Heyyo. So, as the title suggests, life is crazy. Crazy wonderful, crazy hectic, crazy unpredictable. I love it. So much has gone on since my last blog. I'm in the process of moving, my job has taken over a huge chunk of my life, and somewhere in between I've managed to keep up with my books. What I've neglected to do, however, is reach out into the world with blogging and posts. Well, that's gonna change.
Now that things have become relatively calm, and I use that word incredibly lightly, I'm finishing up Noir and have started picking up my blogging again. I've had help, also, which is incredible. It's hard to do the work of a publishing company on your own, but I love the freedom being an independent author brings at the same time. Anyway, I thought I'd give everyone a brief peek at Noir. It's different, a little darker than what I usually right. It's not horror per say, it's meant more to disturb and send shivers down your spine. The world building is hopefully grand enough, and the characters lovable enough, to influence the reader to connect and ultimately read on while hoping that this wondrous universe can somehow be saved.
Another notable subject is how the setting rings a bit more sci-fi than anything I've done. With the haunting supernatural feel of the Noir world and the advanced technological world in which Lilly resides, I've learned how to balance the two elements. Sci-fi and paranormal books are usually on two opposite ends of the spectrum, so I've had to keep things plausible by keeping the worlds balanced. Things get tacky otherwise. I don't know if I'm explaining things with the greatest accuracy. It's been a long day. Here's the bit of Noir I want to download. You can see for yourself if this book seems interesting!
Note: It's also my first book in present tense. SUSPENSE.
Now please, enjoy the story of Lilly--a courageous young woman of an altruistic nature, who fights for not only the lives of others, but for her own happiness as well.
Five: Opulence
The test is over in two and a
half hours, and I get it out of my hands as soon as physically possible because
the right choices and the wrong choices are the same. I don’t feel like
sticking around school, and since you’re attendance is only required until the
exam is completed, I leave. The claustrophobic feeling is inside of me,
pressing into my insides. I would rather be working, earning a bit of income.
Keep my worries at bay.
I head for the electronics
shop after I check up on mom and set out her next wave of meds. The store
itself is only a few blocks down, so I walk, leaving the SCP Exam behind me
with every step. The thoughts linger, though. How I did. What lies in store for
me. I watch a TramRail trolley zoom by at an intersection, right in front of me.
I see businessmen and white uniforms inside. A woman in doctor’s garb catches
my eye. She is facing me. Her face morphs into mine. I shudder.
I look up as I walk on. You
can hear the soft hum of the hover cars above us. It’s sort of symbolic,
really. Hover cars are so expensive that only a being of vast wealth and
fortune may afford one. The hover lanes are located high in the sky for obvious
reasons. You can look up and watch the cars shoot through the air, while the
poorer are stuck with old automobiles, and bikes, and sidewalks. The lesser man
is constantly looking up, constantly vying to reach the heights of their more
successful counterparts. I am an ant wishing to be an eagle. I am worthless
until I prove otherwise, and gain the wings to fly.
Then I imagine that woman from
the TramRail with the form-fitting white outfit is me. I am the successful
surgeon, or a medical analyst working at MAC. I get up in my home without Julia
there, knowing my mom is recieving the help she needs. That she’s on her way to
exceptional health and rediscovered vitality. I get into my hover car and head
off to work. Driving through the sky, I am now the eagle looking down at ants. Saving
lives. This future is a possibility, should I score well enough. This should
make me happy.
So then why doesn't it?
That’s when a tennis ball
soars into my forehead. It wakes me up. I’m standing in the entrance to the dilapidated
electronics store where I work—Screws. The yellow sphere bounces at my feet in
silence.
“You’re late, idiot,” a boy’s
voice yells out. I rub my forehead and see my boss staring angrily at me from
behind the sales counter. He’s about my age. Taller than me. He doesn’t possess
the build of a battering ram, like gridballer Austan, but is leanly muscled and
sturdy after so much running from the Alanti orderlies. His loose shirt collar
dips and shows off enough chiseled chest to support my statement. “I thought
your tennis skills were highly substantial. You should have dodged that with
ease.”
