508_Interpreter Decodes Ancient Scribbles

508·Abby Questions the Promoter About the Creator, Experimental Souls, and Afterlife Rules ·Crysticism 508

Chapter 1: Abby Asks the Promoter About the Creator, Experimental Souls, and Afterlife Rules

As Sunday school begins, Abby asks the Promoter about the Creator, experimental souls, and afterlife rules to understand her place in the universe. The Sunday school room smells like dry markers and old carpet. Posters of cartoon sheep and smiling suns peel at the corners. A plastic cross hangs crooked over a whiteboard.

Abby sits in a too-small chair, feet not quite touching the floor. She is ten years old, knees pressed together, workbook open but blank. Her pencil hovers, waiting.

At the front of the room stands a sanctified Promoter—an official, glorified Interpreter of the one big book on ancient, encoded scribbles. He wears a name tag and a practiced smile, holding the book like it might float away if he loosens his grip.

Abby raises her hand.

“Who is my soul’s Father?” Abby asks.

She has asked about God before—about the stories—but this time the word soul feels heavier, closer to something she can’t see but always feels.

The trained Promoter nods slowly, pleased she is using the “right” language.

“The Almighty Father is considered your Creator,” the Promoter says. “But he is more like a stepfather.”

Abby tilts her head.

“A stepfather?” she repeats.

“You are made like a product,” the all-knowing Promoter continues, “not like God’s only begotten Son.”

The word product makes Abby think of cereal boxes on shelves. Mass-produced. Replaceable.

Her chest tightens.

She fidgets with the edge of her workbook.

“Who is my soul’s mother?” Abby asks.

The chosen Promoter’s smile flickers, then resets.

“That is never discussed,” he says. “A soul is produced, not conceived like humans are.”

He taps the big book.

“Neither a father nor a mother is involved in making products,” he adds. “The Creator designs you as an experimental soul.”

Abby looks down, cheeks hot.

“Experimental,” she repeats silently like a science project that might fail.

“There is no mention of a female taking part in your creation,” the Promoter says. “Your only hope for permanent acceptance is to believe you are a pleasing creation adopted by your Producer.”

Abby chews her lip.

“Is the Savior my big brother?” she asks. “Do we have the same Father? Does our Father, who art in Heaven, treat us the same?”

The Promoter straightens.

“The only begotten Son was with his Father before the universe existed,” he says. “He becomes the Savior when he comes to Earth in a human body.”

He paces slowly.

“He could be considered a stepbrother,” the Promoter says, “to the Father’s chosen adopted favorites.”

Abby’s heart lifts for a second at stepbrother—then drops at what comes next.

“But this superior being,” the Promoter adds, “is far above your standing.”

He points upward.

“The Savior is like a double of the Almighty Father,” he says, “and you are an experimental craft project.”

He smiles.

“Your best hope,” the Promoter continues, “is that the Creator likes you as a shiny trinket—to dangle from His ceiling in the Heavenly parlor.”

He spreads his hands like showing off ornaments.

“He chooses the sparkling spheres,” he says, “that faithfully reflect His glorious radiance.”

Abby imagines herself as a plastic disco ball, spinning, only useful if she reflects someone else’s light.

“Is my mission to become a twinkling star in the sky?” Abby asks softly.

The Promoter shakes his head.

“Not really,” he says. “Stars create their own glowing radiance, like your sun.”

He looks almost offended by the comparison.

“Stars are more like the essence of the Creator and His only Son,” the Promoter says. “You are more like a mirrored ball reflecting the Creator’s light.”

He smiles again.

“Your mission is twofold,” he tells her. “First, believe something. Then convince others to believe that same belief.”

Abby blinks.

“That sounds easy,” she says. “What’s the catch?”

The Promoter’s eyes gleam.

“What you need to believe,” he says, “is illogical. Childish. It will go against what your non-trustworthy Crystic Conscience tells you.”

Abby frowns.

