[This is a shorr story set in the world of my novel, Roco, which is about a squirrel who turns into a human. I wrote this piece solely for this challenge—it's not an excerpt, although it features characters, themes, etc., from the novel. More technical details after the sample.]

The squirrel paused on the treeroad—really, a few branches in the proximity of each other—and surveyed the forest floor. To us, the squirrel would have looked like any other Western Gray with his silver fur coat and creamy white belly all shadowed by a tail-banner.

But to other rodents, this squirrel was instantly recognizable from tiny unique features on his face, ears, and fur, and by his smell—a mixture of oak tree, sugar breath (his family had a secret patch of berries), vinegar, and rectum. His name was Oakbear.

“Roco!” shouted Oakbear at the still woods. "You've gone too far!"

Oakbear had come to a perimeter in the trees invisible to us but easily detected by the sensitive nose of a squirrel. Here was a disturbing lack of familiar smells, specifically the fur trace and rectum oils of the Village. Oakbear didn't know this forest except in the abstract. These trees hadn't been frequented by squirrels for a few summers because the dreys had become nesting sites for owls. In chasing season, those damned birds hunted tirelessly, mostly for mice but sometimes four-legged meat as big as a Western Gray. While the Village hadn't heard hoots this year, it didn't mean there wasn't a nest being developed somewhere. In the heat of the chase, if a squirrel wasn't careful, he might find himself embraced by claws sharper than a broken beer bottle.

Vibrations on the treeroad told Oakbear someone was coming. He looked back, his head motion almost mechanical, and peered into the leaf-cover with a discerning black eye. But it was only Sudry, a pup about the same age, who still lived in a drey with his parents.

It was apparent Sudry's parents had just birthed a new litter, because the squirrel's fur had the sour scent of nursing whelps. To give you a complete account, Sudry smelled like sour hair, wet leaves, botfly, cinnamon, and rectum. He had a few things to work on before he’d be a suitable mate. The Western Gray's scientific name is Sciurus Griseus, phonetically 'greasy scurrier,' an apt description here.

"Where is she?" asked Sudry, panting.

"Somewhere around here," grumbled Oakbear. "You know, every other female lets her mate catch her after awhile. Somehow I ended up chasing the one squirrel who doesn't want to be caught."

"Maybe she's not ready to settle down."

"But I have the drey in Meadowbrook. The one with the view of the valley. And I have access to a bear's horde of berries. And—" Oakbear struggled to think of more reasons why he was such a desirable squirrel. "And I'm strong!" To prove his might, Oakbear picked up a bark beetle and broke it in half. Sudry tried to look impressed, but he'd seen all of this before. "And—"

"And your cheeks," said Sudry.

"Right! I could fit a hawk between these chompers."

"Mind, too."

"Thank you! Almost forgot—I have the memory of a bluejay. Never misplaced a cone." 

As Oakbear reviewed how fast he could scamper, how many worms he could dig up, how warmly he could cuddle, Sudry watched a squirrel wriggle onto a branch overhead. Then a cone plonked on Oakbear's back.

"Owl!" shouted Oakbear, jumping away, his hair jutting out like a porcupine. He would have fallen right there if his leap hadn't luckily taken him to another branch—a branch which he clung to tightly, upside down.

Above, a high-pitched: "Rocococo!"

Roco also looked like every other Western Gray Squirrel, although she was a little slimmer, having been something of a runt. Although Sudry couldn't smell her from his branch, he knew she was an odd concoction of familiar and exotic scents. Even if she smelled of the usual fungus, nuts, moss, the sides of trees, carcasses, bugs, and mud—they were not the fungus, nuts, etc., of the Village.

But Roco was not named for her smells. Instead, she was named after her ululating laugh, which sounded something like“rocococo.” It was an odd thing for a squirrel to do. Although squirrels often lived carefree and simple lives, they were more prone to scold than scoff. But Roco was always laughing, and at events nobody else found funny. She chuckled when Hepper’s mate discovered her husband had eaten all the foodstores for winter—she rococo’d when Mottle mistook a pebble for an acorn—and she collapsed when Elder Smells-Like-Bark-Beetle accidentally fell on a beaver. Now, her prank was creating all sorts of undignified chatter.

"Roco, you could have killed me!" shouted Oakbear. Roco downclimbed (for treetrunks are highways to squirrels) and stood on Oakbear's branch.

"Still chasing me, Bearbutt?"

"Yes," said Owlbear, looking nervously at the forest floor. Squirrels were immune to the fear of heights, but Owlbear was unaccustomed to being vulnerable.

"Why don't you go find some pretty pup in the Village and leave me alone?"

"But—my berries," reminded Oakbear.

Roco made a choking noise, and for a moment they thought she was sick. Then she coughed up a slimy blue pebble.

"Already found your patch. Thought your family could squirrel that away forever?" Roco looked to Sudry, who was watching her shyly. "Hello, friend." 

"Hello."

"Race you to the lake."

With that, Roco leaped away, taking the treeroad deeper into the wood. Her two suitors, however, didn't need any more prompting to head back. 

* * *

Regarding the Novel

Title: "Roco"

Genre: Modern Fantasy (Native American & Norse Mythology)

Target Audience: Teenagers and above.

Age Range: 12+, although it's YAF, I think twentysomethings would enjoy this, too.

Word Count: 50,000+

Author: Desmond White

Project: Modern fantasy is a popular genre right now, and my book comes at it from an interesting angle: a squirrel turned into a human! Plus, I'm going to catch those nostalgic Animorph fans.

Hook: A squirrel who's been turned into a human must rescue her friend from an ancient order of snakes who inhabit (and control) people's bodies.

Synopsis: Roco's mother, Nutsour, filled their warm, comfortable nights in their drey with stories about ancient squirrel heroes outwitting all sorts of nasties—from hawks to foxes to eagles to bears. One day, the opportunity for adventure presents itself when a human girl on the run (and slowly recovering from a poisonous bite) hides in the Crown, the squirrel's hill-village. The girl, who can use spellrunes to perform feats of magic, is able to communicate with the squirrels, and soon contracts Roco to be her sentry in exchange for bits of a granola bar. The girl saves Roco's life when the squirrel is attacked by an owl—an act that reveals the girl's position to her pursuers. Now, Roco must rescue the human girl from these mysterious enemies (which look like human beings but smell like slithering things) on an adventure that will pit her wits, and her mother's stories, against ancient monsters and mages. Roco's story becomes even stranger when a "helpful" ancient spirit, in ironic jest, turns her into the most powerful creature on the planet—a human being. A human girl, in fact.

Regarding the Author

Bio: A high school teacher who writes when his students aren't looking.

