Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 OK, life does like to throw curveballs in our direction doesn't it?  I'm
hoping that this time, finally, I'll be able to continue this story.  Maybe
it'll be something like therapy.  Who knows...  my previous headings said
that my life had nicely unfucked itself and I'm back to the point that I
can write again.  Didn't happen did it?  Anyway, first off I want to thank
everyone that gave me feedback the first time around.  I'm sorry I let you
down by not continuing, but I'm going to try to make sure it doesn't happen
again.  I'm still going to try for one chapter a month.  How long it will
go on for, not even I know, this is just the beginning and we are
journeying together.  How much more difficult would life be if those with
the super-human power to move things with their minds couldn't erase the
memory from stander-by?  How hard would it be for someone to have pure
telekinesis, with no telepathy?  Let's find out.  Now, as always, please
send any and all comments to me.  Suggestions and criticisms will be
gratefully accepted.  Flames, however, will be ignored.  Please, do me a
favor and tell me what you think.  After all, it really is the only payment
we online authors get, and to be quite frank, I could really use the
encouragement.

   Before I forget, if you like this type of story, I'd suggest checking
out the works of "The Book" series by Blackie and "Tim, the Teenaged MC" by
Rass Senip.  Admittedly, they are mostly telepathy with a bit of
telekinesis, but they are works for the ages.

   Oh, and let me mention someone else I stumbled across, CSquared.  He's
working on what he describes to be his "Opus Magnum".  And it appears to be
just that.  The style is unique and it draws you in, even if some of us
here in the western hemisphere might not know what a fried slice is :). 
And the references he throws in, I've counted dozens so far and it's
sometimes subtle as hell ...  sometimes not.  But it's good, really good,
and it's still being written.  Check it out, it's called Powers, and damn
if it isn't as good as Blackie and Rass Senip so far.  Honestly, it kept me
up all night reading what is already there, and finally got me working
again.  So thank you, CSquared.

   Last, but in NO way least, I'd like to thank my adoptive sis, Sammy, who
managed to get a copy of this completed chapter to me after my computer
crashed and ate it.  I had forgotten I sent her a copy and she saved yours
truly from the agonizing effort of trying to re-write that which was
already written (which, if it has ever happened to you, you know the second
time is NEVER as good as the first).  A round of applause, please, for
dearest Sammy.

   -----------------------------------------------------

   Pure Telekinesis by: Waylan Dagger (waylandagger@hotmail.com) (c) 2006

   Chapter 3 : It Will Be

   David pulled his coat close to him and zipped it up as he stepped out of
the school.  There was barely any wind, which was a blessing for
mid-January, but it was still bitter cold.  Not quite freezing but close
enough.  He wanted to believe that the shivering was due to the temperature
out here, but lying to himself was never one of his strong suits.  As he
started walking down the street he cast his eyes skyward to the omnipresent
gray clouds.  They weren't even moving today.  And the sun barely made them
shine.  "At least it isn't raining today," he thought.  Then he thought
about getting wet which led his mind, inevitably, right back to the subject
he was trying not to think about: what he had just done to Mrs.  Lee...and
the fact that the clothes she wore were _not_ flattering.  Her body under
all of that...

   "Stop it!" he shouted in his own mind.  "Just let it go, it's over!"

   He continued to wrestle with himself, his conscience, and his teenage
hormones, until he turned a final corner and saw his house.  Mint green
with dark blue trim.  He shuddered once again at the colors his mother had
insisted it be painted last year, and then stopped just past the corner. 
The realization that he would never see her or any of his family again
hammered home harder than any time since before he had left the hospital.
He stood there a long time, the slight wind funneling down the street and
pressing his pants against his legs, before he managed to start himself
moving again.  He was grateful that the weather was cold and unfriendly
enough to keep all the neighbors inside.

   He stepped up to the porch and reached for the combination lockbox to
get the spare key...and it was open.  He opened it wide, then shook his
head and ran his hand through his hair as he realized it's just what his
Aunt Laura would do; take the key to open the house, keep the key, and not
secure the damned thing.  He realized his forefinger was tracing the edge
of the bandage again and he had to fight down a sudden, irrational anger at
the change of his habits, on top of everything else.  He sighed and walked
over to the third stepping stone in the path from the front door to the
driveway, lifting it up and pulling out the fake rock with the key inside -
the one his parents never knew about.  He remembered his sister getting
caught trying to sneak in and having to wake everyone up just because his
mother had had to use the emergency key from the lockbox and had not put it
back.  He, on the other hand, never got caught on his forays out late at
night.  Mostly due to this hidden key and other assorted tricks.  But now
he almost wished he had been, just to experience the chewing out.  Funny,
the things that you regret missing out on.  He shook himself free of his
thoughts and opened the door, stepped into the house and gasped as he
looked around.

