Table of Contents
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Michael Hiebert
INTRODUCTION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
THE HYPERBOLE ENGINE
About Michael Hiebert
NASHVILLE BEAUMONT
and THE HYPERBOLE ENGINE
NASHVILLE BEAUMONT
and THE HYPERBOLE ENGINE
Michael Hiebert
NASHVILLE BEAUMONT
(AND THE HYPERBOLE ENGINE)
Copyright © 2016 by Michael Hiebert.
All rights reserved.
Published by Dangerbooks, British Columbia, Canada.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblances to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Edited by Dawn James Walker
Cover Design by / © DangerBoy & DogMan, Inc.
Nashville cover image © Turiy Mazur
Portholet cover image © Vadim Sadovski
ISBN-13: 978-1-927600-08-5
ISBN-10: 1-927600-08-1
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This volume contains previously published matrial.
—Nashville Beaumont copyright © 2013 by Michael Hiebert. First published in Sometimes the Angels Weep, editred by Julliana Hinckley.
Dangerbooks Amazon Kindle Edition
Second Printing, August 2016.
NSH-002
Also by Michael Hiebert
Sometimes the Angels Weep—Short Fiction
DOLLS
Alvin, Alabama Mystery Books
Dream with Little Angels
Close to the Broken Hearted
A Thorn Among the Lilies
Sticks and Stones
The Rose Garden Arena (A serial thriller in seven parts)
Book 1: Mosh Pit
Book 2: Media Frezy
Coming November, 2016
Book 3: 80 Proof
Book 4: Ballads
Book 5: Stalker Fan
Book 6: Ruckus
Book 7: Swan Song
For Eric Bryan Moore,
Amazing friend, great writer, and fantastic narrator . . .
Introduction
WRITING IS A STRANGE passion. It has a pleasure/pain response cycle very similar to that of recreational drugs. Not that I've done a whole lot of recreational drugs, but I can imagine they are very similar. When you're writing, occasionally something magical happens. You drop out. Not of the writing, but of the world. You completely cease to exist in it and everything you are becomes focused on the story. No, it's more than that. Somehow, on some strange level, you become the story. When this happens, it is the greatest feeling in the world. I usually steal a phrase from the athletic world to describe it. It's "being in the zone."
I once went thirty-six hours without getting out of my chair, not even to go and use the bathroom. Now, those kinds of marathon "zone" sessions don't happen often, but I regularly experience them up to eight, ten, even twelve hour periods.
When you're in the zone, weird things happen. I am a very slow reader. I read around four hundred and fifty words a minute, which puts me at the lower end of the average college student. I write fast, though. Probably faster than I read at times. Those times when I'm in the zone.
How is that possible? I don't know. I have a guess, and my guess is that many psychologists have published works talking about "left brain" and "right brain" thinking. The left brain is analytical, handles things like numbers and cognitive thought and, usually, language. The right brain is more like a three-year-old child with a box of crayons. It handles tasks that use the imagination, abstract thought, and all things creative. When you're asleep, apparently the left brain shuts down and the right brain takes over. Dreaming is a right brain activity. This is why, usually, anything you see written in a dream is illegible. Phone numbers and combination locks generally don't work.
But, sometimes, the hemispheres of your brain can learn how to do each other's work. If you do something enough, it can become ingrained in both halves. I write a lot. So much so that, around a decade ago, I suddenly realized I could read things in my dreams. So, my theory about how I write faster than I read is that when I go into the zone, my left brain shuts down, almost like I'm asleep and my right brain takes over. Whether this is true or not, I am not certain, but at times it certainly feels as though I am reading the story as it goes down on the page. I have no idea what my fingers are going to type until I see it appear on my computer screen.
It's not always like this. It's not even usually like this. And when it's not, writing is the worst job in the world. Many, many authors have lamented the suffering that is being a writer. From Hemingway to Orwell to Salinger to Twain. Even Stephen King, who seems to happily whiz through books upon books every year. Writing is not easy. It could be the hardest thing I've ever done.
So, why do it? In the words of Charles Bukowski, because "it wants to come out of your soul like a rocket … because being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder." Writers don't decide they want to write. Writing finds you, grabs you in a choke hold, and doesn't let you go until the words come out. This is why you write. This, and because when you're in the zone, there's no better feeling in the world.
Plot elements magically come together. Metaphors appear on the page you would normally never consider in a thousand years. Your story takes on a life of its own and becomes something greater than the sum of the thoughts in your brain and the words on the page. Right before your eyes, it becomes art. Out of the zone, I still write, I still have to write, but a lot of what I write is crap. Early in my career, I learned to tell the crap from the art. The moment I did, I became a much better writer. But even the crap has to be written through, no matter how painful it is or how downtrodden it makes you feel. Not every day is a Hemingway day. Some days are just practice. Everyone needs practice, probably even Mr. King. You don’t show anyone your “practice writing.” The stuff I write then winds up being published? It’s usually mostly stuff that came out of the zone.
