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2013-01-31

Human Variations - A Working Title

As promised, here is the first chapter of my novel entitled, for the time being, Human Variations. I'm still mulling that over. This novel is almost complete, with the last few chapters still to be written but totally outlined. As with all my work published online, it is copyrighted and cannot be used without permission.

Feel free to leave comments :)


CHAPTER ONE

A Star flared into the dark
splintering it
into a myriad prisms.
Thought became matter.
  
Samantha cradles against the icy window, gazing at the snow that lies battered on the street. In her head, a distant sound of sleigh bells ring. She watches cars and people as they rush to their holiday destinations. They look carefree, happy to greet the New Year. This is too much for her. The steel vice that has lodged around her heart tightens as it beats.

Samantha's raw fingers melt the frost on the window pane. Her anxious eyes once again seek the candle. It flickers, but goes on burning. She gnaws on her lips with her strong teeth, oblivious to the blood that fills her mouth. Last New Year twilight, the wick of the new candle merged with that of the old. The light was transposed to live forever. Since then, an endless string of candles have passed from her wax- burnt trembling hands, yet, her anxiety continues.

Tonight, as she stares out of her frosty window, the vortex starts pulling on her again. Again, she is powerless to resist. Again the despair begins. A sudden draft seeps through the cracks. The flame flickers. She gasps, running to the candle. She kneels before it, tenderly protecting it. But the icy breath, toying with the flame, blows it out. A shadow passes over the room. Samantha screams.

***

Mika's eyes snap open.  Gasping for air, she sits up in bed, clutching the covers. Disoriented, her eyes go to the moonlit window. A tree branch is knocking furiously against the pane. Trying to still her beating heart, she takes a few deep breaths. Bringing her fist up to rub her eyes, she quickly drops it down again.  Her face is drowning in tears. 

“It’s happening again,” she mutters. The dream she thought had left her, has come back with a vengeance. Throwing off the covers, she swings her legs over the side of the bed. "Water." she thinks and, like a sleepwalker, she moves across the deep rug of the room, into the hall, down the stairs, to the kitchen.

The water runs cold out of the chrome tap. She cups her hands and drinks greedily. Then, wiping her mouth, she supports her shaking body on the counter and gazes out into the sparkling garden and, beyond that, the lake. She wonders if she will ever sleep through a whole night again.

Her eyes, grainy from lack of sleep, find it difficult to focus. Her body, stiff from the dream, is reluctant to move. Her mind protests. Knowing that it is futile even to try sleep, she decides not to attempt the charade, preparing coffee, instead.

Mechanically, she trudges back up to the bathroom. She splashes cold water on her face and reaches for the towel. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she hesitates. “Why does my face always look unfamiliar to me at first glance?” The chestnut hair, the hazel eyes, the long nose and full mouth have been with her for thirty years. Yet, it is the face of a stranger.

Returning to the kitchen, she pours herself a generous cup of coffee, hoping that it will revive her. Its rich blackness fills her mouth, fills her body with artificial energy. Her heart, however, remains untouched and heavy in her chest. Mika wonders when the joy had left her life.

She could have been out, celebrating New Year's but she did not have to heart to go through the motions. She smiles wryly. She has never had the best sense of timing, choosing the one time in the year when loneliness can be deadly, to break off her engagement. But, she knows she had to be honest with him. She has never been one to hide from the truth and the truth is, she does not see herself as David's wife.

She probably can’t be anyone’s wife. Her career has always been her passion and now with the dream returning... She shakes her head to stop its descent into darkness. “This is no time to make commitments, when I’m losing my mind.”


***

The house occupies one of the largest corner lots in the area. Its walls are covered with a vine that never fades, but flares red in the fall. The stone that was said to have been brought over from England with the early settlers remains regally grey. The evergreens that flank the house protect it from the eyes of the curious. Many children in the neighbourhood would have liked to call it haunted if it weren't for its vivacious owner who has infused the very stone with her personality. 

Tonight the house is decked out in its festive splendour, solidly oblivious to the howling winds and blowing snow. Trees and bushes flash with lights, bejewelled with fairy lights. Beautiful ice sculptures of fairies and elves frolic on the snow-covered lawn. The orange glow of firelight spills out onto the frozen shapes, spotlighting their wintry glory. Passers-by stop to gape through the wrought iron gates, awed at the marvellous spectacle, thinking how lucky the occupants of the house must be.

Inside, Charlotte Burke paces, glancing at her daughter who reciprocates with a shrug. Her expensive pumps make no sound on the deep, caramel rug as she continues her pacing. The special dinner she planned, has long grown cold, but she could care less. The clock is perilously close to midnight and still no sign of Jonathan or Samantha.

