George shot through the open doorway, fell to his knees, and slid across the slimy wooden deck of the ship.

He lifted his head to catch his bearings and was greeted with the sight of about a dozen, open mouthed, pirates who were stood completely still having immediately stopped whatever task they were in the middle of performing. It was as if he had gate crashed a game of musical statues.

‘Er…hello,’ he said, red faced.

Suddenly the pirates came to their senses and released one conjoined roar into the breezy sea air. They all jumped, to a man, on top of George forming an untidy pile of arms and legs in the middle of the deck.

George managed to find a gap to squirm his way through and crawl from beneath the teeming mass of smelly armpits and greasy limbs. His freedom was short lived though as another pirate, coming to see what all the commotion was about, grabbed him as he took to his feet. The pirate twisted George’s arm around his back and put a cutlass blade to his throat.

‘Going somewhere are we?’ he said, menacingly.

‘Get up you scurvy bag of scum,’ the pirate shouted at the others on the floor. ‘Go and get the Captain.’

One of them, a tall thin man with thick spectacles, peeled himself off the top of the pile and headed up some steps to the side, onto the upper deck, tripping on every third stair.

After several seconds of loud bumps and sounds of ‘Ouch’, ‘Gerrof’ and ‘Who put that there’, the man came back accompanied by the un-mistakable figure of Captain John Ladybird.

‘What have we here then, a stowaway?’ said the Captain.

‘We found him on deck sir, trying to steal our booty he was,’ said the pirate holding George.

His breath stank as he spoke and George tried to pull his face away. He tried to say something but the sharpness of the blade persuaded him otherwise. Luckily the Captain saw through the pirate’s false claims.

‘I hardly think that to be the case,’ he said, calmly, ‘considering we don’t actually have any booty, as you call it, do we?’

All the pirates looked down at the floor together and, in unison, shrugged and grunted.

‘Well I’m sure if we did, he would’ve tried to steal it, sir…..can’t we just get the cat ‘o nine tails out anyway, just to be sure…..please,’ he pleaded.

All of them nodded their heads and a mirage of toothless grins graced the Captain’s eye line.

‘No,’ he shouted with authority. ‘We shall let the boy speak first and see what he has to offer in way of an explanation.’

Captain John looked directly at George. ‘Well, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?’

George desperately wanted to show the gold coin to the Captain.

‘I have something in my pocket that will explain everything, I think,’ he gargled.

George moved his free hand towards his inside pocket but stopped sharply when his other arm was pulled tighter up his back.

‘Aaaaargh,’ he wailed.

The Captain, luckily, sensed he wasn’t a threat and put his hand out to stop any more of the torture.

‘Colin,’ he ordered, ‘see what it is he wants to show us, if you please.’

A gormless looking, short, scruffy haired pirate walked over and reached into the inside of George’s coat. He pulled something out and hoisted it into the air.

‘Look sir, a gold coin,’ exclaimed Colin.

He examined it more closely, fiddling with it between his fingers.

‘Hang on. This isn’t real,’ he said.

He peeled away at the gold with his dirty fingernail to reveal a chocolate coin. George looked up to the sky, exasperated. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That novelty coin had been there since Christmas.

‘The other pocket,’ he shouted desperately. ‘Look in the other pocket.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Colin, taking a bite of the chocolate.

He again slid his hand into the inside of George’s jacket, this time pulling out the Leprechaun gold.

‘Hang on, is this some kind of joke,’ Colin said, trying to scrape the gold away from the coin.

Captain John suddenly grabbed the rail and hurdled over onto the steps and bounded down to the deck below, snatching the coin from Colin’s grasp.

‘Let me see that,’ he said.

He held it up to the light and inspected it more closely. He turned to the pirate holding George.

‘Let him go, immediately,’ he barked.

George twisted and stretched his sore limb, which had now been released.

‘You, come with me,’ he said, pointing at George, before marching into the inner part of the ship.

George picked up the book from the sodden wooden planks and discreetly removed the bookmark, before following the Captain into what was now just a normal doorway.

*

George stood inside the Captain’s quarters, now minus the reading glasses which had been safely put away. In the middle of the room was an old desk set at a strange angle to the walls with various nautical measuring instruments and charts adorning the top of it, and an equally old chair resting to the side. There was also an old pewter tankard, with goodness knows what murkily residing within it, sliding gently back and forth to the rhythm of the swaying ship. In the corner was a bunk, only a foot or so off the ground, with a stained woollen blanket dumped roughly at its base.

Captain John took a swig from the grubby tankard and immediately pulled a face then shook his cheeks from side to side.

‘So, the stories were true then, what my Mother told me when I was young,’ he said, almost to himself, staring blankly out of one of the portholes.

He turned his head towards George. ‘So, what do they call you then….they do still use names in the future, don’t they?’

‘Yes sir, my name is George, sir.’

The captain nodded.

‘Right then, George. I assume you’re here because you need my help in some way,’ he said, coldly. ‘So, while you’re here you can be of help to me too. I need another able seaman to assist with some of the duties on board. One of them went and died on me recently, most rude it was.’

His expression remained serious. It was clear he wasn’t having a joke with George.

‘Yes sir,’ said George, solemnly.

’Right well, go and see the crew and get yourself better attired for the job. Then, when I think you’re on your way to actually being of use to us, I’ll ask you what it is you need my help for, understood.

He looked back out towards the sea.

‘Yes, but I….,’ said George, desperately.

‘Is that understood,’ interrupted the Captain, sternly, without turning back to face him.

‘Yes,’ George agreed meekly. He realised there was no point arguing with the Captain at this stage. He would just have to play ball for the moment and hope that his mood changed for the better, and that he would soon come to terms with the situation unfolding on his ship.

‘Oh,’ said Captain John, with a sly smile creasing up at the corner of his mouth, ‘do leave your bag here for the time being, I will need to do an inventory of its contents, standard ship procedure, I assure you.’

George hesitated for a brief moment. He was obviously very nervous about letting the contents of the satchel from out of his sight, but again the pointlessness of resisting the Captain’s wishes persuaded him it was a risk he would have to take. He pulled it over his head and laid it down onto the table, before excusing himself from the room and going back above decks to go and introduce himself, properly this time, to the crew.

*

The next few days went agonisingly slowly. Every time he was in Captain John’s presence he acted indifferently to George. Most nights he had laid awake on his bunk, staring at the ceiling above, wondering if he should steal his book back and leave the ship, but to his credit he stuck with it.

The crew, on the other hand, had turned out to be fantastic with him and had become very friendly. They taught him all about life on board and the tasks and duties that went with keeping everything ‘ship shape’.

George was now confident when it came to climbing up the rigging to untie ropes and unfurl sails. He had even taken a couple turns up in the crows nest, although after a while this got a bit boring when George sat there for hours with nothing to look at except miles upon miles of rolling ocean.

In return George taught them about the importance of things like hygiene and washing their hands, especially after trips to the toilet and before preparing food. He explained how important it was to keep the drinking water separate and safe from contamination. At first the crew had scoffed at his suggestions, but when he pointed out that these simple steps would prevent them from getting diseases like dysentery, or as they called it ‘the bloody flux’, they were only too eager to adapt his principles.

There were three pirates that George worked with in close proximity on a daily basis, and had become his closest allies on the ship. There was ‘short sighted’ Sid, the scrawny, thick spectacled one who had fetched the Captain when George first appeared on the ship, ‘Clueless’ Colin, the short, scruffy, pirate who had looked for the gold coin in George’s coat and ‘no nickname’ Pete.

Pete was a podgy, but tall, man who owned a pet parrot that often sat on his shoulder while he polished and cleaned his pistols during his free time. Occasionally Pete would offer to do the cooking for the crew, but they often denied him because the last time he did it he accidentally poisoned them all. Pete also had a tendency, when in the face of serious danger, to panic uncontrollably. Despite all of these characteristics, Pete still didn’t have a nickname because the others ‘couldn’t quite think of anything that had a ring to it yet.’

It didn’t come as a shock to George when he found out that the crew had been through a spell of bad luck recently and hadn’t plundered any treasure in over a year. George took it upon himself to work with them, for only about an hour every day, to develop their close combat fighting skills, boarding tactics and pistol shooting.

Despite the massively positive effect he was having with the men, the Captain still continued to look on and say nothing. George decided it was time he had to do something about the situation with the Captain. They had to talk, but not in front of the crew. He would wait until everyone was asleep in their bunks that night and sneak into the Captain’s room to confront him. After all, it should have been his duty to have helped George in the first place, for the sake of the family.

