?

Today, during morning prayer, I felt a strong urge to forgive those who wronged me at my former job. This was a challenging process, especially with one person whose name I couldn't recall, which I believe was my subconscious resisting forgiveness. However, as I declared my identity in Christ and sought guidance from the Holy Spirit, I was able to forgive and begin the healing process. It won't be immediate, but I've taken the first step by choosing to let go of that anger and see the situation with grace rather than resentment. For now, I'm focusing on not revisiting those painful memories until I can view them without anger or betrayal.

Suffering Servant

    In a small town in the east lived an 11-year-old boy with a destiny that would change the world.  

         Sitting on the floor with the other disciples, Yeshua listened to Rabbi Yosef teach from the prophet Daniel, "Seventy weeks are decreed for your people and your holy city: to finish the transgression, to put an end to sin, and to atone for iniquity, to bring in everlasting righteousness, to seal both vision and prophet and to anoint a most holy place. Know therefore and understand from the time that the word went out to restore and rebuild Jerusalem until the time of an anointed prince." 

        When finishing the prophesy Yosef concluded, "That is why the Messiah cannot come until the people are right with Adonai, only then will the Messiah come and set us free."

        The room was silent, no one dared to question the teacher's knowledge until Yeshua raised his hand, "Rabbi Yosef?" 

        Rabbi Yosef ignored the boy, turning to open another scroll, but he stood, "Rabbi Yosef?"

        The old man looked down at the boy, his imposing figure towering over him, "Yes, child?" 

        Yeshua stood asking, "The Psalms says that there is no one good except Adonai, and in Jeremiah it says Man cannot walk himself, it is not a man who directs his steps, wouldn't it stand to reason that only Adonai could lead man to righteousness?" 

        The old man grunted to himself, and the children chattered among themselves, "What is your question Yeshua, son of the carpenter?" 

        Yeshua said, "You say man needs to be good in order for Adonai to deliver him, but when you read further it talks about the Messiah, After the sixty-two weeks, an anointed one shall be cut off and shall have nothing, and the troops of the prince who is to come shall destroy the city and the sanctuary. Yet you say that the temple will remain forever." 

        Yosef leaned over Yeshua, imposing on the young lad, "How about you stay in the woodshop with your father and leave the interpreting of scripture to those whom Adonai has blessed with revelation." 

        Yeshua gazed up at the Rabbi his brows furrowed in confusion, "You talk about my father being a woodcarver, but isn't your son a fisherman?" 

        The old man's eyes widened with fury as his nostrils flared, "Yeshua! I will not stand here and be disrespected by you in my class!" 

        Yeshua blinked, stepping backward, "I didn't mean any disrespect, sir, I was only wondering why you think that just because I am not the son of a respected Rabbi, Adonai won't give me revelations, When Adonai chose King David, who was the youngest son and a common shepherd, also choosing Samson as well as many of our prophets from humble origins to become great men in Israel." 

        The old man shot a look at Yeshua, "Out, Now!" 

        Yeshua bowed respectfully and quickly walked out of the room into the Synagogue court yard Eleazar sat outside on the mat waiting, "You got kicked out too?" 

        Yeshua shook his head, "You and I get kicked out for very different reasons." 

    

        Laughing Eleazar stood and put his arm around Yeshua's neck rubbing his knuckles into his scalp, "That's because you always gotta be a party pooper." 

        Pushing him off Yeshua chuckled, "You're the one who put needles on Rabbi Benjamin's mat,"

        Eleazar chuckled as he recalled the event, "Yeah, would've been funnier if you didn't spoil it." 

        Yeshua put his hand up looking directly into his friend's eyes, "You don't seem to understand, we have an opportunity, this synagogue doesn't normally let the sons of merchants and craftsmen train under Rabbi, I'm trying to learn what I can. And you're just goofing off." 

        Eleazar says, "Someone trying to, 'Learn what he can', wouldn't be out here with the synagogue troublemaker." 

        Yeshua chuckled, "Yeah, I think you're right, but the thing is when I read the Torah or listen to someone read the Torah it's like I'm hearing or reading myself, it's like it's a part of me somehow." 

        Eleazar laughed, "Of course, the Torah is a part of us, its about our ancestors, it's the history of our people." 

        Looking at his best friend, eyes pleading, "No, it's deeper than that..." 

        Sighing the old friend put his hand on Yeshua's shoulder, "How do you mean?” 