   The beeping from just inside the door distracted him momentarily and he
turned to it, focused on the glowing keypad, and his fingers flew over a
glowing keypad to enter the code to deactivate the security system as his
foot kicked the door closed, the movement automatic, gone subconscious
after years or repetition.  He continued to just stare at the keypad and
then slowly turned back to the living room, not wanting to look, but unable
to stop himself.  There was the Christmas tree, still gaily decorated,
festooned with lights and garland.  The tree itself was brown and dry under
the bright ornaments, almost desiccated, the presents underneath al but
hidden under a carpet of brown, dry needles.  He leaned back against the
wall, his shoulder barely missing the security panel, as he regarded the
scene before him.  A light coating of dust everywhere, Christmas
decorations dimly seen against the walls, lit only by the dim sunlight
filtering through the drawn curtains, and the presents, from him, to him,
to his sister, mother, father, all piled haphazardly under the dead tree.
Dead like his family.  Never to return, like them.  This reminder stared
him in the face, unrelenting, mind-numbing.

   David had no idea how long he stood there, transfixed, before he started
shivering and realized that the sunlight had almost completely faded and it
was getting just as cold in here as it was outside.  He tried hard not to
think about the tree and all that it reminded him of and moved purposefully
away from the wall, started moving.  He went through the first story of his
house, turned on the electric wall heaters as he went, wanting to restore
this mausoleum to something resembling what he had always thought of as
"home." He got to the top of the stairs and cursed softly in three
languages, the words flowing automatically out of his mouth, as he thought,
for the hundred thousandth time at least, how stupid it was that the only
light switch for this hallway, that didn't even have a damned window, was
far enough away to ensure you'd be stumbling in darkness and shadows,
feeling along the wall for it, long before getting to the damned thing. 
Right then he could just barely see a shadow form of the switch against the
wall, and he figured that in about five minutes he wouldn't even be able to
make out that much.  His eyes suddenly narrowed in thought.  "If I can make
a locker knock a dumb fuck cold, if I can catch a girl, if I can twist a
steel pipe so it bursts..." and he willed the switch to move.

   Nothing happened.  He didn't even feel that weird twitch.

   He tried again, demanding that the switch move with everything he could
think of.  Still nothing.

   Squinting his eyes in concentration he screamed at the switch in his
mind, demanded that it move, willed it, wanted it more than anything.

   The damned thing still wasn't moving, and now the light had faded to the
point that he could no longer see it at all.

   He sat down on the top step of the stairs, a slight headache throbbing
in his temple.  It was nothing like what he had before, though; this was
just the headache he usually got when he was concentrating too hard on
something.  David just sat there, thinking calmly, for at least fifteen
minutes while it got noticeably darker.  Finally he began talking aloud to
himself.

   "So," he said slowly.  "I have some choices here.  One is that I've gone
completely psychotic and am currently strapped to a table, awaiting shock
or chemical treatment to prevent me being a danger to myself and others. 
The other is that I didn't do those things and someone is fucking with my
head.  The last is that I did do them and I'm missing something.  The first
I can't do anything about.  The second would assume that someone knew me
waaay too well, and the only person like that is...not with me anymore."
And his eyes closed briefly as he thought of his
usually-caring-and-supportive but once-in-a-while-not-nice sister, now
buried and gone.  "Another possibility that just now occurred to me is that
my family is haunting me and my sister is still messing with my head.  And
with all the paranormal shit dad, and recently even mom, discussed and
raved about I should not discount that possibility.  Lastly, I could have
actually done what I thought and I'm missing something.  Since the last is
the only one is really the only one that I might be able to do something
about, let's ignore the rest and focus on that theory.  So, assuming that I
am missing something, what is it I am missing?"

   He sat down in the hallway and leaned against the wall, thinking.  His
eyes would occasionally stray up to the darkened spot that he knew the
switch rested on, and every time he did, he got more and more frustrated.
Finally, his eyes locked on the spot and he growled out, "Why don't you
move!"

   To his surprise, as the last world left his lips, he felt that twitch
inside and the hallway was suddenly blindingly bright.  Followed, as he had
expected it to be if he could do this, by pain.  But this time it was just
a small sewing needle that poked though his eye to the back of his head,
and was gone before he really had time to react, sliding down and away like
a raindrop into river.