Platform: Prose, Personal Blog

Education: UCSB College of Creative Studies (B.A. in Literature); HBU (Master of Liberal Arts)

Writing Style: Poetic, Concise, with a snap of Snark

Hobbies: Playing & Designing Board/CardGames; Reading & Discussing Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Old Books; Doting on my Wife and her two Evil Cats

Hometown: Sugar Land, Texas

Age: 27, going on 28 in August

Website: www.desmondwrite.com

Twitter: @desmondwrite

The Simon & Schuster challenge was one of our greatest accomplishments, and one of our most difficult undertakings to date. It was our first time working with a big publisher and taking challenges to a larger scale. Given the number and quality of entries, determining the top 50 was extraordinarily difficult. Having never done something like this before, we had to really bootstrap our selection criteria. 

We spent weeks reading through every single one of the entries as a team. The first criterion we used was grammar. Repetitive grammatical mistakes, and a lack of respect for English syntax in general, were grounds for disqualification. The second criterion was creativity. We looked for storytelling excellence, moving characters, inventive plots. We looked for content that captivated us, that we thought would enthrall others as well. After narrowing the list of entries by these two criteria, 166 remained. 

For each of these 166 entries, each team member assigned a subjective "quality rating" from one to five. We considered likes to break ties when the average quality score was too close to call. We wanted to include some democratic element in determining the winners, rather than solely rely upon our own subjective judgment. When all was said and done, we had found our 50 entries.

In reflection, our process was imperfect and we intend to do a better job in the near future. Here are some of the ideas we are considering:

1) Limited Voting. When the challenge ends, everyone gets a limited number of votes, and cannot use these votes on their own entry. We would use these votes to distill the pool of potential winners more democratically.

2) Electoral College. A panel of judges is either elected deliberately or selected randomly to read through the entries and determine the winners.

3) Gauntlet Tournaments. We select a few factors, a combination of judging panel, spell check, democratic votes, and other creative criteria, to advance the best content round-by-round, tournament-style.

We would love to hear your suggestions and ideas for improving our challenges.

Once again, congratulations to the winners and entrants alike. 

We are working hard to bring you more publishing opportunities.

It was the end of the week on a Friday when I answered my telephone. Even before I picked up my phone, I felt that I could feel the sense of urgency to its demanding rings. I considered letting it continue to ring and leaving the office for the weekend, but in a job like mine, I knew that it could be an emergency with one of my psychiatric patients. I really wanted to go home to my cozy apartment and have a stiff drink since it had been a difficult week for me. I pictured and imagined the smell of the warm pot roast that my housekeeper had left in my oven. I hadn’t had time to eat any lunch and was ravenous.

“Hello,” I said into the mouthpiece, trying not to show my annoyed feelings. “This is Dr. Cohen.”

“Dr. Cohen, this is Jade. I just needed to hear your reassuring voice. I am feeling shaky and a little unhinged. The last couple of months have been challenging for me.”

I felt a tremor of concern course through my body upon hearing Jade’s voice. She seldom called me with good news. “Jade, is anything wrong? Where are you? Is your husband okay?” I really hated to ask these questions but believed that I needed to get to the bottom of Jade’s obvious emotional state. At the same time, I felt a little aroused as I waited for her tale to begin to unfold. Jade took the actions that were only ‘pie in the sky’ for me. My admiration for Jade began to increase as I saw her reach for her dreams once again. I could imagine such things but I did not have the guts to follow through. One day, I hoped to let my inhibitions go.

“Oh, Dr. Cohen, I am no longer in North Dakota and I am no longer with my husband.”

“Did you get a divorce or are you separated?” I asked hopefully, needing her to assure me that he was still in the land of the living. However, I knew that this was unlikely.

“My beloved husband, Jim, had a terrible accident. The bed of a truck came down suddenly and crushed him to death. Please don’t think it was my fault – it was an accident. The truck mechanism malfunctioned and slammed down on him. The insurance company admitted that the truck was defective and settled out of court,” Jade promised with muffled sobs. “I am so upset and will miss him so terribly.”

I really did not believe Jade entirely but she was so convincing. I knew that I must give her the benefit of the doubt. And she did sound very distressed and troubled. “Jade, are you all right? I am so sorry. I know that you really seemed to like this husband. Where are you? Would you like to come in to see me? Is there anything else bothering you that you want to talk about?” In my heart, I wanted Jade to be a normal person and I couldn’t help but care about her. She had been my patient for a long time and I felt a connection to her. Her downward erosion seemed to be pulling my values down to her levels and I couldn’t do anything about it. I also was beginning to become sexually aroused by the tales of her exploits, although I did not want to admit my shortcomings.

“I had to get away from North Dakota after the tragedy,” informed Jade. “I am in the sunshine in Miami Beach trying to get back to normal. I need this time to rest and recuperate and can’t get in to see you now. But there is something I need to discuss with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course, Jade,” I reassured her. “Is something bothering you other than the tragic death of your husband?”

“Dr. Cohen, I am still having feelings of paranoia. I am sure that some sinister person is watching me and wants to do me harm. He seems to be inside my mind, making me believe that he is responsible for the hardships and pain in my life. Is this a just a figment of my imagination or is this really happening to me? I try not to have these feelings but they are beginning to overcome me. They seem to persist day and night and I find it hard to go on with my life.”

“My plan is beginning to work,” I thought. “Soon Jade will be completely consumed by her paranoia. I think that she will eventually be unable to function and I won’t have to take any drastic actions. The course of her behavior needs to stop and I must become the master manipulating his puppet.” My slight body seemed to expand and become more powerful as I took charge of my patient.

“Jade,” I assured her, “if you think something is so, it is true in your mind. You must avoid the conduct that brings on your paranoia. It might be reaching the time that you need to take yourself away from the world to a place where you can be helped and medicated. Do you think that now is the time when you feel ready for this kind of solitude and peace from your thoughts?” I smiled as I thought of having Jade in my complete control where she would have no choice but to cater to my every whim. “Yes,” I thought, “an institution would be perfect for her and I could see her whenever I wanted.”

I listened as Jade’s mood completely changed from darkness to light.

“Dr. Cohen, I am fine,” she chirped with a lilt in her voice. “I was just feeling some doubts and needed to hear your voice. I feel much better now. Thanks for helping me and talking to me. I will keep in touch with you.” She had dismissed me summarily, as if my advice had no merit.

Hearing the phone disconnect, I held the phone in my hand, unable to put it down. I was overcome by a feeling of apprehension. I was angry that she did not listen to my advice. A chill convulsed my body but I knew that I could do no more. Maybe in the future, Jade would be more amenable to my suggestions. If not, I would have to do whatever I could to stop her. I really did not want to do what I feared would be necessary.

_____________________________________________________________________

Title:  Jade Murder Without Remorse

Genre: Psychological Thriller 

Age Range:  Adult from 18 to 80

Word Count this write: 1100 words Book Word Count 64987 words

Author Name:  Pen Name: Sari Lantana Real Name: Claire Grebin

Why a good fit: This book would be a good fit because it is an exciting psychological thriller which would appeal to many readers.  It has a very unique twist that no one will be able to foresee. It is very well researched and delves into psychological aberrations.