Finally, she sits down with an exasperated sigh. "That girl is going to drive me to the nearest asylum. Where can she be? Sometimes I wonder who she takes after, with her eccentric notions and fantastical ideas. Where did I go wrong Stephanie?"

 The younger woman eyes her mother wearily, as she replaces the loose blond strand in its elegant coil. "Mom. We've gone over this again and again. You’ve got to let her be. She'll snap out of it. Hopefully."

Charlotte refills her cup with steaming tea and takes a cautious sip. "A miserable lot of consolation you're giving! Jonathan left over an hour ago. I know there must be something wrong."

Stephanie secretly berates herself for giving up a date with the scrumptious Fernando to come to this family dinner. She flicks her shell pink nail in irritation. "Will you please relax? He's probably trying to convince her to come."

"See. That's exactly what I mean. Why should he be trying to convince Samantha to come spend New Year's Eve with her family? It's not as if her social calendar is crammed with engagements. Oh. Listen to me. Is that the door?"

Stephanie flips through her phone. "No. It's the wind."

It makes a mourning sound as it knocks on the windows and brushes against the trees. Its sound makes the listener glad to be inside and warm, away from its eerie mood. The two women listen to the wind, each absorbed in her own thoughts, her own feelings of guilt. The ring of the phone makes both mother and daughter turn and look at the instrument with almost identical expressions of horror.

"Would you like me to get that mother?"

"Don't be silly. I'm closer." The receiver wavers slightly in her hand. "Hello?"

***

The pub is full of New Year's revellers. A smoky haze hovers over and around the milling crowd. The music from the pop charts has quite a few people convulsing on the floor. Curtis orders tonic water and settles in his favoured seat at the end of the bar where he can keep an eye on the action, unnoticed.

He remains oblivious to the voltage that attracts the female moths to his aloofness.  He scans the room of the small popular pub, ever on the lookout for a trail, a lead, an inside scoop. He is never disappointed, because his training has given him, if nothing else, an uncanny sense for detail.

When he was offered the position of investigator on a special task force, he wasn't sure that he wanted it. He had been used to traveling, and his career with the military suited him fine. But after his injury, he decided that active duty would have to be shelved, for the time being. So he accepted the job, with certain conditions.

The Commisioner was so pleased to have him that he accepted Curtis’ terms immediately, needing someone who is extremely good at undercover work. His uncut charisma and his unrelenting thoroughness have won him great successes in the past year. Curtis accepted the praise but steered clear of close associations and political game playing.

Even deep in thought, his mind is always keenly aware of its surroundings. In one corner sits a languid red-head with a short tight skirt and legs that go on forever. "Every man's wet dream," his lip curls at the thought. She sits nonchalantly, her nose high in the air, slowly sipping her drink. He sees through the pantomime, of course. The message in her glance is unmistakable, but he is not interested.

His phone starts vibrating and he reaches for it. Being on call at night like this has never bothered Curtis, but when he sees the message, he grunts in exasperation.

                                    A woman is at East General with a coma.
                                    A neighbour heard her scream before she
                                    was found, can you take this?
                                    Everyone else is on a call or not available.

He punches in his answer, gulps down his drink and leaves.

***

The hospital's attempt at holiday cheer is futile to those who have to spend time there. Charlotte, Stephanie and Jonathan sit close together in one of the waiting rooms. Incomprehension is etched on their faces as they search each other's eyes for consolation but find confusion.

Jonathan rests his face in his hands to avoid the many questions he cannot answer. Although he was the one to find his sister, he still cannot coherently piece together a story with a semblance of logic. When he got the apartment, there was no answer. But a feeling in his gut made him force the disgruntled super to open the door.

He found her lying inert on the floor, the blood drained from her face and body. When the concerned neighbour hurried into tell them that he heard her scream, a frozen anxiety gripped him while he waited for the medics to arrive. The fact that neither he, nor the EMS could revive her when they arrived seemingly hours later did nothing to ease his foreboding.

Samantha is lying in a coma and no one can find the cause.

The doctors are obviously puzzled and have pumped the bewildered family for any clue as to why Samantha can be lying inert and unreachable on a hospital bed. Her blood stream shows no evidence of drug use. Has she ever been a drug user? No. There is no sign of trauma anywhere on her body. Has she taken a bad fall recently? No. Has she had epilepsy or mild psychosis? No! Each assumption is more horrible and unfounded than the rest. The cruel fact remains there is no explanation.

Charlotte finally has the courage to break the deafening silence. "It's my fault I should have watched out for her. I knew she was teetering on the edge."

"Mother, please. Dramatics are not your style. We all knew that there was something wrong with Sam. We tried everything to help her snap out of it. She built a wall around herself and wouldn't let anyone in."

"Jonathan's right, mom. Please don't start this, again. It's so useless. Sam isn't a baby. She had, has, options. She just hasn’t exercised them. There was nothing we could do to foresee let alone prevent this. Even the doctors seem stumped."