“You don’t beam balls at
people in tennis, Muck. You hit them with a racket.” I rub my forehead. He
holds another projectile in his hands. Obviously my boss is well prepared.
“You hit people with a
racket?” His eyes convey interest.
“The balls. You hit the balls.”
The excitement in him dies.
“That sport would not capture my interest, then.”
“Don’t you know how tennis
works?” He shrugs. “What are you doing, anyway?”
He takes off his glasses and
sets them on the counter. His cheeks, nose and chin are very well-sculpted. A
crease forms in his forehead, another half-moon crease in his cheek when he
smiles. A pair of surly green eyes dazes me. I realize just how many attractive
boys I really do know, with Muck’s physical features certainly befitting the
praise. It’s understandable how oblivious I am when I try so hard to ignore any
outside distractions. And Muckenfuss is weird. He’s funny and, thanks to my
earlier realization, attractive, but his looks are often overshadowed by how
strange and antisocial he can really be.
“I’m working, as you should be.”
He has a Vid pad stripped to its bare components in front of him. “The power
connector was acting strangely, so I’ve replaced it with a more efficient conductor.
The life span of the Igis model is immeasurably unimpressive to begin with. I’m
also very hungry. I should have asked you to pick up food. I had a strange
craving for chocolate muffins earlier, but as the crisp eve dawns I’m vying
more towards Huang Shai roast duck in dark sauce. You should go pick up some
Huang Shai roast duck in dark sauce. I’ll pay.” Muck looks up to see me
attempting to keep up with his thoughts. He runs a hand through his short,
dirty blonde hair. “Why on earth are you staring at me like that?”
“You want Huang Shai at this
hour? Its mid-afternoon.”
“Is there a specific section
of the day set aside for Huang Shai food? If so, then I yield, and offer my
apologies. Hand me that spazer on the far wall, please.”
I look to the wall beside me.
The store is… cluttered. To put it mildly. All of Muck’s tools are hanging on
his walls, and most of his inventions can’t be distinguished from his
merchandise. Doesn’t help I have no idea what a spazer is, and when that
becomes clear after five minutes of searching, Muck comes over and retrieves
the spazer himself, grumbling out loud about how useless I am. I just laugh,
though, because he’s right. He has no idea why he hired me. Neither do I. I
know nothing about electronics, tech, or programming. I came into this shop
down and out, desperate, looking for a job, and he said he wanted to employ me
after I listened to him rant about the government. No interview, nothing.
I get to work and do what I
normally do—try and tidy up because we have no customers. I don’t know how Muck
manages to stay in business. I think most of his work involves backroom deals.
On more than one occasion, I’ve theorized he sells a lot of illegal tech on the
black market. That’s why he never gets caught by the orderlies. Such shady
deals should put me off, but I’m strangely enamored with the excitement. “Don’t
worry,” he once told me when I found the courage to question his lack of
business. “I’ll never get you in trouble or sent to prison. Far too waiflike
and pretty. You’d never last.”
Cleaning carries on until late
at night. Muck spends most of his time fixing equipment or pressing his nose
into a computer screen. I organize and listen to his sporadic rants on random
topics. “Lilly, what are your measurements?”
“My what?”
“Hip-to-shoulder ratio, breast
size, those sorts of things.”
I straighten a stack of
magazines. I’m so used to these kinds of questions from him that this doesn’t
even cause me pause. “I don’t know. I’m an A cup. 34. I’m not really big. Why?”
“Just wondering if the bust
and curve of my assistant has any impact on the number of customers that walk through
the door. Apparently, there’s a strong correlation. On an unrelated note,
tomorrow we’re going to try stuffing your bra.” He glances at me, sees I’m
suppressing laughter. The corner of his mouth turns up in the faintest smile,
half-moon crease present. It’s as if he gauges my expressions and then reacts
accordingly, like he doesn’t know how to behave, otherwise. “This topic is
irrelevant. Continue with what you’re doing.”
