“I think so, there is some fancy word for it but the short story is my blood is too thick. I make too much or something, so I have to get bled every three months or so.”
“That’s about right.”
“I’ve had it all my life so it’s no biggie, just have to remember to go in.”
“Have you had any shortness of breath or loss of energy?”
“Nope, sometimes I get overheated but my last doctor said that was normal for my condition.”
Doctor Bradshaw rolled back and looked Israel up and down. “I am a little concerned, your bone mass is not where it should be, and by the look of your skin you are lacking in some key nutrition. Are you eating enough?”
The cold steel under his feet and the lack of clothing gave him the chills but he was not cold now. Warmth crawled up his arm and Israel began to sweat.
“Enough, but my mom harps on me to eat better. I like sugar and soda.”
Dr. Bradshaw nodded and wrote something in his chart. “I am going to put you on a prenatal supplement. I put pregnant mothers on this as a way to get extra nutrition. Now, now, don’t worry, it’s not a drug or something just for girls. It is a really strong multi vitamin. You need to take one with each meal or three times a day, just make sure you eat something with it as it can give you a gut ache.”
“That it?”
“Yes, the nurse will come in and take some blood. You can get dressed if you like, we have a more comfortable chair in the other room. Have you eaten today?”
“Yes.” Israel lied.
“Good. It was nice to meet you. I want to run some tests on your blood to confirm a few questions I have, but aside from the results I’ll see you in three months.”
“Thanks.”
Israel lay back on the table after dressing and took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Drawing up his hands he stared at his palms. They looked normal yet he could feel the warmth. What was going on?
Copyright © 2012 by Melody Carlson, Robin Parrish, K.C. Neal, Aaron Patterson
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.
StoneHouse Ink 2012
www.StoneHouseInk.net
Boise, Idaho 83713
First eBook Edition 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62482-018-2
Book cover design copyright © 2012 Damonza.com
Published in the United States of America
About the Authors:
Melody Carlson is one of the most prolific novelists of our time. With around 200 books published and sales topping 5 million, Melody writes primarily for women and teens. She’s won numerous honors and awards, including The Rita, Gold Medallion, Carol Award and Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement award; and some of her books are being considered for TV movies. Melody has two grown sons and makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her husband. When not writing, Melody likes to travel, bike, camp, garden, and walk her yellow Labrador in the great outdoors.
Robin Parrish wants to take you on a ride.
A wild ride – which is exactly what you’re in for when you pick up one of his books. And he’s adamant that it will never be the same kind of experience twice.
Robin’s stories mix, mingle, and meld various genres together to create thoroughly original suspense/thrillers. His Dominion Trilogy, for example, mashed up superhero action, secret societies, ancient myths, and an apocalyptic setting to create an entirely new take on the classic “hero’s journey.” Offworld mixed science fiction and an end-of-the-world scenario with high-octane action. Nightmare, his 2010 novel, is a spine-tingling examination of the world of the paranormal, paired with can’t-put-it-down mystery. His 2011 novel, Vigilante, is an action-packed story about a soldier who sets out to change the world. In 2012, he released his first ever Young Adult novel, titled Corridor, which is soon to become a trilogy.
Always pushing the envelope, ever on the edge of where modern storytelling is going, Robin Parrish will gladly and unapologetically tell you that he’s an entertainer, a weaver of stories that ignite the mind and delight the heart. Defying labels and refusing pigeonholes, his imagination is fueled by the possibilities of asking “What if…?”, and as anyone who’s read his work knows, he has a very big imagination.
His influences as a novelist range from television and film storytellers like Joss Whedon and J.J. Abrams, to masters of the modern myth like J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Akin to Philip K. Dick’s search for the meaning of identity, most of what Robin writes about boils down to his own ponderings and examinations of just what this thing we call “existence” is.
Robin is a full time writer. He and his wife Karen and two children live in High Point, NC.
“Robin Parrish is a keen-eyed, passionate pop cultural savant, whose writing is as incisive and insightful as it is entertaining.” - Allan Heinberg, Executive Producer, Grey’s Anatomy
K.C. Neal works in publishing and co-founded StoneHouse University, a resource for writers and authors. In previous iterations of her professional life, she worked as a bench chemist, a lab equipment tester, a biotech researcher, and a medical writer. After several years moving around Oregon and California, she returned to her hometown of Boise, Idaho, where she lives now.
Aaron Patterson is a bestselling thriller writer, and writes young adult on the side. He is also the founder of StoneHouse Ink and the co-founder of StoneHouse Lock and SandBox Ink. When not writing or speaking on subjects like eBooks and the Future of Publishing, he can be found hiking, snowboarding, or traveling. He has three children and lives in Boise, Idaho.
Preview of
FALLEN WORLD
by Melody Carlson
[sneak peek]
I DON’T KNOW WHY I’m different. Or why I can’t seem to accept what is and fit in like everyone else. But it’s as if something’s wrestling inside of me—something anxious and needy and pushy. It stirs me up, compelling me toward something I can’t see or hear or even feel. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy. And sometimes, when it gets really bad, I break all the rules and sneak off to the ocean in search of relief.