The hook:  The subject of this book is a psychopathic murderer.  The book delves into what caused her to be this way and is seen through a psychiatrist's eyes. Every murder draws the reader in but the conclusions reached will not be what is expected.

synopsis: Escape into the realm of the beautiful, psychopathic Jade who commands both love and hate as she charges forward in many twists and turns, engineering novel ways to kill her four husbands. Become immersed in the world of renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Cohen, who is conducting a research study on psychopaths, hoping to understand them and prevent them from treading on dangerous paths. The story of Jade is told as seen through the eyes of Dr. Cohen. But Dr. Cohen has a hidden, devious aspect as he finds himself becoming involved in a symbiotic relationship with Jade. Against his better judgment, he finds himself wishing that he had the courage to take a risk and explore the dark side as his patient does. Will he have the courage to step over the line? The suspense mounts to a conclusion that will be both shocking and unexpected. Ride this thrilling adventure into the uncharted future because the ending will prove challenging and out of the realm of imagination of even the most astute.

Target Audience:  Adults of any age.

Bio Platform:  I am a self-taught writer, college educated and have a background of owning and operating a dive boat charter business from Miami to the Bahamas where I saw many unusual situations and interesting characters which made me want to write my first book, Bahama Red, Intrigue on the High Seas, which is based loosely on my experiences.  I now have a second book, Jade Murder Without Remorse, and am working on my third book, Half of Me is Missing, which will tie back to my book, Jade Murder Without Remorse.  My books are published as e-books. I write on Prose daily and am number one on their popularity list so have many followers.

Personality:  I am creative in most areas such as my writing and I also paint and sell my work.  I love adventure and like to incorporate it into my books.  I love to walk, do aerobics, go to the gym and I also like to socialize. I have a love for the sea and often include it in my work.  I am lucky enough to live in a little seaside town which feeds my passion.  I love to research my books so that the reader will become fascinated but not feel overwhelmed by pedantic facts.  I love to fool the reader so the ending will be completely unexpected.

Likes/Hobbies:  I write, paint, sew, enjoy friends, fish, like the beach, enjoy exercise, prolific reader.

Hometown:  Flagler Beach, Florida

Chapter 12 – Hell on Earth

As we left the plane and walked to customs many hugs were shared among the passengers. Nervous apprehension surrounded me as we left customs and headed into the airport to find the promoter. I wasn’t expecting to see TV cameras and journalists in the greeting area to interview people from the “lost flight”. There were even a couple of entertainment writers waiting to talk with the Americans.

“Sir, what would have to say to the president of the airline who is standing over there?” I was asked.

“I’d ask him if Mickey or Donald was helping run the airline.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the entire situation was handled in a Mickey Mouse way. We were left in the dark. It was cartoonish.”

The promoter grabbed me by the arm and hastily pulled all three of us into a waiting car.

“Was it that bad?” his cute assistant asked.

“It was far worse that that. I’ll tell you over drinks later.”

“I look forward to it.” she said with a big smile. 

The promoter pointed to sights along the way and lots of nice buildings and big homes. Conversely there were mostly older cars and people wore out-of-date clothes. The few black people we saw really looked bad. On the other side of the freeway were weather-beaten dwellings. There wasn’t much going on over there.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s Soweto. It’s not as bad as you’ve been told.”

“Well, it looks pretty bad to me.”

“Our blacks have it better than anywhere else in Africa.”

“You said we were going to be able to use black and white musicians and singers. Is that still happening?”

“Yes. You’ll meet some of them tonight at Alfie’s club.”

“Alfie’s club has the best music and great food.” his assistant offered.

Greg piped in, “I’m looking forward to meeting the people who will be helping us.”

“You’ll be impressed,” the promoter said proudly. “We’re almost at the hotel.”

The area we were entering resembled Westwood Village in Los Angeles. Lots of trees, nice shops and apartment buildings dotted the streets. As we pulled up to the hotel, two black bellmen came out with a white guy. The white guy led us into the lobby. The General Manager and his assistant waited for us at the desk.

The GM came over, “Welcome to the Claridge. I am Klaus Verhooven. I am the General Manager. If there is anything at all you need while you are here, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Verhooven.”

“Please call me Klaus.” He said as he led us to the desk. “This is Anton, my assistant.

Katie is our Front Desk Manager. They are here to help you as well.”

Katie was beautiful, tall slender and amazing eyes. She organized all the paperwork we needed to sign to check-in, “Mr. Karlsruher, if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Please call me Rick and thank you.”

“Everything gets billed to me. In fact, have them all checked-in under my name,” the promoter told Katie.

“Certainly.” Anton said as he handed the promoter all the paperwork.

It took the promoter and his assistant Anya a few minutes to fill out all registration documents. I guessed they wanted to keep our names off the books to avoid any potential problems or keep the press away. After they did, I asked, “Katie could you get me a copy of everything for my records.”

“I’ll have it done in about fifteen minutes, if that’s soon enough. I’ll have it all in an envelope for you here at the desk.”

“Thank you.”

Klaus and Anton joined Anya and the promoter in the elevator with us. There was plenty of room for the bellmen to ride up with us, but they were forced to take another elevator. They got to our floor before we did. One took Greg and Betty to their room. The other came with Klaus, Anya and me to my room. A few steps from the room, one of bags slipped off the cart. Instinctively, I reached to pick it up.

Klaus looked stunned, “Please no. That’s what we have those people for sir.”

I was stunned. Yeah, if blacks were treated better than we heard as the promoter kept telling us, this didn’t show it. Klaus opened the door and showed into the room. The bellman put my bags into the closet leaving the small one on a bench by the bed. I reached to tip him and saw a bizarre custom we would see from now on in South Africa. The bellman grasped his wrist with one hand as his other hand opened and his head was tilted down so as not to look directly at me. I intentionally over tipped the bellman to overcome the slight paid him on the way to the room. Klaus opened the drapes to show a panoramic view of the entire city.

“Is everything to your liking?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then I’ll be going.” Klaus said as he left and closed the door.

Anya smiled. “I guess I’ll be leaving, too. This looks very comfortable.”

“Yes, it does. Tonight should be fun.”

“I think it will be.” She said moving closer to me. She put her arm around my waist, leaned over and kissed me. She moved away, then back to me and kissed me again. “It does look comfortable.”

As I walked her to the door, she turned and we kissed again this time with tongues. Tonight was looking very good indeed. She left.

I unpacked a bit and went down to the front desk to get my copies of the check-in materials. Arriving at the desk, Katie came out motioning me to have a seat in the lobby.

“I wanted to explain everything to you,” she said as we sat. She spread the papers on the table.

“It doesn’t sound like you are from South Africa.”

“I’m from Kenya, but there isn’t much opportunity for me there.”

“As nice and smart as you seem to be, I find that hard to believe.”