   He blinked hard, more from the bright light than the needle of pain, and
then just stared at the switch like an idiot.  "Emotions!" he suddenly
shouted out loud.  "The same part of me that controls my emotions!" And he
leaned back, his eyes closed now as he thought about that part of his
brain, where he thought he felt the twitch, and what he was feeling at that
moment.  "Ok," he continued to talk to himself out loud.  "Is it really
necessary to be angry or is that just the current funnel that is causing
those twitches?  Maybe if I didn't try to move it like with my fingers...
Maybe just concentrate on what I want to happen and try to make my brain
twitch that same way..."

   He started at the switch again and thought about wanting it to move, and
tried to make his brain twitch.  Nothing.  Then he tried to think about
what he was doing just before it moved.  "I was angry, yes," he thought to
himself, still trying to concentrate on wanting the witch to move.  "No...I
was furious at that point...every time...so what was it...a will?  No...a
want?  No...a need.  Ok...maybe."

   He added the Need for it to move.  And nothing.  "Ok, instead of going
for emotions, what about just twitching, calling forth that sensation?" And
he gathered himself, keep the switch firmly in mind, and concentrated on
the sensation of the twitch, and there it was!  But no...  He had started
to feel something that felt almost like the twitch and then it faded.  Once
again, he sat back and this time he blew a breath out between his pursed
lips, almost making a raspberry, as his head started to hurt again.

   As soon as it stopped hurting, he started to think again.  "Ok," He was
talking out loud to himself once more, but softly, hands on his knees, eyes
closed, concentrating, getting ready to argue with himself and figure this
out.  "So it's not emotional.  What happens when you get angry,
physiologically?  You tense up, your heart rate increases.  Your adrenaline
starts to pump.  And your mind readies itself to work faster, harder.  But
how?  No one knows, dummy.  Just like no one knows how those panicked
mothers pick up cars to get 'em off their kids.  Ok, so give up on figuring
out what everyone knows and doesn't know and try figuring out what happens
to YOU, idiot.  Ok, ok.  I get angry, I need something to happen, and then
I twitch, and something happens.  Wait.  Back up.  Something happens and
you haven't thought of what beforehand?  Well, I'm sure I must have.  But
what if that is after the twitch?  Is this physiological instead of
psychological?  Hmmm..."

   Part of his mind had begun to wander, even though he was doing his best
to focus everything on this single problem.  The wandering part had
wandered straight to Ang, briefly considering what she might be doing right
now.  Also thinking of how he might be able to get her phone number, for
times just like this when his head hurt and her voice would be a balm to
his jangling synapses.  David shook his head violently, making it hurt even
worse but re-collecting the stray gray matter.  "Ok, asshole, keep it
together for once," he snarled at himself.  "I need to figure this out! 
Ok...  We are dealing with existentialism here maybe.  Taoism?  Observe it
as such and it becomes so?  No.  because then it would have worked before,
without walking down the philosophical road less traveled.  Aargh!" He
banged his head back against the wall with that shout, in sheer
frustration. His eyes closed as he tried to visualize each event, going
over every detail.  He had just got to catching Ang before she could fall
face-first into the point of the counter.  And that errant part of his mind
became immediately distracted by how her body had felt though the layers of
unflattering, thick clothing...

   His thoughts scattered and his eyes shot open as the downstairs phone
began to ring.  In most houses this wouldn't be a big deal, but David's
father had "improved" it and you could hear it in every corner of the
house, behind closed doors, and even sometimes over a running shower
upstairs, with Megadeth playing at subwoofer-destroying volume on the
stereo.  Here in the hallway it was near deafening.  David had often
wondered if even the neighbors heard it.  David smiled slightly as he
remembered that the primary purpose, which was to never miss a call, was
utterly defeated as his mother forbade anyone to call the house line at any
time.  It stopped after four rings and went into the voicemail that, as far
as David knew, had never been checked.  Set up, yes.  Checked, no.  "Damned
telemarketers," he muttered, missing the echo of other voices from around
the house saying the same thing.  He started to chuckle at all the odd
moments in life that had sprung up because of his father's eccentricity,
then stopped, and had to take a deep breath from being overwhelmed by the
wave of grief that hit him.  David shut his eyes again, took a deep breath,
and tried to recapture the moment...  And the phone started ringing again.
"For fuck's sake!"

   The volume of his voice had rivaled the phone rings as he pushed himself
to his feet and slowly walked downstairs, unconsciously timing it so his
foot would hit the bottom step just after the last ring and he could rush
to the phone before it started again.