*

Every footstep George gingerly placed in front of the other on the rough wooden timbers appeared to creak even louder than the preceding one. Despite the friendship he’d forged with the crew he knew they still remained steadfastly loyal to the captain, although puzzling to him as it was, and if he was caught sneaking into the Captain’s quarters in the middle of the night they may develop the wrong impression about his intentions.

George was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, but he was nearly at the Captain’s door. It was now easier to go on than risk turning back and getting caught as he tried to get back into his bunk. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and a flicker of candlelight was emanating through the gap. He cautiously peeped into the room, holding his breath, and saw Captain John sat in his chair, facing away from the entrance, staring down at the floor.

‘Come in George, I knew you would come, eventually’ he said.

This startled George but nevertheless he pushed aside the door and slowly crept into the room.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said ‘but I really need to talk with you.’

‘Yes, it’s alright George, I know you do,’ Captain John said, resignedly. ‘I’ve been watching you for several days. The effect you’ve had on the crew is quite exceptional lad, and as for how far you’ve come yourself, well, you would make a very valuable addition to this ship. I suppose I’ve been afraid to talk to you myself because of what it may mean.’

‘Oh…..,’ George mumbled. He was surprised by this. He had thought the Captain was ignoring him because he simply didn’t care about helping him and was only using him for his own ends. He now realised that the Captain actually appreciated what he was doing on board the ship.

George took another step towards the desk, noticing the biography lying in the middle of it.

‘So you’ve looked through the book then I see?’ George hissed. ‘I’m not sure that was the wisest thing to have done, looking into your own future, sir.’

Captain John quickly spun round in the chair, but George could see he wasn’t angry with his comments. On the contrary, he had a sad look in his eyes.

‘I know, you’re right George,’ he said. ‘I realise that now, but looking at the book has helped me to understand some of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.’

He picked up the book and offered it to George who politely took it from his grasp.

‘Look inside the book George,’ he said, ‘look at the pages from the middle onwards…they’re all blank.’

George flicked through the pages and indeed there was not even the tiniest spot of ink upon them.

‘Of course,’ he proclaimed. ‘From where we are now and onwards none of it has happened yet. The book can’t tell us about events that haven’t occurred because some things may yet change by me being here.’

‘That’s right George. So you see, the book offers me no clues anyway, except to show me how wrong I’ve been in my past.’

They looked straight at each other and for the first time George noticed the anguish and pain etched within the creases of Captain John’s face. He could see the longing for home. The Captain hadn’t chosen to be a pirate; it had been forced upon him, many years previously.

‘Go now, go back to your bed George and get a good nights rest,’ the Captain ordered. ‘In the morning you can tell me all about how we can help you, then we shall hit port and re-supply for the adventure ahead.’

Title: George and the Magic Library – The search for the Phoenix Quill

Genre: Fantasy, Historical Adventure.

Age Range: 11+

Word Count: Excerpt – 2,500, Main Book - 60,000+

Author Name: S J Andrews

Why this is a good fit: Although the book is an adventure story, the research has been meticulous, meaning there will be factual elements, but only on a subtle level so that it does not get in the way of the story. I believe the story will appeal to boys and girls alike as, though the central character is a boy, there are several strong female characters within the story. The story has many twists and turns, with cliff-hangers dotted within the story to keep young readers engaged and wanting to see what happens next. There is also a twist at the end which leads to the possibility and promise of more adventures to come.

The Hook: Characters can magically travel into books and have adventures within them.

Synopsis: George’s parents have been missing for several weeks and now his Grandma has died in mysterious circumstances. Sent to live with his uncle in the country George discovers a family secret at his new home – a magic library which allows the readers to enter into the stories within the books. He must use this magic to put together a series of clues and try to find an ancient artefact known as the Phoenix Quill, which ultimately has the power save his parents.

Target Audience: Boys and Girls between the ages of 11 and 16, particularly fans of fantasy, history and other similar genres, such as Narnia and Harry Potter.

Bio: I am 41 years old and live in Lancaster, England. I am educated to a good standard and run my own digital content and marketing business. I lead a wide ranging and healthy social life and am always attempting to gain new life experiences. I enjoy history and have a keen interest in myths and legends, especially the psychology of how many of the tales come about – I like to then take these two elements and combine them into my storytelling, which is written in a way that children can identify with and understand (I have 4 Children of various ages), but without appearing condescending or insulting to their growing intelligence. I am a firm believer that reading is an important aspect of a child’s education, so the stories they are presented with must be kept exciting and engaging as well as giving them access to new words and information.

“Do you know the story of the two brothers?”

She sits across the table in front of you, dressed in rags. She pushed the question through split and swollen lips. Once pretty, the blood has matted in her hair and dried brown against her face. Soot piles rest in the corner of her mouth and eyes, in the creases of her skin, along her collar bones. She is tall, willowy in the chair, but sat as though she would rather stand. As though sitting hurts. Her fair skin, beneath the dirt and blood, is distinct for Najda. As are her eyes, bloodshot and green, huge. You wonder if she doesn’t have outsider blood in her, if she’s a foreigner, even though her accent is perfect. Maybe that’s why her captors have beaten her so furiously. To see the outsider in pain, to have her green eyes dull.

You shake your head. You’ve heard stories of two brothers, but don’t want to guess. It’s best to let her talk. To explain and clarify. You look at her pain, the discomfort in her face and the way she holds herself and you buy her more time. In here, she is safe. Outside this room, where they beat her and tear at her clothes, where they force themselves on her, she is a body. She represents ransom or entertainment, neither mutually exclusive. You may be the last kind person she ever sees.

“It is a folk tale, a fairy tale almost, among the Najdan people,” she stops and looks around, “it began in a room much like this one. They were born into prison.”

She leans forward, into the single halo of light, thrown off by a bare and yellowing bulb. You look away as her bruising is no longer a hint, but deep and multicolored. Around her eyes and neck are the worst, the purple and reds becoming black. Her cuts are shiny and milky with gangrene. The room is only the one light and two chairs, mismatched and wooden, on the brink of collapse. The walls are made of the local mortar, dirt mixed with water, stones, and sticks until some semblance of structural integrity. It gives the room a sloped appearance, more of the mortar having pooled at the bottom and thinning as the wall goes up. You are sitting in a man-made cave. It is frigid and the darkness is inky.

“Their mother was a prisoner, taken days after the boys conception, forced to watch her beloved hacked apart.” She finds your eyes, forcing you to hold her gaze. “Have you ever seen someone cut apart by machetes? Axes? In what you do…”

You shake your head, as much to drive out the image as to decline.

“There’s a metallic slice, and a dull thud. It’s a sound that lingers. It stayed with the boy’s mother. The sound. More than his screaming or his begging. And in her anger, the boys grew strong and convicted. Bent on revenge they’d been born into. But they split, darkness and light, one bent on avenging their father through blood and violence, the other through compassion and change.”

You’re drawn into her voice, melodic and soothing. You feel yourself sinking into it, a cool lake on a hot day. Her story surrounds you, envelopes you in its rhythm. This is why you were brought in, for the green eyed witch that spoke English. You can understand why they thought she was magical. You can feel it. She sinks back into the shadows, hiding her face. Letting her voice roll out into the darkness. It’s as though the walls are speaking. The mud, the dirt of the land, whispering in your ear. You can feel her voice in your chest, in your lungs, in your heart.

“The brothers were closer than blood, closer than family. They were bonded in tragedy, joined in horror. But after years of hard toil, years of surviving on slop and the casual violence of the guards, their mother decided it was time to break free. To risk all that was left to them, for freedom. And when she died in their flight, her body degraded from years of neglect, the brothers fought. Raged into the night at fate and each other. Neither was right, nor were they wrong. They were men in pain, seeking action in a time of helplessness. But when you demand better of fate, when you demand justice, something is listening. As they raged, fate heard them and answered their lament. With further torment and bitter justice. They both received what they demanded of the world, thrown at their feet and covered in mud. And they were made to feast on the rotten fruits of their lives.”

She rocks forward into the light, and you recoil. Her green eyes are wild, on fire.

“The brothers are coming. Here, now. And their rage will be furious.”

****

The war came without warning. There were no air raid sirens. No explosions in the distance. No static on the radio. The screaming came eventually. But not before the panicked phone calls, to loved ones and informants, confidants and colleagues. The darkness came last, the anticlimactic finale of rising fear and paranoia. The light of society simply popped. And the night that settled in was the real, true dark. The kind found in the wilderness, beyond the scope of man and civilization. Profound in its nothingness. But this dark, the dark that came with the war, was made eerie by the presence of a whole nation hidden. Wiped out of view as the sun set.

