From the unedited manuscript, herein lies the eighth chapter from The Breaking of Worlds I: The Wedge in the Doorway, my first novel. (Reformatted for web presentation). This is posted as much for your review as it is for your comment—good or bad.
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The narrow drive leading from State Highway 49 to the hotel erupts unexpectedly into an idyllic wide-open vista. Lake Potisesse leaps into view behind the structure itself. Anyone making the journey from the main road to this spot feels transported to a different world. Sure, trees surround the highway, but they rest far enough from the thoroughfare to make it open, unobstructed. My private road on the other hand creates a magical aura that metamorphoses a jaunt through East Texas woods into a carriage ride through Sherwood Forest. Bandits riding into the path on horseback wearing Renaissance clothing and brandishing bows and arrows would seem an impeccable fit.
Shadowy woodlands of pine, cypress, various oaks, and hickory speed by near passing cars, Ents protecting their flocks and slowing passers-by wending the narrow path too hastily. Branches reach in strangling holds on traffic. Foliage threatens to blanket travelers in overpowering embraces should they not tread carefully along the sacred route. One cannot deny the hush of trees marching peacefully over rolling hills while making that spellbinding quarter-mile drive to the hotel.
Traveling from civilization’s highway to my remote sanctuary is accented by a sudden change from 1500s forest to 1800s haven. The entrance opens abruptly into the space surrounding Carr Beholden, a gaping mouth spilling its mobile contents onto a plate of crushed stone. A bend in the road surrounded by trees hides the spot until the last moment. Cars tumble into the open around the house and face a life-size Asher Durand painting.
The commodious wood-and-stone structure blends perfectly with the sylvan landscape, extending with equal calm toward the open shoreline. Lake Potisesse’s 2,100 acres stretch out before it, a welcoming bath prepared by dutiful attendants. Enough space cleared next to the screened-in porch on the west side of the structure accommodates several dozen cars if militaristically parked. To the left—to the north—the wooden tongue of the pier sticks out in front of the house and into the water; it beseeches swimmers and sunbathers to enjoy its company. City life cannot compete with the splendor of my new home and its location.
I park the Lexus in the garage next to the old Chevy Blazer, a large canopy of foliage near the back of the house blanketing the area in dappled light. Taking a deep breath as though leaving the vehicle means stepping into some toxic environment where one must survive with the air already in the lungs, I shut off the car and get out, grabbing the two twelve-packs and bag from the back seat before making my way to the kitchen door.
The Blazer catches my attention when I pause on the steps to find the right key. More than ten years old, its once cherry red carapace faded by sunlight bleaching and time’s inexorable ability to wear things down, the stalwart SUV remains a necessity. King’s Hope has about two dozen named streets near the center of town, but outside that enclave of concrete rests a menagerie of rural routes, farm-to-market roads, county roads and dirt lanes, most of which receive minimal care. They have an unkind tendency to hammer an automobile’s solidity and suspension. So I keep the Blazer for navigating those less civilized paths and use the IS 350 for those times when I drive on modern—not to mention maintained—throughways.
A zephyr hits me with the unforgiving heat and discomfort of a blast furnace. It rustles through the trees and past the house as it moves toward the lake. With it comes overbearing humidity, a cloak of sodden cottony air that sticks to my skin and makes my clothes do the same.
Jostling my load so I can reach the keys in my pocket forces me to pause for a few seconds. Beads of sweat begin taking shape on my forehead. Despite the lack of comfort, I glance out the open garage door and take in the forested surroundings. Regardless of the pastoral location, this place has grown on me, has become home.
Perhaps the time has come to sell the old house in Dallas. That shell overflows with ghosts. I have not returned to it for a few years. Renters occupy it; the same lovely family who first rented it still maintains their life in its embrace. Despite their residency however, it sits dead and derelict in my mind.
Four years have passed since Beth died. Keeping the house feels saccharine. The rental income amounts to inconsequential pocket change, the associated expenses nothing more than tedious details to manage now and then. Yes, the time has come to discard the old homestead. I make a mental note to call my attorney so she can get the process started on my behalf, though I make an addendum to the note to tell her I will finance a purchase by the current renters if they wish to buy it. They have been too reliable and too responsible for me to kick them to the curb with a FOR SALE sign.
Keys grappled with and subdued, the kitchen door unlocks and opens. A quick hit to the wall control closes the garage door. With the two twelve-packs of beer and a supply of confections pulling my arms in unnatural ways, I step inside.
A most welcome rush of cool air embraces me. The Lexus said the outside temperature had climbed to 102 degrees though the day remains moderately young.
I kick the door shut behind me and make my way to the kitchen island. Momentary struggling does not lead to dropped goodies, a satisfactory performance for someone who never learned to juggle.
Each twelve-pack yields its contents to the refrigerator, one bottle even making it into the freezer where it can cool off more quickly. Immediate consumption of alcohol glares blazingly bright in my mind despite knowing I will indulge in far too many processed desserts.