The story you are about to read was written completely in the zone. It was one of those long, magical experiences where the words just appeared on the page in a wonderful parade of narrative. I believe this is one of the best stories I’ve ever written. I don’t think there’s a single wasted plot element, connections are made throughout the story that I never anticipated when I began writing it. The characters, for me, shine through completely, and even the settings are some of the most imaginative I’ve ever written about.
That’s why I wanted to take the opportunity to share it by publishing it as a standalone e-book. I hope you get as much pleasure reading it as I did writing i
t. In fact, hit my website when you’re done at www.michaelhiebert.com and let me know your thoughts about it. Better yet, post a review on Amazon. Even better yet, do both.
Many writers have been quoted on the art of writing, so I may as well add mine into the mix.
Writing is hard. Lots of things are hard. In fact, anything worth doing is hard. That’s why I write. Because it’s worth doing. And also because, on rare occasions, I manage to come up with stories like Nashville Beaumont. A story completely stolen from where it was sleeping in the zone.
Oh, and the bonus story, The Hyperbole Engine, ain’t half bad, either. Just sayin’.
Michael Hiebert
British Columbia, Canada
June 2016
Nashville Beaumont
Chapter 1
I CUP THE DIGIMATE™ in my fingers, thumbing the uniball controller, flipping through requestors. They project two-dimensionally above my hand, translucent squares of near-infinite thinness, hard to see in the park’s late afternoon sunlight. I step into the shadows of the copse of pine and oak where I’ve hidden my pack, just outside the playground. I have a love/hate relationship with playgrounds; for me they serve only as brief sanctuaries while I plan my next move.
Then again, I only discovered playgrounds six months ago.
Today there are no children here, and that makes me wary; it makes me feel like the shiny white device in my hand tags me from miles away, even though it’s hardly larger than my index finger. It’s capable of projecting holos of fifty cubic centimeters, but I’ve got it cranked down to less than five, and the trees hide me, cutting off all angles to the road.
Even still, I feel conspicuous.
I drop through the Digimate™’s binary tree of options, selecting Record from the AudioGroup.
.click.
A breeze of pine wells up as the square selector disappears in a blink, replaced by a single horizontal line floating in its place. I clear my throat. The line follows, jetting by with zigzags, mapping the waveform. “Test. This is a test.”
.Replay.
With perfect digital clarity, the audio plays back, accompanied by the wave.
I glance around one more time. The angles are tight. Nobody can see me. The playground is empty. A laser swing silently sways on the wind.
.Record.
“My name is Nashville Beaumont. I’m twelve years old. Few people know I exist. I was born in Texas.” I hesitate on the word “born”. Take a breath. “I have a twin sister. I don’t know where she is. My plan is to find her.”
The line goes flat as I consider my next words. Doesn’t matter. Silence gets compressed into a single parameter of empty-time. Silence costs nothing.
Two crows swoop out of the trees, diving right behind my flattened wave, scaring me. I remember the chance I’m taking being out here in the open.
A coldness scampers up my spine.
But that’s why I need some sort of diary. In case I get caught. Otherwise, this will all be for nothing.
I swallow. My lips are dry. “Her name’s Providence.” Closing my eyes, I sigh. “I can’t remember her. If we ever met, it was long ago. Likely, we were separated at”—Here comes that uncomfortable word again, but there isn’t a better one—“birth.”
.click.
The Digimate™ turns off. Instantly, the hololine disappears. Across the park a crow caws. I decide I have to finish.
.click.
“I will find her,” I say. “Then I will kill Kidar Frenzid.” My stomach clenches at the thought of hurting anyone. Even him: the man who murdered my entire family while I watched. Confused pain shoots through my head. I shake it off. “This much I know: my name’s Nashville Beaumont . . . ”
“ . . . and I’m a weapon.”
.click.
Chapter 2
ONCE ON THE STREET, I feel better. There are people. I fold into the tide of them moving up the sidewalk. Here in Argentina, public traffic literally swallows you up. In the six months since I escaped from Texas, I’ve never felt as invisible as in the crowded streets of Argentine cities. People walk so close, they touch. In Americanada people fear contact.
Still I have to be careful, so I make three random turns then check over my shoulder. I half expect to see that man, the one who managed to follow me across the sun-bleached Texas desert. Somehow, among that heat-pounded land of death, creosote bushes, cacti, poisonous snakes, black scorpions, and split-tongued lizards, he tracked me to Florida before I even noticed him. That scares me. I’m not as good as I think.
I managed to lose him in Northern Brazil, at least I hope I did. Still, I worry he came far enough to realize where I’m headed. Or that they’ve replaced him with someone else.