It began with murmurs. The buzzing of cell phones. A few calls were taken in hushed tones turning shrill.

“…fired on protesters…”

“…martial law…”

“…rioting in the capital, and shooting…”

Wars tend to build, slow boil for years, before a catalyst ignites conflict. World War I was as much about the assassination of the Archduke as it was in the political maneuvering in the decade that preceded it. With the gracious aid of hindsight, the threads of war can be picked up almost from their creation. But in Najda, there were too many threads. Poverty across the countryside, an entire government rife with corruption and feudalism. Each fiefdom full of loyalists that were ready to maim and kill to scrape ahead, to claw a little comfort out of life. Roving bands of men patrolled the expanses outside the cities. Some calling themselves rebels. Taking on military titles that were earned in blood. But most recognized them for what they were: men with no opportunity beyond slow starvation or malnutrition taking up arms to feed themselves with their country-men’s bread.

Najda was a failed state. And war came in the spring with the rains. The locals took both as the natural progression of the world. But when the lights went out, when the public was robbed of all modernity, fear set in. Civil war had come to Najda.

Phyllis waddled down the counter of the Waffle House to pour coffee for a long-haul trucker. Her mouth's autopilot engaged, asking the road-weary driver if he wanted his hashbrowns scattered, covered, smothered, topped, chunked and/or diced even as her eyes followed the latest arrival. Two priests fought the stiff front door for entry, one abnormally tall and unusually thin, the other short and stocky. They cast their eyes about the restaurant either looking for an empty table (plenty of those) or a potential threat.

Short n' Stocky held up his left index finger and closed his eyes. The finger wagged slowly back and forth as if he were scolding a child in Super Slo-mo. His whole forearm began to pendulum back and forth at the elbow. Then his arm stopped with a jerk almost as soon as it began. The finger pointed left and the strange duo followed it.

After answering a chorus of, "Welcome to the Waffle House!" with absent-minded waves they plopped down across from each other in a booth and stared at nothing in particular.

Tall n' Thin said, "So, do you think he’s legit?"

Shorty hoped so though he didn't say this out loud. He regarded the menu dubiously and said, “All good things in their own time. The Dogon peoples of West Africa were fond of saying that if you wanted to catch a lion you should follow the gazelle. Ergo, if you want to catch a redneck...ah, there he is now.”

A man appeared at the door and was immediately bathed in a chorus of Waffle House welcomes. He looked right then left. His eyes were obscured behind the reflective lenses of a patrolman's sunglasses, but Shorty could tell that the newcomer's gaze had locked on to them like heat seeking missiles. The top of the man's half-mesh trucker cap crested the 6'2" mark on the door used by the employees to gauge a robber's height. The cap was blue mesh with a yellow front sporting a Largemouth Bass, and blond hair jutted from underneath like hay. A reddish goatee framed his mouth in which a toothpick twitched as with a pulse of its own. He wore faded blue bib overalls over a short-sleeved white t-shirt. Shorty saw one blue-ink tattoo on each muscular bicep. One said "Baby" and the other said "Hey". Tucked underneath his arm was a folded newspaper.

The diminutive priest invited the bumpkin to sit down and said, "My name is Larry O'Donnell and my tall friend is Eugene Heynecker. Glad you found us. What can we do for you?"

The man did not answer right away. He grabbed a chair from the kitchen-side bar, pulled it across to their booth and sat backwards in it with his forearms propped casually on the table. The hayseed regarded them both in turn while the toothpick twitched up and down between his teeth. Just as the silence began to edge into the red zone meter of uncomfortable the man leaned back and opened the newspaper with a flourish. He flipped through the paper purposefully as a man who seemed wholly familiar with the medium and knew where he wanted to go. He folded the paper back on its spine, folded it in half again and flopped it down in front of him with a satisfied grunt. He raised his right hand high into the air and jabbed the index finger down on the bottom left of the page with enough force to rattle the flatware.

He began to read haltingly out loud in a voice full of luxurious southern twang, "Careful planning is the best policy for now. Local matters become more intense. Extra work this afternoon could have you getting home late. Learn to be more practical when it comes to your personal abilities. This evening you may feel more intuitive than usual. You may find yourself in matters of importance."

Larry the Short blinked several times and waited for the punch line. This hayseed had contacted them (as the Bishop predicted) for a meeting that would “shew unto ye the variform evil in thy midst”. Larry’s orders had been specific. Find out what he knows and who he’s told. Then ‘negotiate’.

Larry’s eyes drifted to the yokel’s truck as he began to speak. "Perhaps if you told us the nature of your distress we could provide concise guidance. Does this have anything to do with the girl outside?"

Hayseed looked left, the toothpick ticking with the rhythm of a metronome, and regarded the woman outside. She was petite with brown hair and pushing fifty. She wore a long, white dress with matching sandwich board that read, on the front, "The End is Nigh! Ezekyul 1:16." She said nothing as she paced slowly around the country boy's white, battered Ford F-150. When she turned, they saw the back of the sign, "Repent ye for the time of harvist is upon you! Genusis 5:24."

"I allow as how she has a point, but she hain't with me. Anyways, you hain't heard a thing I done said. Do you'uns know what I do fer a livin'?" Hayseed sat back and produced a corn-cob pipe and pouch of Captain Black tobacco while the ministers shared an uncomfortable glance. He filled the pipe and tamped the moist tobacco down as he deftly produced a wooden match. He tucked the toothpick behind his ear for later. The hillbilly struck the head of the match with his thumbnail and touched it to the bowl of the pipe, sucking thoughtfully while the tobacco sizzled. "Reckon not then. My name is William McGee, head of Alien Abduction Recovery, Ink. Call me Moonpie."

For the space of five seconds everyone at the table was silent. Moonpie returned his attention back to the horoscopes as if he were studying for a final exam. Larry rested his forearms on the table drummed his fingertips together nervously. Had the Bishop been mistaken?

Phyllis floated over in a cloud of cheap perfume. Moonpie quietly dropped the aviator's glasses down the bridge of his nose with his left hand. His eyes were a pale, smoky blue. He tensed for a moment then relaxed when she asked what they wanted to eat. "Bacon-double-quarter-cheese-double plate, hashbrowns in the rang n' keep them 'maters to yerself." The priests declined.

"Alright, then. I’ll go first." He took a sip of heavily chlorinated water from the clear, pebbled-plastic glass and began his tale.

"Close to three yar gone me'n mah cousin Lynrd wuz sittin' on the tailgate of mah truck sippin' on some Wild Turkey n' speculatin' on the finer things. All a sudden-like we wuz bathed in a bright light. Lynrd yelt to me to throw out the bottle on account of him bein' underaged. I wudn't about to do it 'cuz thar wuz still a good quarter-bottle left. I chugged the last of it and tossed the bottle back behind of us.

But I reckon I done it all in vain, 'cuz thar weren't no police. Me n' Lynrd jus' sat thar a minute with our hands in the air like nuthin' wuz goin' on. Right about then I felt a mite woozy on account I had chugged that Wild Turkey. I flopped down in the bed of mah truck. I looked up n' saw that the light was comin' from this big ol' flyin' saucer. All I could see wuz a big circle of blue light about the size of Tallehdega. The circle spun so fast that mah eyes crossed n' I blacked out.

When I come to it was mornin' and Lynrd wuz gone. I had what ya call amnesia 'bout ever thing afore that. At first I thought that Lynrd done hitched a ride back home, but then I remembered that UFO hoverin' over us like it done. Then I knew. Lynrd had done been abducted by aliens!"

Larry put up a hand, "Okay, Sir. Help us out here. What I hear you saying is that your friend has been abducted by aliens."

"Yep, I allow as how you have most of it," said McGee.

"Well,” Larry continued, "we’re not scientists but, while we do deal with other-worldly concerns, I'm not sure if we can help. We'd be happy to go out to this place with you and see what we can see." What does he know? Who else knows? Manage it.

"Ya'll don't seem to unnerstand. I aim to get my cousin back one way or t'other. Tha's why ah went down to the junior college n' got me an on-line degree in Astrology. An' the one thang I done learned is that we is slowly being invaded. They is replacin' us one at a time, bit by bit with they're own demon spawn. They looks hooman, but they isn't no more than ol' Flash my coon-dog."

