Chapter Two Preview

     Pain awakens Hap. Begrudgingly, his swollen throat permits a breath of dank alley air. Attempting to rise, he topples helplessly to his side. Splashing face first into a cold puddle of filth shocks the cobwebs from his head and his eyes regain their focus. Righting himself, he realizes his hands are bound behind his back. Quickly, with a practiced tuck and roll, he brings his bound hands down, around his feet. He can't help but laugh at the bonds before him. That bastard, he tied me up with my own jacket.

     Minutes later a scuffed up, mussed up Hap emerges from the alley. The once bustling boulevard slumbers. His watch tells him he lost half an hour. The show is still going on. Julian and his fancy friends must still be inside. But where is Claude?

     I need a drink and a bath. After that, I'm getting the hell out of here.

     A small bistro across the street beckons. Small candlelit tables sit along the sidewalk where Hap's drink waits patiently. Limping to a tiny table facing the theatre, he collapses into the chair beside it.

     Turning, Hap is startled by a small elderly gentleman sitting at his table. Shock renews the pain in his head and he winces sharply. Gradually Hap recognizes the fellow. “Charles?”

     “Yes, Solomon. I see I am too late.”

     “Too late to help me whip that jackass Claude?! Yes.”

     Charles smiles thinly before becoming solemn again. “When I overheard Claude changed his plans I came as fast as I could.”

     “Well I've changed my plans, too. Whatever their game, Claude and Julian can play without me.”

     Charles' gaunt, wrinkled face frowns, panic flashes in his tired eyes. The waiter arrives, cheerfully oblivious until he beholds the battered Hap. Before the waiter can retreat, Hap orders a stiff drink. Charles orders the same. Only the undulating muttering of the patrons mar the quiet scene. The two wait in silence until their drinks arrive. Hap gulps his quickly. Charles attempts the same, choking on the last of it. Hap sucks air through his teeth while the liquor burns its way down his gullet.

     Pulling closer, Hap leans in to tell the old man the truth. “I'm not here to talk to Julian about his writing.”

     Charles winks mischievously. He pats Hap's hand. “Yes, I know.”

     Anguish darkens Hap's normally bright face. “No, you don't. I'm not just here to talk about my writing either.”

Sneak Peek: 'Adventures Above the Aether' Chapter One.

From the unpublished works of Solomon Hanson:
      Amiens, France, the spring of 1881. At the home of Julian Turleau, I spoke with his butler, Charles. The small knot of a man seemed unusually taken with me and my quest. I could swear we shared some kinship, though I couldn't tell you how or why I thought so. He wished me well. I missed the famous author by a day. Following my subject to Paris hardly sounded urgent or dangerous. The butler's worried owl eyes said otherwise.

     Paris dusk dims into night. As the sun sets the busy bustling city does not retire tired. She dons glistening gas lit jewelry. The black velvet dress of night hides her weary bones. Tonight she dances in dazzling beauty, daring to forget the work and woes of the day. The cape of shadows drapes over her squalor, drawing attention to her more attractive features.

     Solomon 'Hap' Hanson approaches the glittering theatre. Julian Turleau is expected to attend tonight. Hap's recently acquired evening wear manages to look out of place, underwhelming, amongst the finery of those present. He struggles amongst a sea of tuxedos and fine dresses. Beneath an evening mist set aglow by gaslight conversations clutter the air as the handsome herd shuffles into the gilded building. Hap cuts a course through the crowd, scanning for Julian. The colorfully dressed women contrast with a checkerboard of men. Penguins and parrots. Hap laughs aloud, unheard amidst the clamor of the crowd.

     Approaching the entrance, masses merge, bodies press together tightly. Competing perfumes and various tobaccos sicken Hap. Fighting to breathe, Hap swims across the current to the outer edge of the mob. The crimson carpeted lobby comes into view briefly. An iron hand clamps down on his left bicep, then the other. Writhing, stamping, Hap's efforts fail and he inevitably is wrested from the bright lights and crowded streets, toward darkness.

     Hap's assailant shoves him into the dark dingy alley. Aromas, old as the ancient Frankish city itself, wax strong here. Human waste and decaying refuse. Whirling around, Hap searches for his foe.