Grabbing the bag of sugary goodies, I dump it on the island countertop. With clear view of the sweets spread out, I chastise myself for going overboard preparing for my end-of-book fix. But going overboard is immaterial since I am prepared.
A package of Hostess Chocolate CupCakes held greedily in my hand, I sweep the remaining confections—a not too inconsiderable mass—into a pile that I heave in handfuls into a wicker basket pulled from beneath the counter. After locking the garage door, shedding my tee shirt and tossing it on the island, and kicking off my shoes into a pile next to one of the stools, the affront to diabetics everywhere goes with me down the hall to the sunroom.
With sugar coma-inducing afters and computer within easy reach, that familiar cozy spot in the northeast corner welcomes me. A quick glance outside gives an unimpeded view of the eastern end of the lake and the woodlands around the house. This part of the original wraparound porch faces east, the screened-in portion west, and the open deck north where it has an unobstructed view of the lake.
The sun already moves over the other end of the house and does not hit my cloister. Avoiding undue heating from the simmering onslaught outside strikes me as important. Given the plethora of trees, direct sunlight does not infiltrate the sunroom from noon onward; the screened-in porch enjoys that honor throughout the morning. The open section of the northern deck never receives unwelcome sunlight except indirectly in the late afternoon before the sun falls behind thick foliage.
Three walls of floor-to-ceiling glass leave me stupefied by the sunroom’s coolness. It has rheostat control of the window tint, but it remains unused because the dappled morning sunshine never unpleasantly heats the room. Air conditioning and four ceiling fans do a fine job handling what little warmth the windows allow inside.
Stretching my legs on the couch provides a convenient and natural platform for the laptop. Even as it settles warmly on my shorts, panic seizes me. I have naught to slake my thirst!
The laptop goes back on the table. A quick jog to the kitchen allows me to fetch a large glass of ice water. By the time I reach the hall, the glass has returned to its empty state, the whole of its contents guzzled. I had not realized how hot and thirsty I had become. So I spin around, make another full glass, and finally head back to the sunroom where I make myself comfortable, this time after an inventory confirms no immediate needs.
The laptop hums. The battery meter shows a filled charge, so I unplug it. Exercising rechargeable batteries now constitutes a habit as unconscious as breathing.
OpenOffice makes short work of opening the manuscript for Compassion in Annihilation’s Caress. Jumping to the end of the document, I grab the chocolate goodies from the table and open the package with much crinkling of cellophane, retrieve one of the cholesterol-increasing cupcakes, and take an ambitious bite from it before putting it to rest on top of the other one.
Gosh, and all that in preparation for completing a single book.
Vices be damned! my mind shouts in response.
Were it not for my bizarre habits, I wonder if my writing in its various forms would have remained unpublished. My curiosity in such matters generally impels me to wonder what Shakespeare did to get through his mental unloading.
***
Rereading the last few pages of the novel regains my position in the story. The unwitting and unheroic rogue William has discovered the nature of the alien visitors invading his world. He rests on the verge of realizing a great truth—they masquerade as the gods our species has worshiped throughout history. In fact, as he will discover, the mental images projected by them as their names resemble in disconcerting ways the names of humankind’s major deities past and present. William will find this dubiously convenient and will determine it is covertly Machiavellian.
He will also discover the aliens exist in a place disparate from his universe yet attached to the infinitesimal corner of the cosmos he inhabits. Thought is as intelligible to them as is space and time and life itself. On rare occasions humans tap into that bizarre plain where these living deities reside. The experience often translates in a person’s feeble mind as precognition and retrocognition, prophecy, visions, and spiritual experiences. For the most engulfed, such visits lead to manifestations in humanity’s world, things such as healing, clairsentience, levitation, telekinesis, clairvoyance, astral projection, telepathy and—the religious will shudder to think—mediumship. In the aliens’ reality, they view other realities as worlds they can see and visit, and death is such a world.
Despite the aliens’ semi-incorporeal life, their tangible half deals heavy-handedly with the physical realm, colonizing worlds, wiping out civilizations, consuming natural resources and subjugating native inhabitants until they too can be consumed. And for this they have specific reasons, unusual reasons in fact. William needs to discover those reasons before he feels vindicated for killing his wife and causing his children to desert him, and most notably before his unintentional heroism can manifest.
My fingers rest easily on the keyboard and find the rhythm to complete the story. William will make his discovery. He and those around him will experience a great realization about the nature of life, of humanity, and of religion. The aliens will offer an ultimatum to mankind, a choice between discarding the ways of the past in order to reach the future, or seeing their destruction insured. An armada of diaphanous ships will surround Earth, vessels impervious to the weapons of that time, crafts invisible to human technology and bearing unimaginable power—at least unimaginable by anyone alive since William’s wife had imagined it. Hysteria will grip every corner of the globe. Mass suicides will occur across a spectrum of faiths.