"That's preposterous!" barked Larry.

McGee regarded him with the same studious gaze, as though discerning a new species of insect. "Fancy words aside, it's the God-honest truth. When I come to after Lynrd was taken, I found out purty quick that I wuzn't the same. I knew on account of how mah senses were all supernat'rul. Ah could see like a hawk, hear a mouse fart sideways and..." Moonpie McGee paused to take a long drink of water. The bizarre bumpkin set the glass down with a satisfied 'ahhh'. "Ah kin smell 'em from thirty feet off!"

The country boy pistoned back from his chair and reached into his overalls with one smooth motion. Before the chair clattered to the floor he had produced a pistol in his left hand and a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in his right. The pastors' eyes grew wide as they both slid beneath the table, facing out. Larry could only see McGee's legs and nothing else. Moonpie spun around on the balls of his feet. Larry glimpsed the matronly waitress charging toward McGee, butcher knife in hand. The mad hillbilly blew Phyllis out of her sensible shoes. The air filled with shouts and screams. Shot after deafening shot rang out as seconds stretched into a seeming eternity. Some time later, Moonpie said, "Y’all kin come out now."

The priests crawled hesitantly out from under the table, trembling hands raised tentatively over their heads. The smell of grease and gun smoke mingled, an invitation to a macabre buffet. Larry slowly opened his eyes, dreading the sight of blood, fearing he was next. Billy-Bob McGee cracked open the shotgun while drawing leisurely from his pipe. Two empty red shells plinked a hollow rhythm on the floor.

Larry blinked, confusion dominating his brow. He saw no blood anywhere nor bullet-riddled corpses. The plate-glass window was indeed shattered, several plates of food were

scattered here and there, but nothing worse than ketchup streaked the walls. Shafts of light through the window revealed a fine, gray smoke. Phyllis’ brown and yellow uniform was draped across the counter as if she had just remembered an invitation to go skinny dipping, the charred bullet holes steaming. More piles of clothing littered the restaurant. Hamburger patties sizzled along with the cook’s greasy apron and hat.

Moon Pie tucked the loaded shotgun out of sight in his overalls. “Reckon it’s time fer us to git. We got ground to cover.” He moved the corncob pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other and sauntered toward the door.

Eugene and Larry, slack-jawed, looked at each other. Larry shrugged and followed the man. If anything, their mission was now top priority. And he knew better than to argue with an armed man. The hillbilly pushed through first one door then another all the while whistling a jaunty version of ‘Dixie’. He climbed into the beat up Ford truck, pausing only to tip his hat to the sandwich board prophetess of doom. She continued to mouth impassioned and inaudible pleas without breaking stride.

Dave’s tenant, George, died in the basement apartment. Nobody seemed to be emotionally affected. ‘Take some food from the fridge if you want.’ Dave told me in his halting, unsure way. Taking food from a dead man felt weird to me, but I snuck down and peeked inside the chest refrigerator and decided to come back later to take a jar of peanut butter, canned vegetables, and chipotle dip. George asked me to stay for a bit of pot roast the last, and only, time I was at the ranch. He was a little drunk but easy going, not sloppy. ‘Sure, that sounds great!’ I was in the basement to use the shower before taking off for Dave’s fruit stand in Bonsall. Before I started the water, through the bathroom door he offered soap and aftershave; I declined. By the time I exited the shower he had gone into his room and shut the door. Earlier in the day, when we met, he had been cleaning out his bedroom because the two family goats, Trudy and the kid Ed, had made their way in through the screen door and shit and pissed on his bed. After I washed and shaved, I went into the open kitchen, the roast smelled great, but instead I turned and quietly walked out of the basement, into the garage where Dave’s stepson, a thirty-four year old red-bearded, soft-spoken man also named Dave had coaxed a Mojave Red into a big plastic water jug where the serpent stared fiercely but never rattled at me, even as I put my face nose to nose with hers; and slowly trudged my way up the steep hill to my truck. I had forgotten soap and have never worn aftershave, but I wished I had borrowed both from George. When they were going through his effects to try and find his information they uncovered his heroin kit. He was slumped, sitting on his bed, Dave’s middle son found him: he was cold. If there was a funeral I would have liked to go. He had that pale hardness in him from hard living, and guilt in the corner of his eyes and on his scabbed forearms which hung tiredly by his sides, as if they would pop off his shoulders and crumple onto the linoleum like dead fish. One thing is for certain: nobody deserves to die feeling alone. I should have shared a roast with George.

‘I hope he had his wits about him when he went.’ I emitted in the calm and subtle, unintentionally patronizing tone I had adopted for Dave. ‘My worst fear is dying when I’m piss drunk, worse, blackout. I want to be cognisant of the death experience. We’re born without being fully conscious of the birth. We’re brand new, only developed over nine-months inside our mothers. We don’t know.’ My brain struggled to work through these thoughts, to Dave; to this gaunt man who stared at me with his narrow blue eyes and nearly toothless mouth slightly agape, his tattered straw hat pushed back on his shoulder-length, silver hair. ‘All this living we’ve done, now, since being born. I have seen beautiful things. I’ve watched the snowfall through the window while I’m sitting next to a wood-stove. I’ve watched tadpoles in a shallow eddy in the Santa Margarita River. A snake snatched from a patch of ticklegrass in Mendocino hill-country by a hawk, and the blood, or venom, or bile fell with the snake after it bit the hawk, and another hawk came from below the ridge and hung in the updraft breaking the air with their mate shaking its frustrated wings in the draft behind. I’ve seen awful things. A cement factory lit fluorescent, ashen with gray skies hovering, and rain and dust shrouding its occupants. The betrayed and sad eyes of people I have hurt. A man on a ledge in Penobscot Bay, Maine who had drowned by becoming tangled in his lobster gear but come loose in the current and drifted to rest on a ledge in the ebbtide, his eyes bulged and uneven, his face wrung up like a damp rag and one white rubberboot half on, twisted in the seaweed. But all this. All these things are what I have seen and emotions I alone have felt. I expect death to be an entirely different event for everyone. Only the result is the same. Ultimately, we all share in the impact of death. I just want to experience it with clarity, not muffled or eliminated by being too drunk or distracted. Once, I fell out of a bar and hit the ground face first. Somehow the girl I was pursuing still took me to her place. On her big, granite front steps I fell backward and broke a couple ribs. I mean. I mean, I have a vague recollection of breaking my ribs, but otherwise this was all recounted by the girl when we woke up the next morning and I had pissed the bed. After I went to a laundromat, I came back with the sheets and clumsily knocked a frame off her wall as I stumbled in, breaking it on the floor. I don’t remember her name or what picture was in the frame. Then I left to go back to my girlfriend’s apartment and lie about why I was beat up and in pain. I don’t care about dying by falling down some steps but I do not want to be blackout drunk. I want to…’ ‘So that it’s a clean transition.’ Dave observed. ‘Yeah.’ Even though he meant the transition to Heaven and I meant the transition from alive to dead. ‘We’re born, we die. I don’t consciously remember my birth but I want to be conscious when I go.’ I reiterated, forcing out the words. I was finished. I had been half-turned to walk down the hill toward the river to resume cutting down a big eucalyptus tree. ‘That’s a really good observation.’ He mumbled earnestly, but I felt like a generalizing debutante trying to explain myself with ideas I didn’t really understand or believe. And did he hear me? Did I actually say all those things out-loud? I cracked a wry grin. ‘Anyway, I guess I will head down the way and get after the cutting.’ ‘Okay.’ He said in the quick, nervous way he says ‘Okay’, like a mouse if mice spoke like Dave and Dave spoke like mice. I grabbed my fishing spear, the saw, my boots, and water; and started down the hill to needlessly cut up a tree with a dull chainsaw and silently wondered what it would feel like to be bit, mid-air, on my index finger by a rattlesnake.

  The vessel was neither pitching nor rolling but steadily sailing towards Adlivan  archipelago. The perfectly still weather, though, failed to becalm David Adler, who at long last abandoned his only desire to dive back into the dream after someone from the CSI unit had sighted out first ice and their agitated shouts sent the rest of the crew to the illuminators. The journey’s end was not far off. From then on for another hour the hustle in cabin was considerably louder, and combined with the constant drone of the engines made any attempt to start a dialog worthless. Finally he found comfort. After they had left the mainland It was more and more apparent that some sort of simple conversation with his new colleagues was inevitable,

whether he liked it or not. After all, he had forced himself to flung occasional words into the high-sounding platitudes.