She blushed, “Thank you so much, but we don’t have many hotels in Nairobi where I'd have the possibility for advancement.”

“I like your ambition.”

Her smile and her eyes lit up the room as she explained all the sign-in materials.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you came a long way alone. You’re not married?” she asked with a smile.

“No, and I think my girlfriend broke up with me just before we left.”

“She’s not very bright.”

I was blushing, “Thank you.”

Yes, we were flirting. It was innocent, but it was also great. I think she noticed I was puzzled.

“It looks like you have a fan in Anya.”

“I might, but I don’t get it. We barely said three words. To be honest, I am a little uncomfortable. I hope she’s not setting me up. That could pose problems.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Several people walked in together from a minivan. There was only one other person behind the desk.

“It looks like your friend might need your help.”

She shrugged, “I guess so.”

She was amazing and so nice. I knew there was great potential for headaches here. How to navigate these obviously treacherous waters baffled me. Anya wanted me and if I screwed this up she could make my stay extremely uncomfortable. Why did Katie have to show up?

Anya picked us up at about 8 PM. Katie had left by then. Anya came directly to my room. She did look really good. We spent about half an hour fooling around before going to get Greg and Betty. I felt really bad about that. I was thinking about Katie.

Alfie’s club was on a bizarre street. The street was surrounded by walled homes. Part of the sidewalk was a boardwalk similar to the one in Atlantic City. The rest was very old cement. The stores were old and rundown. Through the windows, you could see empty shelves. What was for sale appeared old and patched together. The outside world’s economic sanctions were choking South Africa.

Alfie’s place was tired and dingy. The bar was more of a counter-top than a real bar. Each table was different than the next and no two chairs seemed to match. The clientele was mixed which shocked me. What was more surprising were the pictures on the walls. They included Mick Jagger, John Lennon, Hugh Masekela and many others hung in the dusty room. This was long before Photoshop. I couldn’t believe all those superstars would be able to find this hole in the wall.

As I looked around, the steaks looked good, but It didn’t look like they had more than one bottle of each kind of booze, a few bottles of wine and a refrigerator containing a couple of cases of beer. There were lots of people here. Was Alfie going to run out of booze? I was very confused. Alfie’s didn’t seem to have enough product for this big a crowd.

Shortly after we sat down, the promoter leaned over to me, “You’ve had a tough trip. I think you should take two days off to get your bearings and get over the jet lag.”

“Do we have the time?”

“It’s better to wait a couple of days than to do it over.”

“That sounds good. Thanks.”

A young black kid and an older white guy went up on stage with guitars. The white guy started playing some tasty, jazzy blues riffs. He was so smooth. The kid couldn’t have been more than 16-18 or so. I figured it was teacher and student. The kid mirrored the older guy’s riffs but with a little more rock flavor. The kid slowed down and looked at his guitar. He tapped with his fingers. He tapped the strings. Then he stretched them a little. I don’t know what he did next but instantaneously his guitar soared. The place erupted. He went higher and higher. The old guy started playing co-lead. It was beyond amazing.

I looked at the promoter, “Please tell me these guys are going to play with us.”

He smiled, “The night after tomorrow you’ll hear your drummer, bass and horns.”

“Are they this good?”

“Yes.”

I was very happy. A large black man came over to the table with an Indian woman. The promoter stood up and greeted him. “Rick, this is my friend Lefty. He went to university in America.”

“Nice to meet you, Lefty. Where did you go to school?”

“I got an MBA from Harvard.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

He started laughing, “I’ll answer it before you ask it. I came home to train the next generation of blacks so that some of us will be ready when apartheid ends.”

“Doesn’t that make you a marked man?”

“Well, I represent several white companies who want to do business in the townships.”

“Do your employers or the police know what else you do?”

“I keep the two separate and I make the distilleries I represent a lot of money. Would you like to come to Soweto tomorrow night?”

“Is it safe for me?”

“I’ll call the hotel and meet you in the lobby.”

He saw my nervousness,” I don’t know how to put this...”

“How can a black man get into your hotel if he isn’t an employee?”

“Are you psychic?”

Lefty laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m not black.”

I think Lefty was the blackest person I have ever met, “What?”

“You see, I have two white great grandmothers. That makes me colored.”

Anya, the promoter, Lefty and his girlfriend were all laughing at my confusion.

His girlfriend tried to explain, “Indians and coloreds have rights Africans don’t. Lefty and I can travel if we are willing to wait.”

Lefty entered, “Hospitals and schools are much better for coloreds than for Africans.”

“Do I even want to know how people know the difference?”

“Being American you won’t like it,” Lefty explained, “It’s on your birth certificate and identity papers. It follows you all your life and you can’t change it. People try to buy colored birth certificates. It also lets you live in better places.”

I was shaking my head. “Aren’t there about ten times as many blacks as whites in South Africa?”

Lefty laughed, “Now you are making yourself a target. They have all the guns and we can’t vote…yet. So, would you like to join me and see how the other part of South Africa lives?”

The promoter wasn’t happy about this turn of events, but I had to do it. If it were very dangerous or if I could get into trouble, wouldn’t the promoter or Anya jump in to stop me?

“I’d like to do that Lefty.”

Lefty nodded respectfully to me. That made my night.

The steak was wonderful, and the music continued to be great. Several other people sat in and a wonderful black lady sang. It was an incredible night.

As it got later, Anya’s hands found several parts of me. One under the table, the other had her fingers running through my hair. Normally, I’d be loving it knowing what was inevitably about to happen. I didn’t know how to stop it short of faking being sick.

Was I really falling for Katie? How could I explain this to her tomorrow? Katie saw what was going on with Anya and seemed to try to understand. But would she understand me coming back to the hotel the next morning or Anya leaving when Katie was working? It’s one thing to talk about something like this in the abstract. Even a great person would have significant challenges to be accepting of activities like the ones that were about to happen if they would see them up close.

Was the good part of me finding its way through the fear and despair? Could I break through the fog that was enveloping me?

I can’t make any excuses for spending the night with Anya. I did it. That’s what happened. She had to be at work early and dropped me off at the hotel before Katie got to work. I went to my room, took a shower and went to sleep. A few hours later I woke up and called Greg’s room. He wasn’t there. I had to go through the lobby on the way to the pool to find him. As I got there, Katie was going on a break. She motioned for me to meet her outside.

We met on the street on the street a couple of doors down. Her smile was brilliant. I had trouble looking her in the eye. She leaned over and held my hand.

“It’s OK.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s scary down here. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.”

I held her hand tighter and laughed, “Would going to Soweto tonight with a black guy fall into that category?”

“Please be careful. But you want to see it for yourself, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“I’ve got to get back to work. Please be careful.” She leaned over and we kissed sweetly and briefly.

Chapter 13 – Seeing The Real South Africa

“You aren’t actually dumb enough to go to Soweto are you?” Greg asked.

“Yes, Lefty is coming by in a couple of minutes.”

