Ten - Part 1

by Sin Ribbon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  TEN: Part 1

  Copyright © 2018 Sin Ribbon

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover art by Sin Ribbon

  https://sinribbon.com

  https://universe.vision

  First Edition

  Also by Sin Ribbon

  In Her Burning: A Surreal Diary

  - award-winning audio drama podcast -

  https://universe.vision/inherburning/

  Philophobia

  - short story -

  https://www.barrelhousemag.com/onlinelit/2018/10/7/philophobia

  How the Words of the Dead Carried Me Home

  - essay -

  http://www.lunalunamagazine.com/dark/how-the-words-of-the-dead-carried-me-home

  Researchers Find the Birth of Civilization in a Nutshell

  - essay -

  https://www.ruminatemagazine.com/blogs/ruminate-blog/researchers-find-the-birth-of-civilization-in-a-nutshell

  Other essays:

  https://sinribbon.com/cv-reel/

  Sign up for news, discounts, and the Ten Character Sheet giveaway:

  https://universe.vision/subscribe/

  Support on Patreon:

  https://patreon.com/sinribbon

  This book is dedicated to my partner and my mom,

  who always knew and believed, even before they saw.

  Contents

  Siha

  Thane

  Riya

  Sebastian

  Riya

  Orion

  Riya

  Madison

  Sebastian

  Thane

  Orion

  Olivia

  Allister

  Madison

  Olivia

  Allister

  Thane

  Sebastian

  Thane

  Orion

  Thane

  Riya

  Madison

  Orion

  Allister

  Sebastian

  Riya

  Siha

  Thane

  Qiu

  Thane

  Siha

  Orion

  Olivia

  Madison

  Allister

  Sebastian

  Siha

  Riya

  Isaac

  Siha

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Giveaways!

  TEN Series FAQ

  Preview of Part 2

  There’s a hum in the air

  or perhaps a ringing—

  the thump, thump, thump of time—

  each second like a heavy weight, dripping,

  carving its way into space.

  ~ ONE ~

  Siha

  The sound of Brahms fills the spring air, notes untangling from the strings of an aging cello. A pale, delicate hand runs the bow over the strings with intricacy, each finger gracing the notes with nimble precision. The cellist is a young woman with a quiet maturity about her, evident from how she is completely absorbed in the meticulousness of her task.

  Tendrils of long, dark brown hair spin a waterfall around her neck and shoulders, accented by a braid on each side. The rich, brown color illuminates her peach complexion while swooping bangs frame her heart-shaped face. Her full-length, navy-blue jacket drapes over her slender frame and the street bench she sits upon. Two cords tie the jacket closed at the waist, a complement to the blue ribbons finishing her braids. Her outfit harkens back to olden days—a white cotton blouse tucked into a long, darkly plaid skirt that nearly erases her sensible oxfords.

  Flashes of people whirl past her in a blur. They zip by as if moving in fast forward. Unphased, her fingers dance on the neck of the instrument as the bow rises and falls. She does not waver from the music, even while the pace of the crowd accelerates to unnatural speeds. Splashes of color appear and disappear, suggestions of people unable to acknowledge the captivating melody. She plays quicker to match the rapid pace of the world around her. As the song builds in intensity, the expression on her face grows troubled. Her fingers slam onto each note. The music vibrates with thunderous presence, mounting into a crescendo of speed and power as reality distorts around her.

  With abrupt pause, her bow slides off the A3 string, and the music ceases. In the same instant, the world returns to a normal pace. The chatter of people meandering through a newly gentrified neighborhood congests the air.

  The mysterious woman shifts upright, opens her eyes, and turns to a see a young man with distinctive presence walking into a shop down the block. She lingers on him for a moment, gaze softening as if recognizing him. With immediate intention, the woman holsters her bow and packs her cello into its bulky, plastic case. Being no small instrument, she hoists the case onto her back and hurries in the direction of the man.

  The street has an urban revival feel, not unlike other American towns in the twenty-first century. This particular suburb is an extension of Pittsburgh, a hipster neighborhood siphoning young energy from the big city nearby. Dozens of small shops litter every block. Galleries. Handmade goods. Natural foods. Trees with lumbering branches lining the sidewalks. Loft-style apartments on the upper levels of buildings. All complete with a cobblestone road. The people are out today, clamoring with joy over their sunny Saturday afternoon. The young woman pushes past them, seemingly invisible.

  She comes upon the shop where she saw the man enter—a vinyl record store—but stops short of the entrance. Hesitant, she bites her lip and peers around the brick into the window. Inside stands a tall man with golden tan skin and short, messy, jet-black hair. Black seems an obvious favorite color, as he wears a black t-shirt, faded black jeans, and is decorated with black, geometric tattoos on his left arm and forehead. The tattooed lines interlock down his left side, from neck to bicep, accentuating his athleticism and bold presence. He has a suave, poised composure about him, a quality overshadowed by his pessimistic eyes. She leans in; it’s not pessimism but confidence, a self-awareness cultivated from life’s grueling trials.