"Is it possible that depression can lead to coma?"

"Jonathan. That's preposterous!"

"The resident psychologist will like to ask us some questions about Samantha. They want to compile a psychological profile." Charlotte sighs wearily.

"What has gone so wrong with Samantha's life that she has to end up like this?"

Jonathan shakes his head that feels heavy with weariness. "That Stephanie is the million dollar question."

***

The moon hangs low, glows bright in the heavy winter night. The glassy, manufactured beauty of the city shimmers on the cold horizon.  The water lies neutral, a translucent green. The tiny weather-beaten boats waddle like drunken geese against the dock. All is still on the pier. The pleasure craft, covered and stored by their owners for the winter remain silent. Nothing moves on the marina.

Kiro sits on his boat, cross-legged. Its gentle rocking lulls him. His eyes, intense beams of light, scan the purple horizon. His mind, trained to still its wanderings, focus on the foggy light of the ghostly orb. His body, subordinated by his powerful spirit, rests. An immobile clay statue.

Only his hair, coal black and long, sways in the snow-filled gust. He tastes the flakes on his lips. His whole body echoes the deep vibrations of the water and sky. He closes his eyes and once again the images pass through.

A tall slim girl, candle white.
A man running from his demons.
A woman on a trail, stalked by hurt.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and steps off his boat, reaching for his cell phone. It is time to go home.

***    

"Can you tell me a little about Samantha's childhood? It will help to have some background and possibly piece the steps that brought her here."

Charlotte wrings the moist lace handkerchief in her trembling hands. Her eyes are fixed on the brick wall outside the window. "Samantha was every mother's dream. Her school life was exemplary, peppered with a normal amount of mischief. She was popular. She was an A student, a debating team whiz, a star soft ball player, and an accomplished flutist. Samantha was always the calm in the storm, the lovely anchor of our fatherless family.

I lost my husband when Samantha was three and my twins newly born.

I remember the day everything changed. It was a week before her nineteenth birthday. All the plans had been set. She was to go to Montreal and study music at the conservatory. We had also arranged that she stay with a cousin who has rooms to spare in her rambling old house. Her future shone brightly. We were all so happy for her.

That afternoon, Samantha sought me out in my garden studio. She sat down on a stool and watched me hack at my latest sculpture. All day I had an uneasy, restless feeling, and I naturally thought I was reading into things. I let her be waiting to hear what was so obviously going through her mind. I can honestly say I felt my spine tingle.

Suddenly, I could stand the suspense no longer, so I turned to look at my quiet daughter. It wasn't that she was simply staring out the window that alarmed me; she did that often;  it was her faraway expression. To this day it haunts me. I was about to say something, I don't know what, when she told me she found a job and an apartment and that she was moving out at the end of that month.

In vain I tried to get an explanation, I even resorted to pleading and threats, but I was met with stony silence. I recruited Jonathan and Stephanie but they too reached a stalemate. Samantha's mind had been quietly, sweetly, irrevocably made up. True to my beliefs, I backed off, and true to her word, and, as always, without much ado, she moved out on her nineteenth birthday. And that was when everything started to go wrong."

Charlotte buries her face in her hands and cries. Jonathan puts his arm around his mother's shoulders. He gives the doctor a reproachful look. He yearns for a cigarette, as he grinds his teeth.

 "What mother means is that things started falling apart for Sam, when she moved out and got a job at a small occult store. It wasn't what the store specialized in that bothered us; it was that it had an air of chicanery to it. The people that went there were the odds and ends of humanity. They drifted in for a chat, a cup of tea, a reading, a talisman, a trinket, a book. Most of them spoke in hieroglyphics, others spoke not at all just fixed one with their entranced eyes, or simply stared past at something I surely could not see.

They sought spiritual wisdom and comfort, and they found it in Samantha, I believe, not in the owners of that... establishment."

The doctor nods, taking detailed notes. "Can you tell me a little about her state of mind when she worked at this store?"

Jonathan let out a ragged sigh. "It's hard to tell what was going on her head. I can tell you what she looked like. She started dressing exclusively black and her hair, which had gone completely silver grey within a year, was always hanging down her back in a braid. But it's her eyes, pale blue, incredibly big on her small pointed face that burn in my memory."

The doctor looks up sharply. "Can you explain what you mean please?"

"I don't know how to explain."

Stephanie, who has been silently fiddling with the patent strap of her bag, clears her throat. "What Jon means is that she had this kind of vacant look about her. She smiled a lot, but it was an empty smile. Do you know what I mean?"

The doctor studies the attractive blond who has been unable to hide her reluctance at being here. "Do you think her place of employment caused these changes?"