The repetitive sound of the waves—rising, cresting, crashing—momentarily calms my inner madness. The constant rolling of one wave tumbling over the next, again and again, suppresses my discontent. And knowing that my being down here is a form of rebellion brings a satisfaction all its own. But I know I’m being watched and I can only push the watchers so far. I see them in their towers guarding their precious sand. And so I force myself to turn away and go home, back to where the sound of the sea is simply a distant rumble that I can barely hear at all. Back to where I must conform to the regimen and pretend to fit in. Until that familiar restlessness starts gnawing at me all over again. It’s like a hungry child who is never satisfied, never has enough.
And that is what drives me to go back down to the ocean again today. Even though I know it’s risky and some officials are losing their patience with trespassers like me, I still can’t stop myself. As I walk through our town, I wish I’d taken the longer less visible route through the woods and brush. But it’s too late to turn back without appearing suspicious. I walk quickly, keeping my head down. Not because I don’t want to look at the bleakness all around me, but because I don’t want to draw more attention to myself. I know the guard station is up ahead and I’m sure some officers in their dark uniforms will be loitering out in front.
As usual, they are out there, polishing their vehicles and checking their guns—full of importance. They try to act friendly, but their eyes are like steel. I recognize the one who visited our sc
hool. He told us that the police are our friends, but I know better.
After the station I come to the oldest factory, an ugly tan building with metal siding and three tall smokestacks that puff out thick brownish smoke day and night. This is where the utilitarian glass products are made—containers and kitchenware—and where my mother works ten hours a day, six days a week. This is where her hair, clothes and lungs get filled with the gritty dust from ground sand, and where she breathes chemicals that will shorten her life the same way it shortened my grandparents’ lives. This is the place where I am destined to work when I turn eighteen next year. It’s mandatory that everyone works when they turn eighteen.
Today I am going to the beach. Even though I know it could get me in trouble. I just don’t care anymore. This is the only place where I can briefly feel free. Or pretend I’m free. Because I’m not stupid, I’m well aware that every single grain of sand on all these Pacific beaches and in all these dunes belongs to someone else. Our country, the Mid-America-Federation, owes billions of dollars to three powerful Asian nations. This happened decades ago, and these benevolent nations, instead of taking over our country completely, have taken over what is left of our natural resources and labor force. We owe them our gratitude and service. At least this is what we were taught in school. Although I haven’t been in school for a few years now. Our education ends at age fifteen.
I glance at the faded painted letters on the side of the factory: Fair share for all. And I know there are words on the other side that say: Work hard to rebuild. When I was little my dad told me those were popular slogans when our country was being restructured several decades ago. But I could tell by the way he said this that he no longer believed it. And after his parents died, something inside of him seemed to die too. Maybe it was hope. It seemed that no matter how hard my parents worked, life never got better.
The factory owns where we live and where we go to school. It owns the store where we shop, the limited electricity that we use, the water we drink—and it seems our very lives. Or as my grandma used to say, ’we owe our soul to the company store.’ I didn’t understand that as a child, but as I get older it makes more sense. And when I turn eighteen it will become a fact of life. Before Grandma died—from a lung disease she got from working in the factory—she told me that her mother used to tell her about “the good old days.” When my great-grandma was a girl the citizens of MAF (previously known as the United States of America) were free. Freedom is not a word you hear used around here. But as I get closer to the ocean I try to imagine it. What would it feel like to come and go as you pleased? To read any book you chose? To do any sort of work that you fancied? To live anywhere you liked? It’s hard to imagine these things.
I climb up the one sand dune which hasn’t been ruined by tractors and trucks, a spot where the beach grass still grows. And although the sharpness of it stings my bare feet, I don’t mind. Once I’m on top of the dune, I sit down, using the tall grass to conceal myself from the watch towers on either side. And I just look up and down the coastline and inhale the sea air. The breeze coming in off the ocean smells pungent and salty and fresh—like something out there is alive, although everyone says this part of the ocean is dead. Even if that’s true, this air smells better than the acrid factory fumes that normally fill my lungs.
I’m always caught off guard by the splendor of the ocean. Whether it’s bright blue and sparkling, or dark green and moody, or even gray and dangerous looking, it is always strikingly beautiful. My grandma told me that before the nuclear disaster, which happened when she was a girl, the fisherman would go out in boats and come home with all kinds of amazing seafood to eat. “And you could go out on the beach and dig clams right out of the sand,” she would say. “Just haul them home in a bucket and make big batch of chowder.” When I asked why we couldn’t go do that anymore, she just shook her head. “Those days are gone, Mariah. Best not to think of them now.”
After soaking in the beauty of the ocean and filling my lungs with fresh air, I slide down the dune to walk on the beach. This is one of the few sections of beach where the tractors haven’t begun removing the sand yet. But if you look to the north and the south, you can see the damage and devastation where tons of sand have been excavated and trucked off to the local factories, where depending on the sand’s grade used for various manufacturing purposes. It’s only a matter of time until this section is ruined as well.