David occupied a bunk in the most remote corner of the cabin. He pulled out a case file from a bit battered briefcase to give it a cursory glance, although he had already learned those terse line by heart:

“A group of ten students (eight men and two women) of Department of Geosciences at the UC, all experienced in long ski tours, organized an expedition across unnamed heights of Adlivun archipelago on January 27. One of the group members - George Jeugenes dropped out from the main part of the rout due to a sickness which caused a severe knee pain. He stayed at the village as the rest took a decision to continue the expedition in group of nine. Today It has been 12 days since they reported in. The hunters of the local Voguls tribe claimed they had found a dead body. George stated that according to the description the body could belong to Alex Cohleman. We started assembling a search party.”

It was altogether against his nature to feel sorry for anyone else and the job itself had taken toll on him, but this particular case almost reversed his sentiments and unearthed memories from his own childhood, - one of the hunting trips with his father to be precise, when he’d spent two days alone in the woods. He could hardly think of it without perturbation.

Going up on deck, Adler wished he had never accompanied the party. As soon as he got on top his exhausted consciousness treacherously responded to the bizarre view bursting upon him from behind the clouds of ice-dust and aroused dim ancestral and almost mystic fear unknown to a man of his profession. The vessel was piercing towards a desolate range of austerely aspiring white summits evilly framed by bleak obsidian sky and descending ridges of hoary granite wall that flexed itself against the ocean. Muffled moan of the wind wandering among centenary tree trunks occasionally reached the deck and the whole spectacle imposed an appalling impression that the vessel was carrying the crew further and further into grim white immensity haunted by an enigmatic omnipresent sinister essence.

‘We need you to get some Leprechaun gold George,’ Molly stated, as a matter of fact.

George sat there open mouthed.

‘Some what?’ he replied.

‘Leprechaun gold – that’s why you have the Myths and Legends survival guide,’ said Molly.

‘But why? Do you think we’ll need some kind of ransom for my parents?’

George was now finding it hard to take all this in.

‘No,’ said Molly, shaking her head. ‘Let me explain. When you go back to see the Captain and Lady Jane they won’t know who you are, right’

‘Yes, you explained that, but where does the Leprechaun gold come into it?’

‘I was coming to that,’ Molly protested.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said George.

‘Well, the first owner of Arrington hall, the man who had the house built and hid the scroll, realised the potential of the library, in being able to come back in time and visit past ancestors, like him for instance.’

‘Okay.’ George wasn’t convinced.

Molly rolled her eyes into the back of her head.

‘He also realised the importance of the three scrolls and that one day it was bound to happen, but he couldn’t risk just anybody hearing about it and then turning up and claiming to be a long lost relative or a future one for that matter. He figured he would have to come up with a secret code or something so they could be sure who it was.’

‘So when I go back into their history,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘they will know who I am and help me if I give them some of the Leprechaun gold.’

‘Yes, by George, he’s got it, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ She exclaimed. ‘A simple piece of normal gold was not enough. He had to make it something rare and very hard to get hold of.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ George said, nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Molly, ‘the survival guide you have there was compiled by the same man, after extensive research. It’s the only one to have ever been published. Your parents must have taken it from the library to hide it in your trunk.’

‘But wouldn’t you have noticed them doing this?’ George asked.

‘Look, just because I’m a member of the undead, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to have a rest or a snooze now and again,’ She protested. ‘ It can get boring in here sometimes, especially when no-one visits for years on end, and as for that lot, well, they never stop sleeping – and snoring, loudly,’ she added, with consternation, glancing at the old paintings on the wall, with the ink figures fidgeting restlessly within their frames..

‘It all sounds a bit long winded,’ George moaned, ‘Couldn’t he have just invented a secret handshake or something?’

‘No, that would have been too easily tortured out of someone. This way was safer.’

George gulped.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said. ‘If it’s so hard to do, why isn’t Uncle Felix doing it, instead of me?’

Molly could see the point George was making, but she also understood what his Uncle’s reasoning might have been.

‘Maybe your Uncle thought it was time for you to know about the family’s legacy,’ she suggested, ‘or that you had come of age, what with everything that’s happened recently in your life.’

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then decided that George needed to know the full story.

‘Also,’ she said, ‘your uncle hasn’t been in the library since before you were born.’

George was taken aback. His Uncle had been only too eager to point him in the direction of the library that morning. What could have possibly happened to make him not want to go back in? George shrugged his shoulders. Maybe instead of explaining everything to him, and have George believe he was a mad old fool, his Uncle had reckoned it would be better for him to discover the library for himself.

‘So why won’t he come back in here then?’ George said.

‘Well,’ Molly hesitated, ’it’s because of something that happened in a book he was visiting.

She sat, or rather hovered, into the chair opposite George and bowed her head.

‘He fell in love,’ she murmured.

‘Really,’ George shouted, smiling. ‘Good for him – but I don’t understand, why is that such a bad thing?’

‘Because it could never last, it was doomed from the start,’ Molly cried. 'The story cannot continue beyond a certain point and characters cannot be taken out of the books, only the odd prop that is not central to the main storyline, like some of the things you see in this house, or the silver keys for example.’

‘Oh,’ George said, simply.

It was obvious from the forlorn look on everyone’s faces, and of Molly’s especially, that this had been a very upsetting time when it had happened, all those years ago. His Uncle had obviously been much loved and was now severely missed.

‘So….what happened,’ he stammered, ‘I mean what book did it happen in?’

Molly looked up, her ghostly eyes red around the edges.

‘Have you heard of a book called 1001 Arabian nights,’ she said.

‘Er….vaguely.’

’Well, basically, the story is based around the tale of a princess who is due to be executed the following day by her husband the King, but each night she tells him a story, leaving it at a crucial moment to be continued the following evening.

‘Eager to know how the story continues he gives her a stay of execution, so that he can find out what happened next. Well she managed to continue this for 1001 nights.’

George listened intently, while Molly continued.

‘Well, your Uncle Felix went into the book and fell in love with the princess. Believing that her time was running out and that she really would be executed he came up with a daring plan to rescue her. But, it all went wrong I’m afraid…he headed back to the portal hand in hand with the princess, chased by axe wielding guards. Except the only problem was’, Molly sobbed, ‘is that upon reaching this side he was on his own, she couldn’t come through. It was only a fictional book so it also meant he couldn’t go back into it either.’

‘Blimey, he must’ve been devastated,’ George said.

‘Yes he was. You see even though she was only a made up character George,’ Molly added, ’to him it was all very real. He swore never to come back into the library, and since that day, he never has.’

*

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

INTRODUCTION

If we use the suffering of our past to help others, we turn our pain into purpose.

I cannot speak for all addictions, but I can speak with much experience on the addiction of alcohol; you know that whispered expression, “She’s an Alcoholic.” Except I’m not ashamed to be an Alcoholic, so when you tell others, say it loudly. I am extremely proud of my struggle with this disease and all the beautiful scar tissue it has developed through my soul. It's been several years since I last had a drink; I consider my disease in remission—since at any point in time the obsession to drink can return.

Some people argue about “Recovered Alcoholic” verses “Recovering Alcoholic,” which is basically an argument of semantics. The basis for this debate is rooted in the book of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), which is sweetly nicknamed The Big Book. However there is absolutely no reason to argue with the AA bible—just state your angle and move on. For me, it is essential that I never let go of the reality that I am and always will be an Alcoholic (more to come on this necessity when I illustrate the nasty trial and error of relapsing). Once I assume I am a “Recovered Alcoholic” my mind will talk me into drinking again. So, for sobriety sake (forget semantics), I consider myself a Recovering Alcoholic, and should I drink again, I would be a Practicing Alcoholic. If I still have an allergy to alcohol, if I cannot drink, then I am in fact still an Alcoholic—I have not recovered from the disease, nor do I believe that is possible.

I avoided the rooms of AA for one reason: it was a God-Bible-Thumping-Cult. And I do not join groups or clubs or cliques. Period. I have some paranoia of becoming “one of them” dating back to Junior High when I realized everyone had a “group” but me, and I felt safe that way. Without labels I can be myself and not have to break any group norms or rules, and “myself” is allowed to mold and mend any way my heart so desires. I very much dislike rules and any establishment that forces them upon me, all of which will soon become quite obvious. But let me be the first to say, I was wrong. I was absolutely, completely and wholeheartedly wrong about my God-Bible-Thumping-Cult perspective of AA. I am still not officially “one of them” but yet I am one of them. I have a homegroup that I go to every week, and I believe in the program; without it, I would be dead, no doubt. I am not sharing my story to be an example of AA, but I am definitely sharing my story to offer a solution to others on the same painful path of a living-hell that I was once on.

