Welcome to Forest Park

Ticker tape Synesthesia

The Synesthesia Tree

https://www.thesynesthesiatree.com/2021/03/ticker-tape.html

"Ticker taping" consists of automatically visualising written words in the form of subtitles when hearing other people speak.

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Waking from a heavy session last night, the brightness of the summer morning pierces my head. I drag myself out of bed, shower, and hit the road. Then I remember—I need to stop at the store. Along the way, there are a lot of people walking in the opposite direction to me. I have to practically shove past three or four of them, narrowly avoiding confrontations, just to continue my journey.

Once at the store I take a small piece of paper with my own scrawling on it from my pocket.

Water. Dried fruit. Bread. Beans. Gas canister. Knife.

Fortunately, the amount of money in my wallet was the exact amount of money I needed to buy the supplies I needed for my camping trip. Strange in the summertime, though. The dark hues of crows flying catches my eyes. I love crows. They don't care. I wish I didn’t either. I barely register the fact they seem to be following me, but do register it. I only barely register an ad for "Heed the Crow's Eye View".

Leaving the store, I make my way along a road, venturing further from my house and into unfamiliar parts of the local area. I've only just moved there, so this was somewhat, a lowkey adventure for me. A friend suggested it - a local challenge that all newcomers are encouraged to complete. An old lady stops me and asks for my help. I ruminate over telling her I am busy, but then when she says she just wants to cross the road safely, I oblige.

She rewards my kindness with a hug and a container that looks like it contains jam or some kind of preserved fruit concoction. There's a blank white label on it and it feels very cold. Like it's been in the fridge all day.

The hug felt a little odd, not at the time, but the more I think about it, like she had been waiting for someone to hug her. A flicker of text appeared for a second or two after we hug. "You're almost ready" she says.

I thank her, though really I wonder, as I put it into my backpack, what the hell I'm going to do with an old woman's funky looking jam.

More people are getting in my way, almost deliberately. I am sure I've pushed past several red cap wearing teenagers in the last ten minutes.

There is a clearing about 200 yards ahead, and then I can start making my way into the wilds of the local countryside.

It feels a lot different to the place I used to live - this area. Very Pacific Northwest, in terms of the atmosphere and the lush greenery. Not like my old place.

I think.

My mind's been foggy lately, like a slightly detuned radio. Lots of static. That's why I can't remember, Arkansas. That's it, Arkansas is where I was raised... or at least I think I was. That’s what I’ve been saying lately, anyway. It sounds right. For now.

It was a learning experience, though. It helped me max out on skills and talents I'd never have had the opportunity, time or inclination to if I had a busy social life.

Reaching the clearing, after passing another two red cap wearing teens and a another three girls in the same summer dress. There must be a sale on. It’s a young town, after all. Another ad—‘Heed the Crow’s Eye View’—makes me wonder if there's a crow sanctuary I’ve missed. That might be why there are so many around here.

Not actually seen anyone older than 22, aside from the strange old lady with the hug and the jam and myself.

I'm sure I see the same old lady crossing the road close to me, with a different person helping her. I don't watch to see if that woman gets jam too.

Stopping at a waypoint - I know it's a waypoint, because I looked at my map before leaving. Then everything seemed to pause for a half a second. No silence or stillness... nothing. Like the world needed to catchup.

The sign glitches, which blurs in and out of focus, damn my headache, reads:

Welcome to Forest Park

The largest park in Portland, Oregon.

5,100 acres of forestry and woodland stretching along 8 miles of the Tualatin Mountains. More than 80 miles of trails.

Popular with nature lovers, trail runners and hikers.

I finally place the jam inside my bag. Why I forgot I was carrying it in my right hand, I don't know.

I haven't packed a tent. There was a note on my bedside table this morning with plain handwriting, maybe mine. It said:

"Don't camp in a tent at the park. Or you wont get far."

I must've written it, because who else would've? Don't remember doing it, but I'm not going to start arguing with myself. Not today.

Time to get into the thick of the overgrown forest. There is a cacophony of birdsong. I have always had an innate sense of recognition when it comes to birdsong.

I hear the American Crow — Corvus brachyrhynchos, a name that always flashes in my mind like a headline ticker. The crows are flying the same direction as the ones I saw earlier. Odd.

I take a trail marked with a small stream icon. It winds through dense overgrowth. Along the path.

There are a few couples kissing on benches. The strong scent of Marc Jacobs daisy eau so fresh and Hugo Boss. Green tee and strawberry blonde girl.

I pay them no mind. A lovely day for romance, I guess... I give them a quick nod. Green tee guy and strawberry blonde little miss perfection just smile.

Nice people.

The now very familiar caw of the American crow starts to feel like my own theme song or backing track as I hear the gentle lapping of a small stream.

The stream is surprisingly busy with animals. There are a lot of fish.

A small wooden stand has a laminated sign:

"Fish with us! Just 3 cents for 10 minutes. Rod and bait included."

Why does it seem strange it doesn't say credits?

I'm sure I can fish. Even if I can't, I'll give it a go.

It takes Four minutes, thirty-three seconds. Give or take. I timed it in my head, to catch my first fish. Which my synaesthesia reliably informs me is 80lbs.

So that's my dinner sorted. I keep walking on and then a buzzing insect almost causes me to fall. Wait, it's a silhouette. Of two people. Another couple... wait. Another couple kissing on a park bench. The strong scent of Marc Jacobs daisy eau so fresh and Hugo Boss.