“For example,” the Promoter continues, “after one lifetime, there are two choices—decided by the three heads of your Creator. The diving mother is not included as one of the heads.”

Abby sits up, confused.

“What is my triple‑headed Father like?” she asks.

The Promoter clasps his hands.

“Your Father is dictatorial, self‑centered, emotional,” he says. “He keeps control over everything. He doesn’t delegate duties or responsibilities.”

He begins to pace.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping,” the Promoter recites. “He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been good or bad. So be good—for goodness’ sake.”

A few kids giggle at the familiar rhythm. Abby doesn’t.

“You will be greatly rewarded if you stay on his good side,” the Promoter says, “or severely punished if you make him mad.”

Abby swallows.

“Does my Father love me?” she asks.

The Promoter pauses.

“That depends,” he says, “on whether you are one of His favorite chosen ones.”

Abby’s fingers tighten around her pencil.

“Which souls does he pick as favorites?” she asks. “Can I do anything to influence that?”

“That is a mystery,” the Promoter says.

He looks pleased by the word.

“Some Believers think your spiritual stepfather adopts his favorite experimental souls,” he explains, “and then makes them perfect.”

“Only his chosen ones,” he adds, “have the option of becoming accepted Believers.”

He brightens.

“Imagine you have a chicken farm,” the Promoter says. “You are a master experimental chicken creator.”

The kids lean in.

“All day,” he continues, “you design new kinds of chickens and choose which ones you like.”

He taps the air.

“The chosen ones who act well—obediently laying pretty eggs—are taken into the heavenly coop,” he says.

“The non‑chosen stay outside,” he adds, “even if they lay good eggs. And chosen ones who don’t lay eggs also stay outside because they don't please the Eggman.”

He shrugs.

“There is nothing a chicken can do,” the Promoter says, “if the farmer doesn’t like it.”

Abby’s stomach twists.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Abby says. “All chickens that lay good eggs should be accepted.”

She stares at him.

“What happens to the non‑chosen chickens?” she asks.

“That is never discussed,” the Promoter replies smoothly.

“Your only hope,” he says, “is to blindly assume you are a chosen one.”

He leans in.

“Other Believers think they can force being chosen,” he says, “by believing His only begotten Son is their master Savior.”

“And,” he adds, “Believers who recruit more Believers are more likely to be chosen.”

Abby looks down, heart pounding. A new pressure attaches to her chest: not just to be good, but to sell this story so hard it might save her.

“You said the Savior exists before he is born on Earth,” Abby says. “Did my soul exist before my body was conceived?”

“Of course not,” the Promoter says. “What would you be doing? Where would you live?”

He waves a dismissive hand.

“Your soul is fashioned at the moment your body is conceived,” he says. “The Creator has to wait on humans to have sex and make a baby before he can create a new soul.”

Abby frowns.

“If the Creator is in control of everything,” Abby asks slowly, “is He controlling future parents to make a new baby?”

The Promoter hesitates.

“Hmm. Well, maybe,” he says. “But free will is still involved.”

Abby imagines an invisible God lurking in bedrooms, calendar in hand.

“It sounds like my Creator has to hang around the bedroom,” she says, “until the exact moment future parents make a new baby.”

She tilts her head.

“Why can’t He have premade souls in a staging area?” she asks.

The Promoter clears his throat.

“The Creator is a master artist,” he says quickly. “He custom‑designs souls to fit the parents, the environment, his current creative mood.”

He nods.

“On average,” he says, “he makes about four souls per second that end up being born. Year‑round.”

He smiles proudly.

“He is pretty busy,” the Promoter says, “making new experimental souls in his craft shop.”

Abby’s mind spins with images: a divine factory, a stressed-out God, a conveyor belt of trial-run souls.

“Why should I become a Believer?” Abby finally asks.

The Promoter lights up.

“Your purpose,” he says, “is to glorify the Creator and enjoy His glory forever.”

He passes around glossy pamphlets.