The Hobson’s choice will be unavoidable. People will either drop to their knees and beg for mercy from aliens who demand their worship, or they will suffer catastrophic annihilation that will last forever. William will understand this all-or-nothing option really boils down to a nothing-or-nothing option since the final outcome remains the same no matter what his people do. Because in the end the aliens intend to destroy his world by one of two means—consumption or obliteration.
My protagonist will finally regret the murder of his wife as he realizes the futility of the act. The children he lost because of it will fall prey to the influence of the invaders. His total manipulation at the hands of the alien incursion will make him the tool the aliens use to annihilate his species. He will finish by weeping beneath the knowledge of the aliens’ true identities and why they do what they do. And there it will end … sort of, with the whisper of a hinted question that might mean the fight continues.
***
Tappety-tappety-tappety. Fingers flying on autopilot controlled by stream-of-consciousness command, approximately 45 minutes pass before I brake in a state of anxious discovery. Both cupcakes have vanished and the glass of water has emptied.
“I need more fuel. William’s in danger of petering out before his time.”
Laptop returns to table. Discarded confection packaging and water glass return to the kitchen. The sun drifts toward the western horizon and light outside slowly dims, although hours remain before sunset. The deception comes from trees blocking sunshine from the west side of the house. The darkened hallway gratifies me as I amble along; the murky transit fits the mood of my tale.
The wasteful plastic container from the cupcakes drops in the trash. I guzzle a refill of water, giggle about the instant replay, and prepare another helping to take to the sunroom.
“What’s missing?” I glance around the kitchen as though I misplaced something, the feeling clear that something is amiss. “Beer!”
Inside the freezer my first planned alcoholic conquest has frozen to its core. Thankfully the bottle of Negra Modelo did not explode during that process. No harm or foul since those in the refrigerator have cooled.
I put the frozen bottle on the counter beside the fridge, retrieve one that has not transformed into a solid, grab one of the Mrs. Baird’s Fruity Apple Pies from the basket, then saunter—perhaps I skip a little—to the sunroom. I feel good, the book advances rapidly, I have the wherewithal to get ‘er done, and besides, William would not be happy if I left him in limbo for too long.
The man’s a maniac. I have to deal with him right now.
More importantly, it could force Brody to contact me and solicit the manuscript if he does not receive it tomorrow morning. As firsts go, I have no desire to experience that one. Delivering it a day late does not worry me of course, but I do not wish to incite unnecessary concern for my agent by missing the late deadline.
***
Ensconced on the sofa, feverish work alternates heavy loads of writing with bathroom breaks, refill visits to the kitchen, and get-away-for-a-minute-and-stretch breaks. Meanwhile the sun continues its never-ending journey toward nightfall. When at last the damnable fire hangs its summer heat below the horizon, vermilion to the west and indigo to the east drape both ends of the sky with curtains woven by a setting star. A magenta weave joins the two extremes in that place directly above where diametric realms merge.
Only in passing do I appreciate the spectacular show. Shame on me. With barely a glance at nature’s presentation and murmuring something about how pretty it looks, the story unfolding before me holds my unwavering attention. I should have enjoyed a bit of time letting the vista enrapture me and allowing my eyes to take their fill of a sky riven by vivid pigments drawn from light and dark. But neither did wishes become horses nor beggars ride, and wanting to stop does not mean I can stop. Unfinished work remains, William’s adventure rushes headlong toward its powerful climax, and my deadline grows closer.
So with absent dismissal the feast beyond the windows passes without appreciation. My eyes and heart will hunger anew. I enter a trance when writing that often means losing touch with the splendor surrounding the house. The nearer I come to the end of a manuscript, the more fixated I grow until becoming unaware save for the most violative disruptions. I wonder how much life I have missed in that near-unconscious place I travel to when my fingers and mind decide to spin a yarn.
Tracking the hours during such episodes does not occur. Consciously the creative process takes over. Words spill from my brain and translate through my hands into digital form. Beer and water mix in constant drinks, and the beverages wash down enough sweets to induce acute diabetic shock in the healthiest of people.
***
In the blackness of night without knowledge of the precise hour it occurred, William’s journey draws to a close and completes his transition from nescient primitive to flummoxed yet informed hominid facing the dissolution of what he knows, a lonely person standing at the edge of oblivion trying to disavow the blood on his hands.
Sunset came and went hours before. Somewhat drunk and terribly high on an unbelievable quantity of sugar, my mind and body cannot decide whether to plummet to the ground or run laps around the house. The basket of confections in the kitchen lacks half its original load. Ten empty beer bottles sit atop the kitchen island, one half-consumed sits on the table in the sunroom, and a thawed yet undrinkable ale sits on the counter, leaving one lonely survivor in the fridge to mark the end of a plundered twelve-pack.
Finding dinner thankfully does not require driving. But the idea of eating elicits vehement complaint from my stomach. Given how much junk food I already stuffed down my gullet, my tummy threatens to rebel should my mouth attempt to chew or swallow more calories.