Maybe this is why I like
Screws so much. It’s only me and Muckenfuss here. It’s quiet, and he is in no
way what I would call socially competent. But he makes me smile, the pay is
good for the work I am expected to do, and I always get a meal because Muck is
always hungry. I try to pay once in a while, but that is never allowed.
When the day is done, it’s
about twelve fifty at night—three hours past my assigned shift. But he’ll pay
me overtime. For some reason, he always does.
I’m about to bid him farewell.
The shop is clean, although he’ll abolish all my work in about two days’ time,
and the cycle will continue. However, I’m alright with the steadiness, the
normality of it all. I fix my jacket to prepare for the nighttime nip in the
air—the city is always so metal and cold—but Muck’s hand catches my arm and
almost spills my Huang Shai food on the floor.
“Your Vidopad.” I hand him my
device and he connects his own model to mine. With a few effortless strokes on
the touch screen, he’s shoving the thing back at me. “There. Done. You can go.”
I look at the screen. He’s
transferred a payment. My eyes widen. It’s an ungodly amount—about four weeks’
worth of full-time salary. “Muck, I can’t—”
He raises a finger and sighs. “Sales were good.” Impossible. Not one person came into the store
today. “I don’t want to hear any objections. It’s not your place to decide what
I pay you.”
“Muck, you can’t possibly… I
can’t thank you enough.” He doesn’t know what these credits mean to
me—security, a few months’ worth of stability. My eyes threaten to spill tears
all over my face, but I don’t want to cry in front of him.
His face his hard. “Whatever.”
But the sight of my emotion causes him to soften. His green agate eyes flit
away from me. “Really, it’s nothing to get so upset about. You’re overreacting.
Be safe getting home. Thank you for the duck.”
I leave the store. Suddenly,
the city doesn’t seem as cold as I thought it would. The Vidopad is held tight
against my chest as I walk up the steps that ascend to the sidewalk. The money
he gave me will cover three of mom’s hospital bills that are long overdue.
We’ll finally break even, and still have enough left over for food.
This does not seem real. More
like a fantasy I might craft in the midst of despair and misery. What on earth
does Muckenfuss sell to earn this kind of money? Perhaps it is better I do not
know. But inside my heart is on overdrive.
I need to tell someone about
this. Reema is probably asleep, so I call Julia. Why not? This will impact her
as well, for the better. Maybe such good news will incite in her some form of
appreciation for me. I reach the intersection, thoughts going a mile a minute.
Out of the corner of my eye, I
catch something.
A figure dressed in black. He
has long, flowing sleeves that hang over his arms. His robes are just beautiful,
all of it so different than the form-fitting attire most people here wear. But
something covers his face—a starch white mask that’s crafted to look like a
bright, happy smile. My eyes fall to his feet. They aren’t touching the ground.
He hovers a foot above the
pavement, and, through his mask, stares at me.
My mouth drops. The phone
rings in my ear. Suddenly, lights blind me. I do not pay attention to them. I am
on the sidewalk. The approaching car is of no danger to me. I am too transfixed
on the figure hovering across the street to care.
Something is wrong. Familiar,
but wrong. I cannot shake the feeling. The coldness of the city returns. I
taste copper.
Julia finally answers my phone
call. The voice says, “Hello?”
And that’s when the world
turns bright.
A dull thud connects with my
side. I am thrown forward. The blunt impact blossoms into cracking, which
flowers into pain, which causes my mind to wilt. My bones are breaking.
Pavement scrapes my cheek, my arm, my back. I taste more copper. Vertigo. I
roll to a stop in the center of the street. I am looking at the night sky. It
is starless. I had no time to scream. It is still stuck in my throat.
I smell Huang Shai sauce. The
chopsticks are next to me, the rice and meaty pieces of duck strewn about the
road. My arm is bent an angle that it should never have known.
Things were looking up. Things
were getting better. Now I’m looking up. Strangely, my mind is calm. Then the
calm feelings ebb. I want to cry, or laugh. Or both. I’m hysterical. At least
my last sight will be a pretty one.
