The short story “The Mandela Effect” originally posted on Amazon in May of 2017. If you enjoy, please check out my other work: Alexx Bollen on Amazon.
The Mandela Effect
1. The Name
“I’m sure it was the BerenstEEn Bears!”
“I know. Me too. But they’re actually called the BerenSTAIN Bear. It’s called the Mandela Effect.”
The cafe was almost empty. Alicia and Amelia were talking a little too loudly. The barista was eyeballing them with every laugh and exclamation.
“Why’s that?” Alicia asked.
“For Nelson Mandela. There’s a bunch of people who remember him dying in the 1980s,” Amelia said. “But he was actually alive until 2010 or somewhere around there… at least in this universe.”
“Weird. So why do we remember the BerenstEEN universe when we live in the BerenstAIN one?”
“I dunno… well, I’ve heard a few sorta different ideas. I like the one that goes- all realities are super close to each other, and we switch through them all the time. But they’re all basically the same, so we don’t remember or notice when we enter a new universe, reality, or whatever. But sometimes we switch into a reality… universe… thingy that’s got a significant enough difference, and we notice the difference. Like, if the reality next door was identical but the thing we call an ounce was one-trillionth of an atom lighter, there’s no chance we’d notice. Or, like, if a coffee cup in a diner in Nebraska was off-white instead of true-white… some of the diner patrons would notice, but they’d most likely ignore it, or forget it the next day. But, sometimes, we slip a couple universes over and Mandela is dead in 2010 when where we left from he died in 1981. I don’t know why everyone doesn’t switch… probably just random. Anyway, that’s why it’s not BerenstEEN anymore… or so one theory goes.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Alicia took a sip of tea.
“This is strange. Do you think it could just be a memory problem? You know, like how they say dejavu is your brain mistiming a neuron or something like that, and it tries to catch up, so you think it happened already. Could it be something like that?” Alicia asked.
“I suppose so. I mean, I can’t say that I really believe in the whole ‘switching between realities in a multiverse’ thing. It’s just a fun idea. But, you know, it is probably because of a brain thing like you said,” she paused, thinking. “Wait, now that I think of it, why would everyone’s brain produce the same memory? Why would a misfiring neuron kill Nelson Mandela? He was a goddamn hero!”
“I think you’ve had too much coffee.”
“Probably. But I just get so mad thinking about some arrogant jerk neuron killing a great man!” Amelia yelped.
“You’re weird,” said Alecia. “I don’t know why the brain would choose the same memory… that doesn’t make much sense either.”
“Probably chemtrails…”
“Probably.”
2. The Grass
Luke was sitting in a park thinking about how weird it is that dead eye cells only show themselves on sunny days. He reminded himself that they’re called ‘floaters.’ He always forgot that word.
He tried to soften his vision enough to watch the floaters move across the summer sky. Every time he focused too hard they’d dance away, elusive worms and dots across the aged film stock of his 32-year-old eyes. The other park goers didn’t pay him any attention. He wasn’t sure if they were watching their own floating dead tissue.
He thought it was odd how easily the world can be changed. Some cells died, and now the world is one of translucent floating worms and amoebas. A small death many years ago turned the world into this one- a world full of phantasmagoria, the slippery images of a life with too much attention paid.
He watched a line of white clouds follow an airplane and stood up from the green park bench. He walked across a grassy field as two teams of chubby adults played kickball. He watched a Frisbee float gently into the hand of a beautiful woman. No one in the park noticed the solitary man walking through their numbers. He noticed so many of them. One was wearing a shirt with a Merkabah on it, a piece of what people call ‘sacred geometry’. He wondered if the man wearing the shirt knew what he was wearing, or simply liked the design. He watched blades of grass wave in the spaces in his path, wondering if they ever ended up in knots. He wondered what the most tangled knot nature ever created looked like.
The grass held no floaters.
The grass ended at a sidewalk.
The sidewalk stretched before him, right and left, north and south.
He listened to the plane that was growing clouds and followed it.
The park goers played kickball.
The woman with the Frisbee giggled.
Two blades of grass entwined for a moment.
No knots were made.
3. The Game
Years ago in a coffee shop, a man and a woman played a board game. They had just met. It was time well spent. The coffee shop was closing and the woman went to the restroom. The man got nervous waiting since the place was already well cleaned and the barista obviously wanted to shut down. He got too antsy and left, waiting outside. He didn’t see her again. His walk home was lonely and full of doubt.
She chatted with the barista, wondering when her new friend would get out of the bathroom. He never did. She looked for him outside and found nothing. She walked home wondering what had gone wrong.
Years ago, a street light was flickering. It made the plants on the corner look like they were filmed in slow motion. A young woman avoided that corner out of habit. She disliked the strobe effect. One evening, many years ago, she would have seen a twenty-dollar bill laying crumpled next to the sidewalk. She would have picked it up. She would have walked to the store and bought a bottle of wine. She would have been shot on the way home by a stray bullet from a domestic dispute three blocks over. She would have watched the pavement as her blood mixed with the cheap white wine flowing from the jagged glass.