You do not need to believe in God to read and digest this story. All you need is to be wise enough to remain open-minded on any front presented. If I read something with boxing gloves on, I will always find a fight to participate in. Yet, when I read something as a simple spectator, merely amused by what is going to come about, I can digest what is presented and later decide what works and what does not. A hard lesson in my young life was knowing when to yield and when to battle. But I’ve learned that to grow, I must always yield first in order to witness and then battle when, and only when, it’s appropriate. My sharing this story is me intentionally choosing to battle with the darkness of addiction. I learned the hard way: there is no happiness at the bottom of any sort of bottle.

I am either open-minded or blind—I cannot be both.

CHAPTER 1

If there is a devil, it exists in addiction. And if the devil has a lover, it's society's lack of comprehension on the matter.

The connotative definition of an Alcoholic is someone that doesn’t know how to control their drinking. This is society's understanding of the word Alcoholic and it is harmfully inaccurate. The denotative definition is a person with an addiction to the consumption of alcohol or the mental illness and compulsive behavior resulting from alcohol dependency. This is a hereditary disease and it is absolutely not a matter of self-control. The common misunderstanding that Alcoholism is just a lack-of-control issue is exactly what keeps people from not only entering the rooms of recovery, but from staying sober once there.

I was listening to NPR recently and there was an interview that made my heart sink, or my academic mind flare, maybe both. There was an interview of a man, a famous chef of some sort, and also a recovered/ing Alcoholic. He was asked by the interviewer if when he was drinking and almost losing his wife, kids etc., was his restaurant [which he kept successfully running] just too important to him, "Was that the one line you wouldn’t let yourself cross?" the interviewer asked. So essentially, the interviewer is asking, or rather implying that Alcoholics can in fact control their drinking, IF the reason is important enough for them to control it.

Anyone one else see a problem here? There is no controlling drinking for Alcoholics, and when we drink, there is absolutely no line we will not cross; if we drink long enough, we will cross them all. The interviewers question is a clear example of his ignorance on the subject of Alcoholism. With his question he tells us that he believes Alcoholics have some amount of control over their drinking, IF only the matter is important enough to them. So in other words, his wife and children were not important enough to him, but the restaurant, now that was a line he wouldn't cross. "Hmmmm" said all who were really listening.

NO MATTER HOW IMPORTANT something is, our drinking will take it down if we don't stop it. Like a raging forest fire, it will not stop on its own.

Much to my relief the chef answered just as I hear in the rooms of recovery, he said something along the lines of: “If I had continued drinking, I would’ve stopped at nothing . . . I would have stolen if I had to.” And he went on to say that during his first year of sobriety he didn't drive and was never left alone; because that is the reality of this disease. There are no lines we won’t cross, for it is progressive (that means the addiction and reaction to alcohol gets worse and worse over time), and eventually this thing takes over all aspects of our life—no matter how important to us.

People that believe we can control our drinking convince us that we just need to try harder to do so, and many of us try to control it, over and over and over. But in reality, Alcoholics are allergic to alcohol—when we drink, it controls us, it is NEVER the other way around. Society's lack of understanding on the subject of Alcoholism not only keeps people out of the rooms of recovery, but it also decreases their chance of staying there.

In the beginning, most, if not all Alcoholics resist the idea that they have a problem with alcohol. We tend to be a group of like-minded individuals, many of which have immense pride and assumed self-control. We do not like rules, we rarely fit in and we always want more. More of whatever it is. So, when our spouses or mothers, like both of mine, tell us it’s just a matter of control and to try harder, we are quick to believe them. We are quick to say, “Ok, I don’t have a disease that makes me a loser—I just need to try harder.”

I told my mother in January 2007 that I had a problem drinking, she told me to get it together and learn how to better manage it. It wasn’t until 2010 when I lost my job that I considered once again that I had a problem. My then boyfriend, now husband, didn’t even believe Alcoholism existed. He believed too that is was merely a control issue that only weak people are talked into having a problem with. And so, from 2007-2010 I drank more and more and more, until I lost my job due to drinking. In the three months from the time of losing my job of five years to going into rehab, I managed a lot of damage. My son decided he had enough and left to live with his dad, I had three hospital stays, one in which I pulled out my IVs (twice) trying to escape, and a mysterious black-eye while at home alone in a blackout. I would lose three days at a time—I would have a drink and wake up three days later, half alive, dehydrated and hungry. I began to believe something was literally taking over my body and I went somewhere else for the duration. Each time I was simply trying to control it, I can do it this time, I really can. And then I would wake again, with my first thought being: “Damn it, I did it again.” And then I’d swear off alcohol for hours, days or weeks, and inevitably I would try again. After my 28 day stay in rehab I managed another month of sobriety, and to reward myself, and also to prove I can control this thing, I drank again. And this time I managed my first, and hopefully my only DUI.

I spent the next three years relapsing. I would get some time and I would either reward myself or test the waters again. I consider myself an intelligent person, I have degrees to prove it! Yes plural, I have a Master’s and a Bachelor’s and two Associates degrees; doncha know I can lick this drinking thing on my own—my mother and boyfriend told me so? I thought I was proving that I could control drinking, when in reality, I was proving that it controls me.

It may not look like it on paper, but rehab saved my life. Rehab introduced me to another perspective of AA, not one in which they praised God and Bibles, but one where they all shared a common struggle and a common goal. It was the first place and time I raised my hand, with no shame, and said “Hi, my name is Tara, and I’m an Alcoholic.”

Needless to say, I had a hard time with Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable. But my time in college taught me to never give up, so I kept going to meetings. I didn’t believe in a God (graduate school made me a hardcore Agnostic), but I could somewhat get on board with a "Higher Power." I questioned and doubted everything everyone said, but I had eyes and ears—it was clear something in those rooms was working.

For a long time I believed they said it was a “progressive disease” just to scare us into not drinking again. I had to learn everything empirically, the hard way. In many ways I was trying to prove them wrong and show them how very different I was—that what worked for them, just wouldn't work for me. But I was desperate and so very broken; I had tried everything and everything kept getting worse. So I listened when I showed up, and I heard them say "Keep Coming Back" and "Don’t Quit Before the Miracle Happens." I mostly doubted all their bullshit, but I kept coming back anyway; they had something I wanted: sobriety and joy. And still much to my surprise, a miracle did actually happen. And eventually I found the old me when I had some real sobriety, and I remembered: the old me can handle anything, even Alcoholism.

Casey looked around the small office in boredom. The walls were covered in candid framed photographs of a variety of teenagers and older children. As far as he was concerned, this was just another pit stop before he got kicked out into the system again. He'd spent his life bouncing from one foster home to another after his mother decided she wasn't ready to give up her freedom for the responsibility of caring for a baby.

“Care for a cup of coffee, iced tea, soda maybe?” the woman across the desk from him asked as she sat down.

He shook his head then reached up to brush his sandy blond hair away from his eyes. “A cigarette would be nice though,” he muttered under his breath.

“We try to keep things low-key around here for the most part. The rules of the house are fairly simple. Don't kill anyone. Don't burn the house down. Help out around the house. If you have a problem with one of the others, let me know and we can work something out. You're encouraged to pursue hobbies. We have study groups if you have trouble with any of your schoolwork. I do ask that you shower on occasion but other than that, it's pretty much up to you. About the only things that aren't allowed are drugs and alcohol. If you smoke, do it outside please. Any questions?”

Casey shrugged.

“Ok. Grab your bag and I'll have Dylan show you where your room is and you can check out the rest of the place.”

* * * * *

Dylan pushed open the door and stepped inside the bedroom. “This is your room. The bathroom is at the end of the hall on the left. If you want to drop your bag here, I'll give you the tour of rest of the place.” He waited as Casey dropped his bag onto the foot of the bed and looked around the small room.

The single bed was covered by a red and black patchwork quilt. Next to the bed was a small nightstand that held a lamp. Across from the doorway was a desk pushed under the windowsill. The far corner housed a dresser and a laundry hamper.

Casey shrugged, “Could be worse, I guess.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and fell into step beside Dylan. “You been here long?” he asked as he took a moment to study the older boy. Dylan had short cropped dark hair and pale hazel eyes. He was a few inches taller than Casey but probably not quite 6'. His long sleeved tee shirt and shorts hung loosely on his lean frame. Casey had known a few guys similar to Dylan in his last high school. Outsiders mostly, who didn’t quite fit in with the jocks or the smart kids.