The driver of the car comes
over, stumbling, and stares at my body. A cloud moves to expose the one star in
the sky. That’s when I recognize him. Through the smell of duck sauce and the
booze fumes coming from the startled man’s open mouth, I recognize him. The
streetlight shows him as pale. He’s the spitting image of the daughter he
fathered—a girl of porcelain that covers herself in stardust.
Natalie.
I know he did not mean to hit
me. He probably didn’t even mean to drive while drunk, I assume. But a poor
decision will kill me the same as a good intention would not save me.
I am in too much pain to hate
him.
There’s yelling. I hear a
familiar voice. Another figure comes up and grabs Natalie’s father by the
shirt. There’s more yelling. Horrible, colorful words are being thrown. The new
figure strikes the drunken driver in the face, who staggers out of my view.
Someone is hovering over me. Agate eyes. Muckenfuss.
“Muck…” I croak out. I can’t
move my arms. Can’t touch his face. Can’t feel skin before I die. I want
something warm. Not the coldness of the street beneath me. I don’t want to die
cold.
“I have already notified the
paramedics. ETA for the MediAir is approximately three minutes and counting.”
His words are careful, calculated, but his emotions threaten to undo him. He’s
shaking. He’s terrified for me. Tears spill from my eyes. I do not want to cry
in front of him. I do not want to die in front of him, either. This isn’t how I
want my boss to remember me. But I haven’t the strength, or the courage, to tell
him not to stay.
“I’m scared,” I manage to say.
The darkness is taking me. The sole star in the sky is overcome by clouds.
“What is the name of my wrench?”
he asks. He grabs my good hand in his and clamps his fingers so hard around it,
as if he can keep my life from slipping if he squeezes enough. “Talk to me,
Lilly! You are my partner in crime, and I’ve told you this a thousand times!
What is the name of my blasted wrench?”
“Colonel Horace P.
Dream-Smasher,” I say. I’m very tired. I can’t stay awake.
“Look at me, Lilly! Stay
awake, do not fall asleep! You can’t!” His hands are squeezing mine. He is
cradling my head. Muck, who I’ve never seen cry, or care, or hurt, has tears
falling from his green eyes because he cares for me, and I’m hurting him. It
seems he has fondness for triplicate as well. “You cannot die! I won’t allow it!
I won’t… you cannot disappear.”
But I will. And he knows it.
That’s why the tears are coming. I blink one last time as I fade away, and I
see the masked man standing over Muck. He doesn’t notice. Nobody notices but
me.
I hear the man speak. He tells
me he’ll see me soon.
My fingers go limp. I die—
—and learn that this is how
the end begins.
Six: Reawakening
I breathe in, which shocks me.
I am dead. I should not have lungs to breathe with, or a nose to fuel my air
intake, or a brain that knows what the sensation of shock feels like. There is
water in my mouth, in my throat. I stick my hands out—briefly startled by the
realization that I have hands—and reach as far as I’m able in the darkness. I
feel squishy flesh all around me. I am inside something.
Oh god, am I being reborn? Is
that what life is, a cycle of personas ending and beginning? Am I my next
reincarnation in her mother’s womb? No, I can’t be. I know my name. I know
things about the life I left behind. If I’m being reborn, then I should be
starting new, shouldn’t I? Or am I just dead-dead, given my memories as torture
so that I retain something to yearn for?
I can feel that I’m moving.
Suddenly, the liquid I am submerged in bubbles. A light shines above me and I
feel something pushing me out of this fleshy prison. I am thrust into a new
world, and I roll along some kind of hardwood flooring. There is a disgusting
sensation that my body and clothing are covered in gunk, but the stuff
evaporates into thin air almost immediately. Once my eyes are clear of fluid, I
open them.
What I see, I cannot explain.
I am sitting on a hovering
section of hardwood flooring. That is all there is—the platform that exists
amidst a void of darkness. After minutes of trying to regain composure, I am
able stand and turn around. When I do, I leap back in surprise. A large flower
with a thick, thorny, dark-green stem coils around itself like a snake.
Breathing, also like a snake, it is breathing.
The thick, meaty petals open up and reveal its insides, which seem mouth-like—complete
with tongue and uvula and all.