Stephanie nods. "Definitely!  They closed the place down last year. The owner was arrested for fraud and embezzlement. Too late to help Samantha though."

"What did Samantha do then?"

Charlotte answers the question, her voice much steadier. "She went on unemployment and continued helping these... people at home. We tried to take her out for lunch, for dinner, for coffee, for anything, just out of there.  But she smiled her sad, little smile and shook her head. Every time, she had some tea, or reading, or séance, or consultation, God knows what!"

Their guilt was almost palpable. Family therapy might be necessary in the future, but right now he has a puzzle on his hands,. "Ms. Burke, you said something earlier about the store closing being to too late for Samantha. What did you mean by that?”

"After the store closed down last year, it was as if she too, shut down, lost direction. I tried talking her into getting another, better job, or going back to her studies. But she wouldn't.
 What got me really mad were these people who would come over seeking I don't know what... salvation from Sam? They just sapped the energy out of her. She read their cards. What a crock! They claimed that she was always right! She held their hands and talked them out of whatever particular frenzy held them. Truthfully, it gave me the creeps."

With a grim look on his otherwise unreadable face, Doctor Lazlow closes the folder, knowing it is time to bring in a specialist.

2013-01-29

In My Head

Today, I was about to delete this blog completely and call it a day. Between the anxiety of trying to keep it up, creating a real readership, promoting it, and the almost rabid worry about what to publish, it defeated the purpose. Couple that with a busy life, a lot of commitments and the nagging need to actually complete something I began, it became a nightmare.

So I logged on, intent of freeing myself of this albatross and drowning it in the ocean. Just as I was about to hit "delete", my sane voice, my inner voice, the voice that needs to smack me upside the head spoke.

"Dude, you have to write. You have started so many projects; you have so many ideas. You need to  stop hiding under the covers of procrastination and freeken write already. You need to round off your body of work to a meaningful conclusion. In other words, finish what you bleeping started!"

Okay. Okay. Fair enough. I confess. I have started so many writing projects, from my list of projects; yet have not finished any one of them. Why is that? Is it a fear of failure or success?

I love to write. I have a lot to write about. My head goes in a million directions, sometimes at the speed of light and I can't keep up with it, let alone convey it in terms any sane reader can decipher.

But, that's another excuse. It's time to end the torrents of excuses and finish something. Follow through.

It's odd because I am one of the most organized people in practical life, but when it comes to creativity, I'm a blob of good intentions and no direction.

That ends today.

And it begins with the decision NOT to delete my blog but to change it to what I really want to write, to create, to finish. There will be no themes, no gimmicks, no more searching.

This will be my process, and it will be a disjointed one. I warn you (if there is a 'you') in advance.  It will seem like there's no structure because there won't be.

I begin with my search, with displaying the unfinished, with the storm in my head, looking for the shelter of completion.

So right now, I have four projects in various stages of completion: There are two novels and two books of non-fiction: one about my experience with social networking and the other about my experience in the education system (a word that must be used lightly).

This is what I will be doing: I will post 2 or 3 chapters of each of these books in separate posts. If I have any readers, and you wish to post a reply, feel free to do so. I have taken the brave road and opened this up to commentary. I hope and pray I don't regret it. :)

Stay tuned!

2013-01-24

Idol and Writer in Crisis.

So yeah, American Idol is back. Sort of. It's reinvented itself more times than I have tried to reinvent this blog. Both of us are having directional issues. More on that later.

So the Nicki Minaj - Mariah Carey much-hyped showdown was aired last night. All I have to say on the issue is... That all you got? All this chatter over nada. They were tired and snippy. Nicki was fed up with the over-deconstruction of the contestants and having had enough, left.

Big deal.


The debate has been raging between the Minaj and Carey fans. The problem is that these two could not be farther apart as people and performers. Nicky Minaj is outgoing and quirky while Mariah Carey is more reserved and conservative. Two different styles sandwiched by Rewind Randy and Laid-back Keith. Although I like these judges individually for different reasons, their "chemistry" is more toxic than fascinating to watch.

The bigger question is how many times will they change the judges before they give it up completely? The show is having an identity crisis. Is it about the star power on the panel? Is it about a singing competition aimed at finding a performer who has the whole package? Or is it about backstory, invoking sympathy and the popularity vote? I just don't know.

On related news, I'm having a blog crisis of my own. I have reinvented the focus so many times, I myself have gotten lost like the producers of Idol. I have several writing projects on the go which make maintaining a blog and schmoozing readership a difficult task.

Here's the question I put to you.

Do I:

a) drop this blog completely and carry on with my writing privately for possible publication?
b) change the focus of this blog (yet again) by sharing my writing process?
c) find another focus that would be more worthwhile for me and for you?

Your input is welcome, keeping in mind that the volume and quality of that input will help in my decision once and for all.

Stay tuned! :)