When they bring him in I jump to my feet like there’s something I can do other than clench my hands into fists so the nails dig into my palms. But he’s covered in gashes and blood and mud and I’m no doctor. They wouldn’t let me anyway. They’re already rushing him into the back and telling me to wait here. This is a waiting room, after all.
“Waiting room.” That says everything. A neat little description for this helpless, teetering limbo, for standing at the edge of a void.
I understand now. The warnings they gave me… I understand. I can’t do anything. I can’t help him. He’s alive and I’m not and we lost our chance of a relatively painless parting when my cruel words drove him to avoid me until it was too late. Now he feels guilty for words left unsaid and forgiveness denied and I feel horrible for having brought him to this place.
“What’s the use in working for the king if you can’t afford to save mom?”
From a scene that ended up turning into a different scene, one this didn’t fit into:
Buttoning my gray coat and turning the collar up against the wind, I walk parallel to the water, projecting my desire for solitude. Not in a way that will intrude on thoughts or conversation, but enough that anyone forming a telepathic link with me would understand. I want to be left alone.
The hole in him is gaping, so large I think I could see it half a world away. Fractured pieces are what remain and they haven’t been put back together right. Close, but not close enough. There are jagged edges, clumps of glue holding things together. He’s destroyed, maybe so much that the whole he’ll construct when he comes out of this darkness won’t have all the smoothness of before.
It’s probably obvious that I’ve spent a bit of time reviewing all the material I have related to my novel. Here’s the beginning of yet another scene that was never in the novel itself:
There are five people in the living room when I come home. Only one of them is Carson. Not a profound statement, I know, but true.
“Only one of them is Carson” makes me laugh. The photo above also makes me laugh. What is that? A stock photo of the Doctor with psychic paper?
Here’s an entire scene that never made it into my novel. Not even close. How not close? Paul was never a named character in any draft of it.
The doorbell rings just after 1100. Discounting Dante and my followers, we don’t often get visitors. I set aside the book I’m reading and go to the front door to peer through the peep hole. It’s the man from the stabbing.
<Carson, the guy you saved is here to see you.>
I open the door, smiling out of politeness. “Good morning. It’s good to see you up and about.”
<Okay. I just got out of the shower, I’ll be out in a few minutes.>
“Hey. Good morning,” he extends a hand. “I’m Paul.”
Shaking his hand, I step aside and gesture him in. “Eyan.”
“Er… Thanks,” he stutters.
“Please sit down,” I lead him into the living room.
He lowers himself onto the couch. “So… I managed to get your names and address. I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to thank you.”
Considering how well known Carson is, his finding our address is not a feat to be wondered at. I settle across from Paul, on a lazy chair. “It’s my friend, Carson, you want to thank. He’s the one who saved your life. I was just with him.”
Paul’s eyebrows go up momentarily. “I wasn’t unconscious the whole time. I remember both of you.”
Yes, but you didn’t hear the silent conversation that proceeded my help. “Carson is really
Happy New Year!
I’m continuing to have issues getting my chapters to load well in the blog so please let me know if you notice any issues.
I’m awake by 0600. Rolling onto my stomach, I pull a tablet out of the top drawer of my right nightstand. Powering it up, I log on to the Filument, a vast network of computers connected by Lyril technology. All Chosen computers and mobile devices have seamless Filument and Internet access.
<Access news,> I instruct. A list of recent unread items maximizes under the heading Chosen News. The top one is a reminder about the semi-annual artponere, asking everyone who is participating to contact the organizer. This event brings Chosen from all over the world to the San Francisco Shelter for an exhibition of paintings, drawings, sculpture, and an evening of music, theater shorts, and various artistic endeavors.
<Send artponere reminder to Carson.> A list of Carsons appear under the heading, ‘Did you mean…’ None are Carson Wilde. An account must not have been set up for him. Knowing Davonte to be an early riser, I contact her. She agrees to my request, as expected. I’m out and back before Carson emerges from his room at 0702. He’s shaved. A simple change that does worlds to distance him from the Chair I found him in.
<Here,> I say, handing Carson a telamp. It’s a
Nolan is at a pub with a couple mates when he feels it. A chill in his blood, a pulling. It frightens him, but never one to be put off by fear, he says goodnight and sets out into the cold. He walks past his flat, down streets and past stores, past any part of the city he knows. His iPhone buzzes time and again; he ignores it.
Lana stands in the doorway of her office but it’s not her presence blocking Nadette’s way, it’s words strewn out, caustic and sharp, left everywhere to be tread upon.
P.S. The picture’s completely unrelated to this post. I just really like it.