I do the only thing that makes
sense. I scream.
“Oh, do not yell, please.
Sounds reach far places in the void.”
Strips of hardwood flooring
appear out of nowhere. They position themselves like steps materializing from
above. The figure in black makes his way towards me, stepping down each one. I
am caught between two monsters, and there’s nowhere for me to run.
When he reaches my platform,
the steps crumble behind him. His lanky form bows to me, his long black sleeve
like a matador’s cape hung over his arm.
“Lilly,” he says. His voice is
light, airy and casual. The smile on his mask is ever present. “It’s a pleasure,
it is. Not every day is a flower born from a flower, I tell you.”
I experience extreme fear. I
don’t want to feel it, but in this world of uncertainty, fear is the only thing
I am familiar with. So I have no choice but to cling to it, ironically, for the
sake of sanity.
He cocks his head at me. “You
like the Breathing Blossom?” At the mentioning of its name, the flower uncurls
and lets its head rest next to me. My body is rigid, my own breathing erratic
against its calm inhales and exhales. “It seems to like you. That was the
quickest materialization I’ve ever seen. And I have seen numerous instances of
such events.”
“Am I…” My voice breaks like
glass and other brittle things. “I should be dead. Where am I?” I swallow, and
ask in grim curiosity, “Is this what heaven is like?”
The masked man cocks his head
the other way. “I do not know who or what heaven is.” Papers emerge from the
floor below him. They stick together, grow a spine and cover, and transform
into a thick, red-colored book. The man flips through the pages. “Ah, here it
is. A belief in an eternal paradise entered once life has ended and the
afterlife begins, attainable only by beings bound to religious codes of
morality and worthiness.” He shuts the book, thinks for a moment, and says,
“No. This is not heaven. This is far from such a thing.”
Mom’s ordeals have made me
rather faithful to my religion. I am familiar enough to realize the
alternative. “Then… I’m in…”
“No, not hell, either. That
was coming next, I assume?” He shakes his head. The book falls to ashes from
his hands. “Good cannot be understood without evil. Differentiating between the
two extremes is impossible if one is missing. You cannot punish someone who
simply contributes to the natural balance of things. Revenge and the punishment of
‘sin’ are foolish practices born from mortal bias and paranoia, nothing more.
Rather, you are balance, Lilly. You
are the thing I so desperately wish to preserve.”
I sink to my knees, close to
breaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I yell, so near to sobbing
I can taste the salt in my tears already. “I just want to know where I am! What
happened to me?” The lights of the car are still shining in my eyes. The
throbbing of the impact still ripples through my spine. “I was just getting
started. I didn’t even get to live for myself yet! Why did I have to… why did
I…”
“Die?” he asks. I look up at
him. “You did not die, Lilly. Look at yourself. You’re alive and well.”
“I am not!” I shout. But he’s right. My body is not wrecked and broken,
like how I’d left it. I feel new, better than ever. I’m just not where I’m
supposed to be. “I just got hit by a damn car! How can I be? How is it possible
that I’m here? Why do I remember my life?”
“I told you, this is not
heaven or hell. You are not dead. On the very intriguing contrary, you are
closer to living than ever before.”
He raises his hand. A door
materializes out of nowhere. The frame comes first, and then the wood of the
door itself drips into existence like paint racing down a wall.
“This is Noire. This is the house of gods.” He turns towards the door. “And
you were sent here to realize your potential, my catalyst.”
The masked man waves for me to
follow. The door opens, and he disappears within it. There is nothing else for
me here, on this raft of hardwood flooring. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to
turn. Only one path exists before me.
Everything in my being tells
me not to trust anything in this maddening place. However, there seem to be no
other options. If I want to continue onward, wherever “onward” may be, I must
move my wobbling legs one at a time. It’s a difficult task when my mind and
heart are racing, and my legs have the sturdiness of a newborn fawn. The
Breathing Blossom begins to growl softly, signaling I should follow the
stranger who greeted me. I have no choice. Carefully, I reach forward and touch
the darkness inside the door.
It sucks me inside.