  Those are the kind of eyes that can’t be deceived.

  A warm, empathetic smile pulls across her lips. She can tell his antisocial exterior belies a unique strength underneath.

  He straightens, prompting her to duck below the window. She exhales her frustration, gaze pensive, before creeping up to take another look. He stands over a cardboard box, flipping through albums. Punk. Nineteen-eighties. He locates his pick and heads for the register. A pause. He senses the eyes upon him and turns towards the window. Frantic, she darts beneath the windowsill again as a beet-red color flushes her cheeks, unaware the bridge of her cello sticks out like a sore thumb. He cocks an eyebrow at the peculiar sight before approaching the cashier.

  Within moments, he exits with his purchase and turns to head down the street, but something is out of sorts. Curious, he checks behind him to find the young woman tucked behind the corner of the vinyl store, eyes poking out like a turtle head in a pond. Realizing that her attempt to appear inconspicuous is less than convincing, she dives behind a card stand and grabs a Congratulations on the new baby! greeting card to hide her face. Bemused, he shrugs off the bizarre behavior and continues on his way.

&n
bsp; The brunette slaps a hand over her face in embarrassment before returning the card to the stand. She peeks to see him strolling away, expression torn as she reconciles if he is worth pursuing. A deep breath resolves her composure, and she makes after him with purpose.

  Ahead, he stops at a crosswalk, and she freezes in place. Shoulders tense, she inches behind a bench on the sidewalk and crouches down just as the man turns his suspicions in her direction.

  Oblivious to the size of her cello, the bridge once again gives her away. It protrudes from behind a concerned couple sitting on the bench. They appear just as puzzled by the brunette’s conduct. The man furrows his brow, confusion accentuated by the black, L-shaped lines on his forehead.

  “Can I help you?” he probes. His voice is low, husky, like that of a drinker or an old soul. A meager squeak escapes her mouth which she quickly silences with her cupped hand.

  The couple on the bench look to one another, then to him, then to the young woman. The man shakes his head and whirls back around to cross the street.

  The cement squares of the sidewalk pass beneath him. Before long, the sound of Brahms permeates the air again but this time as a feminine hum. He groans and whips to the music’s source, expecting to find his newfound stalker at his heels, but no one is there. Narrow eyes scan both sides of the street, but that brown hair and cello pack are nowhere to be found.

  He continues, perturbed by the vanishing act. The minutes tumble by, and then the same tune returns—the light, airy hum of a woman just a few feet away. He allows the music to persist for a moment before spinning on his heels at the next crosswalk. Again, no woman, just the usual bustle of the street. When he turns back, he spots the cellist across the street ahead of him. He stares, slack-jawed with disbelief. She sports an honest smile, eyes bright and proud to be leading in this game she’s started. It’s difficult for him to peg her—an aura of sophistication mixed with carefree innocence.

  He eyes her briefly before checking behind him again, and she chuckles at his attempt to put the pieces together. Annoyed, he opts to make an abrupt turn instead of crossing the street to approach her. Her joy deflates as he goes.

  After half a block, his curiosity spurs him to check on his stalker, but the brunette has gone from the street corner behind him. He halts and listens for the melody to be sure. The sounds of the wind, birds chirping, and the conversations of people seems to deafen. His gaze wanders, searching the plaza. Then, some distance away, the same Brahms melody rises into the air from a cello. He hovers on it for a moment before shaking off the strange feeling.

  “Ho shit!” The profanity escapes his mouth as soon as he turns around to discover the petite brunette standing mere inches in front of him. The man nearly leaps from his skin, stumbling back at the shock of her abrupt presence.

  “Hello.” She smiles, head tilted to the side.

  “Jesus, what the hell?” He takes a breath to regain composure. “Do I know you?”

  She pauses as if the question needs careful wording. “No, we haven’t met before.”

  He scoffs. “Then what is this? Why are you following me?”

  “I’d like to talk, to get to know you.” Her even tone treats the situation like a common, everyday occurrence.

  He groans and rubs his forehead. “God, I’ve met some crazy people, but that was after a few at the bar.”

  “Hear me out.” Her hand is already up, pleading her case. He tries to interrupt but finds himself staggered by her candor. “Yes, I’ve been following you. I’ve been looking for someone, and—”

  He maneuvers around her and keeps walking. “Not too many people look like me.”

  She beams and hurries after him. “Exactly my point!”

  “Then what is this about? The tattoos?”

  “No, it’s not necessarily your appearance.” She sighs, flustered. “But like anyone, it’s a large part of who you are. It frames the way people see you, which is clearly done by intention.”

  He stops short, tone curt and abrasive. “Then you should know facial tattoos don’t usually say, Sure, come up and talk to me, random stranger.”

  “Um, well ...” She blanks.

  Satisfied by her loss for words, he continues down the block. Several yards ahead, he rounds the corner to get back on track only to find a familiar face waiting to greet him.

  “You’re well on your way to a restraining order, girl,” he hisses.