     A familiar figure emerges from the murky shadows. Claude's dark angular features, framed by jet hair and a goatee, perfect the man's devilish appearance. His midnight eyes meet Hap's sea green gaze.

     Claude Dufresne, the enigmatic personal assistant to Julian Turleau, seems set against anyone visiting the esteemed author. This second encounter looks to go much worse than the first.

     “You are persistent,” Claude growls.

     Hap forces a grin. Springing back a step, Hap assumes a boxer's stance. “And you're ugly, two reasons why I date more.” Claude is easily thirty pounds heavier, all muscle. Hap drops his guard momentarily. His grin droops. “Do we have to do this?”

     “It depends.”

     “On what?”

     “If you are still persistent.”

     “I am.”

     From around the devil's moustache a sadistic smile curls. “Good, I end this now.”

     Gently Hap removes his jacket. Claude tilts his head in disbelief, frowns. Folding the crisp clean garment, Hap explains. “At least let me save my clothes from a beating, it's borrowed.”

     Scornfully, Claude spits. “You fight like an Englishman.”

     Hap snaps back. “You don't know me.” He winks. “I'm full of surprises.”

     Hap's clenched fists rise. Shuffling in a wide arc, he keeps his feet shifting. Claude's stance is more relaxed, loose. They circle slowly. Tighter they turn. Feints, half-hearted attacks flash. Quickly, Hap jabs. Quicker, the Frenchman deflects Hap's strike with a loud slap. Claude's leg flexes oddly, a kick withheld.

     Hap attacks again, slower this time. Claude blocks faster, following with a lightning kick. Hap blocks the blow, barely. Hap spies Claude's concern in his widened eyes. Hap chuckles. He's bitten off more than he bargained for.

     A third time Hap comes in with the same punch. He pulls it short. Claude falls for the feint. Quickly Hap leans in, connecting an explosive left cross. The blow lands hard, jarring the man‟s jaw. Claude falls to the ground.

     “I told you, I'm full of surprises,” Hap quips triumphantly. “Have you had enough or do you want some more?”

     Without a word, from the alley floor, Hap's devilish adversary swings his feet in a wide windmill circle. One foot hits Hap behind the knee. It buckles. He lands with a dull thud, crumpled atop his own legs. Before Hap reacts, a sharp blow collapses his throat. While he battles to breathe, Claude flips to his feet. In a blur, he strikes Hap across the chin. Hap‟s limbs go limp. Blackness seeps in from all sides. He feels his lungs let out a great involuntary sigh.

'Adventures Above the Aether' Sneak Peek: Prologue

     Cool white light from a cold overcast sky cut a bright path through the dark library. Julian Turleau stood in the window staring out to the sea. Beyond the thundering surf, angry storm clouds threatened. The wordsmith's thoughts wandered over the slate grey horizon, across the vast Atlantic. With his mind's eye he spied a similarly imaginative soul gazing upon his own stormy shore. Did he ponder the wonders beneath the waves? Or perhaps he saw Julian with his own inner sight.

     A sharp knock at the door dissipated Julian's daydream. From across the dark, wooden expanse of the library entered Charles. The diminutive sinewy manservant shuffled silently. An envelope held tightly in his white gloved hand piqued Julian's curiosity. Quickly closing the gap, Julian's footfalls echoed sharply. Eager to see what secrets lay within, he shredded through the envelope.

November 13, 1878
Dear Mr. Turleau,                
     We are deeply saddened at the loss our mutual friend, Dr. Christopher Martin. At your request, we have examined the notes written by the good doctor on the day of his death.

     Julian paused. His lifelong friend's tragic passing under such horrific circumstances scarred him. The injuries incurred that fateful day paled in comparison. Writing became impossible. Sound sleep eluded him as nightmares invaded his slumber. Julian clung to the hope of some worthy purpose emerging, some bright light arriving as a result of recent disastrous events. Wiping a tear from his tired eyes, Julian read further.