“My uncle can’t protect you there.”

“Right.”

“You don’t think we have protection down here.”

“I’m not sure. This isn’t like California or New York or even Europe.”

This was the first time I had seen Greg off his game. I kept thinking about how odd it was. Greg took off.

Within a couple of minutes, Lefty came into the lobby to get me.

“Are you sure you want to join me tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t think any less of you if you don’t.”

“I gave you my word.”

“You don’t have to be macho. You will hear things and see things you’ve never seen. You’ve got a good heart. Some of this will hurt you. I’m here if you need me.”

That frightened and soothed me. What was I about to see and hear? There was a three-year-old top-of-the-line BMW out front.

“Is that yours?”

“One of mine.” Lefty said chuckling.

“How?”

“I went to Harvard,” he said slapping me on the back.

We got into the car and started our drive.

“You like her, don’t you?”

Thinking he was talking about, Anya I responded, “Not really. I can’t figure out how not to be involved with her.”

“Not the girl from last night; the one who works at the hotel.”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“It was in her eyes as you left. I understand your dilemma. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Remind me never to play poker with you.”

“Get ready. We are about to enter our hell. Remember hell is a location, not the people who are forced to be in that location.”

He was being very serious. He truly loved the people of Soweto. It’s the only explanation of why he stays when he doesn’t have to. Within less than a mile we went from world-class freeway to potholed streets and ending on an uneven gravel and dirt road. How could this happen so quickly? If this were the overt face of the community, what could be lurking out of sight?

There were burned out cars and junk on the street. We went past hovels. I felt myself getting ill. Lefty saw my face and body language. He patted me on the back.

“It will get better, but there is worse.”

“Worse than this?”

“Much worse. You couldn’t handle it. The world knows but doesn't want to tell the whole truth.”

“How...”

He cut me off, “There are evil people. Like it or not, there are many of them in this country.”

We turned off onto a semi-paved road. Soon there were small but basically clean yards. Clean in comparison to the hell we had just seen. These people tried.

Lefty turned into a driveway. There were lots of people in the yard. I heard laughter and music. Getting out of the car, I saw a lady sitting at a card table with a cigarette box taking money.

“What’s this?”

“The government won’t allow us to have bars in our own townships. This is what we call a shebeen. It’s like a moving club or party. The person whose home we use charges a small fee to pay for the food and liquor. Hopefully, they will make a small profit. Every penny is huge here.”

“The government won’t even let you have your own bars?”

“They are doing everything they can to keep us from building an African middle class. The government understands how dangerous that could be.”

Lefty paid our fee. We went into the living room. People were eating, drinking and having fun. My presence startled a lot of them. Lefty laughed.

“This is my friend from America. His name is Rick. He bravely wanted to see our township for himself rather than listening to the Dutch tell him how phenomenal it is.”

There were cheers, which made me very self-conscious. An older man brought me a drink and welcomed me to his son’s house.

A man about thirty approached, “Are you the American from the paper?”

“What are you talking about, sir?”

A lady said, “You were on the front page of the Joburg newspaper with your comments about your flight. It’s was very funny.”

Lefty was laughing, “I didn’t know I was bringing a star. What did you say?”

“Given the fact it took three days to fly from Brussels to Joburg, I asked if Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck happened to be running the airline.”

Lefty was laughing loudly, “You may have to watch your back. The Dutch don’t like people talking to them the way you did.”

A couple of other people clapped. Others stopped by to welcome me and tell me they would look after me. I was really touched. Some of these people clearly had little to nothing but they were willing to help a stranger.

“It’s not a game, young man,” an elegantly mannered old man said to me. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Understand what, sir?”

“For instance, calling me “sir” would make you a target to any white who heard you.”

“No.”

Lefty looked over. He was quite serious, “Jambo is right. Forget compassion, forget manners, and for your own safety you must think more like they do. We will understand.”

“You can do more quietly listening and taking our stories home with you. Tell them to all who will listen.”

“But I’m a nobody back home.”

“We are nobodies here. Who better to tell our story?” A very old lady said quietly.

Soon the party was breaking up. I received lots of hugs and wishes of good luck. Lefty and I got into the car to head back to the hotel.

“You can’t let anyone see you like this ever while you are here.”

“Why?”

“It won’t be safe. Your story while in South Africa is that you went with me to my cousin’s house for dinner and a few drinks.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to do this. You can’t even tell the kid you brought with you. The reality is I’d bet at least one person in the shebeen was a paid Security Police informant.”

“You are talking crazy.”

Lefty pulled the over to the side of the road. “Not listening to me is crazy. You may have been active in all sorts of protests in college in the US. If you did one here, you could end up dead. Please Rick, listen to me. I know asking you to do this is wrong. But you are my friend. Please let me look out for you while you are in my country.”

This scared me more than anything I had ever heard. I was trembling. “I went to your cousin’s house. We had dinner and drinks.”

“Thank you.”

It was still early when we got back to the hotel. I followed the company line at breakfast the next morning with Greg, Betty, the promoter and Anya. It was difficult, but I did it.

A little while later Greg and I decided to walk the few blocks to downtown. All of a sudden, I heard the screeching of tires and brakes. Then there was the unmistakable thud of a car hitting a person, then another person, then a light pole. I looked up to see a minivan wrapped around a pole. Two white people were on the ground. Several cops appeared out of nowhere. They helped those two victims. A black lady was on the ground bleeding. Three cops surrounded her. They didn’t help her. Ambulances helped the white people and the driver. The black lady was bleeding and crying.

“Aren’t you going to help her? She might die. Make a tourniquet at least.”

“Move along, kaffir lover. You don’t expect me to touch that, do you?”

I was on the verge of attacking the cops. Greg grabbed me and pulled me as hard as he could. I was sick. I was trembling. I pushed him away and ran. I just ran.

I had seen the pure evil all those people told me about last night. They told me so matter-of-factly that it seemed surreal. We were living in the last quarter of the twentieth century. This couldn’t be happening.

To this day, I still cannot fathom the level of their indoctrinated madness and evil. It was incomprehensible to anyone with a soul.

I had to be perfect. My first test was upon me. Katie was working. I tried to hide my pain and revulsion.

“Hi.” She was beaming. Then she looked at me, ran from behind the counter and dragged me into an office. “What happened?”

I couldn’t say anything. I tried, but nothing came out of my mouth.

“You saw the accident.”

“Yep.”

She hugged me. I could feel her tears on my neck.

I remember my body giving way as we hugged. To this day, I break into a cold sweat thinking about that morning. I still can’t comprehend the level of inhumanity I saw that morning.

Personal Data:

Better Late Than Never

Reality, memoir ties in with with another fiction title

70,000 words

Rick Karlsruher

Trident represents many true life stories that show the world to readers and include famous people in them.