“Since I was 14 so a few years. It's a lot better than some of the homes I've had to stay in. This is the first place I've been that no one has to share a bedroom.”

The two boys wandered around the house until Casey was familiar with the layout. After stopping in the kitchen to grab a couple cans of soda, they eventually found their way out to the back porch. Dylan leaned back against the railing and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Want one?” he asked after he took one out for himself.

“Thanks.” Casey quickly lit the cigarette with Dylan's lighter and sat down on the steps. Nodding his head back toward the house, he asked, “She's cool with this?”

Dylan shrugged. “She doesn't like it but she told me she'd rather have us do it in the open and be honest about it instead of lying and trying to sneak them and getting caught.” He let out a slow exhale, smoke curling around his head. “So how old are you?”

“I'll be sixteen next month.”

Dylan grinned. “Cool. You picked a good time to get here. On your birthday you get to choose whatever you want for dinner, we get to do something fun and you're exempt from chores for a week. Mine was two months ago. We had steak and burgers on the barbeque and we went paint-balling. I had to wear a pair of demented looking blue bunny ears but it was a lot of fun.”

Casey crushed out his cigarette and cracked open his soda. “I doubt I'll be here that long. These places are all the same. After a while they get sick of me and shove me back at Social Services to deal with. Most of the time I think I'd be better off on my own.” Casey tried to keep his tone light but he could hear the bitterness creeping into his voice as he spoke.

Dylan glanced at Casey before sighing softly and looking away. “I know what it's like. I was passed around from relative to relative for a few years before going through a string of foster homes. Growing up, I was treated more like an unwanted piece of furniture than part of the family. After a while of living like that, you tend to lose your trust in people and their promises.” He shifted his weight as he turned more toward Casey. “Give it some time. You may actually like it here.”

Casey shot Dylan a look that plainly said he was unconvinced.

“You know,” Dylan said cocking his head to one side. “If you give us a chance, you may even get to the point where you like us, too. Would it kill you to give us a chance?”

Casey narrowed his eyes and gazed out over the yard. “It's not personal. I just prefer not to get attached. There's no point to it.”

Dylan sat on the step next to Casey and stared up at the clouds rolling by. “You may not believe me,” he murmured after a few moments of silence, “But I do understand how you feel.” When Casey didn't answer, he continued. “I've been in the same place you're in now. New place, you don't know anyone, no one has your back. You learn to rely on yourself so you don't risk being let down by others.”

Casey nodded slowly. “They all say they're doing what's best for you but they don't know shit. They've never had to wonder how long they're going to be in one place or if they have to fight for a place to sleep or something to eat.” He spat out the words in disgust then laughed without a hint of real humor. “And if you dare say something is wrong they either shut you up with a belt to the legs, a visit to the closest pill-pushing shrink to get you onto meds that turn you into a zombie, or time in juvie because you dared to fight back when their son continually used you as his personal punching bag. But of course, it’s always that ungrateful foster kid's fault. Our son is an angel.” He scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the concrete beneath them. “They've tried everything on me. Sometimes I wish I could just go to sleep and never wake up again. I just want to give up.”

Dylan nodded slowly as he pushed his sleeves up over his elbows and edged over into the shade.

Casey could see criss-crossing scars covering both of Dylan’s arms and disappearing under his sleeves. Most were old enough that they had faded but a few were large enough to be standing out in stark contrast to his summer tan. Casey dropped his gaze quickly so Dylan wouldn’t catch him staring. He felt like kicking himself for complaining so much and not thinking that Dylan may have had a hard childhood as well.

“I used to feel the same way. But this place is different.” Dylan held up a hand when Casey opened his mouth to argue. “Give me one month. Let me prove it to you. There are a few good people in this place who really do give a damn about kids like us. All I'm asking you to do is give them the benefit of the doubt. If they don't change your mind, I won't argue the point with you.”

Casey looked at Dylan skeptically. “One month. You really think one month is going to make up for sixteen years?”

With a sad look in his eye, Dylan said, “We've all got scars here. Physical, mental and emotional. They actually do want to help. But it's up to you to decide if you'll accept that offer. I've got a good feeling about you. I think if you let people past that wall you've built around yourself, you may just find that you can do anything you put your mind to and they'll be supporting you every step of the way. What have you got to lose?”

Casey thought about what Dylan was saying. What did he have to lose after all? After a few minutes, he dared to let a smile cross his face. “I guess if you're willing to take a chance on me, it can't hurt if I take a chance on the rest of you. Who knows? Maybe I will end up liking it here.” He could feel Dylan's optimism starting to rub off. He thought it might be nice to actually be around someone he could relate to, unlike so many of the foster parents and councilors he'd dealt with over the years. Dylan was different. He was like Casey. He understood. Maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Maybe this time he could feel at home for the first time.

READY

     “Whenever you were a little girl, you could do things that other people cannot. You knew things were going to happen before they happened. When you were six years old you stopped your family from getting in a horrible car accident. You screamed and screamed in the car until they pulled over. There ended up being a ten car pileup ahead which began from an intoxicated truck driver and would have included you if your father had not pulled the car over. You knew things that people were going to say as if you could read their minds. You knew things about outer space that hadn’t even been taught to you. You never got sick, and you were very strong. We tried to teach you to keep your abilities hidden around other people, but you had to go to a doctor every year for a check-up, plus you had to go to school. Your doctor was very curious about how from your birth you had never been sick once. Most kids have ear infections and colds, but you didn’t have any of those things. Instead of being happy you were a healthy child, it’s as if they were fearful. And your teachers… they didn’t like that you were smarter than they were. They began to ask questions. When your parents tried to pull you from school and have someone tutor you at home, they called Child Protective Services. Then when your parents moved from Seattle to Portland, they got even more suspicious. The police showed up at your new home and wanted to take you in for an investigation. Then the F.B.I. and military got involved. They wanted to do experiments on you and offered millions of dollars.”

      Aurora was first stunned. Then she was in denial. “That can’t be true. You’re just joking aren’t you? Good one,” she laughed.

      “No, I am not joking,” Godfather reassured her. “People broke into your home to get you on the night of your parent’s death.”

      Aurora stopped laughing. So it was her fault? Her mind went back to the photo she found of her parents crime scene. She felt sick to her stomach.

      “So if I knew things were going to happen before they happened, then why didn’t my parents live?” Aurora asked.

      “You were smart enough to save yourself and your sister,” Godfather said. “You asked about her all the time after you were separated, but you eventually stopped.”

      “Where is she?”

      “Boston with your Aunt and Uncle,” Godfather answered. “I get some updates about her a couple of times a year. She starts high school next year. She plays piano and dances. She has a boyfriend, although I’m not sure if she still does, named Thomas.”

      “Why were we separated?”

      “It was the only way to keep you both safe. The night your parents died, you called me crying. I think you knew what was going to happen. You didn’t explain anything, but I came over right away. I got to your parent’s house, not in time to save them, but in time to save you and your sister. The people who killed your parents had already gotten away. I took you both from the home and you were declared missing persons. If the police would have found you, they would have gotten you and who knows what would have happened. You could be in a petri dish right now. I made a vow to your parents to always protect you. I changed both our last names, and we started over.”

      “How did you know my parents?”

      “We grew up together and attended the same university. I was their best friend and the only person they could trust. You had no other family besides your Aunt and Uncle, and that is where your sister went, so you came with me to Los Angeles.”

      “Why don’t I have the abilities anymore?”

      “After your parent’s death, you never used your abilities again,” Godfather replied. “I believe you were going through post-traumatic stress and blocked it from your mind, which suppressed your abilities. You had nightmares and panic attacks. It was a very tough time. We traveled a lot to keep busy and distracted and that seemed to help. Eventually everything became normal, like you finally healed, but you still never used your abilities again.”

      “So how does this all tie in to all of your meetings lately and staying up late working?”

      “Over the years I have made some contacts and close friends who are on our side, some who are concealing themselves in the police force and the C.I.A. It has recently came to my attention that there is a group of individuals who are still looking for you. They are suspicious and closer than what makes me comfortable. We have been investigating, and well, the good news, they think you are in New York.”

      “How did you get these people to help you?”

      “Darling, there is a lot of things you can get people to do when you have the right amount of money,” Godfather smirked.

      “I want to see my sister,” Aurora said.