     I must caution you this is most likely a hoax. The translated text is as follows, 
     "I am Osashar. I speak to you from Heru-deshret. I am happy to hear your voice. I hope to speak again with you soon.” 
     Osashar is an obscure ancient mythological character. Heru-deshret refers to a mythological land. My colleagues and I agree that in the context written it may refer to the planet Mars. As incredible as this sounds…

     Stunned, Julian's fingers let the letter slip. Drifting to the floor, it settled atop the tattered remnant of the envelope.

     Charles' dutifully concerned words whispered across the space between them. “Sir, are you alright?”
Silently, Julian glided over to his desk. He poured another cup of coffee. Outside, the sun smiled through. Fair winds caressed calming seas. The butler beckoned once more.

     “Is something wrong, sir?”

     A grin grew from within the wordsmith's silvery beard. “No Charles.”

     Abruptly, Julian spun toward the door. Marching out, he paused to peek back at Charles from the threshold. A long lost twinkle returned to his eyes. Julian blustered with cheerful urgency. “Pack a picnic basket for me Charles. I'll be down at the laboratory. You'd better bring dinner as well. I have much work to do.”

The Three Year Epiphany

Growing up with my head in the clouds, I’ve largely been happiest alone with my thoughts and dreams.  As strange as I seemed to other kids, they seemed equally strange to me.  I could not understand the allure of their interests.  My imagination served as my longest and closest best friend.  We enjoyed each other’s company more than baseball, wrestling, or fishing.  Exceptions came occasionally.

With few close friends and fewer prospects for employment in West Virginia, I joined the navy.  Eventually I set aside my imagination for ‘more important’ things.  I kept my daydreaming to myself.

 

When I finished my naval career I didn’t easily slip into a second career.  I jumped from job to job.  Once I could confidently and proudly tell people, “I’m a submariner,” or, “I’m a chief in the navy.”  Without those labels, without that uniform; I felt lost, without an identity.

As a hotel desk clerk, in the middle of the night, I searched for ways to stay awake while simultaneously seeking a new career and a new identity.  If only I might turn my daydreaming distracted mind to some useful purpose.  On of my few epiphanies struck.  I know, I’ll write.

Clueless and thrilled I wrote.  Long solitary nights behind the hotel desk became therapeutic and productive.

Bills piled up so I changed jobs often, each time earning more, each time writing less. 

A brain tumor diagnosis sent my life for a loop.  Again I wrote less.

December 5^th 2007; a lengthy surgery and a short coma later I emerged altered.  Aside from the obvious physical changes, my spirit also changed.  I didn’t know it then.  I denied it any time my actions came into question.  Early in my new life denial reigned supreme. 

Only in retrospect, years down the road I looked back amazed.  The paths chosen provided irrefutable evidence.  I left the hospital a different person.  Some say I’ve become emotionally immature.  They might be right in general.  Passionate conversations come more readily.  The rudder of my heart makes tighter turns, leaving a larger wake.  The biggest, the best alteration in my life’s perception came with a deepened desire to pursue my passions.  My love for my wife ran deeper and my drive to write burned brighter.

One day I spied a poster; a writer’s workshop.  Giddily I go.  Reading my work to others for the first time set me all a quiver.  Patiently they listened.  Anxiously I heard their critique afterward.  My clumsy first works garnered few positive reviews.  Well imagined tales failed to leap from my mind to the page without losing something along the way.

Driving home from those initial meetings I recognized the first sign of being on the right track by writing.  Most times I tried learning something new, initial failures dashed my hopes and deflated my desire.  This time critical commentary excited me.  Instead of stinging, the exposed flaws offered hope.  Though awful at first, I sought to salvage each sliver of universal truth from the trash heap.  Each encounter helped hone my skills and sharpen the focus of my story’s purpose.

As my fervor grew to write I also diversified my projects.  I put aside my science fiction manuscript and wrote short stories on a variety of subjects.  I wrote articles for my company’s newsletter and the local newspaper.

Looking back now I smile.  Writing seems so obvious a path.  My identity lost is now an identity proudly found.  And now as a writer a new dream dawns.  I dream of others reading my work and falling in love with my characters as I have.  I dream of putting a smile on a reader’s face, a tear on their cheek, and a gasp in their throat.