The hook is life is truly stranger than fiction – another hook is you can get another book that is naturally paired with this one that is about a very hot topic in the world that is 100% opposite of this book. We can pair an outrageously humorous book with this terrifying true story.

A Story Almost Told tells of my real life odyssey trying to get a movie made. It starts out innocently and has many famous people innocently involved. Included in the story are stories that are individually amazing, but taken, in toto, defy any logic or rationality. From the beginning, it is amazing. The IRS and FBI use my dream as bait in a sting. We get to see the true horrors of apartheid in South Africa and immediately thereafter the opulence of Monte Carlo and even being arrested in New Orleans. There is much more.

The Target audience is anyone who enjoys excitement, seeing different places and real life. 

I’d say the age group is 21+.

I have had an interesting life. I have done writing, music producing and international marketing. I even started a website to help new/undiscovered authors that has had over 6,000,000 page views.

As a platform, I have about 1700 Twitter followers, an email list of about 8000. I am an amazing interview. With Trident’s access and the publisher’s web, we’ll make both books major hits and likely get movie deals.

I have a degree in communications from Wake Forest University.

My style is conversational. I draw people into the story and make them think they are there. I’ve been told my personality is a bigger than life.

I love sports, movies, comedy, reading, music and being with people.

I live in Huntington Beach, CA.

A bird landed on the sill and cheeped. It was a pretty thing, mostly brown with a few blue and yellow feathers like scales on a fish. Abigail sat very still and peered over, not wanting to startle it, and noticed that the poor bird had a padlock stuck on its head—the metal hook, like a curled finger, wrapped around its neck. The padlock was small and silver and it gave the bird a noble look, but it was obvious the bird was suffering. Perhaps it had come to her for help?

"Don't move," said Abigail, and she ran about the house, finally returning with a coterie of keys. The bird stood patiently while she applied the metals, but none fit. Not the one to mother's jewelry-box, not the one that looked like a skeletal finger, not the golden one for the shelf beneath the peering glass, not the one to father's desk. Finally, Abigail went down into the foyer and with some hesitation pulled the key to the front door from her father's spare coat. It was shaped like an F and it fit into the padlock. Liberated, the bird flew out the window, soaring over bowler hats and stone heads to the park across the road. From a branch it looked back, then was gone.

Any euphoria Abigail might have felt quickly dwindled as she realized she was alone again. She scooped up the keys and returned them to their places. Her excitement returned when she thought about telling mother, but then what if father found out? She could imagine him now: plopped on the dining chair, black rings under his eyes, his traveling cloak unfurled over the furniture and his necktie hanging like a beaten snake. And that voice, hissing: “What if the bird had flown off with the key, tossing our spare to strangers?” Then he’d look to mother: “She gets this from you, you know.”

Abigail kicked the closet door hiding Dolly, and went back to her sill—

—to find the bird had returned. Then it was gone, zipping to a lamp post, before it came back and cheeped. Abigial was well acquainted with fairy tales and this seemed a particularly obvious invitation. But should she follow? The parents would be home in a few hours and Dolly might tell. Besides, Abigail would have preferred deserts and duels, dust devils and dragons, although one cannot be picky about childhood adventures.

Down below, a golem – painted yellow to indicate a schoolteacher – led a retinue of children along the fence. Each child was licking a lump of candy-fire crackling in their hands, getting sugary ash around their mouths. They must have visited the carnival. Abigail sighed. She was forbidden to go into the yard. By extension, she was forbidden the street and the park across it. Unless she did something, this was going to be another day spent in her bedroom.

“Well,” said Abigail, clenching a fist around the padlock. “It was the key to the front door.”

* * *

It’s not that Abigail Rollins did not like watching golems. They were an interesting lot to spy on from the security of a high window. Regular people walked hunched over with cloaks and coats thrown over them. Hiding identities, purposes. They looked like passing shadows. But amidst their turbulent wake were golems, animated boulders carved into the likeness of men, expressionless but alive. They came in all shapes and sizes, some painted, some intricately carved. While man confined himself to dark materials, his creations abounded.

She had her own golem, a doll with real hair. It was also her sitter. While her parents worked, Dolly kept house. But she wasn’t good with children. Whenever Abigail wanted to play cowboys and warlocks, Dolly would hide in the closet. Dolly didn’t like Abigail that much.

Neither did father. He didn’t care for a daughter who wanted to be a cowboy. For now, she needed tutorship and manners and fashionable clothes like those worn by ladies in the Arcade. Father’s intentions were never hidden. Politics crept even into bedtime stories, where brave princesses raised their families' statuses by marrying corpulent princes. Abigail would catch his eye when she was old enough to be used in the Court. She would be involved.

But for now, Abigail enjoyed some independence in the house. Too old for nurseries, too young for university or betrothal, she would sit and ponder passerby, or if she was really bored, the trees in the park across the road. Or she’d read the pennybacks mother would give her. They were westerns with titles like Lightfroth Mountain Trail and A Fistful of Soulgems. Stories about princesses turned into swans bored her—she preferred daring escapes from lynch mobs and prairie children kidnapped by shapeshifting natives. Father considered these novels so beneath him to the point of not considering them, but maybe he should have, for they were influencing her ambitions. Already she'd decided she'd someday be Iron Abbie, exploring the Unmade Plains with a six-shooter named Rusty and a horse named Steve.

Until then, she watched, sitting up whenever she saw someone in leathers or grime-brown wools, or wearing a zandy hat with a pinched front, to wonder if they were visitors from the West. Once she saw a golem in a white duster, carrying four pistols with pearl grips. He rode a horse ponderously, looking back and forth at the houses. Mostly the streets were a swish of dark coats, silk dresses, parasols, and golems with plates as colorful as stained glass. The West only peered into the city. Like her, it did not belong.

But today, she would explore.

Abigail made her fists into guns. “Show yourself!” she called from the stairs. “I know you’re down there, Dangerous Doll McGrew.”

“Abigail, I’m busy,” a voice replied, followed by quick steps and the shutting of a door.

Abigail listened to the silence, then went down into the foyer.

* * *

From her window, there was order to the street currents, but down here the wrapped gentry and carriages whisked and rattled and tromped, delivering a panache of smells – garbage, factory smoke, fungus, mint, and salt. A moment’s hesitation, a lost footing, and she’d be shipped to the docks or clattered against cobblestones.

The bird flew across the road. Abigail wondered – no, reckoned, that was a better word for a cowboy – if it was leading her to the park.

“Out of my way!” she shouted, barreling into the crowd. She slipped ahead of pewter cherubs carrying chalices lined with red stones, and in front of chatting and laughing women, their eyes sliding over her quickly. A driver shouted at her when he had to pull his stone spider to an abrupt halt, the cart almost shattering against spinnerets, and distracted, Abigail smacked into a golem.

“Sorry, Jack!” she said, getting up. The golem glanced up and down the street, then picked her up gently and put her down by the park.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, but it was gone.