I stumble forward into a large
room with a glass dome ceiling. It smells musky and stale like old paper. I
realize that the architecture is nothing that I’ve seen before. The walls are
made of some kind of wood-like substance and the floor is comprised of smooth
marble. It’s so different than the metal I am used to. It’s warm. Almost, dare
I say, comfortable?
Now I realize why. It looks
like a library.
Six large pillars are
positioned around me in a circular pattern, equidistant from one another,
connected by arches. They are in a state of disrepair, but somehow the cracks
and missing pieces make them look more elegant to me. As if they’ve stayed
together despite all the things that threatened to break them. I want to be
like these pillars. It seems difficult, but it’s what I want.
I should be what I want, for
once.
The lighting is strange in
this place. Everything has an orange tint to it. I look up and realize that the
sky outside the glass ceiling is a harsh, hellish, orange color. The clouds,
they’re black, like a photograph
taken in negative.
What is this place?
The man appears in front of me
again. He is sitting on a massive pile of books, stacked high like a pyramid.
He crosses his legs, resting his chin on his fist. “My name is Black. Pitch
Black, Ms. Levine. I am nobody. I am nothing. I do not exist. It is a pleasure
to not meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to not meet
you as well,” I say. I try not to sound so terrified. I try to be like the
pillars, unfazed and immobile. “Did you bring me here? Did you save me?”
“You brought yourself here with
your own incredible will. You saved yourself,”
says Black. “I was merely the humble guide.”
“So, I am not dead, even
though the car hit me.” I rub my shoulder. “Then, what… and where am I?”
“This is the true world. The
hub. The nexus. This is Noir. The only constant.” He jumps down from his paper
throne and lands on the marble without a sound. “You know better than anyone
that there are things in life that you can’t control. Or, rather, that’s what
you’ve been taught by hardships and failures.” He crosses his arms, circling
me, stopping only to admire each pillar he passes. “What if I told you that
kind of thinking is incorrect? What if I told you… that there’s nothing you can’t change, if the
circumstances are ideal enough?”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying there’s a way
out, a way to keep that car from ever hitting you. Of course, substantial risk
is involved. This place… it is shaped by the mind and infested with the
weaknesses of man. Those weaknesses will be your downfall, and, if they claim
you, there truly will be no second chances.”
My stomach twists and churns.
The finality in his voice does not make me feel at ease in the least.
“But, if you succeed in
mastering this world, if you learn to play god and play it well, doors will
open faster for you than I could ever hope to manifest. Do you understand?”
“You’re saying that I can save
myself from dying. I can prevent the car accident.” I shake my head. “How is
that possible?”
“As I said, this place is
shaped by the mind and connected to your reality. If your resolve is strong
enough, it is within your power to change things in the mortal world. Choose to
accept my offer, and I will put you on the path that can alter the course of
events that would, should you fail or abstain from taking action, claim your
life. The girl you knew as Lilly Levine will be gone, and the world will move
on without her, as will I.” The tone in his voice and how easily he hints at my
insignificance shrinks me. I’ve never been made to feel so important yet so
expendable before. “Should you survive, I predict a long partnership ahead of
us, and, with that, endless possibilities.”
He offers an ultimatum, then.
Live, and be reunited with all the things I love, or die, and bid them
farewell.
My answer must be more obvious
than I thought it would be. Pitch Black’s body language changes. He seems
pleased.
A dozen or so books float in
the air. Their pages fly apart and they collect into a rectangular collage of
letters and parchment. Another door has come to life in front of me, made of
paper and blade-thin. A strange energy exudes from it, seeking out my being as
if it knows me. I sense heartache, conflicting emotions of love and hatred,
bitterness, and despair.
I do not want to go through
that door.
“For once, the choice is entirely up to you.”
And strangely, that, out of
everything else that scares me here, is the one thing I enjoy.
I take a deep breath and
steady myself. The papers fold outward, revealing a large hole in the door that
will allow me to pass through. I reach into the blackness, breathe in, and
think of something, anything to live for—a motivator that will give me the
strength to push forward.
And the reason I come up with
shocks me.
I want to live for myself.
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