Behind me, two men in sunglasses round the corner. Always it’s men making me suspicious—probably because of Kidar Frenzid. To be safe, I duck into a small supermercado and watch through the window as they stroll by, waiting for even a slight glance my way. I don’t see one.
The clerk at the counter clears his throat.
I set two bottles of water on the counter and ask directions to the MagLev station. I’m fluent in seven languages, Spanish being one. My studies in the Compound started before I can remember. Despite my age, I’ve been told I’m better trained than many people in their chosen professions.
Instead of giving me directions, the clerk asks, “Where are you headed?”
I see no point in lying. “The seaside. Punta Tombo.”
He smiles. “By yourself? Where’s your mother?”
“Waiting at the flat for me to bring directions to the train.”
He shakes his head. “Your mother should not take the ML. Better by bus. Half the price. At least half. And only one, maybe two hours longer.”
“Okay.”
He even knows which bus to take and the schedule. As he draws me a map, a man wearing a tan leather hat walks past the store. My heart nearly stops. It’s the same man I thought I left in Brazil; he’s still following me. A tangle of black hair sprouts from beneath his hat. His face is unshaven. His eyes are gray. A denim jacket almost hides a black T-shirt beneath. Our eyes meet, and he knows I recognize him. He wants me to recognize him. He doesn’t care, and that scares me because he thinks I haven’t got a chance.
I want to sprint out, grab his jacket, shake him, scream at him to leave me alone. Tell him I haven’t escaped a supposed “impenetrable” underground compound—trekked through an entire continent—only to be recaptured now. But I don’t. Instead, I pay the clerk, and by the time I’m back on the street, the man in the hat is gone.
“Mi amigo!” the clerk calls from inside the store. “Tell your mom they launch the rocket shuttles to the International Space Station in Punta Tombo. She gets you there tomorrow, you might even see it!” He says it all in Spanish.
I thank him, smiling. But I already know about tomorrow’s launch.
I’ll be on it.
Chapter 3
NOW HERS!” KIDAR FRENZID snaps. Tears stand in my mother’s eyes. She can’t talk, her mouth is duct-taped. The rest of the roll is in my hand. I’ve just finished taping her, and my father, sister, and brother to our kitchen chairs. Kidar Frenzid brought them all into the dining room so I could tape my own family to the chairs around the table. My mother’s wrists are all that’s left. She doesn’t struggle, just puts her arms behind her, crossing her wrists. Because it’s me, she makes it easy.
“Make sure they’re tight!” Kidar Frenzid yells.
I do. I’m six. I only know to do as I’m told. Besides, I’m afraid.
The room is gold. The curtains are heavy saffron and thrown open. The carpet’s a matching gold shag. Sunbeams light the room, refracting golden through the trees across the street. They reflect in my mother’s tears as I finish her wrists. Now, my whole family sits taped to chairs, their tear-stained faces shining gold. My brother was the only one who struggled. He’s eight.
My sister looks angelic. She’s four.
Everythi
ng’s gold.
Laughing, Kidar Frenzid pulls a gun from beneath his long, gray jacket. Later, I’ll assume he had it tucked into the back of his pants.
Now, though, only sheer horror tears through my skull as, one by one, he shoots my family between their eyes. First my father, then my brother, then my mother.
The bullets are poppers. They explode inside their targets, turning their heads into caverns. Firing from a foot away, small claws pop from the bullets’ sides as they fly, guaranteeing they won’t go right through their destinations before they pop.
He leaves my baby sister for last, smiles at the horror washing over her face as she begins to comprehend what’s happening. Then he gently rests the barrel against her temple. The tape across her mouth turns her pleas to muffled moans. Her blue eyes, welling with tears, stare into mine. Kidar Frenzid pulls the trigger, filling the room with an explosion, splashing me in her blood, showering me with pieces from her skull.
The room is no longer gold. It’s red. Red and full of death.
I jolt upright from where I’d been sleeping with my head against the shoulder of the woman next to me on the bus to Punta Tombo. My eyes snap open. Behind my eyes, my heart thunders, slowing as I realize it was only the dream again. The same dream that has kept the experience fresh in my mind throughout the past six years, making certain I remember it as vividly as I do boarding this bus illegally this morning.
Since my escape I’ve learned what’s hard and what’s easy when you’re an underdeveloped twelve-year-old. Acquiring money is challenging. Getting onto buses without tickets is a cakewalk—just muster up tears, call for Momma, and climb aboard.
The rocket shuttle probably won’t be so easy.
I haven’t seen the man following me yet today. My guess is he assumed I’d jump the ML. Odds are, he’s already in Punta Tombo, waiting for me.
Outside, dried dirt hills cracked with clutches of sage streak by in the dim light of morning as we hover smoothly eastward. I sit back and close my eyes again, wondering what to do about the man in the hat.
Nashville Beaumont (and the Hyperbole Engine) Page 1