The park fence was comprised of iron-blue bars choked by twisting yellow vines. Trees tall as smokestacks and just as dirty loomed overhead. Not seeing a gate, Abigail slipped through the fence and tread down a footpath. She'd been here many times with mother and wasn't afraid of being lost, but she did not want to lose sight of the bird, even if she had some doubts about whether it was truly summoning her. Perhaps all of this adventure was the fault of her imagination – that faculty her father called a ruinous power.

The trees ended and she entered a field of dead grass. The bird hopped onto a bough nearby and looked about, as if unsure of where to go. Ahead, on a small hill, was a sleeping giant – a plainstone golem sitting against a blue boulder.

"Is this where you meant to bring me?" asked Abigail. The bird looked at her. She was sure that if birds could shrug, this one's wings would pop off. "Well, I'm investigating anyway."

Iron Abbie approached the golem, finger pistols drawn. The golem had its head down as if it were sleeping, a bright yellow star painted on its chest. Nearby, a sack’s stomach had exploded, spilling a collection of empty liquor bottles.

A light flickered in the golem’s eye for a moment, before going out.

“Hands to the sky!” Abbie shouted when she was near enough. The golem sat up, sputtering.

“Huh? What?”

“What were you doing?” said Abbie, sticking Rusty right into its painted chest.

“Taking a nap,” said the golem. Its two eyes, lit like candles, pointed directly toward her. The golem slowly put its hands up in mock surrender.

“But golems can’t sleep.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

Abbie put Rusty down. “Seriously, what’s your deal, Jack?”

“The name’s not Jack.”

“But every golem’s name is Jack. There's cityjacks, housejacks, warjacks... Or are you a doll?"

“The name’s Loon,” it said.

“That’s a stupid name,” Abigail thought aloud.

“I agree,” said the golem. “It’s loony.”

“Oh, you’re like a person!" said Abigail. She was liking the personality of this one far more than her timid housekeeper or the faceless guards that protected father. It was clever, and funny, like how she imagined an older brother would be. "Can I keep you?”

The golem rubbed the back of its neck, suddenly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t make a very good pet,” he said delicately.

“Why not?” asked Abigail.

“I’m not house trained.”

Abigail laughed again. "You are well-named, Jack." Then she had had an idea. “Play oracles and outlaws with me! Or summoners and scoundrels.”

“Gunslingers and goblins?” suggested the golem.

“I dub thee Deputy Starchest,” said Abbie. “I’m a Marshall, see? Been hunting a dragon rider who’s been breathing trains from here to Lincoln, New Mexico.”

“Deputy Starchest,” said Loon. “The slowest gun in the west.” He sluggishly held up his hand, fingers pointing like a gun, and after a long, dramatic pause, said, “Pew.”

“Whoa, partner,” said Abbie. “Easy with that pistol."

"Good thing my bullets take an hour to leave their barrel.”

And that’s how they played while the sun rolled gently down the sky. Just as it was blurring into pinks and oranges, a woman stood on top of the boulder – a woman with fizzy brown hair like a bottle opened too quickly, and brown skin, and black eyes, and black rings under those eyes. She had – Abigail noticed excitedly – a blue bandanna and a trim frock coat.

The golem stopped, his hands dropping to his sides. “What is it?”

“What do you think?” said the woman. “I need booze. Something aged in a barrel. My head feels like it’s been punched through by artillery.”

“You ever think a little less alcohol might help with that?”

She gave him a look. “You know why I need it.” She nodded at Abigail and leaped off the rock, disappearing from view.

“Who was that?” asked Abigail excitedly. “Was that a warlock?”

“You should go home,” said the golem. He stared in the direction where his companion had gone, then turned back to Abigail. “You should not come back.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?” asked Abigail.

“Y-yes,” the golem admitted.

“Then I’ll be back.”

“At least do one thing for me.” The golem’s tone was serious, and Abigail quieted down. “Cael and I are not exactly on good terms with the people in this city. Keep us a secret, and you and I can play... for now. But tell anybody, even your parents, and we won’t be around anymore.” The golem’s glowing eyes peered into hers, and she nodded, affecting as mature a face as she could muster.

“I swear by the lonesome gods,” she said. “Your secret is safe.” Abigail didn't feel that was enough, that it sounded too much like the characters they'd been playing, so she added: "I promise."

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.

Roses are red

I lay them on the dead

Violets are blue

Now they've come back for you

Roses are red

I want your blood instead

Violets are blue

Let me tear your epidermis off of you

Roses are red

Your eyes will shred

Violets are blue

I've come only to kill Mrs.Liu

You would know me if you knew a bit about the epic, The Mahabharata. Even if you haven’t read it, you have perhaps heard mythological stories told to you by elders. I am Karna, son of Surya, the Sun-god. But this story is not about me; it is about Vasu Sen. If you have followed him since his childhood, as I have done, you would know him as my alter ego. He has just set out on a quest to find my Kavach-Kundal, the very same set of armor that was taken away from me by Lord Indra, 5000 years ago.

Yes, I am mighty proud of Vasu, and he prides himself too, for having grown in my likeness and addresses me as Mahapurush – the great man.

I have been traversing in this era – Vasu says it’s the beginning of the twenty-first century – to find a man who could quell my intrigue, who could get me a glimpse of my Kavach-Kundal. I needed to find a person sterling in character, resolute in pursuit, unflinching in the face of adversity, unbiased in reasoning, scientific in thinking, measured in actions, and compassionate to the human cause. Only such a person could deserve to find the Kavach-Kundal. Vasu seemed to measure up to my expectations.

No, I didn’t teach him all those traits. He turned himself into such a persona on the fiery lathe of life. Now, as I strolled in the lawn of his house, he reclining in stupor in his garden swing that swayed slowly in the morning breeze, I noticed how much he had grown physically, mentally, and spiritually, in the last three and half decades. Five years in the Army had made good what he once lacked in physique as a boy. As a matter of fact, at 47 he was brawny like the sportsperson that he was. A short mustache and combed back hair gave him the elegant look of a high-ranking officer of a corporate, which again, he was.

I replayed in my mind all those testing times Vasu has been through – born illegitimate, brought up in abject living conditions, being an object of ridicule during his formative years, his first love mocking him and forsaking him, he losing his job for telling a lie, he unearthing a treasure trove but someone else claiming it, he narrowly missing a medal in an international sports event, he getting superseded for promotion. All these pitfalls, which were not very different from those I had been through, had turned him into a resolute man with a balanced view of life. His circumstances had molded him into a confident and capable man, until finally, I must admit, he surpassed me in goodness and accomplishment. Whereas I had humiliated Draupadi with derogatory speech, Vasu took as wife a dishonored woman, and whereas I had gone down fighting Arjuna in the final battle of my life, Vasu emerged victorious in a life-and-death fight against terrorists. All these you would know if you have read the account of Vasu’s early life recorded in Karna’s Alter Ego.

