When a chance meeting with an old man leads to a captivating story, the author is swept into a journey through time and the paranormal. Starting in 1966 at Oxford College, the story follows a professor's pet project to uncover a message that spans all of written history-a message from the devil himself. He leaned forward, "Do you believe in God?"
I swallowed hard. This was not really something we talked about, and unlike now being an atheist wasn't all the rage. It was a personal thing.
"Professor?" He did not like my lack of answer.
"It's a simple question, young man. Do you believe in God? Or is what a little bird whispered in my ear untrue?"
Before I could answer he slapped one of the piles. "...and I am wasting my time again." I struggled to answer him. "I.. Well... What does... Well no."
He smiled a satisfied smile and leaned back a little.
"Good. Good. This is a good start. Honesty. Finally."
He put his spectacles back on and opened up his calendar book to jot a note. He shoved a piece of paper across his desk and pointed at a line with his fountain pen. A rather large blot accumulated as he waited for me to take the pen. "Sign here."
--- I met Simon-not surprisingly-at a cafe. As I try to get out at an early hour and write, it seemed that our schedules matched-at least on Sundays. He was a nicely dressed gentleman that had a story to tell...
I swallowed hard. This was not really something we talked about, and unlike now being an atheist wasn't all the rage. It was a personal thing.
"Professor?" He did not like my lack of answer.
"It's a simple question, young man. Do you believe in God? Or is what a little bird whispered in my ear untrue?"
Before I could answer he slapped one of the piles. "...and I am wasting my time again." I struggled to answer him. "I.. Well... What does... Well no."
He smiled a satisfied smile and leaned back a little.
"Good. Good. This is a good start. Honesty. Finally."
He put his spectacles back on and opened up his calendar book to jot a note. He shoved a piece of paper across his desk and pointed at a line with his fountain pen. A rather large blot accumulated as he waited for me to take the pen. "Sign here."
--- I met Simon-not surprisingly-at a cafe. As I try to get out at an early hour and write, it seemed that our schedules matched-at least on Sundays. He was a nicely dressed gentleman that had a story to tell...
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