"Hello, how are you?" I ask the couple, my eyes darting between them.

“Good my friend. It’s a great day to be here in Forest Park,” the man says, smile stuck.

I wave a hand in front of his face. “Know any decent bars around here?”

“It’s a great day to be here in Forest Park,” he repeats, same inflection.

I turn to her. “What year is it?”

“Great day to be here in Forest Park,” she echoes, like a GPS jammed on one phrase.

Their pupils don’t track me; they *reset*. Both faces twitch, then together:

"Good my friend. It’s a great day to be here in Forest Park."

A chill spiders down my spine. I back away.

What a strange couple. I need to be sure they are not following me. I don't trust them. Were they there when I first reached the bench?

As I walk down a pathway that takes me away from the stream, it's then I notice the cawing of the crows again. Stranger than the cawing, though, is the quiet between the caws.

A tree bending into the path has an envelope attached to it.

Looking around, I ponder whether I should open it or walk on by it. Waiting for a moment, I then feel myself open it before I decided to do so.

"You need to camp in the forest. Or you won't get far."

Conflicting advice.

Get far? Far into the forest, presumably. Did I write the message or was the message given to me. My memory is not as good as it used to be, clearly.

Did I even bring a tent? I stop. Open my backpack. No. Well I guess that settles it. I will not be camping tonight.

Caaaaaaaaa-aaa-eeee---aw sounded a crow, but an injured or possessed one.

What was that? Am I going in sane?

Looking over my head, the crows are again circling around me in the sky. One practically looks like the one I've seen throughout the day. The same one.

Then, it starts.

Flying backwards.

A least it's not raining, a rarity here in the moss-covered pathways, the western hemlock and red cedar alongside the bigleaf maple and red alder.

The trees offer shelter. I press into them. As the darkness creeps in, I make my way further into the dense forest. Following a path down one of the hills that seem to make up this great wilderness terrain, I find a group of trees that would be perfect covering.

There are three that all lean in towards one another. There's even a perfect drainage system for sending the water away from me, if I stand and sleep under it. The ground is very dry, with moistness near the outer edges of the circle of soil and stones.

For no other reason than compulsion, I walk towards the edge of the hill where there is a little edge and look out on the horizon from left to right. After a few moments pass I feel inclined to jump up and down, as if training and practising, though I am not really sure what I am training or practicing for.

Just that it feels very important for my limbs to be moving in that way.

Compulsion again powers me to reach into my pocket for my knife and to carve a message onto one of the trees.

While carving the tree, carve a marking in my wrist, just small enough to read without being deep enough to bleed out. A flash of memory...but not mine, as I have breasts.

Why... did... I do that?

The more I stay in this forest, the more I feel I'm losing my mind. How long before I lose it completely?

Alternatively, I could have already lost my mind or be dead. Is this some kind of purgatory madness?

The crows have stopped cawing. They're still up there, circling... wait, no, hovering? Is it still hovering if they are perfectly still?

What is going on?

"user2242 nearby"

Who said that?

Ticker-tape flashes across my vision, "Eat the jam."

"Eat the jam" the words of the command in my head appear in front of me.

I don't want to eat the jam, though.

So, I leave it. As the label flickers and a strange sensation comes over me and everything goes black. My life. No wait. Other people's lives flash before me. All in the same environment. But different genders, ethnicities.

"Eat the jam, now" the words appear in a larger font now.

Feeling my hands reach for the jar to open it...

...The flavour quickly changes from something metallic to sugar, ink, ash then strawberries.

Everything goes black ... countdown ... Portland morphs to Golden Gate ... HUD text.

…Metal. Sugar. Ink. Ash. Strawberries. The jam cycles like a broken jukebox of flavours.

Darkness slams down.

**PRESS <ANY KEY> TO CONTINUE** flickers across the black.

My reflection ignites in mid-air—pixelated, low-poly, hair and face textures swimming. I watch myself stutter between male, female, child, veteran, clown, back to me. Every iteration carries the same carved wrist.

A bone-white progress bar crawls: *SYNCING PLAYER MODEL 37 % … 83 % …*

A click, like a cassette locking.

Bright light—no longer Portland. Twin towers of the bridge loom, but the geometry jitter-bugs. HUD icons leak into the sky.

"user2242 has joined the game"

"Markyb19 has joined the game"

"player one has eaten the jam"

"Player one is awarded 10 XP points"

"Player one unlocks secret jam ability"

A strange compulsion comes over me and I am moved to push my hands into the ground and watch as the arms turn into flames.

What the fuck is going on? I call to no one.

“Player one is awarded the Firepower Special Ability Badge”

Why did I think that?

Up above me, the sky flickers with the word Firepower Badge Unlocked for a moment, then it's gone.

Several people start running towards me from seemingly nowhere. They don’t even look particularly real. Pixelated a little and glitching, jumping erratically.

My hands raise without me controlling them and I blast each of them with flames. Their screams sound real, but their bodies disappear and then reappear a minute later.

"Level: Purgatory Complete. Welcome to Hell, Player 505."

"Would you like to proceed? Press [X] on the controller to learn your fate."

No. I think we're good. This is going to make us lots of money.

Computer, set up a meeting with our investors for next Monday morning.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Another entry for the You Were Never Really Here Challenge, the first of the Vocal+ Summer Writing Series.

Below is my other entry:

And my first entry for the Light Breaks Water Challenge, of the Vocal+ Summer Writing Series.