   It seemed to be his day for bad timing, though, because his hand was
only an inch away from the phone when he almost got blasted off his feet by
a wall of sound; the incredible ring of the Mega-Phone, as his dad had
titled it.  Reaching out, he grabbed the phone during and, with a scream of
"FUCK OFF!" gave it a hard pull and a throw, ripping the cord out of the
wall and sending it across the house, to go bouncing into the living room,
coming to a rest under the tree, disturbing some of the gifts still
underneath.  He stood there, breathing hard, seeing red.

   Fifteen minutes later, after having calmed down, he appeared back at the
top of the stairs and tried to recollect his thoughts.  "OK," he said
aloud, again talking to himself, trying to work this out.  "The twitch, I
can do that, somewhat.  But it isn't enough." He leaned against the wall
and, a small smile appeared on his face.  "Dad would've loved this, he'd
have that Ann McCaffrey series out before I could have blinked, the thrill
that maybe the idea of Peter Reidinger and the Rowan and aren't so
far-fetched after all.  He be right here, firing suggestion after
suggestion..." A single tear slipped out of David's left eye, his voice got
rough, almost harsh.  "But he isn't here.  He's gone.  There all gone, and
I'm left alone." He closed his eyes hard and tears started silently flowing
down his cheeks.  Dad...I just didn't have the same interests.  Asimov,
Heinlein, Elizabeth Moon, David Drake, certain books by Piers Anthony. 
Good hard-core sci-fi, that's me.  I loved the arguments about whether the
Talent series was sci-fi or fantasy.  But, Dad, I just don't have the feel
for it..." And he stopped dead, his eyes flashing open.

   "Feel for it," he repeated after a few minutes, once again remembering
how Ang felt.  This time he didn't let himself get distracted, no matter
how much he wanted to.  "But I didn't touch her then," he whispered into
the darkness.  He rubbed his fingers together, feeling skin rub against
skin.  "Skin feels...does the twitch need to feel?"

   David tried to imagine pushing up the light switch with his finger while
he willed the twitch.  It was there again, that almost-twitch.  And it felt
like it was going to work...

   David gave up, panting, his head feeling like a small man with a big
sledgehammer was trying to get out.  He groaned in frustration.  He had
felt it!  He knew it had started to move, felt the pressure on his
"fingertip".  What was wrong?  His mind wandered back over the single
Talent novel he'd read and his father's urging.  "Ok," he started talking
aloud again.  "They had to get the 'feel' of what they were trying to move,
but their 'feel' was size, shape and weight, the mass.  What is my 'feel'?"
He thought for a moment long and shouted out, "It really is feeling!  Like
skin!"

   A sudden smile that David's face and he drew his concentration back
together, reaching to his pounding head for the "twitch." There was,
coiled, ready.  He "reached" out and "felt" the toggle, concentrated, and
surrounded the switch with a "skin", feeling every little bit of the
exposed plastic toggle, down to the small drip of pain on the tip from the
time his dad tried painting the walls himself.  Then he pushed against the
twitch and moved the "skin" upward.  The twitch hit, hard, like someone
driven a hot railroad spike though his head.  He heard his own hoarse shout
as the hallway when dark.

   "Davey!!" The sultry sexy voice, which seem to be shouting, slid across
David's abused synapses like a cheese grater.

   "Uuuhh..." he managed to groan out, wishing for the so-sweet, quiet
voice his confused mindset said should be rescuing him at this point.

   "Davey!  Wake up!  Oh my God!!  Please!"

   Nope, no rescue.  Where was that soft voice to combat this assault?  "At
home, like you are," slid across his consciousness.

   "Shhh," he managed to whisper out.  "Quiet...you're killin' me here."

   "Davey!" The voice he now recognized as his Aunt's shouted again, this
time in relief.  David just groaned and carefully put his hands to his
head.

   "Are you all right Davey?" Aunt Laura spoke softly now.

   "Now you are done trying to finish me off with your voice, yeah," David
whispered.  "And it's David, goddammit."

   He could almost hear her lips compress, but when she spoke, she didn't
reprimand him, which shocked David.  Instead, she softly asked, "What
happened?  Why is there blood all over your face?"

   "Blood?" David whispered, and reached to his face, his eyes still
closed. The stiff, dried coating followed a path from his nose, over his
lips and across his cheek to pool a bit in one ear.  "I fell," he said, not
elaborating.

   "You passed out?" Aunt Laura said in the voice that shouted 'Hospital'
to David's post-accident-trained ear.  He had to head this off and fast!

   "Nah," he said, finally opening his eyes and not letting her see how
much the single 75 watt bulb at the bottom of the stairs stabbed through
his eyes into his brain.  "Jus' did somethin' stupid."