      “One day you will. When the time is right.”

      Aurora sighed. “If that’s everything, I think I’m going to go lay down. I have a headache.”

      Aurora stood up, feeling slightly faint. Her uneaten food still sat there on her plate.

      “Would you like for me to warm up your food?” Alfred asked.

      “No,” Aurora answered. “I don’t think I can eat anyway.” She started to leave the room.

      “Aurora, wait,” Godfather said.

      She stopped and turned around to hear what he had to say.

      “With you knowing the truth,” Godfather continued. “This is the first step to remembering. The first step to possibly awakening your abilities inside of you once again. And you know if you do that, it is going to turn you into the biggest lit up billboard in the world, and all of the darkness is going to find you once again. You have to either be ready for it, or you must not go any further down this road.”

      “I’m ready.”

AWAKENING

      I dreamt I was flying - high up into the clouds. I felt free and alive, more than I ever have before. I just kept going up, up, up - until there were no more clouds. I was in wide, open Space. I suddenly felt exposed and alone. I looked down at the Earth and became afraid. I wanted to go back down, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. I just kept going farther and farther away.

Thirty-six.

Two kids even Satan wouldn’t fess to fathering.

Squeezed into size ten skinny pants riding so far up my ass they should have a canary to make sure the air is breathable. The sweat rolling off my body like a high-speed assembly line isn’t helping.

My hips beg for a twelve.

Who has their wake catered in the funeral home? Judging by the size of this spread, these pants are probably going to burst before I leave. With any luck, someone’s gonna stroll through those doors wearing sweat pants ready to tackle the giant seafood platter. Anything to help me vanish.

I shimmy between two tables displaying flowered condolence baskets. The pink and white roses shield me from all the eyes entering the room. I’d hide here until the end of the wake if the smell of roses didn’t fill the back of my throat with the shrimp cocktail already testing my 10s.

Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world— if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.

Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter. Court’s words. Not mine.

“Stupid woman reading a text while driving a Range Rover”— would’ve been more accurate.

Progressive sentencing. Also, their words and the reason I’m here today. My husband’s high priced attorney helped. A bigger reason why I’m here and not in jail.

In my defense, the social media director at the high school should be fired for using the term “lock-down” in her text when she meant “lock-in.”

Show some responsibility people.

“Thanks for coming,” a raccoon-eyed young twenty-something says. I think she applied her eyeliner while driving. Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it.

It takes a moment to catch my breath and steady my nerves. The stench of Abercrombie and Fitch assaults my nose. I should have stayed buried behind the flowers.

Size two. Kendra Scott ruby red earrings. Perfect tan. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit becomes a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.

But she has the body, and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.

Of course, I’m jealous. I’d kill for that figure.

Figuratively. I don’t have room on my plate for a second.

“Who knew my uncle was so popular. I haven’t seen him since I left for school four years ago.” A small cardinal red and gold USC tattoo caught my eye as she shifted her weight from left to right. “And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.

The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle and wishes she could change the past.

“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand — unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like it was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.

Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?

A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs sweeps her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts, and I find myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddles in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.

Remind me not to die during football season.

I suppose I should be thankful. Those are the only eyes in the room not throwing judgment my way every time I glance away.

Dan leads a chorus of collective groans. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I pray it isn’t both. Today is hard enough, and I don’t need him pouting until bedtime.

Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.

Seemed everything died around me these days.

A blast of over-zealous air conditioning clears out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprout on my arms, and I regret handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.

Funeral Chic

It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this is the first I’ve attended, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear here. I’m sure it’s bad luck to ever wear it again.

I lay my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?

Veneer.

“You deserved better,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. The rain. The wet road. The stupid wording on the school's text. Worried about the kids. You know. Life.”

And death.

“Were you close?” The funeral director encroaches my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.

I yank my hand off the casket, but my print remains. A ghostly handshake goodbye.

“I saw him jogging.” I inhale deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wipe a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. Shit, Carrie stole my good mascara and replaced it with her cheap crap. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”

“Paul—”

“I know it now!” I snap. “Oh, my God.” My hand lunges for his forearm. “Forgive me. I don’t know. I don’t…”

“It’s alright.” He pats the top of my hand.

His skin. Soft. Softer than mine.

“I’ve heard worse,” he says with a grin and small head nod. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”

Pinned between my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.

“Jogging.” I inhale deeply. A little more mascara might help. “Running. The day he died.”

“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulls his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”

My Coach handbag vibrates against my out-of-shape thigh. I regret skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worrying what women in my class said under their breath.

Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.

One-hundred Seventy-three?

I didn’t think the little number overlapping the Earth icon could show triple-digits.

Dan slips his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile, my first smile in days. I pull it off my face when I realize this isn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.

“I just want people to like me again.” I gaze down at the bright screen in my hand. “Like you do.”

“Don’t look, ’hon.” He peers over my shoulder.

“Good Lord, that Southern California hussy posted a picture of me standing by the casket. Could she have captured a worse angle?” My thumb trembles above the iPhone’s screen. “Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.”

“Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted!”

Liked twenty-eight times.

“How come she’s not wearing orange?”

Liked sixteen times.

“Bet she’s there because the court is making her.”

Liked nineteen times.

And somewhat true, although I needed to apologize in person.

“Her fat ass should have been the one jogging.”

Liked one-hundred two times.

Are you freaking kidding me? One-hundred and two people think I’m fat.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred three.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred four.

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silence my iPhone and shove it deep in my purse right past the waterproof mascara I forgot I was there. Dan nods and pulls me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”

Phone chirps replace the solemn choral music in the room. Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanges glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wipes down his arm where I touched him.

“Take me home, Dan.” I crumple in his arms. He is my grill, my concrete wall, holding up my remains. “Please, take me home.”

I don’t know how I’ll face the rest of the court’s demands, but I survived the first one. The easy one.

Barely.

Chapter 2

“Katy Simmons’ mom wrote, and I quote, Tessa Gilbert’s fat ass is going to jail.” Carrie pushes aside her AP English book to make room for her forearms on the counter. She still resents me for making her take an AP course her senior year of high school. “Is that true, Mom?”

Jail. The ultimate boot camp, I mutter quietly in my head.

“I’m sure I could stand to lose some weight,” I say with a smirk. Hiding behind humor comes easier than facing reality. “Where did you read that?” I slide a napkin with a treat on it across the counter to her.

“On Facebook.” She chomps into the gooey chocolate chip cookie. I don’t mind a few sweets around the house, but nightly milkshakes and daily treats have become the norm after the accident. “There’s this group called Cedar Lake Grins and Sins.”

“Oh, that group. I didn’t even realize I was in it until the funeral, but I guess Katy’s mom added me.” I bite into my own cookie. My third of the afternoon.

No need to guess. Size two Cynthia, Katie’s Mom, guilty as charged. Little Miss Perfect used every opportunity she could to remind us of her petite frame. I swear she buys Lululemon pants just to resell them on the local Facebook Swap groups.

“Katy said her mom setup a fundraiser for the niece of the guy you killed,” Carrie thumbs dance across her phone as she talks. “Should we do something?”

I toss tonight’s dinner on the carving board, biting down hard on my tongue. The Henckels meat cleaver fails to make a dent in the frozen pork chops despite being fueled by my resentment of Miss Perfect.

“Are you going to jail?” Carrie mumbles, a few crumbs of flaky brown find their way to the corner of her mouth.

“Dang. Mom, a jailbird.” Jake tosses his denim jacket on the leather living room ottoman. “That’d give me street cred at school for sure.”

“Freshman don’t have street cred. Especially ones who think denim is making a comeback,” Carrie fires back.

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

Maybe jail wouldn’t be such a bad place.

I slam down the frozen chops on the granite kitchen countertop. “Seriously, you two. You could wake the dead!”

If only.

“First, young lady, I am not going to jail. And second, young man, hang up your jacket. I’m not your maid.” Jabbing a steak knife between the slabs of meat achieves even less than the cleaver. “Dammit, these things didn’t thaw in the refrigerator.”

“But Katy’s mom said –”

“Who gives a rat’s ass what Katy’s mom said? This isn’t how I wanted to tell you kids.” I set the pearled handled steak knife on the counter. Something about discussing my punishment while holding a knife didn’t sit well with me. Guess I’m lucky I didn’t have to learn how to handle a shiv. “It’s already been decided. Your father and I met with the lawyers last week. We planned on taking the family out and celebrating this weekend, but...”

What kind of song would the waitstaff sing?