Like everything else in the NWC (our district is called North West Coastal) the sand factories are owned by the Asian nations and the goods made from this sand, everything from bowls to windows to medical equipment, are shipped all over the world. For some reason the sand in our region is quite valuable. And for that same reason, they don’t like people loitering around here on the beach. But I don’t care. I think I would die without the ocean—so it’s a risk I must take. I would live here on the beach if I could.
In fact, I almost tried that once. A couple years ago when I was fifteen and had just finished the last of my schooling, I came down here after a big storm. I was stunned to discover all these amazing pieces of driftwood strewn up and down the beach. Seeing these beautiful piles of sand-polished wood inspired me to create something. And so I spent the next few days hauling the sturdiest pieces clear back to the edge of the bluff, far enough from the water to escape the high tides and the tower guards and hopefully the citizens WE (Watchful Eye). I knew I could get in trouble for doing this—possibly be put in detention or worse—but I didn’t really care.
I dug a floor with a flat board, packing the sand down hard. Then I stacked and piled the bleached lengths of wood against each other. I gathered and layered the wood until I had built a tiny driftwood cabin with a little round window that looked out on the ocean. I arranged the wood tightly enough to keep out most of the wind and I imagined adding more rooms onto this structure, making it into a place where I could bring my family to live someday. I know now it was a childish dream. But it helped to pass the time of being out of school. And it consoled me over the fact that my education was finished.
No one in our district goes to school beyond eighth grade. But when my time came to quit I felt as if I was just beginning to learn. It seemed unfair that it was over. Some kids look forward to this interim period and some even call it a time of ‘freedom’ which is ridiculous since we are expected to perform community service or, in cases like mine, domestic service. But it is not true freedom. Not like the freedom my grandmother used to speak of anyway.
Even so I tried to make the most of it...at first. And after a couple long days of working on my tiny driftwood house, two rooms were completed. So the next morning, I invited my little sister to come down to the beach with me. Wanting to surprise Selena and imagining how I would tell her a big story about how beach fairies had built a magical cabin, I didn’t reveal what I was taking her to see.
“It’s a surprise,” I told her. “You’re going to love it.” And sensing my excitement, she happily ran ahead, eager to discover what mystery was waiting for her on the beach. But when we got to the place where I’d built it, all that was left were ashes.
“It’s gone.” I kicked the sand with my rubber boot, trying not to shed tears over the destruction of my creation.
“What was it?” Selena asked in dismay.
“A little house,” I sadly told her. “That I built.”
“You built a real house?” Her sea blue eyes grew wide with wonder.
“Yes.” I looked up and down the beach, noticing that the other piles of driftwood were gone too. All reduced to the same black piles of ashes. Some still smoldering.
“Who burnt it down?” she asked.
“Who do you think?”
“Oh....” She nodded somberly.
I took her hand now, gently tugging her away from the ugly black smear on the sand. “Come on. Let’s go.” Suddenly I felt worried that we were being watched. Of course, I knew we were being watched. We were always being watched. But there was a casua
l sort of watching that happened with a citizen WE (Watchful Eyes) and then there was the other kind. The ones in the guard towers.
“As we go,” I spoke lightly now, swinging her hand like we were out for a pleasant stroll, “let’s pretend we’re looking for seashells. Okay?”
She nodded again, fully understanding my meaning. And so we walked slowly along the water’s edge, picking up useless bits of broken shells, acting as if they were treasures and stuffing them into our pockets. No one much cared if we gathered worthless shells since they had to be sifted from the sand at the refinery anyway.
As I knelt down to pick up what looked like a whole sand dollar, and one of my favorite things to collect from the beach, I tipped my head ever so slightly, subtly looking over my shoulder to see if the observation tower was being manned right now. And sure enough, there was a dark figure up there, leaning toward the glass window, probably looking through binoculars—watching us as if we were common thieves. Okay, maybe we were common, but we were not thieves.
“Look at this,” I proclaimed, holding the sand dollar up for Selena.
Of course, Selena knew I had dozens of these round white shells at home, but I’m sure, like me, she sensed trouble. Instead of revealing this, her face broke into a big grin as she raced over to see it better.
“A sand dollar,” she exclaimed dramatically. “Can I have it?”
“Sure.” I handed it to her. “But we should go now. Mom and Dad will be home from work soon and I need to get dinner started.”
As if to add more credence to our little drama, Selena now danced along the beach, holding her sand dollar high up in the air as if it were a prized jewel, as if I had plucked a star from the sky and handed it to her. Not for the first time, I thought she was quite smart for a nine year old and I laughed to see her twirling and leaping, her long golden hair glistening in the sunlight. I have no idea what Selena would look like now. But how I do miss her.
The 'Naturals: Awakening (Episodes 1-4 -- Season 1) (The 'Naturals: Awakening Season One Boxset) Page 5