“Believers are promised ten afterlife benefits,” the Promoter says.

He reads them like bullet points in a sales pitch:

• All sin debt is magically taken away.

• You are released from the power of sin and the guilt tied to it.

• You suffer now in exchange for a happily‑ever‑after paradise.

• Your unchanging, worthless self will be made perfect.

• Only the chosen ones will be thoroughly cared for.

• You are guaranteed an eternal luxury afterlife vacation.

• You are given your own mansion.

• You live with friends, pets, and family.

• There is no need to work a job.

• You live in God’s presence and bask in His radiance, which is a million times brighter than the sun.

Abby stares at the list, dizzy.

A part of her thinks, This is insane. Another part thinks, I can’t afford to sign up.

In her small chest, two energies collide: a sharp, bright thread of conscience, and a heavy, sugary fog of promises.

For now, the fog wins.

Chapter 2: Abby Agrees to Believe the Promoter's Contract and Evan Warns Her It Is Ten Percent Lies

As a teenager, Abby agrees to believe the Promoter's contract and Evan warns her it is ten percent lies designed to mislead her. The years pass. Abby grows taller, trades crayons for eyeliner, kids’ Bibles for the youth-group version. But the contract from that room stays lodged in her subconscious like a hidden app always running in the background.

One evening, in a quiet corner of the church basement, she corners the same Promoter after a teen service. The air smells like stale coffee and cheap perfume.

Abby folds her arms.

“Why doesn’t the Creator just make my soul perfect at the beginning?” Abby asks. “Is he setting himself up to look good later—when he ‘upgrades’ his experimental creation?”

The Promoter smiles as if he’s been waiting for that question.

“Worthless sinners must choose to obey their Father,” he says. “Blind obedience can create a friendship with the Creator.”

He nods toward the ceiling as if God is watching from the vent.

“If the Father chooses to accept your friend request,” the Promoter adds, “then the Believer has extra options.”

He lifts a finger.

“Believing is the key,” he says. “Believing in the grace of forgiveness confirms the Savior’s sacrifice—to take away sinful karma.”

He taps the book.

“Your belief,” he says, “ratifies the Savior’s shedding of blood to forgive all past, present, and future debts.”

Abby’s mind races.

“This is really too good to be true,” Abby says, “for simple-minded people.”

She half-smiles, half-cringes.

“All I have to do is believe something,” she says, “and I get my debts paid, an eternal vacation in a mansion, and a first-class soul upgrade.”

Her pulse quickens.

“I hereby state,” Abby declares, raising one hand, “that I believe whatever I’m supposed to believe in.”

She drops her hand.

“There,” she says. “I said it. Where do I sign the contract?”

The Promoter reaches into a folder and pulls out a thick stack of papers.

“Here is the thousand‑page contract in tiny print,” he says, handing it to her.

He watches her eyes widen.

“Do you want to read the details about the program?” he asks. “Do you want to know what you’ll be doing in your heavenly afterlife after all your worthless, sinful, corrupt parts are cut away?”

Abby stares at the fine print.

“This deal is unbelievable,” she says slowly. “But I choose to believe—because of the unbeatable benefits.”

She hands the stack back without opening it.

“As a bonus,” Abby adds, “I get extra credit for disempowering everyone I recruit. Leading them to believe they’re worthless sinners who have to wait for a Savior to fix everything.”

She shrugs.

“As long as I’m guaranteed not to go to the bad place,” Abby says, “I don’t care what happens. I’m not interested in reading the fine print.”

The Promoter smiles for real this time—sharp, satisfied.

“That’s what all the simple-solution seekers say,” he murmurs. “I don’t know why I waste paper printing the real contract.”

He tucks the stack back into the folder.

In the shadow of a column, someone else has been listening.

Evan steps forward, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know if you’re deliberately deceptive,” Evan says to the Promoter, “or just misinformed.”

He looks at Abby, then back at the contract.

“Your contract delivers ninety percent truth,” Evan says, “and ten percent lies.”