But the streetlight was broken, so the wine stayed pure.
4. The Mirror
Amelia wrote her name on her left arm in permanent marker.
She stared into a mirror at midnight, a candle the only light.
She imagined, focused, strained at her reflection.
She tried to switch places with her reflection, to be the person with her name written on her right arm.
The burnt image flame echoed in her closed eyes as she tried to sleep.
In the morning, she woke and looked at her arms. Her name was written on both. She had no idea if it worked, or if she had put herself into such a hypnotic state that she repeated the letters on her other arm. She wondered how she could have managed such perfect script with her non-dominant hand. She wondered if it worked. Could she now be in the universe next door? Did her intention to shift reality become reality. She thought about the universe she had tried to reach. How could she test it? Could she ask Alecia? She thought of ways to prove something unprovable, but her sheets were warm and soon she was asleep again.
The universes paid no attention.
Later that day Alicia and Amelia were sitting together in a small living room. It was sparsely furnished, but elegant in its way. The walls were that perfect shade of white that only people well-versed in decoration could identify and prefer.
“Oh, by the way, how do you pronounce the children’s book about the bears?” Amelia said.
“Haven’t we discussed this before? The whole Mandela effect thing? I swore that we did.”
“Yeah, I know. Just, you know, go along with it. I’m trying to see if something I tried last night worked.”
“Umm… okay. Well, it’s the BerenSTAIN Bears. But some people think that it was BerenSTEEN Bears. Why do you ask?”
“And you knew it as BerenSTEEN like me. That’s why it’s a thing… like those people who thought Mandela died years ago.”
“Yeah, in the late 80s, but I never thought that. That’s just part of the theory. When I was a kid it was BerenSTAIN just like the books say.”
“But, last time you said you remembered it like I did. BerenSTEEN.”
“Nope. I’ve always thought it was STAIN. That’s why I found it weird that all those people, you too I guess, thought it was STEEN.”
“But… wait… I could have sworn that you were one of the STEENS. Wasn’t that, like, the whole point of the conversation?”
“Sorry Amelia. I’m a STAIN girl, always was, always will be. I sent you that link to the story, you probably assumed I was agreeing with them.”
“Shit… yeah… I guess that could be it. I could have sworn… eh, it doesn’t matter in the end.”
“Not really. It is just a children’s book. To be honest I can’t remember a single plot from them, just vaguely recall having them read to me.”
“Me too. Strange how that works.”
5. The Hill
A few years ago, a Buddha-like character established himself on a mountain near town. He preached pretty phrases and attracted pretty people. The locals got nervous. He remained calm. Groups of like-minded people walked up the mountain to see him. He took a bit of money- only enough to live. He let people give him gifts- only small things to show affection. He tried.
In those years, the locals drew attention to the Buddha on the hill. The police were involved. He was arrested for dodging his taxes. His followers were livid, but did nothing dramatic. They eventually dispersed into the valley and forgot his words. He was let free after a year then disappeared into the crowds downtown.
If, and only if, one nervous man did not call his nervous neighbor, things would have changed. If he had remained silent, the world would have eventually had another sacred book. But, as it often happens, things went the wrong way, and those people were left in want.
6. The Puddle
Once again, Luke sat in the park by his apartment. He watched the puddle between his feet. The reflection of the sky made the world brown, twilight. He watched the puddle sky ripple in the small breeze. He felt his eyes throb- his face grew hot. He looked at the puddle sky world and it turned to blue. His eyes throbbed- his face reddened.
“They just don’t match, and the matches are wet from the rain.”
Where did he know that line from? Did he even have matches? He was sure. Maybe in his backpack a bit of out-of-time flotsam had appeared to light a cigarette which he hadn’t had in nearly five years.
He imagined lighting a cigarette with his theoretical matches.
He leaned back and felt the harsh bench hit his back.
The sky was a blue mess of floating blobs and erratic clouds.
He watched planes move as parallel clouds followed in their wake.
He waited for his breath to catch- his face to cool.
He looked back at the puddle world, now a glowing, vibrant, blue. The plane clouds were long gone. He looked at the park, and found it empty. He wondered what happened to the couple on the blanket, the kid by the basketball court. He stepped in the puddle universe and watched it subsumed by the scattering waves. The grass near his foot billowed, entwining two blades for a moment.
The air smelled of Chrysanthemums as he walked he passed what he knew was a rose garden. He was sure it was a rose garden.
He needed confirmation.
The street heading north was closed for construction. He chose to go to the bookstore a bit further east. It was a 30-minute walk, but he needed to know.
The bookstore wasn’t busy. He was thankful for this. The woman at the front desk pointed him to the back corner of the store. The children’s section was, thankfully, free of children.
He chanted in a low whisper.
“Beren-stain… Beren-steen…. Beren-stain…”
He read the cover a dozen times.
Berenstain.
He was no longer home.
He was in the puddle.
A woman stood next to him staring at the book in his hand.
He looked into her eyes.
She looked into his.
“You too?” She asked.
He nodded and held out the book with a shaking hand.
Above the store, the sky was clear of parallel clouds.
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