  She doesn’t budge. “And you must be a real charmer at parties.” Though irritated, her eyes house a rare sincerity not found in others. From this distance, he cannot help but notice their distinctive color; she has heterochromia. Her left eye is blue, and the right is half blue, half brown. “I want you to hear me out,” she repeats, tone assertive despite the extra head of height he has on her.

  He groans, taking a moment to look around as if a prank may be revealed at any moment. “Fine, what is it?”

  “All right Mr. Hard Way, I’ll cut to the chase. You’re going to have a dream today, a strange and intense experience unlike any you’ve had before. It’ll stick with you, shake you even. When that happens ...” As she speaks, she pulls out a ballpoint pen from her jacket pocket and takes his hand, writing a phone number in his palm. “Call me. Please.”

  His face falls to a concrete slab of skepticism. He eyes the number, then her, then the number again. “A dream?” He’s too dumbfounded to mock or berate her.

  She nods, expression softening. “I’m Siha by the way.”

  “See ... ha?” he parrots, still trying to wrap his head around this dubious circumstance.

  “Yes, Siha.” Head tiled, she raises her eyebrows expecting something in return.

  He gapes at her. “Well, I’ll certainly give you points for most unique one-liner.”

  She smirks. “It’s the easiest way to get you to call me back. You can trust me on that.”

  “Mmhmm.” The sarcastic affirmation follows as he turns away from her and returns to his path home.

  “Talk soon, Thane!” she calls after him.

  The ring of his name prompts him to whirl back only to find the mystery woman has vanished once again. He blows the air from his cheeks in an exasperated exhale. “Yep, someone is definitely playing me.”

  ~ TWO ~

  Thane

  “Aaah! You got it!” A redheaded woman wraps her arms around Thane as soon as he pulls out the album that he bought from the vinyl store. She squeezes a thank you so tight he gasps for air. “Gonna play it right now!”

  The tall, lean redhead strolls across the living room to the record player, past a wall of bookshelves and a small, glass terrarium housing a pet scorpion. The quaint apartment is decorated with mature but dark taste. Animal skulls and framed, black-and-white photographs of deserts fill the walls. The shelves are stocked with an assortment of religious and scientific literature as well as a modest collection of Hemingway novels.

  As the young woman prepares the record, a brown shepherd-mix bounds into the room and leaps into the air in front of Thane. His tail wags with more excitement than the pup can bear.

  “Down, Sirius!” Thane commands. The dog responds obediently.

  The melodic surf punk blend of Agent Orange blares from the record player. Thane groans and strides over to lower the volume.

  “Glad you’re happy. I had quite an interesting day.”

  Intrigued, the woman turns towards him. She has bright green eyes and a starfield of freckles over her body. Her hair is fiery orange with a hairstyle just as expressive: a layered pixie cut to match her lightning-full personality. She wears a cropped, oversized tank top and brightly-colored floral shorts, plus a ringed helix in her left ear. Sirius runs to her side, and she greets him with a tender pat on the head. Looking to Thane, she smiles a toothy, mocking grin. A woman this wild can only be named Orion.

  Thane already has his hands up in a defensive position. “Don’t get too excited. I’m sure it’s just a prank.”

  Orion bites her lip with gleefu
l anticipation. “Stop being so hard on yourself! C’mon. Tell me. Tell me.” She pokes at him.

  Thane sighs. “I met this woman—assertive yet strangely polite. She wouldn’t leave me alone until I let her talk.”

  “Someone asked you out?! The ever-elusive, mysterious Thane?! Was it some tough biker chick who liked your tattoos? No, no, wait ...” She snaps her fingers. “A forty-something cougar! Oh, please tell me that was it!” Orion cannot contain her enthusiasm. She struts around the room impersonating a swooning teen, a gruff biker, and a middle-aged divorcee. She stops short of Thane and giggles. “Did she think you were old school punk?”

  Thane rolls his eyes. “All right, enough. Christ, you’ll never let me live that down.”

  “Only because it was the most hilarious Halloween party ... no, ever party. Ever. Yes, most hilarious party ever. That’s it.” Orion leers at Thane, her voice low and taunting. “That woman really wanted to impress you by chugging those beers with no hands.”

  He pulls away. “Yeah, I learned the hard way having a mohawk is just asking for trouble.”

  “Middle-aged trouble. In tight, pleather pants,” she sneers. “At least you wear the messy hair better.” She jostles his dark hair, chuckling to herself. He smacks her hand away. As he does, Orion catches a glimpse of the phone number written in his palm.

  “Oh my God, you got a number?! This is serious! Let me see!” The redhead leaps onto Thane’s back and grapples for his hand. He throws her off like an experienced pro, and she lands on the couch with a thud, spurring Sirius to let out an excited bark.

  Thane eyes her with a raised eyebrow. “So you really had nothing to do with this?”

  She gawks. “With what?”

  Suspicion is written all over his face.

  “Thane, what?”

  He scoffs and makes for his bedroom with apparent defeat.