The Swing Of The Pendulum

"The Substack Zone"

Welcome To The Substack Zone

The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?

Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher

Twelve-year-old Billy York stood there in his black hoodie and jeans at nine a.m. in the Museum of Modern Art. Bored to tears. His fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Beesley, loved art. Billy was just glad to be out of the classroom. He was already looking forward to their “Cultural Experience Lunch.”

The class of fifth graders were gathered around the teacher who lectured them about the Post-Impressionist movement in front of Van Gogh’s painting, Starry Night.

Mrs. Beesley had bright blue hair and jumped from place to place in her lecture due to her excitement of being in the presence of such a great masterwork. She almost blended into the painting with the Starry Night scarf she had worn especially for the occasion.

Billy had seen that painting, Starry Night, somewhere before. It drew him in. Was it from his earlier childhood? He looked closely. It was pretty cool, but his mind drifted.

In a seemingly normal scene right out of a modern Norman Rockwell painting, Billy York is about to find out that maybe he appreciated art, and even school, much more than he had previously imagined.

He was going to find out just how quickly things can change with the simple swing of the pendulum.

The time? The not-so-distant future. The place? MoMA, and perhaps, a brief glimpse into—The Substack Zone.

“Stop it, Billy!” yelled Sally Jean, his seatmate. “Stop eating my food or I’m telling Mrs. Beesley what you’re up to!”

“I’m not doing anything!” Billy said back, knowing it was a lie. He had eaten a piece of Sally Jean’s falafel.

Billy and his classmates attended The Frida Kahlo School Of Arts And Sciences in Paterson, New Jersey. It was a special elementary school that he attended since he was five.

The administration of the school prided itself on giving the children a wide array of cultural experiences. The arts, sciences, and technology. Billy’s favorite thing was all the different foods they got to try when they went on their “Cultural Experiences” field trips. That was the first time he had tried falafel, and he loved it.

Before he knew it, Mrs. Beesley stood over them as the bus moved smoothly over the bridge. “Billy York, what have you done now?”

He looked down. He hadn’t thought Sally Jean would see him snitch the falafel out of her pita. He looked over at her, “I’m sorry, Sally Jean, they were just so good! I love those things!”

“That’s good, Billy, but you keep your hands to yourself.” Mrs. Beesley shook her head.

The electric school buses hummed to a stop in front of Frida Kahlo Elementary.

“Okay, children! We still have an hour of school left. Let’s get back to the classroom and I’ll answer any questions you have about Mr. Van Gogh,” said Mrs. Beesley, smiling.

Billy groaned. He didn’t want to hear anything else about the stupid painting.

The school was a traditional brick that had been built in the late 1940s. It had been retrofitted for the new technologies and had an enormous science addition in the back.

A large maple tree was just beginning to lose its leaves in front of the school. Some of the kids picked up red leaves. Perhaps they would use them for an art project?

Inside their classroom were colorful paintings adorning the walls. The sound of a waterfall and Mozart streamed from a sound machine. Colorful blue lights danced on the ceiling. Mrs. Beesley had researched the calming effect of light and sound.

An antique regulator clock with a swinging pendulum hung, out of place, behind Mrs. Beesley’s desk. She had told the class it was from the estate of her grandfather, whatever that meant.

Billy went to his pod, a grouping of six students at a single table. Sitting on the table were various art projects, a globe and two computers.

Mrs. Beesley went to the front of the room and quieted all of the children who were still excited from the day. She began talking about how much she loved going to the museum. She said she could just sit and watch Starry Night. It was her favorite of all the paintings in the world.

Billy looked at the clock behind her. The pendulum swung back and forth. The clock made a very quiet “tick-tock-tick-tock.” It annoyed Billy sometimes, but nobody else paid much mind to it.

Billy always tried not to look at the clock because it put him into a trance. But as the teacher spoke, his attention kept getting drawn back to the clock. He had eaten too much falafel and gyro. He was tired.

He felt himself drifting.

Away.

The pendulum swung back and forth. The last thing he remembered thinking was, “That thing is putting me into a trance.”

Something poked Billy in the rib cage. That got his attention and he woke up with a start. He looked over at Sally Jean. She mouthed, “Wake up!” to him.

He groggily glanced forward.

Everything was different.

All of the pods were gone. Billy sat in a small desk in a neat line behind his classmates.

There was a chalkboard instead of the projection screen. An oversized American flag hung in the center front of the room, just over the chalkboard.

A video camera you couldn’t miss pointed directly at the students from the front desk. All of the paintings were gone. The regulator clock still hung in the same spot and the pendulum still swung back and forth.

Written in chalk in large writing were the words: “PAY CLOSE ATTENTION!”

Mrs. Beesley stood at the front, behind a full oak desk. She wore a neat white button-up shirt. Her Starry Night scarf was gone and she had a pin of the American flag prominently displayed on her right chest. Her hair was bleached-blond and long. She had a pistol in a holster on her hip.

Everything seemed to be in black and white. Billy looked down at himself and even he wore a white button-up shirt with a blazer and a tie. An American flag was pinned to it.

“What the?” he muttered to himself.

“Everybody, quiet!” the teacher ordered. Mrs. Beesley glanced down at her watch. “Now, stand! It is pledge and prayer time!”