        

        Yeshua sighed, "When my Abba first read the scroll of the Levitical Law to me, I felt like I had spoken those words before, when I heard him speak the laws out, I knew what was coming next..."

        Eleazar stopped, putting his hand on Yeshua's chest, "Did your Abba read this to you late?"

        Yeshua shook his head, "No, he followed the customs, reading it to me when I was three. We were moving back home from Egypt at the time."

        Eleazar's brow furrowed as he looked at Yeshua, "That is very strange that you remember so much."

        Yeshua blinked, "Do you not."

        Eleazar was silent all the way to Yeshua's home. Yeshua went into his father Yosef's workshop, seeing his younger brothers working with their father as he supervised them building a table. Yosef noticed Yeshua enter. Wiping his brow with a rag he said, "How was Torah Class?" 

        Yeshua sat on the table, "I don't think... I want to go back." 

        Yosef looked over at his other two sons, Yuda and Yaacob, "Boys, go upstairs and see if your Eima needs any help." 

        Both ran upstairs to the house. Yosef sat on the table next to his son.  

        "What happened?" Yosef asked.

        Yeshua recalled the events of the day, "Rabbi Yosef was teaching out of Daniel today, about the messiah." 

        Yosef nodded his head, "Okay?" 

        Yeshua continues nervously, "I asked a question about the teaching, and he got angry." 

        Yosef asked, "What was your question?" 

        Yeshua said, "Well Rabbi Yosef said that the Messiah can't come until the people are clean, but I asked, 'Why would Adonai require that if psalms say no one is righteous not even one,' and he got angry." 

        Yosef furrowed his brow as he thought, "Was this Rabbi Yosef, Yosef BenElijah?" 

        Yeshua looked up, "Yes?" 

        Yosef chuckled, "He doesn't like his students to challenge him, but you did nothing wrong, a good Rabbi isn't afraid of students' questions." 

        Yeshua smiled, "Thanks, Dad." 

        Yosef hugged his son's neck and a voice from upstairs yelled, "Boys Dinner time." 

        Yosef said, "You go to your mother, I have a project to finish." 

        Later that evening, Yosef and Miriam were in bed talking about Yeshua.  

        "I think we need to tell him," Yosef said bluntly.  

        Miriam said, "Do you think he's ready?" 

        "He's almost a man I see it in his eyes he knows something. But he needs to know everything." 

        Miriam said, "What makes you think he doesn't know everything now? He rivals the Rabbi in their knowledge of scripture, and he is definitely different than his brothers." 

        Yosef chuckled, "The stories he comes home with make me want to go back to Torah class all over again." 

        Miriam laughed recalled todays story, "We need to tell him." 

        Yosef nodded, "I'll talk to him in the morning." 

        "Are you afraid that you'll lose your son when you tell him?" 

        Yosef shook his head, "No, but I know that he will gain a father and a destiny." 

        The next day, Yeshua was about to leave for Synagogue when Yosef stopped him.  

        "Your Eima and I need to talk to you today. You won't be going to class."  

        Yeshua put his bag down and followed his father. When they got to the workshop where Miriam was, she said, "Sit down." 

        Yeshua sat looking up at his father, "Is something wrong?" 

       She chuckled and said, "No. actually very right." 

        Yeshua looked at his Eima, furrowing his brow.  

        Yosef interjected, "Your mother and I are going to tell you the story of your birth." 

        Yeshua raised his eyebrow. 

        Miriam said, "Before you were born an angel came to me, he told me that I would have a son and to name him Yeshua, the thing is I didn't know your father or any man at the time." 

        Yeshua looked between Yosef and his mother, "Then who is my Abba?" 

        Yosef said, "Adonai is your Abba." 

        Yeshua looked down deep in thought, "That makes so much sense." 

        Miriam leaned forward taking Yeshua's hand in hers.  

        "I have dreams where I am in paradise, where I am with Adonai, where I see angels, where I see the future." Yeshua continued. 

        Yosef put his arm around Yeshua's shoulder, "Do you know who you are son?" 

        Yeshua looked forward, "I'm the Son of Man." 

This is a fictional depiction of the historical figure Jesus of Nazareth, the same Jesus who is alive today and represents us before the Father. I wrote this as an exercise because I am going to write a character based on Jesus in my epic fantasy novel. The character Yeshua in this story is based on Jesus the man but as an 11-year-old Israelite boy. My knowledge of first-century Israelite culture is limited, and I am not an expert on this material. I also took a few creative liberties, but my hope is that this doesn't contradict but enhances your knowledge of scripture.

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