The fluorescent light flickers as he says it. Abby feels a cold draft run down her spine.

For the first time, she realizes she has signed something she does not understand.

And her soul is the collateral.

Chapter 3: Abby Lists the Absolver Indoctrination Rules and Questions the Creator's Limitations

Reflecting on the evening, Abby lists the Absolver indoctrination rules and questions the Creator's limitations as taught by the Promoter. Later that night, Abby lies on her bed staring at the glow‑in‑the‑dark stars stuck to her ceiling. Her big book of sacred scribbles and notebooks is stacked on the floor. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional sound of a car outside.

Her mind replays Evan’s words: ninety percent truth and ten percent lies.

She reaches for her journal and starts writing what she’s been told all her life, as if naming it might help her see it.

In her head, the sanctified Promoter’s voice overlays her own handwriting.

Absolver Indoctrination:

1. Their immortal soul does not change.

“Your soul just…is,” the Promoter has said. “It doesn’t really grow or evolve. You are what you are forever.”

Abby pictures herself frozen—like a screenshot, not a video.

2. Somebody already magically erased all their past, present, and future sin karma.

“Somebody already took care of it,” the Promoter has insisted. “All of it. You don’t have to fix anything. It’s done.”

Abby chews her pen cap. If it’s done, why do I still feel so guilty all the time? She wonders.

3. Their Savior is not a big brother to emulate.

“He isn’t your example,” he taught. “He’s your substitute. You aren’t meant to become like him. You’re meant to hide behind him.”

Abby feels something twist in her chest at that.

4. Heaven or Hell are the only afterlife options.

“One lifetime. Two doors,” the Promoter has repeated. “No retakes. No middle ground. No classrooms after this.”

Abby’s anxiety spikes.

5. Believer souls will be made perfect.

“You don’t need to work on yourself,” they’ve said. “Heaven’s the upgrade. This world is … a waiting room for suffering.”

6. Their Creator is always in charge and control of everything.

“If it happens, He wills it,” the Promoter has claimed. “Every disaster, every abuse, every miscarriage: part of his plan.”

Abby winces, thinking of friends with hospital bracelets and therapists.

7. They get one human body for one lifetime.

“One shot,” he’s said. “Short or long, it’s enough for God to decide your eternal future.”

8. Heaven is a reward for believing something.

“Not for what you do,” the lesson goes. “For what you mentally sign on to. Belief equals prize.”

9. The Creator and His only Son do not need your help.

“You are spectators,” he has told them. “Not co‑workers. Don’t try to help. Just worship and wait.”

10. Their untrustworthy conscience needs to be recalibrated to align with the one big book.

“Don’t listen to that inner voice,” they’ve warned. “It lies. Only completely, literally trust the Book of sacred scribbles written by 40 temporarily perfected men, not women. You must also never doubt what those 40 perfect men inscribed. This is the way. Its interpreters are safe.”

11. They must embrace being motivated by fear of God’s wrath, vengeance, and threat of hell.

“Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom,” the posters say. “Hell is real. Don’t risk it.”

Abby stares at the list she has written.

She feels two energies battling inside her:

• A heavy, familiar weight of fear and relief: If this is all true, I never have to glow-up. I have to hold on.

• Abby feels a sharp, insistent ache: If this is a half‑truth, I am signing away my power for a lie.

She remembers how the approved Promoter called her an experimental product.

She remembers Evan calling her a potential co‑creator.

Between those two stories lies the actual mystery of who she is.

She doesn’t solve it tonight.

But she does something she has never dared to do before:

She circles the word “Absolver” at the top of the page, and next to it, in smaller letters, she writes a question mark.

Not an answer.

A clue.

And somewhere in the unseen world, a thin line of light—no bigger than a thread—moves through the snarl of human dogma wrapped around her soul, whispering a possibility she has never been allowed to entertain:

What if you were made for more than being forgiven and afraid?

The page turns.

The story is not over.