Billy just sat there. He didn’t know what to do. What was happening? He had no idea what pledge and prayer time was.

Everybody else stood in unison except him. Mrs. Beesley glared at him.

“Billy. Up! Now!”

He was a little dizzy, but stood.

“Hands on heart!” she commanded.

He was slow, looked around, and all the other kids were already hand on heart and staring up at the flag.

Then they began their chant. Billy knew it from the Scouts, luckily.

“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America, its principalities and domains of influence, and to the government for which it stands. One nation, one party, one president, and one God over them all, Amen.” Billy didn’t know that version and had mumbled his way through it.

“To your knees for prayer!” commanded Mrs. Beesley. All of the children immediately dropped to their knees and put their hands together in prayer over the seats of their desks.

Billy just stood there. Mrs. Beesley was standing over him a moment later, ruler in hand.

“Mr. York, to prayer, now!” she almost yelled.

“Prayer?” he asked. His father, a scientist, had always told him they were a “family of agnostics.” Whatever that meant.

“Yes, Billy, prayer. It is almost two-forty-five, isn’t it?”

“Oh, my family and I don’t pray,” he said confidently.

Sally Jean looked up at him almost pleading with her eyes to get him to kneel.

“You don’t say?” asked Mrs. Beesley.

The camera at the front panned slightly to the left, staring directly at Billy. A red record light popped on.

Mrs. Beesley grabbed Billy by the ear and forced him to his knees. “Hands in prayer position, now!” she almost screamed, looking back at the camera.

Billy held his ear in pain but looked around and put his hands together on his desk seat, mimicking the other children.

“There, that’s better. I want to see you after class, Mr. York. We need to discuss your religious outburst.”

“Okay, okay,” he sputtered, utterly confused.

Mrs. Beesley huffed back to the front of the room and kneeled and put her hands on her chair.

She began the prayer, and all the kids chanted along.

“Dear God, Lord Jesus, and the Holy Ghost. We thank you for this day of learning. We thank you for these United States of America and our exalted President—”

Billy looked around. Everybody seemed to know the prayer but him. He mouthed along with the words.

“— our one government, our police, and most importantly, our nuclear families. We pray, Lord, protect our troops as they work oversees to increase our borders. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

With that, the bell rang.

Everybody got up in an orderly line and marched out of the room.

“Mr. York, to my desk,” said Mrs. Beesley.

He wandered dejectedly to her desk. Her ruler was still in her hand.

“Palms up, Mr. York,” she said very matter-of-factly.

“What? What do you mean?”

“You don’t want me to have to get Security Officer Schmidt, do you?”

Billy didn’t know Security Officer Schmidt. “Umm, no…”

“Then, palms up, Mister. You’re mother will also be getting a call from me. I can’t believe, you of all people, acted out like this. You are in big trouble!”

He just stood there.

The camera panned all the way around and watched the interaction. Mrs. Beesley grabbed one of Billy’s hands and raised the ruler above her head.

Just as Mrs. Beasley brought the ruler down Billy wrenched his hand out of her hand and she whacked herself.

“Billy!” she screamed.

He looked around as she yelled, “Billy, you are in so much trouble!” She brought the ruler up again and lunged at him.

He turned and ran out the classroom door. In the hallway, all of his classmates stood in silent lines. Each wore button-up white shirts. The boys had pressed khaki pants and blazers. The girls wore long khaki skirts with blazers.

Billy ran. Mrs. Beasley ran after him, but he bolted for the front door.

Mrs. Beasley yelled, “Somebody, alert Mr. Schmidt that we have trouble!”

One of his classmates jumped out of line and ran to the fire alarm and pulled it. Alarms blared. The kids in line remained silent.

Billy ran. Mrs. Beesley chased after him, ruler held high. Mr. Schmidt, in a black police uniform, appeared just down the hall.

Billy bolted out the front doors.

As he ran towards the street, he glanced back at the school. It didn’t look the same. The science addition was gone and the brick had been painted gray.

In large letters were: “Grover Cleveland Elementary School.”

He turned around and BAM.

He ran directly into the maple tree.

Everything went black.

“Mr. York?” The voice of Mrs. Beesley.

Billy woke with a start. Just then the bell rang and all the kids ran out the classroom door. Sally Jean looked back at him and shook her head.

“You know we talked about sleeping in class, Billy.” Mrs. Beesley had her blue hair back and didn’t appear to be carrying a gun.

Billy was confused. Where had he been? He heard the tick-tock of the pendulum. It was the most real dream he’d ever had.

“Sorry, Mrs. Beesley, I’m really… tired.”

“That’s okay, Billy. Get some rest this weekend.”

“Yes, Mrs. Beesley, you have a good weekend too.”

He got up and left.

Everything was back to normal. The paintings were back. The American flag was smaller and off to the side.

As he walked out the door, he looked down at his hoodie. Something was on the front of it. He thought it was a bug and swatted it. It felt like it bit him.

“Ouch!” he yelled.

He pulled at the red white and blue thing.

It was a large American Flag pin with a drop of blood on it.

He heard the pendulum…

Tick.

Tock.

Billy York. An average American kid with an overactive imagination? Perhaps. Or, did Billy York just get a glimpse… into The Substack Zone?”