   "David," Aunt Laura huffed out, "really!  How many times did your mother
tell you not to run up the stairs?"

   David felt suddenly very glad to his mother had complained about
everything to Aunt Laura, her "one true friend", except for this past
year...  He forced his mind to kick into gear and grasped at this line of
reasoning like a drowning man.  "Not much in the last year.  But too many
to count.  Guess it's that way, with me."

   She huffed.  "David!" After a moment of shaking her head, she asked,
"Why didn't you come home?  Why haven't you been answering your cell
phone?"

   David blinked.  "I, uh..." He pulled the well-used and battered cell
phone out of his pocket to look at it.  "I guess I forgot to turn it back
on after school," he said, choosing which question to answer.

   "Well, you obviously aren't all right, "Aunt Laura stated firmly.  "I
called the school nurse, Mrs.  Leaf-"

   "Lee," David interrupted automatically.

   "Fine, Mrs.  Lee, and before I could get to her the receptionist said
you'd fainted!  The nurse, Mrs.  Key," David just shook his head, giving up
for the moment on his Aunt's memory for names, "said you were all right,
but she's just a school nurse and-"

   "Yes!  I'm fine!" David shouted, breaking into a familiar problem with
his Aunt: her ability to hold an entire conversation without anybody else
saying, or even being able to say, anything.  He took a deep breath and,
before she could start up again, calmly said, "I ran into someone,
literally, we fell and both got knocked loopy."

   He felt bad about the lie, but it was fully justified a moment later
when his Aunt said, "Are you sure?  Maybe you should go back to the
hospital and-"

   "NO!" David's voice barked out instantly, while he had visions of a red
haired hot-eyed juggernaut in close pursuit, skillfully disguised into a
nurse's outfit, while pennies danced around five little old ladies. 
"I'm...I'm fine.  Just...two accidents.  Maybe I'm prone to 'em now.  Maybe
fate has it in for me, eh?"

   Aunt Laura made a tsk-ing noise.  "Well, this is exactly why you're
coming home, Davey."

   David turned his head slowly, his eyes tracking like that of a tank's
barrel to aim at his Aunt, as he sat up.  "I.  Am.  Home." His voice was
cold, even hostile, promising retribution if continued.

   His Aunt Laura shook her head, her lips trying smile, but her eyes
filling quickly.  "Davey...  David.  There is no one...no one here."

   "I'm here," David said firmly.  "And I'll stay here.  You may leave."

   "I'm going and so are you, young man!" Aunt Laura said firmly she stood
up, her hands her hips.  "And that is final!"

   David shot upwards to his feet, ignoring the still-stabbing pain in his
head as his anger boiled up.  For once, he wasn't intimidated by the fact
that his Aunt was not only larger, but she was also about six inches taller
than he was.  "I'd like to see you make me," he growled out between
clenched teeth.

   "I'll call Bill," she threatened, pulling her cell phone out of her
purse.

   David barked a single harsh laugh.  "Ten years ago, when I wouldn't wash
my hair, that worked." He locked gazes with her, both of them leaning
forward in aggression.

   "You're leaving with me!  Now, Davey!"

   His anger finally hit the boiling point.  "Are you DEAF or just fucking
STUPID!  My FUCKING name is DAVID!  And GET the FUCK out of MY HOUSE!!"

   Aunt Laura threw herself back against the wall and David realized he had
raised his fist.  He let it drop and turned away from her.  "I wouldn't
have..."

   He heard her walk up behind him and felt her hand, it was even bigger
than his Uncle Bill's, as it rested softly on his left shoulder.  "I know
that Davey...David.  I do." Silence descended on the hallway.

   David just stood there for a few minutes, shaking but not moving.  The
tears he really didn't want to her to see were tracking down through the
half dried blood on his face.  Small, dark red stains were dotting his
light green shirt here and there.  "Go," he finally whispered.  "Please
just go."

   "But David..."

   "GO!" he screamed.

   "Fine!" she screamed back.  "You'll want to come home soon enough when
you get hungry!"

   With these words she gave an insulted sniff, stomped down the stairs
hard enough to make a picture come off the wall, and slammed the door on
her way out, making another picture fall.

   David stared at the door from the landing above and whispered, "I don't
have a home anymore.  Only a house.  And you can't make me leave."

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   Edited by Evi, who gave me a hell of a correction on a plothole.

   This story is copyrighted by me, the author, Waylan Dagger.  Please do
not repost this story or post it on an archive without obtaining permission
first.  I can almost guarantee that permission will be granted, but I would
like the courtesy.  I can be reached at waylandagger@hotmail.com