I did nothing to make him what he is today. I merely walked beside him when he needed me, stood by him whenever he called me to. In reality, I was always beside him, though most times unseen, to see him fare through multitudes of tests that life threw at him. It took him 35 years to reach these lofty standards, and I must say I am impressed.

His question to me, when he was still in school, rang in my ears. “Mahapurush, did it hurt when you wrenched out the Kavach-Kundal from your body?”

“A bit,” I had assured the concerned little Vasu. But the pain had been far more than ‘a bit’. It was quite like skinning myself, tearing off the outer covering that had grown on me since my birth. I bled all over, but Indra also cured me. The scars were gone, but the Kavach-Kundal remained imprinted on my soul which no one could ever erase.

Vasu perceived my presence and opened his eyes. I could no longer contain my intrigue. I disclosed my millennia old curiosity to him: “Where has my Kavach-Kundal vanished, Vasu?”

He stood transfixed, staring at me and my bright white robe with adoration, as one does before a deity. He looked me up from foot to head and at each limb sent out a prayer. My bare feet, he bowed and touched; he took my hands and touched them to his forehead; at the mark of rising sun on my forehead he fixed his gaze and sent out a prayer unto Surya. He peered at the conch shell that hung by a sash from my shoulders. Through my locks of hair, he noticed my earlobes that should have been adorned with Kundals, and finally, underneath my silken shawl, he visualized my bare torso where the Kavach should have been.

“Mahapurush, I thought you always knew where it went after Lord Indra took it away from you.”

From his tenor, I could make out that he was plunged into the intrigue, as deep as I was. He yearned, as much I did, to set out on a quest for the Kavach-Kundal. But we had no idea where to begin our search from. Neither I nor anyone else, but Indra, ever got to know where the armor went. Indra hid it in some corner of the earth, never to be found. I told Vasu that I had made discreet inquiries. “Indra couldn’t carry it with him to Swarga, the Heaven. Before he could reach the gates of Amaravati, Surya, annoyed with him for divesting me of his gift, shone on him and irradiated the Kavach-Kundal that he was carrying concealed. So radiant was the effulgence from the set that everyone came to know what Indra was carrying wrapped in satin sheets. Brahma and several gods appeared there and asked him not to defile the heavens. ‘What you are carrying, O Indra, despite all its divine powers, is still a human body part, grossly lacking in sanctity to enter the heavens,’ advised Brahma. Lord Indra had to turn back from the gates of his kingdom.”

“Did he then dig deep and push it into Patala, the Underworld?” asked Vasu.

“He wouldn’t be so foolish. If the demons of the Underworld found it, they would let hell loose on heavens, divest Indra of his throne and rule over the gods.”

It only meant that the Kavach-Kundal was stashed away on earth, in some spot known only to Indra. The secret location has remained a matter of speculation in all the worlds: the world of gods, of humans, of rakshasas, of gandharvas, of pitris. Indra has taken every measure to keep his secret, even from gods, forever protective of his throne that he is. He has even dispelled thoughts of it from his consciousness lest someone read his mind.

“But why do we need to find it now, Mahapurush? Let it rest where it lies.”

That was just the kind of question I expected from a rational, reasoning mind. Vasu should be right in his thinking. Why disturb the potent armament that has been lying peacefully for so many millennia? But he lacked the ability to foresee the future. The human world was nearing self-destruction. Weapons no less in potency than the Brahmastra proliferated in the hands of unwise despots. Such weapons could only be deterred by more such weapons, which they called nuclear missiles. In my time, powerful celestial arms remained with the gods and only the deserving, who had earned the merit, could invoke them for one-time use, after which the weapons returned to the gods.

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SYNOPSIS

This is a story of the quest for the Kavach-Kundal (set of armor and earrings) worn by the legendary warrior Karna in the Mahabharata. The action unfolds in the present time, but the story premise is rooted in a legend from the epic. The armor had celestial powers had provided invincibility to Karna. God Indra had tricked him and taken away the divine set; that’s how Karna lost his final battle against Arjuna. It is not known what Indra did with that set afterward.

(Does one need to be acquainted with the Indian Epic MAHABHARATA to follow this novel? NO. The above paragraph is all that one needs to know. The story is a mystery – a quest for an ancient, all-powerful armor – set in the present time.)

Vasu, the protagonist, sets off to find the set, donning which he should be able to bring peace on earth by fighting terrorists. The spirit of Karna (who is the narrator) guides Vasu through the search. The quest leads Vasu to the Himalayas where he comes across a friendly guide named Chhetri, who helps him in mountaineering. Later, he finds a Yeti who is believed to be holding an ancient treasure, possibly the Kavach-Kundal. After considerable battle of wits, he manages to get it, but it turns out to be only one earring instead of the whole set of armor. It appears Indra had separated the components and had hidden them in four different sites. (Unknown to Vasu, he is not the only one who has an interest in this quest.) With a clue from the Yeti, Vasu heads south to Rameshwaram, where he gets to know that a great scientist has already found the other piece of the earrings. Soon enough, the scientist is kidnapped by a gang. It turns out that the gang leader is none other than Chhetri. The ransom is the pair of earrings plus a considerable sum of money. Vasu joins hands with the police in a covert operation and rescues the scientist, who then hands him over his piece of the earring.

The next leg of his mission takes Vasu to Dwarka on the west coast. He traces out a sunken city off the Gujarat coast, where he locates the back-plate of the armor, guarded by mermaids, but not before he subdues a gang of underwater swimmers who have managed to follow him there. That leaves Vasu to find the final and the most important component, the breastplate. He reaches the famous Sun Temple at Konark on the east coast. The 760-year-old ruins of the exquisitely carved monument intrigue Vasu – Why was there never a deity in such a majestic temple? Why did no worship ever begin in the shrine? Why was it not restored when it collapsed? Did the king construct the temple to bury a secret treasure? Chhetri is back; he tempts Vasu with a box full of gold, power and physical pleasures, to trade with the components of the Kavach-Kundal he has unearthed so far.

It transpires, towards the end, that Chhetri is not truly an antagonist, but a spiritual master deputed by Lord Indra to impose hurdles and temptations on the path of Vasu. The underlying rationale here is that a true seeker will find the Kavach-Kundal, while bounty hunters not pure of heart will fall by the wayside.

There is an element of mysticism throughout the story. In every successive step of the search, Vasu transcends a notch in spirituality, such that on the final leg of his quest, when he discovers the breastplate, he is so transformed that he would rather let the armor rest there as it has done for five millennia than disturb it. In the end, it is not exactly about finding an armor hidden somewhere, but about locating it within oneself. The discerning reader should be able to spot the monomyth in my hero’s journey.

THE CELESTIAL ARMOR is somewhat comparable to Dan Brown’s DA VINCI CODE, in that both are quests by a modern day protagonist for a divine object said to hold infinite powers, and that the antagonists initially appear to be helpful but are intent on grabbing the object for themselves.

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